 
# Three Book Preview

  1. The Breakers Code

  2. Bell Watkins and The Mistrunners

  3. The Hourmaker

By Conner Kressley & Bruce Knight

Authors Note

Back in the day, I used to have a favorite show. I can't remember what channel it was on or what the name of it was, but the entire thing was just about showing movie trailers. A guy would come on, give you a snippet of information about an upcoming movie (Which I'm sure no one ever listened to), and then the trailer would come on.

My dad caught me watching it one day and, when I explained to him that there was no show; that the coming attractions were the show, he told me that that was "just about the stupidest thing he'd ever heard".

I knew he was wrong though. I knew that there were a lot of people like me, who'd gladly give 30 minutes of their lives a week to catch up on what was coming to the local theaters. I never understood the people who'd talk through the previews at the movies. Trailers were great. They got you pumped up. They got you salivating for what you knew was coming. They gave you a peek at the great entertainment coming your way, and let you dip your toe into a world that you would soon be able to dive into headfirst.

So, here at Sweet Potato Publishing, we wanted to give you guys the sort of experience that we love so much at the movies. Below are tastes of some of the world's we have in store for you.

# First Up:

Cresta Karr has been struggling to put her life back together after the sudden death of her father. But, for a city girl like her, moving to the middle of nowhere, Georgia hasn't made it easy. Lucky for her, Owen, the cutest guy she's ever seen is there to help soften the blow.

While trying to get up the nerve to tell him she likes him, Cresta inadvertently learns that Owen is harboring a secret that threatens to pull the entire world down around them. Turns out he's been watching Cresta, and his reasons for doing it will shake Cresta, and the future of the world, to their core.

# Next:

Bell Watkins is your typical teenage guy, except of course, for the fact that he's famous. A tabloid staple because of his grandfather's book series, he's less than thrilled with his celebrity status. When his grandfather dies, he learns that the mystical world of his grandfather's books might not be so imaginary after all.

When he's attacked by a mysterious creature and saved by a kickass (and pretty cute) warrior woman, Bell finds himself lost in a world that strangely resembles the stories he's ran from his entire life.

# And Then:

Winston Cobb used to be the most popular guy in school. He had it all; a beautiful girlfriend, invitations to the most killer parties, and half the country's scouts drooling over his basketball skills. Unfortunately, an ill-advised joyride smashed his ankle, put his basketball dreams to rest, and catapulted him to the bottom of the social ladder.

One night, while revisiting the site of the accident, Winston sees the girl he swore pulled him out of his burning car and saved his life; the girl no one else believed existed. Determined to prove that she is indeed real and that everything that happened that night wasn't his fault, Winston is pulled into a time hopping adventure where he learns that the past isn't always worth repeating.

So there you have it. Three worlds we can't wait for you to sink your teeth into. Read a bit. See what you like.

Thanks so much for your interest. We appreciate you more than you know.

Conner & Bruce

Sweet Potato Publishing

##  The Breakers Code

Three Book Preview

First Up:

Next:

And Then:

The Breakers Code

Chapter 1

Nothing in Heaven or Hell

Chapter 2

He Died Laughing

Chapter 3

Moon in Capricorn

Chapter 4

Cardboard Girl

Chapter 5

The Goolsby Intervention

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

# Chapter 1

#  Nothing in Heaven or Hell

Two days before our house blew up; I woke to the smell of bacon. I had just had the dream again; the one with the sevens, but that hardly mattered now. I shot straight up in bed and took a whiff. Was that sausage too?

This was _not_ good.

For most people, waking up to the smell of breakfast cooking on the stove probably wasn't cause for concern. It might even be normal, but my mom wasn't exactly the _'normal'_ sort. In addition to what I could only describe as her lifelong 'Hatfield and McCoy-esque' feud with all kitchen appliances, she had a pretty demanding job.

As the head of the nursing department at St. Vincent's, she was always rocking a pair of really awesome scrubs and kept pretty weird hours. Usually, she was gone from seven 'til seven, but three days a week, she was on call. So anytime, day or night, the phone could ring and she'd have to rush back into the hospital. And if the emergency was big enough, like if there was a bus crash or something, she'd have to go whether she was on call or not. Sometimes I didn't see her for days at a time. So, it shouldn't be a surprise that the last home cooked meal I got was sometime around the start of the Bush administration.

I threw the covers aside and started downstairs, combing knots of sleep from my short blond hair. I was halfway down the stairs, about to ask my mom what act of God forced the spatula into her hand, when I saw Casper. Sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of bacon and eggs lifted parallel with his face, he was shoveling the contents into his mouth with a fork.

"Hey Cresta," he said when he saw me, mumbling through what looked like a pound of food.

I was still in my pajamas. Today they were oversized flannel pants that, while looking like something a lumberjack would wear, were insanely comfortable. I paired them with a ratty Avengers tee that I won for being the 1,000th customer at the new Hot Topic in Newton. Usually, I would be less than excited for a guy to see me like this. My hair was a mess; I was still sporting my sleepy face, and I didn't even have foundation on.

Casper wasn't a regular guy though. Since I moved to Crestview a couple of years ago, Casper had been my best friend. A makeup free face was nothing for us. Besides, it wasn't like _that_ between us. We were friends, buddies, nothing else.

"Hey," I said, and motioned toward my mother with a confused look on my face.

He shrugged. "You got me," he answered, and plopped two more eggs onto his plate. "I'm not complaining though."

"Did you sleep here?" I asked, settling beside him and grabbing a piece of bacon from his plate. I bit into it. It was salty and basically raw, exactly what you would imagine from someone who only cooked once a decade. Still, it was better than nothing.

"Yeah." He grabbed two more pieces of bacon, apparently more in love with it than I was. "In your car. My dad was being a giant glowing dildo."

"Casper! Language!" Mom shouted from over her skillet, where she was salting some funky looking gray meat.

"What? Did I not conjugate?" He shrugged.

"You could have come inside," I said, bumping his shoulder with my own. "You know the couch has always got your name on it."

I meant that both figuratively and literally as; late last year, Casper and I carved our names into the undercarriage of my living room couch. I don't know why we did it. It's just; Casper never really had what you'd call a stable home life. He was with odds with his dad every other day and, even when things were good, I always got the feeling that he thought he was invisible, like he didn't matter.

I guess I wanted to show him that he did, even if it was just at the bottom of a couch.

"I don't want to be that weird guy who sleeps on your couch," he said through another forkful of food, pushing wild red hair messily out of his eyes.

"You'd rather be the guy who breaks into my Jetta?" I asked.

"Absolutely not!" He said. "I would never do that. I had keys made to that thing ages ago."

I found orange juice, apple juice, and cranberry juice cocktail (the name brands!), along with half gallons of both chocolate and regular milk. Someone had been shopping.

"What the hell is going on here?" I turned to Mom, closing the fridge door without choosing anything.

"What do you mean?" She asked, spooning the gray looking meat into an equally sketchy looking white fluff.

"Somebody took the tumble weed out of the fridge," I answered.

She smiled. "We needed groceries."

"Since when? You don't cook."

"Maybe I'll start." She flipped half of the white fluff over the gray meat, creating a sort of a silver storm cloud of disgusting.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Making an omelet," she beamed, and scooped the mess onto a clean plate beside her.

I walked closer. Either it didn't smell as bad as I imagined it would or I was so stunned by what was going on in front of me that I wasn't thinking straight. "An omelet?" I repeated. Touching her arm, I asked, "Are you on drugs?"

She grinned, but there was darkness beneath her smile, and I knew why. "Don't joke about that Cresta," she said. "It's just that, you know—"

Her phone started ringing. I sighed and backed away. Nobody ever called Mom's phone; nobody except the hospital.

She picked it up, said "You got it," and slid it back into the satchel across her waist, the only place she put anything when she wore her scrubs (which was all the time).

"How long have you even been home?" I asked. Not that it mattered. I already knew what she was going to say.

"There was a bus accident." She already had her jacket on and was halfway out the door.

It was always something; a bus accident, a three car pileup, a French influenza outbreak. But Mom didn't care. She helped people, it was her job. She always said, "If people are in trouble, I need to be at work."

She was fierce; determined. It was the thing about her I admired the most. It was also the thing that was going to keep me from seeing her until at least tonight.

"Can you make sure the burners are off?" She called to me from the door. "There's cash on top of the television if you need it for lunch. There's some there for you too, Casper."

"Thanks Mrs. Karr," he waved and took a swig of orange juice.

"Take care of each other, and don't forget your inhaler. I'll see you when I see you, sweetheart."

I smiled and she closed the door.

She called ten minutes later to remind me not to be late for school, but there was no need. Casper and I were already a quarter of a mile down the road. He drove while I stuffed Pizza boxes and Dr. Pepper cans into a trash bag, the calling card of any night Casper spent in my car. DeSoto High was ten minutes from my house, five if Casper was driving, and school didn't start for another half hour. Still, I was in a hurry. I wanted to get there early, and not just to study for the 'pop' quiz everyone knew Mr. Jenkins was going to give because it was the second Thursday of the month.

Before I could bring it up though, Casper took the conversation in a different direction.

"Is Mrs. Goolsby a slut?" He asked.

"Mrs. Goolsby is eighty six years old and on dialysis. I don't think she has the energy to be a slut."

"It's just, look at that." He pointed to her house. I wasn't sure what he was talking about. It seemed normal to me. Sure the paint was flaking a little; revealing specks of white under its coat of brown, and the yard was a little overgrown. But that was nothing out of the ordinary, especially for a widow whose children were grown and gone.

"What am I looking at? If Mom didn't handcuff me to the lawnmower every other Saturday, our house would look just like that."

"Not the house," he said, looking out over his black rimmed glasses. "The car."

At the edge of her yard, a black Sedan sat inches from the curb. The windows were pitch black and it idled softly.

"So she bought a car," I said. Didn't seem so strange to me.

"But she didn't. That's the thing. Whenever my dad kicks me out and I have to 'borrow' the inside of your car," he put air quotes around the 'borrow'. "I get a clear view of Mrs. Goolsby's house. Every night, without fail, a car pulls up and some random dude walks in."

"Maybe she has a friend," I said. As gross as the thought of Mrs. Goolsby having a _'special friend'_ was, it was also kind of sweet.

"You know, I saw this thing on TV the other day about gigolos. Apparently these dudes make house calls and stuff. I bet Mrs. Goolsby-"

"Ew!" I threw an empty Dr. Pepper can at Casper's head.

Mrs. Goolsby with a gigolo? There was nothing sweet about that.

He shrinked away laughing. "What? You were thinking it too."

"Actually, I was thinking you spend way too much time in my car."

I looked back at Mrs. Goolsby's house in the rearview as we were about to turn onto Maple. The black Sedan was gone.

"I'm going to tell him," I said, tying the junk food filled garbage bag and tossing it into the backseat. I was careful not to look at Casper. I knew what he was going to say.

"Not a good idea Cress," he squealed into the school parking lot. Wow, he made it in four minutes this time. He left skid marks across the blacktop when he jerked into a space and I shot him a harrowing look.

"I'm an excellent driver. I know." Casper pulled the keys from the ignition, thumped them toward me, and stepped out. I followed, but he hadn't stopped talking so, by the time I tossed the garbage and caught up with him, all I heard was the word 'girlfriend'.

That was enough.

"Barely," I said. "Owen barely has a girlfriend."

"How can you barely have a girlfriend? You either do or you don't," Casper said, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket. It's like he constantly had to have something in his mouth.

It was still early enough that the parking lot was pretty much empty. In a few minutes, the morning rush would begin, and the place would fill up- Well, as much as anything filled up in Crestview. Once the other students got here though, I'd have to be more careful. I didn't want my secret feelings for Owen going public, at least not until I got a chance to talk to him about them first.

For now though, I could be as animated as I wanted. I jerked in front of Casper. He didn't stop, so we ended up walking toward the school face to face, with me walking backwards.

"Unless the girlfriend in question lives on the other side of the country. Hell, maybe she doesn't exist at all. He could have made her up. I mean, have you ever seen a picture of her?"

I knew I wasn't making any sense. Owen wouldn't make up a girlfriend, but I wanted it to be true so badly that I figured I'd throw it out there anyway.

I had been in Crestview about a week and a half when Owen moved here. I later found out from Casper that that was the first time two families had moved into town so closely since 'probably forever'.

Now I'm not one for kismet or anything, but you have to admit, as signs go, that's a pretty good one. We became fast friends, not in the way Casper and I became friends. I could tell Casper anything. I could divulge my deepest secrets to him. There was no way I could talk to Owen like that, not when he had eyes that were deep blue pools and a smile that was electric.

He was so much like me. We both came her from big cities; Sacramento for him, and Chicago for me. He seemed just as out of place as I did in Crestview; a farming community with dirt roads, no red lights, and a grand total of one general store.

Maybe that was why everyone shied away from us at first. Only Casper, who himself would tell you how he stuck out in this place ' _like Lindsay Lohan in an Amish church'_ took a liking to us. It didn't matter to us though. Owen and I always found things to do.

Some nights we'd sit beside the long abandoned railroad tracks talking about how much we missed the sound of traffic. The third Tuesday of every month, when the Christ Methodist Church played G rated movies on their outdoor projector; we'd sit in the back and watch Pulp Fiction on his IPhone.

It never failed though. Every time we got comfortable, John Travolta's face would disappear, replaced by those horrible words: _Merrin calling._

Merrin was undoubtedly the perfect girlfriend Owen had left back in California and, probably because I had the worst luck on the entire planet, she didn't seem to have any intention of letting him go. Anytime it looked like Owen and I were headed out of the friend zone, anytime I dared to rest my head on his shoulder, anytime we managed a deep conversation, Merrin would give him a little ' _remember me'_ ring.

Not that I had any reason to believe Merrin would be threatened by me. Though I had never seen a picture of her, from the way Owen talked, she was just shy of perfect. Which was infuriating because me and perfect, well; we weren't even in the same county.

"You're gonna back into Hernando," Casper said, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop.

I pulled the inhaler from my pocket and took a whiff. I was out of breath. I must have been more nervous than I thought.

The _'Hernando'_ Casper was talking about wasn't a teacher or student. It was a statue. Hernando DeSoto was some sort of Spanish explorer. He marched through Georgia a couple hundred years ago and set up shop here for a while. That was pretty much the only interesting that ever happened in Crestview, so they named the school after him and put up the statue.

It was probably nice when they erected it, about a thousand years ago. Now however, it was clear that, like the town itself, Hernando had seen better days.

What was presumably once the picture of a brave pioneer; a striking man with a Spanish flag in his hand, and his foot propped up on a rock sporting a devilish smirk on his face, was now all but gone. The bronze was dull and dingy. The statue's sharp lines and edges had been flattened with time, and that devilish grin was barely a grin now at all.

"Forgive me Hernando," I said, stuffing my inhaler back into my pocket. "Look," my foot started tapping against the pavement. Yep, I was nervous. "Long distance relationships never work, not even in the movies."

"That might be true, but it's been working for them for about two years now," Casper answered. The light tilt had vanished from his voice. "He has a girlfriend Cress, a girlfriend who is not you." He put a hand on my shoulder. "I don't want you to get hurt, and I don't want things to get weird between you guys. Besides, if he doesn't see how insanely awesome you are, he doesn't deserve you."

Okay, that was sweet, and there might even be some truth in it. But I wasn't looking for sweet, and I wasn't looking for anything to slow me down. It had taken me close to two years to work up the nerve to tell Owen how I felt about him. If I let Casper talk me out of it now, good intentions or not, I might never do it. And I couldn't deal with that.

I ran a hand through my wavy blond hair, like I always did when I was trying to collect myself. "Look, I know you wanna protect me and everything."

"It's cause I'm a Southern gentleman," he smiled. We both knew there were a couple freshman girls who might disagree with that, but I let it slide.

"Look at my hands, Casper." They had traveled from my hair to the inside of my pockets.

"Hands in pockets," he said.

"And what do hands in pockets mean?" I asked.

His mouth twisted crookedly. "It means there's nothing in heaven or hell that's gonna get through that thick head of yours."

Casper knew me well enough to know that once I was set on something I was set. I looped my arm through his.

"I've gotta tell him. That way, either way, at least he'll know. You know?"

"I know," he answered, and squeezed my hand.

We walked together into the school. Pushing through the doors, I turned to give Hernando one last glance, and saw what looked like the tinted black Sedan from Mrs. Goolsby's passing slowly by.

# Chapter 2

# He Died Laughing

I stood by my locker, watching the only entrance Owen could come in, and waiting for him. He was usually early, which is why I made it a point to be extra early. I wanted to have time to get my thoughts in order, to sort of feel the air around me, and come up with exactly the right thing to say.

I had been stroking these feelings for so long now, building it up in my head, that I needed to do this right. Even if he said no, even if he looked at me like some love struck idiot, I wanted to be clear.

He wasn't early today though. I must have ran my hands through my hair a thousand time, watching the door and trying to act nonchalant as other students started to pour in.

I had never been the most popular person in DeSoto. Hell, I'm sure if you asked them, most of the other sophomores probably couldn't tell you my name. They'd say I was the new girl, or Casper's friend, or the chick from Chicago whose dad died. It's not that they didn't like me. At least, that's not the way I took it. I always figured they sort of saw me as an outsider; an unnecessary addition that came along once they were set in their ways.

Everybody in Crestview seemed to have known each other since forever; like they made phone calls from the uterus or something. Their mothers knew each other. Their fathers hunted together. Sure, the fact that my mom was head of nursing (and pretty popular come flu season) might have got me a little attention, but that only lasted so long. And, if I'm being honest, I never did much to garner any affection.

Aside from Casper and Owen, for whom I had a different sort of affection, I never made much time for the kids in Crestview. They always seemed so silly to me; so small. They were obsessed with country music, with the DeSoto Excavators Friday night football games and, worst of all, with each other.

Every day there was a new rumor. Claire Collins dumped Randy Gentry after she caught him cheating with her sister. Wade Reynolds got suspended for sneaking peppermint schmaltz into the boys' locker room. Susie Townser spent six months in Wyoming, but it wasn't for a spiritual retreat. Claire Collins dumped Randy Gentry again after she found incriminating pictures of the cheerleading squad on his cellphone.

Those two were like Chris Brown and Rihanna minus the domestic abuse.

It was like none of them could see past the town limits; like there wasn't a whole wide world out there full of amazing stuff. I couldn't live that way. I had seen that world, I had lived in it. So, if I didn't exactly fit in in Middle-of-Nowhere, Georgia, well; I could think of worse things.

Owen wasn't like that though. He was an outsider too. He was stuck just like me. He understood, and hopefully he would understand what I was about to tell him.

If he ever bothered to show up, that is.

"Bell's about to ring Cress," Casper said. He was standing next to me, his foot propped up against a locker, sucking on a bright red Tootsie Pop.

"He'll be here," I insisted, scratching my face. I had snuck off to the bathroom to put some makeup on for my big moment. I mustn't have done it right though, because my face was itching like crazy. Mom had never been the sort to use a lot of makeup. I guess when you spend all your time sticking needles into sick people; there isn't much need for it. As a result, I never really figured out how to apply the stupid stuff.

Still, I must have done it okay, because Casper hadn't seemed to notice. Which is good because if he had, he'd no doubt have a field day with it.

"Maybe he's sick," Casper suggested through a mouthful of sucker.

"Maybe," I muttered, and ran my fingers through my hair again.

He turned to me, pulled the sucker from his mouth, and put his chin on my shoulder. His breath was cherry and chocolate when he said, "Don't kill yourself about it Cress. You've always got me."

I knew what was coming next; the same thing he said since the instant he heard my last name.

"Casper Rhodes and Cresta Karr. Karr and Rhodes," he smiled. "See, 'cause cars drive on roads."

"I get it," I said, ruffling his red hair. "You don't have to kill the metaphor."

He scrunched his nose and peered at me from over his glasses. "Is that rouge?"

Luckily, that was when Owen finally decided to arrive.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," I said and pulled away from him. He clanged against the lockers, catching his balance and tried to look cool in front of the freshman girls that passed.

"How you doing?" He waved at them. "I totally meant to do that, by the way."

Not that it mattered to me, but Owen was less than his spectacular self as he drudged into the hallway. His black hair was still wet, presumably from the shower, and brushed lazily to the side, making it look like sloshed mud on his head. There were huge dark circles under his eyes, and he was pulling at his jacket, suggesting that, even now, he was still getting dressed.

I walked toward him, a super bright smile plastered across my face; the same sort of smile I imagined Merrin wore when she was picking flowers, or surfing, or whatever it is perfect California girls do in their free time.

"Hey," I purred, and tilted my head a little to the left. I saw Angelina Jolie do that once in a movie, and the guy completely melted. She had a pistol strapped to her thigh at the time, but I figured it was worth a shot.

"Did you do the math homework?" he asked, looking past me.

Angelina Jolie, I was not.

"I-"

"I overslept. Plus, I didn't do the math homework. Plus, I left a red shirt in the washing machine and now all my socks and underwear are pink. _Plus_ , I think I have an inner ear infection."

Okay, so he wasn't exactly Brad Pitt today either. But I had made up my mind. I was doing this. I brushed off everything he had said and put my hand on his shoulder. He didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to talk to you about something." I stared at him, making sure my green eyes synched up with his deep blue ones perfectly. The look in them must have been telling, because this time he did notice something was up.

"Is everything all right?" He asked, biting his lip, which he always did when he was nervous, and which I thought was just about the cutest thing ever.

"Yeah, everything's fine. It's just-"

The bell sounded, cutting into my words. I felt his shoulder tense.

"Can we do this later?" He asked. The rest of the student body was busy filing into their respective homerooms and I could tell from the look on his face that he didn't want to be late.

No. This wasn't the right time.

"Sure," I said, and took my hand off his shoulder. He smiled that electric smile that had been front and center in my dreams since the day I met him.

"Thanks Cress. Look me up at lunch or something, okay"

"Sure thing," I grinned.

But then, something else happened. He leaned in close, his pool blue eyes inspecting me. I caught the scent of him on the air. I felt his breath against my cheek. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me, and my heart started pounding in my chest like a jackhammer against pavement.

"You have schmutz on your face," he said.

Okay. Not gonna kiss me.

"Red schmutz," he continued.

He put his hand on my face and started rubbing which, if it wasn't the most embarrassing moment of my life, would have probably been nice.

"I don't know. Maybe you should run to the bathroom before class." He gave me a smile and a ' _We're such great buddies'_ pat on the shoulder, and then he was off.

I almost limped back to Casper, who wasn't even trying to hold in his laughter.

"Not a word," I said, but he keeled over, holding his stomach and howling in delight.

"That was the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life," he said. "My tombstone's gonna read: Here lies Casper Rhodes. He died laughing."

I had three classes with Owen before lunch; History, where I watched him struggle to stay awake through Mrs. Gilman's forty three minute lecture about the Cotton Tax and its effect on the Civil War, and Science, where he chewed on the end of his pencil and stared out the window. I had never wanted to be an eraser so badly in my entire life.

I almost talked to him in Math class. I stood outside the door, waiting for him after the bell rang. When he didn't come out, I went back in. He didn't see me. He was standing at Mr. Jacobs' desk, holding out a sheet of paper. I could see that the paper was blank, save for a giant smiley face he had drawn in the center in red crayon.

"What's this?" Mr. Jacobs asked, taking the paper.

"It's my math homework," Owen answered, without cracking a smile.

"No it's not. This is rubbish."

Owen folded his arms and leaned toward the desk a little, "Look again. It's my homework, and I think you'll see it's all correct."

Mr. Jacobs seemed confused but, when he turned the paper back toward him he said, "My mistake. I don't know what I was thinking. Good job on this."

Before Owen could come out, before I could ask him what all that was about, Margie Connor, who thought that just because she got a sash and a demerit card, she was queen of the hall monitors, shooed me toward Language Arts.

Lunch came with a caveat that I hadn't considered. It was Thursday, which meant the meatheads that made up the DeSoto High Excavators would spend their entire lunch period going over plays and strategies for Friday night's game. They'd flick fish sticks at each other and talk about how they were going to ' _completely own'_ whatever poor team had the misfortune of having to come to this excuse of a town to play.

Owen, for all his pluses, counted himself among the meatheads. I never understood why someone like Owen; so witty, so cerebral, saw fit to join their ranks. I mean, they spent their days arguing over whether Becki Saunders or Claire Collins had the more squeezable butt (usually Claire), or who could hock the biggest loogie (Ernie Palmer, though during pollen season Dennis Johnson gave him a run for his money).

Maybe Owen saw it as a way to fit in. And, to that end, it worked. Less than a week after putting that jersey on, he was one of the most popular guys in school. People started gathering around him in the hallway, girls started flirting their way up to him (though they hit the same Merrin shaped road block I had been dealing with). Even parents in the PTA knew who he was.

It didn't change him though. For all the new friends he had, for all the parties he got invited to, it was still rare for me to go more than a day without seeing him. I think, in a lot of ways, he still saw himself as an outsider and, because of that, thought of me as a kindred spirit. At least, I hoped he did.

He waved as he saw me walk into the cafeteria, and even stood as if to join Casper and me at our regular table. I waved him on, letting him know it was okay that he stay with the team. It was Thursday after all, and this wasn't where I wanted to tell him how I felt anyway, not in some crowded lunchroom where we'd have to shout over the sounds of last night's gossip worthy events to be heard.

I would see him after school. I would take him to the swing set at the elementary school next door, and I'd lay it all out. With any luck, he'd bit his lip, smile that electric smile, and tell me he felt the same way and that he had been dying waiting for me to make the first move. He'd call Merrin and break the news to her, while I planned our perfect future together. Then, he'd kiss me and I would run home sing that song like the chick in the beginning of Adventures in Babysitting and smile forever.

But I didn't see him after school. He must have left before the final bell, because by the time the student body poured out into the parking lot, making plans for tonight and the coming weekend, there was no sign of him.

From the corner of my eye though, out past poor neglected Hernando, I saw the black Sedan from Mrs. Goolsby's idling alongside the road, blacked out windows and all.

"Is that that car?" I turned to ask Casper.

By the time I turned back though, it was gone.

# Chapter 3

# Moon in Capricorn

I didn't have much time to think about Owen or the black car. It was Thursday and, more importantly, the third Thursday of the month. That meant I was busy, that I would have to drive twenty three miles and through two towns to Dr. Conyers' office.

By the time I got there, twenty minutes till five, I was already late. She didn't mind though. Ever since my third speeding ticket going through that stupid speed trap in Cold Creek, Dr. Conyers and I had an unspoken agreement. I would drive the speed limit and get there when I could, and she wouldn't have to spend the next forty five minutes listening to me complain about how even the cops had it in for me around here.

I shouldn't complain though. Having the only therapist in the county live thirty minutes away could be a good thing. It meant I didn't have to worry about the other kids in school finding out about my twice monthly visits.

Back in Chicago, it wouldn't have been a big deal. Everyone saw shrinks there. School dances were scheduled around people's therapy sessions. But here in Crestview, I shuddered to think what they might say if they knew I was seeing somebody, the stories they'd come up with.

I'd no doubt be a serial killer, or have nine personalities, or think birds were trying to communicate government secrets to me or something. They didn't get it Crestview. Therapy was something for crazy people, and I wasn't crazy.

I just-I just needed someone to talk to every once in a while.

I went through the events of the last two weeks with Dr. Conyers, just like always. And, like always, she tapped the end of her pen against her knee and listened. She was around my mom's age and, with her curly brown hair and pointed features, even looked a bit like her. She was quieter than my mom, though I guess that goes along with the whole 'therapist thing'.

Mom would have butted her way into the conversation at least three times if she were here, telling me what she would do if she were me or going off on some tangent that had little, if anything to do with what was going on.

Dr. Conyers, to her credit, always let me finish before giving me her two cents. Next month would mark one year that I had been seeing her. When Mom first suggested that I start biweekly sessions with somebody, I resisted. The idea of hashing out my problems in front of a complete stranger, of spilling my guts while lying on some overpriced fainting couch, seemed very ' _Lifetime movie'_ to me.

But Dr. Conyers was different. For starters, she didn't have a couch. Her office was more freeform than that. She would sit on a rounded swivel chair in the middle of the room, sort of like something you'd expect to see Dr. Evil spinning around in, and you had the choice of either sitting on a purple beanbag chair, a giant building block with the letter 'J' stamped across it, or a mattress on the floor, complete with down comforter and pillows.

I usually chose the mattress, but today I was in a beanbag sort of mood.

"So, you didn't tell him? Owen, I mean," Dr. Conyers asked when I finally stopped talking.

"No," I admitted, punching the beanbag chair so that it bent more comfortably.

"I thought your hands were in your pockets." She swiveled a little and wrote something on the pad in her lap.

"I took them out, I guess." I let my eyes trace the floor's shag carpeting. "I just want the moment to be perfect."

"Do you?" She asked. She didn't look up, but I could tell from her tone that there was more to the question.

"What is that supposed to mean?" The beanbag crinkled as I straightened up.

"What do you think it means?" Her pen went back to work across the pad on her lap.

"I hate it when you do that," I crossed my arms. Seriously, is there some sort of class shrinks go to in order to help them perfect the noncommittal answer? _How to answer questions with questions and infuriate your patients 101._

"What do we say about perfect things?" Dr. Conyers looked up at me. I didn't like the way she asked the question, like I was a preschooler and she was teaching me proper lunchroom etiquette, but that wasn't a battle I wanted to fight just now.

"That they're illusions," I recited. "That they don't exist."

We had talked about that sort of thing pretty regularly early on. I was so sour about moving to Crestview, so sour about everything really. My dad has just died, I had left all of my friends, and I was stranded in some ass backwards town that didn't even have a movie theatre, much less a Starbuck's.

Dr. Conyers helped me understand that; while your circumstances might be beyond your control, the way you react to them wasn't. She told me that the happy peppy people I saw walking down the DeSoto High hallways everyday probably had just as much to be bummed about as I did. They just decided to make the best of things.

While I disagreed with the last part (I mean, nobody who saw the way Chloe Waite owned the 12th grade would say she had anything to worry about), she did have a point. A big part of life, I decided; was what you made it. But what did that have to do with Owen?

"I don't get what you mean though?" I said.

"You wanted to wait for a perfect time to tell this boy about your feelings, yet you know there's no such thing. Traditionally, it's fear that holds us back."

"You think I'm afraid?" I asked. Though, she might not have been completely wrong, the idea that she thought that really pissed me off.

"I don't think you want to be rejected," she said, and the pen went back to the pad.

"Nobody wants to be rejected. That's pretty simple stuff."

"True, but not everyone lets it stifle their actions." She tapped the tip of her pen against her teeth. "Would you like to know what I think?"

"I think you're going to tell me what you think whether I want to hear it or not, so you might as well," I answered.

She held off a grin. "People give off cues all the time; in the way they stand, in the way the move, in how they interact with others. People's intentions, the truths of who they are, are written all over them. They're in their voices; the tones if not the words. And we often pick up on those cues. We interpret them subconsciously and act accordingly, whether we realize it or not."

She moved the pen from her teeth and pointed it at me like it was a gun, or an accusation.

"I think you've picked up on some of these cues and they've given you pause."

"So you don't think he likes me?" I asked, shuffling uncomfortably in my seat.

"I wouldn't have any idea. I don't even know the boy. That's certainly a possibility. It's also possible that he feels the same way you do and you're picking up on that."

She wasn't making any sense.

"Why would Owen liking me back make me afraid?" I asked, like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. Cause it was.

Dr. Conyers placed her pen on her pad and then put the pad on the table beside her, which she only did when she meant business.

"Cresta, you've been through a very tumultuous period. In the past two years, your entire life has been uprooted, shaken around, and rearranged. I know you think you're strong, and you are. But even the strongest of us needs time to heal properly. You're finding your footing here, just finding it. It's natural that; on some level, you would be apprehensive toward any changes. You can't let that fear hold you back though. You can't let what happened to you, what happened to your father, define you for the rest of your life."

I shot straight up in my chair, every muscle in my body tensing, the beanbag rolled under me like waves on an angry sea.

"Can we not talk about my father," I asked. My voice was low but terse, like a stifled cough.

"This is your session. We can talk about whatever you like," Dr. Conyers said, but she picked her pen back up.

I hated this; the way everything seemed to come back to my dad. I didn't want to think about him. I didn't want to be reminded of what happened to him, of what happened to both of us.

But it was too late. Just the mention of him and I was gone. I was back on that bridge on the last night I ever saw him, the last night I would ever see him.

It was clear in my mind, as clear as a movie playing before my eyes. I was with him in the car. We were going over the Clark Street Bridge, headed toward the loop. We had just left Giordano's, which was regardless of what anybody tells you, the best pizza place in all of Chicago. Mom was working, but we had three pieces of pepperoni in the backseat for her.

I could never remember what we were talking about, but we were laughing when his favorite song of all time 'Don't Worry Baby' by the Beach Boys came on the radio. He started swaying behind the wheel, dancing along with the song.

He looked over at me; his eyes free of anything but light and said, "You know what?"

I didn't ' _know what'_ , and it turned out I never would.

Later on, when everything was over, the police would tell me the driver of the semi in front of us fell asleep, causing him to skid across three lanes. I didn't see any of that though. All I saw was my dad, the wall of the bridge coming up toward us, and then the water.

I remembered the force as we veered off the bridge, as gravity pulled all the blood to my face. And then we hit the river. It shattered against the car, splitting like we were driving through a plate glass window.

I remembered the water seeping in, slow at first and then quicker. I thought it would be a haze. I had heard stories, seen movies about car accidents, about people who go through horrible things. They all say time plays tricks on you, that it either speeds up or slows down; that's it's over in a flash or that it drags on forever in slow motion.

None of that happened though. It was all clear. I knew where I was. I knew what was going on. And, watching ice cold gulps of the Chicago River pouring in, I knew we were going to die.

Dad was unconscious. He must have hit his head on the driver's side window, because blood was pouring down over his closed eyes. I pulled at my seatbelt. It whipped off. I pulled at my father, but he was heavy and the water was starting to creep up at our waists. The sounds of the Beach Boys echoed through the car's ruined cab. They told me not to worry; that everything would be alright. They were wrong. I pulled at my father again. He barely budged. So, I screamed at him.

"Dad!"

"Dad!"

Daddy.

He didn't respond. I grabbed for his seatbelt, but the water was everywhere now. It pooled up around my shoulders. I tried to open the door but; like my father, it wasn't complying. The water grew higher. It invaded my mouth and then my nose, drowning my screams. I opened my eyes. We were completely submerged. My dad lifted off his seat, his blond hair, hair like mine, floated like a halo around his head.

I pulled at him again, thinking he might be lighter now that he was completely underwater. I was wrong. I pulled hard. Losing my grip, I slammed against the door. This time though, it opened. The current of the Chicago River reached for me, pulling me away from the car, pulling me away from my father.

I saw the lights of the city toward the surface, but I swam away from it, back toward the car. My eyes started burning; my lungs caught fire. The chill in the water cut through my skin, down into my bones. But I kept going. I wasn't going to leave him here, not down in the dark all alone like this.

My father's eyes flipped open as I got closer. His face got animated, panicked, realizing what had happened. He reached for his seat belt. It was stuck. He was trapped. My fingers felt pinpricked as I jerked at his seatbelt. He pushed me away.

He screamed something. It was drowned in the river, but I didn't need to hear him to know what he said. It was in his eyes. He wanted me to leave him.

I shook my head. There was no way in hell that was happening. We'd find a way. He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. What I hoped would be a pocket knife or nail file, anything to cut through the belt, turned out to be a little gold necklace. It was thin with a heart shaped locket at the end. It looked old, but I had never seen it before.

He gave it to me along with a look. Again, I didn't have to wonder. I knew what it meant.

You have to leave me.

I'm your father. Do what I say.

I love you.

Now the lack of air wasn't the only thing setting me on fire. I looked at him for another moment, for the last time. I kissed him on the cheek, and then-

"I think we're done for today," I said. My hand was up around my neck, stroking the locket my father gave me. Maybe our hour was up. I had no idea how long I had been sitting there, lost in the moment. It didn't matter. I couldn't do this anymore; not right now.

It was raining when I left Dr. Conyers' office; the sort of rain I didn't know existed before I moved out of the city; hard and driven by unbridled winds. I put my IPod on shuffle and cranked the volume way up. I didn't care what song came on, so long as it was loud and I didn't have to think about anything else.

Seeing Dr. Conyers always drained me. It forced my mind into a dark place. Still, she had helped me in the past. She had forced me to look at things, helped me make sense of it all, and guided me away from the bad choices I made after my dad's death.

Five miles outside of town, and halfway through the Lumineers album I had downloaded the night before, I caught sight of a car pulled over alongside the road. The rain was beating like bullets against the windshield, but I didn't need to see much to know who it was. I had memorized that car years ago, along with the guy who drove it.

Owen stood bent under the open hood, soaked to the bone. I pulled over beside him and lowered my window. If possible, he looked even more out of sorts than he had this morning. Water ran off him in sheets, dripping from his hair and face down to the engine below. He looked frustrated, which made sense. Not only was he stranded in the rain but, given what I knew about Owen, he'd have a better chance of cajoling that car into starting than he would of fixing whatever was wrong with it.

"Owen!" I yelled over the rainfall.

"Cresta?" He seemed shocked to see me. He leaned into my open window, dripping all over the door. "Thank God. I've been here for twenty minutes. Would you believe you're the first person who's come by?"

In this metropolis, who'd have thought?

"Get in," I told him.

"Are you sure? I'll ruin the upholstery."

"I don't care about the upholstery. You're gonna catch pneumonia," I swatted at him.

I rolled my window up and he ran to the passenger side door and hopped in. He shivered and, for a second, I thought he was going to shake the water off like a dog that had just come in out of the rain. Instead, he put his hands in front of the heater and started rubbing them together.

"It's freezing out there," he looked at me. Even in this state, looking like a drowned rat in his gray fleece hoodie and jeans, he was pretty cute.

"Not your day," I smiled.

"The moon's in Capricorn," he said, as though it was an explanation. "Do you have a blanket or something?

"Actually, I do." I reached into the backseat, where Casper kept all of his overnight necessities and handed him the fluffy blue blanket with floral prints that Casper had owned since way before I knew him. "Keep in mind, it's Casper's. So..."

"Noted," he said through shivering teeth. He stripped off his gray jacket. The rain had seeped right through it and the black t-shirt he wore underneath was wet and clung to him like skin. I tried not to stare.

"What's up with the car?" I asked, picking at my steering wheel cover. I always did that, fiddled with things when I was nervous. To date, I had ruined half a dozen sweaters, two laptops, and my grandfather's dog tags, which made it through Korea but couldn't survive the standardized testing jitters of '07.

"I think it's the fuel pump," he answered, snuggling into Casper's blanket.

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"Cause the guy at the garage said it was the fuel pump," he shrugged. "I was on my way to Cold Creek now to pick one up. But; like I said, Capricorn." He pointed to the sky. "I'm so glad you came by. I have zero cell signal out here."

"I know what you mean," I glanced at my own useless phone sitting in the cup holder.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" He asked.

"I-I had to bring my mom some stuff," I stuttered. Owen wasn't like the other kids at DeSoto. I didn't think he would look down on me for going to therapy or anything, but I still didn't want him to know about it. I wanted him to think of me as a girl who had it together, who knew what she was doing, who was confident and maybe even sexy. I certainly didn't want him thinking of me as broken.

"I can give you a ride back. You can call Triple A when you get back into coverage," I suggested.

"You're a saint," he smiled. The heat was giving him a little of his color back, putting a flush in his cheeks. He turned to me as I pulled back onto the road. "What did you want to talk to me about this morning?"

I hoped he would attribute the flush crawling up my cheeks to the heater as well. I looked at him, with his expectant blue eyes staring back at me. This was it. This is where I was going to tell him.

"Um...Chicken," I said.

Yeah, that was about right.

Maybe Dr. Conyers was right. Maybe I was letting my fear get the better of me, or maybe I was waiting for a perfect moment that didn't exist. Still, there had to be a better one than this; with Owen sopping wet, wrapped in Casper's blanket, _and_ the moon in Capricorn.

Besides, the idea of him rejecting me was bad enough. I didn't want to have to drive twenty miles back into town with him after he did.

"You wanted to talk to me about chicken? Like, the bird?" He seemed confused, which was reasonable, given that, at this point, even I didn't know what I was talking about.

"Right. Yeah. No!" I said, trying to make it make sense. "The food. Chicken, the food. As in, my mom making chicken."

He smiled. It was uncomfortable, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Your mom doesn't cook," he said.

"She does!" I said louder than I should have, realizing I had actually stumbled onto a piece of truth. "She just started." My mind flashed to this morning and way too much bacon. "And it's just me and her. Well, sometimes Casper, but he doesn't eat that much."

What? That was true, if you measured in metric tons.

"And well, I was sort of hoping you'd come over tomorrow. For chicken, I mean."

I swallowed hard. That was better. That would be better than here, than today. I could bring Owen home, force feed him what would almost certainly be the worst chicken imaginable, and I'd tell him there. Yeah. I'd have the home field advantage. I could set things up the way I wanted; get my mind right and roll it out the right way.

"That's it?" He reared back and started laughing. "I spent the entire day thinking you were gonna tell me you had cancer or something, Yeah, sure. I'll eat chicken with you."

I'm not sure if it was his laugh, the heater, or the fact that I actually had a plan, but I started to feel a little better, a little warmer.

He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. There it was; his fingers on me, one of those little cues Dr. Conyers was talking about. Now I knew exactly what it was that was making me warmer.

"I don't know why you made such a big deal out of that," he said, grinning at me. His face, dripping wet and all, took my breath away. "You know I'd do just about anything you asked me to." He winked playfully. "I mean, how could I say no to a face like that?"

My God. Those were like cue cards. He was flirting with me. He did love me back. I could see it in those blue eyes. I could feel it in those nimble fingers. He must be dying waiting for me to say something. All I'd have to do is tell him and then, everything would be okay. We would be together.

The rest of our ride went by in a blur of jokes and music. Like me, he loved indie stuff, so we turned up the Lumineers and jammed out to Dead Sea and Charlie Boy. Before I knew it, too soon, we were back in Crestview. The rain died down, receding to a mist that left the usually boring bone dry Georgia town simply boring.

"Want me to drop you at home?" I asked reluctantly.

Or you could come to my house.

"No," he answered. "I have a bunch of studying to do. Mr. Jacobs is killing me with homework. Can you take me to the library?"

I scoffed. "I don't get you and the library. It's the information age, O. You could just study in your room."

Or my room, if you wanted. That could be arranged.

"I can't focus at home," he said, throwing Casper's blanket into the backseat. "Besides, the FFA meets there on Thursdays, and they always have the best chess squares."

I pulled into the parking lot of the Crestview library; a small aluminum building that looked more like a double wide than a library. Its gravel parking lot was filled with the same cars I was used to seeing every day when I passed it; Mrs. Cleo, the librarian, Dr. Victors, the only ' _actual doctor'_ in the entire county (a title he gave himself that always irked Dr. Conyers), and Mr. Shue, who always sat outside, telling random stories about random things to anyone who was unfortunate enough to find themselves in his crosshairs.

Owen opened the door even before I stopped the car. Closing the door, he stuck his head, this time much dryer, though the window and said, "You're a lifesaver. What would I do without you, Cresta?"

"Let's hope you never have to find out," I smiled shyly. "Don't forget about-"

"Chicken. I know. I can't wait."

"That's optimistic of you," I said, picking at my steering wheel again. "She's not the greatest cook in the world, you know."

"I'll be with you. How bad could it be?"

Cues. GIANT FREAKING CUES.

"I'll see you tomorrow." His electric smile cut through me, and he walked away. I watched him disappear into the library, sidestepping Mr. Shue gracefully. Driving away, I took a whiff from my inhaler. Being around Owen always left me breathless, and today was no exception.

Now; assuming my mother was over the breakfast related insanity of this morning, all I had to do was convince her to cook a lavish chicken dinner with one day's notice. That shouldn't be so hard, right?

I looked over longingly at the water stain Owen left on the seat. He really had ruined the upholstery. I didn't care though. He could destroy the entire car for all I cared, so long as he smiled at me while doing it.

Moisture wasn't the only thing Owen had left though. Owen's phone sat on the seat beside me. I picked it up. I had to bring it back to him. How else would be call Triple A or his mom, or... or Merrin. I thought about keeping it for a second. After all, if he couldn't talk to her for a couple of days, then maybe he'd realize how bad an idea a long distance relationship really was.

No. I couldn't do that. Nothing good would come from that. Knowing my luck, Owen would find out about and think I was some kind of sicko stalker. I had to bring it back to him. Of course, that didn't mean I couldn't at least check out the competition.

I opened up Owen's pictures and started scrolling through them. I readied my inhaler. If Merrin was half as pretty as I figured she was, I was gonna need it. There were no pictures of Merrin though. There weren't any pictures of his family or even of himself. The only pictures Owen had were of me...

I couldn't believe it as I went through them; me at the county fair last November, me and my mom decorating our tree last Christmas, me reading a book on the bleachers at school.

I didn't even know he took most of these. It was like he had been watching me, like he had been admiring me. I jumped out of the car, leaving it running right there in the parking lot. Forget tomorrow. Forget chicken. Forget all of it. This was all the proof I needed. It was right here in these pictures. Owen liked me back, and I wasn't wasting another minute.

Mr. Shue's eyes lit up when he saw me coming. "Cresta, did I ever tell you about the time I wrestled an alligator in the back of a moving truck?"

"Not now, Mr. Shue," I said, and pushed past him into the library. I held Owen's phone in my hand, like it was Exhibit A in a murder trial. He wasn't anywhere to be found though.

There was the FFA. There were their chess squares. There was Mrs. Cleo, stacking books in giant piles on her desk. As I weaved through the aisles looking for him, my resolve began to waver. How was I going to tell him? Should I just show him the phone, present him with the incriminating pictures? Would that make him mad?

I caught sight of him. He was on the other side of the library, walking out the back door.

"Owen!" I yelled, but all I got was nasty looks from the FFA and a "Quiet please!" from Mrs. Cleo.

I rushed toward the back door, and pushed it opened. What I saw though, stopped me in my tracks. Owen hadn't come here to study. He hadn't even come here to stay. Owen was standing beside the black Sedan from Mrs. Goolsby's, the one I had seen circling the school all day. He was talking to someone inside. Though, with the angle the car was parked, I couldn't see just who.

I thought about saying something, about letting him know I was there. Whatever this was though, whoever he was talking to, he mustn't have wanted me to know about it. Why else would he have told me he was studying?

I stood there watching as Owen climbed into the black Sedan and rode away.

# Chapter 4

# Cardboard Girl

The day before our house blew up; I woke up clutching the locket my father gave me. I always did that when Mom worked and I had to spend the night by myself. I didn't mean to, mind you. I'd drift off to sleep just fine, watching Nick At Nite reruns or some old movie on the Hallmark Channel. It never failed though. Sometime during the night, my hand would creep up to my throat and settle on the locket. I guess it made me feel close to him, like he was still around in some small way.

I half expected to wake up and find that I had pried the thing open in my sleep, but I never did. In fact, I had never been able to get that open, asleep or not. Since the day my father gave it to me, the day he died, I wore it around my neck. I never took it off, even in the shower. But I had never managed to open the golden oval that hung at the end.

Whatever was in there, probably a picture, was my dad's secret.

I crawled out of bed and into the shower, remembering that I'd had the dream again. That was two nights in a row. It had been awhile since that had happened.

It was always the same. I was being carried somewhere. I couldn't see by whom, but I felt so safe that it had to be my father. I couldn't see what was going on around me, but I heard screams and explosions. I smelled smoke and metal, and felt rain pounding against my face.

Whatever was going on, this was the end of it.

He turned, took seven steps, and carried me up seven stairs. He laid me in the middle of a dark gray room, in the center of a blood red circle. I tried to move, but nothing worked. My hands, my feet, no part of me responded.

He leaned down. I saw moisture glisten on his shrouded cheeks and, realized the rain I had been feeling wasn't rain at all. It was his tears.

His voice cracked as he whispered in my ear. "Seven. It was always seven."

I got to school early again, this time breakfast free. For once, Casper hadn't slept in my backseat. He must have managed an entire day without pissing his dad off because when I picked him up things were quiet and he seemed relatively content.

It took me all of three seconds to tell him everything; about Owen, the pictures of me on his phone, and black Sedan that picked him up behind the library.

I didn't know what to make of it. Who was in that black Sedan? Why were they visiting Mrs. Goolsby in the middle of the night or circling the school all day? What did they have to do with Owen?

"Oh my God, he's a gigolo!" Casper said.

I should have known he'd have the answer.

"This makes so much sense!"

"Casper," I said, picking at my steering wheel.

"No, it does," he said, holding his hands out like he had made sense of all of it and was about to lay some serious wisdom on me. "What do we know about the guy really? He comes here from California, all super SoCal surfer boy."

"No he's not," I laughed. Owen was a lot of things; cute, considerate, sometimes adorably off kilter, but he was not some blond chiseled surf god.

"Whatever Cress," Casper waved me off. "The fact is, the dude's weird. He's always talking about stars, and moons, and Zodiac signs, and stuff. I mean, I don't even know where he lives."

"Yes you do," I scoffed. "He lives on Abercorn. We were there last weekend."

"Okay. Okay." He was stretched across the seat now, sitting on his knees with his hands wide in front of him. It was very Casper. "But we were only there to pick him up. Let me ask you this; when's the last time you were inside his house?"

"Well..." My mind went blank. I didn't know. Owen had been in my house, and we had both been in Casper's, but I had no recollection of ever setting foot in Owen's place. Is it possible that I had known Owen for two years, became his best friend, fell madly in love with him, and never even seen the inside of his house?

"And what about his parents?" Casper continued. "Who even are those people? I've never seen them. I don't think I've ever even met someone who's seen them."

"That's not fair." I was almost wrist deep in steering wheel now. "His parents don't work in town. They're probably almost never here."

"Don't be so gullible Cresta. What kind of people move _here_ from a big metropolitan city, work outside of town, and never leave their house?"

"You literally just described my family," I said.

He shook his head. "Don't try to play it off just 'cause you've got a thing for him. You're boy's a prostitute, plain and simple; a prostitute who caters to sickly old widows. Not that I'm judging. I'm sure there's good money in it."

"You're insane," I said as we pulled into DeSoto High.

"Probably," he conceded.

I wrapped my hand around Owen's cellphone, still in my pocket. I wasn't sure what I was going to say to him. I didn't take Casper seriously. Owen might be a little mysterious. He might even be 'weird', like Casper said. I admit, there had been more than one time where I caught him talking to himself. But he was definitely, absolutely not a prostitute.

Was he?

No. No. He wasn't. Definitely not.

Still, Casper did make a good point. I had never been in Owen's house. I had seen it. I had picked him up there a hundred times, but he always met me outside. We never hung out there. I had never seen the inside of his bedroom, or even his parents' faces. They were never at any of his football games. Bake sales, car washes, school plays; they were no shows. I'm not sure I could even tell you their names.

"Oh!" I said as a thought came to me. "Maybe his parents are in the black car. Maybe that's why he was getting in there."

Casper kicked a pebble toward the school, looking at me over his glasses and blowing red bangs out of his eyes. "And his parents are hitting up Mrs. Goolsby at four o'clock in the morning for what, sugar?" I blinked. I guess I didn't have all the answers.

"That's what I thought," he smiled, kicking at another pebble. It went sailing down the sidewalk and hit the school's glass door. "Nice try though. He's definitely a hooker. Maybe whoever's in the black car is his pimp. That makes sense. Look on the bright side though."

I had one hand on Owen's phone and the other wrapped around my father's locket as I answered. "And what would that be?"

"Maybe he can get you a discount. You know, like a red light special or something. Oh, probably means he's got a lot going on down there too."

"Down where?" My head titled.

"Ya know... downtown."

It was stupid and disgusting, but Casper's joke wrenched a smile out of me and I slapped his shoulder.

"I gotta hit up the little boys' room, who knows, maybe he'll be there and I'll get a look at the goods myself." Casper nudged me with his shoulder. "I'll see you in English."

I waved him goodbye, took a seat next to Hernando, and waited for Owen to arrive (trying desperately not to think about Casper peeking at Owens _'goods'_ ). I was pretty much ignored by the other students as they poured into school. Every now and again, someone would break away from discussing their weekend plans or complaining about the likelihood of _once again_ getting homework for the weekend, and shoot Hernando a glance. Me though; I might as well have been invisible.

Owen never came. I waited until literally a minute before the bell rang, sitting at Hernando's weathered gold feet, looking for him. I thought maybe he was running late again, maybe the moon was still in Capricorn, and he would come running up at the last minute, all disheveled and adorable. But he didn't.

Walking into homeroom, I started to wonder if anyone had seen him since he got into that black Sedan yesterday. Certainly he was okay. If he hadn't come home last night, his mystery parents would have called the police or went looking for him or something. I'd have heard about it by now. They'd have called his phone. Right?

I wrapped my hand around his phone again. This time, I squeezed it tight. I was being stupid. He was fine. There was a reasonable explanation about everything, and he would tell me tonight, over chicken.

School inched by. Not like the way it always did on Fridays, squeezing every ounce of torture out of the day before releasing you into the weekend. No, today was even worse than that. My mind hopscotched between points of stress. Where was Owen? Why did he get into that black car? Why did he lie to me about it? Should I ask about the hooker thing? And, assuming everything was okay, how was I going to tell him I was crazy about him?

By the time school finally ended, I felt like limping home and collapsing in a heap on my bed. But I couldn't. My mind wouldn't let me off the hook that easily. I jumped in my Jetta and drove down to Abercorn. I needed to see Owen, to make sure he was okay.

Dust blew up behind me as I pulled to a stop in front of Owen's house. I pulled down the sun visor and checked myself out in the mirror. Just because I was showing up at Owen's house unannounced and horning in on his privacy didn't mean I couldn't look presentable doing it.

I straightened my hair up, wiped my face with a moist towelette, and took a hit of my inhaler. I was used to the breathlessness that came with being around Owen, and I was ready to combat it.

Owen's house was one of the newer ones in Crestview. A two story white thing with blue shutters and a front porch, I realized that, even though I had sat out in front of this place a thousand times, I had never really looked at it. I guess I was always just too captivated by Owen. Even in the early days, before I was so into him that it was hard to breathe, there was something about him.

I could never take my eyes off him. And it wasn't just that he was cute, even though he was cute. Really cute. But so were a lot of guys. For a town that didn't even have a post office, Crestview had no shortage of man meat. Even Casper, who was like my brother, had a sort of ginger-hued ruffled charm about him.

Had I managed to pull my gaze off Owen even one of those times and checked out his house, I would have noticed... absolutely nothing.

There was nothing about the house that stood out at all. In Chicago, that would have been normal. Back home, there was nothing but row after row of identical looking apartments. But here in Crestview, where people actually had things like front yards, people liked to use the space to express themselves.

Some people put up political signs (always Republican) out by the road. Others stuck religious statues (mostly the Virgin Mary) by the front door. Mrs. Ratcliffe cut her bushes to look like swans. Even my mom who; in Chicago, barely took the time make her bed, let alone fancy up the apartment, decorated our yard a little.

Sure, they were those stupid cardboard cutouts; a little boy peeing and the horrified little girl who catches him, but Mom seemed to think they were cute. And at least she was trying. Which was more than I could say for Owen's family.

The yard, the porch- all of it was empty. Other than Owen's car (which must have gotten that fuel pump 'cause it was sitting in the driveway), there was no evidence that anyone lived here at all. Maybe that wasn't so weird though. Owen's parents did work constantly. Maybe they didn't have time for stuff like that. Yeah. That was it. It had to be. I was just letting Casper's ridiculousness get the better of me.

I got out of my car, holding Owen's phone out in front of me like an explanation. If he saw me, if he came running out the front door like always, I would just tell him I was coming to return it. Then, of course, I would linger around and be my relatively irresistible self. Totally. Awesome. Plan.

I waltzed up to the front door without incident and knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again. Again; nothing. He must have been gone. Maybe there was some meathead football meeting he was obligated to go to.

Or maybe he's locked inside the trunk of some black Sedan death trap.

I was just about to leave; I'd give him his phone back when I saw him tonight, when the door opened. It opened slowly, like someone had pushed it but, there was nobody on the other side. Slowly, I stuck my head through the doorway. There was no one in there at all.

"Owen?" I yelled into the living room. "Owen, are you here?"

If he was, he didn't answer.

"Owen, I've got your phone."

I looked into the house, down at the cherry wood floor. This was it; Owen's house, and it was open. I could just walk right in. I should. I had his phone. I could just go upstairs and put it in his bedroom.

Owen's bedroom.

I thought about the little girl in my mother's cardboard cutout. I bet she wasn't so horrified after all.

"Owen," I pushed in. "Owen, are you here?"

The house had a fresh smell to it; like bleach and lemon cleaner. The doorway led into a hall which, in turn, opened up to what I assumed was the living room. I had to assume, because it was totally empty. Like the yard outside and the front porch, the main room of Owen's house was completely barren. No television, no couch, no chairs; nothing.

Maybe they didn't use that room though. There were only three of them; maybe they didn't need all the room. I walked through the room and into a tiled kitchen. Though there were appliances, they were all wrapped up. The stove, the dishwasher, even the sink were wrapped in clear shipping paper, as though they had been delivered but never used.

Maybe they don't cook, or do dishes...or wash things.

From the kitchen I went upstairs. There were three rooms on the top floor. Surely one of them was Owen's room. I opened the doors, but one after one, the rooms turned out to be empty. There was nothing, not even a bed.

What was going on? I mean; they had to sleep.

I walked back to the stairs. Halfway down, I heard the front door, which I must have left open, slam shut. An alarm sounded, the word 'Intruder' echoing through the house.

I ran down the stairs as fast as I could, yelling.

"I'm sorry! I was just trying to bring you your phone!"

But Owen wasn't there. Neither were his parents. No one was in the house. So, what set off the alarm? I didn't have time to figure it out.

'Intruder' screamed into my ears. With an alarm system like this, it couldn't be long before the police showed up to check it out. The last thing I needed was Owen thinking I had broken into his house. I could see the conversation now. I'd be in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs screaming, "It's not breaking in. The door opened up on its own."

I pulled at the door. It wouldn't budge. I was stuck in here and the police would be here any second. The moon must have been in Capricorn for me too.

'Intruder!' It screamed again.

"Yeah, I get it," I yelled, like the security system could hear me. I pounded on the door and pulled again. It was no use. It wasn't budging.

'Intruder! Intruder!'

I ran out of the living room and through the kitchen. Maybe there was a back door. I found it pretty quickly and, luckily enough, when I flipped the latch and pulled, it opened.

By the time I got home, I figured my little break in would be the talk of the town. After all, when Mrs. Gooslby's cat got stuck on her roof, people talked about it for days. It was that kind of place.

Mom was still at work when I got there, so I sat in my room and waited for the phone to ring or the cops to come knocking on the door. It's not like I was stealthy or anything. I basically ran out of Owen's house like a scared chicken, so it probably wouldn't be too hard to follow the breadcrumbs back here.

And what would I do when they got there?

I just wanted to get a look at his bedroom. I promise I didn't steal anything. Not that there was anything to steal.

I laughed out loud, realizing I was more afraid of Owen finding out I was in his house than I was of any legal trouble. I held his phone in my hand, balancing it in my palm. Just having it for a few hours had given me so many questions. Why did Owen have those pictures of me? What was he doing in that black Sedan, the one that came by Mrs. Goolsby's house every night? Why was his own house completely empty? What was his pimps name?

As I was thinking about all those things; wondering how I would bring them up when Owen came over for dinner, the phone rang. I jerked; dropping it. It fell to the floor face up. I shouldn't have been so surprised. It _was_ a phone, after all. But, in the twenty or so hours that I'd had it, this was the first call I had gotten. Owen hadn't even called to find out where it was.

I looked down. The screen read those horrible words, the words I knew would come when I heard it ring; _'Merrin Calling'_. I felt sick, not that I should have. Long distance or not, she was his girlfriend. It would only make sense that she would call him.

I reached down and scooped it up. I had thought so much about this girl; about what kind of person Owen would fall for. It occurred to me then that I knew absolutely nothing about her. I didn't know what she looked like, what kind of music she liked. I didn't know if she was right handed or left handed. I had spent so much time building this girl up in my head, painting her as this perfect blond beach girl, that being faced with her, even on the phone, put knots in my stomach.

I wondered if she knew about me; about the pictures on Owen's phone, about the lack of pictures of her. I wondered if she could answer the questions I had about Owen. But most of all, I wondered if she was anything like me. The idea that Owen would fall for someone like me, someone like me who he met first, was exhilarating and sickening all at the same time.

I had to know, if only to put it behind me. I put the phone to my ear and answered.

"Hello."

There was no answer.

"Look. Um, I'm Cresta. I don't know if Owen's told you anything about me, but I'm his-we're friends. He left his phone in my car. That's all."

Why was I doing that; explaining myself? If Merrin thought some girl was answering her boyfriend's phone-

No. I didn't want to cause trouble, at least not that way. If Owen was going to like me, if he was going to choose me, I wanted him to do it honestly, and I wanted to be honest with her.

"Merrin, here's the thing. Owen and I are just friends."

I paused for a second, gathering my thoughts. She didn't answer.

"But I don't want to be just friends. And I know that's a bitchy thing to say, because you're all the way on the other side of the country and I'm here with your guy, but it is what it is."

My hand twisted around my locket, wishing I had my steering wheel to pick.

"I don't wanna be that girl. You know, _that_ girl, but I want to be real with you. I'm about to tell Owen how I feel and I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I think he might feel the same way abvout me."

I took a shaky breath and reached for my inhaler.

"Merrin, did you hear me?"

I took a whiff.

"Merrin?"

Nothing. This girl was a wall. She hadn't said word one since the minute I picked up the phone.

"Mer-"

A tone, like music, rang out on the other end of the phone. A long sound, like somebody was holding down a piano key. Then, while it was still going on, another tone sounded on top of it. Then another, and another. Soon I was listening to a symphony; chords layered over each other. It was like a song, only there was no melody. There was no deviation in the noise. They were different chords; probably F's, C's, and D's. The piano was never my strong suit. Whatever it was though, wasn't meant to be pleasing.

I pulled my ear away from the receiver as the noise got louder.

"Merrin?" I asked again. "Are you trying to send a fax or something?"

Do people even send faxes anymore?

The noise only grew. I scoffed and hung up. Was that her answer? Was she really that childish? Maybe not. Maybe she didn't hear me at all. Phone service was nearly nonexistent in Crestview. Maybe what I heard was feedback from a dropped call or something.

I huffed, my hand still on my locket. I blew a few strands of blond hair out of my eyes, realizing why I had told Merrin all that stuff, probably why I answered her in the first place. I wanted her to know everything, and not just because I wanted to be honest. Somewhere deep inside I knew that if Merrin knew then Owen would have to next. There would be no way around it. Merrin would force my hand and I wouldn't have the luxury of chickening out anymore. I wanted to have no choice. I wanted that safety net gone. Even with all the questions I had about him, I still wanted Owen to know how I felt.

I sighed and lay back in bed. He would be here soon enough, and I would get my chance. My chance, and my answers.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

# Chapter 5

#  The Goolsby Intervention

Seven. It was always seven.

I woke with a start; a loud ringing in my ears. The sun, streaming low through my window, told me it was later evening, probably six or seven. I sat up, recognizing the ring as our smoke alarm.

Mom was back.

"What did you do?" I asked, halfway down the stairs. She was fanning smoke away from our open stove. It filled the kitchen and left her in a gray tinted haze. She had an apron on, which might as well have been a top hat and rhinestone blazer for as out of place as she looked in it. On her hands, feverishly swiping at the smoke, were over mitts; another first.

"Don't start that! The only reason I'm doing this is to impress your little boyfriend." She said through coughs. Having forced a temporary break in the smoke, she reached into the stove and pulled out a pan. On it, were three small black lumps that context clues told me had probably been chicken at one point.

"Well that's sure to do it," I said. A barrage of smells; smoke, chicken, and maybe garlic filled the air as I made my way into the kitchen.

"No," Mom yelled and waved me away. "Your asthma. Stay back."

"My asthma's fine," I ignored her, but rushed to open a window anyway. It was bad enough that the chickens were ruined. I didn't need Owen to find me gasping for breath on the floor beside them.

"Look at this. It's ruined," I said, pushing at the charcoal lumps with a nearby mixing spoon.

"What did you expect?" Mom pulled the apron off and pushed down on her brown curly hair, which had whirled up into knots as she battled the smoke.

I threw the spoon down and hopped onto the counter, catching the fresh air as it came through the window. "I expected the architect of yesterday's breakfast masterpiece to know what she was doing."

She rolled her eyes and tossed the charcoal chicken lumps into the trash can. They hit with a leaden thud that made me glad we weren't eating them. "That was a fluke. I was- yesterday was a special day for me, and I wanted to do something special."

I crinkled my eyebrows, confused. "What was so special about it?"

Her eyes traced the counter where the chicken used to be, like she was searching for something. "Something from before you were born. It doesn't matter." She shook her head, probably trying to shake away whatever thought she was wrestling with. "What does matter is finding something to feed your little boyfriend. You know, now that the chickens are a thing of the past."

"He's not my boyfriend," I hopped down from the counter. By now, enough of the smoke had left that I didn't need to sit by the window.

"And why is that? Because I know you'd like him to be." Her left eyebrow arched and a mischievous grin spread across her face. She was looking at me like she had found out my little secret, and she was right. But that didn't mean I had to let her know it.

"Please. That's just whatever."

"Uh huh," she shook her head smiling. "I know what a girl in love looks like Cress. I used to be one."

I watched her there, smiling and rubbing circles into the counter. There was a weight in her smile, gravity to her words:

' _Used to'_

The man she loved was gone. Maybe the only man she had ever loved, my father, had left and he was never coming back. Sure, she could move on. Maybe the idea of her daughter being in love could help her do that. But he would always be there; a ghost in the back of her mind, in the back of both our minds.

"I'm going to tell him how I feel," I said, fingering my locket and letting go of pretense. "Tonight. That's what all of this is supposed to be about."

"Oh." Mom's face sort of fell and her eyes shot to the trash can. "Now I feel really bad about the chicken."

She turned around and started going through the cabinets. "There has to be something up here ." Of course, she knew better than that. Mom never cooked. I never cooked. Unless Owen wanted a TV dinner with a side of Pringles there probably wasn't much up there we could work with. Still, there was something else I was more concerned with.

"Mom, what do you know about cues?"

She turned to me, a can of Chef Boyardee in her hand. I read the words 'extra chunky' as she sat it down. _Classy._

"What are you talking about?"

I twisted the locket around so that the loose part of the necklace wrapped around my fingers

"Dr. Conyers said that people are constantly giving off cues, like little clues about how they feel or what they think and stuff. She said that it was possible that I was subconsciously picking them up from Owen."

I'm not sure what I expected her to do, but when she started laughing, it took me by surprise.

"I was scared to death when I met Andrew," she said. She only ever called him Andrew when she was talking about before I was born, otherwise it was always 'your father'.

"He was involved with this redhead. She was drop dead gorgeous but the poor thing was so stupid she needed help tying her shoes." She wiped what I hoped was a happy tear from her eyes. "Anyway, I was sure he wouldn't go for somebody like me."

"Mom, you're a stunner," I said.

"I must have been, because three weeks after meeting me the redhead was out the door. And a good thing too, or else I wouldn't have you."

She brushed blond bangs out of my eyes just as Owen's phone started to ring in my pocket.

"Are you going to get that?" She asked when I didn't move.

"No. It's probably just Merrin," I shrugged.

"Who's Merrin?" She went back to scouring the cabinets.

"She's Owen's redhead."

I figured Mom would be confused. She didn't know I had Owen's phone on me. But she just grinned, seemingly understanding enough.

It wasn't until the doorbell rang that I realized the smoke alarm had quieted. I tensed up. That was Owen. He was early. Or was he? Stupid me. I shouldn't have gone to sleep. I should have prettied myself up instead. No telling what I looked like now. The doorbell rang again.

Mom shot me a look; a bag of Ramen noodles in her hand. "Want me to get the door?"

"No," I'll do it," I said, fixing my hair in the reflection from a hanging stove pot. "Just, you know, try to find something that doesn't have the word _'microwavable'_ in the title."

She gave me a mock sneer as I headed into the living room. The bell rang a third time and I pulled it open, plastering a wide smile on my face.

If I thought tonight was going to be an inhaler free evening, I knew differently as soon as I caught sight of Owen. He was standing on my front porch, dressed in a pair of blue jeans that looked like they were molded onto him, a tight blue shirt, and a matching blazer that made his deep blue eyes positively lethal.

God was definitely showing off.

He was looking at the sky, or maybe my roof, but he turned to me as soon as he realized the door had opened. He smiled at me; one of those deep electric smiles, and suddenly I was grateful I had the door to prop me up, because my knees had turned to jelly.

"I don't want to alarm you, but I think the smog monster from Lost just escaped through your back window."

A sharp high laugh escaped my lips and then a snort.

Smooth, Cress

"That's what happens when my mom tries to braise something."

"That's adorable," he said.

"Try telling her that. She's in there right now, scrambling for a replacement meal." I pulled the door completely open; my hand at its familiar place twisted around my locket.

"Not the cooking," he said, brushing past me and into the living room. "Your little snort."

I mustn't have blushed near as much as I thought, because if my face got even half as fevered as it felt, he'd have immediately rushed me to the hospital. Instead, he said, "Tell your mom not to kill herself on my account. I'll eat anything," and reached his hand out to me. For the first time, I noticed a brown paper bag in it.

"What's that?" I asked, grabbing it and trying to act cool.

"An eggplant. My mother always told me a good guest brings something."

"So you brought an eggplant?" I took it. It was heavy and a deep, almost black, shade of purple.

"It's a Scorpio food," he shrugged. "Your mom's a Scorpio, right?"

"I guess." The truth was, I had never thought about it, but then again, I wasn't nearly as into the whole Zodiac thing as Owen was. Casper thought that Owen's interest was weird but I decided to think of it as a charming character trait.

Casper told me that the only reason I didn't brand Owen an eccentric loon is because I thought he was cute. As he hung up his blazer, revealing the way his biceps strained against the sleeves of his shirt, I couldn't completely disagree. But the questions I had were still rattling around in my mind. I needed to know what was up with him, with the black Sedan, and the furniture-less house.

"Owen, I-"

"Scorpios are intense and secretive," he interrupted. "Eggplants are supposed to upturn that; make them more open and stuff." He smiled and folded his arms.

"Thanks. I'm sure she'll like it," I said, even though I had never seen my mom look at, much less actually eat, an eggplant. "Even though secretive doesn't really describe her. She's sort of an open book."

Unlike, let's say, you for example

"You sure about that?" An eerie twinkle shone in his eyes. "After all, everybody has secrets."

What was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to tell me something? I decided to play along and see where it went.

"Not my mom," I smiled back, and sat the eggplant on the arm of our couch.

"I bet that isn't true," there was a playful edge to his voice that, at once, enticed me and made me a little uncomfortable. "I mean, look at this house." He gestured around the living room.

"What about it? It's a normal house."

Which is more than I can say about yours

He shoved his hands into his back pockets; a stance that made his shoulders look even wider than usual. "Look at the pictures. They're all of you."

I scanned the walls. There was a picture of me at the carnival when I was nine, me in front of the Grand Canyon when we took our family road trip four years ago, me and Casper dressed as Sonny and Cher last Halloween.

"Is that a problem?" I asked, lifting my locket so that the cook metal pressed against my lips.

"Not even a little bit," he answered. "In fact, I like the Halloween one so much, I was gonna ask if it came in wallet size. I'm just saying, don't you think it's strange that there isn't a single picture of your mom here?"

"She...doesn't like pictures," I said, grasping for straws. Whatever. It could be true.

"She could be a spy," he laughed. "Or maybe a criminal. Maybe she's an alien who's hiding from the government and pictures would reveal her true form."

He held his index fingers over his head like antennae and started walking toward me, pointing them playfully at me. "That would make you an alien too, wouldn't it?" He leaned down and started poking me with his finger antennae. "You are, aren't you? You're a secret alien, and this house is your hideout."

I swatted him away, smiling. "Whatever. At least my house has furniture." I knew I shouldn't have said it as soon as it left my mouth, but the words were already out there. I couldn't take them back.

His face lost its expression. He went pale as a sheet as he straightened himself up. "You were in my house?"

"Well, yeah. But's it's not a big deal," I said. I could tell though, by the look on his face, as well as the fact that he was backing away, that it was a big deal. It was a very big deal. "I mean, if you guys don't want to have furniture, that's cool."

He shook his head quickly. "Of course we have furniture. When were you there? We've been doing some redecorating. How did you even get in?"

He looked at me like I was a criminal, like I busted in and invaded his privacy. Which, I suppose, I had. "The door was open," I said weakly. "I just wanted to give your phone back. You left it in my car."

He grabbed it so quickly that I flinched back. "I tried to give it back to you at the library, but there was a black car, and you-"

"Why is it unlocked?" He asked, scanning the screen. "It's supposed to be encrypted. How did you access it?"

"Encrypted?" His words were accusations, and they felt like slaps in the face.

"With a code, I mean," he clarified. "I mean, it's not a big deal. Did you go through it? What did you see?"

He tapped on the screen with one hand. The other made nervous swipes through his hair. What did I see?

Is that what this was about; the pictures?

I walked closer. This isn't exactly how I wanted to do this. I wanted to wait until he was stuffed with chicken and laughter to tell him how I felt, but the tone of his voice, as well as the charcoal smell still wafting from the kitchen, told me that was no longer a possibility.

"I saw the pictures," I said, sure to make eye contact.

"I can explain that," he said frantically, his hand clutching a clump of mud black hair.

"You don't have to. I get it." I freed his hand from his hair and held it in my own. This was it, and hopefully things would go well. Maybe God was feeling generous. "And you don't have to hide it either." I took a deep breath and started rubbing the inside of his palm with my thumb. Which, when done in real life, was apparently really cheesy.

"The truth is Owen, I've liked you forever. Since the first time I saw you, since the first day you set foot in this backward little town, I knew there was something special about you."

I couldn't read his face. It was blank; like a sheet of paper, a blinking cursor waiting for a story to be written down. I squeezed his hand and pressed on.

"You're just-You're awesome. That's all. You're sweet and kind, and cute as hell. I know this is probably a shock to you, because I didn't say anything. It's just, with the whole Merrin thing, I wasn't sure how you felt. But then I saw the pictures and I know I shouldn't have went through your phone. I know that. But now I know how you feel, and you know how I feel. So, it's sort of a good thing, you know?"

His eyes tightened and, even if I couldn't read the furrow of his brow or the way he bit his lip, I would still be clear from his hand. It still sat in mind, but it was limp and lifeless; not the hand of a person who was touching a girl he loved.

"Cresta, I-" He cleared his throat. "I don't know what to-. The pictures, that's not why I took the pictures."

Oh. Oh God.

I tried to pull away, but he clutched my hand tighter.

"Cresta don't. Please. You're an amazing girl. You're my best friend. I just."

"I get it!" I said, much louder than I intended to. "Just let me go, okay."

He didn't. Now it was me that was backing away from him, still holding hands.

"Oh, this stupid moon!" He yelled. "It's not what you think. My life's not my own. Even if I wanted to-. Cresta, you're my best friend." He looked down; defeated. He flipped my hand over and ran his thumb across my palm. Somehow, when he did it, it didn't seem so clunky.

"You'll still be my-" His eyes got large. He pulled my hand closer, hurriedly scanning my palm. "How..."

Finally, he let go. He looked like he was going to sick all over my mother's oriental rug.

"I have to go," he choked out. "Tell your mom I'm sorry."

He walked; almost stumbled to the doorway. His face had gone from white to red when he pulled the door open and looked back at me.

"I-I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, Cresta? I will see you tomorrow, won't I?"

I didn't answer. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him that it would be all right, that he would still have me, and we'd always be friends. But I couldn't; not yet, not now.

"Okay..." He said, and walked away.

Just then, Mom busted through the kitchen door, holding a package of frozen meat in one hand and a bunch of taco shells in a plastic bag.

"How does Mexican night sound, amigos?"

And with that I started to cry.

A couple of hours, what seemed like two liters of tears and a plate of over salted beef nachos later, I found myself staring at the ceiling. Mom had finally went to sleep, satisfied that her _'if he doesn't see how great you are than he's an idiot and he'll probably end up working at a Burger King forever, so you're better off without him'_ rant had salved the wound a little.

It might have been enough too, if I could just go to sleep. I'd have taken the dreams. I'd have contemplated the meaning of the sevens, the circle of blood, my father's arms; all of it, so long as it meant I didn't have to think about Owen.

In the end, it seemed all the questions I had compiled in my mind; the black Sedan, the empty house, the mystery parents, didn't mean anything. They weren't what was keeping me up tonight. It turned out the only question I cared about was the one question he had actually answered.

He didn't love me. He didn't want to be with me. A phone full of pictures of me aside, he didn't think of me as anything but a friend. His best friend, but what good was that?

Why was I crying though? I was stronger than this. I was the girl who climbed out of the Chicago River after her car went headlong off a bridge. I was the girl who buried her father, and started a new life in the middle of nowhere when her mother said it was what she needed. I didn't cry over a guy. Of course, the pile of damp Kleenex on the nightstand would disagree with me.

I thought about him standing in my doorway; his blues eyes hurt and regretful. He seemed afraid that things would change, that I wouldn't be able to pull it together around him, and that our friendship would be over.

Right now, with the sting of his words so fresh in my ears and the mark of his boot so evident on my heart, I couldn't say with any certainty that he was wrong.

It wasn't his fault. He couldn't help the way he felt, or, more aptly, didn't feel. And I knew he had a girlfriend. That must have been what that whole _'my life is not my own'_ diatribe was about. He was being loyal to Merrin. And who'd blame him? Immature phone decorum aside, she was probably perfect. And, come to think of it, didn't being perfect afford you some immaturity anyway?

Whatever the case, whatever his reasoning, I couldn't imagine myself walking up to Owen and pretending everything was fine. I'd have to find a way though. If I couldn't, then this really would be the end of our friendship, and that hurt in his eyes; I wouldn't be able to make it better.

If possible, the idea of that hurt even more than his rejection.

By the time sleep found me; a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep, it was short lived.

"Cress! Cress! Wake up, dude!"

If I would have been awake, I would have recognized his voice immediately. I'd heard it every day for two years, plus he was the only person on the planet who called me _dude_. His hands were on my shoulders, shaking me. I jerked and instinctively pushed him away.

"What the hell?!" I said, crawling up toward the headboard.

"Dude, it's just me." Casper's hair was in knotted red tufts on his head, giving him the look of a walking, talking, ' _waking-people-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night'_ candle.

"Casper, you moron. You're going to give me a heart attack." I threw my pillow at him; the one I'd had since I was three and one of the only things that survived the move to Georgia.

"Don't throw that bacteria trap at me," he swatted it down. "Besides, this is important."

I turned to the clock sitting beside the Kleenex on my nightstand. Three forty three.

"What's so important that you thought it was a good idea to break into my house at four in the morning?" I scooted toward the center of the bed and folded my legs.

"So... we're just gonna pretend I didn't get a key made for the house too?"

"Casper," I growled. "It's been a rough night."

"Okay, okay," he plopped down on the bed next to me.

"Easy," I said. "You're going to wake my mom."

Casper or not, if my mom found a guy in my bedroom in the dead of night, she'd kill me twice before I hit the ground.

"So, I was in your car earlier, cause my dad is being an el grande super absorbent tampon, and I saw the black car pull up to Mrs. Goolsby's. And Cress, this time I got a look at the guy as he walked inside. You'll never guess who it was."

My heart skipped at least three beats as the name escaped from my lips.

"Owen."

Casper's face scrunched into a freckled question mark. "Okay, so maybe you would guess. Can you believe-"

I grabbed Casper's hand as I jumped up from my bed, pulling him up like a ragdoll.

"Cress, what-"

"We're going," I said flatly.

"We're going--to Disneyworld?" Casper asked hopefully as I yanked him down the stairs.

This had been going on long enough. If Owen didn't want to be with me, that was fine. But I _WAS_ going to find out what was going on with him.

"We're going to Goolsby. "

"Dude, I don't wanna watch Owen bang old Mrs. Goolsby," Casper whined, though he was quiet enough about it that I didn't need to worry about waking Mom.

"He's not a prostitute," I said, opening the door, pulling Casper through it, and closing it quietly behind me.

At least, I hoped he wasn't.

As soon as we got outside, whatever gripe Casper had seemed to melt away, because he kept up with me pretty easily and I didn't even have to pull him anymore. It wasn't until we got outside and I felt the squish of the grass between my bare toes that I realized I was still in my night clothes; oversized flannel pajamas, Avengers t-shirt, and all. It didn't matter how I looked though. I could be wearing one of those barrels with the shoulder straps you always see on homeless guys in cartoons and I was still going through with this.

"Cress, wait," Casper said, but kept running alongside me. "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, is it any of our business?"  
"It was our business just fine when you were spying on him," I reminded him.

We settled behind a row of bushes in Mr. Colburn's yard, which was right across the street from Mrs. Goolsby and gave us a clear look at the black Sedan sitting in front of her house. It was four in the morning, which meant that most of Crestview's farmers, Mr. Colburn included, were already up and at J's General store where they were probably drinking coffee and talking about how great it is to be up at the super-ass-crack of dawn. And since Mr. Colburn lived by himself, at least we wouldn't have to worry about anybody seeing us.

"Yeah, but it was just fun and games then. What if-"

"He might be in trouble Casper," I turned to him. In the dark, his bright red hair shone like a beacon. "After I saw him get into the Sedan, I went by his house. There was no furniture, Cass. Like, none at all. And then, when he came over for dinner tonight-"

"Dinner?" Casper balked, "Why didn't I get an invite?"

"Focus!" I thumped his freckly arm. He squirmed, rustling the bushes a little, but stopped talking. "At dinner, he said some things."

One of those being that he wasn't interested in me, but there's no point in telling you that.

"What sort of things?" Casper inched closer, his mouth gaping open.

"He said his life wasn't his own; like he couldn't make his own decisions or something. I thought he was talking about Merrin, but now, piecing it all together- What if he's in trouble? What if he's involved in something he shouldn't be and is in over his head?"

I twisted my locket around my fingers.

"What sort of stuff Cresta? We're in the middle of nowhere."

"That's what I need to find out," I answered, looking back at Mrs. Goolsby's house. "I just- I need to make sure he's okay." I remembered what he told me earlier before he ran out. "He's my friend."

"It could be dangerous," Casper said.

"I know," I answered.

"That's not gonna stop you, is it?"

"Not even a little," I answered.

"And you expect me to go with you into the perilous unknown?" He crinkled his nose.

"You don't have to. Like you said, it could be dangerous," I answered.

"Is that gonna stop me?" He asked.

"Not even a little," I answered.

"Cars drive on roads," he said. "Let's go."

The black Sedan wasn't idling tonight, but the windows were so dark that we couldn't tell if anybody was in it. Not wanting to get caught, we snuck around the back and climbed the small white fence surrounding Mrs. Goolsby's backyard. We tiptoed past the in ground pool, though why a geriatric window needed Olympic sized pool and neighboring hot tub was beyond me.

I'll add that to my list of questions.

Luckily, Casper had spent last summer doing odd jobs for Mrs. Goolsby. Though, since she tended to pay him in nickels and always asked for 'backrubs', he'd probably debate you on how lucky he actually was. Still, he knew the layout of her house; including where she kept the key to the backdoor.

"Here it is, under the stupid plaster elf," he said, lifting a creepy gnome statue and grabbing the key from underneath. He slid it in the backdoor, and opened it slowly.

We crept in to find something totally surprising.

I hadn't been in Mrs. Goolsby's house since last Fourth of July, when the church sponsored a street wide bb-q. But it seemed like a pretty standard 'old lady' house. There was furniture wrapped in plastic to preserve it's 'newness', generic sunflower paintings on the walls, and pictures of family members that never seemed to actually visit in picture frames on the mantle. But now, making our way through the house, all of that seemed to be gone. In fact, everything was gone.

It was just like Owen's house; no furniture in the living room, no beds in the bedrooms, no facilities in the kitchen or bathrooms. The house was completely empty, as though no one lived here at all.

"Cresta, "Casper whispered, his eyes wide. "What's going on?"

"I have no idea," I admitted. I was half expecting the door to slam shut behind us and some phantom security system to start shouting intruder like in Owen's house. But that was not the sound I heard.

As we passed a door on our second round through the kitchen, I heard the light sounds of conversation. I froze.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

Casper just nodded. "Can you make it out?" He asked.

"I'll be able to in a minute," I answered, and grabbed the handle.

His eyes got wide with alert, but before he could say anything I had already pushed the door open. It opened into a long wooden staircase winding down into what was presumably a basement.

Though he looked like he wanted to stop me, Casper just followed as I stepped onto the stairs. Mercifully, they made no noise. As I inched further down, with Casper's hands digging into my shoulders, the voices grew clearer. There were more than two and, surprisingly, all male. Where was Mrs. Goolsby?

The walls around the staircase were stone and looked much older than the rest of the house, like the house had been built around it or something. To top it off, the path was lit by torches that hung in casings carved into the stone; adding to the old world feel.

Casper's breathing got heavier and the voices grew clearer as we neared the mouth of the staircase. One of them was Owen's, but I didn't recognize the rest. As we settled at the end of the stairs, I noticed a few things about the room. Though we still couldn't see Owen or whoever he was talking to, I could see the area was at least partially filled with computer screens. One of them showcased binary information that shot by in lighting rounds of 011011011011.

The others showed similar numbers as well as surveillance shots of Crestview. There was Main Street, with the street lamps still shining. There was J's General and Mr. Colburn with his coffee. And there, on the far one, was a darkened office was a bright red couch and a diploma on the wall. Was that Dr. Conyers' office?

"You're being dramatic," one of the voices said.

Casper tensed behind me and I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

"I am not," Owen's voice said. He seemed tense. I pictured him pacing around the room. "It changed. I watched it change."

"Maybe it didn't," a third voice added. "Maybe you were always reading it wrong."

"I'm not some youngling," Owen spit out. I could practically hear his teeth grinding. "I know what I'm doing. I can read just fine. Besides, it wasn't stagnant like that. The lines moved. I held her hand and they moved!"

Her hand? Was he talking about Mrs. Goolsby?

"You need to calm down," the first voice said. "We're at a very sensitive point in things right now. You know that."

"I will not calm down, Jiqui. She was in the house. She got into my phone, my _encrypted_ phone. She's asking questions and now, because things aren't crappy enough already, her lines are changing,"

In his house, into his phone; he was talking about me. But what lines? I didn't have any lines. And what did he mean by changing?

"Lines don't just change," Jiqui answered impatiently. "It takes time, effort, and a hell of a lot more energy than any of us are capable of expending at the present moment. You know that. Now do your job. Follow your instructions."

"It's hard to do that when the rules are changing," Owen answered. "I did what you asked. For two years, I have sat here wasting away, and for what; to befriend her, to be some placeholder? I don't know what I'm doing here."

I looked at the stone wall hard, like maybe if I looked hard enough I might be able to see through it, to see him. Had Owen just said that he had been involved in whatever this was for two years, that the only reason he had ever looked twice at me in the first place was because of some stupid mission?

Casper noticed it too, because he tightened his grip on my shoulders, letting me know he was there. I pulled away. I didn't need to be comforted right now. I needed to hear this.

"You are told what you need to know in order to complete your mission. That has always been the way of it. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the Masons."

"You know that's not what I'm saying," Owen answered. "It's just. I feel like I'm wasting time here. I'm supposed to be at my peak right now. Do you have any idea how out of practice I am? I had trouble convincing my teacher that a sheet of paper was my math homework yesterday. How am I supposed to be of any use in that condition?"

I flashed back to yesterday, to Owen handing that smiley face over and pretending it was homework. Had Mr. Jacobs actually believed that?

"And this girl," Owen continued.

"Cresta," Jiqui commended.

"Cresta," Owen said, though the tone in his voice made me think he'd rather not say my name. "I don't see anything special about her."

His words threw daggers into my heart. Not only did he not want to be with me, but he thought I was nothing; that I was ordinary.

"I mean, if she was really-"

"Stop," Jiqui said. "She's here."

"What?" Owen answered.

Casper grabbed at me. "Come on!" He whispered. "We gotta-"

The door at the top of the stairs flew shut, the bolt locking it closed.

I turned up to look, but Casper didn't. His eyes were fixed forward.

"Cress..."

I turned. Owen was standing in front of me. Beside him were two men. One was older with a buzz cut that made him look like he was in the military and long scar along his right cheek. The other was a little older than me with shaggy brown hair and kind eyes. Looking down though, I noticed that both his legs ended in stumps right past the knees. He had no prosthetics, but he was standing. Or, more aptly, he was floating. He was floating in midair in front of us.

"Owen," I choked out. "What's going on?"

"It's okay Cress," he said, and stretched his hand out in front of me. "It'll be alright."

He twisted his hand so that his fingers contorted in strange shapes, and then everything went dark.

# Chapter One

"This music sucks" I say to Kara as we make our way into Ruffio's. It might be Kesha's latest attempt at a song, but who can really tell through all the noise. The smell of pepperoni and marinara assaults me as we weave through the crowed pizzeria toward our regular table. A bass-pounding auto-tune ballad fills the air as Kara plops down in the chair across from me. Yeah, it's definitely Kesha.

"So what you gonna have?" She asks in her usual chirpy manner, though like always, she's already made the decision for me. "I was thinking we could split a slice of Hawaiian, and a meat lover's calzone."

"Yeah, whatever," I say half listening while my eyes scan the restaurant. Over the last few months, since Ruffio added an arcade room complete with both air hockey and ping-pong tables, this has become the place to be on Friday nights. Business is booming, though Kara and I have been coming here since we were kids. Which, at this point feels like it was about sixty years ago.

"It's crowded tonight," I observe, twisting my head far enough that my neck pops.

"Looking for somebody to have your ginger babies?" Kara grins.

"Shut up," I say, smiling and running a hand through my flame kissed hair. "More like looking for a date for formal. Its two weeks away and I don't want to have to go stag again. Last time it was just me and Ricky Fuller lined up against the wall. It's embarrassing."

Girls are plentiful in Ruffio's tonight. Though most of them are either already on dates or circled by like-minded friends who talk about how they are 'so over' high school boys, which makes the pickings slim. Kara drums her fingers across the checkered tablecloth and stays pretty silent until the new dark haired waiter comes and takes our order. I'm almost completely lost in thought when she breaks the silence.

"Well... maybe we could go together."

"What?" I ask, sure I've misheard her.

"I don't have a date either and my mom is on my case about 'exploring the whole high school experience'," She puts air quotes over the last part and I can't help but grin. "I mean, I know I'm no Becky Demarco, but I think I hold my own."

"That was two weeks in eighth grade, are you ever going to let me live that down?" I argue in protest.

"She was a female wrestler. When you broke up with her she broke your nose." Kara deadpans, her dark eyes flickering downward.

"Point taken, I doubt girls will ever really be my strong suit. Though, I did feel safe in her arms."

"I guess you're lucky you've got me then." A wide smile drapes her oval face and she stares at me a beat too long.

A few minutes pass before the waiter returns, setting the food in front of us. The smells intertwine into an irresistible aroma. Having not eaten lunch, I'm starving. I cut the calzone down the middle, divvy it up, and continue.

"Yeah, we should totally do that. We can play Drunk Panda Girl." I shove a hot forkful of calzone into my mouth.

"I looove Drunk Panda Girl." Kara's eyes light up.

"Bell!" The call sounds across the dining room. I instinctively duck and a smile dances on Kara's face. She knows I hate the nickname. Davis Etcher sits behind me, yelling through a mouthful of spaghetti. "Bell dude, did you hear? I got that space for my art show. I've got a whole collection ready to go next Thursday. It's titled 'Naval Futuristic Deco: Sea change'. You gotta come."

He spreads his hands wide, framing the empty space in front of him, pleased with himself. I give him a thumb's up. He smiles and dives back into his mountain of pasta. And I wonder if it's physically possible for his hair not be spiked in twelve different directions, as I've never seen it any other way.

"I can't believe somebody gave him a space." I say, turning back to Kara.

"Please," she rolls her eyes. "He's been talking about that place on 4th & Asher forever. His dad basically designed the building. It's a whole..."

My cellphone's long beep, the one that signals I have a text, cuts into her words.

"Crap. It's Andrea Anders."

"From Channel 12? I thought your granddad delayed the book." Kara says.

"He did, but now that's news too so she wants to do the interview anyway."

"Classy." Kara responds, which is her blanket code for things she'd disagree with if she cared enough.

I've seen my grandfather maybe six times my whole life and none at all in the last eight years. Apparently though, those meetings were memorable for him because not long after they stopped he used me as the inspiration for what has become a wildly successful book series. Set in the tiny village in Ireland where my grandfather lives, it's the story of a boy who exists in a world of leprechauns, fairies, and hidden treasure. It's all based on the old Irish myths he used to tell me as a kid. The character is younger, but undeniably me. He looks like me, talks like me, he even has my name, Anthony. Not one to leave well enough alone though, my grandfather gave the character the dubious nickname 'Bell', a fact that has not escaped even one of my classmates, all of whom decided I should wear it too.

Now every time one of his books is about to be released reporters swamp me, all vying to ask me the same stale set of questions: "What does it feel like to have millions of kids read about you?" "Are you ever going to go back to Ireland?" "Do you believe in leprechauns?' That one's my favorite.

"Are you going to do it?" Kara asks, taking a sip of soda.

"I don't know, maybe. Usually once I give one of them an exclusive the whole thing dies down for a bit." I glance at my watch and see it's getting late. "I need to get home." I pull out a wad of cash and leave it on the table.

"Oh okay. Wanna split a cab?" Kara asks, standing herself.

"I think I want to walk."

"Your loss, firecrotch," she shoots.

"Shut up." I say again, smiling and heading for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow loser." I wave as I hit the city streets.

Cool breezes lick my face as I make my way down the street, but that's Boston in the winter. My ears and nose chill first. I shiver as a particularly strong gust cuts through my navy fleece jacket. The fullness in my stomach makes me tired and I lament the fact that I still have to swing by the store. I bundle into myself to safeguard from the cold and my phone lets out another text indicating beep. No doubt from Andrea Anders or one of her brethren. I sigh a little and don't even bother checking it.

Three blocks from the store my feet slap heavy against the pavement, as I lose myself in a bout of anxiety over the interview. It's not that answering a few questions is a big deal; honestly at this point I have my answers so down pat that they could probably just run old stock footage and get the same result. But I don't feel like I should have to. My life shouldn't be held up to a spotlight every time some guy in Ireland puts pen to paper, even if that guy is my grandfather.

A sharp clicking, loud and echoing, pulls me from my thoughts. I spin around but find the street behind me empty. In fact, for the first time, I notice just how abandoned the whole block is. Stores, sidewalks, and stoplights stretch out before me, but no people. A dull ominous feeling begins to creep up inside. I begin to wish I had brought Kara along. Not that, at 5'2, she'd be a very intimidating presence, but it beats being alone. And besides, once she got that mouth of hers going, any advisory would have a whole other set of problems to deal with.

The clicking returns, louder this time. I stop in my tracks, and notice an odd smell that begins to fill the streets.

Tck.tck.tck

It shifts. Behind me, then in front of me, then behind me again echoing out all around me.

"Hello?" I say aloud.

Tck.tck.

"C'mon Kara, I'm too sleepy for this crap." I try not to let the fear building up inside resonate in my voice.

"Is anybo-"

TCK.

My words are cut off by the ever-louder sound. Figuring that it's coming from an animal, I begin walking again. My stride grows quicker as I decide to forget about the store and go straight home, but the sound keeps following me.

tck, tck. TCK. TCK. TCK!

I break out into a full gallop and look around for any signs of life. New plan. The grocery is probably a block away and if I can make it there, I can duck inside and wait out whomever, or whatever it is that seems to be tailing me.

I hear it as though it's right on me, but there are no footsteps, no other noises anywhere. I can see the light of the store up ahead and I am almost there when something hits me and takes me to the ground. My shoulder slams against the pavement and knocks the wind out of me as I grapple with the unknown weight that is now pressing on me.

Trying to take stock of the situation, I see that my attacker is a man. He stinks of the sewers and rotting flesh with eyes of bright sickly yellow, but he is a man. Taller than me, and heavier than he looks, my attempts to remove him prove futile.

"Take whatever you want. I have money," I say, battling the man's hot rancid breath.

He smiles, revealing a set of yellowing teeth with sharped points, he lets out a laugh so loud and horrifying that I stop moving completely for a second. I can see his skin reflecting in the grocery store light, its' unusual, with patterns of either scars or tattoos. I can't tell

"Not money," he hisses out, his first audible words. "Blood."

I panic, struggling against him, thrusting wildly. Adrenaline pulses through me, and I'm able to, not only push him off me, but toss him well into the air. I stand dizzily and begin to run, but he is quick. Moving faster than anything I have ever seen, he glides in front of me. His footsteps still eerie and silent, he makes no noise as he grabs my arm. His jagged nails cut the sleeve of my jacket and he flings me into an alley near the back of the store.

My body collides with a group of trashcans. I crumble onto the ground, dazed and helpless. He comes toward me, flashing his horrible teeth again. I see his hands as he settles over me. They, like his teeth, point into claws. He runs them across my cheek. I bristle as the sharp ends of his fingers slice into my face. Blood covers his hands and he lifts them to his mouth, licking them clean. My stomach turns into knots at the sight, and my dinner threatens to come back up, though I shudder to think what he might do with that.

He leans down to me, chomping his teeth and settling his face inches from mine.

"All for me, she says I can have it all." He hisses. I feel him synchronizing his breath with mine, as I breathe out, he breathes in. I panic and hold my breath, which only seems to anger him even more.

I notice a deep fog begin to form around him and the smell from a few minutes ago returns, stronger than ever. I choke on the thick air. He doesn't notice it at first, lost in the stream of blood now pouring from my face. When he does however, he rears back and swings around frantically.

"Mistrunners," he says through a clenched jaw.

The fog grows rapidly, threatening to cover everything and distorting my view. I can tell my attacker has moved away from me now. Squinting, I see he is a few feet from me. I consider making a break for it when I notice another form.

One, two, three people seemingly appear from nowhere as the fog dissipates. A girl with sandy hair and bright eyes the color of sea foam stands across from two other boys, one dark skinned with a mop of black curls, the other fair and tall with close cropped blond hair. My attacker panics. He hisses and strikes at the trio as they surround him.

If he is quick, they are quicker. If he is strong, they are unstoppable. Though the three look to be about my age, they move with the precision and teamwork of a group that has been working together for decades. The girl pulls a blade from the inside of her boot and throws it to the dark haired boy. He catches it and slices into the attacker, who screams and howls in pain. An awesomely strange glove, glowing and intricate appears on the blond boys' right hand, seemingly from nowhere. He holds it out into the air in front of him and it begins to move in and around itself, almost as though it has a life of its own. Bright yellow light covers his hand and forearm and illuminates an area beneath the attacker's shirt.

"Found it," he shouts, as the girl jumps into action. She springs directly for the glowing red circle in the man's shirt. She rips into the garment, revealing that he is wearing a flat silver disc hanging from a chain around his neck. He hisses as she grabs it. Pulling it off of him, the man screams and goes still with either pain or terror. He begins to glow and change. Before my eyes, the once six foot man shrinks into little more than three feet. Always strange looking, he now looks less than human. His face is scrunched, scarred, and ugly. His skin is burned and his hands and feet are cloven.

He shrieks, even his voice is different. Whatever fight was he had is gone now. He runs, his stubby legs sending him waddling toward the street. My safety apparently isn't good enough though, because the dark haired boy takes aim and throws the knife. It hits the shrunken creature in the head. I gasp, not only because I've just witnessed a murder, but because after he is struck, the creature's body begins to literally melt into the street, leaving behind what can only be described as steaming vomit.

They watch him disintegrate and then turn toward me, but I am already gone. Stumbling to my feet, I take off with my heart and head racing. I rush out into the road and toward home, ignoring the girl's voice echoing behind me.

"Bell, wait..."

# Chapter Two

The night is restless. What little sleep I manage is filled with nightmares. Flashes of hoofed creatures spitting blood, corpses melting into puddles and smoke that smells of rotting flesh tear me from slumber. With morning though, comes a new found calm. By the time the interview with Channel 12 rolls around I manage to lump the strange events of last night in with the barrage of dreams. It was all a nightmare. It had to be, right?

Dooming questions like "What was the creature that attacked me?", "Who were those people who appeared from the fog?", and "How was it that they seemed to know my name?" seep into the back of my mind.

The room designated for the interview is bright and open. Plants sit on tables surrounding two wicker chairs. The back wall, the one the audience will see behind us, is a large pane glass window showcasing a botanical garden lit by the bright winter sun. On the other side of the chairs, running across the floor, is a line of unbroken white tape. Behind it, prohibited from crossing, stands all the crew and the camera equipment as well as a service table stocked with doughnuts, bagels, apples, oranges, and a dark sketchy looking meat that really could be anything.

I sit down in my designated chair after gorging myself on sweets. The makeup team did their best to cover the dotting of freckles across my cheeks in an effort to make me look like a more appealing version of myself. One of the production assistants brings me a bottle of water and start's going over the routine the interview is going to take. I pretend to listen to him, nodding along like a good boy.

"I think he's got it down by now."

Andrea Anders walks into the room and sits in the chair across from me. Her blond hair lay's freakishly straight over her shoulders and she glows when she meets my stare. Obviously at ease, she gives orders to the flurry of helpers who circle her. One places a stack of papers on her lap, which she leafs through. She puts some on the table beside her but crumbles most up, throwing them into a wastepaper basket.

"Do you need anything?" She asks, never looking up from the stack.

A few seconds pass before I realize she's talking to me. "I'm alright." I respond, running my palms across the gray slacks I brought from home.

"Good," she responds, clearing her throat and turning to the overweight man standing behind the camera.

"Let's start the countdown." The large man holds up three fingers, then two, then one. Finally he points to Ms. Anders, who snaps into attention.

"Welcome back." she says brightly to the camera's red blinking light. "I'm here with Bell Watkins, inspiration for the Emerald Invaders book series. Release for the final chapter in the series, "Return Of The Four", has been delayed indefinitely due to author Liam Mayweathers' reported dissatisfaction with the quality of the current manuscript. "It's good to have you here Bell."

I nod as she sets her sights and digs in. "Your grandfather's a very talented man and obviously a perfectionist. Can you shed some light on what issues he might have had with his latest work?"

I shrug instinctively. Anyone who actually knows me would never ask me that, or any question about my grandfather's work. "I'm afraid I can't help you there." I say quickly and diffuse the silence with a quick chug of water.

"Right, well, let's talk about the series up to this point. Now, while it's obvious the main character is based on you, is it safe to assume that the character of the Second Son is based on your grandfather, given the sort of paternal role the character plays in the books?"

"That's the way I always took it." I don't elaborate, which causes Ms. Anders to give me a fraying look.

"A man of few words." she mutters into her lap as she slashes lines into her paper with red ink.

"How about a fun question?" Diehard fans have been vocal about the real existence of some of the more fantastic elements of his series, touting run-ins they've had with witches, elves, and leprechauns."

Her eyes light as she tosses me what I'm sure she imagines is a softball question. "What are your thoughts on that sort of magic?"

I stammer a little, the question bringing up memories of the night before. Thoughts of the creatures' claws, teeth and rancid breath brushing my face and the trio of helpers who eventually took it down, freeze me in my seat. My face must be transparent, because Ms. Anders begins to shuffle a bit in her chair. "Did you hear me Bell?"

I sit stone-like, still trying to make sense of everything I had seen, until she finally decides to move on.

"So, considering the..."

She's interrupted as the large man behind the camera steps into view and hands her a note. Reading it, she lets out a sigh. Glancing back up at me, I get the feeling she's trying to plan her next move. A few blinks, and it's done.

"Shut off the camera," she says.

"But if..."

"Shut it off!" She demands of the man.

"What's going on," I ask, leaning forward. She doesn't say anything, just hands the paper over to me.

News just hit the line that Liam Mayweather has been found dead in his home. No other details are available at this time. Get the boy's reaction.

I look up, unsure what to say. They're all staring at me now, though in a much different way than before, like they expect me to break or something. I glance toward the camera. The blinking light Ms. Anders had been so focused on before is gone and I realize how big a favor she's done me in seeing to that. A pang of guilt strikes me and I begin to wish I had been a better interviewee.

"Thank you." I manage.

She nods and leans in. "Do you need a ride home?"

I nod my head. At this point it would be easier and quicker. To be honest, walking through the streets alone again isn't my first choice. After a painfully slow ride in a news van, I arrive home.

I don't wait for the van to stop before jumping out at my house. The driver Ms. Anders sent says something I can't make out. I just thank him, close the door, and make a beeline through the front yard. Opening the door, I see that the contents of the letter were no mistake. Family, friends, and acquaintances populate the living room. Randy makes his way to me, working through the crowd with a series of nods and half smiles.

Placing a meaty hand on my shoulder, Randy gives it a squeeze. "Buddy, something has happened."

"I know. I heard." I reply. "Where's mom?"

"She's on the back porch." Randy says. "Taking a phone call, with your grandmother I think."

"And Terry?"

"In her room." he answers as I pull away and head down the hall.

I find Terry curled up on her bed, knees pulled up to her head. She has Randy's wide set eyes and chin, a fact that infuriated me when she was a baby. But there's some of my mother in there too, and perhaps even a dash of me. Her tiny fingers stroke her phone's keypad as she pulls it from beneath the pillow. She probably hasn't even noticed me when I speak.

"Angry Birds?"

"Bowling," she says. "I'm a vegetarian now. I don't believe in shooting animals."

"Oh." I reply, smirking and climbing into bed beside her.

"Mommy's crying," she says, still working her fingers.

"She's sad." I clarify.

"Cause her dad died?"

I nod in response and she's quiet for a minute. Terry has never even met our grandfather, so I'm not quite sure what she's thinking.

"Did you cry when your dad died?" She asks.

I'm taken aback not by the question, but by the innocence with which she's asked it. "Yeah, I did." I finally say, and lay my head against her shoulder.

I must fall asleep because the next thing I know it's dark out. Terry is curled up into a ball and buried into my chest. I gently roll over and cover her back up. Walking back into the living room, I see it's now seven thirty. The crowds have thinned out now. My mother is still nowhere to be found, but Randy is tending to the few remaining visitors. Our closest friends brought food. Finger sandwiches and chicken wings set in picked over trays on the counter. A burst of muffled laughter comes from the couch. Randy is talking with Kara's mother, which more than likely means...

"There he is! I thought you had lapsed into a coma."

Kara appears behind me, munching on a celery stick.

"Have you been here long?" I ask.

"A couple hours," she admits.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I'm a stalker. I wanted to watch you sleep." She nudges me with her shoulder. "How are you doing?"

We begin walking, instinctively migrating away from everyone so we can talk comfortably. "I'm okay. I mean, I didn't really know the guy. I'm mostly worried about mom. I still haven't gotten a chance to see her."

We settle on the front lawn. I cross my arms as the chilly night air cuts into me. Kara, for her part, seems unaffected by the cold.

"She's managing. I saw her about an hour ago. She was on the phone, looked a little stressed, but she was keeping it together."

"She's still on the phone? What the hell is grandma doing keeping her tied up so long?" The idea upsets me though I'm not sure why.

"She was talking to the airline." Kara clarifies. "The funeral is in two days, in Ireland."

Of course, the funeral. I hadn't even thought about that.

"Oh." I say. "Well, that sucks"

Kara and I keep away from the company, staying outside for the rest of the night and talking. Our conversations steer clear of subjects like funerals, interviews, or anything of substance. Before I know it, an hour has passed and Kara's mother is pulling her away. I wave goodbye and enter the house, which is now free of anyone but family. Randy is cleaning up. I guess I should help him, but I have more important things to deal with.

I knock lightly on the door of my mother's room and then enter. She's sitting on the bed, writing in a notebook. Her right hand is open, her fingers pressed against her temples. Her eyes are tired and puffy and her hair, red like mine, is pulled up off her shoulders in a sloppy bun.

"Hey." I say, sitting beside her on the foot of the bed.

"Hey." she echoes, closing the notebook.

I take her hand in mine and squeeze it. We've been here before, my mother and me. Suddenly, I'm taken back to another day, a lot like this one, the two of us on this bed, after the crowds have left, after the truth had set in. So, like I did back then, I lay my head on her lap. And she, like before, begins brushing my hair between her fingers.

# Chapter Three

I should have known.

If my grandfather simply delaying the release of his book made news, it should have been obvious that his death would cause a firestorm. It's funny, you never really take into consideration how deeply something will affect you until there's an army of photographers standing outside your door.

Randy does his best to push them away as we step outside into the craziness. Flashbulbs blind me as reporters ask unanswered questions. As if to take my silence as an invitation rather than a rebuttal, they begin inquiring the rest of the family. Randy, my mom, even poor Terry, who seems scared and more than a little confused about the whole thing, try to duck and dodge their rude, intrusive queries.

I scoop Terry up before she bursts into tears and my mom, seeing the growing impatience on Randy's face, pulls him toward the car. Voices shout from behind me and Terry buries her face into my shoulder.

"Bell, how are you feeling?"

"Do you feel guilty that you weren't with him at the end?"

"Do you have any words of comfort for your grandfather's fans?"

"What?" I ask, turning around, my face scrunched up accusingly. "Comforting words?" The whole idea of me comforting strangers over a loss in my family is unfathomable. My mother grabs me and pulls me into the car before I can say anything else. Closing the door, Randy speeds us off, huffing incessantly while photographers take pictures of our taillights.

"Sons of bitches." Randy mutters as we drive away.

"Randy!" My mother says, motioning back to Terry, though all that can be seen of her is a shock of black hair pressed against my chest.

"I'm sorry Katie. They just make me so mad. Do you know what one of those idiots did last night? They handed me a pamphlet on heart disease."

"Well that's insensitive." I interject. "Not that I expected anything else."

"It's insulting is what it is." he continues. "He actually tried to pass it off as concern, like he was afraid Liam's heart condition might be hereditary."

"Did you punch him?" I ask, knowing that that sort of thing wouldn't be out of the question for Randy.

"I showed him my I.D. badge from the hospital."

"Even better," I smirk.

It hurts in a way, to see my mother's hand interlocked with Randy's, though I suppose that would be true about anyone who wasn't my father. It's not his fault. He's a good guy deep down and he somehow managed to pull my mother out of the darkest place I've ever seen her. After my father died, I thought I'd lost her too. She was so quiet, so distant and untouchable. Somehow, this boorish overweight man with a lumberjack beard and a Ph.D. changed that. He also gave me a sister, so I guess I should be grateful. Still, there's this part of me that wonders what my life would have looked like if dad was still here. I can't let go of it. It's not fair, but I guess it doesn't have to be.

I lose myself in the scenery on the way to the airport, imagining myself in the cars passing by. Up above me, I catch sight of a dark bird, maybe a crow or a sparrow. It's keeping pace with our car, a fact which I dismiss for the first ten miles. It weaves in and out in the open sky as though it's dodging some unseen force. By the time we reach the airport, I'm obsessed with it, watching it, wondering where it's headed, admiring the long red stripe that crosses its' chest.

More camera-men snap me from these thoughts as we head toward the plane. Reporters cover every inch of the airport parking lot, but luckily for us, the airline has something we do not at home; top notch security. They whisk us away and manhandle the press in a way that makes me fight to hold in a smile. We're pushed to the front of the line for check-in and rushed through security in an effort to restore sanity to the place. There has never been a time when I have been happy about the fame my grandfather placed upon me, but I have to admit, this doesn't suck.

The plane ride is smooth and simple. Terry sits with me while Mom and Randy sit together closer to the front. We pass the time playing twenty questions and I pretend that I don't already know all her answers are cartoon characters. Ironically, it is these moments, childish and unadorned, that best allow me to settle down. I lean my head back, trying to let the subtle vibrations of flight lull me to sleep.

I almost completely forgot about the events of the last few days, strange attacker included, when we touch down on the Emerald Isle. I expect a throng of photographers to meet us on the tarmac, but instead we find a quiet, near empty airport. The day is tinted gray. Thick clouds obscure the sun and give the breeze coming off the water a chill. I sigh a little and take in the smell of the saltwater, letting it bring back memories I didn't know I carried.

They say scent is the strongest sense tied to memory and right now I believe them. The grass here, the water, even the air, they all seem so different from home, more natural somehow. It's almost as if the breeze runs tickling fingers through your lungs, cooling and moist. I forgot how much I loved that feeling until now.

We rent a car, a stubby red thing with the steering wheel on the passenger side. Randy asks if he can have an Americanized version, and is told that's not possible. He grimaces and grabs the keys. Mom has Terry in the front seat with her, stroking her hair, as we drive down the almost familiar stone-wall lined roads toward the country house my mother grew up in. This gives me time to explore the moving scenery. The greenery, while more brilliant than anything in the states, is less vibrant than in my memory and I wonder if everything about this place will be like that.

I notice my mother for an instant. The look on her face says what she's thinking. She hadn't spoken to her father in eight years, not since my own father died. He never met her daughter. She's thinking about the last time she spoke with him, the anger, the bitterness, and the words that she probably didn't mean but would now never be able to take back. In that moment, I don't see my mother. She was just a woman who has lost two men she loves without having the chance to tell either one of them how much they mean to her. I want to reach out to her, but I see Terry's arms around her neck and realize she has her crutch. Instead, I content myself to look through the window.

In the sky, I see it again, the sparrow. No, it's definitely a crow. But there's no way this is the same bird. Even though it dodges and ducks through the air like the last one. But that was an ocean away. I close my eyes tight when I see the red marking across its' chest and assure myself that I'm seeing things.

Instead I focus on the endless hills surrounding me. The clover covered ground stretches into the sky, meeting the clouds directly. Images such as these are among the few things I remember of this land.

My foggy memories begin to clear. I know these roads. They move from pavement to stone, and then to dirt, the path unveils itself to me. I go back to the eight year old boy I was the last time I was here when the old house appears before me. It's large for a country home, made of age-old stone that's worn on every side. Vines encase the walls, licking it like green flames. I can hear myself asking my grandfather why he never cut them down, telling him I knew how to mow grass and cut weeds, and that I could clean them.

His response to my questions was always the same. "We never take any part of Ireland away from this house, the vines protect us, and those are clover leaves, just try and find them in any other land. You just can't do it boy, they are special, just like you."

Leaves and clovers spring out from the stone like eyes and ears, listening to us, watching us and protecting us. I know it's just a child's tale, but I allow myself to find comfort in it now.

A large chimney pokes out from the center of the triangular roof, spilling smoke like dingy pillows. The hills leading to the cottage are well kept. They roll like waves, spanning out at least fifteen acres on either side. My mother swallows hard as we stop in front of the house. Terry is asleep, but my mother rouses her awake. She rubs her eyes, which light up when she sees the house.

"Wow! Its' like a castle," she proclaims.

"Just like old times," mom mutters. The occupants of the house meet us on the driveway before we even exit the car. I open the door and the smell of food envelopes me. Cabbage, potatoes, and sausage intermingle and wet my appetite. An army of fair skinned redheads stand in attention to greet us. Redheads are rare in the States and to see so many people who look like me in one place is a bit surreal. I think I recognize a few of them. The taller boy; that must be Cameron. I remember hunting fireflies with him when we were kids. And that middle aged woman,; she's got to be Aunt Abigail. She has my mother's features, her bone structure.

I smile a little and wait for my mother to lead the way. The crowd parts a little to allow an old woman through. Is it possible this is my grandmother? She's older obviously, but I didn't expect her to show it quite so much. Her once dark hair is now frosted completely white and her proud stature hunches over. I wonder what my grandfather looked like before his death, I wonder if he still had that childish twinkle in his eye and that bounce in his step.

"Is that mi Bell?" she asks, already knowing the answer. I embrace her carefully, as though she were glass. "It's good to see ye, mi boy," she says. Her accent is much thicker than I remember. "Look at ye. A grown man, ye are."

Its obvious time has changed both of us, she however, is free to express how surprised she is with it, Feeling it might be rude for me to return the sentiment, I just smile and allow her fragile arms to envelope me.

"And who's this?" She asks, leaning down to Terry, though bent as much as she is, there wasn't much leaning necessary.

"I'm Terry," she replies, still clutching our mother's hand.

"Well that's a good strong name isn't it?" grandma replies.

She looks to my mother. There's so much to talk about between the two. Randy, also realizing this, gives me a nudge on the back and we continue into the group. Surrounded by family now, shaking hands and introducing myself, I wonder why it is I've never felt more out of place than with the people I'm supposed to belong to.

There are so many people here. Most I don't remember. Some of the faces are vaguely familiar though, like we share some sort of foggy connection. As I make my way toward the house, there is one that stops me in my tracks. Her face is not foggy, it is not that of a stranger. I know this girl. I know her sandy hair. I know her angular features. I know her eyes, the color of sea foam. Standing before me, thousands of miles from the spot of our last meeting, is the girl from alleyway, the girl from the mist.

# Chapter Four

In America, when someone dies, guests bring food to the family as a symbol of support. When the news of my grandfather's death broke, even though my mother hadn't spoken to him in nearly a decade, we were besieged with trays of meats, cheeses, and pastries. In Ireland, it seems that tradition is flipped, at least according to my grandmother.

The house, bigger than I remember it being, is filled with the sweet and salty smells of Irish delicacies. One look at the dining room table showcases a feast of cabbage soup, shepherd's pie, soda bread, sausages, and at least six pounds of potatoes of every imaginable combination. All of which my grandmother prepared herself. If what I remember about my grandmother is true, she's not the buffet type. She'll demand a proper dinner. Everyone will have to sit. Everyone will be expected to talk and get along as though we have some connection other than blood.

But thoughts of food and forced conversation take a backseat right now. I have no time for them. Not with her around anyway.

I watch the girl with seafoam eyes make her way across the living room. Everytime she moves it reminds of that night in the alley, the one I finally managed to convince myself must have been a dream. The fact that she exists says that it was not. The fact that she is here says that it is not over.

But why is she here? What does she want from me, and how did she weasel her way into my extended family? I'm looking at her intently, trying in vain to gleam some clues about who she is. Here, in the daylight, she looks nothing like the intimidating force I remember. In fact, she's got an almost bookish quality about her in the way she shyly moves around and ducks conversation. She's ordinary.

"She's a looker."

My grandmother's words pull me out of my thoughts.

"What? Oh... yeah." I mumble, a million miles away from that sort of thinking. "Who is she?"

"An American girl your grandfather took a liking to. She wrote 'em a letter, said she liked his books and she wants to be a writer. And ye know yer grandfather. Three days later she was on a plane. She's been his assistant for three months. Or... I suppose she was.... would be the right way to say it now."

There's a familiarity in her pain, in the way polite conversation wraps its way back around to death. I remember that clearly from when my father died. You think you're safe, and then some picture or an offhanded phrase sends you shivering again.

I want to know more, but there's no way I can press my grandmother, not now anyway. I content myself to watch seafoam girl and try not to make it too obvious.

"You know yer grandfather loved ye don't ye Bell?" my grandmother asks, squeezing my wrist. I don't know whether I bristle at the name or her touch, but I do. I nod and she continues. "And ye know he left no will. I guess he figured I'd take care of all that. Still, he wanted ye to have something."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a dull silver key.

"A key?" I ask.

"Upstairs in the West barn, where yer grandfather used to tinker, there's a box that goes with that key. It's yers son." She lets go of my wrist, but gives it a little pat. "Ye were very special to him. Very special indeed."

She turns and goes toward the kitchen, before looking back at me. "All that can wait though. Supper's on."

The large wooden table sitting in the dining room is filled to capacity. We pass food as furiously as conversation. It's all very salty and, try as I might, there's nothing familiar about any of it. I'm halfway through the cabbage soup, hoping there's a Chinese takeout place close by, when I notice seafoam girl. She's somehow managed to escape having to eat with us and is visible through the window. She's maybe two hundred yards away from the house walking through the meadow.

"May I be excused?" I ask sharply. My grandmother looks at me as though I just stabbed her in the chest, but my mother nods and I wait for no other consent. Rushing out into the, now chilly Irish air, I head in the direction I saw her.

I run through the rolling green hills of the estate. Soon I see her, a dot on the far end of my vision. How fast is she?

"Hey!" I shout, though the wind muffles my yell.

"Hey! Stop!" I repeat, but she vanishes behind a hill. I make my way there, but she's gone. I stop, grab my knees, and try to catch my breath. She's literally nowhere, and I remember how she seemed to appear from nothing in the alley.

I let out an exasperated sigh and decide to turn around when I see the barn, the one my grandmother mentioned. I'm already here so I decide to go ahead in.

Large and dark, what little illumination there is comes from the building's skylights. Though; on a day as cloudy as this one, they provide little help. I make my way up the creaky stairs and into the small compact room where my grandfather spent most of his time. In addition to being a writer, he enjoyed fixing things. Even junk that no one else would touch often found new life in his hands.

I rifle through the dark until I find something cold and metal. I pull up on it and brush away the mounds of dust. Taking it downstairs, where at least I could see my hand in front of me, I slip the key from my pocket, and slide it into the small silver box's hole until I hear a click. My mind races with the thought of what might be inside. I pull it open and it creaks with age.

The contents of the box are not what I imagine. No money, no treasure. There is, in fact, nothing that looks to be of any value. I pull out a piece of paper and flip it around. It's an old photograph. My grandfather, young and strapping, stands against a white fence, his arm wrapped around the shoulder of a man that looks exactly like him.

"He has a twin?" I mutter to myself and place it back carefully. Beside it sits a copy of his unfinished manuscript, what would have been the final chapter in the Emerald Invaders series. And besides that, curled up as though it were a snake, sits a small golden necklace. Not fancy, it looks like something one would find in one of those toy grab machines, except that a large red stone hangs from the end. I take it into my hands. Too light to be real, I concede that it's probably a fake I'm about to put it back when it starts to glow in my hands.

Bright red light pulses in sharp flashes, as though it were communicating something in Morse code. Then, as quickly as it started, it stops. I snap my head over as a low pitched wail sounds from just outside the barn. Its' quiet at first, but grows quickly. Suddenly, a woman with skin so pale it's translucent appears at the barn door. She's thin and floats toward me. The tips of her feet graze the ground and her mouth, cracked and open, emits the horrible noise. I want to move, to run. I want to fight or scream, but I can do nothing. Almost upon me, she licks her lips. A shiver runs up my spine. The wail encompasses me. I can't hear anything else. I can't see anything but her. With her long drab hair hanging lifelessly on her shoulders and her sunken cheeks stretched out into an unholy yell she moves closer.

I am about to faint when a hand steadies me. It pushes me forward and I trip as we begin to move.

"Hurry up. Those things aren't slow." The seafoam girl grabs my hand, and pulls me behind her. We gain ground, but if the urgency in the girl's demand is any indicator, that thing won't be far behind.

I gather my bearings and try to keep up, fighting the urge to look behind me. With the house at least a half a mile away, I start to get winded.

"Where are we going?" I cough out. "The house is the other way."

"There," she says, pointing to the growing wall of fog mounting at the edge of the property.

"Mistrunner," I say, remembering what my attacker's words that night in the alley.

The girl stops for a second and shoots me a look. "Just try to keep up."

The wail grows louder as I begin to stumble over my feet. She pulls at me, thrusting me into the smoke. The pale creature rears back as seafoam girl and I disappear into the mist.

# Chapter Five

It feels like Jello, or more to the point, like walking through Jello. My hands, my feet, my eyes, my mind, none of it exists anymore. I'm nothing but air and moisture, moving so quickly I can't tell what direction we're headed. If there are sounds, I don't hear them. Everything around me shimmers with sparkling light. The trees and greenery below me look like never before, each leaf, each branch, each endless clover field jumps to life. I'm looking at the world, and it's like it's looking back at me.

I can't tell how much time has passed when its' over, but it couldn't have been long, maybe seconds. As we drop, I feel myself solidifying. My feet plant firmly into the ground, heels pressed against rocks. I look over at the girl. She's coming together too. With one glance, it's clear I was mistaken in the alley. She didn't come out of the mist. She was the mist. Her body exists as little more than a shaped mound of moist gas. I lunge back, tripping over rocks. She becomes herself. Her skin and hair regain its color. I stare, motionless as a corpse.

"It can be a little disconcerting the first time," she says, as though she were talking about riding the subway, or drinking a slurpee too fast.

"What happened?" I say, as I take in our new surroundings.

We're standing at the edge of a cliff. The sea thrashes loudly against stones hundreds of feet below us. Ahead, well past the beach that meets the cliff's end, a long field full of the greenest grass I have ever seen rolls out before us. At its end, glistening against the clouded sky as if lit by some unnatural light, sits a castle.

It looks like a giant version of my grandmother's house, its' walls, striped in pewter plating, are more expansive than anything I've ever seen. It looks like a dream, one that I'm pulled out of by the girl's answer.

"You almost got your soul sucked out by a banshee. I saved you," she says and begins to walk toward the massive building in the distance. "You're welcome."

"What?" I ask, catching up with her even though my legs still feel like jelly. "A banshee?"

"Yeah, A death walker," she says, as though it's going to clarify things. "It sensed your grandfather's passing and came to feed on the energy."

"So you turned me into smoke?" The words feel strange passing my tongue.

"Don't give me too much credit," she smiled. "You did that yourself, didn't take much prodding either. You have decent instincts for a newbie."

More confused than I even thought possible, I hear a shout in the distance.

"Ash!" The boy walks toward us. His close cut blond hair shines against the castles backlight.

"Ash?" I ask. This is the first time I've ever thought about the girl's name.

"Aisley," she clarifies. "Darrin calls me Ash."

Darrin, the gloved one from the alley, smiles ear to ear as we meet. I notice the final member of their trio, the dark skinned boy, walking behind him, his gaze planted on me. I'm immediately taken back to the night in the alley, with those three working like a well-oiled machine to take down that creature. They were quick, efficient, and most of all dangerous, a fact that now settles at the front of my mind with stark clarity.

"So, this is Bell Watkins? I imagined he'd be taller," Darrin says.

"Anthony," I clarify, self-consciously straightening my stance.

"Yeah," he snickers. "Sure you are. Now let's get this all sorted out shall we?"

Suddenly, his snazzy golden glove makes a repeat appearance, materializing on his hand. I rear back as he holds it out over me, but Aisley grabs my shoulders, holding me in place. I struggle as a bright red light scans my face.

"It's him," Darrin says. The lights disappear and the glove retracts. "Sorry Ash..."

"Wait!" I shout, pulling away. "What is going on?"

"You haven't told him?" The dark-skinned boys asks. His odd accent is thick and makes him hard to understand.

"He didn't give me a chance, was too busy almost getting himself killed." Aisley defends.

"Keeping up the family tradition?" Darrin injects, a wicked smile painted on his face.

"You're special," the stoic boy says, breaking through Darrin's looseness with a down to business fervor. "You're a child of Danu, a protector of Earth, imbued with--"

"Danu, as in the goddess of Earth?" I interrupt, pulling a memory from the cobwebs of my mind. My grandfather, on his porch chair telling me about Ireland, about the fairies, the magic, and all that nonsense.

"And the greatest of all," he'd say. "Is Danu. It's her grounds we walk on lad. It's her mercy that yields our harvest. We're her children Bell. You're of her own heart."

"Close," says the odd accent, plowing back into his explanation. "The scrolls say she is the goddess, but in reality, Danu is Earth itself. The ground, the sky, fire, water, all of it is her. And we're her people."

"This is insane," I say, shaking my head.

"Bell, you just escaped a banshee by turning your body into smoke. How much more proof is going to be necessary?" Darrin asks. "You're one of us. Back in the day, Danu-"

"I remember," I say. "She created people to watch over the world, to keep it safe. They were demi-gods?" I ask, unsure about that part.

"We used to be," Aisley chimes in. "But the blood got mixed with mortals. So we're less than we were, still powerful, but not immortal anymore."

"And that's how you turned into mist," I say.

"That's how we turned into mist. It's a birthright Bell, passed on to you through generations. It's who you are."

"Mistrunner," I say, and see Aisley wince from the corner of my eye.

She leans into me and whispers. "Mistrunner isn't the most pc term in the world."

"We prefer Child or Tuatha of Danu," the dark skinned man says matter-of-factly.

"Oh, sorry. So I'm Tuatha?"

"He catches on quick, this one. No wonder Liam picked him," Darrin says sarcastically and then shoots a look to Aisley.

"Picked?" I ask

"Let's get going," Aisley says sharply and starts toward the castle in the distance.

"Don't mind her. It takes her a while to warm up. I'm Darrin, this is Abram." Darrin points to the other one. "I know this is probably a lot to handle, but trust me it does get easier."

I just stare at him, too floored to make any judgment of what is and isn't easy.

"Where are we?" Is all I can force out.

"We're at the Castle of the North," Darrin says.

"Why? I continue.

"Well," he says, his grin widening. "Because it's yours."

Approaching the castle I notice its even larger than I thought. The surrounding wall, a mountain of stone, stretches so high into the sky that I wonder how it was even built. The stones meet without break, as if it's all one continuous structure. The massive wooden doors part as we approach. As they separate, they make no grinding or moving noises at all.

It's as though Asgard has been brought down to Earth and laid out before me. I keep expecting Thor to round the corner and greet me. Turns out the light I saw glowing in the distance is a product of the interior streets which, like the castle walls, are trimmed in brushed, brilliant pewter. A city exists within the walls of this place complete with living quarters laced with plants and shrubbery, empty carts that sit abandoned on the streets, and shops and homes with their doors shut tight.

At the end of the area, where all roads seem to lead, sits the castle. It's hard to describe, but it literally looks like my grandmother's house got together with a massive castle and had a baby. It's bigger, more elaborate and surrounded by its own city, but it still looks like the house.

"This isn't mine."

"It is now," Darrin says. "Consider it your inheritance. What, did you think all your grandfather left you was the necklace?"

"How did you-"

"It's your token as a High King. All of us have one," he says, wiggling his fingers and bringing back into existence the golden glove that, I now see, stretches up at least half of his arm. "Well, all the High Kings anyway."

"A High King?" At this point, I realize just how sick of asking questions I've become.

"There are hundreds of Danu's children in the world. Every one of us does our part to keep this world safe. But there are always four that are appointed to take charge of things and sanction the actions of the rest. The world is split up into quarters with one king to each piece. The North, the South, the East and the West, they all have kings. One king reigns for as long as he can and when he dies, he chooses his replacement. Your grandfather was a High King, and when he died-"

"He picked me?" I ask, scrunching my brow.

"You're not the only one who was surprised," Aisley snaps.

"Come on," Darrin says, picking up his pace. "There are things we have to do."

He gallops toward the castle as I yell out. "Where are we going?"

"To the throne room your Majesty," Aisley says dryly and continues after him.

I'm gasping as I catch up with them and enter the enormous castle doors. It's nothing but a long corridor as we enter, a bit of a disappointment considering how lavish the outside was.

"How come I've never seen pictures of this place, you'd think someone would have noticed this massive castle." I ask genuinely curious.

"It's shrouded Bell, only Danu's children can see it." Aisley snaps.

"This is..." I trail off.

"Not why we're here," She says, pulling on a lever beside the door.

The floor shifts and opens up, revealing a staircase that stretches at least two hundred feet. The stone steps are ancient and feel as though they might crumble beneath me as I follow the Mistrunners down. Statues line the walls, tall goblin looking structures with sharp points and gruesome features. Lanterns sit in their mouths and light our way.

We reach the end of the staircase and funnel into a small room. Books cover every inch of wall space, and also sit messily atop every table, counter, and chair in the room.

"Old man, we're here," Darrin shouts as soon as we're inside.

A muffled clatter comes from behind one of the room's corners.

"And he's with us."

"Excellent!" I hear, also from around the corner, as the sound of thumping and sloshing closes in.

I'm about to ask Darrin who he's speaking to when the man comes into view. It's not the face of a stranger, not at all. I gasp and lunge back, because standing before me, in this castle of confusion, is my dead grandfather.

Chapter One

If the last couple of days have taught me anything, it's that time can be confusing. Beginnings, endings; they swirl around, meshing with each other until there's no telling where something even starts. You can't trust time; not when it melts away like butter; not when it drips and drags like molasses in January, not when it tells you one thing and does another, tricking you like some shady blackjack dealer in Vegas. But time is all we've got. It's what our lives are made of.

So, for the sake of being linear, I'll start in the middle; the day I saw her again, for the first time.

December 22nd, 2013

I limped to the bathroom, hobbling along like the useless bastard I was. There was something about mornings that made my ankle a million times worse, like having been still the entire night threw it into some sort of atrophy. It had been nine months, three surgeries, and fifty seven hours of physical therapy since the accident. Still, Dr. Rivers assured me that this surgery, this round of physical therapy, this month, would be the one that returned full use of my ankle to me. Color me pessimistic.

"Mr. Cobb, you've only done three minutes." I heard the chirpy voice of Mrs. Angela Bumble behind me. She was the newest addition to St. Bartholomew's Physical Rehabilitation Center, and bubblier than shaken up Mountain Dew. Seriously, she was Doris Day come again. You know, assuming Doris Day is dead or whatever. Still, she was new, unfamiliar with my tactics and, as such, completely out of her depth. Turning around, I saw her motioning toward the running, but decidedly empty treadmill.

"So?" I gave her my best 'I don't have time for this' glare. She blinked a couple of times, obviously shaken. But she kept that 'can do' smile plastered across her face.

"You have twenty seven minutes left in your session," she explained, and pointed to the poster on the wall. It was one of those 'Hang in there, baby' posters; the kind where the cat is dangling from a clothesline and obviously scared to death because, you know, how does a cat even get on a clothesline in the first place? It was facing east so that, when we were on the treadmill, we could look at it and get inspired. But all it did was make me wonder what the odds were that the cat was actually gonna manage to hang on. And, if he did, what would happen to him after that? I mean, he obviously had crap owners, or else he wouldn't be in his unfortunate situation in the first place. In the end, I sorta just kept wishing I could trade it in for a TV.

"Look, I-"

I know it's hard, Mr. Cobb," she showcased a plucky smile that would have made the cat proud, assuming he hadn't become a splatter on the pavement. "But you can do it. Discouragement is only discouraging to the weak. And you are not weak."

"You should sew that onto a pillow or something," I said, but regretted it as soon as I saw the flinch in Mrs. Bumble's eyes. "Look," I sighed. "You ever heard of the Trail of Tears?"

Mrs. Bumble nodded. "Well, that's gonna be nothing compared to the trail I'll leave on that treadmill if you don't let me go to the bathroom."

"J-just hurry back," she stammered.

"I'll do my best," I said, pointing to my bum ankle. I was almost to the bathroom when I heard another voice; a decidedly less inept voice.

"Winston Cobb, I swear to our shared Lord that if you try to sneak out on your physical therapy again, I will find something you hold dear, and I will kill it." The deep Southern twang of Anita Blakely, a heavyset woman with tight curled hair and dark skin sounded as she came waddling toward me. She had been with St. Bart's since its namesake was "just a real nice man". Which was to say; she was hip to my games.

"Anita, would I do that to you?" I feigned hurt.

"We both know the answer to that," she said with a hand on her hip. "You got two minutes, Winston Cobb. I hope you didn't have a big breakfast."

Two minutes was not a fair compromise, since it took me forty five more seconds just to inch to the damn door. But, when I had closed it safely behind me, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. "Roger," I said when he answered. "They're on to me. We gotta go plan B."

I didn't like plan B, mostly because pulling a fire alarm and forcing a bunch of people who were going through physical therapy to march out in a single file line was sorta cruel. But Anita would be watching me like a hawk, and quick or stealthy getaways were not things that were on my menu at the moment. Besides, it was a nice day. They would enjoy the air.

Once Roger had pulled the alarm and convinced half the nursing staff and patients that they were going to die fiery deaths, I managed to sneak around the back of the building by the dumpsters, where Roger always picked me up.

"Hurry up dude. I do not want Anita screaming at me again," Roger said, from the driver's seat of his green, decidedly used, but very much paid for Honda Civic.

"I'm going as fast as I can," I said. "Don't be such a baby."

"She says hurtful things," he muttered. I sort of collapsed into the shotgun seat, since climbing or even bending was an Olympian feat for me these days. Roger revved the engine and pulled away. The only way out of St. Bart's was the way into it. So, that meant we had to speed by Anita, bubbly Mrs. Bumble, and the rest of the physically hobbled bunch to get to the exit.

They were lined up like tin cans ready to be shot along the front yard. It was a good thing they moved my physical therapy out of United Methodist, or else I would never have been able to pull this off. I slid down in the seat as Roger rounded the corner; wincing as a spike of pain ran up my leg.

"You okay?" He asked.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Now just drive, and try not to act so guilty. You look like Pippi Longstocking after a hit and run."

For all his attributes; I mean, it isn't everybody who'd put the handicapped and elderly through a fire drill at 6 in the morning just to help you skip out on therapy; he still wasn't much of a liar. This was the third time he had done this for the, the second time at St. Bart's, and every time it was the same thing; clenched fists on the steering wheel, gritted teeth, flop sweat running off him in buckets. This dude really needed to chill.

"What if she recognizes me?" He asked.

"She's seen you one time. She's not gonna recognize you."

"Roger Carpenter, you stop that car this instant!" Anita's voice blared every bit as loud as the fire alarm had. Roger crumpled a little when he heard.

"Keep driving!" I told him from the floorboard.

"Roger Carpenter, I know that boy is in there with you. Now you stop that car. You hear me?"

Roger's foot lifted from the gas pedal. "Roger. Keep driving Roger. Don't stop Roger." But he had a thing with authority figures. He couldn't help it. He was the type of guy who'd find a way to make it stop raining if a grown up asked him to. I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. Literally.

I grabbed Roger's foot and slammed it hard against the pedal. We took off like a rocket. The entire floorboard vibrated as we sped along.

"Dude stop!" Roger yelled. "Dude, seriously stop!" Roger rounded the corner, which let me know we were out of St. Bart's, so I let go of his foot.

"The road to hell is a slippery one, Roger Carpenter. That boy's gonna take you right down it," Anita shouted from the front yard. "And here I am thinking you were smart."

"So hurtful," Roger muttered.

"Thanks dude," I said, hoisting myself up onto the seat. Turning, I found Anita had become a yelling dot in the rearview. She would make me pay for this eventually. But not today.

"When do you have to be in school?" I asked, massaging my ankle.

"Not until twelve, and I knew you weren't okay! Now I feel bad about busting you out." He started shaking his head. Roger was a genius. Like, a literal genius. He had been taking college courses since junior year. So now, while us mere mortals were six months away from graduating, Roger had horded enough credits so that he only had to do half days. Meanwhile, I had horded enough scar tissue so that my thrice weekly therapy sessions afforded me a ticket out of first period.

"You're such a girl. I'm fine. Plus, I don't have to be in school until ten. So, I'm super fine." I was not. My ankle was rigid and hurt like a bitch. But I had been through this song and dance enough to know that a half hour on the treadmill wasn't going to do anything but piss me off. Besides, I had much better ways to spend my time. "So, I was thinking," I said, still making soothing circles across the throbbing pin cushion of my ankle.

"Don't hurt yourself," Roger quipped.

"Har har," I sneered. "But seriously, what's a socially awkward genius and his awesome, but hobbled, cripple of a best friend to do with three entire hours to themselves."

"World of Warcraft?" He smiled.

"World of Warcraft," I answered.

Two and a half hours later, Roger and I had had slayed a group of wood nymphs in a way so needlessly vicious that I hesitate to speak of it at the moment. We were in his basement room; a sort of shrine to the geeky stuff that he, and to a lesser extent, I loved so much. It was huge, filled with Game of Thrones posters, vintage collectable bottles of Tru Blood, a Deadwood poster signed by both Timothy Olynphant and Ian Mcshane. Plus, and as someone who had to share a room with Micah; the world's most annoyingly peppy eight year old, this was the most important part. He had it all to himself. I envied everything about that room; save, of course, the mountain of stairs you had to descend to actually get into it.

"Dude, it's nine thirty," Roger said, pounding at his control and thus sending a spike through the last of the ill-fated wood nymphs.

"So," I said, pushing my space bar and making my Blood Ogre do something akin to 'the Dougie' over their corpses.

"So school," he said, closing his laptop.

"I got thirty minutes," I shrugged.

"Ten of which you'll use to get to the car."

"You're no fun," I said, pushing myself up. A stab of pain ran through my foot and up my right leg. I did my best not to acknowledge it, but that didn't stop me from tumbling into Roger's homemade (and life-size) Tardis replica.

"Dude," Roger said and rushed over to help me.

"Don't!" I yelled, and pushed myself back up, determined to steady myself by myself. "I can do it." After a minute or so or pretty reliable standing, I let myself breath. "It's your own fault. Where'd you get this stupid thing anyway?" I pointed to the shoddy blue pained Tardis.

"Danny and Ed helped me build it," he explained.

"When? I don't remember that?"

"You wouldn't. It was two years ago," he said quickly, and looked at the floor. Two years ago was sort of a sore spot for us which, for the record, I take total responsibility for. I was a douche, and Roger didn't deserve to be treated the way I treated him.

I had always loved basketball; ever since I was a kid. There was something about the flow of it. It's like the basket was this constant. It always stayed the same. And all the others players, the way they moved, the things they did; they were the variables. And I had to navigate my way through all these changing variables to get to the one place that I knew would be constant. I know it sounds like a math geek's guide to basketball, but it was really beautiful to me; sorta like coming home.

It had always just been a hobby for me, but when I started high school Coach Abernathy caught me on the courts one day and convinced me to try out for the team. Turned out I was actually pretty good; good enough to start. I made friends with a couple of guys on the team and, if you've ever seen that old movie Can't Buy Me Love, then you know that once one cool person thinks you're cool, they sort of all do.

And the thing is, it's not like I intended to leave Roger by the wayside. We had been friends since we were both in utero. But my new friends, my cool friends, they had a pretty sweet deal. There were these parties. They had actual girls with actual breasts who would actually let me touch them. And given that, until that point, the only boobs I had ever seen came courtesy of Al Gore's wondrous internet invention, Roger didn't stand much of a chance.

I won two state championships during freshman and sophomore year, and saw Roger maybe three times during that entire period. And even when I did see him, we didn't have much to talk about. The quiet ease of our friendship had melted away. But, after the accident, he was there for me, one of the only people who was actually there for me; quiet ease or not.

"It looks pretty cool," I conceded, running my hand across the blue painted box. "Now, unless you have any other interdimensional transportation vehicles for me to crash into, let's get out of here."

"It doesn't travel interdimensionally," Roger grinned, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair. "Well, not just interdimensionally."

I ended up at school fifteen minutes late, which was still an hour and forty five minutes early for Roger. So he decided to hit up Starbuck's and meet me after lunch. I waved him on and limped my hobbled ass up the steps of Herbert Hoover High. So. Many. Steps.

Thankfully, since I was late, the halls were empty when I entered. The last thing I needed was to wade through a sea of my former friends. The banners hung above me though, dangling like ghosts overhead reminding me of everything that had happened.

"Hebert Hoover High Wolverines: State Champions 2011 & 2012"

There was not one for last year though. Probably wouldn't be one for this year either, and everyone knew who's fault that was. It was April of last year. I had just dropped Katie Parker, my girlfriend at the time, off at her house. Well, I guess you could call her my girlfriend. Our dates consisted of her texting her friends for two hours, fooling around in the backseat of my mom's Nissan for fifteen minutes, and her blowing kisses to me from the stands at all my games; during which time she would tell everyone who would listen how in love we were and how we were going to buck the trend of high school sweethearts and spend the rest of our lives together. Needless to say, kisses weren't the only thing that stopped getting blown after that night.

We had just left a rager at Jeff Deluca's, one of those parties where the cops who the neighbors called to break things up decide to stick around a have a few drinks instead. It was around one in the morning, but it was Saturday and my parents were used to it. So, no big deal.

I had had one beer. It's important that you know it was just one beer. I was rounding the curve on Abercorn when I saw a man standing in the dead center of the road. I swerved to miss him, but it had been raining and the roads were wet. I remember the car flipping three times before I blacked out.

The next thing I knew, there was a fire. My leg was throbbing and I was being pulled across the ground. I was hazy and wet. I would later find out that Katie's drink, a fruity little daiquiri thing that she left in the rider's side cup holder, had spilled all over me. I looked up from the flames and saw a girl. It was still raining, but she was dry somehow. She looked down at me as she drug me across the pavement away from the car. She had long ink black hair, the sort of pale porcelain skin that you only see in really old paintings, and eyes that would have been bright and distinct even if they weren't two different colors.

Brown and green smiled from above me as she said, "It's okay Winston. Come on."

"Are you an angel?" I asked. Which I know is very cheesy and exactly what you'd expect to hear someone in my situation say at that moment. It probably would have made more sense if I'd have asked her name, or better yet, how she knew mine. But what can I say? I'm a slave to the expected.

She balked, a little surprised that I was awake. She looked forward, to someone or something I couldn't see, nodded quickly, and said, "I'm so proud of you." Then she kissed me.

After that, I passed out again.

When I trudged my way into second period chemistry, Mr. Axel had a beaker in each hand and was explaining something about the way "reactions can be spontaneous and oftentimes unwanted". Judging from the reaction I got from my classmates when they saw me, he couldn't have been more right. For the better part of a year I had been the drunk who got my ankle crushed and ruined their chances at extended basketball glory. Never mind that it was just one beer and that, contrary to what was all over my clothes, I don't drink fruity daiquiri things. Katie, my new cool friends, none of them cared.

"Mr. Cobb," Mr. Axel said, without looking at me.

"Sorry. Physical therapy ran long," I explained. "You know, crappy foot and all."

"Take your seat," he said, and got back to his lecture. I did as he said, making my way to the near back of the room. The looks I got, the looks I always got, were a mix of disgust and pity. Katie, for her part, didn't look at me at all. It didn't surprise me. She hadn't acknowledged me even a little in months. I guess once you've had somebody's tongue in your ear it gets hard to go back to small talk.

I plopped down in my seat, smiling as I felt a familiar finger on my shoulder. Right after I got out of the hospital the first time, it was a bad time to be me. None of my new friends would talk to me in school, I had alienated Roger, and I didn't even have basketball anymore. I had lost the constant hoop, and was left with a bunch of crappy variables. I was sitting in school one day, thinking about how the only thing that hurt worse than my ankle was my damn heart, when this awesome, adorable, mousy girl who I had been sitting in front of the entire year and hadn't even taken the time to learn her name, tapped me on the shoulder and told me everything was going to be okay. Just out of the blue. Just like that, she leaned up and whispered into my ear. "Sometimes who we think we are isn't who we turn out to be."

We had been dating for six months.

Oh, and her name was Lucy.

"What do you want?" I grinned, spinning around as gracefully as a kid with three hunks of metal in his ankle could.

"Physical therapy?" She asked, and pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. "I wonder what the wood nymphs of Algeron Hill have to say about that."

"You know me too well," I said.

"That's what I keep telling everybody," she smiled.

"I love you," I told her.

"Turn around Romeo," she grinned. "You're already way behind and I will not date someone who flunks chemistry. The whole thing is just too rife with implied innuendo."

"Yes ma'am," I chuckled and turned back around.

Lunch consisted of soggy tacos, some sketchy orange rice, and half of Lucy's pimento cheese sandwich. We were halfway through a conversation about what sort of breakfast foods best describe us. Eggs Benedict for her (cause she was all calm and savory) and Coco Puffs for me (the reasoning there should be obvious), when Roger came in.

He had what history told me was probably a mocha Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and three shots of espresso in one hand and his cell phone pressed against his ear with the other.

"Are you sure?" He asked, walking toward me. His eyebrows were all crinkled and his face held an expression that said even if the person on the other end of the line was sure, he certainly wasn't. "You're sure?" He repeated, and then he stopped short. His body tensed up and he stood up straighter than I had ever seen him. "No sir, I understand. No, I wasn't trying to- Yes sir. Right away."

He ended the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. Lucy had been facing me (lucky girl, I know) and hadn't seen what Roger was just doing. So, when he crossed into her line of sight, she asked, "What sort of breakfast food best describes you?"

"Watermelon," he said without hesitating.  
"Why watermelon?" She asked.

"Why not?" He shrugged, took a sip of Frappuccino, and plopped down on the seat beside me.

"Who was on the phone?" I asked.

"What? Oh, that was one of my college professors. I tanked an exam and I wanted to take it over. But it wasn't to be." He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it propped up in soft blond tufts.

"You tanked an exam?" I asked. I reached across the table, grabbing for the other half of Lucy's sandwich.

"Not my proudest moment," he answered, and looked down at his watch.

I looked up at Lucy, asking for permission. "Just take it," she shook her head. "You're such a child."

"True," I answered through a mouthful of sandwich. "I thought that's why you loved me though."

"It's either that or the raw sex appeal," she answered, wiping a hunk of cheese from my lips.

"Watermelon," Roger said again. I turned to him. He had the same goofy grin from a couple minutes ago. He looked pretty much the same except that his hair was now pushed down flat.

"What?" Dude we're passed that," I answered. "And watermelon was a pretty crappy answer anyway. I wouldn't relive it if I were you."

Lucy looked at him, brushing dark bangs out her adorably large gray eyes. "You okay?" Her mom was a nurse and her grandma had been a nurse too, so she was always on the lookout for early signs of whatever or easy to miss symptoms of who knows what.

"I'm fine," he shook his head. "Too much caffeine," he pointed to his drink. "You know, it's just-"

He stopped what he was saying. His eyes went wide for a second, his face went pale. Following his glance, I saw why. One of the top ten best looking girls in the entirety of plant Earth; top three if you don't count models or Megan Fox, had just walked into the cafeteria. I was going to, as I always did when a cute girl walked by, turn and make conversation with Lucy. You know, so she wouldn't think I was being a douche or anything. But, as I took this girl in, I realized I couldn't turn away. And it wasn't cause of how hot she was.

I knew her. This girl, with her ink black hair, with her old world porcelain skin, with her brown and green gaze, this was the girl who had saved my life.

Chapter Two

I stood, staring at her; which is not a good idea when your girlfriend is sitting right next to you. But it wasn't like that. I didn't care what this girl looked like. I didn't care that her face was pretty much perfect; only that it was the face that pulled me out of the car that night.

"Winston, are you okay?" Lucy asked, looking up at me. It wasn't exactly easy for me to stand up these days. So, the fact that I had done it so quickly probably worried her.

"That's the girl," I said, not taking my eyes off of her.

"The girl?" Lucy asked.

"The girl, the one from the accident. She's the person who saved my life."

I watched as she scanned the room. Her eyes flickered past me; no visible recognition in them. They rested right beyond me and then came back; green and blue orbs looking right at me.

After the accident, once I was all hospitalized and drugged up for the pain, I started rambling about the guy in the road and the girl who had saved me. Nobody took me seriously though. Maybe it was the beer on my breath, maybe it was the daiquiri on my jacket. Or maybe it was the fact that, when they found me, there was nobody at the scene. No dude in the road to blame my accident on, no beautiful girl with multicolored eyes to thank for saving me. They both seemed to have faded into nothing, explained away by my concussion.

"She's not the girl. Now sit down," Lucy said, reaching across the table and tugging at my shirt.

"How do you know she's not the girl? She's staring at me and everything," I answered, swaying a little from Lucy pulling at me. I managed to keep my balance though.

"She's not the girl because the girl doesn't exist. Dr. Rivers said you probably pulled yourself out of the car, remember? That's how you crushed your ankle. And she's staring at you because you're making a fool of yourself. That's Ava Winters. I have gym with her. She moved here from Anchorage last week. She had been south of Toronto before that. So, unless you took a detour through Alaska the night you crashed your car, it wasn't her," Lucy stood now, reached across the table, and forcibly sat me down.

"Sorry," she said, looking over at the girl I now knew to be Ava. "This is my boyfriend. He's an idiot. It's embarrassing for everybody."

The girl gave a polite smile and walked away.

"Moron," Lucy said, and smacked me in the head.

The rest of the day was a nonevent. Math bled into Geography, which bled into Literature, which led to an unauthorized nap in Science class. I had never been one to dwell on my accident. I didn't have to, not when absent sports banners and the glares of former fair-weather friends kept all of it so fresh in my mind. But I could not stop thinking about this girl.

It didn't help that she was everywhere; in the hallway when I ducked out of Study Hall, on the bleachers during Free Period, looking over a book in the library. Was it possible that I had imagined her? Had I actually saved myself that night? And, if I had-If I had created some girl out of thin air to act as my savior, what were the chances that a girl like that would actually exist, right down to the mismatched eyes.

"Alaska my ass," I muttered as I limped by her in the library.

Roger gave me a ride home that afternoon and, though I really wanted to, I didn't mention Ava. In fact, we didn't talk much about anything. Every time I tried to start a conversation, he'd just wave me off. And when I asked if he was okay, he just said, "I've got a lot on my mind, that's all."

Which was fair. I had tried really hard to mend the fences I tore down a few years ago with Roger and, for the most part, I think I did a pretty good job. But I had hurt him a lot, and when you're hurt like that, I guess it can be hard for things to ever be exactly like they were again. So, whenever Roger would hit me with a line like that, I would try to give him space, which meant not pestering him about what exactly the 'stuff' that was on his mind consisted of. It was the least I could do.

"Try to feel better, dude" I said, getting out of the car; which took me, like six minutes. (Seriously, it's embarrassing)

He didn't answer, just nodded and drove away.

The house was in its usual shambles when I walked in. Though, because of the time of year, the shambles were Christmas themed. Micah was hiding behind the couch with that look in his eyes that told me the Nerf football in his hand was about to go careening toward my head.

"That's not something you wanna do," I warned and threw my book bag on the coffee table. He took the advice and instead settled for his second favorite toy; my old cane. I used that damn thing for three entire months after I was released from the hospital the first time. It was better than a wheelchair, but I hated the looks people would give me. It's like everybody you meet expects you to have this really sad story (which I guess I sort of did), and then then ask you a bunch of questions, expecting you to share it with them (I would rather pull out my eye with a pair of pliers).

I named it Renee, cause I'm that type of dork and cause it helped me walk like, walk away... like the song.

Nobody ever got it.

Anyway, I should have probably still been using Renee, given that my last surgery had only been three weeks ago. But even though she helped me out, Renee wasn't exactly sexy. And I had been through enough. If I was gonna limp around for the rest of my life, I wasn't going to look like an old man doing it. Besides, Micah seemed to really enjoy her.

He went rushing for the Christmas tree, swiping at it with Renee's broad top.

"Santa has binoculars!" Mom yelled as she walked into the living room. Micah had always been like a carbon copy of her; same white blond hair, same long angular features. But where Micah's expression was usually wild and carefree, Mom's face was usually painted with a more worried look. "Binoculars!"

Micah froze, holding Renee inches away from Mom's Christmas tree, which looked like it had seen better days.

"He looks at you with binoculars and he sees everything you do," she added.

"But what if you're in the bathroom?" Micah asked.

"Give me the cane!" She said, and pulled it away from him. "Go play with something soft."

Micah trotted off and Mom came closer, holding Renee out toward me. "What the hell, Winston?"

"What?" I asked, and took the cane. "You know I hate this thing, but if it makes you feel better, I'll-"

"Not the cane." She looked tired. Her hair was all frazzled and messy like she had been running her hands through it. "Again, Son?"

"Again?"

"Anita Blakely called. She said you staged a fire to get out of therapy this morning." She shook her head in that way moms do when they can't think of a word that is awful or big enough to let you know how much you've disappointed them. "Why would you do that? She could press charges."

Given that the better part of my day was spent staring at a girl who, up until this morning, I wasn't even sure existed, I had totally forgotten about what happened at St. Bart's.

"She's not gonna press charges," I said. "She's just being dramatic. I-"

"I don't want to hear it, Winston." She held her hands out. "Your father's in the kitchen. He wants to see you."

Okay, so that wasn't good.

"Dad is here? Why is he not at work?" My heart jumped.

"Because I called him," she answered, folding her arms over her chest.

"And why would you do that? You can't stand him." There was frantic nature to my voice that someone who didn't know how ruggedly masculine and unflinchingly brave in every imaginable situation I was might have interpreted as fear.

Okay, I was scared to death.

"That's not true," she sighed. "I can stand him. I mean, what's going on between us-"

"I don't care about your stupid divorce," I cut in. "I care about you bringing him into stuff that is our business."

"I don't know what to do with you, Winston. Maybe he does."

"Mom, I-"

She wasn't listening anymore. She turned away from me and walked into the kitchen. Reluctantly, I followed behind her, marching like one of those blindfolded dudes inching toward a firing squad. I leaned heavy on Renee. Maybe if he saw me limping, he'd feel sorry for me. Maybe he'd remember that his son was all broken and he wouldn't go so hard on me.

"That goddamn cane!" Was the first thing he yelled.

So, that was a bad idea.

"Maybe you wouldn't need that damn thing so much if you'd actually do what the doctor told you to!" If Micah was a copy of my mom, than I was just as much my dad's doppelganger. We had the same sandy hair, though his was greying at the sides, the same rounded face, though his had gotten a bit rounder in the last few years, and the same horrific posture, even before I had to use a cane to get around.

"Dad, I-"

"I am NOT done!" Though, the thing about me that Mom always said reminded me most of Dad had nothing to do with the way we looked, and everything to do with our stubbornness. "Do you have any idea how much I pay for you to go to that therapy?"

"Uh, nothing. Your insurance pays for it." Instantly, I could tell I had made a mistake.

"Don't you sass me, boy. Don't sass me." His eyes, brown like mine, threatened to bulge right out of his head.

"How does one sass a person anyway?" I asked. I could not stop myself.

He turned to me, his face changing from angry to that total calm thing that is so much scarier. "Sit. Down."

Calm comes before storms. So, I knew better than to mess with calm. I might have been stubborn, but I wasn't stupid. Silently, I sat at the kitchen table, laying Renee on the floor beside me.

"And who works for that insurance, Winston? Who pays the deductible?" He asked, pacing around me.

"You do," I answered.

"That's right," he said. "You know how hard I work, don't you, Winston?"

I nodded.

"And you know how tight things are around here right now. That doesn't come as a surprise to you, does it?"

I looked at the kitchen table. It was covered it scattered pieces of newspaper; coupon pages. On the counter behind it say Mom's laptop, the one she used to work from home as a call care center rep for a travel agency. I thought about making some sarcastic comment, about telling Dad that the only reason we were going through any of this was because he couldn't keep it in his pants and now everybody was suffering.

I mean, it wasn't like we were ever rich. There was never a time when I couldn't remember worrying about how things were going to get paid. But this; now, we had descended into 'Oliver Twist getting turned down for a second helping of gruel' poor.

Still, I thought better of it. He was still in that eerie calm voice, and it wasn't like I was doing much to contribute around here. In fact, if anything, I was the cause of most of it. Medical bills, co-pays, deductibles; all so I could maybe play basketball again one day, all so I could maybe run.

But none of it mattered. I wasn't going to play basketball again. Ever. I wasn't going to run. I wasn't even going to walk right. And the quicker they realized that, the quicker they could stop shoveling their money into the incinerator that was greater health care.

But I didn't say any of that. I just nodded again. "I know there's no money," I finally said.

"Then why-"

"Because it doesn't matter," I said. "Because I'm never gonna be like I was again."

"Not if you don't work at it," he said.

"Not ever!" I snapped. Standing, I received the same glare that Lucy had given me in the cafeteria. "Don't you get it? It's all gone. There's no basketball. There's no scholarship. There's no time to get any of it back. Half my goddamn ankle is made of metal. It's over."

"Don't you use that language in this house!" Dad screamed, his nostrils flared.

"It's not your house anymore!" I said, matching his tone.

"Stop this right now!" Turning to Mom, I saw that her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. "This isn't what I wanted."

"Then you shouldn't have called him," I said, gesturing to Dad. Tears welled up behind my eyes, burning in response to Mom's reaction. She had been through so much; done so much for me.

"She called me because you're out of control," he said, his voice calmer, but not the scary calm from before. "I don't get it, Son. You had so much going for you. Everybody loved you. Scouts from all over the country were flying in to watch you play. They were going to give you a full ride; pay for everything. And you threw it all away to get drunk."

"I wasn't drunk!" I yelled.

But like always, he wasn't listening. He just powered through. "And now you won't even try to fix things. You won't even help yourself."

I leaned down and picked up Renee. I wasn't standing for anymore of this and, if I was going to get out of here before they could stop me, I was going to need the old girl's help.

"There is no fixing things, and the only person you're trying to help if you." I turned and, with Renee's help, started walking away. "But don't worry, I'm letting you off the hook. I'll pay for college myself. I'll get a job or something. Or maybe I won't even go at all. Either way, you're officially absolved of all responsibility."

"Winston, that's not what he meant," Mom said from behind me.

"The hell it isn't," I muttered and walked out the kitchen door. Micah surprised me in the living room, nailing me in the jewels with a Jake and the Neverland Pirates dodgeball; a Christmas present he had convinced Mom to let him open early.

"Ow, dude!" I said, keeling over. I could hear Mom and Dad yelling at each other from inside the kitchen; which was a nice throwback to all our other Christmases if you ask me.

I scooped Mom's keys up from where they always sat on the living room counter. "I gotta get out of here, little guy," I said, ruffling Micah's hair. Mom would be out in a second. She never left Micah alone for longer than two minutes unless he was sleeping, even in the house. And I wanted to be gone by the time she was.

I limped outside to Mom's car, with Renee helping me along. A dull ache sounded up through my leg as I got inside. No sooner had I cranked the car up that Mom came running out.

She'd tell me that I couldn't drive, that I had just had surgery or, worst of all; that I needed to stick around and smooth things over with Dad. I wasn't interested in any of that, so I put the car in reverse and squealed out of there before she had a chance to say anything.

Halfway down Abercorn, it occurred to me that Mom was probably right. I had driven maybe three times since the accident and totally wasn't used to doing it with the wrong foot. I was hobbling worse behind the wheel than I did on foot; jerking my way from start to stop with all the grace someone might expect from a person whose last driving exploit ended in life altering tragedy. Still, I hadn't run off the road yet and, if I did, at least this time there wouldn't be alcohol on my breath.

My phone lit up. 'Mom calling.' Nope. I sent her to voicemail. Seconds later: 'Mom calling.' again. I tapped the phone and answered. "I'm fine," I said. "I'm sorry. I just needed to go."

"You should not be driving," she said. Her voice was smaller than I figured, until I realized that what I was hearing was just how tired she was. "Pull over. Let me come get you."

Instantly, I felt guilty. And not just any kind of guilty. It was that special guilty reserved for the greatest of fools; the people who continuously and without merit let down a parent who has done everything they could in a situation that would suck no matter how hard you worked to fix it.

"It's okay. I'm just going to Roger's. It's the next street over. I'm almost there." I bit my lip. "And Mom, I really am sorry."

"It's okay. We'll talk about when you get home. And Winston, call me when you get there, okay?"

"I will," I promised, and hung up.

Okay. I did not lie to my Mom. I would not do that. Okay, obviously I would do that, but I didn't this time. What happened next was absolutely not my fault. I told her the truth. I was going to Rogers, and it was just the next road over. But the thing I had decided to leave out, the thing I purposely didn't tell my mother was that the 'next road over' way, was not the way I was going to go to Roger's house.

Like I said, I had only driven three times since the night of the accident, and I had never, not even once, been back to where it happened. It was crazy. Abercorn was literally a mile and a half from my house. That corner, the corner where that man either was or was not standing, was two minutes away from my front door. It was the easiest way to the interstate and you got to see Mrs. Schaffer's crazy shaped and intricately designed hedges as you passed. (My favorite was the dog balancing a ball on his nose) But Mom wouldn't go that way, Roger wouldn't go that way, and Lucy... forget it. She wouldn't even consider it. It was like there was some kind of darkness on that road; like my grave was supposed to be there and they were afraid that, if I ever went back, it would correct its error and suck me up.

But I knew better. That grave had sucked me up; part of me anyway. I didn't know how I was going to get that part back, but I did know that I never would if I kept being scared of some stretch of road. I would get over it, or it would own me. I would go to it, or I would never leave it. Simple as that.

My hand was actually shaking as I turned left on Abercorn.

It's just a road. I said that over and over again in my head. It's just a curve. It doesn't have any power over you.

And the thing was, as stupid as it sounds, that actually calmed me down. I turned the radio on. Loud. 'I'm Still Standing', that old song by Elton John blasted through the speakers.

"That's a little spot on," I said to myself and flipped the channel. I settled on The Killers. I say settled because- Yeah, it's the Killers. But somehow I managed to get lost in the music. Before I knew it, I was halfway down Abercorn; smiling like the pathetic loser I was when I passed by Mrs. Schaffer's yard.

Ooh! She added a clown.

I clenched, preparing myself for the curve ahead. It doesn't own you. You own you, I thought, along with a bunch of other Hallmark crap that I thought might help. My hands got sweaty and started to slide across the steering wheel, which didn't help the piss poor job I was doing of driving. Still, it was broad daylight, not raining, and I was going at a conservative seven miles per hour. So I figured I'd be fine.

I'm not sure what I thought I was going to see when I rounded that corner. Was there going to be some gruesome reenactment of what happened? Would there be a flowery memorial to my ankle, complete with a cutout cardboard cross and 'before' x-ray of my ankle to commemorate the good times? Would that man, the one part of me was still sure existed, be standing on the side of the road again to confirm my suspicions?

Whatever I thought I was going to see, it was nothing compared to what was actually waiting for me around that awful bend.

A car, green like the one I crashed in, was pulled over alongside the road. Its flashers were on and the hood was up. A weird feeling crept up over me. A car, just like my mom's, on the side of the road at the exact minute that I had decided to face my fears, however ill-conceived they were?

I inched forward, coasting at about five miles per hour. There were feet sticking out from under the car. Someone was under there, tinkering with whatever had gone wrong. Should I pull over? You could fit everything I knew about cars in a shoebox and still have room for the sneakers, but what if this was some old lady? What if it was somebody's grandma stuck out here all alone?

I looked at the feet for clues. White sneakers, very nondescript. I decided not to stop. Whoever it was would be fine. Everybody had Triple A, right?

But no. If I did this, If I sped away (I was up to nine miles per hour at this point) and leave this 'whoever' to fend for themselves, then the curve would own me. It would have changed me into a person who was so afraid of it that he went against his own instincts. Nope. That was not gonna happen. Winston Cobb wasn't going out like that, no sir; not after everything I had been through. Besides, it was just a curve. What's the worst that could happen?

I pulled off the road, settling behind the green car. It would take me longer than a normal person to get out and I didn't want the owner of the nondescript sneakers to freak out, so I opened the door and said, "Is everything okay? I'm here to help."

No answer. I grabbed Renee and dug her into the pebbly dirt on the side of the road. Putting my weight on her, I hoisted myself up and out of the car. "Sir, Ma'am, whoever, are you okay? I'm here to-"

I was totally going to say help, but the pebbly dirt on the side of the road caught Renee and she snapped in the middle. I went winding. My leg felt like it was on fire as I bended backward, twisting my ankle up, and slammed against the road. It was official. Abercorn hated me.

"Oh, Jesus," I muttered. Something had bent. Something had torn inside my foot. I could feel it. Pieces of Renee lay beside pieces on me on the road that had almost taken my life not even a year ago. Neither of us were able to move.

The nondescript sneakers sprung to life. I watched them move from under the car. I couldn't tell who their owner was, as they came trotting fast toward me.

"I was going to help you," I said, as the sneakers neared me. "I see now that that sounds ironic." My leg felt worse than it ever had, save for the night of the accident. In fact, the whole thing was like the accident come again. I was on the same road, looking at the same sky, with the same leg throbbing like a bitch.

"Fate's a twisty mistress," the nondescript sneakers sidled up beside me. It was a girl's voice; a voice that, though not recognizable, was familiar-like a tickle in the back of my mind.

"I think fate hates me," I said, trying to lean forward.

"No, no," the girl said, and knelt down. "Just try to lay back. Don't try to move. She spun around in front of me. Leaning over, I caught my first glimpse of her face. Well, first glimpse was a little misleading. I had seen this girl before; in the cafeteria, in the library, on this very road on the worst night of my life.

My face went white and my blood chilled as I realized whose green and brown eyes I was looking at. It was Ava, just like before, just like that night.

Before I could speak, she smiled, looking down at me. "Don't worry. You're going to be fine. I've done this sort of thing before."
Chapter Three

Was she screwing with me? This could not be real. It couldn't be happening.

"You?" I muttered. I squirmed, flinching as I leaned forward. My leg felt like it had an arrow through it.

"Me," Ava agreed. She grabbed my shoulders. "Don't. You're obviously hurt. Let me look at you."

I pulled myself away, grimacing but working through the hot knives that poked into my foot with each tiny movement. I still couldn't stand yet, but I'd get there. "No!' I yelled. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

"I was trying to find the interstate. I'm supposed to meet some friends, and I'm new here," she said a little defensively. "Do I know you?"

"Seriously?!" I asked. My eyes went wide and face got hot. "You're really gonna pretend you don't recognize me? Here, of all places, you don't recognize me?"

"I don't know you," she said flatly, and stood. "Did you hit your head or something?"

"Stop it!" I yelled. "I don't know what your game is, but I know who you are. Do you have any idea what you did to me? I mean... yes, you saved my life. But my entire family thought I was drunk or crazy; probably both."

My eyes stung and my face felt wet. Was I crying? Was I crying in front of a girl?

Well, that's embarrassing.

She knelt beside me, and brushed some stray pebbles from my hair. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She looked over, focusing on the pieces of my cane scattered across the ground. Her eyes got narrow. I hated when people saw Renee. It changed how they saw me. It turned me into some pitiful invalid.

"You're Lucy's boyfriend," she said, her eyes narrowing. "The basketball player."

"The former basketball player," I corrected. It was getting harder to ignore the throbbing in my leg. Maybe getting up wouldn't be so easy after all. "You've heard of me?"

"A little," she said. I looked for something in her eyes; for that 'I'm so sorry for you' look that was worse than all the physical pain put together, but it wasn't there. "You're something of a cautionary tale," she admitted.

"I can't imagine why," I scoffed, rubbing at my leg.

"It hurts?" She asked, leaning forward. "Here, let me." She moved my hand, replacing it with her own.

"No, don't," I said, but it was too late. She was already massaging my leg down to the ankle with tender and firm hands. I NEVER let anyone touch my ankle if I can get around it. Even the nurses had to wait until I was asleep to change my bandages after the surgery. There was something about that area that I didn't like people getting close to, and it wasn't the physical tenderness. That ankle, that damn bum ankle, it was epicenter of my brokenness. It was the thing that made me less. I wouldn't even let Lucy get near it.

But Ava; there was something different with her. She had been there when this happened, at the start of all of it. Or at least, I thought she had been. In some weird way, this belonged to her too. And besides, it was sort of working.

"Feel better?" She asked. I nodded. "My dad fell off of a horse when I was little. He lost the use of his legs. Didn't stop the damn things from hurting though. I got pretty used to this sort of thing."

"You're good at it," I said. She wasn't looking at me. She was focused on my leg, but she smiled. "I bet your dad appreciates it."

"He did," she said, looking. "He's dead now."

"I'm sorry," I bit my lip. "This is the part where you tell me how lucky I am?"

She smiled a quiet half smile. "This is the part where I ask you if you need an ambulance."

I wanted to say no, to get up and walk around; maybe even help her fix her car. But I had been in this position before. I knew my ankle, and I knew when it was shot. And, with pain that intense any time I tried to even flex it, it was absolutely shot.

"Would you still think I was super manly if I said yes?" I asked.

She smiled and wiped still fresh tears from my face. "The manliest."

"You really weren't here last year?" I asked, relaxing as one of her hands started dialing 911 and the other went back to massaging my leg. This girl really did have magic hands.

"What is your deal with last ye-" Her watch started beeping, silencing her. I hadn't noticed it before. It was sort of weird looking; big and bulky, definitely not the most fashionable thing in the world. But it also looked sort of familiar, though I couldn't place where I had seen it before. Ava looked down at it, and her face went pale. "Winston Theodore Cobb?" She asked me, looking up.

"Lucy told you my middle name?"

"No," she said. There was a look on Ava's face that didn't make any sense. It was hard and darker than it had been just seconds ago.

"911, what's your emergency," I heard from the other end of her phone. She didn't answer. She just pursed her lips and stared at me. Her phone started beeping again. It was loud and fast, but this time she didn't look at it.

"911, what's your emergency," the voice on the phone repeated.

The beeping didn't stop. "Ava," I said.

"My friend and I are stranded on Abercorn," she spoke into the phone. "My car is broken down, his leg is hurt, and we're being attacked. Please send help immediately."

"Ma'am, where are your attackers-" Ava ended the call.

My eyebrows knitted together. Attacked? What the hell was she talking about? "Ava, what-"

"Can you stand?" She asked, jumping to her feet.

"You know I can't," I answered, which was true.

"You're going to have to try," she said, talking over her still beeping watch.

"That's not really how it works," I said. Though the massage had eased things a little bit, I knew enough about my faulty foot to know that getting up wasn't something I was going to be able to do just yet.

Before she had a chance to answer, the beeping in Ava's phone morphed into a loud, unimaginably irritating song. Now she looked down at her phone. "Damnit!" She yelled. "It's too late."

"What's too late? What's going on?" I asked, leaning as far up as I could without risking the pangs of pain again.

A burst of light appeared at my far right. Looking over, I saw a weird car speeding toward us. It was old, and not like 2003 old. This was old old. I didn't know much about that sort of stuff, but it was black and looked like the sort of thing you'd see Bonnie and Clyde rolling around in.

"Is that a Rambler?" I asked, pulling out the one piece of information I could remember. I looked to Ava, about to tell her to flag the car down and see if they might be able to help us. But there were daggers in her eyes (mostly the green one), and I knew that, in her perspective at least, the attackers she had told 911 about had just arrived. She spoke into her watch, actually into her watch. "Reporting a 37 point break of Kershner's Loett. Taking evasive action."

I had no idea what that meant. "Do we know them?" I asked. Looking at the car speeding toward us, I was suddenly very aware that I was on the ground and unable to remedy that.

"Stay back here. Stay out of sight, no matter what happens." Ava darted away from me and into the road, into the path of the silver bullet.

The car kept coming. If anything, it sped up. It was... oh God, it was going to hit her.

"Ava, they're not gonna stop!" I screamed. "Ava!" She didn't move. The car roared closer, and all she did was take a deep breath and look at me.

I started to move. Pain be damned, I wasn't about to sit here like some disgusting sloth and let this weird girl get run over; even if she seemed intent on seeing it happen. Needles jabbed into my leg as I stumbled up, holding the side of car for dear life.

The old Rambler was nearly on her now. I could see the people inside of it; two men with slicked back hair. They looked to be in old timey suits. "Ava move, goddamnit!" I screamed.

She mouthed what I looked like 'stay down', and then, with the car inches from her, she fell.

She fell? She was just going to let it run her over? My stomach flipped, making sickening turns as the silver bullet sped over where I knew Ava's body now was. But, as it sped past, I saw that the pavement under it was empty. I saw her fall. Where was she?

A finger tapped my shoulder. I jerked and spun around, my heart so far into my throat that I would have burped white blood cells. It was Ava. She was behind me. How did that happen?

The car roared as it circled back toward us. "Do you have your footing?" Ava asked, looking toward the car.

"Yeah, I guess," I answered.

"Then I am so sorry," she said. And then the bitch kicked my leg out from under me. It wasn't hard to do, given that I was barely standing as it was. A quick nudge against my knee, and I went toppling like a house of cards. She grabbed me by the shoulders mid-fall, and tipped me forward. I went winding toward the ground. I threw my hands out in front of me, trying to brace myself for yet another face plant. But, just as I was preparing for a mouthful of gravel, the ground went away.

December 23rd 2013

I wasn't falling anymore. I was standing up. My leg still hurt, and I was still shaking, but I wasn't falling. Looking around, I saw that I wasn't even on the road anymore. Abercorn, Mom's car, the old Rambler full of spiffy would be assassins; it was all gone; as was the sun.

I was in the woods now, and it was dark. But how was that possible? It was midafternoon. A light, like the light I saw when the old Rambler came rushing toward us, burst into my line of sight. It was directly in front of me this time, so I could see it clearly. It glowed a bunch of different colors. Blues, greens, reds, oranges; they all bled into each other, rushing through the light like ripples in a stream.

My fight or flight instinct kicked in, though seeing as how I was a weakened cripple who had basically just got beat up by a girl, neither seemed like a good option. Still, I would have reached out and touched it if the stupid thing didn't scare me to death. It was a good thing I didn't, because an instant after the thought entered my mind, the light took a weird shape. It twisted and turned until it folded itself into something that resembled a person; and not just any person. As the light dimmed and darkened, I saw that the person it had become was Ava.

"Are you alright?" She said.

"I think so," I said, but then the world started spinning. I didn't know I was falling until she reached out, caught me, and laid me on the ground.

"It's the trip," she answered. "It can be draining the first time around."

"The t-trip," I stammered. "Where are we?"

"Tomorrow," she said, looking down at me; which seemed to be a running theme with us.

"You're not making any sense," I said, and closed my eyes, because even though I was lying down, the world was still sloshing around me.

"Tell me about it," she scoffed. "I'm going to leave you here."

My eyes darted open. "Maybe that's not the best idea," I said.

"They're following us. I need to lead them away," she said, and stood.

I reached out for her legs, which was a pretty pathetic thing to do, but I was afraid and unable to move, not to mention the fact that, if she left, I would apparently be stranded in tomorrow.

"Lead them away with me," I said. "Don't leave."

"I'll be back," she promised. "Just don't move. Promise me you'll stay here."

Nothing I said was going to change her mind. That was clear now. "I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

She fell backwards and, just when I thought she was going to hit the ground beside me, the colored light reappeared and swallowed her up. She was gone, and I was alone in the dark. I had no idea where I was, no idea what was going on, and no idea how, whatever it was, was even possible. All I knew for sure was that my leg was jacked, I shouldn't have taken the car, and that, if I ever managed to get back home, I was never gonna hear the end of this.

I closed my eyes, hoping to stop the spinning, hoping to stop the fire in my ankle. Seconds later, I heard a rustling in the leaves surrounding me. Something was coming. From the sound of it, there were a bunch of somethings, and they were headed right toward me.

Fan-friggin-tastic. The well-dressed lunatics in the really dated car had found me. And now they were going to do whatever it was they were going to do to Ava before she fell into the magic light and disappeared.

....You know what? People are totally gonna think I'm drunk again.

The rustling got louder, and soon I could hear voices. Men. Women. God, how many were there? There were only two people in the Rambler.

I searched the ground as far as I could stretch without moving. The pain in my leg was insane, and it was starting to make me nauseas. Finally, I came across a rock. Picking it up, I held it close to me, waiting for whoever was coming to come. I might not have been able to get away or to fight them off in my current condition. But damn if I wasn't gonna beam one of them in the head.

My stomach flipped, sickness churning inside of me. The rustling was louder now, so loud that the Rambler dudes and their friends couldn't be over a couple feet away. I wished I could have seen them coming, but Ava had laid me in a sort of valley, and given the way the rustling was, they would be on me before I got a look at them.

The pain in my leg flared up again and, listening, I could finally make out what the people coming toward me were saying.

"Right down here, past the clearing," a voice said. I reared back, holding onto the rock in my hand like some sort of pathetic lifejacket. Cafeteria burrito flavored bile started to rise in my throat. Oh good. At least I'd get the satisfaction of throwing up on these idiots before they murdered me.

I didn't wait to take them in. As soon as I saw the first flit of a person, I launched my rock. It wasn't until the stupid thing was in the air, on target to strike her right between her mismatched eyes, that I saw it was Ava.

Luckily, Ava's reflexes were as curious as everything else about her. Without so much as flinching, she snatched the rock out of the air. It was very ninja.

"He's down here!" She said over her shoulder, then tossed the rock down, and shot me a 'what the hell' look. Instantly, I noticed that her clothes were different. But how could that be? She had been gone for seconds; at most a minute. She didn't have time to change. What was more, who was she talking to?

"Ava, what-" That's when the burrito bile came back up. I was still blowing chunks when the people Ava had yelled to; Mom, Dad, Roger, Lucy, and about a dozen other people from our street came rushing down toward me.

Mom knelt down and hugged me hard, totally overlooking the fact that there was half digested tortilla chip on my face. "Thank God. Thank God. Thank you, God," she muttered over and over again, pressing my head against her chest.

I tried to console her, to tell her that, the way I looked notwithstanding, I was okay. But as soon as I opened my mouth, more vomit came shooting out. It splashed against Mom's blouse, but all she did when she saw it was look to Dad and say, "He's sick, Jim."

"I'm okay," I muttered through the pain, sickness, and the world, which had started spinning again. The next thing I knew, Dad had lifted me into the air. He was holding me in his arms like he used to when I was a kid. Mom had my foot in her hand, elevating it.

"You shouldn't move him. You should wait for the ambulance," some guy whose voice I didn't recognize suggested.

"The hell with that. He's been down here long enough," Dad said. He felt hot and I could feel his heart racing under his shirt. Long enough? I had only been here for a minute.

"I fell," I explained, though it surprised me how weak my voice sounded. Dad carried me up to the clearing. He laid me on the tailgate of his truck and wrapped me up in blankets.

"You're gonna be okay, kid," he said, rubbing my shoulders. I had literally just got finished telling my Dad how I didn't need him, that I had absolved him of all responsibility for me. Guess a little bit of trauma changed things. I wanted to apologize, to explain why I was so pissed off all the time. But I was weak and tired, and I couldn't stop thinking about Ava and all that had happened.

"And she disappeared," I muttered, as though that would have made sense to anybody. "She just disappeared."

Thank You

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