“Don’t ask,” I said, walking through the back door that evening. Jennifer had opened her mouth to say something but I cut her off before she could even begin.

“It was a bad day,” I informed her. “It sucked.”

“Where have you been?” she asked in a mildly mollifying tone.

“I had detention,” I told her, looking her in the eye.

“Until nine in the evening?”

“My, how time flies.”

“You’re acting strangely.”

“Get off my case,” I snapped at her, and stormed out of the kitchen with as much dignity as my crutches would allow.

By the time she finally decided to look at what I was doing in the den, I’d already swallowed half a bottle of alcohol.

“Care to join me?” I asked dryly, waving the bottle in greeting from the black leather sofa.

She blinked at me in the doorway. “You shouldn’t get drunk tonight.”

“Why not?”

“You have school tomorrow.”

I snorted. “So?”

“The last thing you need to bring is a hangover.”

“Who cares? Even if I were to show up drunk, no will be shocked.”

She sat down beside me with a sigh. “All right. What happened?”

“Nothing I shouldn’t have been expecting.”

“What?”

I sighed and absently tapped the bottle of vodka. “When you were in school...did people like you?”

“Half of them did. Half of them despised me.” She was watching me carefully. “For exactly the same reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Mainly because I’m a Harding.” She smiled. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Do me a favor, Jen, and disappear for a moment?”

“All right. But I need to give you something first.”

“What?”

“Open your eyes.”

I sighed resignedly and obeyed. She was waving an envelope in my face. I made no move to take it. “What’s that?”

“A letter, idiot,” she said, sounding exasperated.

“I can see that. Who’s it from?”

She rolled her eyes. “Who else writes letters to you? Your Italian girlfriend. Are you going to take it or shall I read it to you? I can’t understand a single word of Italian, so you’re in luck. If it's got naughty things in it, I wouldn't notice.”

I snatched the letter out of her hand. “Catalina is not my girlfriend. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Right.”

“She’s only fourteen years old! She wouldn't write a letter with 'naughty things' in it!”

“Hey, with kids these days, you never know. All I know is, your parents sent a brooding little cloud of doom to Italy and when they sent me to pick him up, he was this nice and sweet little gentleman attending to an exquisite little girl. I remember how he glared at me when I dragged him to the plane.” She put on an entirely feigned nostalgic expression. “Ah, young love.”

“She’s a child.”

“And you think you’re all grown up? You only got your driver’s license last year.”

“Shut up. Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?”

“Goodnight,” she said, standing up. She reached over and patted me insultingly on top of my head. “Hope you feel better. Whatever they’re saying about you...don’t let it get to you, okay?”

I watched her go then turned back to the unopened letter in my hand.

”This is not Coleridge High and it is not in your father’s pocket.”

”His father’s got lots of money. Maybe that’s how he got off and how he gets good grades.”

What a bunch of idiots. That’s all they ever saw when they looked at me. My father’s name, my father’s money, and the labels everyone had tacked on to me. Reckless. Irresponsible. Stupid. Even after everything I’d done to prove them wrong, they kept on thinking that way, believing that I am what I am because of money.

Everyone thought that way...except for Catalina. I faced her letter with a deep sigh, wondering what in the world I had done to make her so attached to me. No matter how spoiled I had acted, how rebellious, rude, and difficult, they had treated well. Catalina had followed me around for months, to the point that she seemed more attached to me than to her real big brother.

I sighed again. Whatever it was she had to say, I needed to hear it.