Then I get the letter.
The Keane School.
A future—my future. Hope. I am full to the brim with it, because I know without a doubt that this school is my way into a new life, a better life. A happy life. A life where I won’t see anything that will mess it all up. Where no one will know I’m a freak who destroys everything.
I want it more than I have ever wanted anything, and I cannot wait for my new life to start.
FIA
Four Months at Keane
I WON THE GAME. AND I LOST.
Because I know now—without any doubt, without any false hope—that I am theirs. The look on Clarice’s face when I nodded at her this morning. It was triumph, but it was also greed. It made my stomach hurt, made my lungs incapable of pulling in enough air.
I proved my worth.
Now we all know what I can do, how easily I can win. And we all know that I will do it for Annie, that I will do whatever I have to for her to be happy. Sweet-like-honey Clarice will keep her happy. The school will take care of her.
And I will do what they tell me. My future stretches out, a continuous, unending path of wrong. I cannot see any way out. I have no power in this game. They hold all the cards.
Because Annie is all I have in the whole world, and I will never leave her.
Excerpt from Mind Games
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Mind Games
FIA
Seven Years Ago
MY DRESS IS BLACK AND ITCHY AND I HATE IT. I WANT to peel it off and I want to k
ick Aunt Ellen for making me wear it. And it’s short, my legs in white tights stretching out too long under the hem. I haven’t worn this dress in two years, not since I was eight, and I hated it then, too.
Annie’s dress is just as stupid as mine, but at least she can’t see how dumb we look. I can. I don’t want to be embarrassed today. Today is for being sad. But I am sad and embarrassed and uncomfortable, too.
It should be raining. It’s supposed to rain at funerals. I want it to rain, but the sun bakes down and it hurts my eyes and everything is sharp and bright like the world doesn’t know the earth is swallowing up my parents.
My parents. My parents. Mom and Dad.
Annie cries softly next to me, her head bent so low we’re nearly the same height. I’m glad she can’t see any of this, can’t see the caskets, can’t see the mats of fake green grass around them. Just show us the dirt. They are going in the dirt. I would rather see the dirt.
I reach out and take Annie’s hand in mine. I squeeze it and squeeze it because she is my responsibility now, and no one else’s. I’ll take care of her, I promise my parents. I’ll take care of her.
FIA
Monday Morning
THE MOMENT HE BENDS OVER TO HELP THE SORROW-eyed spaniel puppy, I know I won’t be able to kill him.
This, of course, ruins my entire day.
I tap my fingers (tap tap tap them) nervously against my jeans. He’s still helping the puppy, untangling the leash from a tree outside the bar. And he’s not only setting it free, he’s talking to it. I can’t hear the words but I can see in the puppy’s tail that, however he’s talking, he’s talking just right, all tender sweet cheerful comfort as his long fingers deftly untwist and unwind and undo my entire day, my entire life. Because if he doesn’t die today, Annie will, and that is one death I cannot have on my conscience.
Why did he have to help the puppy? If he had walked by like he was supposed to, I could have crossed the street, followed him into the alley, and ended his life as anonymously as possible.
Now he is more than a photo and a location. He is panting-puppy salvation. He is legs that stick out at grasshopper angles as he gives the spaniel one last ear rub. He is shoes scuffed up and jeans worn thin and dark hair accidentally mussed. He is eyes squinting because of forgotten sunglasses and heavy backpack throwing off his balance. He is too-big ears and too-big smile and too-big eyes and (too-big too-big too-big) too real for me to end.