When I pull out of the lot and into the bus loop, a crowd has gathered in front of the school, including Will, Hillary, Allie, and a bunch of their friends. Then I understand. I’m the senior prank. Familiar faces, all seniors, cheer and hoot. They yell things like “Hungry much?” and “Don’t let that one fall off; you might want to save it for later.”

  I’m about to drive away, but then stop and put the Honda in park. The calls from the crowd get quiet. As I take a deep breath, their voices fade away. I open my door. Someone calls, “I knew she couldn’t resist. Don’t forget to share, Sugar.” Someone else adds, “Yeah, why’d you have to go and clean out Dunkin’ Donuts? Next time leave some for us.”

  It doesn’t matter what they say.

  I walk around the car to the passenger side so I face the crowd. Just as I did with Mama, I try to see the beauty in their faces. I try. I clear my throat.

  “I feel sorry for all of you if your idea of humor is insulting the way someone looks. Yeah, I may be different, but in addition to my pity, you also deserve my gratitude. Going on four years, you have all done a solid job of teaching me who I am, but it’s not who you think. I’m a good person, and I am going to do great things.” I pause, but decide to leave it at that.

  “So, see ya around and—” I smile my beautiful smile and lift my arms in victory. Staring into the crowd I loudly say, “Fuck you!”

  My words stun. If someone dropped a pin we’d all hear it. Something shifts inside, and I feel relief. I get in the Honda and drive away from Johnson Regional High School, away from Mama, and away from the pathetic town. I meant what I said to them. In some kind of twisted way, all the darkness they showed me guided me toward my own inner light. I’m sure it would have been better had they just been nice to begin with, and I had some friends to hang out with on the weekends, a boy to invite me to the prom, or even just a day free from harassment. That would have been refreshing. But that isn’t how it was, and there was nothing I could do to change myself that would change the way they treated me. Juliana told me that one. The best thing for me to do is accept myself and move on.

  I’m not sure I’ll be going back to my therapist either, though if I stay in Keene with Henry and Stacy, I’ll be closer to her office. I want to leave it all behind, everything except me. I want to say adiós to Mama’s abuse—that idea came from Juliana, too—and good riddance to Skunk as well. Juliana explained that there is physical abuse, the kind when they’d hit or shove me, but the emotional abuse did as much damage. Even’s words echoed this truth.

  Mama’s weaknesses are clear now—unfortunately, she’s passed her problems on to Skunk. She doesn’t like herself. She taught me the same, but I don’t buy it. I’m bound to find my own strength, and the first step is simply stepping away from the past. It’s time to leave the bullying at school. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t have to take it. I see now that the world is bigger than Od Town; I’ve felt just as stuck here as I have to the stickiness of the sugar and junk food I’ve stuffed myself with.

  When I’ve driven out of my hometown, I pull over to the side of the road and call Fat Henry. I don’t know why I still call him that, not to his face anymore, but just in my mind. Maybe it’s like embracing the name Sugar. It’s part of who I am, maybe not a proud part, but it’s shaped me. Denying it would be denying part of me, and that doesn’t feel right.

  He’s still at work, but arranges to get out early to meet me at his apartment. I follow his directions. He won’t be back for about an hour, so I park in the lot and take a walk. I think about the past twenty-four hours and how wrong everything went but then, taking a deep breath of late-spring air, realize that actually, everything went right.

  I met Jesús, found out about my father. I’m not only who I thought I was, but so much more. I stood up for myself in front of almost the entire school. I feel freer than ever, which is saying a lot since up until recently Mama and compulsive eating imprisoned me. It’s as if everything Juliana and I have been talking about finally clicked. Or I cracked.

  I stop on a bench and pull Even’s journal out of my bag. I gaze at his smiling face in the photo of us. Tears slip silently down my cheeks.

  “And where do you fit into all of this?” I ask. What direction has my life gone? His appearance in my backyard that day was the catalyst. I didn’t know it at the time, but since meeting him all those months ago, I slowly started to crawl out of my own personal hell. Or shell, I think as I rub the heart-shaped shell from our day at the beach between my fingers. And now what? A bird flies high above me, circling. It’s an eagle. It dips past the tops of the trees and out of sight.

  Balancing Even’s journal on my knees, I trace his route west with my finger. My tears turn to sobs and I start to shake. The journal slips to the ground. I leap to the sidewalk to retrieve it and find the back cover has come loose. I try to adjust it so it fits together correctly and then notice the inner lining rubs up against the binding. I open the book all the way to discover the inner lining is actually a flap. I peel it back to reveal a few pieces of the journal paper folded and tucked inside. How had I not noticed this before?

  I carefully remove them and flatten the first one. Across the top in Even’s handwriting it says, Dear Sugar.

  I gasp.

  I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while, but didn’t have the nerve. I saw you before that first day when I was looking for my wallet. You served me ice cream once at the Scoop and Sprinkle. Maybe you don’t remember, but I do. You said, “Sprinkles? They’re free. Would you like some?” For some reason I think you were expecting me to say no, and when I said, “Rainbow, please,” your face lit up in a smile I will never forget. Something about it pulled at me. I kept thinking about you. I went back to the Scoop and Sprinkle a few other times, but you weren’t there.

  When school started, Will and Hillary filled me in on all the cliques at Johnson. Hillary made it clear how uncool you were, but I didn’t care. It’s so lame anyway. Sometimes I wonder if you should just go to a different school. I’d go, too, and then we could just avoid it altogether. But I’ve never known how to talk to you about this. I could see Will and Hillary were right in some ways, you didn’t really have any friends, are the topic of ridicule, and you just take it. I want to talk to you and make things better, but it’s awkward. It’s like if I bring attention to it I’m just . . . I don’t know. Making it true? Validating those idiots who don’t even know you? I’m not sure what to do, but it just doesn’t seem right. I don’t know what I’m saying here. I don’t know what to say to you other than I really like you. Maybe that’s something.

  -E

  Tears stream from my eyes. Even, Even, Even. There’s a hole inside me that longs for him, an emptiness that hurts with his absence. I want him to appear, so we can talk about it. I’d tell him about the donuts and my big speech. I wished he’d talked to me about this back then. Maybe none of this would have happened, and maybe we’d still be at JRHS as a couple who’d gone to prom together—or somewhere else.

  The voice in my head that used to be hateful toward me nudges with a persistent pssst. I know what it wants to tell me, but I don’t want to hear it. I want my fantasy back. The voice is louder than make-believe, so I have to listen. I’m not at all glad Even died, but before I read this letter, I was happier and freer than I’ve ever been. Staying at JRHS, no matter what the circumstances, would have prevented me from feeling that. No, if he were still with me, we would have found a way. But still, the ache.

  I slouch on the bench. I pull out the second letter.

  Dear Sugar,

  I’m going to try again. I wrote you another letter, but didn’t really get my point across. It didn’t come out right. I’ve never had as much fun with anyone as I have with you. Especially not a girl. You make me laugh, you make me think, and even though everyone at I think you are beautiful. There I said it. OK, wrote it. I’m not sure I could say it aloud, I might turn every shade of red, but I want you to know how pretty you are. I love to see you smile, your eyes light up. Your hair is so soft and smooth and smells like sunflowers. You’re special and forget whoever says you’re not.

  I can’t wait for Christmas. I’ve thought up the best plan. Just hope for snow. It will be unforgettable. Maybe even magical. I hope. A boy can hope. Hang in there, though. I know things aren’t always easy for you. Someday, it will be different. I’m sure of it. So even though I didn’t give you that other letter, I’ll sum it up. I like you. A lot. And you’re pretty. Bella—your middle name, right? See, someone knew what they were talking about, you just ignore the others.

  -E

  I can hardly feel my body. All I am is head, and heart, and the hands that hold this piece of Even. I’m not sure I am breathing. As happy as I am to know Even’s feelings for me and to have these pieces of paper to remain connected to him, they punctuate how very gone he is. I don’t know if I can handle it. I put the second letter back without taking out the last one. I close the journal. I close my eyes. My conflicting emotions confuse me—freedom, happiness, grief, loneliness.

  I put Even’s journal back in my bag. I walk back to Fat Henry’s as Even’s words, in Even’s voice, dance around in my head, making me feel a little drunk with love and a whole lot alone.

  Fat Henry’s car pulls in when I get back to the parking lot. He slides in next to the Honda and pops out.

  “What the heck?” he says in alarm at the sight of dozens of donuts dotting my car. Like my own when I first saw the spectacle, his mouth hangs open. I open the rear door and pull out the box from the night before.

  “Want one? Help yourself.”

  He shakes his head. “Explain.”

  “Apparently I, Mercy Bella Legowski-Gracia, aka Sugar, was the senior-class prank at Johnson Regional High School. Pretty spectacular, huh?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Henry runs upstairs and grabs a paper bag for all the donuts that managed to remain affixed to the Honda. When he returns, we pluck each one off.

  “Stacy insists we compost, so into the bag they go.” When we’re nearly done, which doesn’t take long, Henry says, “I’m so sorry. What assholes.”

  I shake my head. “I probably wouldn’t have said this last week, but it’s OK.”

  “OK? Hardly. Want to go to the principal or the police? . . . I have a baseball bat. Cracked windshields will be sweet revenge for this mess.”

  “How about the car wash,” I answer.

  While he sits in the passenger side, pointing the way, I start to explain my last twenty-four hours.

  “So Skunk’s buddy has been harassing you. Like, sexually?”

  I nod, somewhat embarrassed.

  “That’s fucked-up. Stacy may have taken the fat kid out of me, but she didn’t take the fight. And you, Sugar, are my sister. You’re Skunk’s sister. What’s the matter with him? If you want—now, I’m totally serious—I will go beat the living crap out of that kid. Whatdya say his name was? Caleb?”

  I smile. Now that’s the Fat Henry I remember. The bruiser. The fighter. Sometimes a bully, but I’m sure Stacy has gotten that part out of his system.

  “I know you would,” I tell him. “But I don’t plan to go back there. In fact, I’ve been thinking. Well, first there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Yep. Hold on tight,” I say. I tell him about going to church and meeting our uncle Jesús.

  We return to the apartment, and when we’re inside, I pull out the envelope. Henry drops onto the couch. Very slowly, he shuffles through the photographs. His face is unreadable. He holds his forefinger up, giving me the one-minute signal, and goes to another room.

  The apartment is neat and tastefully decorated. A large bookshelf filled with novels and texts takes up nearly half of one wall. A black-and-white print of Paris hangs on the wall above the couch where I sit, and the bases of the two lamps on either side are wire renditions of the Eiffel Tower. On the coffee table are a few magazines, mostly food-related, and a block with photos on each side. I pick it up and see different snapshots of Henry and Stacy, all smiles. It reminds me of the collage of Even and me.

  When Henry comes back out to the living room, his eyes are red. He hands me another photograph. Our father stands in front of our old house, holding Henry’s little hand. They’re both grinning—identical smiles, my smile. Henry takes a deep breath.

  “I thought he was dead or in jail. I never thought Mama drove him away. Why would she do that?”

  I shrug. “Beats me. There is also this. Maybe it will tell us more. But I’m afraid my eleventh-year Spanish won’t quite translate it in its entirety.”

  Henry grins. “I may have been a pain in the ass when I was younger, but I never forgot the Spanish Papa taught me. It was the only subject in school I did well in. Looking back, I clung to it. Did you know I met Stacy at a weekly conversational Spanish group at a café in Keene? I know it sounds weird, coming from me, but it was my only tie to our dad. You know? If Mama ever heard me utter a word that wasn’t in English, she’d tear my hide, but now I can speak freely. Stacy minors in Spanish at Keene State, and we speak it all the time. Or, to be more accurate, Spanglish.” Henry’s expression is an exact mixture of happiness and sadness.

  I’ve never thought about how our dad being gone affected my older brothers, who actually remember him, especially Henry.

  “I can probably read the letter,” he says.

  I hand it to him, afraid of what I might hear and afraid of what I might not.

  “A mis queridos hijos,” Henry says. His voice falters. “To my dear children.”

  “It’s OK.” I have tears in my eyes, but never in a million years did I expect this moment. Henry reads the letter aloud in Spanish first. I catch the gist. Our father tells us how sorry he was to have to leave, how much he misses us and loves us. It was exactly what I hoped, in my deepest heart, to hear. I’m crying buckets by the end, and Henry is, too.

  “Now in English. Papa tells us that he fought to stay in the U.S. He didn’t want to leave, but someone reported he sold drugs, something easy to pin on him because he was foreign. He says he never ever did any of the things they accused him of. Nonetheless, when questioned, it appeared that Mama did her best to make him look guilty. He did everything he could to remain with his family, but because of the shame he brought upon us, he thought maybe it was better he was out of our lives. He writes that his brother Jesús kept an eye on us and let him know how all of us kids were doing. He said Jesús tried to get Mama to cooperate, to tell the authorities that she’d been fabricating the truth so he could come back. When that didn’t work, he’d even saved enough money for us to go visit him in Mexico, but Mama said if Jesús bothered her again, she’d report him, too.”

  “If Papa is anything like Jesús, there’s not a mean or law-breaking bone in his body,” I say, appalled at what I’ve just learned.

  “He goes on to say that his mama, our abuela, became very sick and he had to take care of her. Apparently, we are Mexican and Polish, with some cousins in Puerto Rico,” Henry says lightly. “Mama always said we were Puerto Rican, but Juan and Jesús went from Mexico to Puerto Rico and then came here. Anyway, he continued to try to gain access to the U.S. via the Mexican authorities, but they forbade him, because of his record. And now he’s there, waiting. He says he hopes to see us someday, that we are always welcome to visit him. He regrets everything that happened and prays for us every day. He adds that he will send money if we need it for passage and that, more than anything in this life, he loves us.”

  I push myself over on the couch and put my arms around Henry, who is crying just as much as I am. I never thought we’d share this moment, but it’s comforting, raw, real.

  “Who knew? I never expected this,” I say when I’ve finally stopped sobbing.

  “What I can’t grasp is what the heck is the matter with Mama? Why would she do something like that?” he asks.

  “I think she’s sick, and has been for a long time. For a little while now, I’ve been seeing a therapist and she’s explained a lot of things to me, has helped me see myself within the context of our lives in that crazy house and, now, outside of it. She’s helped me to see myself differently.” I pour this out and Henry listens with interest. “Also, a friend of mine, a dear friend, perhaps my only friend, once told me I was full of confidence; I just misplaced it. Turns out, he was right. Mama did a job of helping me hide it real well,” I say, pausing a moment to process all of this before I go on.

  “So that brings me to a couple things. I’m wondering if I can stay here for a while, just until I figure out what I’m going to do. I have a few weeks of school left. I am going to find out if I can finish up out of the building and still pass this year. I hope so. There’s also the matter of Mama. I took care of her, but I can’t do that anymore. Her cough, it’s so bad. She needs to see a doctor. And Henry, she really needs another kind of help, not just someone to yell at and bring her more soda, clean up after her mess, and take out her frustrations on. Juliana, my therapist, said that a nurse could go and look after her; it’d be covered by her insurance. When I told Mama originally, she refused of course. But I’m not going back there. Well actually, there is one thing I need to go back for.” I proceed to tell Henry about Even and the motorcycle.

  “You ride a motorcycle?! My little sister? Shut up. It’s a good thing I lost all that weight; otherwise I’d probably have just had a heart attack. Seriously?” He braces himself on the couch as if all this new information might carry him away.

  I pull out my license. He studies it. “Dang. So you and this boy, he taught you to ride? You own a motorcycle?”

  “Well, it’s stolen, actually.” I realize I’ve been talking about Even in the present tense. Based on what little I’d said about him, Juliana assumed correctly at our last session when she’d told me that I hadn’t digested my grief—leaving me hungry and hollow. I’m not ready to let go of him. I remember the notes in the journal and Even’s sweet confessions.