Chapter One

Air rushes at my face. I stretch my legs out and pump higher and higher, letting the wind wash away the stress of school assignments and everyday life. I love to swing. To feel the freedom of almost flying. To gasp at the top of my arc, just before I fall back to the earth. A smile spreads across my face and peace floods my heart.

Meg, my six-year-old sister, swings beside me, squealing with delight. “Mattie! You’re so high!”

It’s one of those bright, crisp days in mid-November. Clouds drift over the pale blue sky. Leaves flutter from the trees, sprinkling soggy green grass with pretty little dabs of red, yellow, and orange. It’s a day to play in the park, act silly, and be a kid again.

I bend my knees and let myself drift back and forth in a giant arc. Fall is my favorite season—a last-minute splash of color before winter brings on the steady gray of Oregon rain. I breathe in the cool, sweet crispness of the air, pulling it deep into my lungs. My body slows until I drag my feet to a stop. “Time to go, Megsy.”

Some teenagers hate babysitting younger brothers and sisters. Not me. I’ve taken care of Meg since she was born. The two of us are so close it’s like Meg and I are one person, just living life at six and sixteen. If anything happened to her, my body would rip in half and all the love in my heart would bleed out, soak into the soil, and be gone forever.

Meg hops off the swing and grabs my hand. “Sundays are the bestest day of the whole week.” She swings my hand extra high. “Mommy’s home.”

I squeeze her hand and swing it back and forth, high and crazy. Meg breaks into a mass of silly giggles. Sundays are my best day too, for that exact same reason. Mom is home.

When I started high school, Mom decided to finish her GED. She passed her tests with high marks, giving her tons of confidence and getting her excited about her education. Mom signed up for a couple of classes at the community college. She still works her regular job at St. Vincent de Paul, or St. Vinnie’s as we call it, but she added Saturdays at 7-Eleven to pay the tuition.

Meg and I kick our way through crunchy, dry leaves on the trek to our apartment. The place really belongs to Darren, Mom’s boyfriend. We’ve lived with him for almost two years, which should mean we’re one happy little family, but it’s not working out that way.

Meg lets go of my hand and races toward a clump of maple trees sporting brightly colored crowns, spreading their arms over our heads like umbrellas. No matter what the season or how crummy the weather, this is always our favorite spot on the way home from school. Meg reaches down, grabs a leaf, and holds it up for me to see. “Look! It’s giant!”

I dig through a pile of leaves spilling over the plain gray sidewalk. “They’re like fire,” I say, “all crackly and warm and bright.”

Meg and I gather up an array of the biggest and most colorful we can find, fanning them out in our hands. I hold them across my face, cock my head to the side, and peek over the top. “Princess Megan,” I say in a high, squeaky voice, “are you having a very fine day?”

Meg sticks out her hip, rests her hand on it, and fans herself with her leaves. “A very fine day, Queen Mattie. An extra-specially fine day.”

We giggle and play pretend while we tromp the rest of the way home. Having a baby sister is the best. I get to color pictures, build sand castles, and go to tea parties. I can play Candy Land and Go Fish all day while Mom works and not worry about homework, money, or a college scholarship. When I’m with Meg, I’m young and happy.

Our neighborhood is in the north part of Eugene and consists of a string of older apartments off a busy street. It’s not a place with a cute playground for kids, and it’s not surrounded by wide green lawns and attractive landscaping for the grown-ups. The apartment building is a functional, no-frills kind of place, with a roof, doors that lock, and living room windows that overlook the parking lot.

The inside of Darren’s apartment is as plain and simple as the outside. White walls. White blinds on the windows. Faded tan carpet in the living room and two small bedrooms. Mom gave Darren’s apartment a bit of style. She bought a picture of Paris at a garage sale and hung it over the couch, and she found one of New York City at St. Vinnie’s. She put that one right by the door, so we see it every time we leave the apartment. On the little table near the front window, she set a plant with round, glossy green leaves. Framed photos of Meg and me sit next to it.

Mom is in our mini kitchen cooking spaghetti. “Hey.” She gives Meg a hug and grins at me. “Have fun in the park?”

Meg looks like Mom with the same pale skin and dark-blue eyes. My dad was part black, so I look like I don’t even belong in the same family. Some people are rude and ask Mom if I’m adopted, and when she says no, they want to know what my dad looked like. Those same people never ask about Meg’s dad.

Mostly, I envy Mom’s and Meg’s hair. It’s a soft light brown with hints of blond peeking through—plus it’s long, straight, and shiny. Hair I would love to have. Mine is a dark mass of curls I can’t manage no matter how hard I try.

I grab a spoon and dip it into the tomato sauce. “We always have fun at the park, Mom.” The sauce is so hot I have to blow on it before I can put it into my mouth. Mom is a great cook. She makes meals out of just about anything. When money is short, she takes us to the food bank and loads up on whatever they’re giving away. Sometimes it’s food we’ve never tasted, like turnips or kale. But that doesn’t stop her from taking it home, looking up a recipe, and making something out of it. She doesn’t waste anything.

Mom snatches the spoon out of my hand and waves us out of the kitchen. “Go. Finish your homework. Darren said he’d be home by six.”

Darren’s not my dad, and he’s not Meg’s. Mom dated him for six months before she agreed to move into his apartment. Darren’s halfway decent to us when Mom’s around, but when she’s gone, he ignores us like Meg and I are pieces of furniture. Obstacles in his way. We don’t complain, though. Living with him would be worse if he hassled us all the time.

Our bedroom is small, with a low bookcase separating twin beds. A dresser sits near the door, and one small closet holds the rest of our clothes, shoes, toys, and whatever else we need to stash. Sharing space with Meg doesn’t bother me. She’s like my security blanket, a comfort to have sleeping so close that I can reach out and almost touch her.

Meg goes directly to her favorite toy, which is the dollhouse she got from Santa. Mom found it at St. Vinnie’s, cleaned it up, and bought her a couple of inexpensive dolls and some little furniture to go with it. Meg loves it and plays with it for hours at a time.

I flop on my bed and sort through my homework. My goal is a college scholarship. So far, keeping a 4.0 grade average hasn’t been a problem, but high school is way harder than middle school—plus the stakes are a whole lot higher. I’m afraid that if I get one little B+, I’ll lose my chances at full tuition and end up waiting tables at an all-night truck stop for the rest of my life.

At six, Mom calls us back to the kitchen. Darren expects Mom to have dinner ready when he gets home, even on days when she’s working a full shift. He never cleans the apartment, shops for groceries, or does the laundry. Sometimes I get disgusted with Mom for letting Darren use us like we’re his own personal maid service. Mom says he pays the rent and utilities, and that’s huge. Plus, she says most men she knows don’t cook, clean, or help in the house. I say Darren’s getting off way too easy.

We putter around, getting dinner ready to eat. Meg gets the garlic bread and sets it on the table while I grab salad dressings from the refrigerator. Mom drains the spaghetti and dumps it in a bowl.

I’m starving, so I plop into my chair and hope Mom lets us start without Darren. Meg does the same. Mom pulls out her phone and fires off a text. We wait.

By now it’s almost six thirty. “Can we eat, Mom?” I say. “The spaghetti’s getting cold.”

Mom repeats herself. “Darren said he’d be home by six.”

Darren makes a lot of promises he doesn’t keep. Quitting drinking and saving his money to take classes for a contracting license are just the beginning of the list.

“Mommy?” says Meg. “Can we start? Please?”

Mom wants the four of us to live like a sweet little family, even if only for a Sunday night dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread. I get it. Her dad was a drug addict who died of an overdose when he was only twenty-five, and her mom was an alcoholic who neglected her so badly the state took her away when she was eight. After that, she drifted through foster care until she got pregnant with me. Some of her foster homes were decent and treated her well, but others were not. None of them were stable or permanent.

Seconds tick off the kitchen clock before she finally says, “Okay. Let’s eat.” The disappointment written on Mom’s face makes my heart hurt.

Meg and I dive in. Mom spends most of the meal twirling spaghetti around on her plate.