Cold Kiss

fact that she’s not even trying this time. “Why?”
    This is the hard part. I don’t want to tell her about Gabriel, not now, maybe not for a while. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want the first thing she heard to be that I cut school with him for the day. Do I lie and say Jess and Darcia and I all ditched together, with the sleepover planned for tonight? Would she even believe that Dar would skip school for the day? Jess is a no-brainer, but Dar follows rules like her life depends on it.
    “I called Jess and Darcia,” Mom says while I’m still scrambling, trying to come up with a believable story. “So if you’re thinking of adding them to whatever lie you’re working on, don’t bother.”
    I lift my chin. Fine. There’s no reason to drag anyone else into this when I’m the one who deserves all the blame.
    “I’m not going to lie,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice isn’t even shaking. Every other part of me is, though, whether Mom can see it or not. “I was … in a bad mood. I skipped. That’s it.”
    “That’s it.” She lifts a brow. “And you couldn’t bother to return even one of my calls.”
    “I was skipping school, Mom.” Inside, my own power is humming to life, a buzz of exhaustion and frustration. Why can’t she just punish me and get it over with? “I wasn’t exactly in the mood to chat.”
    She actually snorts, and takes another step closer. “But you thought letting me worry all day was better than admitting that you’d cut? You really thought I’d be angrier about you missing one day of school than having to wonder all day if you’d been hit by a car or decided to run away?”
    “Mom…”
    “Don’t!” The word is followed by a single brief shudder of power, and the air ripples around us. She ignores it, just like always. “Haven’t we talked about telling the truth, Wren? What happened to honesty?”
    That’s it—I’m too tired and too shattered to fight it anymore.
    “Yeah, Mom, what about honesty?” I know I’m shaking visibly now, and I can’t help the pulse of power that slips free, rattling the windows and the framed pictures on the wall. “What about you being honest with me for a change?”
    She looks like she’s been slapped. And when she doesn’t say anything, I just shake my head. I knew it.
    I pound up the stairs and slam the door to my room so hard, it feels like the whole world vibrates.
    Neither Jess nor Darcia will answer my calls, even after school is out for the day. I text them both, nothing more than I’M SO SORRY and LET ME EXPLAIN, but I know it’s too late. Tonight was supposed to be our big reunion, a return to the days when a sleepover at one house or another was a given on any weekend, when we shared everything and never thought any of us would want it any other way.
    Now it’s too hard. Now I would have to admit to them what I did to Danny, and I can’t even think about the look on their faces if they knew the truth.
    Right now, as much as I hate the whole idea of whatever I’m facing, it’s better than worrying about anything else. If I let myself linger on the image of Danny banging down the door to Gabriel’s room—or banging down Gabriel —my stomach rolls and heaves like a wild sea. And if I let myself remember Mom talking about honesty, the hum just beneath my skin roars to life, buzzing hot and furious. Looking through the dusty books I’ve dragged out from the depths of my closet is almost a relief, even if I’m researching a way to accomplish the most horrible thing I can imagine.
    I’m not surprised that Mom didn’t follow me up the stairs, since talking about what we are is always the last thing she wants to do. When the door opens now, I shove the spell book I’m reading under the bed and brace myself, but it’s not her, it’s Robin.
    She’s drawn in on herself the way she does when Mom and I fight, hair hanging in her face, her mouth pinched. She doesn’t wait for an invitation, but plops down on the bed next to me, and immediately grunts.
    “God, Wren, what’s under here?” She moves and starts to flip back the comforter, where the rest of the books are hidden, and I snatch them up before she can get a decent look. I hope.
    “Oh, like your room is such a model of cleanliness,” I say, and shove the books into the bottom drawer of my desk. “What’s up, kid?”
    “Don’t call me that,” she mutters, but she doesn’t get up and leave in a huff the way she usually does. Instead, she