The phone rings a fourth time.

“Not in my house.” Dad never stops glaring at his plate.

And the answering machine picks up.

Mom’s cheerful voice announces that we’re away at the moment, but to please leave a message. Then there’s a beep.

Nothing. No message. No static. Nothing.

My brother doesn’t have the balls to leave me a message.

And I’m not stupid. If he wanted to talk to me, he could have called my cell. This was a test. I invited him to dinner and he was calling to see if I was the only one who wanted him home. I guess we all failed.

Mom clutches the pearls around her neck and the hope within me fades into an angry clawing. Mark left. He left me to deal with this destruction on my own.

I jerk out of my seat and my mother turns to face me. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got homework.”

The corkboard over my computer desk vibrates when I slam my bedroom door shut. I pace the room and press my hands against my head. I’ve got a damn homework assignment and the clarity and calm of a boat being tossed by the waves. What I need to do is run off the anger, lift weights until my muscles burn, throw pitches until my shoulder falls off.

I shouldn’t be writing a damn four-page English paper on anything “I want.”

The chair in front of my desk rolls back as I fling myself into the seat. With one press of a button the monitor brightens to life. The cursor mockingly blinks at me from the blank page.

Four pages. Single spaced. One-inch margins. My teacher’s expectations are too high. Especially since it’s still technically summer vacation.

My fingers bang on the keys. I’ve played ball since I was three.

And I stop typing. Baseball…it’s what I should write about. It’s what I know. But the emotions churning inside of me need a release.

Dad and Mom would turn into raging bulls if I wrote about the real status of my family.

Appearances mean everything. I bet they haven’t even told their marriage counselor the truth about why they see her.

A dawning realization soothes some of the anger. I shouldn’t do it. If anyone figured it out, I’d be in deep, but right now I need to dump all the resentment. I erase the first line and give words to the emotions begging for freedom.

George woke up with a vague memory of what used to be, but one glance to the left brought on a harrowing realization of what his new reality was. Of what, specifically, he had become.

Beth

“THEY MIGHT REMEMBER ME.” Mondays suck and so does the first day of school in Hicksville, USA. I lean against the windows in the guidance counselor’s office and look around. Décor circa the 1970s: faux wood paneling, desk and chairs bought from the Wal-Mart bargain basket. The scent of mildew hangs in the air. This is backwoods schools at their finest.

“That’s the point, Elisabeth.” Scott flips through a thick schedule booklet. “Your old elementary school is one of three schools that feed into here. You’ll know some people and rekindle old friendships. What about Home Ec? You and I baked cookies a couple of times, remember?”

“Beth. I go by Beth.” It’s like the man is learning impaired. “And the last time I baked anything, it was brownies and I put…”

“We’ll put Home Ec in the No section. But I prefer the name Elisabeth. What was your best friend’s name? I used to drive you to her house.”

And we played with dolls. Over and over again. Her mom let us use her real cups for tea parties. They had a real house with real beds and I loved staying for dinner. Their food was hot. It becomes hard to swallow. “Lacy.”

“That’s right. Lacy Harper.”

The door to the office opens and the guidance counselor pops in his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Risk. I’m on the line with Eastwick High.”

Scott drops that cheesy grin. “Take your time. Is there a Lacy Harper at this school?”

Somebody shoot me. Now. Right now.

“Yes, there is.”

The fun doesn’t stop coming. Scott glances at me. “Isn’t that great?”

I overly fake my response. “Awesome.”

He either chooses to ignore my sarcasm or believes my excitement. “Mr. Dwyer, could you place Beth in one of Lacy’s classes?”

Mr. Dwyer practically falls to the floor in admiration. “We’ll certainly try.” He withdraws from his own office and shuts the door.

“Were you smacked upside the head with a bat?” I can’t believe Scott expects me to attend this school.

“Only when I was five and on days that end in y,” he mumbles, still flipping through the catalog. His response pricks my chest. I’ve done my best to block out that portion of my childhood. Grandpa, his dad, used to beat the crap out of him and my dad. Scott kept him from doing the same to me. “What about Spanish?”

I actually smile. “My friend Rico taught me some Spanish. If a guy’s too touchy I can say…”

“Strike Spanish.”

Damn. That could have been fun. “Seriously, Scott. Do you really want me going to school here? Have you thought this through? Your pet with a wedding ring…”

“Allison. Her name is Allison. Let’s say it together. All-i-son. See, not so hard.”

“Whatever. She loves how everybody worships you. How long is that going to last when they remember that you’re low-life trash from the trailer park a couple miles out of Groveton?”

He stops flipping through the catalog. Even though his eyes fix on the paper, I can tell he’s no longer reading. “I’m not that kid anymore. People only care about who I am now.”

“How long do you think it will take before people remember me or Mom?” I meant to say it nasty, like a threat, but it came out soft and I hate myself for it.

Scott looks at me and I loathe the sympathy in his eyes. “They’ll remember you the way I do—a beautiful girl who loved life.”

Pissed that he keeps discussing that poor pathetic girl, I break eye contact. “She died.”

“No, she didn’t.” He pauses. “As for your mom, she moved into town her sophomore year and dropped out when she was still fifteen. People won’t remember her.”

Nausea strikes and my hand drops to my abdomen. Scott wasn’t there when the police came to the trailer and he wasn’t there to dry my tears. This is a small town and everyone knows everyone else. Even though they promised to keep that night a secret, I’m sure someone told.

“What happens to both of us when someone remembers Dad?” I ask. “No one’s going to worship you then. This is a bad mistake, Scott. Send me home.”

“Mr. Risk.” The guidance counselor from Hicksville pokes his head into the office.

Worry lines clutter his overly large forehead and his fingers white-knuckle a fax. I told him I majored in detention while at Eastwick. “Can I have a moment?”

I tilt my head, knowing the words to say to make Mr. Dwyer uncomfortable. “What was that class you wanted to put me in? Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Honors English?”

“Sit down, Elisabeth.” Scott’s getting really good at demanding things in a low voice.

“Okay, Mr. Dwyer, let’s discuss Beth’s schedule.”

Ryan

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, bow your heads and give an amen. Scott Risk’s niece is attending Bullitt County High and the dare is back in play. I weave through the crowded hallway with an extra spring in my step. Defeat is a nasty word. A word I no longer have to accept.

My mood crashes when I spot Chris backing Lacy against a locker. His head angles down as hers inches up. Not a good position to be in with the assistant principal exiting his office.

Last year, he lectured the junior class on our hormones, carnal impulses, and the consequences for those who break the body boundary barrier. In plain English: if you’re caught standing close to a person of the opposite sex, then you’ll spend a day in detention. Back-to-back state championships require practice, not detention.

“Backseats of cars work.” I ease to the other side of Chris and Lacy to block the oncoming assistant principal’s view.

“Preferably off campus.”

Chris groans when Lacy places her hand on his chest and pushes him until they’re an “acceptable” distance apart. She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Morning, Ry.”

“Go away,” Chris says flatly.

“The assistant principal is on the prowl and we are not moving practice like we did last year because you’re sitting in detention.”

Chris lets out a sigh identical to Lacy’s.

“You need a girlfriend.”

“Exactly!” Lacy throws her arms out. “I’ve been saying that for months. Not an evil girlfriend. We are not doing evil again. I was tired of wearing crucifixes. I considered carrying holy water, but then I would have had to sneak into a church and then—”

“Shut it down,” I tell her. There has always been bad blood between Gwen and Lace, but I dated Gwen once. I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting her.

The first warning bell rings, and the three of us head to English. Standing by himself, oozing perpetual boredom, Logan waits for us at the line between the seniors’ lockers and the juniors’. The four of us take as many classes as we can together. For fun. For camaraderie. For Lacy and Logan to help me and Chris with homework.

Because the boy is smarter than Einstein and most of the kids in this school are dumber than dirt, Logan takes senior courses. Next year, they won’t have any classes advanced enough for him, so odds are they’ll shove him in a dark corner of the library and pretend he doesn’t exist.

I glance around the hallway, trying to spot Beth. “So, about that continuing dare from Friday.”

“You mean the bet you lost on Friday.” Chris enters English and claims our usual seats by the window. Lacy stays in the hallway to do her girl-talk thing.

“No, the bet I’m going to win.”

Chris flashes a disbelieving grin. “Logan, do you hear the smack he’s talking?”

Logan drops into his seat and slouches. “You lost, Ryan. Badly.”

“Badly?” I ask.

“The most fun I’ve had in weeks,” Chris says. “In fact, let’s relive the moment. Hi, I’m Ryan, I want your phone number.” He holds out his hand to Logan.

“Let me think,” Logan says. “She had this elegant way of talking. Oh, yeah, I believe her response was ‘Fuck you.’”

“Her name is Beth.”

“Getting her name wasn’t the dare.”

Determined to keep Mrs. Rowe from taking into her possession every hat he owns like last year, Chris shoves his cap into his back pocket.

“You lost. Be a man. Suck it up. Or let us continue to make fun of you. Either way works.”

“I like making fun of him,” says Logan.

I lower my voice and lean into the aisle so only Logan and Chris can hear. I have a small window of opportunity and the longer people stay in the dark regarding her uncle, the better my odds of scoring her number. Scott is a god at this school, which automatically makes her a demigod. “Her real name is Elisabeth Risk and she’s Scott Risk’s niece.”