The Headmaster's List Read online

  “What about school? I can barely hold a pen.”

  “I’ll forward a note to your school. You’ll probably have to have someone else take notes for you and carry your books until you’re able to do it yourself. Spencer, need I remind you that you shattered several bones in your wrist? You need to take it easy and manage your pain until you can get back to your usual routine. You can’t rush this.”

  Olivia had delivered Spencer’s homework to her every day she couldn’t attend, but her left arm was useless, and writing with her nondominant hand was harder than she’d thought. The idea that someone would need to take notes for her in class was more annoying than she wanted to admit. She had a very particular method of note-taking, and studying in general, that involved intense organization and color coordination. The person would need to be in all her classes, and be good at taking notes like she was, and be willing to tolerate her finely tuned strategies for maintaining her GPA. She couldn’t afford to fall down on her grades, especially not now.

  Her dream was to get into Caltech. She wanted to be an astrophysicist, even an astronaut if she could pass the tests, more than anything in the universe, and if she slipped up in even one subject, it could make or break her future. No one, nothing, especially not broken bones, was going to stand in her way.

  “How long until I can play?” she asked. “Field hockey is the only thing keeping me sane right now.” Spencer didn’t want to whine, but it hurt being told not to compete. She had been conditioning all summer long, running sprint drills in the park, footwork circuits with cones and jump ropes in her backyard, and going for hour-long runs before even the sun woke up. Being told to sit on the couch was about as easy as telling the sky not to be blue.

  “Come back and see me in a couple of weeks when we get your cast off and then we can talk about physical therapy and getting you back onto the field. You want to have use of your hand again, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Spencer said with a sigh. She knew field hockey wasn’t everything, but a whole part of her life had been taken away in a single instant. Why couldn’t she have broken the bones on the right side of her body? Even the surgeon had said he’d expected her right shoulder to have been broken instead, consistent with car crashes of this type, but of course she couldn’t be that lucky. The important part was that she was expected to make a full recovery. That was what mattered.

  The doctor went on, “I also want to help arrange a psychotherapist for your night terrors. PTSD isn’t something that can heal as easily as broken bones, so you need a specialist who can help. Mrs. Sandoval—excuse me, Dr. Sandoval—I’ll forward you a recommendation list so you can decide who is the best fit.”

  “Thank you.” Mom and Dad were both veterinarians but still earned their titles as doctors. They were both from immigrant families, and Spencer and her sister were the first generation born in the States.

  The doctor left, and her mom packed away the last of Spencer’s things into her duffel bag before she held out a helping hand for her daughter to slide into a wheelchair, which Spencer thought was a bit overkill. Without delay, she wheeled Spencer out of the room, almost like she too was finally getting sick of the smell of antiseptic cleaner and soap.

  The nurses bid her goodbye as they passed, which was definitely a nice touch on what Spencer could only summarize as being one of the most miserable times of her life, but she smiled and thanked them for their kindness.

  In the elevator on the way down, Spencer twisted around to look at her mom. She wasn’t wearing her usual green scrubs with a paw print embroidered on the breast. Sometimes it startled Spencer seeing both of her parents out of uniform, only because they were so often at the clinic. She didn’t want to imagine how many hours they had to close its doors to take care of her.

  Their vet clinic, a twenty-four seven emergency animal hospital called Paws Perfect in Culver City, was almost always busy. But Spencer had never seen dark circles as deep around her mom’s eyes as they were now.

  “I’m freaking out about school,” Spencer said. “I can’t miss any more days. The Caltech admissions office will probably look at my record and see a gap, and what if they don’t care about what happened?”

  Her mom only smiled in that tired but soft way that meant she understood it was Spencer’s perfectionism getting the best of her. She squeezed Spencer’s right shoulder assuredly.

  “We’ll figure everything out. Don’t you worry. For now, there’s someone special waiting for you at home.”

  * * *

  The entire drive home, Spencer could barely open her eyes. She had them squeezed shut as she gripped the car door’s armrest, willing herself not to panic. Every time her mom so much as tapped her foot on the gas, Spencer’s stomach lurched like she was going to fall, and she gripped the armrest so hard, her fingers were numb and weak. Her hips were still bruised from where the seat belt in the Porsche had stopped her from flying through the windshield, and her sternum ached with the pressure the seat belt put on her chest now in her mom’s Nissan Leaf.

  “You okay, Spence?” her mom asked as they paused at a stoplight.

  “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Just … go. Please?”

  The light turned green, and Spencer braced herself. Scream. Float. Crash. Her throat was closing up and she tried not to go back to the crash, but it was easier said than done.

  “We’re almost home, sweetheart. Almost there.” She eased the car forward once more.

  Spencer was on the verge of tears but held her breath, forcing herself not to cry. It burned in her chest. All she wanted was to fling the door open and throw herself out so she wouldn’t have to endure it any longer.

  She wondered if Tabby Hill, the other passenger who’d survived the crash, was feeling the same way about driving. Spencer knew Tabby, who was nonbinary, had just gotten their license. What if Tabby was too afraid to drive now? And Ethan … what was Ethan doing right now? Guilt was a monster roiling in her gut. If she’d been the one driving, what would have happened?

  She wouldn’t be deathly afraid of moving vehicles, that was for sure.

  SPENCER! She heard Ethan’s scream, echoing in her thoughts, a second before the crash. It was a new memory, one that punched her in the gut, and she remembered the terrified look in Ethan’s eyes, the side of his face lit up as the headlights closed in on the tree before … His face was all wrong, all wrong, but she didn’t know why.

  Spencer covered her eyes with her hands and willed herself to breathe. She counted the seconds it took to inhale, and exhale, until her mom pulled them up to the driveway and turned the car off.

  Their house, a cozy Craftsman-style two-story in West Los Angeles, was lit up in the bright blue afternoon sky. Spencer’s car, a beat-up minivan (named “Gertie” because the van looked like a Gertie), which she’d bought off Craigslist when she got her license, would remain parked in the driveway for the foreseeable future. Hope and Dad were already home, waiting for them. She even spotted the flicker of the television through the living room window. Everything about the house seemed normal, and it occurred to Spencer that it was she herself who had changed.

  Spencer tried to wiggle herself out of the passenger’s seat, fumbling—thanks to her cast—with the lock on the seat belt. She couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

  “Do you need any help, sweetheart?” Spencer’s mother asked, a permanent furrow between her brows these days.

  “I said I’m fine, Mom.” Spencer unclipped her seat belt and opened the door. Her father had already opened the front door, waiting for them with a big grin.

  Spencer’s home was a much welcome change from the eggshell-colored walls of the hospital. The living room was the heart of the house, warm and vibrant with plush furniture and low-pile rugs that made one want to curl up with a book plucked from the wall of shelves. Her mom had put a mountain of candles inside the fireplace since they hardly used it. The couch in the living room looked like an awful good place to park herself after the arduous car ride.

  Hope already had the right idea, sprawled on the couch with her phone playing a game. Usually she would be in the garage hammering away at her Rube Goldberg machine, but it seemed like she’d been called in to welcome Spencer home, though begrudgingly so. It was actually kind of a relief that twelve-year-old Hope hadn’t changed a bit since Spencer’s accident, being annoying as ever, because that meant some things could get back to normal. Her parents treated her like she was made of glass and might shatter at even the lightest touch.

  “I already called dibs on naming her,” Hope said, without looking up from the screen. Her phone dinged cheerily, as if mocking Spencer’s confusion.

  “Dibs? Naming her?” Spencer asked.

  “Hopie … She already has one,” Dad said. He kissed Mom on the cheek as she came into the house, carrying Spencer’s things for her.

  Mom threw Hope a withering look that didn’t have any kind of heat behind it. To Spencer she said, “Your father and I—we talked with your doctors, and your father made some calls to get it fast-tracked. We had some old friends from school running a program out in Boulder.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why don’t you go to your room and see for yourself?”

  Spencer looked back and forth between her parents, whose faces were bright and excited, and she knew she wasn’t going to get anything else out of them. Curiously, Spencer made her way upstairs, taking the steps carefully by holding on to the handrail for support, not intending to let her excitement put her back in the hospital, and headed toward her room at the end of the hall.

  Her room, warm and inviting, the perfect place for her to throw herself down on the bed and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars above, glad that she didn’t have drop ceiling tiles to count anymore. She had taken pride in decorating the room herself, in a soft robin’s-egg blue peeking out behind all her band posters, and she’d even built her desk facing a large window of their quiet street, where she would gaze absently, ruminating over her essays or giving her eyes a break from staring at a screen for hours. She’d missed her room desperately and was glad to be back.

  The newest and most unexpected addition to her room was waiting for her at the foot of her bed.

  Small sounds of excited panting came from a large crate at the end of Spencer’s four-poster bed and a copper-colored tail wagged through the metal bars. It was a fox-red Labrador, poking its snout through the slates of the crate, watching her with warm brown eyes.

  “A dog?” Spencer asked, turning as she heard her dad come up behind her.

  He leaned casually on the doorframe. “She’s your service dog. She’s going to be helping you through your recovery.” He avoided saying the term “post-traumatic stress” like it was a curse word. Instead, her parents elected to use “recovery” and “struggles,” as if it made what had happened to Spencer not as crippling as some might make it out to be. Her parents were trained medical professionals, but they were experts in the four-legged variety of medicine. They were trying to make Spencer feel better by lessening the impact of a word like “disorder.”

  “Are you sure?” Spencer asked. She’d never had a dog before. Even though they were vets, her parents were at the clinic most of the time, and with Spencer and Hope in school and doing almost every extracurricular offered, no one was home to take care of one. It was like the cobblers’ kids having no shoes. No pets for vets.

  Her dad moved toward the crate and put his palm flat against the bars, letting the dog lick his hand. “Of course we’re sure! She’s here to help. Our friend from school runs a charity in Colorado specifically training dogs to care for people with psychiatric needs. Like pressure therapy, disrupting emotional overload, reminding you to take your medicine, and even waking you up from nightmares, if you have them.” He said if, but he really meant when. Spencer had already woken up every night from flashbacks so real, she’d start screaming in her bed loud enough that the nurses came running. Spencer could hardly contain the bubble of emotion swelling in her chest.

  She wanted to feel grateful, but she couldn’t help that instead she felt resentful, and she hated herself for it. It wasn’t the dog’s fault, or her parents’, for that matter. But the dog was a reminder of what had happened. Not only would the evidence literally be on her face, but now she would have a dog at her side, broadcasting to the world that she was … broken. Everyone would treat her differently. Everyone would see just how badly her life had been ruined.

  Dad unlatched the crate and the dog ambled out, heading straight for Spencer, tail wagging expectantly. The dog was already wearing a vest with patches sewn onto it specifically saying SERVICE DOG and DO NOT PET and I’M AT WORK. She licked Spencer’s hand, then nudged it with her wet nose. Spencer wiped the drool on her jeans. Labs were always so slobbery; she’d seen her fair share at her parents’ clinic, and the coldness of it jarred her.

  Her mom appeared behind them, already having swapped out her contacts for her grandma glasses everyone so lovingly teased her about. “We still have to sort it out with the office at Armstrong, because you’ll need to take her out at least once during the school day to do her business, but your doctors agreed, a service animal is a good idea.”

  “That’s right, but remember, Spence,” Dad added, “this isn’t a pet. It’s serious. She’s a working dog, doing an important job. She’s your friend, but she’s also here to help you. She’s to perform specific tasks and not play with your classmates. Understood?”

  All manner of thoughts swirled in Spencer’s head. She really wished that things could go back to normal, and a dog right now was feeling like a lot, on top of having to constantly be reminded about what Ethan had done every time she moved her shoulder wrong or caught her reflection in passing. Hesitantly, she asked, “Do I have to?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Spencer worried her lower lip with her teeth. “It’s just another reason for people to stare.”

  Her parents glanced at each other before her mom said, “Sweetheart … It’s for the best. Truly. Once you get used to it, you’ll see.”

  “But what if I don’t want to get used to it? What if I want things to be like they were? Normal?”

  “This is normal. Lots of people have service dogs. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. This doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you, only now you’re you with a little sidekick.”

  Dad said, “We’ll feel better if you had some help when we’re not around. You’ll have more freedom too, especially at school.”

  Spencer dreaded the thought of school now. What would everyone at Armstrong think? Poor little Spencer Sandoval needs special treatment, boo-hoo. The dog looked up at her, eyes bright, tail wagging, waiting for a command. If things had been different, maybe Spencer would have been more excited about it, but pain in her shoulder was making her grumpy. It wasn’t the dog’s fault that she was in this mess. If this dog could help her focus on her schoolwork and get her back on track for Caltech, she guessed she could give it a shot.

  Spencer took a deep breath and relented. “What’s her name?”

  “Ripley, like from Alien. Apparently, her handler was very into sci-fi movies. I think it suits her, though.”

  “Ripley, huh,” Spencer said, testing it out. The dog’s tongue snapped back into her mouth at the sound of her name, and Spencer smiled. It helped that Ripley was cute.

  They would have a lot of work to do together.

  FOUR

  THAT NIGHT AT DINNER, RIPLEY sat under Spencer’s chair at the dining room table, exactly as she was trained to do, while they all ate together as a family, a Sunday evening ritual that seemed more important than ever according to Mom. She’d ordered takeout from their favorite Thai restaurant—a special treat after all the hospital food everyone had been eating for the past two weeks—sure to add some desperately desired spice to Spencer’s craving for flavor. The egg rolls smelled divine, and she almost swallowed them whole without chewing first. Even with a week’s worth of practice, it was still hard using her right hand to eat. Chopsticks were impossible to manage, so a fork had to do.

  No one spoke for a while, as if no one was sure what to say anymore. What else was left besides the treacherous topic of Spencer’s ex-boyfriend having accidentally killed a kid?

  Spencer was thankful that no one said much while they ate. She wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, she was so tired, and she absently rubbed her foot on Ripley’s back, raking her toes lengthwise down her spine. Ripley’s leg thudded excitedly on the floor as Spencer hit just the right spot.

  “What’s this around Ripley’s neck? It doesn’t look like a normal collar.” Spencer referred to a black band with a plastic rectangle on it, sitting above Ripley’s leather one with her ID tag on it.

  “Oh, it’s just a GPS thing, all service dogs have them.” Her dad shrugged.

  “So when will you be normal again?” Hope demanded. She was using her chopsticks like two spears, one in each hand.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “Besides, it’s not what we say about these kinds of things. There’s nothing wrong with Spencer.”

  Hope ran her tongue over her braces and added, “Well, my friends at school are talking.”

  “Is it talking or is it just rumors, Hopie?” Mom said.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Rumors mean it’s not true.”

  “They say Ethan was drunk or high, which means he’s definitely guilty.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” Spencer interrupted, trying to put on a smile but failing. She hated how her heartbeat accelerated at the simple mention of his name.

  Scream. SPENCER! Float. Crash. Pain.

  She blinked furiously, scrubbing Ethan’s terrified face out of her mind’s eye. If she’d been holding wooden chopsticks, she was sure she would have snapped them in half, her grip was that tight.

  “Okay,” Hope said, and shrugged, eyeing the last egg roll on the plate. Spencer didn’t blame her; she was at least saying what was on her mind rather than hiding behind a false sense of normalcy. The pain radiating from Spencer’s shoulder gave her something to focus on. She needed another dose of Vicodin. The one she’d taken at the hospital was starting to wear off.