A knock echoed on my door.
I stayed silent.
Another knock. Then another. And then my mother's voice, soft but persistent:
"Casey, please open the door."
Still, I said nothing.
"Come on, Casey. I just want to talk."
Her footsteps retreated down the hall, and I exhaled in relief. Thank God. She left.
But not for long.
Minutes later, the knock returned, same rhythm, same gentle persistence.
"Casey, please open the door. I know you're mortified about what happened at breakfast. But don't be."
How could she say that?
How couldn't I be mortified? Did they know? Did they all know what Cesar and I had done?
God. I was finished. If they knew, if anyone really knew, I didn't think I'd survive the shame.
I should start packing. I should just leave. Vanish.
And then her voice brought me back.
"I brought you breakfast. You didn't eat anything, and I know you must be hungry."
Right on cue, my stomach growled.
"Just go away," I muttered.
