“I’m sorry,” she says it like it’s a catechism. “It wasn’t me. I’m sorry.”
“Just…go upstairs.” Her mother says, a hand pressed against her already bruising eye. She is cradled between cracked plaster and the stove. Where Clarke’s punch landed her.
“It wasn’t me.” Her hands are spread wide in front of her. Pleading. “It was—”
“GO TO YOUR ROOM!”
Her mother’s voice breaks. It is the unspoken desperation that chases Miranda up the stairs, not the words. Miranda hates Clarke. Her hands shake with rage as she sits at her desk and writes in the notebook they share.