Part 5 (2/2)

”I'll go get the blanket.” I called over my shoulder as I pushed the screen door open, ”But this means I get two sodas at lunch. And cookies.”

Mom and Dad were already headed down to the river as I slammed the truck shut. Mom had her arm looped through his, leaning against his side and smiling up at him. They looked like a couple from an old movie.

Other kids complained about their parents all the time. How they fought with them, fought with each other, were boring or stupid or annoying or bossy.

I was one of the lucky ones. I had great parents. They'd always told me they had wanted three kids, but were blessed with one super kid instead. When I was little I thought I was a super hero and just hadn't come into my powers yet.

My mom made me a cape.

I wore it.

In public.

No, we do not discuss these things.

Dad settled Mom on the blanket and then spread everything around us, spoiling each of us. His girls.

I picked one of the flowers bending over the edge of our blanket. I think they were one of the reasons Mom pushed for this house-a natural garden painting the river's edge.

”These flowers are going to be gorgeous. All the silt from the last time the river flooded has really made the sh.o.r.es fertile.” Mom pulled a b.u.t.tercup from its cl.u.s.ter and held it under my chin. ”Someone likes b.u.t.ter.”

I made a face, ignoring how both of them laughed.

My favorite part of the new house was the rope swing over the river.

Before I could test it out, we had to move everything out of the way, settle Mom in the lawn chair, and let Dad do the first string testing. He bounced on the rope a couple times, putting all his weight into it. And then, super fast, he ran at it, swinging out over the river.

Which would have been great if he'd grabbed on high enough to not drag his feet through the water on the way back.

Finally he let me on. I hooked my feet over the thick knot at the bottom and let him push me out and catch me back over and over. Mom held up her fingers, giving us scores. She was worse than the America's Top Model judges. That last one so didn't deserve a three.

When I was done-okay, when Dad was tired of pus.h.i.+ng me-we flopped down at Mom's feet and played I-spy with the clouds drifting by.

”So, Amy-girl.” My dad propped himself up next to the lawn chair my mother was in. ”There's something your mom and I need to talk to you about.”

I glanced from one to the other. They both looked worried. I'd known it was too good to be true.

”Dad, I'm eleven, not stupid.” He rolled his neck to look up at my mom while I waited. ”Seriously, how much worse than moving here could it be?”

”Your dad and I moved us here for a very specific reason.” My mom s.h.i.+fted her hand to lay it on my father's shoulder. ”We want the next couple months to be a great time for all of us. We wanted to slow things down and just enjoy our family. There's a good school here and we're close to one of the top hospitals.”

I'd argue with her on the school thing, but...

”Why do we need to be near a great hospital?” My gut clenched like when you're at the top of a roller coaster and your brain tells you for one split second you're going to fall off the track.

An edgy, grating sound escaped my dad and I s.h.i.+fted to look at him. His eyes were glimmery and focused far off over my shoulder.

”Amy, I'm sick.” My mom's hand tightened on Dad's shoulder when he covered his eyes and let out something that sounded frighteningly like a sob.

”Sick, like a really bad cold, right?” Right?

”No, honey. Sick like I'm not going to get better and...” She gave me the saddest smile I'd ever seen. It hurt to look at coming from my always sunny mother. ”And I'm going to get worse. Pretty quickly.”

My dad really was crying now and I don't know which scared me worse.

”No, you're not.” I mean, that didn't even make sense.

”Yes, sweetie. I am.” She looked healthy. I mean she'd been tired and stuff, but we'd just moved. And she was sitting there, peaceful. Shouldn't she be throwing stuff and screaming if she was dying?

If she was leaving us?

How could she stand it? I couldn't.

I jumped up, not sure where I was going, and ran. I ran down our lane and over the bridge that kept us separated from the rest of town. I don't even remember which way I turned, I just ran like I'd find an escape. The sound of my Keds slapping on the ground, the huffing of my breath, the too loud pounding of my heart pus.h.i.+ng everything else out of my head.

I'm not sure when I stopped. I ran until I had to walk and I walked until my legs gave out. Someone called my dad and he came and got me. Not one word about running out on the family. Not one word about Mom dying.

Yeah, that was a day for the history books.

Years later, that was the day I tried to capture on canvas. The first part, the flowers and my mom's soft smile. The rest? Not so much.

It wasn't until the music switched off that I realized I wasn't alone in the art room anymore. The sudden silence snapped me back to today, the painting in front of me a faded study of a faded memory.

Glancing up, I funneled my sadness into an anger I didn't know I had in me. It pounded through my body and over every nerve ending like a summer rain, hard and deafening. When I saw Luke Parker standing there, looking around as if he'd never seen a high school art room before, I almost threw my brushes at him.

”What are you doing here?” I didn't have the time or energy to show him any type of patience. This was my place. My sanctuary. And wasn't he supposed to be at a stupid seniors-only pool party?

”I thought I'd see what was so interesting you'd skip hanging out with your boyfriend and his buddies.”

I swung toward the jar of soapy water and swirled my brush until it came away clean. Without facing him, I answered. ”He's not my boyfriend.”

Luke was closer than I expected when he replied.

”No. You aren't his girlfriend, but I'm not so sure about the other way around.”

The sound of his footsteps neared and I spun to face him as he moved to step past the easel, to come around to my side of the painting. My s.p.a.ce behind the canvas. I raised a hand in front of me, the movement so abrupt it caught his attention.

”Stop,” I said. ”No more.”

I shook my head at the words. No more. No more questions. No more pus.h.i.+ng. No more steps toward the only four square feet of Earth I considered my own.

Most people would have pushed, urged me to let them see, questioned why they couldn't.

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