Also by Katie Cicatelli-­Kuc

Quarantine: A Love Story

 a
socially
distant
love
story

Katie Cicatelli-­Kuc

Scholastic Inc.
 If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher,
and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this
“stripped book.”

Copyright © 2021 by Katie Cicatelli-­Kuc

Interior photo © Rabilbanimilbu/Shutterstock

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
­either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to ­actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-338-74519-1

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1        21 22 23 24 25

Printed in the U.S.A.  23

First printing 2021
Book design by Baily Crawford
 To all the frontline and essential workers—
the real-­life heroes. Thank you.
 1
It’s a Thursday in mid-­March. T
­ here are teases of spring in the air, and
the sun seems to be staying out just a l­ittle bit longer each day. Aside
from that, though, it’s a pretty average, unforgettable Thursday.
I’m walking through the hallway of my high school with Vanessa,
my girlfriend. It’s just a­ fter lunch, and I only have two classes left
­u ntil my day is done.
Vanessa squeezes my hand. “­You’re still coming over ­after school
­today, right, Claire?” she asks, peering at me with her huge blue eyes.
I squeeze her hand back. “I w
­ ouldn’t miss it for anything in the
world.”
She smiles, and even though ­we’ve been dating for almost five
months, her smile is still so electric, and I ­can’t help but smile back.
“Oh, get a room, you two,” someone says ­behind us.
I whip around, annoyed, ready to scowl at whoever said it, but it’s
just Gaby. She sits between Vanessa and me in physics class, and she gets
stuck in the m
­ iddle of our whispered conversations all the time.
I stick my tongue out at her, while Vanessa squeezes my hand harder,
laughing.

1
 “We have a lot of homework to work on!” Vanessa says.
Gaby rolls her eyes, and I start to say, “I need a lot of help with—”
But then the loudspeaker overhead crackles to life. Every­one in the
hall reflexively covers their ears as the speakers squeak and squeal.
Principal Shaffier taps the microphone like he always does, the signal for
every­one to s­ ettle down and uncover their ears.
“Um, good after­noon, students,” he says, then pauses. Which is a
­little weird. Usually his announcements seem like they start when he’s in
the ­middle of thinking about something.
­There is a whoosh over the speakers, which I realize is him exhaling
deeply. Also weird. Vanessa and I look at each other, a glimmer of con-
fusion in her eyes.
Then comes another whoosh, another deep breath, and I look around
the hallway. Some students look confused, some look annoyed; some are
still chattering away to each other without a care in the world.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never had to make an announcement like this
before,” he fi­nally admits.
“Spit it out!” Simon Jacobson yells. His meathead friends crack up
like it’s the funniest t­ hing t­ hey’ve ever heard. T
­ here are so many of them,
and t­hey’re all standing way too close to us, laughing so loud I d
­ on’t
catch every­thing Principal Shaffier says. All I hear is something about
“unpre­ce­dented times.”
“­Will you please shut up?!” someone hisses at them.
They act all insulted, muttering to each other. Now I can hear the
principal loud and clear.
But I kind of wish ­they’d be loud and awful again ­because even
though I can hear what the principal is saying now, I d
­ on’t fully under-
stand it. He’s saying something about the virus—­this virus that ­we’ve all
been hearing about for a few weeks. I’ve heard my parents talking about

2
what was happening in Japan, in Italy—­the rising number of infections
and lives lost all over the world—­but it w
­ asn’t supposed to be something
that could ever happen in our country, in our lives. That’s what they told
me, anyway.
But now it’s ­here. It’s in New York.
“We’ve just received word of over fifty cases of the virus in hospi-
tals all over the city, with many more suspected, and many more awaiting
positive confirmation,” Principal Shaffier says, his voice quivering a
little. “Per the governor’s emergency state-­
­ mandated protocol, our
school ­will be closed for two weeks. We ­will be switching to remote
learning, as we have seen schools in other parts of the world do. Your
teachers are working hard to determine what exactly this w
­ ill entail, so
be sure to check your emails. In the meantime, t­ here ­will be no in-­person
school tomorrow, in order for your teachers to prepare for the next two
weeks.”
Simon and his friends start cheering and yelling, “No school tomor-
row! Let’s party!”
But this time a lot more p
­ eople are annoyed with them. Even Fred
Parris, the obligatory class clown, who seems to pride himself on how
bad his grades are, yells, “Shut UP!”
Simon and his friends still look mostly insulted, but one of them, I
­can’t remember his name, says kind of half-­heartedly, “Yeah, guys, this
sounds impor­tant.”
Principal Shaffier continues, “I’m g­ oing to repeat myself b­ ecause I
know this is a lot to pro­cess. We are hopeful that over the next two weeks
we can adequately clean and disinfect and install proper filtration devices
throughout the school. During that time, you ­will still be responsible for
your assignments and proj­ects just as you are now. It is strongly encour-
aged that you stay home and isolate in lockdown with your f­ amily.”

3
 A flurry of whispers erupts around me. Even Simon Jacobson ­doesn’t
have a clever joke to make in this moment.
“This is not just an order from me, but from the governor as well,”
Principal Shaffier goes on. “This is not a snow day; this is not a drill.
This is a pandemic, a very serious situation, and I know you ­will all do
what you can to ensure that we can return to school and normal life as
quickly as pos­si­ble.”
I look around, but every­one seems as confused as I feel. Vanessa
squeezes my hand again, and I realize one of us is shaking.
“Your parents and guardians have been notified via email, text, and
phone call about the situation, tomorrow’s school closure, and ­today’s
early dismissal,” Principal Shaffier informs. “Many of them could be
receiving similar news from their employers about staying home and
working remotely from their offices for the next two weeks as well. Be
safe, get home quickly, and w
­ e’ll see you all in two weeks.”
“What early dismissal?” I say to Vanessa. But every­one ­else around
me is talking, and my voice is almost lost in the roar of the crowded
hallway, a mix of excitement and confusion. Some students are cheering
and laughing, but most look like I feel, as if t­ hey’re also still pro­cessing
what they just heard.
Vanessa looks at me, puzzled as well, and says, “Yeah, I guess the day
is over now. I’m ­going to head to my locker. I’ll meet you by your locker
in a few?”
I nod, but I ­don’t move.
“Hey,” Vanessa says, g­ ently tugging on my hand, and I try to snap
out of my daze. She does it again, then guides me over to my locker. “I’m
­going to go pack up what­ever I might need for the next . . . ​gosh, two
weeks. I’ll come back in a few minutes and we can walk to my place
together?”

4
 I look at her, but it’s like my mouth has forgotten how to work.
Vanessa g­ ently touches my face, makes my eyes meet hers. “It’s g­ oing
to be okay, Claire. Just get your stuff together, all right?” I must have
nodded, ­because Vanessa looks satisfied. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch her go, then turn back to my locker and open it. But it’s like
I’ve never seen the ­things inside it before. I stand ­there, looking at
nothing, and I get jostled by two girls. One has her turtleneck sweater
pulled up over her mouth and nose. She says something to me, but I
­can’t hear her, and I ­don’t recognize her with half her face covered. Her
friend gives me an apol­o­getic look, but ­they’re swept down the hallway
with the rest of the crowd.
When Vanessa comes back a few minutes ­later, I’m still standing in
front of my locker, digging through piles of crinkled papers, trying to
figure out what I might need for the next two weeks.
“Babe, do you need some help?” she asks, looking at me
sympathetically.
I look at her, her wavy brownish-­reddish hair in a neat ponytail. Her
black flowered dress is clean and unwrinkled, and even her boots are
tied perfectly.
She ­doesn’t wait for me to answer and steps forward. She starts pull-
ing textbooks and notebooks out of my locker and putting them in my
backpack. I watch her, and then I fi­nally speak. “How are you so calm?”
The hallway is mostly emptied out now, so she actually hears me
this time.
She turns to me, zipping up my backpack. “Freaking out w
­ on’t do
anything, ya know?”
I nod. Of course, she’s right. She’s always right.
She hands me my backpack. “Ready to go?”
I nod again, b­ ecause it seems like that’s all I can do.

5
 * * *
Vanessa and I hold hands on the walk to her apartment. She’s quieter
than usual, and I’m still having trou­ble speaking. Trou­ble thinking.
­Every once in a while, she says something, about how she’s glad she
cleaned up her bedroom desk last week, how she’s glad her desk chair is
so comfortable.
But the principal’s words are still echoing through my head.
Lockdown, pandemic, isolate.
The sidewalks are bustling with other students, with other ­people,
and it’s almost like a normal day, except that w
­ e’re out of school two
hours early. I keep hearing snatches of conversations. All anyone is
talking about is the virus and the lockdown.
“I wish I had gone to the grocery store yesterday,” I hear a passerby
say. “I definitely d
­ on’t have enough food to last two weeks.”
“­Doesn’t ­matter. Shelves are empty,” another responds.
“­
C an’t find hand sanitizer anywhere ­
either,” someone e­lse
chimes in.
My head buzzes, trying to understand every­
thing I’m hearing
around me.
When ­we’re almost at Vanessa’s apartment building, something
occurs to me, and I fi­nally speak. “Wait, Vanessa, if ­we’re supposed to
stay home, in quarantine or lockdown or what­ever . . . ​should we be
hanging out right now?”
Vanessa smiles, then scrunches up her face as she thinks about it. “I
mean, ­we’ve already been together at school. What difference ­will a few
more hours make?”
I nod, agreeing with her logic. But something e­ lse is bugging me.
“What about ­after t­ oday? When can we see each other again?”
“You heard the principal,” Vanessa says. “­We’ll stay home for two

6
weeks. But we can still see each other on video chats. And look at the
bright side: I bet this w
­ ill give you more time to think about the schools
you want to apply to!”
“Right. College stuff. Just what I want.” I try to keep the sarcasm
out of my voice, but I ­don’t think it works, ­because Vanessa gives me a
dirty look.
“And just think,” she says, unlocking the door to her building, “two
weeks of no school lunches, no rushing to classes, and no dealing with
the annoyingness of daily high school life.”
That’s true. A ­couple weeks away from school might do me some
good. I could fi­nally update my Babble account, this app where people
can post book reviews and even share their own original stories with
­others. I’ve had it for so long that it still has my original screenname,
Clarissareads—­
a pseudonym my mom came up with when I was
younger to protect my identity. I’m actually kind of looking forward to
it now.
“I guess ­you’re right,” I say.
But Vanessa ­doesn’t hear me. She’s looking at something on her
phone as we walk up the stairs.
My phone! Suddenly, I realize that I h
­ aven’t checked it since before
Principal Shaffier’s announcement. I won­der if my parents have tried to
get in touch with me at all. If ­they’ll be working from home too. That
would mean all three of us home at the same time, together, for two
weeks. Together. In our tiny Brooklyn apartment.
I shake the thought from my head and pull my phone out of my
back pocket. Oops. Eleven missed calls, and a bunch of text messages. A
­whole bunch of text messages. Almost all from my mom, and she’s freak-
ing out. Big time.
Uh-oh.

7
Mom:

C, I heard your school is getting out early and w

­ ill be
closed tomorrow. I’m heading home now too. When are
you getting home?

I’m home, where are you?

Why ­aren’t you answering your phone?

Your dad h
­ asn’t heard from you ­either.

Claire, pick up your phone!!!

Dad:

Claire, where are you? Mom is ­really worried.

Call your m
­ other.

I’m on the third floor, Vanessa’s floor. I ­don’t even remember walk-
ing up ­here.
She’s standing in front of the door to her apartment, keys in one
hand, reading something on her phone.
“Vanessa, I think I need to—”
“Claire, maybe we s­ houldn’t—”
I take a breath and wait for her to go first.
“Maybe we ­shouldn’t hang out right now,” she says quickly. “My
parents left work early and are both picking up Lucy from school, and
then coming home.”
I nod, suddenly feeling like I want to cry. “Yeah, I think my mom is
pretty freaked. I should head home.”
“I understand.”
And then we just look at each other.

8
 “So . . . ​I’ll see you at school in two weeks?” Vanessa fi­nally says.
“Two weeks. That’s half a month.” My throat hurts from trying to
swallow my tears back. “That’s a long time.”
“Aw, babe,” Vanessa says softly. She walks over to where I’m stand-
ing and pulls me in for a hug. ­We’re both still wearing our backpacks, so
it should be an awkward hug, but it’s not. It’s comfortable, comforting,
the way it always is to touch her, and realizing I ­can’t do it for two weeks
makes the tears spill out of my eyes.
Vanessa takes a step back, looks into my face, and ­gently wipes my
tears away with her thumb, then softly kisses my cheeks. She smells like
the lavender shampoo she uses . . . ​and like Vanessa.
Like my girlfriend.
“We can video-­chat all the time. Like, do homework together over
it. Maybe even watch movies or TV or something?”
She’s trying to make me feel better, and she’s right—we can still talk,
still see each other. But knowing it’ll be over a screen, not in person—­that
I ­won’t be able to smell her lavender shampoo for two weeks—­feels just so
gut-­wrenchingly horrible. I swallow my tears again and nod. I d
­ on’t
trust myself not to cry.
Vanessa leans forward again, kisses my lips softly, then more intensely,
and my hands are in her lavender hair, and her hands are in my chin-­
length bob, u
­ ntil fi­nally she pulls away.
“Okay, okay. It’s just two weeks, right?” she says, laughing. “­We’ll be
a few blocks away from each other too. It’s not like one of us is ­going to
the moon or anything. And just think how much college stuff you can
get figured out!”
“Right,” I say weakly. But somewhere deep down, I feel like she
might as well be ­going to the moon.
“I know it’s overwhelming, babe. Just try for an hour or two a day,

9
looking places up online, reading student message boards, that kind
of ­thing.”
“Right,” I say again, even more weakly this time.
We hear the building door open downstairs. “That’s prob­ably my
­family,” she says.
“Okay, I should go.” I want to say more, so much more, but I d
­ on’t
even know where to begin. I want to ask more, too, but I know she
­doesn’t have any answers. So I just give her another peck on the lips,
one more quick hug, and I head down the stairs.
But Vanessa was wrong—it ­wasn’t her parents and Lucy walking into
the building. I want to go back upstairs, spend a few more precious sec-
onds with her, but I think of my mom.
Oh god. My mom.
When I get outside, I dig my phone out of my pocket again. More
missed calls and texts. I d
­ on’t read the texts and just call my mom.
The phone ­doesn’t even ring.
“Claire! Where are you? Why ­weren’t you answering? Do you have
any idea how worried I’ve been?”
“Mom, I’m sorry. I was at Vanessa’s. I’m coming home—”
“Vanessa’s? What on earth ­were you ­doing at Vanessa’s? You ­were
supposed to come straight home! You know ­we’re in a lockdown, right?
In a pandemic?”
“I’m sorry!” I say again.
“That’s it? ­You’re sorry?”
“Yes, I’m sorry! What ­else do you want me to say?”
My mom sighs. “I just d
­ on’t know why you d
­ idn’t come home right
away. I just . . .” And then I realize she’s crying.
“Claire, y­ou’re coming home, right?” Now it’s my dad on the
phone.

10
 “Yes, I’m on my way.” I ­don’t know why, but I feel ­really annoyed.
And a l­ittle dazed. “Why is Mom so freaked out?”
My dad sighs. “Let’s talk when you get home, okay, Claire?”
“Fine,” I say, and hang up.
I walk the rest of the way quickly, and I hear more snatches of con-
versations around me:
“My landlord’s ­sister has it.”
“I heard it’s worse for the el­derly.”
“I heard it’s worse for ­people with lung prob­lems.”
“­Can’t find toilet paper anywhere!”
I ­don’t understand what toilet paper has to do with this virus, with
me not being able to go to school or see my girlfriend for two weeks. But
I quickly stop thinking about it, about anything, r­eally, when I see the
bodega in my neighborhood. The bodega I’ve been ­going to since I was
in second grade—­that I’ve bought prob­ably thousands of bags of
chips from, that never has more than a handful of ­people inside at
once—­has a line of p
­ eople waiting to go in. A long line. One w
­ oman has
a scarf wrapped around the bottom part of her face; a man is wearing a
pair of goggles. I walk more quickly.
When I turn the corner to my street, I see my mom standing outside
our building. She’s got her head down, looking at her phone, but then
looks up and sees me. She runs down the block with her arms out. ­People
on the sidewalks watch her, watch me, and I even see one person take
out their phone. To take a video? Call the police? I ­don’t have time to
see, ­because suddenly I’m wrapped in her arms so tight I can barely
breathe.
“Claire, I was so worried,” my mom says into my hair.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I gasp.
She loosens her grip, pulls back to look at my face. Her eyes are red,

11
and her face is splotchy, like she’s been crying. I’ve never seen her look
so scared and sad at the same time.
She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get inside.”
Inside. Where I’ll spend the next two weeks.
We walk up to the second floor, to our apartment, and I almost trip
over the grocery bags lining the hallway inside.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask.
My dad emerges from the kitchen. “All this should hopefully last
two weeks. Mom and I started stocking up on ­things ­here and ­there at
our offices, and we brought it home t­ oday.”
“Oh god, my office,” my mom says, and she looks like she’s about to
cry again.
“Soooo, you guys w
­ ill be working at home for the next two weeks?”
I ask quietly, still trying to understand what’s happening. “I just . . . ​I
thought you said this w
­ ouldn’t happen ­here?”
My thinking out loud seems to make my mom feel worse, and I see
her lip trembling.
“Yep! W
­ e’re g­oing to be spending a lot of quality f­amily time
together,” my dad says brightly. He comes over to wrap his arms around
me, but I shrug him off, nodding my head at my mom.
“Oh, Mom is just upset, trying to figure out how this is all g­ oing to
work. You know, working at home. All of us together.”
My mom looks at him, sniffling. “Do you seriously think that’s all
I’m worried about? Do you even know anything about me, Joe? I’m
worried about the fact that t­here is a rapidly spreading virus out t­here.
That we ­don’t know how many ­people are ­going to get sick. How many
are ­going to die. That I ­didn’t know where my only ­daughter—my only
child—­was ­until about five minutes ago.”
My dad grins. “I think it was more like nine minutes.”

12
 “Dad!”
“Joe!”
My mom stomps down the hall to the bathroom. The w
­ ater to the
shower turns on, which we both know she does when she wants to cry.
Loud.
“Good one, Dad,” I say. But I’m also replaying her words in my
head. Rapidly spreading virus. Sick. Die. And I’m replaying how scared
and sad she was. How scared and sad she is. How even if my parents said
this virus ­wouldn’t come h
­ ere, it did. How it’s ­here. How ­little they
might actually know about this virus. How ­little anyone might actually
know about this virus.
“What?” he says, still with the silly grin on his face.
“­You’re unreal,” I say, and then go to my room and slam the door.

13
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