KALYN

WE’RE ALMOST TWO weeks into school, and Rose Poplawski’s rosy mug is the face I never knew I needed.

Rose hasn’t done a lot of homework yet, but her grades are better than mine ever were. Teachers smile at her. Rose wears her hair in lovely, braided crowns, sometimes winding ribbon and ridiculous paper flowers in the brambles of it, and tries real hard not to raise her hand too much in English, even when the questions are easy as sloppy pie. There’s being girlish and there’s being smart. Being both upsets some folks.

Two days ago, Rose Poplawski was among five freshmen girls nominated for the homecoming honor guard. This was announced over the loudspeaker during homeroom one morning, and Rose Poplawski was treated to cheers. I didn’t know what the hell it meant, but Sarah was also nominated and explained the situation:

“It’s more or less a miniature version of the actual court. Every grade gets a kind of king and queen. Student council came up with it last year to help raise school spirit!”

“That seems . . .” Kalyn thought, “dumb,” but Rose chirped, “wonderful!”

“Teachers pick ten candidates from each grade—five boys and five girls. Over the next three weeks the school votes. The winners from each class get to ride in the parade with the seniors. Congrats, Rose.”

“I’m voting for you, though.” Sarah is too precious for this world, and no way in hell am I voting for myself. Also, the whole situation seems old-fashioned to me. Oh, more forced boy/girl pairings? Because everybody’s straight, right, and everyone who ain’t doesn’t matter, right? Well, whoopee.

It’s confusin’, though, because even if I’m gay, maybe Rose Poplawski isn’t.

Yesterday, Eli Martin, naturally one of the five freshmen boys on our ballot, asked Rose Poplawski to homecoming. He popped this question outside the gymnasium during breakfast break, in front of his usual cluster of friends. Rose wasn’t by herself, either, what with Sarah and company fluttering around. All of Jefferson High knew about the request instantaneously. The proposition was a skunk stink in the air.

Rose Poplawski replied, prim as a human doily: “Let me think it over, honey” and left Eli Martin hanging like a dirty bath rag.

Meanwhile, that night Kalyn smoked four cigarettes and whiled away several hours playing euchre with her dozy grandma at the kitchen table, trying not to think about goddamn Eli Martin. Kalyn—I mean, me—kept burying him under a bent deck of secondhand casino cards. I know that Eli Martin is probably all some girls (and boys) have ever wanted, and the perfect cover to boot. It would make sense for me to date him, to hide behind his wholesome smirk and jocular charisma.

It would make sense to say yes, and have it all.

Because Rose Poplawski can have it all. She is having it all.

She’s pretty much taking everything.

Rose can’t actually take Dad away, because he’s not part of the everything I’m used to having. If I can keep Dad and the Spences snug in my rib cage, hell. Why shouldn’t Rose have anything else she wants?

Why is it still like pulling splinters when I get alone enough to think about this?

Not that I’ve actually been alone too often, at school. For the past ten days, I’ve been the target of some pointed stares.

I haven’t seen much of Quillpower—he seems to jump into bathrooms at the sight of me—but Boots has become my shadow.

I can’t count how many times Rose Poplawski’s been laughing with Sarah in the hallway and turned around to find black-framed eyes peering at her from a distance. It’s like those eyes are a drill, twisting the cover of Rose around them, a drill that spins and tears and threatens to reveal what’s underneath.

Somehow, Boots is seeing me. He’s seeing my Spencehood.

This ain’t my first rodeo: I’ve come across stares like that before, even though it’s been years since I looked much like the little girl in that wedding photo. Some people are too curious for their own good, and small towns are boring places. I’m sure the Ellis murder still comes up in conversation around here, in classrooms or in churches or in bars. I’m sure that picture makes its rounds. What if Boots has caught my scent?

But if this is the one kid in Samsboro who recognizes the daughter of a murderer, I won’t be telling him he’s right. I won’t be killing Rose off so easily. Spences aren’t that trigger happy, despite what the news might say.

I should just tell him to fuck right off. He’s just one mousy kid. Sure, that would mean breaking character, but there are plenty of opportunities, like when I’m by myself at my locker and Boots limps by too slowly and pauses a little too long in my vicinity.

Last time he pulled this, I took a deep breath and spun round to tear him a new one. Boots startled like a jackrabbit. I caught his magnified eyes. He steeled himself, waggled his fingers awkwardly, and then shuffled away. Like he was waving at me.

That’s what makes me bite my tongue—if I’m right and Boots has got me figured, who the hell stalks a murderer’s kid just to wave at her?

If Boots recognizes me, he’s choosing not to run away.

Somehow it almost feels like while everyone else is voting for Rose Poplawski, Boots is filling out some silent ballot for Kalyn Spence.