Free Perfect Glass (A Young Adult Novel (sequel to Glass Girl)) by Laura Anderson Kurk Page A

that fierce. Or quick. Or working a protection detail for me. He was on the thin side, more intellect than muscle.
    “Dude,” Nate yelled, holding the shoulder that took most of the impact. “I’m a friend of hers. I was just kidding.”
    “It wasn’t funny.” Quinn still hadn’t backed off.
    I tugged on his arm and tried to get him away from Nate. “You should just go on to English, Quinn. It’s okay.”
    Nate pushed Quinn back and started walking toward the bathroom. He opened the door and kicked it shut behind him. Quinn and I were staring at the door when it opened again and Nate stuck his head out and met my eyes. “I really was kidding, Meg. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
    “It’s okay.” My face burned.
    “Does Henry know about this clown?” He jerked his chin toward Quinn, who was scowling, and let the bathroom door close again.
    “Are you making some good friends at school?” I said to Quinn, trying to sound like an interested mom.
    He sighed and gave me a lopsided grin. “Crap. I might have overreacted. I’ll apologize.” He leaned into the bathroom and spoke to Nate, who must have been standing by the door. After a second of listening to Nate’s response, he stuck his hand through the half-open door. I caught a glimpse of a handshake/fist bump combination. Guys are so easy
.
    “Let’s go before Mr. Landmann gets heated up,” Quinn said after he let the bathroom door close.
    Mr. Landmann had started his lecture on Serafina, the main character in
The Rose Tattoo
. He barely glanced at us when we opened the door.
    “‘A woman can be dignified in her grief, but when it’s carried too far it becomes a sort of self-indulgence,’” he read. “What’s Serafina grieving, Mr. O’Neill?” Usually Mr. Landmann’s punishment for tardiness was a barrage of direct questions about the homework.
    “Her husband, at first,” Quinn said, stopping between two rows of seats and facing Mr. Landmann. His show of respect earned him a nod.
    “And then,” Mr. Landmann prompted.
    “And then she grieved everything.” Quinn began to look uncomfortable.
    “Sit, Quinn, and tell me what you mean.” Mr. Landmann motioned for him to find his seat. “How does she grieve everything?”
    Once Quinn was settled, he unzipped his backpack and took out his copy of the play. He might have been buying time. I raised my hand because I figured I owed Quinn for helping me with the handcuffs, as well as worrying about the jokes flying around about my character.
    “Meg?” Mr. Landmann said. He seemed surprised I would willingly open myself up to the class about another case of literary grief.
    “Serafina grieves the loss of things she hasn’t even lost yet. Some people don’t know what else to do except to grieve. They’ll make stuff up to mourn.”
    “Go on, please,” Mr. Landmann said, tripping over the words lightly—half invitation, half release from obligation.
    “She worshipped her husband and he died. It seems like that’s her trouble, but it was more. She’s grieving the idea of him and her own aging and her daughter’s separation. She grieves…everything.” I glanced at Quinn as I used his words. He nodded once, but it was barely perceptible.
    “Class, was the priest right?” Mr. Landmann said. “Did her grief become self-indulgent?”
    He called on other students as they raised their hands. Most of them agreed with the priest.
    Quinn raised his hand and started talking before Mr. Landmann called on him. He literally vibrated in his seat, his opinion on the subject making his joints jump.
    “Yeah,” he said. “But the play’s about unequal suffering. The priest shouldn’t have made such an insensitive remark to her. She’d just learned her husband had cheated on her. A lot. And he was a loser. And the priest harped on her about grieving for too long. Nobody was willing to admit Serafina deserved a little compassion because she got dealt a crap hand.”
    “If you’d written it,