thirteenMorgan was waiting for me outside the locker room door. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not great at dealing with somebody being nice to me.”I shrugged.We walked together out to the bike rack.“There’s just,” Morgan whispered to me. “There’s a lot going on at my house right now. I need to talk to somebody. Not need, but . . .”“You could try me,” I suggested.Morgan bent over her bike. “My mom was laid off.”“Oh,” I said.“Yeah. No big deal, you know, it’s just, I can’t exactly ask her for junk food money when she can’t even manage lunches, if you know what I mean.”“Sure,” I said. I didn’t know what to do and wished I had something to give her. My own lunch gurgled around in my belly. “Oh, no. I’m really sorry I said that thing about dieting. Before. I didn’t realize.”“That’s OK.” Morgan snapped open her bike lock. “Anyway, I don’t know why I told you. It’s not like I need sympathy, or anything.” She blinked a few times.I thought of touching her shoulder, but then I thought that might make her cry even more.
