With the paint ready to mix, I plugged in the CD player and keyed up U2. Not the new stuff, the really powerful older stuff. Cranking the volume, I left the world of boys and tryouts and seniors and pool parties outside and closed my eyes, feeling the music all the way to my fingertips. Against the naked background of my mind I saw the finished painting as I wanted it to be. As I dreamt it could be.

  My mother’s face drifted in and out of focus as I reached deeper for the more honest memories of our time in Stonehaven. The picture cleared. Opening my eyes, I dabbed at the pallet with a flat brush, fine tuning the slope of her neck down to the pale, loose sundress like all the others she lived in that summer. Detailing. Shadowing. Trying to capture that something that even then couldn’t stop her from being breathtakingly beautiful. The shadows emerged, giving a reality to the scene I hadn’t been able to achieve with my other stuff. My own work dragged me in, consuming me.

  Maybe it was that the day was hazy. Or maybe I’d done everything possible to push it from my memory. Either way, the artist in me struggled to capture her, to hold her on canvas… even as the teenager in me wished that day six years ago had never happened.

  # # #

  “Amy Nicole, if you’re not down here in two minutes, you’re going to school. The elementary school is an easy stop on my way to work.”

  Were there ever words crafted to motivate an eleven-year-old faster?

  “Coming!”

  I pulled my Keds on and sprinted down the stairs. It was a double-stuff Oreo worthy day. Not only did I get to skip school, but my mom and dad were staying home too.

  It was enough to make a kid suspicious.

  Of course, this was all part of the “things are going to change, we need to spend more time together as a family” kick my parents had been on for a couple months. They’d started what they’d called “minor adjustments” right before we’d moved to the little cottage on the river in Ridge View. Leave it to parents to see ripping me from my friends and moving several states away as a minor adjustment.

  In the kitchen, my mom sat at the oversized butcher’s block table, packing a bunch of food into a basket while my dad played with her hair.

  “Hey, are you guys going to be all mushy or are we going on a picnic?”

  My dad turned and grinned at me… he didn’t let go of my mom, but still. It put a quick stop to anything more. Like kissing. Who wanted to deal with that?

  “Are you ready?” Mom asked, as she brushed past my dad to get some sodas from the fridge.

  “Amy-girl.” My dad reached up and gave my ponytail a light yank. “Run to the car and get the picnic blanket out of the trunk.”

  Picnics were so perfectly special that, yes, we had a picnic blanket permanently in the car. You never knew when you’d need to eat outside and without a table.

  But…

  “Why am I bringing the blanket in?” It was beautiful out, and I never bought that whole if-we-eat-indoors-on-the-floor-we-can-call-it-a-picnic thing.

  Dad glanced toward Mom before answering.

  “Why would we want to go somewhere else when we haven’t even explored our own new space?” He threw his hands out wide like a ringmaster in a circus. All he needed was a top hat and some clowns dancing behind him. But our new kitchen wasn’t really big enough for dancing clowns. “We have lots of land and flowers and that big tree with that pretty perfect looking rope swing. Not to mention the river running by. What more could we want?”

  I glanced at my mom. She looked so hopeful. And tired. She’d been doing all the unpacking while I’d been at school, so I guess it was time to suck it up and yard-picnic.

  “I’ll go get the blanket.” I called over my shoulder as I pushed the screen door open, “But this means I get two sodas at lunch. And cookies.”

  Mom and Dad were already headed down to the river as I slammed the truck shut. Mom had her arm looped through his, leaning against his side and smiling up at him. They looked like a couple from an old movie.

  Other kids complained about their parents all the time. How they fought with them, fought with each other, were boring or stupid or annoying or bossy.

  I was one of the lucky ones. I had great parents. They’d always told me they had wanted three kids, but were blessed with one super kid instead. When I was little I thought I was a super hero and just hadn’t come into my powers yet.

  My mom made me a cape.

  I wore it.

  In public.

  No, we do not discuss these things.

  Dad settled Mom on the blanket and then spread everything around us, spoiling each of us. His girls.

  I picked one of the flowers bending over the edge of our blanket. I think they were one of the reasons Mom pushed for this house—a natural garden painting the river’s edge.

  “These flowers are going to be gorgeous. All the silt from the last time the river flooded has really made the shores fertile.” Mom pulled a buttercup from its cluster and held it under my chin. “Someone likes butter.”

  I made a face, ignoring how both of them laughed.

  My favorite part of the new house was the rope swing over the river.

  Before I could test it out, we had to move everything out of the way, settle Mom in the lawn chair, and let Dad do the first string testing. He bounced on the rope a couple times, putting all his weight into it. And then, super fast, he ran at it, swinging out over the river.

  Which would have been great if he’d grabbed on high enough to not drag his feet through the water on the way back.

  Finally he let me on. I hooked my feet over the thick knot at the bottom and let him push me out and catch me back over and over. Mom held up her fingers, giving us scores. She was worse than the America’s Top Model judges. That last one so didn’t deserve a three.

  When I was done—okay, when Dad was tired of pushing me—we flopped down at Mom’s feet and played I-spy with the clouds drifting by.

  “So, Amy-girl.” My dad propped himself up next to the lawn chair my mother was in. “There’s something your mom and I need to talk to you about.”

  I glanced from one to the other. They both looked worried. I’d known it was too good to be true.

  “Dad, I’m eleven, not stupid.” He rolled his neck to look up at my mom while I waited. “Seriously, how much worse than moving here could it be?”

  “Your dad and I moved us here for a very specific reason.” My mom shifted her hand to lay it on my father’s shoulder. “We want the next couple months to be a great time for all of us. We wanted to slow things down and just enjoy our family. There’s a good school here and we’re close to one of the top hospitals.”

  I’d argue with her on the school thing, but…

  “Why do we need to be near a great hospital?” My gut clenched like when you’re at the top of a roller coaster and your brain tells you for one split second you’re going to fall off the track.

  An edgy, grating sound escaped my dad and I shifted to look at him. His eyes were glimmery and focused far off over my shoulder.

  “Amy, I’m sick.” My mom’s hand tightened on Dad’s shoulder when he covered his eyes and let out something that sounded frighteningly like a sob.

  “Sick, like a really bad cold, right?” Right?

  “No, honey. Sick like I’m not going to get better and…” She gave me the saddest smile I’d ever seen. It hurt to look at coming from my always sunny mother. “And I’m going to get worse. Pretty quickly.”

  My dad really was crying now and I don’t know which scared me worse.

  “No, you’re not.” I mean, that didn’t even make sense.

  “Yes, sweetie. I am.” She looked healthy. I mean she’d been tired and stuff, but we’d just moved. And she was sitting there, peaceful. Shouldn’t she be throwing stuff and screaming if she was dying?

  If she was leaving us?

  How could she stand it? I couldn’t.

  I jumped up, not sure where I was going, and ran. I ran down our lane and over the bridge that kept us separated from the rest of town. I don’t even remember which way I turned, I just ran like I’d find an escape. The sound of my Keds slapping on the ground, the huffing of my breath, the too loud pounding of my heart pushing everything else out of my head.

  I’m not sure when I stopped. I ran until I had to walk and I walked until my legs gave out. Someone called my dad and he came and got me. Not one word about running out on the family. Not one word about Mom dying.

  Yeah, that was a day for the history books.

  Years later, that was the day I tried to capture on canvas. The first part, the flowers and my mom’s soft smile. The rest? Not so much.

  # # #

  It wasn’t until the music switched off that I realized I wasn’t alone in the art room anymore. The sudden silence snapped me back to today, the painting in front of me a faded study of a faded memory.

  Glancing up, I funneled my sadness into an anger I didn’t know I had in me. It pounded through my body and over every nerve ending like a summer rain, hard and deafening. When I saw Luke Parker standing there, looking around as if he’d never seen a high school art room before, I almost threw my brushes at him.

  “What are you doing here?” I didn’t have the time or energy to show him any type of patience. This was my place. My sanctuary. And wasn’t he supposed to be at a stupid seniors-only pool party?

  “I thought I’d see what was so interesting you’d skip hanging out with your boyfriend and his buddies.”

  I swung toward the jar of soapy water and swirled my brush until it came away clean. Without facing him, I answered. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Luke was closer than I expected when he replied.

  “No. You aren’t his girlfriend, but I’m not so sure about the other way around.”

  The sound of his footsteps neared and I spun to face him as he moved to step past the easel, to come around to my side of the painting. My space behind the canvas. I raised a hand in front of me, the movement so abrupt it caught his attention.

  “Stop,” I said. “No more.”

  I shook my head at the words. No more. No more questions. No more pushing. No more steps toward the only four square feet of Earth I considered my own.

  Most people would have pushed, urged me to let them see, questioned why they couldn’t.

  Luke’s gaze didn’t leave mine. It didn’t slide toward the canvas trying to catch a peek of what I worked on. He just nodded once and stepped back.

  My breath rushed out in a huff. “Thank you.”

  He nodded again, as if he got it.

  “So, this is what you do? Where you go?”

  “If you mean, do I come here to get my painting done, then the answer is yes.”

  “No. I meant, this is where you come to hide and work things out? Where even the few people you can’t hide from leave you alone?”

  I stilled to the point of fearing my heart had stopped.

  “How dare you.” I came around the canvas at him. “How dare you show up a few days ago and provoke and question me about my entire life. You don’t know anything.”

  “So you aren’t here avoiding all those people at the pool? Avoiding watching Kent ooze his way around that cheerleader?”

  “Why would I care what a group of people I hardly know does?” I fisted my hands trying to make them stop shaking.

  “You don’t care that the guy who turns on the charm for you when he thinks no one is looking is doing the same thing for a bikini clad cheer-dealer as we speak? You don’t care that every senior on the field today is there but you?”

  “I wasn’t invited, alright?” My answer echoed off the walls in the sudden silence. “I wasn’t invited,” I repeated more quietly.

  Luke stepped toward me. “Amy…”

  I raised my hand again—protecting myself this time, not my painting. “Don’t.”

  “Amy, he isn’t worth it. I don’t know what’s going on, but it obviously isn’t good for you.” Luke came toward me and didn’t stop this time when I waved my hand in front of me. “He isn’t one of the good guys, and you deserve the best. Even I can see that already.”

  I had no idea I was crying until his hand came up and brushed a tear away.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “Not for him.”

  He looked like he wanted to do more, to say more, but that word-searching look crossed his face again and he just stood there, looking down at me, invading my sanctuary.

  The too-much feeling washed over me again, pushing everything I tried to ignore through my mind.

  “I’d really like you to go now.”

  After a moment, he nodded and left. The door fell shut. The room fell silent. And my heart fell back out of my throat.

  # # #

  “You’ve reached the middle of nowhere. Leave a message after the beep.”

  BEEP.

  “Rachel, it’s me. Seriously, call. Life is insane and things with Chris are even weirder and this guy Luke is going to crush him and he’s arguing with me and wants Chris’s spot on the team and…” I lowered my voice feeling really stupid. “Rachel, he can see me.”

  I waited, wondering how soon she’d get this message. When she’d be able to call me back. A girl needs her best friend in times of absolute emotional chaos. Hopefully, that call would come soon… like, nowish would work.

  “Okay then. Call me. K?”

  # # #

  The phone dinged three times in a row. My heart stutter-stepped as I reached for it even though I knew it was probably Rachel this time.

  Party was lame

  Wish we could have hung instead

  The brownies made me think of you

  I grinned at the screen, knowing exactly what he meant. Each evening, as the kids headed out, Chris would bring over a loot of caf brownies while we waited for the “I’m-so-sorry-I-hit-traffic” everyday parents to show up.

  I hated missing the party, but part of me loved the idea that he was thinking of me while he was there. While he was with her.

  Another ding.

  Stay away from Parker, Okay?

  And a little jealousy never killed anyone… of course, the fight for the spot on the team might.

  Chapter 8

  To say I wasn’t looking forward to evening tryouts was an understatement. Between having to watch Chris mastermind this year’s power couple and facing Luke after humiliating myself in the art room, I was pretty much done. I contemplated lacing my Nikes and running until exhaustion downed me. I thought I could make it through at least two towns, maybe hit the third before my legs gave out.

  My short-term plan would be to then lie in the road until someone ran me over.

  Instead, I stacked the binders on the table and waited for the team. Tonight Coach might start giving me notes. I hoped he didn’t tell me who he was naming tryout captains so I didn’t have to lie to Chris and claim uninformedness.

  I’m not sure I had that in me anyway.

  “Hey.”

  The little hairs under my ponytail leapt like springtime crickets. Only one guy started every conversation like that. As if I had tons of guys seeing me, let alone chatting me up.

  Without turning around, I said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  The breeze ruffled stats pages as I flipped through the binder looking for the session 5-Evening roll call. Already guys had begun dropping out.

  “Okay.”

  Wow.

  Mr. Pushy was backing off? I glanced at him over my shoulder and he gave a small shrug. “I know when something’s none of my business. I’ll stop. I’ve said everything I had to already. So…”

  So, what?

  “Thanks,” I said, when he didn’t finish his thought.

  “Parker!” Coach’s voice cut across the field to where we stood, argument diverted. “Are you going to join us or sit on the bench and chatter like an old woman with the stats girl?”

  “See ya.” Luke sprinted toward midfield, pulling his socks over his shin guards as he went.

  My gut felt wrong for a moment. Like I’d made one of those big mistakes you didn’t know how to fix, only I didn’t know what the mistake was. Luke was on the field with the guys. Chris was looking at me with some type of new, deeper interest. I was where every girl in school wished she could be… if not hanging with the Rah-Rahs, that is.

  “Welcome to your last free ride, boys.” Coach slapped his clipboard against his leg as he circled the group stretching on the ground. “Tonight, we’re gonna run till we’re done. The bottom ten can sleep-in tomorrow while the rest of us continue with tryouts.”

  Heads whipped up, finally giving him their full attention. One of the juniors shot glances at the rest of the upperclassmen and then dared to speak.

  “Coach, it’s second session and we all just ate.”

  Wow. Again. Apparently this was going to be Wow Wednesday.

  “Gerrard, do you want to not run?”

  Everyone but Mike Gerrard could see that was a trick question.

  “Does anyone ever want to run, Coach?”

  Coach threw his clipboard at the ground with a vengeance. I snatched it up, afraid he’d snap it like a baby twig as he strode back and forth in front of the team.

  “Gerrard, should I count you as one of the bottom ten and give everyone a little leeway? It sounds to me like you don’t want to play on my team.”

  Eyes rounded as everyone glanced from Mike to Coach waiting to see how Mike would get himself out of the ugly corner he’d super glued himself into.

  “Alright, Gerrard. I’ll give you an extra push. Is there anyone on this team you’re sure you can beat? As long as you beat that person, you stick around for me to torture one more day. And they go. They beat you—they have a spot and you can hold “Go Ravens” signs in the bleachers all season.”

  “Anyone on the team?” Mike studied the circle until his gaze landed on me.

  Coach checked his watch and glanced at the sun, obviously annoyed by the hold up. “You can even pick one of the freshmen if you think that will keep you here.”