Here's an excerpt, in case you like to get a head start on your reading before you read. (I put some reading in your reading so you can read while you read…eh? Eh?)
Chapter 1
It’s
not
getting
any
easier
to
tell
my
mother
what’s
happened,
what
she’s
missed,
what’s
been
going
on
in my
life.
It’s
not
getting
any
easier
to
survive
each
day
without
her.
It’s
not
getting
any
easier
to think of her and not cry. Elbow
on my
writing desk and chin cupped in my
hand,
I stare at the yellow
notepaper.
The lines
across
it are
as
empty
as my
pounding
head.
The
spot
where the tip of my
favorite
pen touches
is
marked by a
growing
dot, evidence that there
are no
right words.
It’s
sure as heck not
getting
any
easier.
Hoping
to find inspiration, I glance at the photo
waiting
to be slipped into the envelope
with
this
letter.
Normally
I put
aside a nature
shot
for
her,
but this
one’s
a
‘selfie’ of me and Will.
His
sandy hair looks
kind
of messy the way it falls
into
his
bright
eyes, and his arm, resting over
my
shoulders
so
naturally, pulls
us
close
together. Our grins
say
more than words
ever
can.
Twirling
the pen between
my
fingers, I gaze
out
the
window
at the soft autumn
afternoon
and
daydream about what to write. A distant clang like metal
against
metal sounds
from
outside. Will must be at it again. I shoot up, lean over the desk,
and raise
the window,
letting
a rush of warm air brush my face.
His
jean clad legs
stick
out from under the hood of
a
beat-up car parked
in
their yard.
That
car is
like
a full
time
job,
he
works
on it so often now. He backs
out
and
hoists
a
motor, or
something,
onto his
shoulder,
lifting like
it
weighs
no
more than his kid sister.
He
looks up,
catches
me
watching him,
and
grins. I wave and, with a sigh, plonk back into the
chair, dropping
my
gaze
to the
blank sheet in front of me. I
really
want
to write her.
For
nine
years
I’ve
been
writing
these letters
and
placing them in
my top
drawer
with a
photo.
It’s
become
a
yearly
tradition.
At
least
if
we
ever
find
Mom,
she’ll
know
what
my
life’s
been
like.
Nothing
comes to me. None of the thoughts
ambling
through my mind are quite right, so
I
drop
the pen, pinch my lips
together,
and tap my fingers
on the
desk in a
sharp
rhythm that cuts
through
my aching head. I need the right words.
I
last saw her on an ordinary March school day the
year I
was
eight.
She packed my
lunch,
gave me
a kiss
on
the
cheek, and waved goodbye. I climbed into the bus.
As she
stood on
the
curb,
she didn’t look happy or
sad,
scared or
frightened—just
the same
as
any
other day.
Heaviness
squeezes
my
chest
and
makes
each
inhalation
of
breath
hurt.
I’ve
played
that
day
back in my mind over
and
over, analyzed
every
detail:
her wave, her smile,
her
words, her
haunted
look. Did she know it was
goodbye?
Not
knowing
leaves a complete emptiness
inside
me. Knowing if she’s
alive
or
dead, or
why
she hasn’t come back
would
make
it so
much easier. Especially since Dad
barely
mentions
her
anymore, and no matter how many
times
I turn
her photos
around,
they
continue to spin
and
face
the
wall.
I
guess
it’s
just
too
hard
for
him.
I
shake
my head in an
effort
to
expel
the memories, but it’s no use. The lines on the
paper
blur,
my
eyes
slide
shut,
and
it
hurts
too
much.
I
can’t
do
this
right
now.
Grabbing
my
camera
off
the
desk,
I
slam
the
window
shut
and
run
down
the
stairs,
shouting
to
Dad,
“I’ll
be
back
for
dinner.”
“Wait.
Can
you
grab
milk?”
He
walks out of
the
kitchen, a five
dollar
bill pinched between his
fingers.
I pluck it from
his
outstretched hand and
turn
to leave, but his
hand
closes over my shoulder, spinning me
around.
“Everything
okay?”
I
close
my
eyes
and
expel
a
long
breath.
He
won’t
want
to hear
it, so there’s
no
point
sharing.
“I
miss
her,
too.”
He
pulls
me
into
his
chest,
and
it’s
too
much.
Tears
roll
down
my
cheeks,
and
I
throw
my
arms
around
him,
holding
him
as
tight
as
I
can
while
he
runs a
hand
over
my
head.
“Sweetheart.”
I
cling
to
him.
“It’s
just…”
“I
know.”
He
holds
me for
a long
time,
until
my
tears
stop.
When I
pull
away,
I rub
the
telltale
streaks
from
my
cheeks, and
shove the
money
in my
pocket.
“Milk,
right?”
He
nods,
and
I turn
for
the
door.
“Anamae,”
he
says, “I
love
you,
kid.”
A
weak
smile raises my lips.
“Love
you,
too.”
Outside,
I
head
straight
to
the
white
picket
fence
separating
our
yard
from
Will’s.
He’s
been
my
best
friend since
he
moved
here
in
the
sixth
grade,
and
I’m
so
grateful
his
parents
decided
quiet
suburbia
was
a better
place
to
live
than
the
inner
city.
I slap
my
hands
onto
the
flat
tips
and
stretch
over,
calling,
“Will.”
He
peers
around
the
corner
of the
house,
and
the
sight
of
his
smile
is
enough
to
rattle
this
awful
mood.
“Sure.
Two
minutes.”
Fishing
for
weeds
in
the
garden
occupies
the
time
while
I
wait.
The
Averys
have
the
nicest
yard
on our
street.
A
perfectly manicured lawn complete
with stone
statues and
spiky
plants
in
white
pebble
gardens.
Will’s
mom
likes
being
fashionable
and
modern,
obvious
from
the
gravel
now
crunching
under
his
feet.
Appearances
aren’t
important.
Sure
it’s
nice
to
look
good,
but
it’s
not
the thing
that
matters
most.
That’s
one
of
the
things
she just
doesn’t
get
about
me. I
always
wear faded
jeans
and
comfy
t-shirts,
yet
she
constantly
tries
to
dress
me up.
Make
me
look
like
a
girl.
Still,
she’s
been
like
a
second mom to
me.
She
even
gave
me The
Talk. I
just
about
died when
I
realized
what was
happening.
Will’s
coming.
“Hi,
Mae.”
“Hey.”
I
grin.
Love
it
when
he
shortens
my
name.
We
stroll
down
our
wide
path
and
turn
onto
the
next
street.
It’s
only
a
few
blocks
from
our
street
to
a
small
cluster
of
shops.
The
short
walk,
fresh
air,
and
Will’s
banter
help
lighten
my
mood.
The
cafe
comes
into sight, and
I grab
his
hand,
dragging him
across
the
road
toward
another
storefront—an
old
shop.
Aqua paint
peels
off
the
brick
walls around
huge
glass
windows,
and
two
stories
rise
up
above
us.
Like all the
shops
on
this
street,
a big
tin
awning
slants
out
over
the
pavement,
and
a
balcony
juts
out
above.
Albert’s
Second-Hand
Treasures
emblazons
a
window
spanning
the
shop’s
front.
Through
the
window
piles
of
odd
stuff
are visible, cluttering
the
inside.
According to
the
kids
at
school, it’s
evidence
the
old man
who
owns
the
store
is
a
little
unhinged,
which
earns
this
place
the
nickname,
Crazy
Al’s.
But
to me,
it’s
far
more
than
that.
‘Crazy
Al’s’
been
a
part
of
my
life
almost
as
long
Will.
“Bet
you
can’t
find
the
weirdest
one
today,”
I
say.
Will
raises
his
brows
and
shoots
me
a
look
that
says
‘you’re
insane.’
“Really,
this
old
game?
I
thought
you
wanted
to get
coffee.”
“Oh,
come on. I need some childish fun.” I lean in toward him an smile.
“Bet you can’t win.”
I
also need to see Al, not to talk… just see him. His grandfatherly
ways might make me feel better.
I
drag Will toward the front door, and all the while
he
shakes
his
head and scuffs
his
heels.
“Okay,
but
loser
buys
coffee,”
he
finally
says,
“and
cake.”
He
pushes me through
the
door, making the bell overhead jingle. As
he
heads
toward
a
large
table in the far corner of
the
shop, a small smile crosses my lips. Glancing toward the
counter,
I stop
at a
long bench
and
paw
through
ancient
yellowing
books
and
old
jewelry
scattering
it
in
a
disorganized
mess.
I’ve
no
idea
how
Al
even
knows
what’s
here.
Al
raises
his
white-grey
frizzy-haired
head
from
the
newspaper sprawled
on
the
glass
counter.
His
bushy
eyebrows
lift,
and he
throws
me
a warm
smile
which
somehow
makes
me
feel
a little better.
Running
my
hand
over
the
‘treasures,’
I
stop
at
a
ceramic
owl
perched
amongst
the
clutter
on the
table.
When
I
turn it
over
in
my
hand,
chubby
little claws
grip
the
sides
of a
skateboard.
I
hold
it
up
so
Will
can
see
it.
“Check
this
out.”
“A
skating
owl?”
Will
laughs.
“I
can
top
that.”
He
holds
up
a book
with the
title
Peanuts
in
Love.
On
the
cover
two peanuts
hold
hands,
their
cute
little
shell
bodies
in
a sea
of
pink
hearts.
“Not
good
enough.”
I
scan
the
table
looking
for
something
better
and spot
a
pile
of
old
movies
scattered
over the
next
table.
I move
them
aside
one
by
one,
looking
for a
good
title.
Sunlight
dances
across
the
table
and
glints
off
something
shiny.
A blue
flower
with a
yellow
center.
My
heart
jumps,
the
only
part
of
me
still moving.
It
can’t
be.
Surely Dad
didn’t pawn
it
or
give
it
to
Al.
He
wouldn’t.
He
couldn’t.
It can’t
possibly have
been
made
into
something else.
A
small
noise
of
surprise
escapes
my lax
mouth,
and
a memory flashes
into
my mind: the
pendant
lying
on
Mom’s
pillow
the
day
she
disappeared.
Will
chuckles
from
the
corner.
I drag
my gaze
away
from
the
flower
brooch
to see
a
bright
pink
pith
hat
sitting
atop
his
sandy
head. He
eyes
my
open
palm,
which
now
holds
the
brooch.
“You
call
that
weird?”
I
run
my
fingers
over
the
cool
glazed
metal,
and
a
lump
grows
in
my
throat.
“It’s
the
same
as
the
forget-me-not
pendant
Mom
always
wore.”
Not
missing
a
beat,
he
raises
his
voice
toward
the
back
of
the
shop.
“How
much?”
Al
pauses
in
his
perusal
of
the
paper,
two
fingertips touching
his
tongue
as if
to
dampen
them
as
he
flicks
a page
over.
His
bushy
eyebrows
lift,
and he
clears
his
throat.
“Gosh,
lad,
for
that?”
I
hold
up
the
brooch,
and
Al
squints
at
it.
“It’s
for
Mae?”
He
smiles
at me.
“Yep.”
Will
pulls
his
wallet
out,
and empties
the
coins
into
his
cupped
hand.
“Nothing,”
Al
says,
then
flicks
his
gaze
to
me.
“Tell
your
Dad
poker’s
on
tomorrow
night.
All
the
boys
are
coming.”
I
return
his
smile
with
a
nod.
“Sure
thing,
Al.”
“Take
care,
Mae.”
He
doesn’t
mention
today’s
Mom’s
anniversary—the
day
she
disappeared,
but
he
doesn’t have
to.
Even
though
he
never
knew her,
I’ve always
suspected
it’s
why
he
took
me and
Dad
under
his wing.
Especially
after
Nan died;
her
death
upended
the
last
slither
of
normalcy
we had.
“No
refunds….”
Al
says.
“Without
magic,”
I
chime
in
on
his
usual
farewell.
No
wonder
people
think
he’s
crazy,
since
he’s
always
saying
stupid
things.
A
sign
hangs
on
the
wall
above
the
counter
mimicking
his
words.
No
refunds
without
magic.
We
walk
out the
door,
and the
bell
jingles. “You owe me
cake,”
Will
says.
“I
do
not.
The
brooch
won.”
“No
way,
the
peanuts
definitely—”
“The
peanuts
did
not
beat
the
skating
owl,”
I
say,
and
we
both
laugh.
I
want
to go
home.
I
want
to
go
straight
to
mom’s
pendant.
I
want
to
compare
it
to
this
brooch,
but
I
promised
Will
cake
and
coffee.
He’d
understand,
but
it
wouldn’t
be
fair
after
dragging
him
out
here.
Although
it
makes
me
a
little
impatient,
I’ll
wait.
~*~
After
hanging out with Will, I climb the stairs
into
the rarely
used,
cold, dark attic. Goose
bumps
prickle
my
arms
with
each step. This place
is
so
eerie. Holding my hand
out, I
grope
around
in the dark until it closes around the cord for
the
light switch. A sharp tug illuminates the
room
with a soft glow which highlights
the
dust floating in the air. Pressure grows in my nose,
and I
hold my breath to suppress
a
building sneeze.
A
corner
of
the
chest
which
holds
all
my
mother’s
most
precious
possessions
peeks
out
from
behind
cardboard boxes. I need
to
see
the pendant
and
make sure it hasn’t somehow been
altered
and
made
into
this
brooch.
Something
so
precious
to
her
can’t
be
lost.
A
wooden
creaking
noise makes me
spin
around so fast my neck kinks, but the entry is
empty.
Phew. If
Dad
catches
me up
here… don’t think about it. He
won’t
know, as
long
as
the
driveway stays
empty
of his car, I’m safe.
A
tight knot grows in my chest, anyway. An image
of
Mom running her thumb over the
charm
she wore everyday
lingers
in my
mind.
I
ease open the lid of the
chest.
Love letters, a few
small
items of jewelry,
and
other
precious
odds and ends
rest
on top of
a
discolored
wedding
dress, as
if
every
last
item was
placed
in here with care.
Dust
and the smell of moth balls make my nose twitch and finally
bring
on the
sneeze.
Blue
fabric, the same
color
as the brooch, peeps out between
a
stack of old envelopes. I
slide
it out
of the bunch with care and peel back the
fabric,
my fingers
slipping
on the soft,
smooth
silk.
My
breath
catches
at
the
sight
of
my
mother’s
pendant.
My
memories
of
it
remained unchanged by time. It’s
exactly
as I
recall. Five blue petals
come
to a yellow
center,
creating the shape of a forget-me-not flower. The pendant hangs
on a
long
chain with shiny, silver looped links.
The
sight of
it
brings
back
so
many
memories.
The only
time I
ever saw my parents
fight…
Mom shouted so loud I covered my ears, and Dad responded
in a
low
emotionless
voice.
Young
and scared, I hid in the curtains
while
she
screamed. Her last words
were
punctuated by
her
yanking the pendant off
and tossing it
across
the
room.
Dad scooped it up, crossed the room
in
long strides
and
pulled her to him. His
fingers
traced
the edge of her face
before
he kissed her.
He
lowered
the
pendant
over
her
head,
and
the
angry
lines
on her
face
melted
into a
smile.
It’s
not
exactly
a good
memory, but it was
her.
Now,
I find
myself
smiling,
too.
Surely
he won’t
mind
if I
wear
it.
Something
so
precious
to her
shouldn’t be left to
rust
in the attic. I’m
almost
certain she’d want me to
have
it, so I slide
the
pendant into my pocket with the brooch and pack the other contents
of the
box away.
Easing
the door closed,
I
climb out of the attic and
head
to the bathroom to clean my
dust-covered
hands. Water rushes
from
the spout and splashes against the sides as the basin fills.
A
reflection of me stares
back
at me from the mirror, my dirty hand clutching my aching
chest.
Today
everything
feels
so
raw,
open,
and
fresh,
like
it only
just
happened.
She
should still
be here.
Rubbing
my hands
clean,
I
delve into my pocket for
the
jewelry. Bringing it to my collar,
I pin
the brooch into my blouse. The hard edges
prick
my skin. My thumb brushes
over
the
smooth,
round
sides
of the
pendant and when I pull
it
over my head, the
chain
catches
on my
hair.
After I twist
it
through the tangle so it finally
falls
cool against my skin, it nestles
in the
hollow
of my
throat. I
pick
it up between my
fingers
and
with reverent slow strokes, rub my
thumb
over the shiny yellow center—the pendant Mom never took off.
A
shiver shoots
up my
spine and out through my
limbs
like
an
electric current,
zapping
every
cell,
every
fiber,
every
part
of
my
being.
Walking
on
graves,
that’s
what
Mom
would
have
said.
Maybe
it’s
an
omen
about
her.
I
plant my palms
on
either side of the full basin and peer into the still water, taking a
moment
to collect my thoughts. The water reflects only the cream ceiling.
That can’t be right.
I
do a
double take.
My
chest tightens. I
hold
my hand up, but I
can’t
see
it—not my arm, not my chewed
fingernails,
not my leather
watch
on my wrist. Where
am I?
Mouth
gaping, I look into the mirror
again,
but I see
nothing.
Not
even my face.
I
dip my finger into the warm, reflection-free water.
Circles
ripple
in ever growing rings,
but
there’s
no
image. My
gaze
flits
to the
mirror,
but I
see
only
the
open door. I
have
no
reflection.
My
stomach flutters
like
a
thousand butterflies
are
trying to escape it. I slap my
palm
onto
my chest, and I can still feel me. I must be here. When I slide
the
pendant over my head,
my
reflection blinks onto the mirror. Huh?
Pulling
it back on, my hand brushes
the
cool metal.
The
ripple
goes
through
me
again.
I
look
into
the
mirror,
and
once
more
my
reflection’s
gone.
I
grab
my
hairbrush
from
the
drawer
and
wave
it
around
in
the
air,
but
its
image
isn’t
cast
in
the
mirror
either.
It
has to
be
magic,
but
that’s
only
in
fairytales.
Will’s
not
going
to
believe
this,
not in a million years. I pull the pendant over my head and my
reflection returns. No way. It
can’t
be, but it is. I’m
almost
certain it’s
making
me invisible, but how?
I
put it on—invisible. Take it off—visible.
It
doesn’t make any sense. How can something like this—like those
video
games
Will
plays—even
exist?
It
must
be a
magical
artifact or
some
kind of prank. My shoulders
shake
with a
chuckle
while I
stare
at
myself
in
the
mirror. This is
unreal.
I bet he’s
gone
right back
to
working
on his
car.
He’ll
love this. Ha!
Now
let’s
see
who
found
the weirdest
treasure.
I
slide
it
back
on
and
wipe
my
damp
hands
on
my
jeans.
Watch
out
Will,
I’m
going
to
sneak
up and
scare
the
life right out of you.
A
sharp rap, someone
knocking
on the front door, echoes
up the
stairs. I duck into my
room,
unpin the brooch, and place
both
forget-me-nots
in the
jewelry box on
my
dresser. The
rap
sounds
again.
“Coming.”
I
bound
down
the
stairs,
through
the
living
room,
and
yank
the
door
open.
A
man in blue
overalls
carrying a toolbox
holds
a yellow box-like
thing
snug in
his
palm.
“My
name
is
Thomas.
I’m
from
the
East
Coast
Natural
Gas
Company.
There’s
been
a
gas
leak
reported
in
this
area,
so I need to check the levels
in
your home. It won’t take
a
minute.”
A
green flame
and
fancy
words,
the logo for East
Coast
Natural Gas, are embroidered
on
his
loose,
navy
overalls.
He’s
legit,
so
I
unlock
the
screen
and
pull
it
open,
letting
him
inside.
“Sure.”
The
man’s
gaze
meets
mine
as
he
walks
past
me,
into
the
living
room.
He
scratches
his
head
of close-cropped dark hair, and moves
his
hand to his
chin,
rubbing
it
along the shadow of
facial
hair lining his
jaw.
I
scrape my palm across
my
forehead, suddenly recalling my recent vanishing
act.
He
spoke
first.
I must
be
visible again. Phew.
I
didn’t forget
to
take it off.
“Ignore
the
mess,”
I
say.
He
holds
the
yellow gas
meter
out in front of him, his eyes
never
leaving the small
flashing
green light. He
walks
in straight lines across
the
living room. Crossing my arms
over
my
chest,
I
tap my
foot. Hurry up. I’ve got a neat trick
to
show off.
He
nears
the
base of the stairs
and
the green light flicks
to
red. His pace
quickens,
and he
strides
up the
steps
two at
a
time. I
rush
up
behind
him. “What is
it?”
The
gas
meter
beeps
when
he reaches
the
top of the staircase. Coming upstairs
seems
kind
of strange. I mean, surely gas
leaks
would have
to be
a kitchen thing. The
beeping
sets my
teeth
on
edge,
and I
just
want it
to
stop. Maybe there’s
something
wrong, but here in the upstairs
hall?
“That
doesn’t
sound
good,”
I
mutter.
“It
means
there
is indeed…”
He
twists, angling himself toward my open bedroom door, and his gaze
locks
on my
dresser.
The
back of
my
neck
prickles, a sure
sign
something about this
just
isn’t right.
I step
past him and pull the door closed, but he pushes
me
aside and slams
it
open. Panic
shoots
through
me,
but
I’m
fast
enough
to
dart
around
him.
Turning
my
shoulder
and
reaching
for
the box.
He
lunges
toward
me, grabs
me
from behind, and his arm pins my neck to him with a
shoulder
crushing grip. He
pushes me against the dresser, and the box falls open, its contents
spilling
across
the
top.
Heart
pounding,
my throat
burns
with a
scream. I’ve got to get him out
of
here.
He
must know about my pendant, the brooch. Dammit. I wriggle to escape
his vice-like
grip,
but
it’s
no
use—he’s
too
strong.
My
hand darts
toward
the pendant. I
snatch
it, but he grabs my wrist. Adrenaline
tries
to
pound
my heart
right
out of its
home
in my chest. If only I can get the jewelry on, I might be
able
to make its
magic
work and hide.
“Tech
breech
confirmed,”
he
speaks
into
his
collar
in a
matter-of-fact
tone;
then
he
turns
his
gaze
to me.
“Give
me
the
pendant.”
There’s
a tiny
ripping sound, like
Velcro
torn
open.
A
young guy in
a
black leather jacket
flickers
into
my
bedroom.
A
sharp
gasp
leaves
me.
I
can’t
escape
one
attacker,
let
alone
two.
Where
the
heck are these
men
coming from?
I’m
not going down
without
a
fight,
so
I
kick
at my
captor’s
shins.
The
leather
jacket
guy
wrenches
the
man’s
grip
from
my
shoulders
and
punches
him
square in the chin, knocking his head to the side. Shaking his head,
the gas
man
stumbles
backward.
The
jacket
guy raises
his
knee
and drives
a foot
into
the other man’s stomach. The
straight,
hard kick makes
a loud
thud and forces
the
dude to double over and
curl
in on himself.
The
leather
jacket
guy
crouches
and
drives
his
fist
straight
up
into
the
man’s
chin.
It
knocks
him
flat
on his
back
like a
felled tree.
My
chest
rises
and
falls with
my
quickened breath.
My
heart
thuds
like
a
booming
drum.
The
mysterious
rescuer
turns
toward
me,
holding
my gaze
with intense,
steady
jade
eyes.
He
grabs
my
assailant
by
the
arm,
and
they both flicker
out
of
my
room.
My
mind
spins.
Legs,
arms, body—I
can’t
move, but it
doesn’t
matter.
Moving is
the
least of
my
worries.
Who
were
they,
and
what
just
happened?
The
meter
seemed
to
lead
him
straight
to
Mom’s
pendant.
Gas man, my ass.
I
clutch my
head
in an
attempt to stop my mind spinning, but my hand slides
off my
sweaty
forehead
and
falls against my tightened stomach. They might come back.
The
guy in
the
jacket…
What
was that? The brooch, the pendant…my disappearing reflection. They
wanted it. Damn.
Sweat
trickles
down
my forehead and
into my eyes.
I wipe
it away
with
a
trembling
hand. Questions
hurtle
through
my
mind, all jumbling together
as they
race
faster
and
faster
in
my
mind.
Seconds,
minutes, hours
I
don’t
know,
but
a
single
thought
emerges
through
the
haze
of
my
mind.
Will.
