Eighty-three
Penelope Peters
There was a note on my door the next morning. The school psychologist wanted to see me. I was about to head to class when I saw it.
“What’s it say?” Audrey asked.
“The school psychologist wants me to come in.”
“Weird. Want me to show you where it is?”
“If you could.”
“No problem.”
We walked to class, and some guy with blond hair called, “Traitor.”
I froze. “What did you call me?”
The boy smirked and walked up to me. “You know what I said, Peters. I called you a traitor.”
“I’m not a traitor.”
He chuckled. “They tell me that you lost your memories in the explosion that killed your fiancé’s mother.
