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- Herausgeber: Cincinnatus Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
From the bestselling author of Just Remember to Breathe and The Last Hour, a shocking and poignant story of a family on the brink of destruction and the transformational events that could bring them back together—or tear them apart.
Every day, Cole Roberts reminds himself that life wasn’t always this bleak. He was once passionately in love with Erin. Sam used to be an artistic and lively kid. They hadn’t always lived in a shabby two-room house in rural Alabama, where he runs a mediocre restaurant in the middle of nowhere.
That was before Brenna disappeared. It was before Cole lost his job and they lost their home.
Every day it gets worse. Erin drinks wine out of the bottle and spends her days with a tormented expression, searching the web for signs of their daughter. Sam hides in his room and rarely speaks. And Cole works himself to a stupor for a paycheck a fraction of the size of his old salary.
Until one day a phone call changes everything.
Winter Flower is at once a tragic tale of the disappearance of a child; struggling with gender identity; of the dark world of sex-trafficking and the transformation and healing of a family. Sheehan-Miles’s longest novel delves into the depths of family life—and how, sometimes, we can heal and find restoration.
Praise for Winter Flower
Sheehan-Miles's writing, as always, is brilliant. I love this author's voice and writing style. There's an honesty to his storytelling which I think is why he is so good at conveying emotions and is why, with every book he's written, including this one, I find myself crying while reading his words.
- Feeding My Addiction Book Reviews
I feel emotionally wrecked in the best way.
- Bethany, Talkbooks Blog
Charles Sheehan-Miles is one of the best authors I have read. He has an incredible gift of creating characters who the readers immediately embrace as their own.
- Saucy Southern Readers Blog
This book is just really damn good!
- Christopher Gerrib, Author of The Night Watch
This story sucked me in, captivated me, broke my heart, then put it back together. It is hard, realistic, gritty, and suspenseful, but it is tempered by hope and determination...a powerful and emotional read that is also both hopeful and inspiring.
- Kim B of Reviews by Tammy & Kim, Goodreads Review
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Table of Contents
winter
flower
Charles Sheehan-Miles
Books by Charles Sheehan-Miles
Fiction
winter flower
Nocturne (with Andrea Randall)
Prayer at Rumayla: A Novel of the Gulf War
Matt & Zoe
The Thompson Sisters
A Song for Julia
Falling Stars: A Thompson Sisters
A View From Forever
Just Remember to Breathe
The Last Hour
The Thompson Sisters / Rachel's Peril
Girl of Lies
Girl of Rage
Girl of Vengeance
America's Future
Republic
Insurgent
Nonfiction
Saving the World On $30 A Day: An Activists Guide to Starting, Organizing and Running a Non-Profit Organization
Dedication
In Memory of Patricia Chase McJunkins
Acknowledgements
I want to start by thanking my amazing beta readers group.
Dimitra Fleissner, Kirsten Papi, Michelle Kannan, Laura Wilson and Michelle Pace and Jackie Yeadon read through the first draft and gave me tremendous insight, suggestions and criticism.
Tanya Hall, Robin Wagner, Brett Lewis, Kirsty Lander, Kelly Moorhouse, Beth Suit and Sally Bouley read the second round, helping me tighten it up and filling the gaps.
I’m grateful to each of you for your criticism, suggestions and encouragement.
Barbara Elsner: you know why. Thank you.
Lori Sabin: Thank you so much for being an amazing editor and friend.
Andrea: you’ve been my biggest supporter, cheerleader and writing partner. It’s hard for me to imagine or remember what life was like before you, and I am so incredible grateful.
Prologue
Sam: September 13
The day before my sister Brenna disappeared I felt a hint of chill in the air as I stepped out of James Madison High School. Brenna stayed late for the drama club, because of course she was in drama, and I stayed late for extra help in chemistry. I glanced to the end of the sheltered walkway, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and walked toward the parking lot where Brenna and I were meeting up with Mom.
I didn’t even see Jake Fennel and his sidekick Matt until Jake slapped me in the face. With broad shoulders and powerful forearms, Jake had a military-style crew cut and red, fleshy cheeks that looked out of place on someone so spiteful. Jerking me around had been his favorite activity since elementary school, when he’d punched me at Cynthia’s ninth birthday party.
“Hey, little bitch!” Jake said.
I tried to pull away, but Jake shoved me against the wall again, grabbing the front of my shirt. With half-lowered eyelids squeezed into narrow, hateful slits, he whispered, “You told Mrs. Reed I was bothering you? Do you have a fucking death wish?”
Matt, his sidekick, spit at my feet. “Bitch.”
“I ought to kick your ass.” Jake’s face flushed as he worked himself up.
Tears bubbled way too close to the surface. I wanted to run or sink into the ground and disappear. I’d tried to be invisible in the three weeks since high school had started. No such luck. I’d hoped it would be better than middle school. Maybe the jerks and bullies who had made middle school miserable for me would find someone else to bother, or they’d mature, or the lessons of a hundred seminars on bullying would stick and they’d embrace brotherhood with people different from themselves.
Failing that, maybe I’d be invisible.
Brenna refused to be invisible. Bursting out of the doors of the gym, she saw me thrown up against the wall and marched toward us, face tight with anger.
She slapped Jake on the back of his head. “Let go, little jerk.”
Fear flashed across Jake’s face, reinforced most likely by the biker chain Brenna had hanging from her belt, the combat boots, and the crazy purple spiked hair. A deep, blue-green jewel, the same color as her eyes, pierced her right nostril.
Leaning forward to look eye-to-eye at Jake, she whispered, “I’m gonna jam my boot right up your ass if you don’t run away right now.”
Jake shoved me against the wall one last time. Backing off, he said, “You won’t always be around to protect the little freak, you crazy bitch.”
Jake Fennel was right. Brenna wouldn’t always be around to protect me. Not anymore. But I didn’t know that then, and when she turned to me after Jake and Matt’s retreat, I hugged her. “Thank you,” I said.
She didn’t reply at first, nor return the hug. “What are you going to do when I’m gone? Don’t you think it’s time you learned to stand up for yourself?”
“Gone?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
Eyes averted. “Never mind. Let’s go.”
I didn’t like her answer. But what was I going to do about it? Walking out to the parking lot, we saw Mom behind the wheel of the Mercedes Dad bought her Valentine’s year before last.
“Hey, guys.” Closing her book and putting it in her purse behind the center console, she started the van. Seniority ruled, so Brenna sat in the front seat, me in the middle. “How was your day?”
“Okay,” Brenna said.
“Fine,” I echoed.
Mom shook her head and gave a wry smile. “I should know better than to ask teenagers anything.”
Erin: September 15
At ten o’clock, after my husband Cole and Brenna left for her driver’s license test, it was time for me to get into gear. Only a few Department of Motor Vehicles offices were open on Saturday, so they would be gone a couple of hours. I had to put up the decorations, unlock the garage door, stage the car, lay out food, dishes, and fifteen other things, all before they got back. I texted my younger sister Lori: They’re leaving now. Come on over.
Brenna babbled with excitement, talking about all the things she wanted to do once she was legal to drive. Cole’s eyes locked on mine over her head, and the grin on his face gave me a shiver. After eighteen years of marriage—which had a lot of ups and some spectacular downs—Cole still had the power to make me weak in the knees.
“Sam!” I called up the stairs as I headed into the kitchen.
Lori would arrive any minute. In the meantime, I pulled supplies from the pantry. Sodas. Chips. Pizza would be here at noon, along with Marion, Brenna’s best friend since elementary school. Though when I thought about it, I rarely saw them together these days.
The doorbell rang, and Sam called out, “I’ll get it!”
A few moments later, Lori came in the room, trailed by Sam. Lori had changed her hair since I’d seen her last, dyed a deep black and shaved around the ear on one side of her head. On a sixteen-year-old it might not have looked out of place, but Lori was thirty-five. Mom and Dad once despaired of her ever having a productive job, but her art had paid off—her latest masterpiece hung in the North Carolina Museum of Art.
“Oh, I missed you,” she crooned, slipping her arms around me.
The past few years had been tough on our relationship. Raleigh was a solid five-hour drive, so she didn’t make it up here often, nor did I frequently visit her. Something was always going on with the kids—sports or concerts or other activities—and when I wasn’t busy, she had gallery showings and other events taking up her time. The last couple of years, she’d been traveling throughout the South showing her work.
Having her here brought tears to my eyes.
She tilted her head. “Crying?”
I shrugged and laughed. “Just a little.”
Sam ignored everything, slipping into the den, undoubtedly to get back to a video game.
“Do we have time for a cup of coffee?”
“I’m sure we do; they’ll be a couple hours. What would you like? Decaf? Regular? Chai? I think I’ve got some others too.”
“Leaded, please. Is Brenna excited? Do you think she’ll ever speak to me again?”
“Yes, she’s excited about getting her license. She doesn’t know about the car yet. And … I don’t know.”
Lori nodded. She’d always been a confidante for Brenna, someone safe to talk to. It was a relationship I approved of—teenagers need an adult they can trust. But when Brenna started dating a twenty-year-old, concern for her safety overrode that trust. Lori had told me, and that precipitated a crisis. Now we had to wait, wondering if their relationship would recover.
“Did I do the right thing?”
“If you knew she was dating Chase and didn’t tell me, I’d have never forgiven you. So … yeah, you did the right thing.”
She nodded, her expression glum.
“The bad news?” I said. “She’s still seeing him.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Cole is pissed. But he’s never around anyway, so a lot of help he is. I had to pick my battles … she’s committed to him. I’m not willing to lose my daughter in this battle.”
Lori sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, thank God I don’t have teenagers?”
She snickered. “And Cole? How are things with him?”
I shrugged. “We’ve been in therapy, and he’s been making a real effort.” One corner of her mouth curled down. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Because you’ll just repeat what you always say: leave him. And I’m not leaving my husband.
“Okay.”
After the coffee, we got busy decorating the cavernous living room. Brenna thought she was too old for a birthday party, unless it was a bunch of too-cool teenagers standing around pretending to be cynical. But she’d be okay with this party, if only because of her gift.
Marion had arrived, and we finished setting up long before they got home—Cole sitting in the passenger seat, and Brenna driving, a huge grin on her face. She pulled the car to a stop and parked behind Lori. They got out and Brenna gestured to Lori’s car. Cole shrugged and followed her as she skipped toward the house.
The front door opened. Lori, Sam, and Marion shouted, “Happy birthday!”
Brenna’s eyes widened, the blue highlighted by her purple hair. “Marion!” She grabbed her best friend in a huge hug.
Brenna didn’t even say hi to Lori, whose smile faltered. Sometimes Brenna could be such a bitch.
I tried to remind myself that selfishness was typical behavior for sixteen-year-olds.
But Brenna surprised me. She turned away from Marion and said, “Aunt Lori.” She reached for Lori, and Lori slipped her arms around my daughter. Brenna’s eyes were squeezed shut as she whispered, “I missed you.”
“You forgive me?” Lori asked.
“Yeah,” Brenna said.
“So, what’s first?” Cole asked. “Food? Or presents?”
“Presents,” Brenna said. “Are you kidding?”
He chuckled and our eyes met. I didn’t look away, instead giving him a half smile.
Cole swallowed and his mouth twitched into a smile. Maybe we had hope.
“All right,” he said. “Presents! Sam, can you help me with it?”
Sam stood and nodded. They walked out of the room.
Marion spoke in a shy voice and held out a hand gripping an envelope. “Here.”
Brenna smiled. “Can I open it?”
“Well, yeah,” Marion replied.
Brenna tore it open and whooped. “Fifty dollars!” She waved an iTunes gift card in the air.
“Nice,” Lori said.
“Thank you, bestie!” Brenna said as Sam and Cole came back in the room carrying a huge package wrapped in orange and blue paper. What? Had Cole gotten her something else? We’d agreed the car was enough … more than enough.
I sighed.
“Oh my,” Brenna said. Her eyes darted between the huge box and the more modest-sized gift Lori had brought.
“Open mine first,” Lori said quietly. “Otherwise, you’ll forget it when you see what your mom and dad got you.”
Brenna smiled and tore open the gift. A huge smile spread on her face. “Oh my God, it’s beautiful!” she breathed. The box contained a stainless-steel bracelet, the chain embedded with stones that looked like jade.
“This looks handmade,” Brenna said.
Lori nodded. “I got it at the Ren Fair.”
“I love it,” Brenna said. She put it on her left wrist. It hung a little loose.
“You can have it adjusted,” Lori said. “The guy who made it is local.”
Brenna smiled and hugged Lori.
She eyed the huge box, one eyebrow raised. “I can’t even imagine what this is,” she said.
“Open it and find out,” Cole suggested.
She ripped the paper. Underneath was a brown cardboard box. I gave Cole a puzzled look.
He winked at me.
Brenna got the box open, then muttered, “Are you kidding me?”
Inside was another box. Sam smiled. “This part was my idea.”
Ahhhh. Now it made sense. Brenna tore open the second box, only to find a third one inside. And an even smaller one in that. I completely believed that it was Sam’s idea to torture Brenna.
Brenna tore the smallest one open, growling, and her eyes widened. It was a small jewelry box, sized for a bracelet. She opened it, then looked up, eyes swiveling from me to Cole and back. Inside lay a set of keys with a “VW” logo on them.
“Um…” she said.
“Go look in the garage,” Cole said.
Brenna’s mouth gaped. She jumped to her feet and stumbled down the hall.
I stood and leaned close to him as we all followed her. “It’s been nice having you back,” I whispered to him.
“I still love you,” he said.
Shivers down my spine.
From the garage, Brenna’s voice echoed, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Cole chuckled. “She found it.”
“I guess so,” I said. We strolled down the hall to the three-car garage. Brenna sat in a brand new white VW Beetle with bright pink polka dots. Tears ran down her face.
“Can I take it for a drive?” she asked. “Can I? Can I?”
“Go!” Cole waved at her. “Go!”
She ran across the garage and threw her arms around me and Cole at the same time. “I love you, Daddy. I love you, Mom.”
Cole: September 15
I took a sip of my coffee and looked out the back bay window, a huge expanse of glass overlooking the garden and backyard, which sloped away from the house for the length of a football field. It was a lovely morning. Exquisite. I ought to feel good. Erin and I had slept in the same bed—for the first time in months. Brenna was growing up to be a delightful young woman, and Sam was getting good grades even with several Advanced Placement classes.
To make Erin happy, I could tolerate Lori’s presence in the house for a few days. Thank God the place was big enough she could sleep at the other end of the house. Erin’s sister had never liked me, but over the past few years her level of tolerance had slipped. I was sure her only goal these days was to convince Erin to leave me.
I looked at my watch. Nine a.m. A conference call about the merger was scheduled for ten. I’d take that in my office while Erin was at church with the kids. I’d never been much of a churchgoer, but all the same, I hated the idea of a Sunday morning conference call. But I was under a lot of pressure with this merger. After the call, I’d have free time to prep my surprise for Erin and the kids. The day the kids got out of school for Christmas, we were flying to Europe. Two days in Paris (for Brenna, who idolized the French, God only knew why), two in Ireland (for Erin, who had distant Irish ancestry) and two more in London (for me and Sam). The tickets were in my desk—I was planning to present them over lunch after Erin and the kids returned.
“Cole?” Erin stepped into the kitchen. “Have you seen Brenna?”
“No,” I said. “Not since bedtime. Isn’t she in her room?”
Erin shook her head. “No. And her bed’s still made.”
“I … she made her bed?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my tone.
“No. Sofia made it yesterday.” Sofia was our cleaning lady.
I stood up, setting my iPad on the table. I walked to the garage and opened it.
The Beetle wasn’t there.
“She must have gone over to a friend’s,” I said, unsure of myself.
Erin ignored me. She had her cell phone to her ear. Her eyes rolled and her left hand jerked spasmodically. “It’s going straight to voicemail. I told her to keep her phone charged. She’s so irresponsible.”
I thought back to the night before. Brenna had been home for hours before we went to bed, and I hadn’t heard a car running or leaving the house. No doors opening or closing. But we’d been … occupied. I wouldn’t have noticed if a herd of cattle came racing through last night. Afterward, both of us fell into a deep sleep. “Call her friends?”
She shrugged. “I guess. I was going to take her shopping after church. Where is she?”
“Careless,” I said. “Maybe she shouldn’t have the car after all.”
“I don’t know, Cole. I’m so frustrated with her!”
“Let’s give it a little while and try her again. I’m sure she’s at a friend’s sleeping in,” I said.
I sat back to finish my coffee and read the paper, but concentration eluded me.
What I didn’t know was my daughter was already gone: out of the house, out of town, out of our lives.
Part One
Two Years Later
One
Cole
Two years later and a thousand miles away, I sat in an insignificant office, looking out through the one-way mirror. My paperwork was complete, and I’d been stalling for over fifteen minutes. I wasn’t ready to go home yet.
I rose and double-checked the padlocks on the safe and switched out the light. My office was two feet wide and four feet deep and had sufficient room for one person at a time. I closed the steel door with a crash and padlocked it.
I glanced around the back room. Prep sinks were clean, everything tidy. Storage room locked. I put a plastic loop through the bolt of the back door and secured it. The staff couldn’t open it without splitting the loop.
Out front, customers occupied three booths and several seats at the high counter. The restaurant would be slow all night. My eyes scanned the room. For a thirty-year-old restaurant that never closed, the place was clean.
I never imagined I’d end up doing this for a living, but landing a job as an IT executive with no college degree and a felony conviction can be … a challenge.
When I’d given up hope, my oldest friend, Jeremiah Walker, hooked me up with Waffle House—a job I’d sneered at when he took it long ago. During the years I’d worked for a flashy technology company, he’d been working his way up. While I ran up hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt, he’d paced himself, paid off his house and student loans, and became wealthy. And then he reached out and rescued me.
And here I stood, inspecting the dining room with a critical eye. I hated it when the restaurant was dirty.
Linda Poole, the cook, stood at the grill humming to herself as she prepared an omelet. She had a strong accent from somewhere far up North, and I couldn’t tell if that helped or hurt in her dealings with the folks around here—some customers thought her accent was charming. Others were hostile to anybody originating north of the Confederacy.
Dakota said, “You getting out of here, boss? It’s late.” At seventeen, she ought to have been in school, but she had a one-year-old daughter to feed.
I nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”
Linda replied, “Is that a threat?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, Linda. Do me a favor, make sure we’ve got at least five pots of grits for the morning? Going to be busy tomorrow.”
“Will do.” She flipped the omelet a foot in the air above the pan and caught it neatly. She went to lift two slices of toast out of the toaster with her bare hands, and I raised my eyebrows. “Gloves, Linda. Gloves. Please.”
She flushed. “Sorry, Cole. Trying to remember. And … Cole? Can I ask you a question?”
I stopped and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
She looked down at the floor, then said, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, I’d misplaced my appointment slip. My daughter’s got a doctor’s appointment in the morning. Do you mind if I take off an hour early?”
I sighed. Linda leaving an hour early meant I had to come back in an hour early, which meant losing an hour of already short sleep.
Still. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just let me know a little further in advance next time, okay?”
She brightened. “Thanks, Cole.”
Mary Anne, the other waitress, yelled in an order and Linda started cooking. I walked out into the customer area, took one last look around, then said, “All right, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”
Outside the restaurant, the sweltering air draped over me. Sticky heat washed up from the asphalt, the smell of tar thick in my nose. I heard traffic and the buzzing of insects. I stooped to pick up cigarette butts from near the front door, then carried them around the side of the building to the dumpster. In back, I sat in my tiny 2003 Hyundai Accent, distinguished only by the fact that it was the cheapest car on the lot after I took in my almost-new BMW 535i and returned it to the dealership. BMW was still chasing me for payments on a car I no longer owned, but Erin’s Mercedes minivan was paid for, so we’d managed to hold on to that. It still hurt to be driving a vehicle that cost less than my laptop.
I didn’t start the car right away, instead breathing, trying to calm the tightness in my chest. I always felt a tight pinch of anxiety when getting ready to go home. Sam would be doing God knows what, locked in his room on his computer, and Erin ... I had no idea what she would be doing. I never knew anymore.
No point in sitting here feeling sorry for myself. I started the car, backed out of the parking space, and turned out of the parking lot. I didn’t, however, turn left out of the parking lot to go home. Instead, I turned on the radio and drove north, into Anniston.
I drove without destination, eyes scanning the traffic, music turned up loud enough to make it difficult to think. My route took me past Fort McClellan; a wide circle that brought me back toward Oxford after thirty minutes. As I approached Oxford, I pulled over.
I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and pictured my daughter. In my vision, her braided hair hung down over the blue sundress my mother had sewn for her. Her eighth birthday, and the smile on her face as she ran with a mob of little girls was innocent and heartbreaking. Erin had organized a party for her at the neighborhood pool, a full production with games, gift bags for the twenty kids who attended, a clown and other entertainment. She was a popular kid, full of smiles, and always ready with a kind word for other children.
Why did we have to lose her?
Time to go home. I had to be back at the restaurant at six in the morning and wasn’t getting any sleep sitting here.
I put the car back in gear and drove into the dark.
Sam: Now
I stood at the bus stop on the first day of school, arms crossed over my chest, looking at the ground. I was trying my best not to shake, not to freak out or do anything to draw attention to myself. Three other teenagers waited for the bus, a boy and two girls, and I stood a bit behind them. They knew each other, obvious because of the easy banter between them, and the fact that we were in rural Alabama and they’d all known each other since first grade. I wore jeans and a too-big sweatshirt, and even though it was close to ninety degrees, I kept the hood of my sweatshirt up.
For the past few months we’d lived on this small street. Beyond the houses were fields. Cows grazed in the closest field, and throughout the summer, whenever the wind blew in the right direction, I could smell the stink from the field. In the distance, rolling, tree-covered hills towered over the fields like chaperones at an elementary school dance.
Mom pushed me all summer to get outside. Go meet people. Make friends. Like that was a possibility. I’d never been much in the making friends department, especially after Brenna vanished. But now? Here? Friends? Seriously? The fear was so palpable I wanted to hurl. The bullies and assholes would see right through me and make me their target. Again.
In the distance, the straining, high-pitched sound of the school bus approached on the road across the fields to the south. The others at the bus stop stirred, and one of the girls looked over her shoulder at me, with a look that carried a mix of curiosity and contempt. Our eyes met for the barest of seconds, and I looked away and swallowed.
It would be nice to have a friend.
The bus showed up, almost full. I began to shake. I kept my arms crossed over my chest and inched my way toward the bus, following the two girls and the boy onto the bus.
The other three headed for the first open row, but the bus driver stopped me.
“Stop. You new?”
I nodded, trying to get a grip on my shaking.
“What’s yer name?”
“Sam,” I whispered.
“Speak up.”
“Sam.” A little louder.
“All right, Sam. You won’t know none-a-this cause you’re new, but you fill in the next open seat as you get on the bus, startin’ from front to back. No fighting, no yelling, no bullying. Ya hear?”
I nodded.
“Where’d you learn your manners?”
I coughed, and said, “Yes.”
Without turning away from me, he said in a loud, but conversational tone, “Children, how do you respond to your elders?”
In a loud shout, most of the kids in the first four rows shouted, “Yes, sir!”
I froze, unable to breathe, my stomach twisting so hard I needed to run for the bathroom, or home, or anywhere but here. I wanted to be invisible. Instead, the bus driver had called me out in front of everyone on the bus. Shaking so hard I could feel the fear all the way to my toes, I said, “Yes, sir.”
“Go take yer seat, Sam.”
I nodded, trying to stop myself from hyperventilating. Then, as his face shifted to irritation, I said, “Yes, sir.”
After I spoke, he looked away and put the bus in gear.
The yes, sir routine reminded me of Grandpa. Not Mom’s dad, but Dad’s. He was a Marine, a stocky, red-faced man who kept his white hair cropped short and always looked ready to strap on combat gear and wade into battle. Brenna loved Grandpa and used to be really close to him. I loved him too, of course, but we’ve never been close, and I hadn’t even seen Grandpa since the Christmas Dad was in jail.
I made my way between the rows of seats. The first open seat was about fifteen rows back. I made it past the first three before I heard someone mutter, “Freak.”
Hair hanging in my face, I watched my feet to make sure no one tried to trip me and slid into the seat next to the boy from the bus stop.
“Don’t mind Mr. Elliot. He’s kind of a dick.” The statement came from the boy sitting next to me. The two girls from our stop sat across the aisle.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“I’m Billy,” he said.
“Sam,” I replied.
“Y’all just moved on Hubbard Lane, right? Few months ago?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“How come I ain’t never seen you?”
“I don’t get outside much.”
“You got any brothers or sisters?”
The question froze me. Everyone at Fairfax High knew Brenna had disappeared. It had given me a few months of reprieve from bullying, a legacy I’m sure Brenna hadn’t calculated on. Somehow, in the two years she’d been gone, no one had asked me this question. Now, alone in a strange place, I didn’t know how to answer. If I said yes, it would lead to questions. Where was my sister? Was she going to school? If I answered, that would lead to even more questions, more visibility, more everything.
“No,” I said.
“How come y’all moved to Oxford?”
“My, uh, Dad, he’s managing the Waffle House.”
“Oh yeah? You get any free coupons or anything?”
“I guess. I never asked.”
The bus stopped at a crowded corner. As the new kids filed on to get in the seats behind me, one of them said, “Hey Billy, who’s the freak?”
Two rows up from me, several of the girls, all of them dressed more or less alike, burst into laughter. One, a raven-haired girl who wore a blue halter, caught my eye. She wore too much makeup … the foundation and blush caked on, lashes clumped together. Without the makeup, she’d have been beautiful: the kind of beauty I wanted to touch.
I tried to look away and couldn’t.
Then she called out, “What are you looking at, freak? Cody!”
Next to me, Billy said, “Jesus, Sam, what are you doing?”
I blinked and looked away from the girl. “Sorry.”
But I was too late. A hulking kid, six feet tall, stood and moved down the aisle.
“You bothering my girlfriend? You some kinda perv?”
“Sorry!”
Fear twisted in my stomach. Jake Fennel all over again, but twice as big. He stared at me with undisguised disgust, and said, “You ever look at my girlfriend again, you’ll die.”
I swallowed and squeaked out, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t.”
“Faggot.” He turned around and started to swagger back up the aisle. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I was premature, because the moment I relaxed he spun around again, swinging a fist. I didn’t have time to raise my arms, or react, or do anything before his fist hit my left ear. The hit was sudden, a shock, and set my ear ringing. My eyes watered, and I wanted to curl up and die. He hadn’t hit hard enough to hurt … just to humiliate. He gave a short contemptuous laugh then walked back up the aisle away from me.
The bus driver didn’t say a word.
“Helpful hint,” Billy said. “Don’t mess with the populars. They’ll make your life miserable.”
Like it wasn’t already. “I wish they’d just leave me alone,” I said.
Billy gave a sound of disgust and shook his head. “That’s Cody Hendricks. And he’ll leave you alone as soon as he finds someone else to mess with.”
I filed away the name for future reference. Cody Hendricks. Would Cody be my reason to want to die?
I’ve never been popular. I had two friends in middle school, but as high school started they drifted away, and for the first few weeks of high school, Brenna was the only protection I had. And then she was gone. I was out of school the first couple days after she went missing, but when I went back on Wednesday, a bubble of empathy surrounded me. Her picture had been in the news and everyone at school knew she’d disappeared.
The bubble disappeared just like she had. By sophomore year I became a target for the bullies again. It didn’t help that by that time, Dad had been in jail and lost his job. Everything in our life had changed. Everything.
My parents were so numb they didn’t even notice the day I came home bloody and bruised from a run-in with Jake Fennel. I kept a low profile through the rest of sophomore year. We didn’t have the money for me to participate in any clubs or other activities in school, so I kept my head down, rode the bus to and from school, and hoped for the best.
Then Dad found a job. In Alabama. My parents had long since stopped making mortgage payments, and we got thrown out of the old house, so they rented the dump we’re living in now. All summer long, I’d been dreading the day school started. Terror in the pit of my stomach, nightmares, shaking fits. Because I wasn’t like other kids.
When the bus arrived at the school, I watched in numb silence as the crowds of teenagers headed toward the entrance. They were all there, masses of them, jocks and cheerleaders and druggies and geeks and no one like me.
I made it off the bus with no further mishaps and edged my way through the crowd of laughing and yelling. I kept my arms wrapped around me, my backpack on my back, hair in my face. At the entrance I scanned my schedule. Homeroom, then gym.
A fresh wave of anxiety hit me. I’d managed to get out of taking gym when we lived in Virginia. I didn’t think I’d get away with that here.
The school was huge, mazelike. I was supposed to go to room 204, but it wasn’t at the end of the 200 hall. “Do you know where 204 is?” I asked a boy who walked by me like I wasn’t there.
“Get to homeroom, young man,” a teacher called out. Her voice echoed in the now empty hall.
“204?” I asked, waving my schedule. She pointed down the hall. I ran.
When I walked into homeroom ten minutes late, everyone looked up. Too stupid to make it to class on time.
I tried to just slink into the class without anyone noticing, but that was impossible. I was halfway to the back when the teacher, a gaunt old woman with skin almost as grey as her hair, called out, “You there. What’s your name?”
I turned around, and quietly said, “Sam Roberts.”
“Speak up, I can’t hear you. Come here.”
I said my name, louder this time, and approached the desk. The woman peered at me over the top of thick bifocal glasses. I would have pegged her age at approaching seventy.
“I couldn’t hear you back there. Are you sure this is the right homeroom? What was your name again?”
Someone had written the room number on the whiteboard underneath the name Mrs. Givens. I double-checked it against my schedule and gave her my name for the third time.
She frowned. “Oh, there you are. Sam Roberts. Well, you don’t look like a junior.”
Behind me, muffled laughter. Heat rose on my neck, my face. I didn’t want to turn around, to see them looking at me, pointing, wondering who I was and why I was new around here. I didn’t want them noticing the gaping hole where my sister used to be. I didn’t want them to notice the gaping hole where I used to be.
When Mrs. Givens let me go, I kept my eyes on the floor as I turned and walked to a seat in the back row. I wanted to cry. To be alone. To go home.
I’d been afraid before. But not like this. The dread that filled my body was worse than anything I’d ever experienced before. My cheeks were numb and my lips were rubber, and I struggled to hold my breath together, to keep from crying.
Mrs. Givens talked for several minutes in front of the class. Joining clubs. The Bible Club met on Monday, the Conservative Club on Tuesday, the Intelligent Design Club on Wednesday, Sons of Confederate Veterans on Thursday, and Football on Friday. Okay. Maybe I exaggerated. But the Bible Club did meet on Monday. This was a very different world than suburban Washington, DC.
Noise erupted from the room when the bell rang. Laughter, joking, horsing around. I kept my distance, kept my eyes to the floor, and got out of there as quickly as I could.
The gym was at the opposite end of the building, near the front office. I made my way to the back stairwell and waited until the traffic died down. No teachers in sight. I sat down, slipped a paperback out of my bag, and started to read.
The book was a good one, about a girl in high school in San Francisco who fell in love with the captain of the baseball team. They were friends, but he didn’t see her that way. I read up to the part where she was going to tell him how she felt when I heard the loud clicking of heels coming up the stairs.
I panicked. It had to be a teacher, or one of the vice principals. As the heels echoed off the steps, I put my bag over my shoulder, forgetting to zip it up. When I stood, the bag opened and dumped out, scattering my notebooks all over the steps. Stupid!
Heart hammering, I scrambled to gather my things and get out of there. But I was too late.
“Excuse me, young lady, why aren’t you in class?”
I jerked up, my eyes widening.
It was a black woman in her thirties. She wore a conservative brown suit with a string of pearls around her neck and a beautiful ring with a large stone decorated her left ring finger. Her hair was straight, long and shiny. Her eyes opened wide when I faced her.
“I’m sorry. Young man. Why aren’t you in class?”
I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out.
She blinked and said, “What’s your name?”
“Sam,” I said. “Sam Roberts.”
“Well, Sam, what class are you supposed to be in right now?”
“Gym,” I whispered.
“And … why aren’t you there?”
I tried to answer. I did. But I didn’t have an answer, not one I could explain to anyone. Going to gym meant undressing in front of other people. It meant being in a locker room and maybe showers with a bunch of guys. I couldn’t go there. I just couldn’t. And when I tried to explain it, to say something, anything, I just started to shake again.
Her eyebrows pulled inward, mouth turning down in a sad expression. “Why don’t you come with me. I’m Mrs. Mullins with the counseling department. What grade are you in, Sam?”
“Eleventh,” I said.
She looked surprised and said, “Well, that’s perfect. I’m the eleventh grade counselor. Let’s go talk.”
Two: August
Erin.
When my eyes drifted open in the morning, Cole and Sam were gone. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock broke the silence. My clothes from the day before, which I hadn’t changed, felt sticky and rumpled. A headache that began at the base of my neck and ran all the way to my forehead clouded my brain.
I slowly sat up and surveyed the living room. I’d slept on the couch again, and the heat had awakened me. The morning sun glared through the front picture window, silhouetting the duct-taped crack in the bottom-left corner. The house would soon be an oven. Our financial situation had been so dire, for so long, that I didn’t run the air-conditioning until the afternoon, just before Sam got home from school.
I stood and stripped down to my underclothes. The heat pummeled me, enough that sweat slicked my skin and I smelled. I needed a cool shower. To clean the house. To check Sam’s computer. I needed to get a handle on my life. On our lives.
Instead, I padded into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The clock on the microwave read 11:05. No wonder my head was filled with fog. I filled a tall glass of water from the sink, drinking back the chemical-tasting tap water.
Days like this, I felt paralyzed. I was bored and needed something productive to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to do the things I needed to do. Sam and Cole had added their coffee cups and Sam’s cereal bowl to the pile of dishes in the sink. I stared at the dishes and wanted to scream. But I didn’t have enough motivation or energy to do it. This was my life. Dishes. Laundry. Iron Cole’s uniforms. Go to sleep. Do it over again.
At least when the children were small, they brought meaning to being a stay-at-home mom. But they weren’t little anymore. They weren’t mine anymore. Brenna was gone. Every time I thought of her it was like a mini-seizure. And Sam had shut me out. I knew nothing about my youngest child. Sam spent too much time locked behind his bedroom door on the computer.
I shook my head a little, trying to shake loose from the oppressive thoughts. The coffee had been ready several minutes, and I’d just been standing here. I poured myself a cup, stirred in a packet of Splenda. I opened the kitchen window, and despite the heat outside, well over a hundred degrees, the slight breeze cooled my skin a little. The heat, laden with moisture, brought an intense flash of memory. Summer in Georgia, twenty years ago. I still remembered when he touched my skin. When we desired each other. When the heat burned so close to the surface, it took nothing more than a word, a whisper, a breeze, for it to flare up and pull us into each other’s arms.
It had been a long time since I’d experienced that. Instead, most of the time a blanket muffled my emotions, dulling the pain, true … but also dulling joy and love and desire, leaving me with nothing but bare existence. Maybe because it had been two years, or because Sam was back in school and I was alone at home for the first time in months, or it was nothing at all, but I squeezed my eyes shut as fresh grief washed over me.
Brenna would be eighteen soon.
If she was alive.
I finally made my way into the shower. I thrust the past out of my mind, trying to concentrate on nothing more than the water beating against my skin.
Head finally clear, I stepped out of the shower and dried off, then dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I wouldn’t be going out today. Honestly, I hadn’t worked that hard to find a job. Because every day, after Cole and Sam left, I worked on the computer. Searching. Today I would push that off a little, because I planned to get a look at Sam’s computer. I was no technophile, but I’d learned enough about computers to check his history and cookies.
I didn’t find anything. No cookies on the computer. No history in the web browser. Which meant that Sam had cleared everything before leaving for school.
Not a good sign. If I had found random websites in there, I guess that would be fine. But nothing? That meant he was hiding something. I sighed, shut the computer down, and walked out into the living room. Still broiling in there. I sat down on the couch and opened my aging laptop. The battery no longer functioned, so I had to keep it plugged in all the time, and one of the keys had broken off, but it still worked. We weren’t likely to be able to afford another one for a long time. Once it booted up, I started my daily search.
I started with public arrest records. After two years, the only way I could stay alive was to have hope she was still alive.
But I’d learned so much, so many horrible things about what happened to sixteen-year-old girls who ran away or were abducted. If she still lived, one day she might turn up in these records. Arrested for jaywalking or theft or worse. A thin hope, but it was hope. Not long after she disappeared, I’d learned of the teeming markets that existed online for women. Dozens of sites where you could pick a city, any city, and shop for a woman or a girl. Men who called themselves “mongers” or “hobbyists” even operated review websites and discussion boards where they would discuss how a particular woman behaved or what she was willing to do.
Today I found nothing. No new records, nothing with her name on it. Earlier this year, I’d had a terrifying moment, when an arrest record for prostitution turned up in Detroit with her name on it. I’d contacted the National Crime Information Center and the Detroit Police Department. It turned out to be another girl, a different girl.
Someone else’s child. Someone else who was lost.
From there, I moved on. This was the difficult part. Every day I picked a different city, mostly focusing on the larger ones, because that’s where the market for young teenage girls existed. Craigslist once, and Backpage, and worse. I read the headlines and looked at the pictures.
Toe Curling * Highly Skilled * $60 Incall * 18 years old.
Busty tantalizing blonde * Outcalls * 20
Brunette College Girl * Let me be your fantasy * 180/hour
Scanning through the pictures, I saw hundreds of girls and women. Some of them were undoubtedly still children, though all of them claimed to be at least eighteen. I looked into their faces and their eyes, and whenever I came across one close to my daughter’s age and build I’d peer into their faces if they weren’t blurred out. This one? Was it her? I tried to picture her at eighteen and match her features up to the pictures.
I’d learned the patterns. In the big cities, like Atlanta and New York and Washington, the girls were younger, dressed more provocatively, and charged less. The Asian girls worked in massage parlors mostly, and the young white girls worked hotels and outcalls, and sometimes the street. I’d spent two years researching the fates of missing girls, and I still couldn’t look at it, think about it, envision it, without horror catching my throat.
The statistics were harsh, horrifying. Impersonal, until you realized each one was a person. Twenty-three hundred Americans reported missing every day, and all but a small fraction were children. Half of those were family abductions; many more were runaways. Only a tiny fraction were “stranger” abductions.
But the stranger abductions had a pattern. A few hundred each year. Nearly all were young women, ages twelve to seventeen, just like Brenna. Most were abducted by men. Virtually all of them sexually assaulted. I knew the numbers. Far too many of these girls ended up abused or dead. And so, I kept looking. I kept peering into those faces, those bodies, wondering if one day I’d open up this computer and see her face staring out at me.
I’d know my daughter anywhere, at any age. Today I didn’t find her amongst these women. But, as always, my rage stoked, a slow-burning coal in my gut that threatened to boil over at any moment. As always, I found myself sick to my stomach. The first time I did this search, I vomited. Because those girls on those pages had mothers somewhere. Because I’d learned hard facts in my search.
Nothing today. I checked my email to see if any Google alerts had come, mentions of her name on the Internet. Nothing. I closed my laptop and leaned my head back against the couch, the images of those contorted, barely dressed women running through my mind.
For a few moments I toyed with the idea of getting a glass of wine or four. I felt exhausted. That was nothing new—I was always tired these days.
My phone rang while I was still considering the possibilities. Despite the expense we couldn’t afford, we’d kept our cell phones, and added a new one, which we transferred our old home number to. We’d kept the same email addresses, kept as many lines of communication open as possible. Any way for Brenna to reach us. The one exception was the house, and we’d stayed there until the bank, followed by the Sheriff’s department, threw us out, and the only option for employment was to come to this shithole of a town in the middle of nowhere.
The caller was my sister. I sighed. Lori would be full of concern, wanting to know how I was. But if I didn’t answer, she’d keep calling, and eventually she’d break down and call Cole. That had happened twice in the months since he’d gotten out of prison, and neither time went well. Lori hated Cole and the feeling was mutual.
I didn’t need that kind of hassle. I answered the phone.
“Erin? I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m all right.” We both knew I was lying.
“I haven’t heard from you in a couple weeks.”
The silence grew uncomfortable when I didn’t respond.
“I’m worried about you,” she said.
“Please don’t, Lori. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Listen … I was thinking … maybe you can come visit again.”
“Lori. Stop. We just moved here a few months ago. Sam started school today. I can’t go anywhere.”
“I could come visit you,” she replied.
My eyes grazed across the house. The dirty walls and ragged carpet. The cracked front window. Neither Cole or I had put family pictures on the walls. No art. Nothing that represented us. Most of our things remained in boxes in the shed out back, at least what we hadn’t discarded when we left Virginia.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied. “I’m really okay, Lori. We’re just getting settled in. I’ve been busy.”
She stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “Erin … it’s okay to grieve. You have to. But it’s been almost two years.”
My lips turned up in scorn. “What do you want, Lori? To just let it go? Forget about my daughter and move on? Is that what you want?” As I said the words, my voice rose.
She sighed at the other end. “I … I want my sister back.”
My eyes watered. “Well, we can’t get what we want, can we? I want my daughter back.”
My words hit her. She sobbed, then said, “I’m sorry, Erin. Please let me help.”
I pulled my legs up and leaned my forehead on my knees. “There’s nothing you can do, Lori. Nothing.”
I disconnected the phone.
Sam.
I took the seat Mrs. Mullins indicated, across the desk from her.
Chaos spilled across her desk, which was piled high with papers and folders and a huge bowl full of candy. She sat down across from me, and rested her hands in her lap.
“So, Sam. Talk to me. Why did you skip gym?”
I opened my mouth. I tried to say something, but I didn’t know what. There was nothing I could say. So I looked at the desk, avoiding her eyes.
She frowned. “Not ready to talk? I’m patient.”
“Please don’t make me go,” I whispered.
“I’ll have a very difficult time going to the principal and asking him to let you out if I don’t have a reason.”
I looked down at the floor.
“Did something happen to you in gym last year?”
I shook my head.
“Is there something you’re afraid of?”
I looked down at the floor again. Of course there was. I was afraid of everything. Of them seeing me. Of having to change in front of the boys in the locker room. I was afraid of the possibility of dealing with bullies, of the certainty of being terrorized.
Her eyes bore into me, like she was studying me, like she could see me. I slid my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and hunched over.
“Well, then. Let’s look at your schedule.”
She turned to her computer and began typing. A moment later, she said, “You just transferred here?”
“From Fairfax County, Virginia.”
She nodded. “I see you’re taking AP classes. That’s good. You don’t have any phys ed credits at all, though.”
I swallowed and said, “At my old school you were exempt if you were in music theater.”
“I see. Well, it’s a graduation requirement here. We require two semesters. You could put it off this year, but you’ll end up with no choice for next year.”
I closed my eyes.
“Sam … talk to me. Is something going on at home?”
I shrugged.
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
I looked away. “I had a sister.”
“Had?”
I swallowed hard. “She disappeared almost two years ago.”
Mrs. Mullins’ face froze in place, impassive, lips in a thin line. “Disappeared?”
“They never found her. I don’t know if she’s alive or not.”
“Were you and your sister close?”
Were we close? She was my hero. My protector. She was the only person who knew my secret. She was the only person in the world who called me by my name. The only person who accepted me and loved me for who I am, not for … whatever it was they thought they saw. Brenna dominated my memories; she was all that mattered to me. Her disappearance left a gaping wound. I didn’t have words to answer her question, so I answered with a simple, “Yes.”
She sighed, and said, “Sam … I’m so sorry. Can you tell me what happened?”
I shrugged. “No one knows. She … she snuck out after bedtime. It was her sixteenth birthday. And she … never came home. They found her car fifty miles away.”
Mrs. Mullins closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It must have been a nightmare.”
I nodded. “It was,” I whispered. “It still is.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nodded.
“Are you in any kind of therapy?”
I shook my head. “No. I know my parents talked about it. But there’s no money. My dad lost his job not long after she disappeared.”
A frown briefly appeared on her face. “What was your sister’s name?”
“Brenna.”
She sucked in a breath. “Brenna Roberts. I remember seeing her in the news.”
Yeah. Everyone in the country saw her in the news.
For a few moments she seemed to study me, putting a pen in her mouth and chewing on it unconsciously. Then, abruptly, she said, “Stay here.”
She walked out of the office, closing the door behind her. I stared up at the ceiling. All day long I’d been fighting tears. I wasn’t prepared to deal with kindness. I almost wanted Mrs. Mullins to come back and tell me to tough it out, that I had to go deal with gym, that I needed to stop acting like a scared little girl. Because her empathetic eyes, her kindness, it made me feel like … it made me feel vulnerable.
But I waited.
Her questions brought back to mind those first terrible weeks after Brenna vanished. I stared off into space, trying not to think of it, but always stuck at that moment when my Mom said, “Sam, have you seen Brenna?”
I jerked in my chair when Mrs. Mullins returned to her office. She gave me a warm look that mystified me and returned to her seat, then turned and began typing on her computer without a word. I sat up straight, watching her.
A moment later, her printer began warming up, and spat out a sheet of paper.
She lifted it off the printer and said, “I spoke with Principal Higgins about your situation. And, though I’m not qualified as a physical education teacher, she agrees that for this semester, at least, you don’t need to be assigned in the regular gym class. You’ll report to me for first period.”
She handed me the paper. The schedule was the same as before, except for the first period line, which read: Physical Education, Mullins, Patricia.
I couldn’t stop myself. My hand raised to my mouth, stifling a sob, and my eyes watered uncontrollably. I shook, hard, staggering back into my seat. “You didn’t have to do this,” I whispered.
She gave me a warm smile. “I did, actually.”
I sniffed back snot that was threatening to run down my nose, and asked, “Why?”
Her eyes stayed on me, and she said, “Sam … you seem a little lost. If I can help, I will. So for now, relax, read a book or something until second period. Tomorrow you and I will go for a run, so bring gym shorts. I’ve been needing to get more exercise anyway.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I didn’t know how to react. Mrs. Mullins had punched a hole right through the protective distance I normally maintained, and it shook me up. A few minutes later the bell rang. I shot out the door as if I’d been launched and made my way to my second period, AP Biology.
It was on the third floor, which was stifling hot, despite the overworked air-conditioning. Made worse by the fact that I was wearing baggy clothes and a sweatshirt. The other kids in the hall, mostly juniors and seniors, gave me odd looks as I approached the classroom. They mostly wore shorts and T-shirts.
I made it to class in time, and the teacher waved me in. According to my schedule, his name was Mr. Bernard. A short, balding man, the teacher looked almost bizarre in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.
“Everyone take your seats,” he called out as the bell rang.
I scanned the room. All of the tables were occupied by two students, except for one at the very back of the room. A gangly red-headed girl sat alone. I froze for just a second, and then Mr. Bernard said, “Go on, take a seat. I’m pretty sure she won’t bite.”
I felt my skin flush, but I didn’t need any more attention called to me today. I went to the back of the room and slumped into the chair next to the girl without saying anything.
Mr. Bernard took a position at the head of the class and began speaking. I studied the red-headed girl out of the corner of my eye. She was pretty. Extremely pale skin scattered with freckles, blue eyes. Her hair was a tangle, tied in the back in a ponytail which ended just below her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless and threadbare baby blue shirt, which accentuated how washed out she was and how tiny her bony arms were.
Bruises marked her left arm just above the wrist.
“I’m Hayley,” she whispered.
“Sam,” I replied. I tried my best to sound natural. But what’s natural? What’s normal? Was it being a jerk like Jake Fennel, or Cody Hendricks? If it was, I didn’t want to be that. I never wanted to be that. Ever since middle school, it was like they just sought me ought, a magnetic attraction, but I attracted cruelty instead of love, brutality rather than care, scorn instead of respect. And I didn’t know why.
But Hayley glanced over at me, swallowing, and I realized she was nervous. She licked her lips, then whispered, “You from around here?”
“No. I’m new.”
“Me too.” She stopped speaking as Mr. Bernard approached us, handing out papers. When he got to our table, he gave each of us a two-page syllabus. I scanned it. By the time I was finished reading, he was back at the front of the room talking.
I wanted to say, Maybe since we’re both new, we should stick together. But my throat closed up, chest tight, and I could feel my pulse at my temples. I hadn’t had a friend, someone I could trust, since Brenna disappeared. The one or two times I’d tried hadn’t gone well. Everyone had their own little group, their own ways of doing things.
“Can I see your schedule?” she whispered.
It was crumpled up in my pocket. I took it out, smoothing the paper. She studied the paper for a second. “We’ve got three classes together. And lunch. Want to hang out?”
