My mom lingers at the doorway, her eyes glaring at me. She looks pissed, but her resolve dissipates quickly the longer she stands there. Because I’m right.

“Your dad brought donuts…” she starts.

“Not hungry,” I say, flipping pages on the dog magazine, pretending to be immersed in the cute puppy faces on the pages. It’s something we got free in the mail, from a shelter. If I had access to my father’s checking account, I’d send in a donation for ten thousand dollars.

“Right, well…” she says, but I look up at her, my eyes snapping to hers, challenging her. Well what? Well, I should really come talk to him and think about forgiving him for the unforgivable, because he brought donuts and that proves he’s a good person? I don’t know what she’s expecting, or what he is for that matter. But I’ve come to terms with the idea that my father is only my father genetically from now on.

My mom closes the door finally, discouraged.

“So that was awkward,” Willow says, flopping on the bed next to me, her arms and legs out in all directions, her reddish-blonde hair loose and wild.

“Sorry,” I say.

“I get it,” she says, rolling on her side, turning to prop her head on her elbow. “My parents are divorced, too. I have to take turns picking sides. Or at least…I used to. I quit caring about offending one of them, and honestly, now that I don’t make it a big deal, they don’t seem to use me as a weapon against one another.”

I nod in agreement, but stand quickly from the bed, moving to my closet, changing the subject. Divorce doesn’t seem to be a topic being discussed by my parents, and I don’t want to draw comparisons with Willow. I’d give anything for my mom to tell me she’s talking to a lawyer.

“So, how formal is this thing?” I ask, flipping through the things in my closet. I don’t have a lot of in-between clothing. Dances at Bryce were always extremely formal.

“Just wear leggings and a cute sweater or a dress or something like that. It’s cold as hell outside, and it’s going to snow all night,” she says, moving next to me and flipping through a few things on hangers. She pulls out a long gray sweater and tosses it on my bed. “That works. Wear your Uggs, and I’ll help you put your hair up. You’ll be cute.”

I sigh heavily as I sit down next to the sweater, pulling it onto my lap. “You know, I’m totally okay not going,” I say, but Willow cuts me off.

“Stop it. Jess doesn’t really dance a lot, and I like going. You’re coming to dance with Elise and me. It’ll be fun,” she says, tossing my boots from the box on my closet floor.

“Fine,” I huff, but I smile when she turns, softening my tone. I’m actually happy she wants me there. I just wish Owen was up for coming, too. He hasn’t been himself lately…or maybe he has. Maybe that’s what has me feeling this way; I’m worried that the Owen I had was brief, and he’s gone back to dark.

I decide to wear my outfit to school for the day, opting to ride with Willow instead of driving myself. I question that decision every time she slides the wheels several inches into the intersection with each stop. We don’t have early-morning practices any longer now that the football season is coming to an end. Our state competition is next weekend, so we spend every band class practicing the music, no longer worrying about marching and formations. Thank God, because it’s so cold outside. I don’t march, and only end up standing on the sidelines watching my breath create fog circles in front of me.

Willow helps me twist and pin my hair up over my head before the end of class, and I manage not to ruin it during my independent study. I let my hands play a few classical pieces today. I wanted to see how it felt.

It felt…like nothing. But it didn’t hurt, either. It didn’t make me angry. And it didn’t make me think of my dad. But then I let myself play my music, and I feel that all over my body.

That’s the difference.

With five minutes left before class ending, I do something that I’ve never done before—I excuse myself to the bathroom, to touch up makeup, to make sure I look good. I want Owen to notice me.

This is apparently where Kiera and her friends go during second period. The smell of stale smoke is in the air, and I know they flushed something the second they heard me walk in. The scent is sweet, yet pungent—probably marijuana. I smile at Kiera, acknowledging that she and I share something in common. I guess we’re acquaintances in some sick, twisted way. She smiles back, but never talks to me directly.