Chapter 4

“You did not move into the dead girl’s room!” Anita’s voice screeched through my cell phone. My best friend has two volume settings—mute and screaming. She’s never going to make it as a librarian, that’s for sure. She has never understood the concept of using your inside voice. Then again, “moderation” isn’t a term I would ever use when describing Anita.

“It’s the nicest bedroom in the place.” I looked around the room from my vantage point of the center of the bed. After a dinner where Dick and my mom pretended everything was fine and Nathaniel ignored me completely, I decided against an evening of board games, no matter how fun Dick tried to make it sound. Apparently his mom was some big Scrabble nut, so he wanted to carry on another fine family tradition. Most likely there was an heirloom Wickham Scrabble set with tiles some distant relative whittled out of trees that used to grow on the estate property.

Instead I went up to my room to get organized. I made the bed and hung my poster on the far wall. I stuck Mr. Stripes back under the bed so I wouldn’t be accused of stuffie stealing. I unpacked a bunch of postcards of paintings that I had bought from the art museum in Seattle or had picked up at the various galleries, and made them into a collage on the wall above my bed. I piled my books onto the shelves and stuck the few other things I had brought around the room so it felt more like my own space. I stared out the window. I’d never had a room with a view before, unless you count looking directly into our neighbor’s house. Mr. Turken tended to dance around in his boxers a lot. I usually kept my curtains shut. The wind was picking up now and it looked like it was going to turn into a big storm.

“I can hardly hear you,” Anita yelled in my ear.

“I know, the reception here sucks. I didn’t want to call you on the landline in case Dick has a rule about long-distance charges.”

“Dick’s a dick. Let’s talk about someone more interesting. How’s lover boy?”

“He’s my stepbrother now, remember? Most states have laws against sleeping with a sibling.”

“He’s not your real brother, which means he’s fair game. Totally legit. Besides, could he be better looking? It’s always open season on someone that hot. If you don’t want him, I’ll swim over there and take him off your hands.”

“He’s not on my hands. He can’t stand me.”

“Not stand you? With all your wit and charm? He must be playing hard to get.”

“More like impossible to get. Besides, he’s my stepbrother. I’m hoping that somewhere on this island there will be someone who is reasonably attractive, not a weirdo, and not related to me.”

“Negative energy! Blow it out. You want to attract positive energy. Think white-light stuff. Happy thoughts.”

I suddenly missed her like crazy. “I wish I was there. This sucks.”

“Just remember, by this time next year we’ll be roommates.” We had already vowed to apply to the University of Washington and get an apartment together near campus. “Visualize the end goal so the universe knows what you want. Besides, you’re living on an island in the middle of nowhere. Think of it like an artist’s retreat. People pay big money to go to those things, and you’re there for free. You can get a bunch of stuff done for your portfolio without being distracted by civilization and stuff.”

“My mom is still dead set against me getting a degree in art.”

“You don’t have to do what your mom says at that point. You’ll be eighteen.”

“Eighteen with about a hundred and fifty bucks to my name. I’m pretty sure college tuition is going to cost me more than that.”

“That’s why they have student aid, to aid students. Have faith that the universe will provide, but you have to be willing to do your part. You can’t expect fate to carry the whole load. Take steps toward your goal to show your commitment. The universe needs to know you’re not screwing around. A portfolio demonstrates to the universe that you’re serious. Draw some pictures, suck in all that island air and inspiration.”

“That assumes living in an old, broken-down house will inspire me.”

As if in protest to my statement, a burst of static blared, and I yanked the phone away from my ear. I could hear Anita call out my name, but her voice was distant. It sounded like we were talking on one of those tin can string phones.

“Anita? Can you hear me?”

The phone gave a blare of static in return. I called her name again, but the call went dead with a click and then silence. The lights flickered, and then they went out completely. A second later they were back on, but it was long enough without power to make my clock radio blink 12:00 at me.

I knew the storm outside, combined with the poor cell service, was to blame, but for an instant it felt like the house was mad I’d insulted it.

I shivered and then shook off the feeling. I checked my phone, but there was zero reception. Annoyed, I tossed the phone into my bag. Well, if I couldn’t finish my conversation with Anita, at least I could take her advice. I pulled my sketchbook off the shelf and flipped through it until I found a clean page. Anita was flakey, but she was also right a lot of the time. I had my heart set on being accepted into the art program at U-Dub, which meant I had to have a portfolio ready to show by the time I sent in my application, especially if I wanted any kind of scholarship. I was going to need some money to pay the bills, because when my mom found out I wanted to major in art, she was going to freak out. “Freak out” being an understatement.

My mom blamed my dad’s passion for art for everything. She often pointed out that van Gogh cut off his own ear and you never heard of accountants doing something like that. She wasn’t sure which came first, the crazy or the art, but she wasn’t taking any chances with me. As far as my mom was concerned, I should go to school and study nursing or accounting. I think she thought she was being supermom for giving me a choice at all. The fact that I got a D in tenth-grade biology and couldn’t stand math didn’t faze her. Art was the one thing that I was really good at. Sometimes drawing felt like the only thing keeping me sane. It was like my pencil could figure things out before the rest of me.

There was no point worrying about it right now, though. I got myself settled on my bed and started sketching the room, trying to catch the angle of the walls and the deep-set windows. I smudged a pencil line with my little finger to give the corner the feeling of piled shadows. I felt my focus narrow down to the point where my pencil met the paper. The wind outside picked up speed. I got lost in the picture, trying to make it work.

Somewhere along the way, I must have fallen asleep.

That’s when I saw her.