“I’m going to talk with the office,” Sarah says. “I’ll be back in just a second.” Her lips flicker up into a sad smile.

My mother shifts on her feet and rubs her hands together awkwardly. I don’t say anything. Even if I knew what to say, I wouldn’t have the energy to make the words.

I wonder if it’ll stay like this. If they’ll drop me off at home without asking me what happened. Maybe they already know.

My mother sits on the stupid plastic bed across from me and stares into her hands.

“Sarah…has some things she wants to talk with you about before she goes back to New York.” She watches the clock, the computer in the corner, the cracked stone tile. “So she’s going to take you to lunch and then home. I’ll…see you there.”

“Okay,” I say.

Maybe she heard something in my voice, because she finally looks up. Her eyes are red, her cheeks flushed. She takes in a deep breath, and her voice shakes when she says, “I want to help you, Anna. I don’t know how, but I’m going to try.”

Then she stands, and before I can give in to the temptation to ask her what that means—how she plans to help—she leaves the room.

When Sarah comes back and looks around, I don’t say a word, I just stand and walk past her into the empty hall.

She leads me outside to her car and opens the passenger door for me. Once I’m inside, the door closes with a thunk that makes my head pound. Sarah gets behind the wheel and pulls out of the school parking lot before she finally speaks.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, and she nods like she already knew the answer.

“I think you should see someone.”

I curl my legs up, wrap my arms around them, and lean my forehead against the cool window. I watch the streetlights, cars, trees, and buildings fly past.

“Anna?” she asks.

“What kind of someone? Like a therapist or something? Isn’t that what you’re for?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m here to help how I can, but there’s only so much I can do.”

She’s right about that. But I doubt a therapist is going to be much better.

“It was nothing,” I say. “I didn’t eat breakfast. You ever not eat breakfast?”

“Yeah.” She’s quiet for a few beats of my heart. “Anna, the teacher said you were crying out.”

My eyes grow wide. “That’s embarrassing,” I whisper.

“From what I understand, this was after the hallway was cleared. Not that it changes what you said.”

“What did I say?” I ask, my voice cracking on the last syllable.

“You called for Luis.”

Ice-cold horror fills me. I don’t know how much she knows. I haven’t been brave enough to ask.

“What did he do to you, Anna? Did he rape you?”

“Who?” I ask, shocked. “Luis? No.”

She doesn’t say anything, I guess giving me space to say more if I want to. But I don’t want to.

It’s quiet again until Sarah asks me if I want something for lunch, much more upbeat than seems at all appropriate. I take this as a sign that she’s done interrogating me, and I relax a little. Only a little.

My body sags against the car door, exhausted. I’d kind of rather just go to bed, but then my stomach rumbles. I really didn’t eat breakfast. Some food actually would make me feel better.

We stop at a local diner and eat. I get a grilled cheese and fries and she gets a salad. Funny. She looks like a salad kind of person.

Which means she probably hates New York, land of hot dogs and pizza.

She doesn’t press me any further with the thing at school, which is good, because I’m not talking any time soon. I wish I had as much control over my brain as I do my mouth. My mind keeps switching back to that night. My nightmare.

I wish I could be one of those people who blocks that kind of stuff out, you know? I’ve heard of people who experience something traumatic but forget the memory as a way of protecting themselves, or something.

Not me. Nope, my mind must think I’m strong as fuck, because I remember every damn detail. Every time I think I’ve pushed it deep down where it can’t find me, it rises back up, more fresh than ever.

After the man finished—the man who paid for three sessions and then hit me, like he’d also paid for the pleasure of beating on me—he threw a ten-dollar bill on the ground and called it a “tip.”

“There’s more where that came from if you put that pretty little mouth to good use.” Even his words tasted like cigarettes. “And I’ve got you for two more dates, so there’ll be plenty of opportunities.” He stood up and walked out, just like that. Like he was leaving a dentist’s appointment.

Luis came in after him and ran up to me. He knelt next to the bed and pulled me into his lap. He wiped the blood off my mouth and pulled his sweatshirt over my naked body and started to sing.

“Everything’s gonna be all right, be all right.”

I started to cry, and he shushed me. Apparently that guy had paid extra, up front, for the privilege of being with someone as young as me. Like that was all that would do it for him.

But he wasn’t supposed to get that rough. Or so Luis said.

The next day Luis bought a gun.

He said he wanted us to be ready in case that ever happened again.

He said he wanted me to be safe.

He said he loved me.

Maybe, in the end, he just loved the money more.

“Are you feeling better?” Sarah asks me when I clear my plate.

After thinking about how the one person I thought loved me betrayed me in the end, I should feel terrible. But with food in my belly and the hope that whatever comes next, at least the past is behind me, and I guess I do feel a little better, after all.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“Good. Because I have something to talk to you about. Something I’m not sure you’re going to take well.”

“Like?”

“I have some things to ask you. Important things.”

My eyebrows rise. “I thought we were done with the question part of our relationship. I already told you all I have to say.”

She shakes her head, and her face turns serious, her hands folded all businesslike. She picks up a briefcase off the floor by her feet and pulls out a manila envelope that’s thankfully not near big enough to hold all my secrets.

I stifle a laugh. I’m not big enough to hold all my secrets.

“When I questioned you before,” she says, “I had enough to take you back home. I didn’t need much, really, once we knew who your parents were.”

I nod. I know this.

“That was always most important, but there are other things that are important, too. Like making sure what happened to you doesn’t happen again.”

My eyebrows pull down over my narrowed eyes. I have to admit, the thought of that kind of shit never happening again is appealing, but I’ve heard this kind of promise before.

“How can I do anything about that?” I ask.

“By telling me who did it to you.”

I take a long sip of my soda, anything to avoid Sarah’s eyes.

“Where did you live? Who did you live with? Who was your pimp? All of those things would help us greatly.”

I close my eyes. I don’t like those questions. Especially the last one. Those are the questions cops ask me. Who is your pimp? they’d scream at me.

She wants me to tell the truth. But I’ve seen what telling the truth gets you.

I was nothing to the cops. Worst of the worst of the street scum, and they always got away with doing whatever they wanted to get me to talk.

The more they hit, the more I shut down.

Some other girls gave in. They talked. But it didn’t stop the police from hurting them. Or from hurting the people the truth identified.

I feel proud to say a cop never got one lick of information from me.

But I can’t say they didn’t fuck me up, inside and out.

“I don’t have a pimp,” I say.

Sarah must notice that I wince when I answer her question, because she presses her soft hands onto mine. I didn’t even realize how tightly I was squeezing them together.