I was in the stairwell at James I. O’Neill High School, passing Maia Judd. Everyone else was in class, but I was taking my normal “going-to-to-bathroom-but-really-just-taking-a-walk” break from Global Studies. I was wearing bell-bottomed jeans that’d I’d purposefully bleached and ripped, and a shirt from American Eagle. I was smiling, I’m sure of it.
Then she stopped me.
“Claire,” she said, putting a hand to my shoulder. I remember her wide, green eyes, and big eyelashes looking at me with fear. “Have you heard what’s going on?”