Harmon, Amy - A Different Blue

By Amy Harmon

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Amazon Edition

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Copyright © 2013 by Amy Harmon

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Because of you,

I’ve always known who I am.

Prologue

AUGUST 1993

The heat was stifling, and the little girl tossed in the back seat. Her face was flushed, and the blanket she laid on had ridden up and her cheek lay against the plastic seat. She slept on, seemingly unbothered. She was amazingly resilient for such a tiny girl. Didn't cry often, didn't complain. Her mother rolled down the windows all the way, not that it helped all that much, but the sun had gone down and it no longer beat against the car. The darkness was a relief, even if it was still over 100 degrees outside, plus it made them less conspicuous. The air-conditioner worked well enough as long as the car was in motion, but they had been sitting in a wedge of paltry shade watching the truck for two hours, waiting for the man to come out.

The woman behind the wheel bit at her fingernails and debated whether or not to give it up. What would she say to him? But she needed help. The money she had taken from her mother hadn't lasted long. Ethan's parents had given her $2,000, but gas and motels and food ate it up quicker than she would have ever believed. So she'd done a few things along the way she wasn't proud of, but she rationalized that she did what she had to do. She had a kid now. She had to take care of her, even if it meant trading sex for money or favors. Or drugs, a little voice whispered inside her head. She pushed the thought away, knowing she wasn't going to last long. She needed another hit.

She had come so far. She couldn't believe she had ended up here, not that far from home. A few hours is all. And she had been halfway across the country and back with nothing to show for it.

Suddenly, he was there, walking back toward the truck. He pulled his keys from his pocket and attempted to unlock the passenger door. He was met by a scruffy grey and black dog that had been sleeping beneath the vehicle, waiting, like she was, for the man to return to his truck. The dog circled the man's legs as he jimmied the handle back and forth. She heard the man curse under his breath.

“Damn thing. Gonna have to replace that handle.”

The man managed to yank the passenger door open, and the dog leaped up into the seat, confident of his place in the world. The man shut the door behind the dog and wiggled the handle once more. The man didn't see her watching him. He just walked around the front of his truck, climbed in behind the wheel, and eased the truck and trailer out of the parking space he had occupied for the last few hours. His eyes slid right over her as he rumbled past, not pausing, not hesitating. Wasn't that just typical? Not even a second look. Not even a second thought. Anger welled up inside her. She was tired of being looked over, passed by, ignored, rejected.

She started her car and followed him, keeping far enough back that he wouldn't get suspicious. But why would he? He didn't even know she existed. That made her invisible, didn't it? She would follow him all night if she had to.

AUGUST 5, 1993

The call came in just before four o'clock in the afternoon, and Officer Moody was in no mood for it. His shift was about to end, but he told dispatch he would respond and pulled into the parking lot of the Stowaway. If the name was an indicator, only stowaways would want to stay at the dumpy motel. A neon traveler's trunk with a head poking up out of the lid fizzled in the afternoon heat. Officer Moody had lived in Reno all of his twenty-eight years, and he knew as well as anyone that a good night's rest wasn't the reason people frequented the Stowaway. He heard the wail of an ambulance. Obviously the desk clerk had made more than one call. He had had a gurgling gut ache all afternoon. Damn burritos. He had wolfed them down gleefully at noon, loaded with cheese, guacamole, shredded pork, sour cream, and green chilies, but he was paying for it now. He really needed to go home. He desperately hoped the desk clerk was wrong about the guest in an upstairs room and he could wrap things up quickly and be done with the day.

But the desk clerk wasn't wrong. The woman was dead. No mistake. It was August, and she had probably been closed up in room 246 for 48 hours. August in Reno, Nevada was hot and dry. And the body reeked. The burritos threatened, and Officer Moody, without touching anything, made a hasty retreat, telling the paramedics hurrying up the stairs that they wouldn't be needed. His supervisor would have his head if he let them trample all over the scene. He closed the door to room 246 behind him and told the curious desk clerk that police would be swarming all over the premises and that they would need her assistance. Then he called his supervisor.

“Martinez? We've got a woman, obviously dead. I've secured the scene. Paramedics have been turned away. Requesting assistance.”

An hour later, the crime scene tech was snapping pictures, police were canvasing the area, questioning every guest, every nearby business, every employee. Detective Andy Martinez, Officer Moody's supervisor, had commandeered the surveillance camera. Miracle of miracles, there actually was one at the Stowaway. The coroner had been called and was en route.

When questioned, the desk clerk claimed they had not been renting out the room because the air conditioner was broken. Nobody had been in or out of the room for more than two days. A repairman had been scheduled, but fixing the air conditioner had not been a huge priority. Nobody knew how the woman had gotten into the hotel room, but she definitely hadn't signed in and used something as helpful as a credit card to pay for her stay. And she didn't have any ID on her. Unfortunately for the investigation, the woman had been dead for two days or longer, and the hotel wasn't one that attracted long stays. The Stowaway sat just off the freeway on the outskirts of town and whoever may have seen or heard anything from the night she had died was no longer at the motel.

When Officer Moody finally made it home at eight o'clock that night, he felt no better than he had earlier, and they still hadn't made an identification of the woman found dead with nothing with the clothes on her back to guide the investigation. Moody had a bad feeling about the whole thing, and he didn't think it had anything to do with the burritos.

AUGUST 6, 1993

“Any luck making an ID?” Officer Moody hadn't been able to get the woman out of his head. It bothered him all night. It wasn't his case. Patrolmen didn't head investigations. But Martinez was his supervisor and was willing to share, especially when the case seemed to be coming to a rapid close.

“Coroner rolled her prints,” Detective Martinez offered.

“Oh, yeah? Any luck?”

“Yep. She's got a few priors, mostly drug related. Got a name, an old address. Just turned nineteen. August 3 was her birthday, actually.” Detective Martinez winced.

“You mean she died on her birthday?”

“That's what the coroner says, yeah.”

“Drug overdose?” Officer Moody didn't know if he'd get an answer on this one. Detective Martinez could be pretty close-mouthed.

“That's what we thought. But when the coroner rolled her, the back of her head was bashed in.”

“Ah, hell,” Officer Moody groaned. Now they were looking for a murderer, too.

“We don't know if it was the drugs or the head wound that finished her off, but someone tried to do the job. It looked like she'd taken a little bit of everything from some of the paraphernalia at the scene. She probably had enough crap in her system to down an entire cheer leading squad,” Martinez was forthcoming.

“Cheer-leading squad?” Moody laughed a little.

“Yeah. She was a cheerleader at a little school in Southern Utah . It was in the police report. She apparently shared some Ecstasy with her teammates and was caught and charged with possession. Only reason she wasn't locked up was because she was a minor and it was her first offense. And she was sharing, not selling. We've touched base with local authorities there. They're going to notify the family.”

“You get anything off the surveillance tape?”

“Yep. Just as plain as can be. We have her walking into the lobby about midnight and climbing through the reception window, over the front desk, right into the office area. Desk clerk claims she usually locks everything up when she has to step away from the desk, but she had the stomach flu and rushed to the bathroom without buttoning things up.” Officer Moody thought briefly of his bout with the burritos as Martinez continued.

“Camera shows the girl rifling around and grabbing a key. They still use the actual keys, you know. No modern key cards for the Stowaway. Desk clerk says the key had been pulled and set aside because of the air conditioning problems. There was a work order with the key. Girl wasn't a dummy. She took the key knowing she could probably hang out in the room for the night and nobody would know. And that's not all. The camera shows her car coming into the motel with her in it and leaving an hour later with a man at the wheel. We've got an APB out on that car.”

“That's great. Looks like you got it just about locked down then,” Moody sighed, relieved.

“Yep. Looks like we'll be able to put this one to bed pretty soon,” Detective Martinez agreed.

AUGUST 7, 1993

“All right. Listen up.” Detective Martinez lifted his hands and waved everyone quiet for morning briefing. “We just got word from the authorities in Southern Utah that the woman found dead at the Stowaway last Friday, August 5 is reported to have a two-year-old child. You have a description and a picture of the woman on the flyer in front of you. At this point, we have had no indication that a child was with her in the hours leading up to her death. There was no sign of a child in the surveillance video nor any sign that a child had ever been in the motel room. The family of the deceased had not seen the woman or child in over a year, so we have no way of knowing at what point the woman and her child parted company.”

“Media has been contacted. We have also notified the appropriate agencies as well as inputing this information in NCIS. We need to start canvasing the area again with the flyer. Let's get this woman's picture out as fast as we can. See if anyone remembers seeing this woman and whether or not she had a child with her. We have no current pictures of the toddler, but the grandmother gave us a basic description. Child is believed to have dark hair and blue eyes. Ethnicity: Native American, although the father of the child is believed to be white, which may account for the blue eyes. The mother has been dead now for five days, and we all know how transient the clientele at the Stowaway is. We've lost some precious time and need to work fast. Let's get on it, people.”

Chapter One

SEPTEMBER 2010

The bell had rung ten minutes ago, but I wasn't too worried. Actually, the truth was I didn't care, so why would I worry? The first day of school was useless anyway. Most of the teachers didn't mark tardies on the first day or yell at you in front of the class. It was the last period of the day, and my mind had already left the building and fled out over the desert and into the hills in search of shapes and silhouettes. Already, I could feel the wood beneath my hands. Reluctantly, I forced my mind back to my body and straightened my shoulders so I could make an impression as I walked into class, which was usually my goal. Partly because I enjoyed the attention but mostly because I knew if people were intimidated by me they would leave me alone. Teachers left me alone, overly friendly girls who wanted to be BFF's left me alone, but the guys were usually at my beck and call if and when I wanted one of them.

I whipped back my long black hair as I entered the room. My eyes were heavily made up, and my jeans were so tight that sitting down was highly uncomfortable, although I'd perfected the art of slouching so they didn't pinch . . . too much. I cracked my gum and slid one eyebrow up disdainfully as I looked for an empty seat. All eyes swiveled toward me as I sauntered up the center aisle and slid into the seat right in front, dead center. Damn. Being late had its downside. I took my time taking off my jacket and dropping my purse to the floor. I hadn't even deigned to look in the direction of the new teacher whose voice had faded to silence at my arrival. A few people snickered at my nonchalant display, and I shot a venomous sneer in the general direction of the laughter. It stopped. Finally, I slid into my seat and raised my eyes to the front of the classroom, sighing deeply and loudly.

"Carry on," I droned, with another toss of my hair.

"Mr. Wilson" was written across the whiteboard in capital letters. My eyes locked on him. He was staring at me with a furrowed brow and a slight smile. Dark hair in need of a haircut curled above his ears and fell onto his forehead. It looked as if he had tried to tame it into respectability, but his mop had obviously rebelled at some point during his first day at Boulder High School. I raised my eyebrows in amazement and tried hard not to snort out loud. He looked like a student. In fact, if he hadn't had on a tie, knotted hastily over a blue button-up dress shirt with a pair of khakis, I would have thought he was some kind of teacher's aid.

"Hello," he said politely. He had a British accent. What was a guy with a British accent doing in Boulder City, Nevada? His tone was warm and friendly, and he seemed unbothered by my purposeful disrespect. He looked down at the roll that was sitting on a music stand to his right.

"You must be Blue Echohawk . . ." His voice trailed off a little and his expression was one of muted surprise. The name tends to throw people. I have dark hair, but my eyes are very blue. I don't really look like an Indian.

"And you must be Mr. Wilson," I retorted.

Laughter rang out. Mr. Wilson smiled. “I am. As I was telling your classmates, you may call me Wilson. Except when you are late or disrespectful, in which case I would appreciate the Mr," he finished mildly.

"Well in that case, I guess I'd better stick to Mr. Wilson then. Because I'm usually late, and I'm always disrespectful." I smiled back sweetly.

Mr. Wilson shrugged. “We'll see.” He stared at me for another second. The set of his grey eyes made him look slightly mournful, like one of those dogs with the liquid gaze and the long expression. He didn't strike me as a barrel of laughs. I sighed again. I knew I didn't want to take this class. History was my least favorite subject. European History sounded about as bad as you could get.

"Literature is my favorite subject." Mr. Wilson's eyes left my face as he launched into an introduction of the course. He said the word literature with only three syllables. Lit-ra-ture. I wiggled myself into a mostly comfortable position and stared crossly at the young professor.

“You might wonder, then, why I'm teaching history.”

I didn't think anyone cared enough to wonder, but we were all a little transfixed by his accent. He continued.

"Remove the first two letters off the word history. Now what does it spell?"

"Story," some eager beaver chirped from behind me.

"Exactly." Mr. Wilson nodded sagely. “And that's what history is. A story. It's someone's story. As a boy, I discovered that I would much rather read a book than listen to a lecture. Literature makes history come to life. It is maybe the most accurate depiction of history, especially literature that was written in the time period depicted in the story. My job this year is to introduce you to stories that open your mind to a broader world – a colorful history – and to help you see the connections to your own life. I promise to not be too dull if you promise to attempt to listen and learn."

"How old are you?" a girl's voice rang out flirtatiously.

“You sound like Harry Potter,” some guy grunted from the back of the room. There were a few giggles, and Mr. Wilson's ears turned red where they peeked out beneath the hair that curled around them. He ignored the question and the comment and began handing out sheets of paper. There were some groans. Paper meant work.

"Look at the page in front of you," Mr. Wilson instructed, as he finished distributing the sheets. He walked to the front of the classroom and leaned against the whiteboard, folding his arms. He looked at us for several seconds, making sure we were all with him. “It's blank. Nothing's been written on the page. It's a clean slate. Kind of like the rest of your life. Blank, unknown, unwritten. But you all have a history, yes?"

A few kids nodded their heads agreeably. I looked at the clock. Half an hour until I could take off these jeans.

"You all have a story. It's been written up to this point, to this very second. And I want to know that story. I want to know YOUR history. I want you to know it. For the rest of the class time I want you to tell me your story. Don't worry about being perfect. Perfect is boring. I don't care about run-on sentences or misspelled words. That's not my purpose. I just want an honest account – whatever you are willing to divulge. I will collect them at the end of the hour."

Desk chairs scraped, zippers were yanked opened in search of pens, and complaints were uttered as I stared down at the paper. I ran my fingertips down it, imagining I could feel the lines that ran in horizontal blue stripes. The feel of the paper soothed me, and I thought what a waste it was to fill it with squiggles and marks. I laid my head down on the desk, on top of the paper, and closed my eyes, breathing in. The paper smelled clean, with just a hint of sawdust. I let my mind linger on the fragrance, imagining the paper beneath my cheek was one of my carvings, imagining I was rubbing my hands along the curves and grooves that I'd sanded down, layer upon layer, uncovering the beauty beneath the bark. It would be a shame to mar it. Just like it was a shame to ruin a perfectly good sheet of paper. I sat up and stared at the pristine page in front of me. I didn't want to tell my story. Jimmy said to really understand something you had to know its story. But he'd been talking about a blackbird at the time.

Jimmy had loved birds. If woodworking was his gift, bird watching was his hobby. He had a pair of binoculars, and he would often hike to a high spot where he could observe and document what he saw. He said birds were messengers and that if you watched them closely enough, you could discern all sorts of things. Shifting winds, approaching storms, dropping temperatures. You could even predict if there was danger nearby.

When I was very small it was hard for me to sit still. It actually still is. Birdwatching was hard for me, so Jimmy started leaving me behind when I was old enough to remain at camp alone. I was much more responsive to woodcarving simply because it was so physical.

I must have been seven or eight the first time I saw Jimmy get really excited about a bird sighting. We were in southern Utah, and I remember where we were only because Jimmy remarked on it.

“What is he doing in these parts?” he had marveled, his eyes fixed on a scrubby pine tree. I had followed his gaze to a little black bird perched halfway up the tree on a thin branch. Jimmy went for his binoculars, and I stayed still, watching the little bird. I didn't see anything special about it. It just looked like a bird. Its feathers were solid black – no flash of color to draw the eye or brilliant markings to admire.

“Yep. That's a Eurasian Blackbird all right. There are no blackbirds native to North America. Not like this guy. He's actually a thrush.” Jimmy was back, his voice a whisper as he looked through his binoculars. “He's a long way from home, or else he's escaped from somewhere.”

I whispered too, not wanting to scare it away if Jimmy thought it was special.

“Where do blackbirds usually live?”

“Europe, Asia, North Africa,” Jimmy murmured watching the orange-billed bird. “You can find them in Australia and New Zealand too.”

“How do you know it's a he?”

“Because the females don't have the glossy black feathers. They aren't as pretty.”

The little yellow eyes peered down at us, fully aware that we were watching. Without warning, the bird flew away. Jimmy watched him go, tracking him through the binoculars until he was beyond sight.

“His wings were as black as your hair,” Jimmy commented, turning away from the bird that had enlivened our morning. “Maybe that's what you are . . . a little blackbird a long way from home.”

I looked at our camper sitting in the trees. “We're not a long way from home, Jimmy,” I said, confused. Home was wherever Jimmy was.

“Blackbirds aren't considered bad luck like ravens and crows and other birds that are black. But they don't give up their secrets easily. They want us to figure them out. We have to earn their wisdom.”

“How do we earn it?” I wrinkled my nose up at him, baffled.

“We have to learn their story.”

“But he's a bird. How can we learn his story? He can't talk.” I was literal in the way all kids are literal. I would have really liked it if the blackbird could tell me his story. I would keep him as a pet, and he could tell me stories all day. I begged for stories from Jimmy.

“First you have to really want to know.” Jimmy looked down at me. “Then you have to watch. You have to listen. And after a while, you'll get to know him. You'll start to understand him. And he'll tell you his story.”

I took out a pencil and spun it around my fingers. I wrote, "Once Upon a Time" across the top of my sheet, just to be a smart ass. I smirked at the line. As if my story was a fairy tale. My smile faded.

“Once upon a time . . . there was a little blackbird,” I wrote. I stared at the page. “. . . pushed out of the nest, unwanted.”

Images gathered in my head. Long dark hair. A pinched mouth. That was all I could remember of my mother. I replaced the pinched mouth with a gently smiling face. A completely different face. Jimmy's face. That face brought a twinge of pain. I moved my inner eye to his hands. Brown hands moving the chisel across the heavy beam. Wood shavings piled on the floor at his feet where I sat, watching them fall. The shavings drifted down around my head, and I closed my eyes and imagined that they were tiny pixies coming to play with me. These were the things I liked to remember. The memory of the first time he had held my smaller hand in his and helped me strip away the heavy bark from an old stump rose in my mind like a welcome friend. He was talking softly about the image beneath the surface. As I listened to the memory of his voice, I let my mind trip back across the desert and up into the hills, remembering the gnarled claw of mesquite I had found the day before. It had been so heavy I'd had to drag it to my truck and hoist it, one side at time, into the truck bed. My fingers itched to peel back the charred skin and see what was beneath. I had a feeling about it. A shape was forming in my head. I tapped my feet and curled my fingers against the paper, daydreaming about what I could create.

The bell rang. The noise level in the room rose as if a switch had been flipped, and I jerked from my reverie and glared down at my page. My pathetic history waited for embellishment.

“Turn your papers in. And please make sure your name is at the top! I can't give you credit for your history if I don't know that it's yours!”

The room was empty in about ten seconds flat. Mr. Wilson struggled to align the stack of papers that had been shoved in his hands as students exuberantly vacated his classroom, eager for other things. The first day of school was officially over. He noticed me still sitting and cleared his throat a little.

"Miss . . . um . . . Echohawk?"

I stood abruptly and reached for my paper. I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it toward the trashcan beneath the white board. It didn't quite make it, but I didn't retrieve it. Instead, I grabbed my purse and the jacket that was completely unnecessary in the 110 degree heat that awaited me outside the school. I didn't look at my new teacher as I strode to the back of the room and swung my purse over my shoulder.

"Later, Wilson," I called out, not even turning my head.

Manny was waiting by my truck when I reached the student parking lot, and seeing him there made me groan. Manuel Jorge Rivas-Olivares, aka Manny, lived in my apartment complex. He and his little sister had adopted me. They were like the stray cats that would hang around your door and meow pitiously for days on end until you finally gave up and fed them. And when you finally fed them, it was over. They were officially your cats.

So it was with Manny and Graciela. They just kept hanging around until I finally took pity on them. Now they thought they belonged to me, and I didn't know how to make them go away. Manny was sixteen and Graciela was fourteen. Both were small-boned and fine-featured, and both were incredibly sweet and annoying. Just like cats.

There was a bus that ran to the complex, and I made sure Manny's mother knew all about it and even assisted her in getting Manny and Graciela registered to ride it. I really thought this year would be different now that Graciela was in ninth grade and would be riding the high school bus too. Guess not. Manny was waiting for me with a big smile and an armful of books.

“Hey, Blue! How was your first day? Big senior year, Chica! I bet you'll be homecoming queen this year. The most beautiful girl in the school should be homecoming queen, and you are definitely the most beautiful girl!” Very sweet, very annoying. Manny spoke a mile a minute with a slight Hispanic accent and just a hint of a lisp, which might have been the accent but was more likely just Manny.

“Hey, Manny. What happened to riding the bus?”

Manny's smile slipped a little, and I felt bad for asking. He waved my question away and shrugged.

“I know, I know. I told Gloria I would take the bus, and I made sure Graciela caught it . . . but I wanted to ride home with you on the first day. Did you see the new history teacher? I have him for first period, and I can tell he's going to be the best teacher I've ever had . . . and the cutest too!”

Manny had recently started calling his mother Gloria. I wasn't sure what that was about. I also considered telling him he might want to reconsider calling Mr. Wilson cute. I assumed that was who he was talking about. I didn't think there were two new history teachers.

“I love his accent. I hardly heard anything he said all period!” Manny slid daintily in the passenger side when I unlocked my truck. I worried about the kid. He was more feminine than I was.

“I wonder what he is doing in Boulder? Ivy and Gabby are sure he is, like, MI-6 or something.” Manny had dozens of girlfriends. In fact, the girls all loved him because he was so non-threatening and fun, which made me wonder again why he couldn't ride the bus. It wasn't like he didn't have friends.

“What the hell is MI-6?” I grumped, trying to manuever through the crush of vehicles leaving the school. I hit my brakes as someone cut me off and then hung his middle finger out the window as if I was the one who pulled out in front of him. Manny reached over my arm and pounded on the horn.

“Manny! Stop! I'm the one driving, okay?” I commanded, knocking his hand away. It didn't even faze him.

“You don't know what MI-6 is? Freaking James Bond? Chica, you need to get out more!”

“What would someone from MI-6 be doing at Boulder High School?” I laughed.

“Beats me, but he's British, he's hot, and he's young.” Manny ticked his points off on graceful fingers. “What else could it be?”

“You really think he's hot?” I questioned doubtfully.

“Oh, definitely. In a very naughty librarian kind of way.”

“Oh, sick, Manny. That only works when the librarian is female.”

“Fine, a naughty professor then. He's got sexy eyes and floppy curls and his forearms are very well-developed. He's a hottie in disguise. Totally MI-6. Do you have to work tonight?” Manny bounced to a new subject, having clearly proven the new Mr. Wilson must be a spy.

“It's Monday. Monday means work, Manny.” I knew what he was fishing for and resisted. “Stop feeding the kitties,” I reminded myself firmly.

“I could sure go for some of Bev's quesadillas right now. I am one hungry Mexican.” Manny laid the accent on thick. He only referred to his ethnicity when he talked about food. “I sure hope Gloria remembered to go shopping before she left for work. Otherwise, me and baby sister are eating Ramen again,” Manny sighed mournfully.

The baby sister line was over the top, but I found myself weakening. Manny was the man of the house, and that meant providing for Graciela, which he did with gusto, even if providing meant asking me to provide. I worked at Bev's Cafe several nights a week, and without fail I brought home dinner for Manny and Graciela at least once during the week.

“Fine. I will bring you and Gracie some quesadillas. But this is the last time, Manny. It cuts into my paycheck,” I scolded. Manny smiled brilliantly at me and clapped his hands like Oprah does when she's excited.

“I will see if my uncle has any more mesquite you can have,” Manny promised, and I nodded and stuck out my hand to shake on it.

“Deal.”

Manny's Uncle Sal worked on a crew with the forest service. They frequently cleared scrub and brush and kept the mesquite from encroaching on government owned ranches. Last time Sal had come through for me, I had enough wood to last me two months of serious carving. I drooled at the thought.

“Of course, that means you will owe me, chica,” Manny suggested innocently. “Dinners for at least a month of Mondays, okay?”

I just laughed at his negotiating skills. He already owed me for two months of Mondays. But we both knew I would agree. I always did.

Chapter Two

OCTOBER 2010

Maybe it was the stories I was drawn to. Every day it was a new story. And quite frequently, the stories were about women in history, or told from the perspective of the women. Maybe it was just Mr. Wilson's obvious love of he subject he taught. Maybe it was simply his cool accent and his youth. The entire student body tried to mimic him. Girls crowded around him, and the boys watched him, fascinated, as if a rockstar had descended into our midsts. He was the talk of the school, an overnight sensation, instantly beloved because he was a novelty – and a very attractive novelty if you liked slightly unruly hair and grey eyes and British accents, which I told myself I did not. He was definitely not my type. Still, I found myself looking forward to my last class of the day with irritating impatience and was probably more adversarial than I would have otherwise been simply because I was puzzled by his allure.

Mr. Wilson had spent an entire month on the ancient Greeks. We had discussed epic battles, deep thinkers, architecture, and art, but today Wilson was detailing the different gods and what each represented. It was actually pretty fascinating, I had to admit, but incredibly irrelevant. I volunteered this observation, of course.

“This isn't exactly history,” I pointed out.

“The myths may not be historical fact, but the fact that the Greeks believed in them is,” Wilson responded patiently. “You must understand that Greek gods are an intrinsic part of Greek mythology. Our introduction to the ancient Greek gods can be traced all the way back to the writings of Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey. Many scholars believe that the myths were actually influenced by the Mycenaean culture that existed in Greece between 1700 and 1100 BC. There is also evidence that the beginnings of Greek mythology can be traced back to the ancient Middle Eastern cultures of Mesopotamia and Anatolia because of the similarities between the mythology of these ancient Middle Eastern cultures and the ancient Greeks.”

We all just stared at him. What he'd said was about as clear as mud. He seemed to take note of our “huh?” expressions.

“The Greeks had a god to explain everything.” Wilson wasn't about to be deterred, and he dug into his argument. “The sunrises, the sunsets, their tragedies and their triumphs were all connected to the existence of these gods. In many ways, their gods brought sense to a senseless world. A strangely-shaped rock could be said to be a god disguised as a stone, or an unusually large tree might be a god in disguise as well. And that tree would be worshipped for fear that the god would retaliate. There were gods everywhere, and everything could be used as evidence of their existence. Wars were started in the names of the gods, oracles were consulted and their advice heeded, however hurtful or strange or bizarre that advice might be. Even the storm winds were personified. They were thought to be harpies – winged women who snatched things up, just like the wind, never to be seen again. Storm winds and the weather that came with them were blamed on these winged creatures.”

“I thought a harpy was just an old-fashioned word for witch,” a pimply kid named Bart volunteered. I was thinking the same thing but was glad someone else decided to speak up.

“In early versions of Greek myth, harpies were described as lovely-haired creatures, as beautiful women with wings. That changed over time, and in Roman mythology they were described as hideous-faced beasts with talons and even beaks. Hideous, nasty, bird-women. That image has persisted over time. Dante described the seventh hell in his Inferno as a place where harpies lived in the woods and tormented those who were sent there.” Wilson started reciting the poem, apparently from memory.

“Here the repellent harpies make their nests,

Who drove the Trojans from the Strophades

With dire announcements of the coming woe.

They have broad wings, a human neck and face,

Clawed feet and swollen, feathered bellies; they caw

Their lamentations in the eerie trees.”

“You have that lovely poem memorized, I see,” I said sarcastically, although I was mostly dumbfounded. Wilson burst out laughing, his serious face transformed by the action. I even cracked a smile. At least the guy could laugh at himself. Wow! Talk about a NERD. Who quoted Dante at will? And with that stuffy British accent I was sure he was going to say, “It's elementary, Miss Echohawk,” every time I asked him a question. He was still smiling when he continued.

“To answer your question, Miss Echohawk, what we believe affects our world in a very real way. What we believe affects our choices, our actions, and subsequently, our lives. The Greeks believed in their gods, and this belief affected everything else. History is written according to what men believe, whether or not it's true. As the writer of your own history, what you believe influences the paths you take. Do you believe in something that may be a myth? I'm not talking about religious beliefs, per se. I'm talking about things you've told yourself, or things you've been told for so long that you just assume that they are true.”

Mr. Wilson turned and picked up a stack of papers. He started passing them out as he talked.

“I want you to think about this. What if what you believe about yourself or about your life is simply a myth that is holding you back?”

Mr. Wilson set a wrinkled sheet of paper on my desk and moved on without comment. It was my personal history. The history I'd thrown toward the garbage can the first day of school. It had been pressed and smoothed, but it bore the signs of having been discarded. It would never be the same. No amount of pressing and smoothing would ever disguise the fact that it had been rescued from the trash.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a little blackbird, pushed from the nest. Unwanted."

I added a word. Discarded. I read it to myself.

"Once upon a time . . . there was a little blackbird, pushed from the nest. Unwanted. Discarded.”

Just like trash. And no amount of pretending I wasn't trash would make me something else. Girls like me deserve their reputations. I cultivated mine. I suppose I could blame my upbringing, but it wasn't in me to make excuses for myself. I like boys and boys like me. Or at least they like the way I look. I guess it would be a lie to say they like me, the me I keep to myself. They don't know that girl. But that's part of the allure. I cultivated my look, too. I had sexy hair, and I always wore my jeans too tight and my shirts snug and my eye makeup thick. And when I was being held or kissed or touched, I felt powerful and I felt wanted. I knew what some people called me. I knew the whispers behind the hands. I knew what the boys said about me. They said I was a slut. Pretending I wasn't would be believing a lie. A myth, like the Greeks with their silly Gods.

Jimmy had called me Bluebird. It was his own little nickname. But I bore no resemblance to a bluebird . . . sweet, bright, happy. I was more like a modern day harpy. A bird-woman. A female monster equipped with crooked, sharp talons. Mess with me, and I would carry you off to the underworld and punish and torment you for infinity. Maybe it wasn't my fault I was the way I was. Cheryl took me in when I was about eleven, and she didn't have much use for a kid. Her lifestyle wasn't conducive to motherhood. She was unaffectionate and absent most of the time, but she was all right. When I was younger she made sure I ate and that I had a bed of my own.

We lived in a two bedroom apartment in a dumpy complex on the outskirts of Boulder City, twenty minutes from the bright lights of Las Vegas. Cheryl was a dealer at the Golden Goblet Hotel Casino in Vegas, and she spent her days sleeping and her nights surrounded by gamblers and cigarette smoke, which suited her just fine. She usually had a boyfriend. The older she got, the more seedy her choice in men became. The older I got, the more interested they became in me. It made for a tense relationship. I knew that as soon as I graduated I would be on my own because the money for my care had stopped at eighteen, and I had turned nineteen in August. It was just a matter of time.

When class was over, I wadded up my paper and threw it back in the trash where it belonged. Mr. Wilson saw me do it, but I didn't care. Both Manny and Graciela were sitting on my tailgate talking to group of Manny's girlfriends when I reached the parking lot. I just sighed. First Manny, now Graciela. I was becoming the chauffeur. They were all laughing and chattering, and my head immediately started to hurt. One of the girls called out to a handful of guys gathered around a vintage yellow Camero.

“Brandon! Who are you taking to Homecoming? I still need a date, ya know!”

The girls around her twittered, and Brandon looked over to see who was propositioning him. Brandon was the younger brother of a guy I hung out with every now and then. Where Mason was brawny and dark, Brandon was lean and blond, but both were too good-looking for modesty. Mason had graduated three years before, and Brandon was a Senior, like I was. I was older than all the guys my age, and though I could acknowledge good looks, I grew bored with them very easily and didn't make it a secret. Which is probably why I would NOT be crowned Homecoming Queen, despite Manny's high hopes and machinations.

“Sorry, Sasha. I asked Brooke last week. We definitely need to hang out sometime, though.” Brandon smiled, and I was reminded how appealing Mason was when he was being sweet. Maybe it was time to give Mason a call. It had been a while.

“That car is seriously hot, Brandon,” Manny called out, his voice raised above those of his friends.

“Uh, thanks, man.” Brandon grimaced, and his friends looked away awkwardly. I winced for Brandon's sake and for Manny's.

“Manny, Gracie, let's go.” I yanked my truck door open, hoping the loafers on my tailgate would scatter when I started it up. I watched through the rearview mirror as all of Manny's friends gave him hugs and made him promise to text. Gracie seemed transfixed by Brandon and his friends, and when everyone dispersed she was still sitting on the tailgate staring. Manny tugged on her, pulling her out of her reverie, and the two of them hopped in beside me. Graciela had a dazed look on her face, but Manny was pouting.

“I don't think Brandon likes me,” he mused, looking at me for feedback.

“Brandon is so hot,” Graciela sighed.

I cursed derisively. Wonderful. Brandon was waaaay to old for Graciela, and I wasn't just talking age. Graciela was small and pretty, but she was immature, both physically and emotionally. And she was spacey in a very “look at all the pretty flowers” kind of way. It was a good thing she had Manny. Otherwise she might just wander around in a pleasant fog. Both Manny and Graciela were unfazed by my language, continuing on as if they hadn't even heard me.

“In fact,” Manny huffed, “I don't think any of Brandon's friends like me, either. And I am so nice!” Manny seemed genuinely befuddled.

“Do you think Brandon likes me, Manny?” Gracie pondered dreamily.

Manny and I ignored her. I decided it might be time to give Manny a little advice.

“I think maybe the guys are confused about how to treat you, Manny. You're a guy but you hang out exclusively with girls, you wear fingernail polish and eyeliner, and you carry a purse . . .”

“It's a slouchy bag!”

“Fine! How many guys carry slouchy bags in rainbow colors?”

“It's just a backpack with flare!”

“Okay. Fine. Forget the backpack. You openly remark on how hot this or that guy is . . . including freaking Wilson, yet in the very next breath you are flirting with the head cheerleader. Are you gay? Are you straight? What?”

Manny seemed stunned that I would just come out and ask, and he stared at me with his mouth agape.

“I'm Manny!” Manny shot back, folding his arms. “That's what I am. I'm Manny! I don't know why I can't compliment a cute guy and a cute girl! Everybody needs positive reinforcement, Blue. It wouldn't hurt you to give some every once in a while!”

I banged my head against the steering wheel, frustrated by my obvious inability to communicate, wondering if maybe he was the only one in high school who wasn't afraid to be himself. Maybe it was the rest of us who needed to figure ourselves out.

“You're right, Manny. And believe me, I wouldn't change a hair on your head. I was just trying to explain why some people might have trouble relating.”

“You mean why some people might have trouble accepting,” Manny sulked, looking out his window.

“Yeah. That too,” I sighed and started up my truck. Manny forgave me about ten seconds into the ride and chattered the rest of the way home. Manny couldn't stay angry unless, of course, someone messed with Graciela. Then all reason left him and his mother joked that he became a raging chihuahua. I'd only seen it happen a few times, but it was enough to make me never want a chihuahua. Apparently, since I'd only pointed out his flaws, I was immediately forgiven and back in his good graces with barely a snarl.

When I got home the heat inside the apartment felt like the bowels of hell. It didn't smell very good either. Stale cigarettes and spilled beer mixed with 90 degree October heat wasn't a pleasant combination. The door to Cheryl's room was shut. I wondered at her ability to sleep in the heat and sighed as I emptied the ashtrays and wiped up the beer spilled on the coffee table. Cheryl obviously had company. A pair of men's jeans lay in a crumpled pile and Cheryl's black bra and work shirt were tossed alongside them. Nice. The sooner I got out of there, the better. I stripped my jeans off and pulled on a pair of cut-off sweats and a tank-top, pulling my hair up in a sloppy ponytail. Shoving my feet into flip-flops, I left the apartment ten minutes after I had arrived.

I rented a storage unit behind the complex for fifty bucks a month. It had lights and power, and it was my own little workshop. It had a couple of work tables fashioned from sawhorses and long sheets of plywood. I had a large dremel, various sizes of mallets and chisels, files and grinders, and an oscillating fan that moved the hot air and sawdust around in lazy circles. Projects in various stages, from a discard pile to completed pieces of twisting, gleaming art decorated the perimeter of the space. I had found a thick, gnarled branch of Mesquite on my travels the day before, and I was eager to see what it looked like under the layers of thorny bark that I had yet to strip off. Most people who worked with wood liked to use soft woods because they were easy to carve and whittle, easy to shape into their own creation. Nobody carved with mesquite or mountain mahogany or juniper. The wood was too hard. The ranchers out west considered mesquite a weed. You couldn't use a sharp knife to shape it, that was for sure. I had to use a big chisel and a mallet to strip off the bark. When the wood was laid bare, I would usually spend a great deal of time just looking at it before I did anything. I had learned that from Jimmy.

Jimmy Echohawk had been a quiet man, quiet to the point of not talking for days at a time. It was amazing that I had any language skills at all when I came to live with Cheryl. Thank you, PBS. When I was two years old, my mother – at least we assume it was her – left me in the front seat of his truck and drove away. I didn't remember my mother at all, beyond a vague memory of dark hair and a blue blanket. Jimmy was a Pawnee Indian and had very little that he called his own. He had an old pickup truck and a camp trailer that he pulled along behind it, and that's where we lived. We never stayed in one place for very long, and we never had company, except for each other. He said he had family on a reservation in Oklahoma, but I never met any of them. He taught me how to carve, and the skill had saved me, both financially, and emotionally, many times. I lost myself in it now, working until the early hours of morning when I knew Cheryl would be gone to work, along with her mystery man, and the apartment would be empty.

Chapter Three

“When Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon, he knew what it would mean.” Mr. Wilson was looking at us all somberly, as if Julius Caesar was his homey and he had just crossed the Rubics Cube yesterday. I sighed and tossed back my hair, slouching even further into my seat.

“It was considered treason to bring a standing army into Italy proper. The senators in Rome were intimidated by Caesar's power and his popularity. They wanted to control him, see, and it was fine if he was winning battles for Rome, conquering the Celtic and Germanic tribes, but they didn't want him to become too rich or too popular, and that was exactly what was happening. Add to that Julius Caesar's own political ambitions, and you have a recipe for disaster . . . or the very least, civil war.”

Mr. Wilson walked down the aisle, and I noticed in surprise that he seemed to have the attention of my classmates. They were watching him closely, waiting for what he would say next. He didn't use notes or read from a textbook or manual. He just talked, like he was relating the highlights of a killer movie.

“Caesar had some friends in high places. They snooped around, whispered in a few ears, and blatantly tried to influence the Senate. But the Senate wanted no part of it. They told Caesar to disband the army and resign his position, or risk becoming an 'enemy of the state.' We use the same term today in the US government. It basically means the government finds you guilty of crimes against your country. People who sell national secrets, spy for another country, that kind of thing, are deemed 'enemies of the state.' Very 007 without the glamour or the amazing stunts or the fit Bond girls.”

I found myself smiling as the rest of the class laughed, and I marveled that I'd forgotten for a moment that I didn't like Mr. Wilson.

“Plus, can you imagine what that label would do to someone? Some would argue that such a label is used as a political tool – a tool to repress or intimidate. You charge someone with being a traitor to their country, an 'enemy of the state' and their life is over. It's like accusing someone of being a child molester. It wasn't any different in Ancient Rome. So we have Julius Caesar, ambitious, angry that he is being told he can't lead his army anymore, and basically being threatened with ugly labels and treason.

“Long story short, he brings his army to the banks of the Rubicon, which doesn't exist today, so no one really knows if it was just a little stream or a substantial river, and he stands there, thinking. He says to his men. 'We can still retreat. It's not too late, but once we pass this bridge, we will have to fight.'”

“You said he was rich, right? Why didn't he just take his money and go. Say to hell with the Senate, let them run the army, conquer people, whatever. They didn't appreciate him, fine. What was the point? What did he have to prove?” I found myself asking the question before I even realized I was saying the words out loud. I felt the heat of embarrassment travel up my cheeks. I never asked questions in class.

Mr. Wilson didn't act surprised that I was participating, and he immediately answered. “He was rich, he was powerful. He could have retired to Gaul, lived in the lap of luxury, and been fed grapes for the rest of his life.” Everyone laughed. I scowled. Mr. Wilson stopped in front of my desk and looked down at me quizzically.

“Why do you think he took his army into Rome, Blue?”

“Because he was a bloody peacock, and he wanted to be king,” I responded immediately, trying to mimic his accent. The class burst into laughter once more. “And because he didn't like being used or controlled,” I finished more quietly, without the accent.

“I think you're right on both accounts.” Mr. Wilson shifted away, drawing the rest of the class into the conversation. “It ends up that Julius Caesar grabbed a trumpet and ran to the bridge. He sounded the advance with a blast of the trumpet and cried out . . . and I am quoting, 'Let us go where the omens of the gods and the crimes of our enemies summon us! The dye is now cast.' What do you think that means? The dye is now cast.”

The classroom was silent. Of course there were kids who knew the answer, but, per usual, no one raised their hand.

“The deed is done, your goose is cooked, the milk is spilled, your bed is made,” I droned in a very bored voice.

“Yes,” Wilson ignored my tone. “It was in the hands of destiny. He had crossed the Rubicon and there was no turning back. We all know what eventually happened to Julius Caesar, yes?” No, we didn't. I did, but I was through being the star student.

“Julius was murdered – a murder plotted with the help of his friend. Shakespeare wrote a wicked play called Julius Caesar, which you have all been assigned to read and which you will be tested on this Friday.” Moaning commenced, but Wilson just smiled. “I told you, literature tells the history so much better than the text books, and it's infinitely more enjoyable to learn it that way. Quit your whingeing. You'll thank me someday.” Whingeing? That was one I hadn't heard before.

“So Julius Caesar crosses the Rubicon, rushing to his destiny. And it was a destiny both glorious and tragic. He reached the very pinnacle of power, and in the end he discovered power is an illusion.

“So that brings us to round three, people. Feel free to add pages as you need. This is the assignment we started the first day of school. And it's just going to keep on growing. You've written some of your history, at least in broad terms. Now I want you to take one moment from your life. A moment where the dye was cast, where you crossed your metaphorical Rubicon and you couldn't go back. I want you to tell me how it formed you or changed you. Maybe it was something that was beyond your control, something that happened to you, or maybe it was an actual decision you made. For better or worse, how did it affect the direction of your story?”

One by one, Wilson started passing papers to my classmates, making a comment here or there. I sighed, remembering how I had thrown mine in the trash. Again. The classroom got quiet as people got to work. I tore a clean sheet of paper from a notebook and prepared to start over. Wilson was suddenly standing in front of my desk, which unfortunately had remained right on the front row since he had assigned us to the seats we had “chosen” on the first day of school.

He laid a sheet of paper on my desk. I looked down at it in surprise. My eyes shot up to his and then back down to my paper. It was the paper I had thrown away. Twice. He must have retrieved it after I left the room that day. It had been smoothed and pressed flat again, as if he had laid it between a couple of heavy books. My words stared back at me, almost mocking.

“There's no sense in running from the past. We can't throw it away or pretend it didn't happen, Miss Echohawk. But maybe we can learn something from it. You have an interesting story, and I'd like you to tell me more.” He turned to walk away.

“Seems a little unfair to me,” I blurted out, and I immediately wished I had kept my big mouth shut when thirty pairs of eyes zeroed in on me.

Wilson raised his eyebrows, tilted his head inquisitively and folded his arms.

“What do you mean?” he asked quietly. I expected him to get red in the face or kick me out. That's usually what happened in my other classes when I couldn't keep my sassy comments to myself.

I shrugged and popped the gum I wasn't supposed to be chewing. “You ask us to bare all, write our little secrets down, our lowest moments, but I don't see you sharing anything personal with us. Maybe I don't want you to know my story.”

The class was quiet. Shockingly so. It seemed everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see if Blue Echohawk had finally gone too far. When Wilson didn't explode but merely eyed me owlishly for several long seconds, the tension eased somewhat.

“Okay. Fair enough,” Wilson acquiesed quietly. “But I am the teacher, which by definition means I instruct and you learn, so things are not going to necessarily be fair because we have different roles. And in the interest of time, I'm not going to spend the class period talking about myself.”

“How about twenty questions?” somebody spoke up from the back of the class.

“Or spin the bottle,” someone else shouted out, and a few people snickered.

“Tell you what. I will give you a brief timeline, just like you've done for me, and then I'll tell you my turning point moment. Deal? That way Miss Echohawk can be confident that everything is fair.” He winked at me, and I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue. Teachers were not supposed to be young and cute. Somehow that really irritated me. I just arched one eyebrow disdainfully and looked away.

“I was born in Manchester, England. I have two older sisters. One sister still lives in England, as does my mother. My oldest sister, Tiffa, lives in Las Vegas, which incidently is what brought me here. I am twenty-two years old. I finished what we call college when I was fifteen, which I suppose is about the equivalent of graduating from high school very early.”

“Wow! So you're really smart, huh?” This brilliant deduction was offered by a girl with a Marilyn Monroe voice who used glittery pens and wrote each letter of her name in a different color, surrounded by hearts and stars. I had dubbed her Sparkles.

I snorted loudly. Wilson shot me a look, and I decided it was probably time to shut up.

“We moved to the states when I was sixteen so I could attend university early, which is simply not done in England. My mum is English, but my dad was an American. He was a doctor and took a position at the Huntsman Cancer institute in Utah. I graduated from university when I was nineteen, and that's when I had my turning point moment. My dad died. He had wanted me to be a doctor like he was – actually four generations of men in my family have been doctors. But I was rather a mess after he died and decided to go another direction. I spent two years in Africa in the Peace Corp teaching English. I discovered I really liked teaching.”

“You shoulda been a doctor,” Sparkles volunteered breathily. “They make more money. And you woulda looked super cute in scrubs.” She giggled into her hand.

“Thank you, Chrissy,” Wilson sighed and shook his head in exasperation. So that was her name. It wasn't much better than Sparkles.

“This is my first year teaching here in the states. And Bob's your uncle.” Wilson looked at his watch.” My life in two minutes. Now it's your turn. You have the remainder of the class.”

I looked down at my paper. Wilson's life was a neat little row of events and achievements. So he was smart. That was fairly obvious. And he was nice. And he was nice-looking. And he came from a nice family. All of it . . . . . . nice. So different from my own history. Did I have a defining moment? One moment where everything changed? I had actually had a few. But there was one moment when the world spun, and when it settled, I was a different girl.

I had been living with Cheryl for about three years, and in that time there had been no word from Jimmy. Nevada search and rescue had eventually suspended the search effort after they had been unable to find any trace of him. There was no outcry, no public awareness of his disappearance, no demands that the search continue. He was an unknown. Just one man who meant the world to one little girl.

During that three years, I had tried my hardest not to give up on him. Not in the first weeks when my social worker told me they had to put my dog, Icas, down. Not when, week after week, there had been no sign of Jimmy. Not when Cheryl smoked incessantly in the apartment, and I had to go to school smelling bad, my hair and clothes reeking of cigarettes, friendless and clueless, awkward and strange, in my own eyes and the eyes of my classmates. I was not willing to admit that Jimmy was gone, and sheer stubborn will kept my eyes straight ahead and made me strong.

If not for the occasional teasing, I would have really liked school. I liked being around other kids, and school lunch seemed like a daily feast after years of eating from a camp stove. I liked having more books at my disposal. My teachers said I was smart, and I worked hard, trying to catch up, knowing how proud Jimmy would be when I showed him the books I could read and the stories I had written. I wrote down all the stories he had told me, all the things that were important to him, and, therefore, important to me. And I waited.

One day I arrived home to find my social worker waiting for me outside. She told me they had found my father. She and Cheryl both turned toward me when I approached the apartment. Cheryl was blowing huge smoke rings, and I remember marveling at her “talent” before I saw the expression on her face, the tight look around her eyes and the down-turned mouth of the social worker. And I knew. A hiker had been climbing around in a crevice, and had seen something below, wedged deep into the bottom of the crevice, and somewhat protected from the elements and the animals who would surely have scattered his remains. The rock climber thought it looked like human remains. He had called the authorities who sent in a team. Jimmy's remains were brought up a few days later. He had fallen from a significant height. Had the fall killed him, or had he been unable to climb up out of the crevice? His wallet was in the pocket of his pants, which was how they had known it was him. Mystery solved. Hope dashed.

After the social worker left, I went into my room and laid on my bed. I looked around the room that I always kept tidy and impersonal. I had never considered it my room. It was Cheryl's place, and I was staying with Cheryl. I still had the snake I'd been working on the day Jimmy disappeared. I had kept the pieces that he hadn't yet sold or completed and they were pushed in the corner, collecting dust. The tools were shoved under my bed. And that was all that remained of Jimmy Echohawk's life, and all that remained of my life . . . before. Dark descended on the apartment and still I lay, staring at the ceiling and the brown water-mark that faintly resembled a lumbering elephant. I had named the water-mark Dolores and even talked to her periodically. As I stared, Dolores started to blur and grow, like one of those spongey things that expand when you put them in water. It took me a moment to realize that I was crying, that it was not Dolores who was floating away, it was me. Floating, floating, away.

Something slid down my cheek and splatt

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 861