Jericho did not return that week. By the end of it, Jeanne drifted, grey, her stomach sick with a twist.
Her only thought for hours at a time was, How pathetic. The sky outside the school window was bright and clear and cloudless, still and stagnant. And she thought how pathetic, to be feeling this way about a figment of her imagination. How pathetic, to be at the age where her entire existence revolved around another person. How pathetic, to remain alone.
Maybe Paris and Jedrick noticed, but whenever they broached the subject—maybe Jeanne looked sick, was she getting a fever?—she only replied, I’m just tired. It was an excuse that seemed boundless. Everyone was tired these days—she could see it in Papa, the way his transparent hands tuned the radio every morning and evening. Maman loo
