It has taken years for me to sit down and write this. It seems almost selfish, in a way, to want to write a book about yourself. Everybody has a story to tell, but what right do we have to tell it ourselves? It's almost as if I'm waving a sign, shouting, “Look! My story is import­ant!”

I'm not quite sure how important my story is, but my therapist insists that writing it all out could help. Help what, though? Help me finally put all of my ducks in a neat little row? Or is she just hopeful that I'll finally be able to confront the entirety of what happened and learn how to cope with it instead of ignoring it?

Either way, she's not the only one pushing me to tell my story. Many others have encouraged me to. I'm already an author—a screen writer, actually. As if that makes it any easier.

It's personal. It's terrifying. In truth, I don't know where to start. I've thought about it for hours on end. Probably, the best place to start would be with the move to Shannon River. Life before that was completely nor­mal, honestly. It seems so cliche to start with the move, but . . .

Well, it's not as if anyone is going to read this to judge that anyway.

chapter 1

the boy at the piano

Since we had lived in such a small town before the move—a small town that had greatly lacked in teenagers—my older brother, Simon, was my best friend. Neither of us had ever been huge on the whole social media thing, not like my younger sister, Teagan. While Simon and I built a tree house in the only big tree in our backyard, Teagan would ignore us and talk to her online friends. I'm not saying it was a bad thing, it just contributed to the fact that she and I were never really close back then. She had her interests, and I had mine. She hadn't really been in­terested in collaboration.

I guess that's what made the move to Shannon River so . . . hard? No, annoying is a better word. In Janeston, our little hamlet-like town, I'd had a room to myself. In Shan­non River, I found myself sharing an ugly, bright pink room with Teagan. Which had really sucked for the first while.

“Just stay out of my stuff!” she ordered me as she ar­ranged her makeup kit in one of the draw­ers on the van­ity. The room was bigger than my old room in Jane­ston, but while it had enough room for two beds, it only had one dresser with a built-in mirror. Which I knew would become an issue, because Teagan often spent long hours sitting in front of the mirror trying to tame her mane of blonde curls or experimenting with a new eye shadow palette. It drove me insane.

That's one of the reasons why Simon had been my best friend: he wasn't self-obsessed. I don't want to be mean to my sister, but she'll admit now that she had some vanity issues back then. So her words, not mine. Besides, Simon and I were closest in age. He was seventeen at the time, and I was sixteen, both of us born in April just days over a year apart. Then there was a two-year gap between Tea­gan and I, and then an even longer four-year gap be­tween Teagan and our youngest brother, Max. It was as if our par­ents had decided with each kid that it was better to wait longer and longer. I guess they peaked with Max be­cause not only was he the cutest kid in existence, but he was also the last Graham kid. Two girls and two boys. It worked.

The move was easier on the boys, I think, because it gave Simon better college opportun­ities and it gave Max a chance to make friends his own age. Plus, they got their own rooms. I don't remember Simon com­plaining at all about the move. Max put up a fuss about leaving the tree house behind. I, for one, wasn't looking forward to a new school and crowds and people.

Teagan, however, was. “I cannot wait to meet people,” she said the morning of our first day of school in Shannon River. Her voice was just a bit too dramatic and her hair just a bit too frizzy as she did her best to tame it. I had always been jealous of her gorgeous blonde curls until I real­ized how much maintenance they required. My hair was as straight as straw, inherited from my Dad and shared with Simon. Max got Mom's curls like Tea­gan. In my honest opinion, he wore them the best.

That morning I was sprawled on my bed, still dressed in Simon's old R2D2 boxers and a Hello Kitty tank top, procrastinating. It was only seven-thirty, yet Miss Prom Queen had decided we needed to be up extra early. School started at eight-thirty—a true crime against humanity—but since we lived in the city now, the bus came later than we were used to.

Teagan didn't seem to care that life had grant­ed us a few extra precious minutes of sleep. “Why can't time go fast­er?” she asked her reflection.

“Why can't you let people sleep?” I asked drow­sily as I pulled the covers over my head.

“How can you even think about sleeping right now? Aren't you just so pumped for this?”

“Like a frickin' party balloon.”

“Mom! Paige used that word again!” Teagan yelled over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door, as if Mom could have heard her across the house. I responded by hitting her with my pillow. She shrieked like a banshee. “My hair!”

I ended up bundling up in my flower-pattern­ed quilt and escaping to Simon's room next door. He was already up, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and rummaging through the unpacked box­es in his closet for a shirt.

“Teagan being a pest?” he asked as I crawled onto his bed and curled up beneath my blanket.

“Always.”

He held up a Chewbacca shirt, examined it, and then pulled it over his head before turning to face me. He grin­ned and stepped over to ruffle my bedhead. “Poor Pages got kicked out.”

I swatted at his arm. “I don't wanna go to school.”

“I know, right? Why couldn't we have waited to move until after I graduated?”

“Sucks to suck.”

He pulled a Marvel t-shirt out of his closet and whip­ped me with it, making me squeal. “Put this on. That Hel­lo Kitty shirt makes you look like you're seven.”

“Pretty sure I've been wearing it since I was seven.”

He rolled his eyes and turned his back to me, check­ing his school bag as I changed shirts. It was a normal thing for me to be wearing Simon's clothes, and he never once minded (unless it was something he had intended to wear—then it was war). Teagan thought it was disgust­ing. The truth was, that Iron Man shirt won me two very good fri­ends.

But I'm getting to that.

Simon and I worked together to get a sustain­able break­fast for ourselves and our younger siblings. Dad was already gone to his new job, and Mom was busy on the phone with her needy sister and chasing Max around try­ing to get his hair combed, so we helped out. It was quar­ter after eight before all four Graham kids were dressed, fed, and standing at the bus stop where several other kids lingered. They hardly glanced at us, and I was fine with that. I never enjoyed small talk.

The bus rolled up, already nearly full, and we piled on. Simon and I managed to find an empty seat, and Max, too timid to make friends, managed to squish in with us. Tea­gan, the bravest of us all (or craziest), paused to survey the bus before picking a willing target and sitting down with them. The two girls sprang into uninterest­ing small talk instantly. I was fine sitting with my brothers, even though Max was practically in our laps and Simon had stolen the window seat. I found myself periodically look­ing back to observe Teagan and her newfound friend. She made fri­ends so easily, I sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with me. Or her.

In hindsight, it's interesting how people meet and change each other's lives. If I hadn't dropped my water bottle, and if Iris hadn't picked it up for me and com­mented on my shirt, I often wonder if we would have ever become friends at all.

“Team Iron Man?” she asked returning my water bot­tle to me. I was instantly drawn to her easy-going smile. She was sitting on the seat across from ours, a small girl of Asian descent practically dwarfed by the thick, tall African-American boy beside her.

I glanced down at my shirt, blushing a bit. “Uh, Team Cap, actually.”

“Of course,” she said. “Sorry, I think it's interesting to see the various sides people take. If I had a penny for every time someone said Team Thor . . .”

“You would have a stash of useless Canadian pen­nies,” said the tall boy beside her. “Gosh, Iris, it's been four months; Civil War is old news already.” He stuck out his hand to me, and I fumbled with my water bottle to shake it. “The name's Xavier,” he told me. “And this is Iris.”

“Paige,” I replied, and then introduced them to my brothers. Max hid behind my shoulder, but Simon leaned over to join in the conversation.

“Since we're talking Marvel,” he started, “which char­acter is your favourite in the MCU?”

“Loki,” Iris said without hesitation.

“The god of mischief, eh?”

“I like Cap,” I said, which got a “Boo! So typ­ical!” from Simon. “It's not typical!” I argued. “It's not my fault he's a fan favourite.”

“I like T'Challa already,” Simon declared. “Black Pan­ther is going to be a masterpiece, I can promise you that.”

“It's still not for another two years,” Iris point­ed out.

But Xavier wholeheartedly agreed with Simon and the boys launched into an avid conversation all their own—probably about the Marvel comics, which they both had stacks of stashed in their bedrooms. I'd only ever been interested in the movies. I know, I know. Shoot me.

But Iris grinned at me—I still remember that grin—and I knew I had made a friend. For the rest of the ride, which wasn't very long, we talked about superheroes and mov­ies. Simon and Xavier were still talking when we left the bus. I was in­wardly de­lighted that my locker was only a few down from Iris's, for I had made a silent pact with myself to fol­low her around. She hadn't minded.

Max had disappeared, and I wasn't quite sure where he had gone. Simon told me not to worry. The middle school and high school buildings were ad­joined, and we had already gotten a tour from the principal the day be­fore, so Max knew where he was going. Still, I always worried for my shy brother.

“He should meet my sister,” Iris told me on the way to our first class, which we had dis­covered we had together. She was in my grade—grade eleven—and that relieved me. She had looked around Teag­an's age, honestly, but she was sixteen like me. “I think Cora and him would get along. She'd get him out of that shy little box, for sure.”

Iris Flaming was something else, I'll admit. She was short and petite, with silky black hair and vibrant brown eyes, but she stayed true to her last name, burning like a brilliant fireball and often being the life of the party. She took karate and could kick some butt, but she knew how to dress up pretty and was the one who taught me how to properly apply blush. She reminded me of Mulan, and every time I mentioned that, she'd laugh.

Xavier Turner is also a prominent person in this story. He was funny and witty, always having a joke for any­thing and everything, and even though at times he was a bit awkward—especially being six foot three—he was one of the nicest guys around. Even though I found out later that he came from a non-religious family, he was the one who invited my family to Shannon River Alliance Church. The sec­ond day of school, I think. The first day had been quiet and a bit nerve-wracking, but settling into the new atmos­phere hadn't been as hard as I had first thought it would be. By the time the day was over, I had become rather good friends with Iris and one of her fri­ends, Maven—and Teagan had pretty much made friends with every popular kid in the school. It was exhausting, hear­ing about Joey and Hannah and Freddy and Bobby and—

Yes, I'm making up names. I never actually found out just who the heck she was gushing on about at the dinner table those days.

Anyway, it was the second day of school that the topic of church and religion came up. It was kinda funny how it all came about, really: Iris was complaining about some­thing the youth pastor at her church had done, and my interest was piqued. Us Grahams were your everyday nor­mal Christian family, and finding out that Iris had con­nect­ions was a nice surprise.

“What do you mean, does she go to church?” Maven blurted out, laughing at my completely innocent ques­tion. “Iris's family practically runs the Alliance church in Shannon River.”

“No, we do not,” Iris said, waving her finger under Maven's nose with a pointed look. “Just because my dad is an elder and Daniel the jerk is the youth pastor—”

“Iris,” Xavier chided, “you really shouldn't talk about the pastor like that.”

“Youth pastor,” she corrected snidely.

“Still a pastor, last I checked. Actually, he's a Reverend now,” Xavier added, rolling the 'r' dra­matically.

“Yeah, he's so pious.” Iris gave a huff and turned to Simon and I, who were watching this exchange with some surprise. We were all sitting outside, eating our lunches at one of the various picnic tables around the school yard. It was a cloudy day, but the air was warm. X­avier had his sweater sleeves tied around his shoulders and was pre­tending to whip them at Iris.

“Yes, me and my family are Christians,” Iris explained plainly. “My dad is an elder at Shannon River Alliance Church.”

“And the pastor she's draggin' through the dirt—” Maven started.

“Rrrrreverend,” Xavier rolled.

“—is her cousin,” Maven finished.

“Unfortunately.” Iris sighed.

Simon arched his eyebrows. “Family feud?”

“Nah, it's just her,” Xavier replied, receiving an eye roll from Iris. “Daniel's a great guy. You'll like him. We have youth nights Fridays if you two are interested. Ser­vices Sunday mornings, too.”

Simon looked over at me. “Did Dad and Mom find a church?”

“I think we were going to throw a dart on the city map and go to the nearest church.”

Iris's eyes lit up. “Really? You should come to our church! It's not far from here at all, and we have awe­some youth nights when Daniel isn't being a jerk.”

“Iris,” Xavier said, “can you not insult the youth pas­tor, just once?”

“Can you stop referring to him as 'the youth pastor' just once? It drives me up the wall!”

Shannon River Alliance was . . . interesting, to say the least. It was a multicultural church full of the young and old and the in-between, and some of the services could get pretty lively—especially when the Mexi­cans were in charge of worship, which they were the first time us Grahams went to Shannon River Alliance. I re­member feeling a bit overwhelmed at first; it was a big church, far different from the tiny country church we had attended in Janeston. Instead of playing hymns—the hymnals in the pews went largely unused—they played worship mu­sic I had only heard played by mega churches in You­tube videos. They were great songs, once I learned them, but that first visit was pretty overwhelming.

But that first visit is significant to this story, because it was the first time I ever saw him.

Church was winding down. Everyone was chat­ting in the foyer, catching up with their church friends, and my parents were having a rather animated conversation with Pastor Levi Willims and his wife, Marie. Teagan was . . . somewhere, probably in the car already. Iris and her fam­ily had left, as they had to take Xavier home and he needed to be back to babysit his little siblings. Xavier had already introduced us to Daniel, who I remember think­ing was a pretty okay guy for how Iris had described him. Her dis­taste wasn't entirely understood yet.

Simon was talking to Daniel, getting the scoop on Fri­day nights, and Max was with them, too shy yet to engage in the game of tag the other boys his age were having around the lingering people. I was with them too, until I heard the sound of music drifting in from the sanctuary. It intrigued me, mostly because the lights had already been shut off and the doors closed. I wanted to know who would be playing at such a time.

He was sitting in the dark at the piano the very first time I saw him. In the darkness, I could­n't quite make out his face, and I slowly slipped into the empty room and silently made my way down the aisle as he played. He was pretty good, but he kept hitting notes that sounded off. I found out later that he had been playing by ear, trying to figure out one of the songs that had been played in the service. I ruined the moment, though, because he jumped in surprise and ended his attempts in a flat note when he saw me watching him.

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly, a bit amused by his fright. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's fine,” he said, closing the cover of the piano and standing up. “I probably shouldn't be playing right now.”

I shrugged as he jumped down from the stage to face me. “I actually wouldn't know,” I told him with a little laugh. “This is my first time coming here, so I don't know the rules.”

He was a good amount taller than me, six foot nothing, with dark hair and a ner­vous little smile that was sha­dowed with more than just poor lighting. “I don't know the rules here either. Just don't have a piano at home.” He shrug­ged. “I like playing. Kinda trash at it though.”

“It sounded nice. Do you take lessons?”

He tilted his head, giving me a bemused look. “You're definitely new around here.”

I gave him a puzzled smile. “Ah . . . yes?”

The door to the sanctuary opened at that moment, and the boy jumped yet again. I was beginning to wonder if he was trying to hide from someone.

It was Max in the doorway, waving at me. “Paige, time to go!”

“Coming!” I turned back to the strange boy, finding him already on the other side of the san­c­tuary and push­ing through one of the side doors. “Hey,” I called, start­ling him once more. “The exit is that way.”

He paused and looked back at me. “The back door works just fine.” Then he was gone as if he had never ex­isted.

That was the first time I saw him. Very easily, it could have been the last time, but life doesn't seem to work that way. If I had known then what I know now . . .

I don't know what I would have done. I don't know what I could have done, honestly. All I can say is that you never know who will walk into your life and completely and utterly change it. I had no idea that the nervous boy at the piano would be the cause of so much chaos in my life. I had no idea that he would be one of the main rea­sons why I'm writing this story now.

Kinda like how you don't realize you stepped on a landmine until it's too late.

chapter 2

the beginning of the end

I think it was that very Monday that I met Tucker Harri­son. It's weird, thinking about how he was back then. Cocky—he was definitely cocky—and so immature. With black hair cut and styled like a Zac Efron wannabe and an attitude that portray­ed constant bore­dom, I won­dered at first if he had walked right out of a crappy bad boy novel. He was incredibly aggravating and annoying at first—and I somehow got him as my project part­ner in science. Just my luck, I guess.

I don't even remember what the project was about, but it had us spending our lunch periods together to com­plete it. Iris warned me that he was bad news, but it wasn't as if I had asked to be his partner. I was more than eager to get the as­signment done and over with, but he didn't seem to share my enthusiasm. He'd flick pencils at me across the table and make crude jokes that made me want to slam our project binder over his head. Every night that week I paced Simon's room, ranting on and on about how much of a jerk Tucker was. Simon found it all a bit funny, which only infuriated me. Couldn't he see that I needed his help?

“He's just immature,” Simon said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. It was Wednesday morn­ing, and I had been on yet another rant, this time in the kitchen. Simon was tired of hearing it, obviously, because he said over my complaining, “Look, he'll be out of your life in like two days. Project'll be over and you'll never have to talk to him again.”

Oh, if only it had been that easy . . .

“Humpday,” Tucker declared, dropping his binders on the table beside me with a loud bang. It was already too loud in the lunchroom, and I already wanted to throttle him. “Why can't it be Friday?” he whined.

“Because it's Wednesday,” I replied shortly. I wanted to be outside with Iris and Xavier and Maven, but there I was, stuck with Tucker Try-Hard Harrison.

“Intelligent, Graham,” Tucker said. “That's probably the most intelligent thing I've heard someone say all day. I have Purtrid for ELA.”

“Mr. Vortrid.” I was very tired of his stupid little jokes.

“Whatever you say, Graham.” He slouched in his chair and eyed my ham and cheese sandwich. He'd already insulted my obsesión con el sánd­wiches de jamón y queso, since I always seemed to bring them for lunch. What can I say? It was quick and easy.

It wasn't hard to see Tucker's Latino roots. He loved to flaunt his multilingual abilities. His dad was, in Tucker's words, a gringo, while his mother was Latino and spoke Spanish fluently, so it made sense that he and his sister, Whitney, could as well. I found that Tucker often used it to insult people behind their backs. I considered it a bad use of such a beautiful langauge.

“Hey, speaking of Friday,” he started quickly, sur­prising me with the change in his tone. He leaned for­ward, giving me that dumb little smile that girls in the movies always swooned over. He really was trying to por­tray Zac Efron with the smooth way he leaned on the table and batted his ice-blue eyes. He really was a try hard. “There's a party at the Miyre's place. Wanna go, hermosa?”

I was baffled at his nerve. For the past two days he had been nothing but unbearable, and now he was flirting and calling me beautiful? Did he think he was being cute? “Uh, I actually have something, uh, planned for Friday night, actually.”

He laughed at my stuttering repetitiveness. “You've been here what, a week, and you're already booked up? C'mon. You'll like it.”

“I'm not into the party scene.”

Tucker batted his baby blues.

“No.”

“Ugh, fine.” He folded his arms and sulked. “Whatever you say, Graham.”

It was true: I was no party girl. And I did already have something that Friday: youth group at Shannon River Alliance, or SRA. It'd be my first time going, and I defin­itely wasn't missing that. Tucker, however, pestered me about it for the next two days until our project was finally over and I vowed to never spend lunch period with him again. Simon promised me that I wouldn't have to bother with Tucker again after that, but he was so very wrong.

I'll get back to Tucker later. I need to talk about Simon, Teagan, and I's first experience at SRA's youth group. There are some people I met that Friday who play some pretty important roles in this story.

Reverend Daniel Lam was of average height with a warm yet thin smile that rarely exposed his teeth. Like Iris, he was of Asian descent—I guess Iris's mom and Dan­iel's father had been siblings. At that time, he was in his early thirties, yet he could have passed for a college stu­dent in my opinion. He headed up the youth group with a couple of youth leaders, like Alix Tikker and Bailee Dor­man. They were a fun crew to have in charge. I don't quite remember exactly what went on for youth that first night, but it was enough to spur our return.

What I do remember was my very first impres­sion of Janessa Dobrik. Tall, slim, wearing leg­gings with a rip in the thigh and a t-shirt that made Bailee get a bit red in the face—Janessa had to put her sweater back on, no argu­ments. By Iris's eye roll, I could tell it was a common occurrence for Janessa to show up wearing inappropriate attire. “She's got a rough background,” Iris told me, as if that explained everything that made Janessa who she was. I had no idea that I was saving a life by dropping down beside the girl and striking up a conversation with her on the sidelines of some game Daniel had started.

What we talked about is lost to me now, but I prided myself in making her laugh several times. She had such bright hazel-green eyes, but I always found them clouded by some sort of sad­ness and grief. Iris was right: she did have a rough home life. Older siblings doing drugs, par­ents working several jobs, the works.

I remember one time I commented to Daniel and Si­mon (and this was some time later) that the SRA youth group seemed to attract the lost and broken kids. Daniel had smiled and quoted Mat­thew 19: “Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'”

Good motto. There was a lot of brokenness in Shannon River. I had guessed that pretty quickly—but boy, I hadn't seen anything yet.

Over the next several weeks, I got to know my way around both the high school and the church. I made some more friends, yet Iris, Xavier, and Simon were my con­stants. We were a friend group—“Like, a really small gang,” Xavier joked. I avoid the word clique mostly be­cause we never consid­ered our­selves exclusive. At least, we tried not to be. Some days we'd have Maven with us or some of Iris's and Xavier's other friends, and over time Janessa would hang out with us too. (Only at youth group, though. I hardly ever saw her at school. She was a grade below me.)

Simon made new friends too, and sometimes he wasn't hanging out with us at lunch. Teagan completely ignored my existence at school, and sometimes I wondered if she was embarrassed to have me as an older sister. Her friend group and my fri­end group didn't merge at that time.

What was really nice to see was that Max had made friends, and often times I'd find him outside on the play­ground with them or out in the field playing soccer over the lunch period. Life was slowly settling into a normal routine, and al­though I did find myself missing Janeston, Shannon River was starting to feel like home.

However . . . this brings me back to Tucker. Like I said, Simon had told me that after the project, Tucker would ignore my existence and I wouldn't have to deal with him again. Simon was wrong, though, be­cause . . . Well, I guess I'm un­lucky. Tucker began to show up randomly and pes­ter me about ignoring his invites—he had started stuffing notes in my locker. I was thinking of getting Simon to intervene on my behalf when . . . well . . . he showed up.

Now, don't get confused. This he is not Piano Boy, though some might have mistaken them due to their stri­kingly similar features. I hadn't seen him since that first Sunday, though I had looked around for him. No, this he would never have stepped foot inside of a church, much less enter­tain himself with learning the piano. This he was a tall, handsome, doe-eyed boy named Vance Ebert. A senior on the football team. So horribly cliche, I never actually saw it coming.

Like any other 'bad boy', Vance was cute and at­tr­active—although typing that out now literally sickens me. He was, as Dad would say, a sweet-talker, and enthus­ias­tic while he was at it. Vance was the kind of person who made you feel im­portant, as if you actually mattered to him, when all along he was manipulating you for his own personal gain. When I first met him, I was young, naive, and vulnerable, and he knew it.

It was a sunny weekday in September the day we were introduced. I was sitting alone beneath one of the old gnarled oak trees lining the foot­ball field, working on an essay for Mr. Vortrid's ELA class (which I thankfully didn't have with Tucker). Iris was on the other side of the field, playing Frisbee with Xavier and Maven and a few others. I don't remember where Simon was, but I'm cer­tain he wasn't there.

I was so immersed in my writing that when Tucker's water bottle hit the ground beside me, I jumped in sur­prise and drew an ugly line through my paper. I glared up at him.

“Sorry, did I scare you, Graham Cracker?” he asked, hitting the ground beside me and claiming his water bot­tle.

“Go away, Tucker.”

“Ohhh, ELA. Putrid's at it again.”

I covered my essay, shooting him another glare. “I said, go away!”

“Stop pestering her, Harrison.” Vance was there, and that was the first time I had seen him up close. Sure, I had seen him around Tucker, but I hadn't ever really noticed him until that moment. Hadn't noticed how familiar he looked—a familiar I'd been looking for, yet not the same boy. Dress­ed in grey jeans and a green school sweater, he seemed like your average high school senior. His smile was genuine as he looked down at me, tilt­ing his head like a curious little bird.

Tucker shot to his feet as if he'd been kicked. “Paige Graham, Vance Ebert. Vance, this is—”

“Paige. I heard you.” Vance crouched down to look me in the eyes and offered his hand. “Tucker's talked about you a lot.”

He seemed kind, so I accepted his handshake. It was warm and firm. “I'm sure,” I found myself saying.

“Not a lot,” Tucker said deftly, his voice crack­ing. “Just that she refused to come to parties.”

Vance gave a half-smile at Tucker's words, his eyes never leaving my face. “It's not for every­one.” Straight­ening to his feet, he said, “You're new around here, eh?”

“Relatively,” I replied, wondering why Tucker seemed so anxious.

Vance nodded. “Well, it's nice to meet you. Maybe we can hang out sometime. See you around, Paige.”

They left me alone, which surprised me. I had ex­pect­ed Tucker to pester me about parties and such, but next to Vance, Tucker seemed like a sulking kitten. I wasn't sure how to react, and it was nearly amusing—if you didn't know why. I didn't then. At the time, I could only shake my head and turn back to my essay.

I was working on erasing the line down the middle of my paper when Iris jogged up to me. “Was that Vance and Tucker?” she asked breath­lessly, staring after the two boys as they disap­peared into the school. “What did they want?”

“Nothing. Vance just introduced himself.”

Iris made a humming noise as she crouched beside me. “Remember how I told you Tucker was bad news?”

I rolled my eyes. “You didn't need to tell me.”

“Well, Vance is worse.”

“He didn't seem worse.”

“Trust me, Paige,” she said, and I was sur­prised at how serious her tone was. “You don't wanna be hanging aro­und any Ebert, ever. Vance and his brother—”

Iris had a tendency to gossip, and I was not in the mood for it. “Iris,” I said, cutting her off, even though my curiosity at the word 'brother' had been foolishly piqued. “I don't really wanna hear rumours.”

“They aren't rumours.”

“Kinda are.”

She pursed her lips, looking down. “Sorry. I just . . . I don't want you getting hurt.”

“I'll be fine. And I'll be careful. I've got you to kick butt for me, remember?”

She brightened up a little. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I need to get this essay done.”

“Okay. Look, I'm just warning you. Stay away from any and all Eberts.” She was up and gone without another word. I returned to my essay without a second thought to her warnings.

chapter 3

weaving a web

I didn't realize it then, but I had become Vance's mission. That's how others put it, anyway. I didn't realize how ser­ious the situation would become until it was too late.

It was a month after I had joined Shannon River High that I saw Piano Boy again, so some­time in October. Life was pretty normal at the time; Tucker had stopped pest­ering me, but he acknowledged me in the hallways and called me 'Graham Cracker' across the room in the classes we shared. Vance was pulling off the friendly football player, stopping every once in a while in the hallways to initiate relaxed conversation with me. Iris acted weird around him—like a frighten­ed poodle or something. Her voice always got so high and squeaky, and it had been kind of funny at the time. Xavier was quiet about his opinion of Vance, but deep down, I knew he shared Iris's point of view. Vance was, according to them, bad news.

And, if you were wondering, I happened to not men­tion Vance to Simon at all.

When Iris mentioned that SRH had a school band, I knew I had to join. I had always loved to play the little toy trumpet Grandma Graham had gotten us kids for Christ­mas one year. To this day, I have no idea how I managed to get a good grade in band. Toy trumpets are nothing like real ones. Simon joined as well, as a percussionist. The band group was larger than I expected, and I made sev­eral new friends through it.

That's where I saw Piano Boy again.

It was our last practice before a concert every­one was excited about. I wasn't as excited, because it'd be my first time playing trumpet in front of a crowd, and I was still really shaky. The band teacher, Mrs. H, was accepting, telling me in secret to just pretend to play if I started messing up. I don't think she was very confident in my abilities, either, and since there were several other com­petent trumpet players, I wasn't miss­ed. Looking back on it, I can only smile and shake my head. Mrs. H was nice, but . . . she liked the easy way out.

I was sitting in my assigned chair, trying to remember how to read the notes on my music sheet, when I saw Piano Boy again. He was alone, trailing behind a cluster of clar­inet players as they walked to their seats. I didn't realize he was the boy from the church until he hap­pened to glance up and we locked gazes. I probably looked as surprised as he did, but his surprise was gone in a flash, replaced with a friendly nod in my direction. He sat down at the end of the clarinet row and began to pull out his instrument. I realized that I was staring. He looked fam­iliar, like someone I knew, but I couldn't quite place who. I hadn't quite put it together then, not yet.

He was a new kid, I thought—I'd hadn't seen him around the high school before that day—yet Mrs. H didn't introduce him to the class like she had introduced Simon and I. She hardly gave the boy a single glance the entire practice—hardly anyone did. It was as if he wasn't even there. The room, however, felt tense for some rea­son. At the end of the period, I made up my mind to talk to him, but he was up and gone before I could put my trumpet away.

It wasn't until the end of that week that I learned his name. We had all climbed on one of the school buses, armed with our instruments, ready to play our concert, and Mrs. H was taking roll call. I was sitting with Iris, and in front of us were Simon and another per­cus­sionist, Markus.

As soon as Mrs. H called out a certain name, it was as if the atmosphere in the bus changed. Heads turned, kids peeking around and over seats at the boy who sat alone. His ears went pink.

“Here,” he replied shortly, sliding down a bit in his seat.

Mrs. H went on as normal, seemingly unaware of the way the temperature of the bus seemed to have dropped several degrees.

I now knew the boy's name: James Ebert.

He was Vance's brother.

“His twin brother, actually,” Iris told me when I asked. “He's . . . well, you don't wanna hear gos­sip, so . . .”

“Jimmy was arrested for a bunch of different things last year,” Markus said, overhearing our conversation and leaning over the back of the seat to join in.

“Jimmy?” I asked in confusion.

“That's what everyone calls him. Only the teach­ers and probably his mom ever call him James.”

“Oh.” I'd never realized that the name Jimmy was der­ived from James. “He was arrested?”

“Petty theft, drugs, the works. Been gone a whole year. It was a pretty big deal. Vance does­n't like talking about Jimmy. Says he taints the Ebert name.” Markus glanced down the bus aisle, eyes narrowed. “Not gon­na lie, I don't think I've ever seen Jimmy so . . . quiet.”

I found myself glancing back, down the aisle where Jimmy sat. He had headphones in, drown­ing out the noise of the bus, probably. He was still, staring out the window, looking as if he were a million miles away. “What do you mean?” I asked.

Iris chortled unhappily beside me. “My gosh, Paige, you have no idea what it was like going to school with him. Vance is a creep but at least he's not a jerk. I really have no idea how on earth Jimmy is grad­uating this year with the amount of times he's been suspended.”

“He got expelled once,” Markus commented. “Vance somehow got him back in to SRH.”

“So he's a problem kid,” Simon said, glancing over the back of his seat at me.

“That's putting it nicely,” Iris muttered. “He's been nothing but trouble ever since third grade.”

I wanted to tell them about my encounter with him in the church sanctuary, but I decided against it. As far as first impressions had gone, Jimmy had piqued my in­ter­est, and he definitely hadn't seemed like some horrible person. I was beginning to wonder if I was mis­taking him for someone else.

It didn't take long at all for me to start feeling bad for Jimmy, no matter what kind of person Iris painted him out to be. Everywhere I turned, there were rumours. The Ebert brothers caused a lot of talk around the school, people wondering what had happened between them and why they were so different. The teachers adored Vance and everyone knew him—he was the school golden boy. The teachers hated Jimmy and everyone knew him—he was his brother's opposite.

It was no surprise, then, that I never saw the two to­gether. According to Markus, the brothers had a pretty ugly falling out the day before Jimmy got arrested. It had been quite the scene in the school hallway, and things had turned violent before teachers stepped in. The same day, Jimmy had been arrested.

No one really knew how bad the whole situ­ation was, but there was no way of knowing at the time. Kind of like how you don't know how deep a muddy puddle is until you step into it. And this one was deep.

As I said before, Vance had made me his mission. As time went on, he was getting friend­lier, catching me at my locker and making casual small talk. Tucker tagged along like a forgotten puppy, trying a bit too hard to be as cool and casual as Vance. I had dropped their statuses on my radar from caution to chill—until Vance made his first move.

We were at my locker when it happened. Tucker was there, along with another one of their friends, Ben, both of them talking loudly over the noise of the bustling hall­way, and Vance was beside me, a stupid little smirk on his face as he watched them. I was rolling my eyes at Tuc­ker's words, announcing to them that I had to get to class and turning away from Vance when he suddenly slipped his hand into the back pocket of my jeans and tugged me back. It startled me so much, I actually yelped, silencing Tucker and Ben and turning several heads.

I spun around to Vance, face flushed beet-red. He was grinning, cool and casual, amused by my reaction. “Oops, did I scare you, Graham?”

I fumbled for a response, my cheeks flaming with hu­miliation and embarrassment. He had touched my butt, and I knew it hadn't been accidental and that he was not the least bit sorry about it. “Don't do that, please,” I fin­ally managed to stutter out.

His grin didn't even waver. “Do what?”

My mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. Tucker's and Ben's stares were get­ting to me, and I finally managed to mumble out, “Never mind. I gotta go.”

“See ya, Graham,” Vance called after me, laughter in his tone.

I guess that was the first time I had been un­com­for­table around Vance. He had clearly meant to make me feel the way I did—or maybe he had expected me to flirt back, I don't know. But it creeped me out. It was the way he held himself with a silent, daunting arrogance. There was a challenge in his eyes, as if he expected me to try and stop him from touching me in ways that I was clearly not comfortable with. Suddenly, I was uncomfortable. Sud­denly, I was worried. I didn't want him making those kinds of advances with­out my permission—or at all, to be honest—but I couldn't find it within myself to say it out loud.

Unfortunately, it wasn't an isolated incident. Vance started getting closer and closer, ignoring my clear dis-comfort. He'd put his arm around my shoulders all cas­ual-like, as if I was his girl­friend or something. He even started pinching my butt in the hallways. Dead ser­ious. And I'll admit it, I was weak. I hated the attention—it was not something I was okay with at all—and yet I never stood up to him. I merely tried escaping as fast as pos­sible.

Bringing the predicament up with Iris or Xavier or Si­mon felt impossible. It wasn't lost on me that Vance was only making such advances when they weren't around. I started following Iris around in the hallways again. Vance still man­aged to find me at the most inopportune times. He kept pressing in, playing it all off like it was a joke. I was stuck.

It was a rather emotionally draining time. He got my cell number and began texting with me, and for the most part, he was completely inno­cent. He wasn't going to leave incriminating evi­dence for others to find. That's the way it works. Manipulation at its finest. At the time, I didn't know the steps predators took with their victims, but if I had, I would have realized that he was playing a fast deck of cards. Gaining my friend­ship, then slowly turning things on me for his own pleasure. That's the simp­lified version, anyway. It went on for close to a month.

Then he got impatient.

In truth, it could have ended very badly. I wasn't speaking up. Iris and Xavier had no idea what was going on, and Simon . . . I couldn't bear to tell Simon or Dad. I was scared of what they'd do. Would they tell me to relax and that 'boys will be boys' or 'he's just teasing you'? No, Simon would have taken a baseball bat to the side of Vance's head. I guess that's what held me back: despite how uncomfortable I was, Vance . . . he didn't seem like a bad guy. Just . . . too touchy.

It was stupidity, ignoring my gut the way I did.

October twenty-fourth was the scariest day of my life. At least, that's what I wrote in my journal. I'll just say now that it was the scariest day of my life . . . up to that point. I've seen a lot since then, but I'm not going to say it makes what happened any less scary.

The day started off normally enough. Got up, com­plained about the weather getting colder while I stole Si­mon's Thousand Foot Krutch band sweater—normal. Max was buzzing on about a new movie that was coming out, and Teagan was loudly complaining about having scram­bled eggs for breakfast the third day in a row—normal. Simon combed his hair and bargained eight quar­ters and his shoes for his sweater back—normal, and no he didn't get it back. School was even more nor­mal. Bor­ing classes, talking with Iris and Xavier at lunch about youth the coming Friday, avoiding Vance in the hallways. I actually man­aged the latter, which made me feel a bit freer and triumphant in some way.

The trouble started when we were heading out to our buses. It was raining and cold, and every­one was in a rush to get going. I was halfway to the bus when I realized that I had forgotten my homework binder in my locker. I needed it, so with­out thinking I gave Iris my purse and hurried back into the school. When I got to my locker, however, it was jammed.

I was a bit frantic. I needed to get that home­work done for the next day, and I knew that our bus driver wouldn't wait very long—he wasn't the nicest guy around, often yelling at kids and leaving right at a self-appointed time instead of giving us some grace. I gave the locker several kicks. It was stuck good. When I finally got it open, I grab­bed my binder and started running. I made it to the doors to see my bus pulling away, leaving me behind.

I searched my pockets for my phone, hoping to call Mom to come and pick me up so I didn't have to walk home in the rain. It was a twenty minute walk, and I'd be soaked in the downpour.

My phone, however, was in my purse. The purse I had given Iris.

In hindsight, I could have gone back inside and asked the secretary to call Mom, but instead I simply sighed and started walking home, my only thought being to protect my binder from the rain and predicting Simon's dis­grun­tlement over his sweater getting all wet.

I had walked two blocks before I realized that some­one was following me.

That someone was Vance.