KALYN

THINGS ALL FUNNEL downward.

I let Mom buzz the rest of the hair off on Sunday night. I look like 1980s Sinéad O’Connor, sans orthodontist.

After all the weekend drama—the dance was canceled, too—I figure I’ll be facing fists at Jefferson. It takes every god-given centimeter of my self-control not to bring another egg to school. Maybe it always will. Maybe I’ll always consider violence. But if it’s my first thought and not my first action, that’s progress. I don’t bring the damn egg.

I’m hitching a ride today so Mom can stay on the phone with the IFA and the lawyers and the press all morning.

See, tides are turning. Turns out all those rioters who thought they could trample our property are criminals now. Half the older men in town got caught on national television vandalizing our precious old junk. When Tam turned our truck around, Mom and Mrs. Peake decided to carry on down the hill, which is crazy and amazing. There’s a new picture making rounds, featurin’ Mom and Mrs. Peake facing down a line of protestors. The way those ladies are hollerin’, frozen on film, they could be related.

“They’re alllll getting served,” Mom tells me, gleeful as punch. The IFA has hooked us up with some good lawyers.

Now the whole world’s looking at Samsboro, and according to the world, things here aren’t so black and white. People are demanding the retrial. I wonder if any of the hateful moms of America have changed their tune. Probably not. Most people would rather be stubborn than right.

All that matters, at least to Gus and me, is that one of those people making demands is Gus’s mom. I don’t know what changed in that crowded kitchen. Maybe she’s glad to see that splinter gone. Maybe she’s done carrying on a legacy she never asked for, one she doesn’t want to pass down to Gus and me. She’s gonna testify. Combined with new evidence, that might be enough to exonerate Dad.

“It would help if your grandmother would testify, too,” she adds, but that’s not happening. All this stuff has done a real number on her. She’s been coughing nonstop since Friday, and she’s started calling me Claire. There’s no such thing as easy medicine.

So the retrial will happen; god knows what will come after.

Phil pulls the Death Van up our driveway. Mud attacks the Death Star. Considering everything, Phil looks the same as always. Can’t gauge a guy by lookin’ at him.

“Natalie Portman at last,” he says as I climb in. I punch him nicely.

We head back into town. Gus is waiting on the porch in that swinging chair, and he’s wearing practical shoes today. I notice, but that’s his business, not mine.

Gus and I agree to hold hands on the way into Jefferson High. I don’t know what it means except it feels better to walk on four legs than two. Dogs like Angus know what’s up, I guess. Humans have to work harder to be good.

For every kid who seems ready to spit, there’s another kid who offers a high five. Garth doesn’t show up for school, and Eli Martin doesn’t meet my eyes, but he nods when I pass. I don’t know how much of this is genuine goodwill and how much of it is awe at the national attention. Everyone’s slipped out of their usual faces today, lost their petals.

Sarah spends the whole day fielding our encounters, laying out strategies for dealing with drama, making sure I “stay out of trouble.”

“I thought you liked me being trouble.” It’s weird, this little lunch table with the four of us—well, five, if you count Officer Newton, looming against the wall.

“I like you being you. You’re the only one who thinks that has to mean trouble.”

Phil shakes his head. “I think it also, but I am sure that’s a comfort to you both.”

Officer Newton is actually great at origami, which is something I never knew I wanted to learn until he started folding frogs in the desk next to mine, bored stupid by American History. Origami’s got me thinking about all sorts of things I want to create.

I’ve never been artistic, or I’ve never known whether I am. Truth is, I’ve never thought a lot about the future. Now I can’t seem to stop. Feels like it really exists.

I think growing up is relative, but I also think that no matter what, I don’t have to be more or less than a Spence; I’ve just got to be more or less me.

When I share this notion with Gus, we aren’t next to a dark kiln or cloud gazing on steps. It’s November, and we’re sitting on his porch even though it’s cold as . . . ​you know. Tam and Mrs. Peake are raking leaves onto flowerbeds again. Me and Gus are sharing hot cocoa and lukewarm chatter. The sky’s the kind of gray that means nothing at all.

“Well,” Gus says, setting down his mug, “I could’ve told you that.”

“Gimme a break,” I say, poking him.

“I mean it. I’m two years older than you, and I never, ever struggle with my identity.”

He can’t keep a straight face, but I would never want him to.

“I’m officially older than Dad ever was,” he tells me.

A second or ten passes. “Congratulations on surviving.”

“You too, Kalyn,” he says quietly. “Congratulations.”

It’s a stupid thing to cry about, but what the hell else is new?