Now I have another secret.

Seven for a secret never to be told.

*   *   *

School sucks, but not like before.

I am different.

The rage, rekindled when my mother nonchalantly walked through the hospital, burns slow and bright. I think my skin glows with it, because the threats and the cruel treatment stop. Badass Jamie pushes me in the hallway once. I spin to face her, and something about me sends her backing away with a new caution. In the week that follows my mother’s visit to the hospital, Jamie does not bother me again.

I’ve waited at the hospital in the evenings as much as I can, but I haven’t seen Uncle Eddy or my mother again. I decided not to ask questions. I don’t want them knowing I’m looking for them. Now I live for the weekends when I will have uninterrupted hours to search them out.

And then on Friday, my superawesome luck strikes again.

Mr. Horowitz finds me in the library where I’ve been spending my lunch periods despite Mrs. Hall’s harsh stares. I suspect she has tattled on my whereabouts when she tilts her head toward me as if Horowitz has asked her a question. He approaches my table, and I slam my book shut, tipping my head at Mrs. Hall with defiance when she looks down her nose at me. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to snap a shot of her falling asleep on the job today. The flash woke her up on the wrong side of her desk.

“Mind if I join you?” Horowitz asks, his thick brows raised. They look like two aged caterpillars about to brawl.

I shrug, and he sits across from me at the table. Horowitz isn’t so bad, but I don’t have him for any classes since he teaches sophomore English. He and his wife are new in town. They moved to Sweethaven last year, when Mrs. Rocher finally retired after forty years.

“You’re a chatty one, aren’t you?” he says in the silence that follows.

I’ve been quiet too long, I realize. Months, in fact. It just seems easier to keep secrets when you keep your mouth shut. I shrug again.

He stretches an arm across the chair next to him and studies me. I can’t be much to look at these days, armored in flannels, jeans, and boots. The better to hide my body after the picture that revealed too much.

Horowitz’s brown hair flops on his forehead. My hair is curly; his is spring-loaded. “That yours?” He points to the Nikon sitting on the tabletop.

I nod. I’m rarely without it these days. I don’t trust others not to mess with it if I leave it in my locker. Better yet, you never know when a good picture will come along.

“May I?” he asks. At my nod, he picks up the camera and turns it on. “Nice,” he says with a tiny smile. “I think you caught the real her.”

The shot of the sleeping Mrs. Hall is on the tiny screen. George hates pictures like this, preferring action shots, but I find something interesting in how unguarded people are when they relax.

Awake, Mrs. Hall is aggressively cheerful, smiling brightly at most everyone. Asleep at her desk, Mrs. Hall’s mouth droops into the saddest frown, her head resting on an outstretched arm, reaching for someone who is not there. My guess is, her husband. It’s no secret she still grieves for him, though it’s been three years since he died in Baghdad.

Horowitz takes his time, flipping through the pictures on the screen. Some he pauses over longer than others. Most of them are of George and Don Baruth from the day before. They’d played poker as George interviewed Don about his Korean War experiences. Don had smiled sweetly and nodded when I’d asked if I could take a few pictures.

“Who’s this?” Horowitz asks, showing me a shot of George.

“Someone I work with at the VA Hospital,” I say.

“You care about him very much,” he says, tapping the camera thoughtfully.

Curious, I lean forward to study the LCD screen. “Why do you say that?”

“He looks upset, angry even, but somehow you managed to show him with compassion.”

He’s right. George was angry, listening to Don speak about the treatment he’d received at various hospitals when he’d first returned from Korea. Or rather, the lack of treatment he’d received. PTSD—Don said the doctors called it “operational exhaustion” in those days. It hadn’t been understood—still isn’t fully understood—and it’d caused him to lose his family and his home. He hadn’t been able to shut off the violent reactions he had to normal, everyday situations, like how certain noises could set him off. Almost sixty years later, the nightmares haven’t stopped, and I wonder if my father has them too. George does. He told Don so in his rough voice when the older man set down his cards and started to cry.

Horowitz shuts off the camera and places it on the table in front of me. “You’re very talented, Miss Quinn.”

“And?” He must want something from me. Why else would he seek me out in the library?

He laughs. “I’m not very subtle, am I? My wife says it’s a fault.” He places his hands on the table palms up. “Here’s the thing. Yearbook needs a photographer. My kids are doing their best, but it’s not really their forte. If I don’t get some decent shots in the next two months, we’re going to end up with a lot of cutoff heads. You’re always hauling that thing around, so I thought maybe . . .”

“You know who I am, right?”

He actually blushes, but his eyes never leave mine. “You can take pictures. That’s all I care about.”

I have to give him credit for not jumping on the Slay Sophie Quinn bandwagon. But then, he’s not from here. It’s hard to remember that the rest of the world doesn’t live by our code. Maybe Horowitz sees more shades of gray.