Prologue 1

Prologue 1

1

997, Redemption Beach High School

I’m walking along the cement breezeway between classes, examining the scuff marks on my ancient black Converse and listening to my friend Asher as he rattles on.

“The thing about my parents, is that they have a lot of money, but they’re so stingy!” Asher says. “They wouldn’t even let me go on that debate trip, because they said it wasn’t a good use of money.”

He rolls his eyes. I just nod. I’ve heard this story before, but I don’t feel the need to stop him or tell him that. Besides, we’re only a few minutes away from Ms. Harper’s math class Asher’s always complaining about his parents, which makes sense, I guess. I mean, it’s kind of hard to hear, since my parents ditched me and my two little brothers ages ago. Now we live with my Grandma Jane. She’s nice and she means well, but she’s also really

old

.

Three years ago, I attempted to have my first sleep over at Asher’s place. Asher and I were only eleven, practically babies.

Asher’s parents took one look at me and decided that I’m a bad influence. No amount of arguing or pleading on Asher’s part would change their minds. They canceled the sleep over, and try to discourage us from hanging out anytime they can.

It’s hard not to hate them for that.

I glance at Asher. With his ironed blue dress shirt and carefully pressed Chinos, he’s pretty much the opposite of me. I’m wearing baggy jeans and a holey Nirvana t-shirt.

We are different in looks too, Asher with his blond hair smoothed back, me with my dark hair spiked up. I’ve always looked like a rebel, Asher has always looked like a choir boy.

That’s how we became friends, actually. Asher was the new kid in school, and he was a prime target for the playground bullies. I looked dark and edgy. That was enough for most of the kids at school. They didn’t want to mess with me.

I stepped in and kept him from getting his head dunked in the toilet. We’ve been friends ever since.

Asher elbows me in the side. “Don’t you think?”

“Err… yeah. Totally,” I say, even though I have no idea what he was talking about. I zoned out there, hard.

“I’m telling you, Zoe Waters got totally stacked over the summer break,” Asher says.

I roll my eyes. The only thing Zoe Waters has done is to start wearing a bra. Other than that, she’s as flat-chested as the rest of our ninth grade class. Believe me, I’ve looked.

We come up to the next building, the clear glass door only partially offsetting the fact that the ugly brown brick building practically eats all the sunlight. I swing the door open, holding it for Asher. Asher walks through, stopping just inside the door.

“Oof,” I say, running into him. “Watch it, dude.”

But Asher just gestures down the long hall, lined on both sides with lockers and classroom doors. At the other end Mr. Smith and Mrs. Song, the principal and school counselor, are walking straight toward us.

I glance around, wondering who is in trouble. I get nervous, even though I don’t think there’s anything I’ve done recently enough to worry.

“Hey, we better get going,” I whisper to Asher. “Come on. Ms. Harper will count us as absent, for sure.”

We start down the hall, but Mr. Smith spots us. An thin older man in black slacks and a pink and grey striped shirt, he looks at me with an intense expression. Ms. Song is a tiny, pretty blonde. She clasps her hands as we grow closer.

That can’t be a good sign.

I glance at Asher, and see the same look on his face as is on my own. He’s trying to figure out which one of us is in trouble with the principal.

“Mr. Hart?” Ms. Song says, her voice squeaky and chipmunk-like. “Could you come with me? I want to talk to you.”

My stomach sinks. What did I do wrong this time? I wrack my brain, but come up empty.

Asher looks at me, conflicted. He’s probably mentally wiping his brow, because it could’ve been either one of us that was in trouble.

“I should go to class, I guess,” Asher says.

“Yeah. I’ll catch up.” I shift my back pack on my shoulder as Asher darts to the side of Mr. Smith and Ms. Song.

“Let’s go,” Ms. Song says. I think I hear a note of sadness in her voice, but I’m not sure. “Come to my office, please.”

She turns and leads the way, her heels clicking on the tiled floor with each step. I am trying to think what this could be about. I’ve been hauled into the principal’s office plenty of times, but never Ms. Song’s office.

When we reach her office, not much bigger than a closet, she directs me to sit down in one of the orange bucket seats in front of her desk.

Mr. Smith closes the door behind us, then actually pats me on the shoulder, which makes me jump. I look up at him, startled.

“We have some hard news, son,” he says, looking woeful. “Your grandmother has passed on. She’s no longer with us.”

My jaw drops open. I feel… odd. Mostly I’m thinking,

of all the things that he could’ve said, I was just not expecting that.

“You mean… she’s dead?” I manage.

Mr. Smith shoots Ms. Song a look, then nods to me. “I’m afraid so, yes. One of your neighbors found her. It looks like a heart attack.”

I slouch a little. “What… what does that mean for us? Me and my little brothers, I mean. Why… I mean… where will I go after school?”

My voice cracks on the last word. All I can imagine is that I’m going to walk in the door of Grandma Jane’s house, and she won’t be there.

Fuck.

“Well, we’ve contacted the department of children and family services,” Ms. Song says, coming over to put her hand on my shoulder.

“What? Why?” I ask, dazed.

“They will find a good place for you to stay tonight. And then they’ll help you figure out what the next step will be,” Mr. Smith says.

I look at him, my eyes starting to fill. “Are they the foster care people?”

I know all about foster care. Back when my mom abandoned us, until my grandma turned up, the three of us were in foster care for a few weeks. All of us were in different homes.

“Yes, exactly,” Mr. Smith says.

“I’m not going with them,” I utter, growing angry. My tears spill over, slowly leaking down my face. “They won’t even put me and my brothers together.”

“We should just see what they say,” Ms. Song cuts in. “They know best, I’m sure.”

I can imagine my brothers now. I can see Forest being told about Grandma Jane, Gunnar being told that we’re going to different foster care homes.

Gunnar is so young, he won’t even remember me and Forest after a few months.

I clench my fists, standing up so abruptly that my chair tips over.

“Oh, Jameson—” Ms. Song says.

“Hold on there, son.” Mr. Smith grabs me by the arm. “You’re going to have to wait here for a while. The people from DFACS should be here soon.”

Tears are streaming down my face now, snot is oozing from my nose. “No, you don’t understand! I can’t go into foster care! I need my brothers to stay with me!”

“Son—”

“Fuck you! Don’t call me that!” I scream. But despite his age, Mr. Smith is still stronger than me. He manages to wrap his arms around me, pulling me deeper into the office.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“No it’s not! You just told me my fucking grandma is dead!”

I’m hysterical, clawing at him, grabbing fistfuls of his pink and grey shirt, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he just tells me it’s okay, over and over again.

But I know that it’s not.

It’s not okay.

My grandma is dead. My little brothers probably don’t even know yet, but her death marks a turning point in our lives. I know that DFACS will probably try to force me and my brothers into separate foster homes.

Already, I’m scrambling to figure out the details of running away, to make it on my own. Not just me, but my two little brothers, too. Life has taken enough from us, I’ll be damned if I let anyone split us up.

So no, nothing is okay. And I don’t know if it ever will be again.