Fancying First Chapters

It took fifteen steps for her to die.

Fifteen—one for each year of her life before they snuffed it out.
I was supposed to be doing homework. I actually was doing
homework, but my phone kept buzzing, so I tapped on the
notifications, and there she was.
I never did learn her name. In the reports they would call her “an
illegal fifteen-year-old” or “a fifteen-year-old immigrant.” It
depended on who was talking.
The underground reporters would also call her brave, defiant,
fearless.
And the government news would call her disease-ridden, illegal,
criminal.
But as I watched it with my own eyes, I saw that she was just a girl my age. Wearing a faded
Mickey Mouse T-shirt and jean shorts that were rolled over on top but still looked like they might
fall off her skinny waist. She had somehow gotten over a line of concrete ballasts and the chain-
link fence stretching across the burnt-out field between Tijuana and San Diego. That rusty,
mangled barricade that was supposed to keep people on the Tijuana side. It stood there as a
scar. A reminder. A warning. Its sole purpose was to say stay out. you don’t belong here.
That girl in the Mickey Mouse shirt had no time for warnings. She had no interest in being
intimidated. She looked completely unafraid as she stepped away from the fence, entering the
no-man’s-land between Mexico and the United States. The girl was alone, unarmed. Her dark hair
was tied back in a bouncy ponytail, and she had a bright red scratch under her left eye. Besides
that, her face looked clear, even calm, as she made her way across the dusty strip of scrubland
between Tijuana and the wall.
Or really, the Wall. The Great American Wall.
There was nothing great about it. More like grotesque. It blocked out the sky, with fifty-foot-tall
reinforced steel slats and thick metal mesh in between. Every few feet there were coils of barbed
wire strung across, and on top there was a maze of cables spitting out electricity. The government
had spent gazillions of dollars and called in all the Reserves to help build this monstrosity. Sealing
us off from the rest of the Americas.
Stop where you are! snarled a voice through a speaker by the Wall.
Technically, that girl wasn’t even on United States soil. But as the President loved to say, America
was the greatest nation in the history of greatness, and we needed to do whatever it took to
protect our sacred borders. That was why there was a platoon of Border Patrol officers lined up on
top of the Wall. Green zombies, I called them. Standing at attention in their olive-colored uniforms
with pale, expressionless faces. They had the newest AK-87s strapped to their backs and German
shepherds circling at their feet as they stared down that girl.
Because this was their land.
Because it was their duty to preserve and defend the United States of America.
Because whatever this fifteen-year-old intended, walking across in her flip-flops and saggy shorts,
she had now become a national threat.
 Fancying First Chapters
Fact: The dead can’t speak.
Truth: Sometimes the dead whisper to you, in the quiet: Don’t let
them forget I was here once. Alive. Young. I was like you. I
believed I would live forever.
You never forget the first time you see a dead body.
It was warmish for a Chicago winter. If the temperature hovering
around freezing is warm. (In Chicago, it is.) There was the sickly
sweet rotting smell of leaves that had fallen from trees, mixing
with mud, never totally drying up before the first snow. The odor
filled the air around the sloping embankments of a crumbling
stone culvert that was linned with steel. The pipe was hidden by
overgrown limp grass, deep in Jackson Park, in the part where no
one ever goes because there are stories of ghosts and Mothman sightings. It’s not the restored
part of the park—the blooming Japanese garden, the shiny metal sculpture of giant petals, the bike
paths, and the Illinois prairie popping with blue cornflowers. It’s the neglected area by the
abandoned arched bridge that leads to nowhere. No one ever went there because there was
absolutely nothing to see. Until the time there was.
The first thing I saw was a shoe.
A charcoal-colored canvas sneaker. It was damp, and there was a curved winter salt stain along
its side, where the shoe had gotten wet and then dried. And another, higher water mark. Then
another. Like the rings in a tree trunk that tell you how old a tree was, how long it lived before it
was cut down. A passing of time. Three rings of storms. Three rings of floods. Weathering them all
alone.
I remember thinking that canvas sneakers were not a good footwear choice. They weren’t warm
enough, even for a mild winter day. Your feet would be cold. It was too wet. Silly Safiya. The cold
and wet don’t matter if you’re dead.
That’s when I should’ve stopped. Right there. Right then. Literally. In my tracks. Called the police,
moved backward and not forward into a crime scene. Would’ve saved me a lecture from the
police. Would’ve saved me from the image etched forever in my mind. Would’ve saved me. Period.
But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I’d made a promise to a dead boy. And I was going to see it through.
I could say it was solely the hodgepodge of clues and half-baked theories that had led me there.
Or my desire for justice. Or my needling curiosity that my friend Asma called nosiness. But I’m not
that good a liar. There was a voice. His voice. The voice of a dead boy. I didn’t want to believe it.
But it was there, pulling me forward, reeling me in, asking me to find the true story. And to tell it.
I shined my light into the steel-lined culvert.
The shoe belonged to a body that led to a face I’ll never forget.
When you see a dead body, you freeze, a layer of ice forming under your skin. You stare one
second longer—too long—and that ice shatters, and the truth of what you’re seeing cuts you in a
million places. The body you’re looking at was a person who lived and breathed and was part of
this world. And even though your brain can’t form a single clear thought, one idea burrows its way
into your bones: This body—this person—is now part of you, forever.
 Fancying First Chapters
Pip knew where they lived.
Everyone in Fairview knew where they lived.
Their home was like the town’s own haunted house; people’s
footsteps quickened as they walked by, and their words strangled
and died in their throats. Shrieking children would gather on their
walk home from school, daring one another to run up and touch
the front gate.
But it wasn’t haunted by ghosts, just three sad people trying to live
their lives as before. A house not haunted by flickering lights or
spectral falling chairs, but by dark spray-­painted letters of “Scum
Family” and stone-­shattered windows.
Pip had always wondered why they didn’t move. Not that they had to; they hadn’t done anything
wrong. But she didn’t know how they lived like that. How the Singhs found the strength to stay
here. Here, in Fairview, under the weight of so many widened eyes, of the comments whispered
just loud enough to be heard, of neighborly small talk never stretching into real talk anymore.
It was a particular cruelty that their house was so close to Fairview High School, where both Andie
Bell and Sal Singh had gone, where Pip would return for her senior year in a few weeks when the
late-­summer sun dipped into September.
Pip stopped and rested her hand on the front gate, instantly braver than half the town’s kids. Her
eyes traced the path to the front door. It was possible that this was a very bad idea; she had
considered that.
Pausing for just a second, Pip held her breath, then pushed the creaking gate and crossed the
yard. She stopped at the door and knocked three times. Her reflection stared back at her: the long
dark hair sun-­bleached a lighter brown at the tips, the pale white skin despite a week just spent in
the Caribbean, the sharp muddy-­green eyes braced for impact.
The door opened with the clatter of a falling chain and clicking locks.
“H-­hello?” he said, holding the door half open, with his hand folded over the side. Pip blinked to
break her stare, but she couldn’t help it. He looked so much like Sal: the Sal she knew from all
those television reports and newspaper pictures. The Sal now fading from her memory. Ravi had
his brother’s messy black side-swept hair, thick arched eyebrows, and oaken-­hued skin.
“Hello?” he said again.
“Um . . .” Pip faltered. He’d grown even taller since she last saw him. She’d never been this close
before, but now that she was, she saw he had a dimple in his chin, just like hers. “Um, sorry, hi.”
She did an awkward half wave that she immediately regretted.
“Hi?”
“Hi, Ravi,” she said. “I . . . You don’t know me. . . . I’m Pippa Fitz-­Amobi. I was a few years below
you at school before you left.”
“OK . . .”
“I was just wondering if I could borrow a second of your time? Well, not only a second, we’re
already way past that. . . . Maybe like a few sequential seconds, if you can spare them?”
Oh god, this was what happened when she was nervous: words spewed out, unchecked and
overexplained, until someone stopped her.
Ravi looked confused.
“Sorry,” Pip said, recovering. “I mean, I’m doing my senior capstone project at school and—­”
“What’s a capstone project?”
“It’s kind of like a senior thesis you work on independently, alongside normal classes. You can pick
any topic you want, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to be interviewed for mine.”
“What’s it about?” His dark eyebrows hugged closer to his eyes.
“Um . . . it’s about what happened five years ago.”
Ravi exhaled loudly, his lip curling with what looked like anger.
“Why?” he said.
“Because I don’t think your brother did it—­and I’m going to try to prove it.”
 Fancying First Chapters
The instant Dee Guerrera peeled open her eyelids and gazed
around the dimly lit warehouse, she knew she was screwed.
Fifty million people are about to watch me die.
She lay on the concrete floor, its chill permeating her clothes, and
recalled the insanity that had landed her here. Three weeks ago,
the most important things in her life had been college applications
and securing a date to the prom. Then the body, the trial. She’d
hardly had time to process what had happened before she’d
found herself sitting in a courtroom, listening to a jury find her
guilty of first-degree murder.
Was that this morning? Yesterday? Dee tried to remember how
much time had passed since the verdict, but her mind was fuzzy, her breathing labored as if she’d
been drugged….
The bailiff. As the judge read her sentence, she’d heard the bailiff come up behind her. She’d
expected to be escorted back to her cell, but instead felt a hand on her wrist, a pinch on her arm.
It must have been a needle. She’d been rendered unconscious before they hauled her off to
Alcatraz 2.0.
Alcatraz 2.0. She’d heard the judge say it, but she still could hardly believe it. That sentence was
usually reserved for the most infamous of convicted killers: mobsters, mass murderers, terrorists,
assassins. They were notorious. They were dangerous. They got good ratings. Dee was just a
seventeen-year-old nobody who couldn’t even throw a punch, let alone stay alive long enough on
Alcatraz 2.0 to gain a cult following.
Yet here she was, about to be the star attraction on the number one live-streaming show in the
country.
Alcatraz 2.0, the suburban island in the San Francisco Bay where convicted murderers were
hunted down by government-sanctioned serial killers for America’s amusement, had been the
brainchild of an anonymous television mogul known only as The Postman. When a former reality
“star” was elected president of the United States, The Postman had used his clout to sell the
federal government on the idea of capital punishment as entertainment. Broadcasting the over-
the-top theatrics of The Postman’s band of psychotic killers — each with their own thematic brand
of murder — not only reminded citizens of what awaited them if they broke the law, but kept them
glued to their screens, where they were less likely to break said laws in the first place.
The Postman app had been a runaway success. Fans could watch 24/7, cycling through a range
of live camera feeds from all over the island: inmates at “home” in their apartments, at “work” on
Alcatraz 2.0’s Main Street, and, of course, the murders. A double-doorbell notification alerted
users of a kill in progress, which they could watch live or in a variety of replays on the app. Users
“spiked” videos to show their appreciation, and before long, all The Postman’s killers had their own
fandoms, forums, merch, video games, and RPGs, plus the lucrative betting markets, all controlled
by Postman Enterprises, Inc.
The Postman’s killers were media-driven celebrities, just like the president, though they were
faceless, masked. There were even conspiracy-theory TV shows devoted to speculation about the
killers’ secret 3 identities. Were the Hardy Girls actually minivan-driving soccer moms? Didn’t Gassy
Al’s voice sound like the announcer on The Price Is Right?
The whole thing was fucking nuts.
But while all of Dee’s friends and even her stepsister, Monica, had been obsessed with The
Postman, Dee had refused to watch. In fact, just hearing the telltale Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
notification triggered a full-on PTSD panic attack as Dee internalized the inmate’s fear and
instantly relived the six days she’d spent trapped in a white windowless room by a deranged
kidnapper when she was eleven years old.
So yeah, Dee loathed everything about The Postman, even if technically it was justice served.
That had been the main selling point of The Postman — justice. But was it really delivered? Dee’s
trial for Monica’s murder had been a complete joke, from dubious DNA evidence to a psychiatrist
who’d only interviewed Dee once, then testified that she suffered from a deep-seated jealousy of
and hatred for her stepsister. Total bullshit.
But the jury didn’t think so, which had landed Dee in one of The Postman’s kill rooms.
Dee had thought she’d get at least a few weeks to settle into her life on the island. Didn’t most
inmates hang around for a while until the audience became invested in their stories, personas,
jobs, and intra-island relationships? Crap. Dee should have paid more attention to The Postman
app when she’d had the chance. At least then she’d have some knowledge of what she was in for.
Now she’d have to rely on what she’d learned from Monica, or picked up during her trial, when
she’d been forced to watch a nonstop Alcatraz 2.0 feed in her prison cell.
Well, she knew one thing for sure: one of The Postman’s psychos was about to shed her blood. Who
would it be?
 Fancying First Chapters
We heard the crash first. Right before the lights went out. We don’t
live too far from the country club. Our son, Cole, even worked there
during the summers as a caddy. Made good money too. Anyway,
next we smelled the smoke and ran out onto the porch. I could just
make out them flames over the treetops. That club must’ve been
brined in gasoline—it lit up the sky purple. My husband, George,
jumped in his truck to head on over there while I sat on the porch
and waited. And waited. And waited. Two whole hours, I waited to
hear something. Had no idea what was going on. Phones weren’t
working. Just as I was finna to head over there myself, I see Cole
walking out the dark, limping down our driveway, eyes wide like he
saw the face of God. I was so relieved that he was alright that I ran up and gave him a great big
hug.
But . . . he was soaking wet. Like he done grabbed his tux right out the wash and threw it on. It
wasn’t until I stepped away that I noticed red all over my robe and started screaming.
We took him down to the hospital. Not a scratch on him but they transferred him to the mental ward
on account that he wouldn’t talk. Still won’t talk much. And my Cole, he was a talker. From day one,
we couldn’t get him to shut up if we tried. He was the tattle-tale of the family, always ripping and
running. Now, he barely moves. Barely blinks, just stares off at nothing.
Only two kids survived Prom Night at that country club.
Cole was one of them. They say when you go through something like that, your instincts kick in. So
his mind must’ve told him to come on home. He walked over two miles through the mud with one
shoe, covered in the blood of other children.
When I asked him what happened . . . he just kept mumbling, “Maddy did it.”
 Fancying First Chapters
Cheyenne heard the car door open. She didn’t move from where
she lay curled on the backseat, her head resting on her bent arm.
Despite the blanket that covered her, Cheyenne was shivering.
She had begged her stepmom to leave the keys in the car so she
could turn on the heat if she got cold. After some back- and-
forthing, Danielle had agreed. That had only been five minutes
ago, and here she was, already back. Maybe the doctor had
phoned in the prescription and Danielle hadn’t had to wait for it to
be filled. Now the door slammed closed, the SUV rocking a little
as weight settled into the driver’s seat. The engine started. The
emergency brake clunked as it was released. The car jerked into
reverse. It was a thousand little things that told Cheyenne something was wrong. Even the way the
door closed hadn’t sounded right. Too fast and too hard for Danielle. The breathing was all wrong
too, speeded up and harsh. Cheyenne sniffed. The smell of cigarettes. But Danielle didn’t smoke
and, as a nurse, couldn’t stand anyone who did. There was no way the person driving the car was
her stepmom. But why would someone else have gotten in the car? It was a Cadillac Escalade, so
it wasn’t likely someone had just gotten confused and thought it was their car. Then she
remembered the keys. Somebody was stealing the car! And Cheyenne was pretty sure they didn’t
know she was in it. She froze, wondering how much the blanket covered her. She couldn’t feel it
on the top of her head. Cheyenne felt like a mouse she had seen in the kitchen one time when she
turned on the light before school. Caught in the middle of the floor, it had stood stock- still. Like
maybe she wouldn’t notice it if it didn’t move. But it hadn’t worked for the mouse, and now it didn’t
work for Cheyenne. She must have made some small sound. Or maybe the thief had looked back
to see if someone was following and then realized what the shape was underneath the blanket. A
swear word. A guy’s voice. She had already halfway known that it was a guy, the way she
sometimes just knew things now. “Who the hell are you?” His voice broke in surprise. “What are you
doing in Danielle’s car?” Their words collided and tangled. Both of them speaking too fast, almost
yelling. Sitting up, she scrambled back against the door, the one farthest from him. “Stop our car
and get out!” “No!” he shouted back. The engine surged as he drove faster. Cheyenne realized she
was being kidnapped. But she couldn’t see the guy who was kidnapping her or where they were
going. Because for the last three years, Cheyenne had been blind.
 Fancying First Chapters
By four-thirty in the afternoon, the first mad rush of after-school
passengers has come and gone. What’s left are stragglers and
staylaters, swiping their bus passes as they climb onto the 57 bus
and take seats among the coming-home workers, the shoppers
and erranddoers, the other students from high schools and middle
schools around the city. The bus is loud but not as loud as
sometimes. A few clusters of kids are shouting and laughing and
an older woman at the front keeps talking to the driver. Dark is
coming on. Daylight savings ended yesterday, and now evening
rushes into the place where afternoon used to be. Everything is
duskier, sleepier, wintrier now. Passengers look at their phones or
stare through the scratched and grimy windows at the waning light. Sasha sits near the back. For
much of the journey, the teenager has been reading a paperback copy of Anna Karenina for a
class in Russian literature. Today, like most days, Sasha wears a T-shirt, a black fleece jacket, a
gray flat cap, and a gauzy white skirt. A senior at a small private high school, the teenager
identifies as agender— neither male nor female. As the bus lumbers through town, Sasha puts
down the book and drifts into sleep, skirt draped over the edge of the seat. A few feet away, three
teenage boys are laughing and joking. One of them, Richard, wears a black hoodie and an
orange-billed New York Knicks hat. A sixteen-year-old junior at Oakland High School, he’s got
hazel eyes and a slow, sweet grin. He stands with his back to Sasha, gripping a pole for balance.
Sasha sleeps as Richard and his companions goof around, play fighting. Sleeps as Richard’s cousin
Lloyd bounds up and down the aisle flirting with a girl up front. Sleeps as Richard surreptitiously
flicks a lighter and touches it to the hem of that gauzy white skirt. Wait. In a moment, Sasha will
wake inside a ball of flame and begin to scream. In a moment, everything will be set in motion.
Taken by ambulance to a San Francisco burn unit, Sasha will spend the next three and a half
weeks undergoing multiple surgeries to treat second- and third-degree burns running from calf to
thigh. Arrested at school the following day, Richard will be charged with two felonies, each with a
hate-crime clause that will add time to his sentence if he is convicted. Citing the severity of the
crime, the district attorney will charge him as an adult, stripping him of the 5 protections normally
given to juveniles. Before the week is out, he will be facing the possibility of life imprisonment. But
none of that has happened yet. For now, both teenagers are just taking the bus home from school.
Surely it’s not too late to stop things from going wrong. There must be some way to wake Sasha.
Divert Richard. Get the driver to stop the bus. There must be something you can do.
 Fancying First Chapters
Depending on who—­sorry, whom—­you ask, I may have killed my
three best friends.

If you ask Blake Lloyd's grandma, Nana Betsy, I think she'd say no.
That's because when she first saw me earlier today, she grabbed
me in a huge, tearful hug and whispered in my ear: "You are not
responsible for this, Carver Briggs. God knows it and so do I." And
Nana Betsy tends to say what she thinks. So there's that.

If you ask Eli Bauer's parents, Dr. Pierce Bauer and Dr. Melissa
Rubin-­Bauer, I expect they'd say maybe. When I saw them today,
they each looked me in the eyes and shook my hand. In their faces, I saw more bereavement than
anger. I sensed their desolation in the weakness of their handshakes. And I'm guessing part of their
fatigue was over whether to hold me accountable in some way for their loss. So they go down as a
maybe. Their daughter, Adair? Eli's twin? We used to be friends. Not like Eli and I were, but friends.
I'd say she's a "definitely" from the way she glowers at me as if she wishes I'd been in the car too.
She was doing just that a few minutes ago, while talking with some of our classmates attending
the funeral.

Then there's Judge Frederick Douglass Edwards and his ex-­wife, Cynthia Edwards. If you ask them
if I killed their son, Thurgood Marshall "Mars" Edwards, I expect you'd hear a firm "probably." When
I saw Judge Edwards today, he towered over me, immaculately dressed as always. Neither of us
spoke for a while. The air between us felt hard and rough as stone. "It's good to see you, sir," I said
finally, and extended my sweating hand.

"None of this is good," he said in his kingly voice, jaw muscles clenching, looking above me. Beyond
me. As though he thought if he could persuade himself of my insignificance, he could persuade
himself that I had nothing to do with his son's death. He shook my hand like it was both his duty
and his only way of hurting me.

Then there's me. I would tell you that I definitely killed my three best friends.

Not on purpose. I'm pretty sure no one thinks I did it on purpose; that I slipped under their car in the
dead of night and severed the brake lines. No, here's the cruel irony for the writer I am: I wrote
them out of existence. Where are you guys? Text me back. Not a particularly good or creative text
message. But they found Mars's phone (Mars was driving) with a half-­composed text responding to
me, just as I requested. It looks like that was what he was working on when he slammed into the
rear of a stopped semi on the highway at almost seventy miles per hour. The car went under the
trailer, shearing off the top.
Am I certain that it was my text message that set into motion the chain of events that culminated in
my friends' deaths? No. But I'm sure enough.

I'm numb. Blank. Not yet in the throes of the blazing, ringing pain I'm certain waits for me in the
unrolling days ahead. It's like once when I was chopping onions to help my mom in the kitchen. The
knife slipped and I sliced open my hand. There was this pause in my brain as if my body needed to
figure out it had been cut. I knew two things right then: (1) I felt only a quick strike and a dull
throbbing. But the pain was coming. Oh, was it coming. And (2) I knew that in a second or two, I
was about to start raining blood all over my mom's favorite bamboo cutting board (yes, people can
form deep emotional attachments to cutting boards; no, I don't get it so don't ask).

So I sit at Blake Lloyd's funeral and wait for the pain. I wait to start bleeding all over everything.
 Fancying First Chapters
My life is over.
Behind the morphine dreams is the nightmare of reality.
A reality I can't face.
I cry myself back to sleep wishing, pleading, praying that I'll wake
up from this, but the same nightmare always awaits me.
"Shhh," my mother whispers. "It'll be okay." But her eyes are
swollen and red, and I know she doesn't believe what she's saying.
My father--now that's a different story. He doesn't even try to lie
to me. What's the use? He knows what this means.
My hopes, my dreams, my life . . . it's over.
The only one who seems unfazed is Dr. Wells.
"Hello there, Jessica!" he says. I don't know if it's day or night. The second day or the first. "How are
you feeling?"
I just stare at him. What am I supposed to say, "Fine"?
He inspects my chart. "So let's have a look, shall we?"
He pulls the covers off my lap, and I find myself face to face with the truth.
My right leg has no foot.
No ankle.
No shin.
It's just my thigh, my knee, and a stump wrapped in a mountain of gauze.
My eyes flood with tears as Dr. Wells removes the bandages and inspects his handiwork. I turn
away, only to see my mother fighting back tears of her own. "It'll be okay," she tells me, holding
tight to my hand. "We'll get through this."
Dr. Wells is maddeningly cheerful. "This looks excellent, Jessica. Nice vascular flow, good color . . .
you're already healing beautifully."
I glance at the monstrosity below my knee.
It's red and bulging at the end. Fat staples run around my stump like a big ugly zipper, and the skin
is stained dirty yellow.
"How's the pain?" he asks. "Are you managing okay?"
I wipe away my tears and nod, because the pain in my leg is nothing compared to the one in my
heart.
None of their meds will make that one go away.
He goes on, cheerfully. "I'll order a shrinker sock to control the swelling. Your residual limb will be
very tender for a while, and applying the shrinker sock may be uncomfortable at first, but it's
important to get you into one. Reducing the swelling and shaping your limb is the first step in your
rehabilitation." A nurse appears to re-bandage me as he makes notes in my chart and says, "A
prosthetist will be in later today to apply it."
Tears continue to run down my face.
I don't seem to have the strength to hold them back.
Dr. Wells softens. "The surgery went beautifully, Jessica." He says this like he's trying to soothe away
reality. "And considering everything, you're actually very lucky. You're alive, and you still have your
knee, which makes a huge difference in your future mobility. BK amputees have it much easier than
AK amputees."
"BK? AK?" my mom asks.
"I'm sorry," he says, turning to my mother. "Below knee. Above knee. In the world of prosthetic legs
it's a critical difference." He prepares to leave. "There will obviously be an adjustment period, but
Jessica is young and fit, and I have full confidence that she will return to a completely normal life."
My mother nods, but she seems dazed. Like she's wishing my father was there to help her absorb
what's being said.
Dr. Wells flashes a final smile at me. "Focus on the positive, Jessica. We'll have you up and walking
again in short order."
This from the man who sawed off my leg.
He whooshes from the room leaving a dark, heavy cloud of the unspoken behind.
My mother smiles and coos reassuringly, but she knows what I'm thinking.
What does it matter?

I'll never run again.

 Fancying First Chapters
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.
The knife had a handle of polished black bone, and a blade finer
and sharper than any razor. If it sliced you, you might not even
know you had been cut, not immediately.
The knife had done almost everything it was brought to that house
to do, and both the blade and the handle were wet.
The street door was still open, just a little, where the knife and the
man who held it had slipped in, and wisps of nighttime mist
slithered and twined into the house through the open door.
The man Jack paused on the landing. With his left hand he pulled
a large white handkerchief from the pocket of his black coat, and
with it he wiped off the knife and his gloved right hand which had been holding it; then he put the
handkerchief away. The hunt was almost over. He had left the woman in her bed, the man on the
bedroom floor, the older child in her brightly colored bedroom, surrounded by toys and half-
finished models. That only left the little one, a baby barely a toddler, to take care of. One more
and his task would be done.
He flexed his fingers. The man Jack was, above all things, a professional, or so he told himself, and
he would not allow himself to smile until the job was completed.
His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he wore black leather gloves of the thinnest
lambskin.
The toddler's room was at the very top of the house. The man Jack walked up the stairs, his feet
silent on the carpeting. Then he pushed open the attic door, and he walked in. His shoes were
black leather, and they were polished to such a shine that they looked like dark mirrors: you could
see the moon reflected in them, tiny and half full.
The real moon shone through the casement window. Its light was not bright, and it was diffused by
the mist, but the man Jack would not need much light. The moonlight was enough. It would do.
He could make out the shape of the child in the crib, head and limbs and torso.
The crib had high, slatted sides to prevent the child from getting out. Jack leaned over, raised his
right hand, the one holding the knife, and he aimed for the chest . . .
. . . and then he lowered his hand. The shape in the crib was a teddy bear. There was no child.
The man Jack's eyes were accustomed to the dim moonlight, so he had no desire to turn on an
electric light. And light was not that important, after all. He had other skills.
The man Jack sniffed the air. He ignored the scents that had come into the room with him,
dismissed the scents that he could safely ignore, honed in on the smell of the thing he had come
to find. He could smell the child: a milky smell, like chocolate chip cookies, and the sour tang of a
wet, disposable, nighttime diaper. He could smell the baby shampoo in its hair, and something
small and rubbery - a toy, he thought, and then, no, something to suck - that the child had been
carrying.
The child had been here. It was here no longer. The man Jack followed his nose down the stairs
through the middle of the tall, thin house. He inspected the bathroom, the kitchen, the airing
cupboard, and, finally, the downstairs hall, in which there was nothing to be seen but the family's
bicycles, a pile of empty shopping bags, a fallen diaper, and the stray tendrils of fog that had
insinuated themselves into the hall from the open door to the street.
The man Jack made a small noise then, a grunt that contained in it both frustration and also
satisfaction. He slipped the knife into its sheath in the inside pocket of his long coat, and he
stepped out into the street. There was moonlight, and there were streetlights, but the fog stifled
everything, muted light and muffled sound and made the night shadowy and treacherous. He
looked down the hill towards the light of the closed shops, then up the street, where the last high
houses wound up the hill on their way to the darkness of the old graveyard.
 Fancying First Chapters
I'm surrounded by thousands of words. Maybe millions.
Cathedral. Mayonnaise. Pomegranate.
Mississippi. Neapolitan. Hippopotamus.
Silky. Terrifying. Iridescent.
Tickle. Sneeze. Wish. Worry.
Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes - each one
delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands.
Deep within me, words pile up in huge drifts. Mountains of phrases
and sentences and connected ideas. Clever expressions. Jokes.
Love songs.

From the time I was really little - maybe just a few months old - words were like sweet, liquid gifts,
and I drank them like lemonade. I could almost taste them. They made my jumbled thoughts and
feelings have substance.

My parents always blanketed me with conversation. They chattered and babbled. They verbalized
and vocalized. My father sang to me. My mother whispered strength into my ear. Every word my
parents spoke to me or about me I absorbed and kept and remembered. All of them.

I have no idea how I untangled the complicated process of words and thought, but it happened
quickly and naturally. By the time I was two, all my memories had words, and all my words had
meaning.

But only in my head.

I have never spoken one single word. I am almost eleven years old.
 Fancying First Chapters
My sister wakes me with a whisper.
"I love you, Mars." Her voice crumbles in her throat. In the
moonlight from my window I can see the gleam of tears streaked
over her jaw. She hovers so close I can smell her. Not her usual
shampoo, but an un-right odor. The rich sweetness of decay, like
molding flowers.
"Caroline? You're back?" I'm confused. The summer night swells
with cricket song and the curtains billow against her hunched
form, like the outside is trying to take her back. I used to leave that
window open all the time when we still snuck out onto the balcony
connecting our bedrooms. On nights like tonight, I used to wait for
Caroline to tap tap tap on the glass, a book and a flashlight ready. But Caroline and I haven't met
on our balcony in a long, long time.
It's her, though. Only Caroline would know I still keep the window unlocked, just in case.
"Caroline?" I ask the shadow. The overripe stink.
No answer.
"Why are you home?" I'm too sleepy to hide the hope in my voice. Despite everything from this past
year, I'm happy to see my sister. I've waited so long for her to come back for me.
She lifts something above her head. I recognize the shape, the catch of soft moonlight on rough
metal. It's my iron sundial. She must have grabbed it from my bookcase. I use it as a bookend
because it's so heavy.
She stifles a sob, heaving the sundial high. I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
"Caroline, what's going on—"
"Forgive me," she sobs. Caroline brings the sundial down on my hand, crushing nail and bone into
metal and glass. I'm about to scream when she lifts it again, and this time she brings it down on my
head.
****
Pink lights.
Pink walls.
The blood in my eye turns the clean brightness of the upstairs hallway into a rosy nightmare as I run
from my room. From crashing and chaos.
I am slow and I am stumbling. I cradle one hand with the other, feeling familiar skin bent into
unfamiliar carnage. The knuckles of my hands don't match anymore, their twin-hood out of
alignment. Like Caroline and me.
She storms behind me. She's so close her stink overwhelms me. All I can hear is her screaming.
Mars. Mars. Don't go. Don't go.
It's not her voice. It's not my sister. It's something wearing her skin, filling her flailing body like a
pressurized water hose. She overtakes me before I've made it to the stairs, and the pink world
whirls as we hit the floor. Upside down, I see the door to our parents' room open, see Mom in her
nightshirt halt. Gasp. Scream. Dad calls up from downstairs.
I barely dodge the next hit, the iron sundial smashing into the floorboards beside my head. I blindly
drive a hand upward into a slippery jaw and the sundial tumbles away, down the stairs with
gunshot thuds. My vision is fucked up, but in the brightness of the hallway I can see Caroline now.
She is filthy, her brown hair clumped with dust and debris. Her clothes cling to her, black with mud,
but the plastic Academy logo still shines on her uniform's sleeve. She pulls something from her
waistband and holds it over us.
A knife. My sister has brought home a knife.
But what scares me more are her eyes. Later, I will try to convince myself that there was no sign of
my sister in that wild stare. But my dreams will replay this moment with cruel clarity; trap me within
it like a bug preserved in amber. I will want to believe I am being killed by a monster, but in the
stare of my attacker I don't see monstrosity. I see my Caroline. Lucid. Herself. So recognizable that
my agony—even my shock—dissolves into relief. This is the first time since this awful year began that
I've looked into her eyes and seen her—seen her—looking back. Caroline cringes, and it's all the
warning I have before she plunges the knife toward my face. I twist but a seam of fire rips open in
my ear. Now I scream, but I can't hear it, can't hear anything through the white-hot pain. I feel the
house tremble under my back as Dad hits the top of the stairs. I feel Caroline get dragged away. I
roll to my side and use my good hand to heave myself onto the banister. I stare into the chandelier
that hangs into the great drop of our entryway. The lights are still pink, the world still blurry. The
whole house spins beneath me like I'm the center of an unbalanced carousel.
I am powerless as I watch Caroline kick and bite at our dad. Not Caroline. Not our dad. Strangers.
Actors. Unreal characters that have broken into my life for this improvised horror. Mom stands in her
doorway, another imposter. She claps both hands over her mouth, frozen. I want to scream at her.
Want her to help. To fix this.
Caroline sinks teeth into the meat of Dad's hand. He's a big man; he flings her off with violent
disgust, driving her into the mirror at the top of the stairs. The glass shatters over her, but she never
stops moving. Not for a second. She plunges toward me, the carpet twisting beneath her shoes as
she tries to get her footing. But she's too close, too out of control. I know what will happen before it
happens.
Caroline trips. She falls into me, arms hugged tight around my shoulders. The banister snaps and
we hurtle backward. Then down. The ceiling fills my view. We fall through the chandelier; then the
chandelier is falling with us. Like dancers, we spin in the brief infinity of the drop, a storm of light
and crystal and blood.
When we hit the floor, Caroline hits first.
She breaks beneath my body. I'm close enough to hear her snap, to feel her stiffen, and to know
she's gone too still. I am wrapped in her arms, her hair, in the sweet stink she brought home. The
silence and the stillness scare me more than anything else.
I struggle free, broken crystal biting flesh from my naked thighs, my knees. In the wreckage, I stand.
I look at my sister.
She's covered in my blood. Her body curls into itself. Her face is the last thing to stop twitching.
One eye half-lidded, the other flung wide open like a doll.
Caroline is looking at me when she dies. And she is smiling.
 Fancying First Chapters
Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family.
No one is a criminal.
No one is an addict.
No one is a failure.
The Sinclairs are athletic, tall, and handsome. We are old-money
Democrats. Our smiles are wide, our chins square, and our tennis
serves aggressive.
It doesn't matter if divorce shreds the muscles of our hearts so that
they will hardly beat without a struggle. It doesn't matter if trust-
fund money is running out; if credit card bills go unpaid on the
kitchen counter. It doesn't matter if there's a cluster of pill bottles
on the bedside table. It doesn't matter if one of us is desperately, desperately in love. So much in
love that equally desperate measures must be taken.
We are Sinclairs.
No one is needy.
No one is wrong.
We live, at least in the summertime, on a private island off the coast of Massachusetts.
Perhaps that is all you need to know.

My full name is Cadence Sinclair Eastman. I live in Burlington, Vermont, with Mummy and three
dogs. I am nearly eighteen. I own a well-used library card and not much else, though it is true I live
in a grand house full of expensive, useless objects.
I used to be blond, but now my hair is black.
I used to be strong, but now I am weak.
I used to be pretty, but now I look sick.
It is true I suffer migraines since my accident.
It is true I do not suffer fools. I like a twist of meaning. You see? Suffer migraines. Do not suffer
fools. The word means almost the same as it did in the previous sentence, but not quite.
Suffer.
You could say it means endure, but that's not exactly right.

My story starts before the accident. June of the summer I was fifteen, my father ran off with some
woman he loved more than us.
Dad was a middling-successful professor of military history. Back then I adored him. He wore
tweed jackets. He was gaunt. He drank milky tea. He was fond of board games and let me win,
fond of boats and taught me to kayak, fond of bicycles, books, and art museums.
He was never fond of dogs, and it was a sign of how much he loved my mother that he let our
golden retrievers sleep on the sofas and walked them three miles every morning.
He was never fond of my grandparents, either, and it was a sign of how much he loved both me
and Mummy that he spent every summer in Windemere House on Beechwood Island, writing articles
on wars fought long ago and putting on a smile for the relatives at every meal.
That June, summer fifteen, Dad announced he was leaving and departed two days later. He told my
mother he wasn't a Sinclair, and couldn't try to be one, any longer. He couldn't smile, couldn't lie,
couldn't be part of that beautiful family in those beautiful houses.
Couldn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
He had hired moving vans already. He'd rented a house, too. My father put a last suitcase into the
backseat of the Mercedes (he was leaving Mummy with only the Saab), and started the engine.
Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest. I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The
bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed. Blood
gushed rhythmically from my open wound,
then from my eyes,
my ears,
my mouth.
It tasted like salt and failure. The bright red shame of being unloved soaked the grass in front of our
house, the bricks of the path, the steps to the porch. My heart spasmed among the peonies like a
trout.
Mummy snapped. She said to get hold of myself.
Be normal, now, she said. Right now, she said.
Because you are. Because you can be.
Don't cause a scene, she told me. Breathe and sit up.
I did what she asked.
She was all I had left.
Mummy and I tilted our square chins high as Dad drove down the hill. Then we went indoors and
trashed the gifts he'd given us: jewelry, clothes, books, anything. In the days that followed, we got
rid of the couch and armchairs my parents had bought together. Tossed the wedding china, the
silver, the photographs.
We purchased new furniture. Hired a decorator. Placed an order for Tiffany silverware. Spent a day
walking through art galleries and bought paintings to cover the empty spaces on our walls.
We asked Granddad's lawyers to secure Mummy's assets.
Then we packed our bags and went to Beechwood Island.
 Fancying First Chapters
Bronwyn
Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s

just this week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon
Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go
to class.
“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you
see tomorrow’s post.”
Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its
creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives
Bare you ruining next, Simon?”
Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “It’s a
public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you
rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?”
I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie
Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.
“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s
cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in
extracurricular glory?”
I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee.
Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.
Of course he is. The cute Mathlete--less of an oxymoron than you might think--seems to only ever
show up when I can’t.
“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information
as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the
dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy
families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their
tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.
Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms
crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead,
he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too? What’s your crime?”
“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already
seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except one.
Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not
student council.”
He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right around the time we last
spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with Bayview’s finest for . . . something. It might
be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely
theoretical.
“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door
behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing
across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot
below.
I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers
“Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles
uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.
The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of
injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan
Neiman over differential equations.
Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but maybe there’s still time to
change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening.
“Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I
say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.
Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He has a strict no-phone
policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class rooting through backpacks like he’s head of
airline security and we’re all on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.
“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders.
She must have been surgically removed from her boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t
my phone either.”

“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray. He and Addy
exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they’re part of the same
clique. Maybe überpopular people have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded
and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of
the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a
bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I
don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”
 Fancying First Chapters
If I had known what the next six years of my life were going to be
like, I would have eaten more. I wouldn’t have complained about
brushing my teeth, or taking a bath, or going to bed at eight
o’clock every night. I would have played more.
Laughed more.
I would have hugged my parents and told them I loved them.
But I was ten years old, and I had no idea of the nightmare that
was to come. None of us did.
It was the beginning of September, and we all sat around the big
table in the dining room of my family’s flat on Krakusa Street,
eating and drinking and talking: my parents, my aunts and uncles,
my cousins, and me, Jakob— although everybody called me by my Polish name, Yanek.
The Jews must disappear from Europe.’ That’s what Hitler said,” Uncle Moshe said, reaching for
another pastry. “I don’t know how much more clear he could be.”
I shivered.
I’d heard Hitler, the German fuehrer, give speeches on the radio. Fuehrer meant “leader” in
German. It was what the Germans called their president now. Hitler was always talking about the
“Jewish menace” and how Germany and the rest of Europe should be “Jew free.”
I was a Jew, and I lived in Europe, and I didn’t want to disappear. I loved my house and my city.
“The British and the French have already declared war on him,” my father said. “Soon the
Americans will join them. They won’t let Germany roll over all of Europe.” “He’s already annexed
Austria and Czechoslovakia,” said Uncle Abraham. “And now he invades Poland!” My father sipped
his coffee. “Mark my words: This war won’t last more than six months.” My uncles argued with him,
but he was my father, so I believed him. “Enough politics,” my mother said. She got up to clear the
table, and my aunts helped her. “Yanek, why don’t you put on a show for us? He built his own
projector.” I ran to my room to get it. It wasn’t a film projector like the one at the movie theater. It
was a slide projector I’d made by mounting a lightbulb on a piece of wood and positioning
wooden plates with lenses from magnifying glasses in front of it. I could show pictures on the wall,
or do shadow-puppet shows. My cousins helped me hang a white sheet in the doorway of the
sitting room, and when everyone was seated I plugged in the projector and clicked on the radio. I
liked to have musical accompaniment, like a movie sound track. When the radio warmed up, I
found a Count Basie song that was perfect and started my show. Using cardboard cutouts of
cowboys, Indians, stagecoaches, and horses I’d glued to sticks, I projected a shadow show about a
sheriff in the American Wild West who had to protect his town from bandits. John Wayne Westerns
were my favorite films, and I took all the best parts from his movies and made them one big story.
My family laughed and cheered and called out to the characters like they were real. They loved my
shows, and I loved putting them on for them. I was never prouder than when I got my father to
laugh! Maybe one day I would go to America and work in the movies.
Aunt Gizela would often ruffle my wavy hair and say, “You look like a movie star, Yanek— with your
dark-blond hair and big eyes.”
 I was just getting to the part where the bandit leader robbed the town bank and was squaring off
for a shoot-out with the hero when the music on the radio stopped midsong.
At first I thought the radio’s vacuum tube had blown, but then a man’s voice came on the radio.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this broadcast with the news that the German army has
reached Kraków.” “No!” my father said. “So soon?” Uncle Moshe said. “It’s been only six days! Where
is the Polish army?” I came out from behind the sheet in the doorway to listen. While the radio
announcer talked about Polish forces withdrawing to Lodz and Warsaw, there was a big BOOM, and
my mother’s teacups rattled in their saucers.
My cousins and I ran to the window to look outside. Dark smoke curled into the sky over the rooftops
of Podgórze, our neighborhood. Someone cried out on the next street, and the church bells of
Wawel Cathedral rang out in alarm. 6 It was too late.
The Germans were here.
If I had only known then what I know now, I would have run. I wouldn’t have stopped to pack a bag,
or say goodbye to my friends, or to even unplug my projector. None of us would have. We would
have run for the woods outside of town and never looked back.
But we didn’t.
We just sat there in my family’s flat, listening to the radio and watching the sky over Kraków turn
black as the Germans came to kill us.
 Fancying First Chapters
Skinny Punk Genius Saves Fat Kid

"Lucky for you I was at that station," Curt says as he watches me

eat. "I mean, since I saved your life and all." His eyes track each
bite I take, but when I offer him my fries he won't take any.

"I wasn't going to jump," I say, holding a french fry in the air. I'm
lying, but only halfway.

Curt scoffs.

"Were," he says as if there's no argument. "I was watching you for, like, an hour. That rude, twirpy
kid left, then three trains passed and you never looked up from the tracks. Then the insane laughter
and I knew you'd lost it. I said to myself, Curt, you save this kid's life and he will surely buy you
lunch."

"I wasn't going to jump," I say again with my best resolute look. I was just thinking. Just thinking."

Curt considers this at length.

"How come?" he finally asks.

I want to give him the you-moron look the kids at school have perfected. Maybe say something
sarcastic like, "Use your imagination." I want to say, "Open your eyes. I'm a fucking three-hundred-
pound teenager living in the most unforgiving city on earth. I'm ugly and dumb and I make stupid
noises when I breathe. I annoy and bewilder my only living parent, mortify my little brother, and
have no friends."

I shrug.
 Fancying First Chapters
They took me in my nightgown.
Thinking back, the signs were there—family photos burned in the
fireplace, Mother sewing her best silver and jewelry into the lining
of her coat late at night, and Papa not returning from work. My
younger brother, Jonas, was asking questions. I asked questions,
too, but perhaps I refused to acknowledge the signs. Only later
did I realize that Mother and Father intended we escape. We did
not escape.
We were taken.
June 14, 1941. I had changed into my nightgown and settled in at
my desk to write my cousin Joana a letter.
I opened a new ivory writing tablet and a case of pens and pencils, a gift from my aunt for my
fifteenth birthday.
The evening breeze floated through the open window over my desk, waltzing the curtain from side
to side. I could smell the lily of the valley that Mother and I had planted two years ago. Dear
Joana.
It wasn’t a knocking. It was an urgent booming that made me jump in my chair. Fists pounded on
our front door. No one stirred inside the house. I left my desk and peered out into the hallway. My
mother stood flat against the wall facing our framed map of Lithuania, her eyes closed and her
face pulled with an anxiety I had never seen. She was praying.
“Mother,” said Jonas, only one of his eyes visible through the crack in his door, “are you going to
open it? It sounds as if they might break it down.”
Mother’s head turned to see both Jonas and me peering out of our rooms. She attempted a forced
smile. “Yes, darling. I will open the door. I won’t let anyone break down our door.”
The heels of her shoes echoed down the wooden floor of the hallway and her long, thin skirt
swayed about her ankles. Mother was elegant and beautiful, stunning in fact, with an unusually
wide smile that lit up everything around her. I was fortunate to have Mother’s honey-colored hair
and her bright blue eyes. Jonas had her smile.
Loud voices thundered from the foyer.
“NKVD!” whispered Jonas, growing pale. “Tadas said they took his neighbors away in a truck.
They’re arresting people.”
“No. Not here,” I replied. The Soviet secret police had no business at our house. I walked down the
hallway to listen and peeked around the corner. Jonas was right. Three NKVD officers had Mother
encircled. They wore blue hats with a red border and a gold star above the brim. A tall officer had
our passports in his hand.
“We need more time. We’ll be ready in the morning,” Mother said.
“Twenty minutes—or you won’t live to see morning,” said the officer.
“Please, lower your voice. I have children,” whispered Mother.
“Twenty minutes,” the officer barked. He threw his burning cigarette onto our clean living room
floor and ground it into the wood with his boot.
We were about to become cigarettes.
 Fancying First Chapters
I'm wiping the makeup off my face when the dark-skinned
girl comes in.
"What do you think you're doing?" she says.
"I'm going home."
Her tear-shaped eyes grow dark.
"There is a mistake," I tell her. "I'm here to work as a maid for
a rich lady."
"Is that what you were told?"
Then Mumtaz arrives at the door, huffing, her mango face pink
with anger.
"What do you think you're doing?" she says.
"Leaving," I say. "I'm going home."
Mumtaz laughs. "Home?" she says. "And how would you get there?"
I don't know.
"Do you know the way home?" she says. "Do you have money for the train? Do you speak the
language here? Do you even have any idea where you are?"
My heart is pounding like the drumming of a monsoon rain, and my shoulders are shaking as if I had
a great chill.
"You ignorant hill girl," she says. "You don't know anything. Do you?"
I wrap my arms around myself and grip with all my might. But the trembling will not stop.
"Well, then," Mumtaz says, pulling her record book out from her waistcloth.
"Let me explain it to you." "You belong to me," she says. "And I paid a pretty sum for you, too."
She opens to a page in her book and points to the notation for 10,000 rupees.
"You will take men to your room," she says. "And do whatever they ask of you. You will work here,
like the other girls, until your debt is paid off."
My head is spinning now, but I see only one thing: the number in her book. It warps and blurs, then
fractures into bits that swim before my eyes. I fight back tears and find my voice.
"But Auntie Bimla said -- "
"Your 'auntie,' " she scoffs, "works for me."
I understand it all now. I blink back the tears in my eyes. I ball my hands into fists. I will not do this
dirty business. I will wait until dark and escape from Mumtaz and her Happiness House.
"Shahanna!" Mumtaz snaps her fingers and the dark-skinned girl hands her a pair of scissors.
This Shahanna leans close and whispers to me, "It will go easier on you if you hold still."
There is a slicing sound, and a clump of my hair falls to the floor. I cry out and try to break free, but
Shahanna has hold of me. Mumtaz draws back, the jaw of the scissors poised at my neck.
"Hold still," she says, her teeth clenched. "Or I'll slice your throat."
I look at Shahanna. Her eyes are wide with fear. I stay very still, looking at the girl in the silver
glass. Soon she has the shorn head of a disgraced woman and a face of stone.
"Try to escape with that head of hair," Mumtaz says, "and they'll bring you right back here."
And then they are gone, leaving me alone in the locked-in room. I pound on the door. I howl like an
animal. I pray. I pace the room. I kick the door. But I do not cry.
info *According to
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Title and author: Sanctuary by Paola Mendoza and Abby Sher

Genre: dystopia
Number of pages: 224

plot
In the year 2032, the government in a future America is
xenophobic and unfriendly to foreigners. Vali, a sixteen-year-old
girl, and her brother have to escape from this government and find
a safe place called a sanctuary. They face many challenges along
the way, but they're determined to reach their destination.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: A good girl's guide to murder by Holly Jackson

Genre: thriller
Number of pages: 433

plot
Five years ago, Andie Bell was murdered, and Sal Singh was
blamed. But Pippa, a student from their small town, isn't
convinced. Investigating for her school project, she unearths
dangerous secrets and realizes someone will do anything to keep
the truth hidden and protect the real killer.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: Hollow Fires by Samira Ahmed

Genre: thriller
Number of pages: 404

plot
Safiya, a aspiring journalist, discovers the body of a murdered boy
named Jawad. Determined to uncover the truth and challenge
hate-based beliefs, she delves into the story guided by Jawad's
voice. This powerful novel exposes societal evils and the
complicity of the privileged in distorting the truth.
info *According to
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Title and author: #Murdertrending by Gretchen McNeil

Genre: dystopia, thriller, horror
Number of pages: 352

plot
Seventeen-year-old Dee is wrongly convicted of her step-sister's
murder and sent to Alcatraz 2.0, a unique prison on a repurposed
island. Set in a near-future America, this gripping story unveils a
highly unusual prison system that challenges Dee's perception of
what normal prisons should be.

info *According to
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Title and author: The Weight of Blood by Tiffany D. Jackson

Genre: thriller, horror
Number of pages: 416

plot
In Springville, Georgia, Maddy faces bullying and racism as an
outcast in her high school. When the school plans its first
integrated prom, Maddy wonders if she can finally have a normal
life. However, she holds a dangerous secret that could jeopardize
everyone's lives.

info *According to
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Title and author: Girl, Stolen by April Henry

Genre: thriller
Number of pages: 213

plot
Cheyenne is unintentionally kidnapped when her stepmom's car is
stolen, unaware of her presence in the backseat due to her blindness
and illness. Griffin, the kidnapper, is conflicted upon discovering her
condition. However, when he realizes Cheyenne's father's influential
position, his motives shift, leading him to keep her captive.
info *According to
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Title and author: The 57 Bus by Dashka Slater

Genre: LGBT, true crime
Number of pages: 320

plot
In Oakland, California, Sasha and Richard, two high school students from
different backgrounds, have a chance encounter on the 57 bus. Their lives
drastically change when an impulsive act on the bus leads to severe
consequences. The incident brings them into the global spotlight and
forces them to confront the consequences of their actions.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: Goodbye Days by Jeff Zentner

Genre: realistic fiction, mental health
Number of pages: 399

plot
After a tragic car accident takes the lives of his friends, Carver blames
himself. With the help of his therapist, his friends' loved ones, and his
girlfriend, he embarks on Goodbye Days, a way to remember and say
farewell to his friends. As he navigates through grief, Carver questions
the intentions of others and worries about his own future.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen

Genre: realistic fiction, disabilities
Number of pages: 339

plot
After losing a leg in a car accident, Jessica struggles to adjust to life
with a prosthetic. Feeling both invisible and in the spotlight, she
reflects on her past actions towards a girl with cerebral palsy named
Rosa. Determined to not only run again but also uplift Rosa, Jessica
finds support from her loved ones and teammates on the track team.
info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman

Genre: fantasy
Number of pages: 312

plot
In a graveyard, a boy named Nobody Owens, or Bod, is raised by
ghosts and his guardian in a world between the living and the dead.
He faces thrilling adventures, encounters supernatural beings, and
befriends a witch. However, danger awaits in the land of the living,
where a man called Jack has already taken the lives of Bod's family.

info *According to
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Title and author: Out of my mind by Sharon M. Draper

Genre: realistic fiction, disabilities
Number of pages: 295

plot
Melody has cerebral palsy and can't walk or talk, but she
possesses an exceptional memory. Despite being underestimated
by adults and classmates, she refuses to let her condition define
her. Determined to prove her intelligence, Melody searches for a
way to make her voice heard and show her true capabilities.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: The Honeys by Ryan La Sala

Genre: LGBT, horror, thriller
Number of pages: 344

plot
Mars, overshadowed by his sister Caroline, investigates her tragic death
and assumes her place at the prestigious Aspen Conservancy Summer
Academy. Despite the picturesque surroundings, Mars uncovers toxic
traditions and suspects his sister's friends, the Honeys, of being involved.
As he delves deeper, a threat jeopardizes his sanity and survival.
info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: We were liars by E. Lockhart

Genre: romance, mystery
Number of pages: 242

plot
Cadence Sinclair, part of a wealthy family, suffers a mysterious
accident on her family's private island. Two years later, she returns
to uncover the secrets and missing memories. With the help of
Gat, her crush, she unravels a shocking truth that alters her
perception of her family forever.

info *According to
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Title and author: One of Us is Lying by Karen M. McManus

Genre: thriller, romance
Number of pages: 416

plot
Five students are in detention when one of them, Simon, is found
dead. As the investigation unfolds, it is discovered that Simon
planned to expose secrets about the others. The remaining four
become suspects, and the question arises: How far will they go to
protect their secrets?

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: Prisoner B-3087 by Alan Gratz

Genre: historical fiction, Holocaust
Number of pages: 272

plot
Yanek, a Jewish boy in 1930s Poland, faces the brutality of Nazi
occupation. He endures the horrors of multiple concentration
camps, witnessing unimaginable evil but also finding glimmers of
hope. Yanek's resilience is tested as he fights to hold onto his
identity and inner strength amid the terror of World War II.
info *According to
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Title and author: Fat Kid Rules the World by K.L. Going
Genre: realistic fiction, music
Number of pages: 224

plot
Troy Billings is seventeen, 134 kilograms, friendless, utterly miserable
and considering suicide. However, everything changes when he meets
Curt MacCrae, a skinny, homeless, and talented musician. Together,
they form a punk rock band that challenges stereotypes and transforms
Troy's life, shaping his own identity and the punk scene.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys

Genre: historical fiction, World War II
Number of pages: 344

plot
Fifteen-year-old Lina, a Lithuanian girl in 1941, is torn from her family
by Soviet officers and sent to a Siberian work camp. Enduring harsh
conditions, Lina finds solace in her art and uses it to communicate
with her father in prison. Through strength, love, and hope, she
survives a long and treacherous journey, covering thousands of miles.

info *According to
Goodreads users

Title and author: Sold by Patricia McCormick

Genre: realistic fiction, abuse
Number of pages: 268

plot
Thirteen-year-old Lakshmi, living in poverty-stricken Nepal, is forced
by her stepfather to leave home and work in the city. However, she is
deceived and sold into prostitution in a brothel called "Happiness
House" in India. Trapped and abused, Lakshmi forms friendships and
must decide whether to risk everything to regain her freedom.
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