Chapter 5: Casserole

Word that Cade Hollander had moved into my attic reached school before we did.

I felt it in the parking lot.

Heads turned in a slow wave when we climbed out of my mother's old Honda, and conversations dropped half a sentence and picked up lower.

Cade wore a gray hospital charity hoodie that my mother had found in a storage bin.

His hands were bandaged, so I carried both our backpacks.

"I can carry mine," he said.

"You can't turn a doorknob."

"I'm not hurt that badly."

"You tried to open the car door with your elbow."

"It was efficient."

A few seniors by the flagpole were openly staring.

One of them whispered, and another laughed, and I heard the words "Bet Girl" and "sleepover" in the same breath.

My jaw tightened.

Cade's did too.

"Ignore them," I said.

"I'm trying to."

"Try harder. You look like you're about to throw a football at somebody."

"I'm about to throw it at several people."

"Not with those hands, you aren't."

That got half a laugh out of him, and I allowed myself half a smile.

Then the doors of a white SUV opened across the lot, and Paisley Corbin stepped out with a foil-covered dish in both hands.

She wore a pale pink cardigan and no makeup, which took more makeup than most people's whole routines.

She walked toward us with her face arranged into something soft and worried.

Behind her, a girl from the dance squad held up a phone and filmed.

"Cade!"

She said it loud enough for the flagpole.

"Oh my gosh, Cade, I heard about the fire."

"I came as soon as I could."

She stopped in front of us and held out the dish.

"It's a chicken casserole."

"I made it myself last night."

I didn't believe that for a second.

"Thanks, Paisley," Cade said.

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