They were looking at me.
At my skirt, with the water still dripping from the hem and the little name on the pocket.
“There was a brown bag,” she said slowly. “On my table. Every day.”
“I thought the cafeteria did it.”
“It had a tiny broom drawn on it.”
She made a sound I will never forget.
It was the sound of someone finding out that a thing she had thrown away was her own.
“I ate those, Mom,” she said. “You told me to say I wasn’t hungry, and I wasn’t, because somebody put a sandwich in front of me every day for thirty-eight days.”
“And I didn’t even—”
She looked at her own wet hand.
At the plastic cup she had tossed at my feet.
“I poured water on his shirt.”
The gym was so quiet that I could hear her breath catch.
“Skylar,” Millicent said sharply. “Stop talking.”
