KALYN

MOM TELLS ME to play hooky. I tell her to go to hell.

“That’s where you’re going,” she yells, following me to her room. “Stay home!”

I’m tearing through her dresser drawers like they’ve insulted Grandma, sending clothes flying. “You just want Officer Newton to come visit again. You wanna pour him sweet tea and sweet talk. Don’t care. I’m going.”

I find it: the white dress I wore to my parents’ wedding, the dress that used to tickle my little ankles.

I pull off my tee, throw it at Mom, and force the dress down my torso. Turns out I haven’t grown all that much in ten years, despite a few creaking seams. The thing almost looks like a blouse, cupcake chic. It hangs long enough that I can wear tights with it.

I wonder what Gus will say about this fashion statement, and then I remember Gus probably hates me.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mom’s fuming. I sling on my backpack and elbow past her. I make it to the kitchen before she catches me by the wrist. “Kalyn!”

“Think Grandma has the keys to any Tauruses? Give ’em a real shock.”

I think Mom wants to slap me, but she doesn’t. Mom ditched the flyswatter when she ditched the booze. She got slapped too much when she was my age. When that happens, people either keep the slapping cycle going strong, or they snap it right down the middle. Mom broke it best she could, but she can’t break my resolve.

Sure, it was surprisin’, waking up at five a.m. to find Mom and Grandma on the couch, gawping at the news. It was surprisin’, seeing Dad’s face and James Ellis’s face on the screen over the words: Killer Case Reopened: DNA Evidence Exonerates Murderer? Whoever wrote that headline’s an ass. Dad can’t be a murderer if he’s exonerated.

He can’t be what he’s pretended to be.

“Now who could be mad to hear that an innocent man’s going free?” I ask Mom. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating?”

Grandma sits at the table, crying into her oatmeal.

“People need hard proof. Even when they get it, they say it isn’t hard enough.”

“So? Folks will be pissed. It’s got nothing to do with Rose Poplawski.”

Mom lets go. Her nails scuff my skin. “You’re still going by Poplawski?”

“You didn’t want me to be me, right?”

“Hell, I didn’t mean—I’m just . . . surprised.”

“You told me to be her!”

“I know. I know, baby. But I thought blood would out. Thought I’d raised a rebel.” Her smile is sad. I’m itching to slap something. “Fine. I’ll drop you off.”

I deflate; she looks so tired. “You work today?”

“Nah. Even if you aren’t playing hooky, I am. Got errands to run and phone calls to make.” She clears her throat. “Heard from the lawyer. Your dad? He’s going to call us tomorrow. Nine p.m.”

“Should be interesting.”

Her eyes soften. She pulls a cigarette from her breast pocket. “Should be.”

After the usual fuss, we’re out the door and inside the old minivan, and none of us are talking. No matter how many windows I roll down, there’s not enough air. I’m dying for a smoke. Grandma starts coughing the moment we hit the main road, so Mom squishes her butt out on the dash.

This is the best news we’ve ever had. So why does today feel like a funeral?

I’m going to school in a dress that doesn’t fit me. No white dress ever suited a Spence. Rose aside, Spencehood was never something I doubted.

“You can be nice. When you try!” Olivia screeched, way back when.

Chances are, Gus will recognize this dress. Maybe I want that. Maybe the guy who knows confusion better than anyone can help me level the forests inside me now.

Mom turns on the radio. We hear Dad’s name. Grandma starts sobbing.

Getting through today is gonna take one helluva performance.