Chapter 1

My palette looked like a bruise, black

and blue with blotches of purple

and yellow. My painting must have

looked ike a bruise, too, because Mr.

Roy, the AP art teacher, hovered by

my table wringing his hands.

"That's very dark, Leda," he said.

"Remember, you're supposed to try

to capture your best memory in this

piece."

At the tables around the classroom

were uniform images and colors:

Family, friends, sunrise shades.

And then there was my painting, a

midnight scene of black trees and

small stars, and the silhouette of a

man walking with a little girl.

The students at my place paused to listen.

"its a dream" i said.

"Or a nightmare," one of them

muttered.

Mr. Roy frowned and they quickly

resumed painting. He turned his

frown on me. "A good dream, I

hope."

Yeah." I hunkered over the page and

waited for him to go away. Earlier

that morning, Mr. Roy had lectured

us on the personal, subjective nature

of art, yet here he was judging my

work, and so were my carbon copy

classmates. I doubted any of their

family scenes meant half as much to

them as that night had meant to mne.

It was my talisman against reality,

and the years had pearled it into a

perfect, gleaming memory.

I ate my lunch in the guidance

counselor's office, something I had

been allowed to do since arriving

at Franklin High. Fortunately,

we had moved to Massachusetts

before my senior year started.

Unfortunately, it was senior year and

all the friendships and cliques were

firmly established. I was the moody

outsider with a dead brother.

The other students couldn't have

known about my brother--not

unless some faculty member let it

slip-but sometimes, I would swear

they did. The way people looked at

me, it seemed like he was walking

right behind me, my forever shadow.

"Hey, you. How are things?" Mrs.

Callahan, the guidance counselor,

didn't look surprised to find me

sitting outside her office. She took

the chair beside me.

"Pretty good, thanks."

"How was the cafeteria yesterday?"

I dreaded these checkups, but I knew

it was her job, and it was a small

price to pay to avoid the cafeteria.

I had nobody to sit with, literally

nobody. There must have been some

table designated for outcasts, but

the prospect of roaming the large

lunchroom, searching for that table

while everybody watched me...

I shuddered.

The reason I hadn't been in the

guidance office yesterday was that I

had found an empty classroom and

eaten my lunch there.

"It was okay," I said. "I still prefer it

here."

"Tm happy to have you here, Leda,

but I can't let this go on much longer.

I'm not helping you by keeping you

away from everyone. I know it's hard

to be in a new place, but try to think

of this as a fresh start. You can make

great friends here. You can reinvent

yourself."

I liked Mrs. Callahan, honestly,

though I hated being lumped in

with the unhappy students who

frequented her office. I had seen

them al: The eating disordered,

the bullied, the ones with trouble

at home or cuts on their arms over

some infatuation gone wrong.

I didn't fall into any of those

categories, and I privately resented

the notion of "reinventing myself."

Who said I didn't like myself?

The only problem was, I didn't fall

into any of the normal categories,

either. I disliked sports and PE. I

wasn't unusually academic, though I

kept my grades in the A and B range.

I was pretty, but not wild enough to

run with the popular girls. I wasn't

punk, goth, or hipster. I wasn't ultra

funny, musical, or philosophical.

I didn't dance. I didn't play video games.

I had no interest in editing the yearbook

or literary magazine.

I was private, artistic, shy, and maybe

a little too serious for my age, but a

death in the family will do that.

You know, we have a new student

coming next week. You two might hit

it off."

Yeah?" I didn't envy anyone starting

twelfth grade almost a month into

the year.

Had one month passed so quickly?

And I had not a single friend to show

for it. No wonder Mrs. Callahan

wanted to give me the boot. I

probably had a dictionary-sized

file in her office. Leda Forester:

Disengaged, depressed, does not play

well with others. I grinned at my

thoughts and Mrs. Callahan beamed.

"Imay or may not have peeked

at his schedule. He's in art and

oceanography with you.

"Oh. Cool." I tried to sound

enthusiastic.

"His name is Calvin."

"Tl keep an eye out for him."

Instead, the boy's name slipped

from my mind immediately. I had

other things to think about, like my

eighteenth birthday tomorrow. I was

dreading it. Such a wave of sadness

followed my birthdays, no matter

how cheerful Mom and Dad and

I pretended to be, and tomorrow

I would reach an age my brother

never could.

Ihad thought turning seventeen

was difficult, but this was worse:

Surpassing David, leaving him

behind in a new way.

My nemesis, Gary Flincher, prodded

the back of my seat on the bus ride

home. I glared at him and he tried to

say hello. I knew he was maladroitly

attempting to flirt and I had shut him

down in every way possible, but he

persisted.

Gary wasn't bad looking, either, but

I wanted so much more than a cute

face. My peers confused me with

their end-over-end crushes, which

seemed exhausting and painful. I

was waiting for someone worth the

effort-someone who gave me no

choice but to fal1-and I doubted I

would find him among the offerings

at my high school.

It didn't help that my ideal was a

man who had literally saved my

life. How could the boys at school

measure up?

I daydreamed about him instead

of thinking about my birthday. I

wondered how old he would be

now, or, for that matter, how old he

was eight years ago. He had seemed

like an adult then, but so had my

seventeen-year-old brother.

And who was he? A neighbor?

Maybe the owner of the farm

beyond the creek? My brother and

I had trick-or-treated all over our

development and nearby streets and

the man had never come to the door.

I had hoped he would until I hoped

he wouldn't, because how could

he be something as ordinary as a

neighbor?

I nearly missed my stop.

"Wake up," said Gary, tapping the

top of my head. I jerked away and

glowered at him before stalking off

the bus. Gross.

"How was school1?" Mom asked as I

searched the pantry for a snack.

Fine. What are you up to?"

Just rattling around."

Rattling around sounded about

right. Our new house was too large

for a family of three, and Mom was

a homemaker whose only child was

nearly eighteen. She and Dad had

unpacked in less than two weeks.

She cleaned religiously-I could

eat off the floor in any room-and

cooked a full dinner every night.

Her latest project was stenciling the

bathrooms.

Dad got home from work around

six and we sat down to chicken,

broccoli, and rice. He asked about

school. I said it was fine and then,

guiltily, added a few details about

art class. Nothing negative, ever. I

had mastered the art of acting happy

wherever we went because I couldn't

stand to make my parents any

sadder.

"Thoughts about what you want to

eat tomorrow?" Mom said.

She meant my special birthday

dinner, which I had given zero

thought. I wouldn't have any

appetite tomorrow.

"Not really."

"I bet we can find a Red Lobster

around here," said Dad.

"Oh, yum." I stared at my plate.

The conversation was breaking my

heart. I wondered if they could hear

it. When we were a family of four,

we were a clan-the Foresters--and

David and I were young, which kept

Mom busy, and Dad didn't make as

much money but his job was less

stressful and we were all happy.

Now that we were three and I

was the only child, I felt strangely

insufficient. Add to that the

unspeakable sadness of the three

of us sitting in an overlarge house

around an overlarge meal, discussing

my birthday as if it were a good thing

and not another milestone in the

history of grief-I couldn't take it.

"Red Lobster sounds perfect,

actually." I carried my plate to the

sink. "I think I'm going to take a

walk".

"Have your phone" said Dad.

"Where?" Mom voice was tight.

"Just in the woods. I wont go far.

I'll come back before its dark".

"It's going to be dark soon."

"I know. I love the fall colors at this

time of day." I hurried out before she

could offer to go with me.

I did love the fall colors at the end of

the day, and if there was one thing I

appreciated about our big new house

it was the big piece of property that

came with it-six wooded acres

which were currently every shade of

flame.

I didn't cry until the trees closed

around me. Then I let my tears fall

for an audience of oaks, elms, and

birches. Cold wind slipped through

the woods. Bright leaves plastered

the floor and ferns whispered

around my legs.

Stupid, stupid birthday, I thought,

and stupid life like a lottery in which

we had drawn the losing numbers.

Would it be wrong to tell my parents

I didn't want to celebrate tomorrow?

I laughed and scrubbed my face. Yes.

I couldn't deprive them of their only

child's birthday.

"Running away again?"

I stopped sharply and turned, and

there he was, leaning against a tree

in the fading light.

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