THREE
Elena meets me at the shop after school—well, after school for her, not for me. She’s got plans with Beckett for supper, but she’s stopping off to meet me first, to give me the pep talk of the century, a pep talk I desperately need.
I’m wearing my regular work clothes—my comfiest pencil skirt and the star-patterned thigh-highs underneath it, my black Doc Martens on my feet, and a dark purple turtleneck that I’m currently sweating through and it’s not like the heat in here is turned up to a hundred and four Celsius.
“So, on a scale of one to ten, how nervous are you?” Elena asks, blowing on her cup of Tim Hortons, the scent of hot chocolate wafting to me.
We’re sitting in the back room where I’ll eat my lunch (or dinner, depending on the time of day), take my break, and read some
