Pixelated

Chapter 1 It’s been eight days, sixteen hours, and thirty-five minutes since I arrived in hell. Okay, not hell exactly, but Clarkton, Iowa isn’t heaven either. The one pizza place doesn’t deliver, and there aren’t any Chinese restaurants. There isn’t even a mall. Welcome to my own personal purgatory.

The Clarkton Gazette sits one block off the town square. I open the front door and the little bell dings above me. The Gazette’s office is basically a lobby separated by a long counter, three desks—two of which are unoccupied, an ancient copy machine, and two closed doors: one to Mom’s office and the other to the restroom. A set of stairs leads to the second-floor storage rooms. Mrs. Jenkins smiles as I walk through the swinging gate in the counter.

“Morning, Piper.” Mrs. Jenkins flicks her gaze to Mom’s closed door. “What’re you all dressed up for?”

“Um . . . I registered for school today?” My oversize T-shirt has Andy Warhol’s image of Marilyn Monroe and my black skirt is nothing fancy. Even my yellow ballerina flats don’t constitute “dressing up” by any means.

Mrs. Jenkins nods and stares at my clothes for a moment too long. “Well, anyway, you don’t want to go back there,” she says in a lilting voice that’s already getting on my mother’s nerves. “Sandra’s talking with Mickey Ross right now, and they aren’t having the best conversation.”

“Who’s Mickey Ross?” I sit on the edge of her desk and glance at the computer screen.

The next day’s layout is done. Mrs. Jenkins might seem like the calmest person in the county, but she types like she’s on speed and prides herself on never missing a deadline.

“The photographer.” She shakes her head. “Now don’t get me wrong, Mickey’s a nice guy and all, but since he found out two big-city media types bought the Gazette, his rate isn’t high enough. It’s not like he needs the money what with his other job and all.”

“He’s not staff, is he?” In the last eight days, I spent as much time at the paper as I could.

Listening to the bathroom faucet drip at home is not my idea of a party.

Mom and her new husband Doug bought the newspaper in Clarkton last month, along with another one in a nearby county. When my father announced he’d be guest lecturing at Kansas State for the fall semester, I had no other option but to move to Iowa. That was a great way to end my summer vacation in Florida. Welcome home, Piper, you’re moving to one giant cornfield.

“Oh no, dear. He’s freelance, but he’s the best in town.” Mrs. Jenkins turns back to her computer, mumbling to herself as she makes adjustments that don’t seem like much but make a major difference in how the paper will look. Seriously impressive work.

I move toward the back and hear raised voices. Even though I can’t tell what they’re saying, it’s pretty clear the conversation is not going in my mother’s favor. The door flies open

and a big man in dirty overalls storms by me. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge Mrs. Jenkins in his rush to get out of the building. I peek into Mom’s office.

Mom’s face is buried in her hands with her elbows resting on the only two clean spots in front of her. Even in this digital age, my mother has at least three trees worth of paper covering her desk, the chair beside it, and the leaning tower of newsprint on the filing cabinet in the corner.

“Mom?” I ask, not really wanting to distract her.

Her head shoots up and the circles under her eyes are darker than usual. She smiles tentatively. “Hey, Piper. Did you get registered? Was it too difficult?”

I smile like a good little girl and say, “Yeah, I’m all in. Miss Jazzmin helped me the best she could with their limited classes. She also made me schedule an appointment for a college consultation and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Good.” She notices something on her desk and frowns. Her shoulders drop three inches as she reads it. When she’s done, she realizes I’m still here. “I’m sorry, honey. Did you need something?”

“I was just wondering if you’d called the cable company . . .”

Her shoulders drop another two inches. “Yes, and they don’t provide service out by our house.”

“Are you kidding?” No cable means no Internet. No Internet means no life whatsoever.

“I’m afraid not. But, don’t worry, I have a plan. There’s a dish company that can hook up the TV. As for the Internet, it’ll have to be dial-up until I come up with another solution.”

“Dial-up? Mom, people haven’t used dial-up since . . . since . . . like before I was born.”

With dial-up I could write a letter and snail-mail it before my e-mail even loads.

“Piper, I can’t do anything about it right now. I’ll figure something out. It’s just going to take a few days. Explore the country with your camera. I’m sure there are plenty of photo ops for your portfolio.”

With that I’m dismissed. I try not to snort at the “photo ops” comment. I had my portfolio planned out already, but now I have to change the entire story if I’m going to get into the School of Visual Arts in New York. And I am going to get in.

I start my car to drive to the new farmhouse ten miles south of town. My tire blows out on a sharp curve and Dorothea skids into a ditch. I hit my head on the steering wheel, hard enough to send my prescription sunglasses off my face but not hard enough to pass out. The accident happens so fast that I sit in the car for a moment and take count of my body parts.

My heart races; my legs quake like the San Andreas fault. Unless I stay focused on something, I’ll freak out. The same thing happened when my parents told me about their impending divorce this time last year. I went on a cleaning spree. Dust was public enemy number one. It was like I expected a clean house to make my parents realize they needed to stay together.

I needed something concrete to keep my mind grounded, to keep me from a short bus to the crazy ward.

The best thing I can do for my mental state is access the carnage. I take my regular glasses out of the case and slide them on before picking the sunglasses off the floorboard. Once I’m sure nothing’s broken physically, I climb out of Dorothea.

My camera! How could I not think to check my camera? I reach inside the car and pop the trunk. Once I get to the back, I pull the camera bag out gently. The Canon EOS Mark II comes to life instantly and I take a few test shots of the car’s damage.

The right front tire is deflated, possibly shredded. There’s a slight dent in the rear bumper. Checking the view screen, a wave of relief washes over me. The camera’s fine. Thank God. I’ve only had it since last Christmas when Mom and Dad realized how serious I was about photography. They teamed up despite the divorce to buy it, with my grandmother in Florida buying one lens and my grandparents in Arizona buying another.

Best Christmas ever.

Taking a deep breath, I take in my surroundings. All I see are trees, a cornfield, a wheat field, and a rusting tractor in the middle of a meadow. Raising the camera to my eye, I zoom in and snap a few photos. Maybe I’ll stop back by later with the 35-millimeter Canon Doug gave me when he married Mom. Film proficiency isn’t a requirement to get into SVA, but it helps.

I start around the car again, searching for anything I might have missed. The ditch isn’t deep, so the tire is the biggest thing. She might have some internal damage though. Dorothea may not be the prettiest two-door Chevy on the planet, but she’s all mine. Her once bright red paint has faded into a dull orange that reminds me of the sky at sunset.

Sighing, I put my camera back in its bag and set it on the passenger seat. Time to call for a tow. I grab my phone and unlock the screen.

No signal.

How can there be no signal? There isn’t a spot in the modern U.S that doesn’t have a freaking cell tower?! I can’t keep the panic down now. It surges into my throat, burning like lava.

Without thinking, I kick the bumper, shooting tiny pinpricks through each bone in my foot and into my ankle.

I limp around the car with the phone in the air hoping for one measly bar.

Nothing.

No cell phone. No car. No way home unless I walk. No way back to town unless I do the same. That’s five miles either way. Yeah, that’s not going to happen in these flats.

“I hate this place!” I shout into the sky as if someone might hear me. Since I’m in the middle of nowhere Iowa, it’s highly doubtful.

Don’t freak. Don’t freak. Don’t freak.

The distinct sound of tires on pavement fills the void left by the break in my inner lecture.

The truck is a jacked-up monstrosity, red and white with a roll bar. I would need a stepladder to get into the cab. It drives past, and I sense my salvation has moved down the road. Then the driver stops and backs up.

A guy about my age leaps down onto the blacktop. He pushes his mirrored sunglasses up onto the bill of his dirty blue ball cap, revealing eyes like polished amber. Blond tresses stick out from under the hat darkening his sun-kissed skin. Cowboy boots, a white T-shirt, and jeans round out the good old boy look. Simple, but effective. My throat constricts again, but for a different reason.

“Seems like you’re in a bit of a pickle.” His leisurely country drawl sounds as if the world moves at one pace: slow. He circles the car, inspecting the damage while I inspect him.

Rounded jaw that has classic definitions, a small dimple in the left cheek, three deep creases between his eyebrows as he concentrates. He’d photograph well. Very well. “Looks like you’re gonna need a new tire. I can pull you out and take you into town.” He stops beside me, and smiles one of those Hollywood smiles that can’t possibly be real without Photoshop. Those eyes freeze me to the ground as he holds my gaze. “Hey, you’re that new girl. Pippa, right?”

“Piper.” I choke on my name and it sounds more like “pepper.” Eye contact is sexy, and intimidating. Plus this guy is way too hot and he’s seriously talking to me, helping me. But gaga-

ing over any guy is not something I do. I stand a little straighter and hold out my hand. “Piper Marks.”

He looks at my hand for a second before slipping his fingers along my palm and gripping tightly. “Nice to meet you, Piper. I’m Les Williams.” He holds my hand longer than politeness requires. When he lets go, a tiny blush colors his cheeks.

I clear my throat to stop thinking about how much I liked the warmth of his hand. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got bigger issues. “Dorothea blew a tire.”

“Dorothea?” He cocks an eyebrow and grins. “You named your car Dorothea?”

“Well, yeah. After Dorothea Lange? Photographer from the Great Depression? You know the photo with a mom staring off and her two kids hanging over her shoulders?”

Instead of the usual glazed-over eyes and complete lack of interest, Les listens to my little history lesson. When I finish detailing Lange’s life, he simply smiles and nods.

“Now, let’s see what we can do to get Dorothea outta here.”

I hold out my phone, unable to talk after my long, rambling bit of nonsense. God, shoot me now. “No service.”

And I feel like an idiot. Can’t I come up with something better?

“Yeah, there’s a lot of dead spaces around here. County’s trying to get another cell tower up, but some of the old fogeys don’t want it.” He leans in closer. “Hell, half of them think that their cordless phones are cells anyway.”

I laugh. My grandparents in Arizona have their own blog, Retired and Living, and over a thousand followers. They run all over the Southwest like two college kids with nothing else to do but explore and post their adventures online.

“That’s better.” He strolls to the back of his truck and pulls out a tow cable. “Now, I’m gonna hook this to your car and . . .”

He continues to explain what he’s doing as he’s doing it, but nothing registers. My eyes are too busy soaking up every inch of his trim, athletic frame. And my ears are too busy listening to my inner voice debating whether or not checking this guy out is a good idea.

“Okay, ready?”

I nod, unsure what I’m supposed to do.

“Go ahead and get in. Don’t start the engine, just put her in neutral. I’ll tow you over there.” He points to a flat piece of gravel mixed with grass. “I’ll be able to see if you’ve got more damage than that dent.”

“And the tire.” I point out the obvious.

He chuckles and puts one foot into his truck, using his arms to pull his body into the cab.

I hurry around my little two-door car. Once I’m in neutral, I stick my hand out of the window and give Les the thumbs-up. He guns the truck, pulling my car easily out of the miniditch. Less than two minutes later, we’re inspecting the damage.

“Well, let’s change the tire, and then I’ll follow you into town to Ricky’s. I bet he’ll look at Dorothea for you tonight.” He heads over to his truck and drops the tailgate. “Here, have a seat while I take care of this.”

I should be offended by the obvious show of masculinity, but I’m not. I could go all feminist and tell him I could do it myself, but the truth is I never learned how to change a tire.

Climbing onto the tailgate proves dangerous as I hop up and my skirt slides up my thighs. I tug it down quickly, but the deepening red on Les’s face tells me I wasn’t quite fast enough. Great.

Les turns and pops my trunk as I sit patiently on his tailgate, still tugging on the end of my skirt. Part of me is glad my tire blew. The other part of me hates the fact I’m mooning over this guy. He could be a complete idiot with no redeeming characteristics whatsoever. Then again, he’s willingly changing my tire so, at the very least, he’s a nice guy.

I’m trying not to blush as he walks by me to get his crowbar, some WD40, and a hydraulic jack.

“You might wanna buy a jack for your car.” He rolls his crowbar over the back of his hand, grabbing it before it falls to the ground. “This can’t be the first time you’ve had a flat.”

I lean back on my hands, crossing my ankles and letting my legs swing naturally. “Nope, not the first time, but I usually have cell service.”

“And a bunch of guys rushing out to change your tire?” He glances at my bare skin and shakes his head.

“If by guys, you mean the ones paid by AAA or roadside assistance, yeah, I do.”

He smirks at my comment and pops the hubcap off. With the hydraulic jack, my car is up in no time. His arms bulge as he turns the crowbar. The lug nuts don’t want to loosen up, but Les sweats through the strain. Why did I put my camera back in the car? His shirt grows wetter with effort, and my mind wanders to a shirtless daydream. I force myself to look away, so I don’t leap off the tailgate and throw myself at him. I’m on the verge of slapping myself when the tire pops off.

Les tosses the ruined tire in the back of his truck. Five minutes later, the spare is on, and we’re done. I slide off the tailgate, careful to keep my skirt down, and close it as Les puts his things away. I’m sad it’s over already. Which is really pathetic. God, I sound like some lovesick cheerleader who jiggles her goodies for the football team.

“All right, I’ll follow you back. Do you know—” I shake my head before he finishes. “I know how to get to town, the school, and the paper. That’s it.”

“Yeah, I guess I should’ve figured. When you get to the stoplight, hang a left. Go about five blocks to Lincoln and hang a right. Ricky’s garage is on the left.” He’s wiping his hands on a chamois that’s long needed to see a washing machine. “I’ll call ahead to get him to look at your car.”

“Thanks, Les.” The overwhelming need to hug him takes over, but I manage to control myself. Barely. “I really appreciate the help.”

He tosses the rag in the bed of the truck. “No worries. Now start her up.”

I walk back to the car, embarrassed by the brush-off. Of course, a hot guy like Les wouldn’t look twice at me in reality. He may flirt for entertainment, but he wouldn’t go any further. I should’ve known better. It’s been the story of my sad life. The only reason Ian Riley and I went out was because he was tired of being a virgin. Once he got what he wanted, he dumped me.

The drive to town takes longer than it did this morning since I’m only going forty miles an hour. I’m cautious ’cause something could still be wrong with Dorothea, and because I don’t want to lose Les. I follow his directions and find Ricky’s without any problem. The garage is surrounded by ranch houses with a distinct fifties flair. All of them have the same structure, but time has given them unique characteristics: a garage turned into another room, a porch enclosed by screens, siding replaced by a brick façade. All the same, yet different. The street is a blacktop

with no curbs or sidewalks, just a small gravel shoulder on the edges. There might be a good shot here with the right light.

A tall skinny guy in jeans and a torn T-shirt waves me in.

Once the car’s inside and the engine’s off, Ricky disappears through the bay door. I climb out and notice him with Les, laughing, probably at me. The warm and fuzzies fade as my embarrassment grows. Les swaggers in with Ricky on his tail.

“Piper, this is my cousin Ricky,” he says motioning to the mechanic.

A million sarcastic comments flit through my mind, but I keep my mouth shut and smile politely. Getting defensive wouldn’t be a good thing here.

“How’d she drive?” Ricky asks as he takes his turn circling the car.

“Fine, but she pulled to the right a little more than usual.” I shrug and stare at the oilstained concrete floor.

“Yeah, your alignment’s probably off. It’ll take about an hour to set her straight.” Ricky holds out his hand. “Get what you need and toss me the keys. I’ll be here until eight tonight, but like I said, she’ll be done in an hour.”

“Thanks.” I hand over my keys and get my laptop and camera. Maybe there’s a place nearby where I can hook up to Wi-Fi. My memory card is full of pictures I need to watermark and upload to my site. Besides, I haven’t checked in with my friends back home in a few days.

Les leans against the truck with his arms crossed over his chest. The heel of his boot taps against the rear tire as if he’s keeping time to the music in his head. He shoves his sunglasses up again onto his hat and pushes off the truck to stand before me.

“Can I take you anywhere?” he asks as I stop in front of him.

“Know any place with free Wi-Fi around here?” I’d bat my eyelashes at him for the information if necessary.

“Yeah, the pool hall does. Plus they’ve got the best chili cheese fries in town.” His amber eyes brighten at the mention of fries.

I take a chance. “If you aren’t doing anything . . .”

His face falls and he stares down at his boots, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I’d like to, but—” “No problem,” I say before he can finish. The outcome was predictable, but I took the risk anyway. Unfortunately the sting is like he slammed his palm into my chest. “It’s not a biggie.”

“It’s not—” “Like I said, no biggie. If you could just tell me which way . . .”

He looks up at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I can drop you off—” “No, that’s okay. Really.” Hard to tell who’s winning the avoiding game more at the moment. “I don’t mind walking.”

We lock eyes for ten seconds, both resolved to not giving in. He caves and gives me directions before hopping in his truck.

“I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he says as he revs the engine.

I nod and fake a smile. “Sure, yeah, tomorrow.”

He pulls away from the curb, tossing plenty of gravel in the air as he peels down the street.

I’ll see him tomorrow, but he’ll make it a point not to see me.

Chapter 2 I make the turn toward the three-story brick building that houses the high school, and slam on my brakes. A dozen tractors in red, orange, and green line the parking lot.

This is not how I expected to spend my senior year. I was supposed to hang out with my friends, go to concerts, and eat Chinese until we were so stuffed we looked like fortune cookies. I was supposed to graduate top of my class at one of the best schools in St. Louis. Now I’m regulated to a Podunk school that doesn’t offer calculus. Even worse, there isn’t a school paper or e-zine.

I park in the gravel lot as far away from the tractors as I can, and head into the building.

My locker is in the so-called new wing that has to be at least thirty years old, which, compared to the rest of the building, would make it “new.” The linoleum tiles are freshly buffed, but the scuffs of years past battle their way to the surface. Even the fresh coat of off-white paint on the walls is already dulling. The new wing is also so close to the gym the aroma of feet and sweat dominates the hall.

The sound of old friends seeing each other after a summer apart surprises me. It’s not like you can’t run into everybody in this town in one day. Army-green lockers slam as I squeeze through the masses. I regret my choice of a pencil-gray skirt, sleeveless pink top with a cowl neck, and pink flats. I’ve never worn regular clothes to school, only uniforms. But dressing like I’m heading to a business meeting—probably not my best idea. Almost every girl is in jeans or shorts.

I pull open my locker and get slammed head first into the door. My glasses go crooked across my nose.

“Oh my gosh, are you all right?” a squeaky voice says as I feel a touch on my shoulder. I nod, turning around to face a girl almost a head shorter than I am. She steps back and pulls her hand away. “Oh.” She stares at me a moment with dark hazel eyes, the faint smell of coffee hidden under a pungent mint. “How rude of me. I’m so sorry. I’m Lou Green. Well,” she tilts her head and grins, “Louise actually, but everyone calls me Lou.” “Piper Marks.” I start shoving my books in my locker and am totally prepared for her next question.

“Piper? That’s a cool name. How’d your parents come up with it?” She slaps her hand over her mouth, making the freckles on her nose pop out more. There’s a slight country accent in her voice as she starts to ramble. “I’m so sorry. I . . . Sometimes I just say things without thinking. My mom’s always telling me to keep my thoughts to myself, but I can’t help it. I’m named after my great-great grandma by the way.”

I suppress a laugh but can’t stop myself from smiling. “If you want to know the truth, my father’s favorite fairy tale is The Pied Piper of Hamelin. He wrote his dissertation about the historical significance of the inciting incident that led to the story.”

Her eyes glazed over around “historical significance.”

“That’s where my dad got the name.” I say each word slowly to bring her out of her trance.

A huge grin breaks across her face. “You’re gonna give Morgan competition for valedictorian, I can tell. And I can’t wait.”

“Morgan?”

The warning bell clinks before she answers, and Lou bounces away, her strawberry-blond hair swaying with each step. I shrug and head toward class. Yesterday, I got the complete tour of the building and my sad schedule. Up first, Spanish I. Oh joy. Why couldn’t they have Mandarin?

I walk into the room and realize why everyone is in a rush to get to class; they want first pick of the back row. There’s a seat near the door in the front that has my name on it. My butt’s been on the chair for two seconds when someone taps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder.

“So what’s with the skirt?” a guy in a “Clarkton Football” T-shirt asks. He’s burly with too much acne.

I turn back toward the front, not bothering to respond. It’s easier to ignore guys like him.

Staring at posters listing every country in the world that speaks Spanish is far more interesting.

He cackles like a witch as the teacher, Ms. Handly, walks through the door. The guy mutters something under his breath, but I can’t understand him over Handly’s horrible accent.

Great, an immersion class. Nobody learns a new language in an immersion class, especially when the teacher sounds more like Scarlett O’Hara than Penelope Cruz.

My nerves are making my inner sarcasm go on high alert. I take a deep breath and ignore the stares. It’s not easy. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes girl, not a spotlight type.

By lunch, three guys have commented on my skirt. A dozen girls glare at me like I’ve got a bad case of B.O. And I still don’t know who this Morgan is.

And not once did I see Les Williams roaming the halls.

My final class, and the only one I’ve been looking forward to, is Yearbook. I didn’t care that technically it should be an extracurricular activity. But without a school paper, it’s the only way to show off my photography skills. I hurry through the door and take a seat at the front. A perky blonde pops into the room and stops when she sees me.

“You must be in the wrong class. This hour is for the yearbook staff,” she says with the same amount of condescending attitude my mother used on my father when they would decide on dinner and he was on a diet.

“I’m part of the yearbook staff,” I fire back in the same tone. Who does this girl think she is?

“No, you aren’t.” She crosses her arms and leans against the square metal desk in the center of the room. “I already approved the staff for this year and you aren’t part of it.”

“And what makes you the yearbook god?” I stand. This girl is not going to get me kicked out of this class.

“I’m the editor. I decide who stays and who goes.” She smirks like her words are lightning from above. “You should go.”

“Morgan, find a seat.” A skinny man in a white Oxford and khakis three sizes too big strolls into the room with papers tucked under his arm. He stops at his desk and plops into the worn cushioned chair. “Just because you’re the editor doesn’t mean you can kick people out

who’ve signed up for the class.” He smiles at me with perfect white teeth and bright green eyes.

“You must be Piper. I checked out your website. You’ve got some great photos up there.”

The compliment goes to my head and I blush. “Thank you.”

“Photos?” Morgan glances between us, and huffs. “Well, I hope you don’t think you’re going to be the yearbook photographer. That’s my job. Right, Mr. Cunningham?”

“I thought you were the editor?” I snap.

“I’m the photographer, too.”

A couple of other people walk in and stop inside the door when Mr. Cunningham says, “I’m sure there’s room enough for more than one photographer on staff.”

Morgan stomps to a desk and the two new students grin like they’ve won the lottery. The girl has thick curly hair; I would pay over a hundred dollars to get mine styled like it. She’s in my Spanish class. The boy has P.E. with me. Another couple with their hands entwined enters as the tardy bell rings.

Mr. Cunningham introduces me, and I give a halfhearted wave. It sucks when teachers make a show out of the new kid in school. I always felt sorry for anyone who showed up on the first day at St. Sabia’s. Most of the teachers forced them into sharing their life stories in front of the entire class. Mr. Cunningham adds to my embarrassment when he pulls up my website on one of the two ancient computers in the back of the room. Morgan’s sharp intake of breath makes me fight to keep a smile from overtaking my face. I’m good, but there’s so much I still need to learn. I want to be great. I want to own the cover of National Geographic.

“Piper, did you build this website yourself?” Mr. Cunningham asks.

“Yeah, I set it up last year. It was for a computer class. I thought I’d keep it going.” I shrug. It’s not like anyone here can’t do the same. It’s just a blog template I personalized.

“Interesting.” Mr. Cunningham rubs his chin with his hand.

“It’s pretty cool.” Kurt Lassiter, the boy from P.E., smiles and points to a photo I took of the girls’ lacrosse team. Kurt’s tortoise-framed glasses and short black faux hawk are cute in a nerdy sort of way. “Nice action shot.”

“Whatever,” Morgan mumbles under her breath. She slumps in the chair with her arms crossed beneath her abundant chest. “None of this matters,” she adds louder. “We can’t use any of those for the yearbook.”

Nikki, the girl from Spanish, narrows her navy eyes. “Whatever, Morgan, not everything is about you.” She spins on her heel toward the teacher. “Mr. Cunningham, can we talk about a dedication page—” “Oh, not this.” Morgan throws her hands up in the air. “It’s the first day of school, Nikki.

We aren’t planning a dedication page.”

“She’s—” “Yes, I know. Everyone knows. It’s stupid to dedicate a page to someone who—” “Girls!” Mr. Cunningham jumps between Morgan and Nikki as if he’s a pro-wrestling referee. “First day, okay? If we need to worry about a dedication page, we will do so in the spring. Right now, Morgan’s right. It’s a bit premature. Now, let’s move on to how this semester will play out.”

They spend the rest of the period discussing past yearbook fails and wins while I sit at my desk. I’m lost in my thoughts when the bell clanks, ending the period. The rest of the class bolts from the room before I can even shove my pen behind my ear.

“Piper, could you stay back for a second?” Mr. Cunningham moves behind his desk.

Morgan stops in front of my desk as I stand. Her brown eyes shoot daggers into my chest.

I’d hoped she’d forgotten about me during her spat with Nikki.

“I really like your website.” Mr. Cunningham sits down and puts his feet on the desk after Morgan clears the threshold. “I was thinking about having one created this year by the computer science class, but I wonder if you could do it instead.”

“Me?” Maybe it’s a stupid question, but it’s a stupid request. Then again, I can add it to my application for other colleges. I shake that thought from my head and shift from foot to foot.

I’m going to New York, nowhere else. They won’t care if I helped create a website for Clarkton High. They care about lighting, form, and composition. And if I’m going to meet the December early action deadline, I’ve got enough to do without building a website.

He chuckles at my obvious distress. “I can always arrange for you to work with someone in the computer sciences class, too.” He drops his feet off the desk and the chair shoots him upright. “If I get approval, of course. At least think about it.”

“I will,” I say, not ready to shoot him down on the first day. I’ll tell him “no” tomorrow.

All I want to do is survive my brief stint in Iowa and take photos. I’m almost out the door when he clears his throat. Spinning on my heel, I spy a huge grin taking over his face.

“And don’t let Morgan get to you. She’s . . . focused.”

Focused? Sure, and I’m the queen of England. I nod and hurry toward my locker. Morgan thinks she runs this school. I don’t care what she does in any other class, but I’m taking photos for the yearbook. She’s just going to have to deal.

Chapter 3 Even if it’s unintentional, falling into a pattern is something that just happens. By Friday afternoon, my pattern included searching out the tiniest of glimpses of Les Williams. We had no classes together and his locker was down another hallway with the rest of the jocks.

Yearbook, what should be my favorite class, is equal to a living nightmare within a living nightmare. Morgan doesn’t let anyone participate in anything. Mr. Cunningham seems resigned to letting her control-freak flag fly. Why is the only real question, and one I don’t care to have answered.

As usual, I beat everyone else to class Friday. No reason to linger in the halls since I don’t have any friends and the prospects are not looking up. I thought maybe Lou would fill the void, but she never stands still long enough to talk. Getting to class early also means the two computers are unoccupied, giving me a chance to upload a few photos.

I put my travel drive into the USB port and log in. It only takes a few minutes before I realize that Mr. Cunningham is standing behind me.

And Morgan is standing behind him.

“I really like that one.” Mr. Cunningham points to a photo of the sun setting behind an abandoned barn. The light reached through the windows as I snapped the shot.

I glance over my shoulder and smile my thanks. Morgan’s foot starts tapping. A scowl covers her face. The rest of the class ignores us as they carry on the conversations they started in the hall.

“Shouldn’t we start class, Mr. Cunningham?” Morgan uncrosses and recrosses her arms.

“Relax, Morgan.” Mr. Cunningham turns and faces her. “I think we can let Piper finish this while we talk about the layout today.” He glances back at me and winks. “Take your time.”

Morgan huffs, plopping down in the other computer chair. She starts rambling about the layout she picked. The rest of the class gathers around her and the arguments start. I ignore them.

I don’t really care about the layout or the yearbook. I’ll be the girl most people won’t remember when they stare at their yearbooks twenty years from now. I didn’t go to school with them since kindergarten and will be nothing more than a footnote in their memories. At the end of the semester, I’ll still be the new girl.

My mind flashes to my old school. What are they doing right now? Ashley’s probably in Art working on her next big project. When I left, she was going to start painting with watercolors instead of oils. Michelle would be focusing on her solo for the orchestra. Her fingers practice the music even when her bow isn’t in her hands. I know Kayla’s head is buried in a book. The last time I saw her she was reading The Dream Songs by John Berryman. Kayla’s taste in books changes as often as actors change roles.

And I haven’t heard from any of them in over a week.

Morgan snaps at Kurt, bringing me back to reality. Sighing to myself, I upload the last picture and hope it takes the rest of the class period so I can ignore Morgan’s petty fights with everyone else. But I’m not that lucky.

[L#] As soon as the final bell rings, I’m out the door and in my car. I coax Dorothea into starting. Les strolls in front of me with his books in one hand and a duffel bag with shoulder pads in his other. He glances over and offers me a small smile, but he doesn’t stop. That’s the most he’s acknowledged me since pulling me out of the ditch. I smile back despite my inner voice telling me not to. He’s ignored me for three days, after all. I should be pissed.

Josh Hamilton runs up behind Les, slamming a massive shoulder into his back, spinning Les on his heel. Josh keeps going, his laughter filling the air around Dorothea. Les follows his buddy, tossing his bag and books into the back of his truck. I’m forgotten that easily.

I pull out of the parking lot and don’t waste another look his way. No matter how much I want to glance in the rearview mirror. Ten minutes later, I turn down our road. The gravel hits my undercarriage, rattling the inside of the car with pings.

We live at the bottom of a hill near a fenced-in pasture where cows stand. That’s all I’ve seen them do. They must move because they’re never in the same place. A creek runs through the pasture and under the road so I have to cross a narrow bridge without guardrails. I could slip off the old wood and nose-dive into a shallow body of water.

The woods behind the house kind of scare me. Not that I haven’t gone into them since I moved here, but I don’t have a clue what animals might jump out. At least I know the cows won’t do that. And I’ve heard howls in the middle of the night.

The house is an old two-story farmhouse in need of a lot of work. The second floor where the bedrooms are doesn’t have heat or air-conditioning. In fact there isn’t any central air at all.

Doug and Mom called an installation company to remedy that this weekend. But I’d rather have a decent Internet connection than AC. I park in the driveway. Dorothea is my only ticket out of here. The last thing I need is to dig my car out of the rubble if the garage collapses in a medium wind.

Nobody’s home. I march through the back door into the kitchen. When I first saw the house, I wondered why Mom would want a fixer-upper. After seeing the inside, I knew why. The house has its own personality. The floors are freshly polished hardwood. The hand-carved molding has to be original to the property. Even the kitchen cabinets have elongated S carvings in the doors. Mom and Doug started stripping the finish off everything the week before I arrived.

I take the steps two at a time. My new bedroom is still pretty big, but the stark white walls, hardwood floors, and lack of window treatments feel cold and unwelcoming. Mom’s offered to redecorate more than once. I don’t really see the point since I’ll be here for less than a year. Besides, I still have my zebra comforter and red fuzzy pillows. At least this room has more natural lighting. I can sit on my bed and watch the sun set over the distant trees.

I turn on my laptop and connect to the Internet. It takes forever, but I finally log in to my e-mail. Nothing but spam. I try not to let it bother me. The first week of school is hectic. I’m sure Kayla, Michelle, and Ashley have a million things going on. They’ll respond to my e-mails soon.

Or my texts.

Giving up on the virtual world, I pull on my new hiking boots Dad bought before I moved. The light is perfect with minimal cloud cover, and I need some animal shots if I can get

them. Hopefully none of the ones I run into like human meat. There’s an art to being quiet in the woods that I have yet to master, so I know they hear me coming.

As I’m rushing back out the door, I notice the red light flashing on the answering machine. At first I was surprised Mom and Doug even bothered with a landline, but now I’m glad they did since, out in the middle of nowhere, it’s my only connection to . . . well, everything.

I press the button.

“Hello, Sandra.” My father’s deep baritone bounces around the kitchen. An ache begins in my chest. I miss him. Why didn’t he call me? “Some complications have risen here. I hate to ask, but would you mind calling Mitch? I know I shouldn’t ask since this is my cross to bear. I would appreciate if you could give him a ring. Call me if you need his number.”

That’s it. No “tell Piper hello” or “how’s my daughter” or anything. A lump forms in my throat and I swallow hard.

Something’s off.