"Don't you dare—" Indie yanks my wrist so hard my fingers sting.
"Let go, Indie." My voice is small. The bandage at my forearm peels as she catches the edge. I try to hide the fresh cut inside my sleeve like I can hide anything.
"Hide what? Another doodle in your private war scrapbook?" Indie snaps. She doesn't waste pity. She wastes jokes and bluntness and the kind of anger that packs a rescue plan.
Three boys are watching us from the gate. Grant is in the middle, the one who started the rumor last week. His friends laugh like they've all rehearsed cruelty for finals.
"Hey, Juliana," Grant calls. "You okay? You look... artistic today."
"You shut up," Indie says. Her tone is all warning now.
"Or what?" Grant steps forward. "What are you going to do, hide in your diary and make sad poems? Pathetic."
I can feel every word like pressure. My knees want to give. The campus smells like coffee and gasoline and someone else’s privileged Saturday. I focus on not looking at the crowd that has started to turn its attention toward us.
"Seriously, man, step off," Indie says. "You keep poking at her and you're going to learn how to swallow your words."
Grant laughs too loud. "Ooh, threats now. Cute. Maybe Juliana's fans will start a support fund."
"She doesn't need a fund," I blurt before I can stop it. The sound surprises me. It's
