He looks nervous. I can tell he’s not sure what to say. “You know what? I used to have a lazy eye. I had to wear a patch for three years to build up the muscle.” He smiles as he confesses this. “Can you pick which eye? I bet you can’t.”

I stare into his face. His handsome face. I can’t tell, so I don’t even try to guess. Instead I say, “Can you take me home?”

David does most of the talking on the drive. He moved here from California two years ago, with his mom, after his parents got divorced. Mostly we talk about how weird it is to live here. I appreciate that David doesn’t bash it. He’s not like Kat, who I know can’t wait to move somewhere else, because everything about Jar Island annoys her. David is very measured. For example, he hates the fact that there is no good Mexican food, which I guess is a California thing. But he loves that he can still surf here.

He offers to give me a lesson.

At a red light he takes one hand off the steering wheel and slips it into mine. “Your hands are so cold.” He seems embarrassed; the words kind of fall out. I fight the urge to pull my hand away. I think, This is who I was supposed to be. A girl who isn’t afraid to flirt with boys, a girl who is confident and fun and down to have a good time. And really, I never used to be shy. Not until Reeve broke me.

I have him drop me off in front of my house. He pulls up to the curb, puts his car in park, and then leans over.

He kisses me.

I kiss him back.

It’s my first kiss, my very first one. David puts a hand through my hair and gently cups the back of my head. His mouth tastes sugary, like candy corns.

I kiss him because this is the life I should be living.

Except the only part that feels good is the part of him wanting me. I only wish I could want him back.

He pulls away from me and says, quietly, “I’m going to look for you on Monday, Elizabeth.”

I don’t say anything. My eyes are on the clock—it’s almost midnight. David closes his eyes and leans in for another kiss. Slow motion, movie style.

This time I turn my head.

The disappointment on his face is immediate.

“I should go,” I say.

“Wait. Give me your number.” He turns to the backseat, looking for his phone.

In those few seconds I bolt from the car and run up to the house. I don’t like David; I don’t want to kiss him. This isn’t my life; this isn’t who I am. I’m not . . . normal. I can’t pretend I am, not even for a night.

I sneak in the back door. I figure Aunt Bette is already asleep, but then I catch sight of her in the living room, peeking out the curtains.

“Were you spying on me?”

Aunt Bette gasps like she’s been underwater. She spins around and stares at me. “Who was that boy?”

I’m annoyed that she was watching me. It’s creepy! Don’t I deserve some privacy? Like Kat said, I’m a teenager now; I’m not a little girl anymore. “He’s no one. I’m going to bed.”

Aunt Bette follows me up the stairs. “You shouldn’t do that, Mary. These things you’re doing . . . it’s not right. You could hurt someone.”

I want to laugh. “So what? It’s not like anyone’s ever cared about my feelings!”

Aunt Bette sets her jaw. “He’s not the boy who hurt you.”

Aunt Bette’s the only person I’ve ever told about Reeve. How I felt about him, the way he treated me. “I know that!”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because of that boy. You need to forget him, Mary. You have to let him go.” She reaches out to touch my arm, but then pulls her hand back fast, like I’m raging hot. “You have so much anger inside you. It . . . radiates.”

I stare her down. “Don’t talk about him, and you know what? I am angry. At you.” I fold my arms. “What are all those books in your room? Are you putting spells on me?”

“Mary, I—”

“Those freaky strings you’ve got hanging up on your bedroom wall. What are they for?”

Aunt Bette is shaking. “Mary. It’s for protection.”

“What do you mean, ‘protection’?” Aunt Bette looks like she doesn’t want to tell me, which makes me want to know even more. She starts backing up through the hall, but I keep closing the distance. “What are they exactly?”

Aunt Bette puts up her hands. “They aren’t working, anyway.”

I suck in a deep breath and scream, “What are they?” at the top of my lungs.

Aunt Bette sinks to the floor. “They’re binding spells,” she tells me, in a whisper of a voice.

Binding? My mind immediately flashes back to that morning when I couldn’t open my bedroom door. And the way that smoke made me feel so sick.

Could her spells have worked?

I shake these insane thoughts from my head. How could I believe this nonsense for even a second? Aunt Bette isn’t a witch. These aren’t actual spells. She’s just . . . crazy.

I crouch down so I can look her in the eyes. “Aunt Bette, you need to get out of the house. You need to start painting again. You need to go out and live your life, not try to keep me locked up in here with you.” Aunt Bette cradles her head in her hands. She won’t look at me. There’s no reasoning with her. I don’t even know why I’m trying to talk sense to a crazy person. “I want that string thing taken down. Tonight. And I want you to stop burning your little smudgy things, the chalk stuff . . . it stops, or else I’m going to call Mom and Dad and tell them all about the weird things you’ve been doing to me.”

She starts crying. And maybe it makes me a terrible person, but I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight, when my heart is already broken.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I wake up to the sweet, sweet smell of toaster waffles. Usually, I have to wait until Saturday to have breakfast with my dad, but we’ve been given Thursday and Friday off for some kind of teacher conference. I fire off a quick text to Lillia, about going us to Mary’s house later to check on her, and then head downstairs in my big sleep shirt and socks.

“Did you have fun last night?” my dad asks as I step into the kitchen. Of course Pat isn’t awake. He’s not up until noon, whether or not it’s a weekend.

I give Dad a quick hug. He’s always been a big guy, Dad-shaped, and it’s satisfying to wrap your arms around him. “Not really,” I say, because honestly, last night sucked a nut. I’ve barely slept. I know it’s not totally my fault, but I feel guilty for leaving Mary on her own in the maze. If I’d been with her, standing next to her, that shit with Reeve never would have happened. Not without me breaking his other leg.

I pour us each a cup of coffee. I like mine with milk; Dad takes his black with two teaspoons of sugar. I secretly give him only one teaspoon, though, because his doctor wants him to cut back. Dad sets our plates down on the table, along with the butter dish and a jar of raspberry jelly. I prefer my toaster waffles with jelly, not syrup, and I’ve made him a convert.

“Any trick-or-treaters come by last night?” I ask. “Just the two girls down the street.”

I drop into my seat. “What were they dressed as?” Dad hunches over his plate, his classic eating posture.

“Princesses, maybe? I don’t know. They looked like pink disco balls to me.” “I hate that pink garbage,” I say. “It offends my inner Gloria Steinem. Aren’t there any little girls left in the world who want to dress up like race-car drivers or doctors?” I lift the lid off the butter dish and frown. The butter is sprinkled with someone else’s crumbs. And there’s gunk from older butter sticks congealed on the bottom, because the dish hasn’t been washed in a while. I take my knife and scrape the stick into the trash, put the butter dish on top of the pile of dirty dishes already filling the sink, and then get a new stick out of the fridge. It can stay in the wrapper for now.

Dad looks up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say, and reach for the jelly. The jar is sticky, and the lid isn’t on right. This is Pat’s doing; he always makes PB and Js when he’s high. I set it down on the table with a thud.

“What’s the problem, daughter?”

“Nothing,” I say, even though I clearly am pissed. “How’s the canoe? You going to finish it this week?”

Dad nods. “The guy who bought it doesn’t even want to sail it. He wants to hang it on the wall in his beach house. Isn’t that nuts? All that money for a decoration. She’s seaworthy, though.”

I’m not listening. I’m looking around our kitchen. It’s freaking gross. A pile of unwashed dishes in the sink, old newspapers and mail stacked on the counter, the front of the stove splattered with hellfire chili.

Dad downs the rest of his coffee. “You cheated me out of my sugar, Katherine.” He pushes back from the table, and that’s when I notice what he’s got on his feet.

“Daaaad, what the hell?” I start laughing. “You’d better not go out in public like that.”

He looks back at me, confused. I point to his feet—he’s paired a black athletic ankle sock with a light blue dress sock that’s supposed to be worn with suits.

Dad shrugs and gets the sugar bowl. “I couldn’t find clean socks that matched—so what? What do I care? I’m not looking to impress anyone.”

Poor Dad. It’s true. He’s not looking to impress anyone. He hasn’t had one single date since Mom died. Not that I’m jonesing for a stepmom, but it’s been five years now. I don’t want him to be alone forever. He deserves a good woman.

I guess the problem is that we both know there isn’t a woman out there that could ever be better than Judy.

“I’ll do the laundry today.” It’s not like I have set chores or anything, but I tend to take care of the laundry, because I’m the only one who gives enough of a shit to sort colors.

Dad waves me off. “Kat, I know you’re busy with school. Don’t worry.”

He’s right. I have been busy. But that’s not a good excuse. I need to make time to help out around the house while I’m still living here.

I hammer my two waffles, finish my coffee, and then go on a cleaning tear. I wipe down the kitchen, do dishes until the drying rack is full, change out the towels in the bathroom, put in a load of laundry for Dad. All the while, Pat is asleep on the couch in the den. When I come in with the vacuum, he barely rolls over.

Freaking scrub.

I get so pissed, I ram the vacuum cleaner into the couch and basically shake him awake.

“Oh, pardon me,” I say in my bitchiest voice, when he finally opens his eyes.

“What’s your problem?”

“You need to start helping out around the house more.”

“Whatever, Kat. Go take a Midol. Shouldn’t you be at school anyway?”

He reaches for the afghan but I pull it off him. Freaking scrub is in his tighty-whiteys.

“There’s no school today! Look around, Pat! Our house is a shithole. What would Mom say?”

“Mom wouldn’t say anything. She’d clean it up.”

“Yeah, well. Guess what? I’m not Mom. And I’m about to peace out for college, and I don’t want to have to worry about you and Dad living in a pile of garbage!”

Pat stretches his arms over his head and growls. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

I point down at the coffee table. It’s covered in Pat’s racing magazines and some carburetor parts laid out on a greasy page of newspaper. “Clean up your shit.”

Pat sniffs the air. “Is that toaster waffles?” He groans to his feet and shuffles out of the den.

I go to my room before I explode. I pick up my phone. It’s been almost two hours, but Lillia hasn’t texted me back. I text her again, and then get dressed. When she still hasn’t responded, I start calling her over and over.

She finally picks up on the fourth try. Her voice is scratchy. “Hey,” she says. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon. Why are you still sleeping?”

She moans. “I’m hungover.”

I don’t know why, but this pisses me off. “Well, I’m going to Mary’s house. You coming?”

“Of course I’m coming.” She starts coughing. Or maybe dry heaving. I can’t tell. And it makes me feel bad. “Do I have time to shower?”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

To kill time, I head to Milky Morning and pick up three cupcakes, one for each of us. I stop and get Lillia a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, too, because the grease will be good for her hangover.

On the way to pick up Lillia, I try calling Mary’s house, to tell her we’re coming, but no one answers. Shit. Maybe we shouldn’t have let her go on her own last night. I get this nervous feeling in my stomach. What if her fight with Reeve sent her off the deep end again? What if she . . .

I don’t even want to think about it.

Lillia’s waiting for me on the front steps. She’s got on a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a hoodie, and sunglasses over her eyes. Her hair is still wet. She walks slowly up to my car, like she’s a zombie. I give her the egg sandwich. “Here.”

“Oh, awesome,” she says. “You’re the best, Kat.”

“Wild night?” I ask, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

“Kind of. A bunch of people went to hang out in the cemetery. I got a little tipsy . . . I kept yelling at Reeve about what a jerk he is until he finally left.”

I give Lillia a high five for that.