Parallel

unspoken questions are hidden there. I don’t answer, and he doesn’t press me. The warning bell rings.
    “Am I too much work?” It comes out ragged and rough, and the second the words are out, I want to take them back. “Never mind,” I say quickly, looking away, trying to swallow the tears that went surging up from my chest as the words fell out. Josh catches my hand in his.
    “Anything worth having takes work, Abby,” he says softly. The noise in my head quiets as my eyes meet his. My next breath is easier.
    “Do you want to maybe hang out after practice today?” I hear myself ask. “Maybe see a movie or something?”
    “Oh, I, uh . . .” Josh breaks our gaze, glancing down the hall to where Megan is busy trying to look busy at her locker. Is it that transparent when I do it? Note to self: When feigning preoccupation with bag packing, don’t put your textbook in your backpack, then take it back out again. “I’m supposed to hang out with Megan,” he says apologetically.
    “Of course,” I say, trying to sound breezy . “Duh.”
    “Maybe the three of us could do something?” he offers.
    “Nah, that’s okay,” I tell him, practically pushing him out of the way. “I’ll probably be working all night tonight anyway. The November issue of the Oracle comes out next week, so things are crazy. See you at practice!” I wiggle my fingers at Megan as I pass her (my attempt at a friendly, I-didn’t-just-ask-your-boyfriend-out wave), then bolt for the main hall.
    By the time I get there, my left foot is throbbing. The punctures healed without infection, but I’m still not supposed to put my full weight on it. I slow to a hobble. So much for ditching sixth. Now that I’m on the main hall, I won’t be able to make it out of the building before the bell rings.
    With next Wednesday’s deadline looming, the editorial staff is working in overdrive to get everything done, making me feel guilty for almost bailing on them. Sixth period passes quickly as I field questions and review layouts, all while trying not to think about the fact that in the span of the past ninety minutes, I have (a) lost my two best friends, (b) blown my astronomy midterm, and (c) asked out a guy who is dating someone else. How quickly a person can implode.
    I leave the newspaper lab a few minutes before the bell with the excuse of needing to stop by Ms. DeWitt’s office before the end of the day. Instead, I go straight to my car. Caitlin’s Jetta is already gone.
    Scattered leaves and wet pavement are the only signs of this morning’s storm. Now the sky is dotted with white puffy clouds. I squint as the sun beats through my windshield, irritated by its persistent brightness.
    When I get to the boathouse, I put myself to work checking the nuts on the outriggers and greasing the seat slides while the rest of the team trickles into practice. Once out on the water, I discover a major advantage crew has over cross-country: the distraction factor. When you’re running, all you can do is think. When you’re coxing, you don’t have time to think. Since I’m the one in charge, I have no choice but to give the guys my full attention as I steer the B boat down the river and back, grateful that Megan and Josh are fifty yards away in the A. Before I know it, the sun is fading, and Coach is blowing his whistle for us to return to the dock. Thank God this day is almost over.
    As I pull into the garage, I can see my mom through the garage-door window, peeling carrots over the sink. The last thing I want to do is rehash the fight. Or the test. Or listen to my mom reassure me that everything will be okay. A positive outlook is her default response to adversity, and right now, I’m content with keeping my bleak one.
    “Hey! How was the midterm?” she asks the instant I open the back door.
    “Horrible.”
    Her face falls. “That bad?”
    “Worse.” I move toward the back stairs before she can ask if I want to talk about it. “I’ll be in my room.”
    “Your SAT score came,” she calls after me, sounding hesitant. “Envelope is on the table.”
    I turn and look. A single white envelope stands out against the dark cherry of the kitchen table. I walk back to the table, pick it up, and turn it over in my hands. “I wasn’t expecting this till Monday,” I say.
    “I know.”
    We both stare at the envelope, at the small white rectangle with my name on it. “I don’t want to open it now, okay?”
    Mom nods. “Just wanted you to