Chapter 1

Not many people could play a ghost fiddle. That was my talent for the Holly Lake High Talent Show tryouts. I hadn’t expected to want a spot in the show as badly as I did. All of the kids who’d tried out wanted spots, I knew that, and I hoped they all got in. The thing was, chances were slim-to-none that I’d be around to try out again next year, so for me, it was now or never.

“Ainsley!”

I spun to see Bryce Dalton, the cutest boy in school, coming my way. That boosted my spirits.

“Hey, Bryce.” I adjusted my grip on the bulky box I was carrying and walked backward down the sidewalk, until he caught up with me. “What’s up?”

“Oh, um . . .” He turned sunburn red before my eyes. How could such a popular guy also be shy? An enigma. “I wanted to tell you how great your audition was.”

He reached for the box to carry it for me. I handed it over and shook out my arms.

“You think? That was my first time ever on a stage. I nearly puked from nerves, and I messed up at least six notes.”

“I didn’t notice.” He was being gracious. He had to have noticed. “I’ve never heard anyone play wine glasses before.”

“Ghost fiddle.”

“What?”

“Some people call it a glass harmonica or glass harp. Some call it wine glass music. I prefer ghost fiddle because it sounds more mysterious.” I waggled my eyebrows at him. “Also, it makes people say ‘What?’ and starts a conversation.”

He smiled, dimples piercing the corners of his full mouth.

“How did you learn how to do that?”

“See? Conversation started. I taught myself.”

“So you put water in a bunch of glasses until you had all the notes on a scale?”

“Pretty much. It started when I was ten. We stopped for dinner at this place in New Mexico. I was waiting for Mum to come back from the bathroom and traced a water drop around the top of my glass. This pretty humming sound came out.” I closed my eyes, remembering the sound. “I did the same thing to Mum’s glass and a different tone came out. It took me about two seconds to realize why.”

“The amount of water in her glass was different.”

I tapped the tip of his nose with the tip of my finger. “Right you are. Next thing I knew, I was chugging down what was left of the water and sticking those glasses in my backpack.”

“You stole them?” He looked around, like maybe the police were just now catching up to me.

I held my left hand in the air and placed my right one over my heart. “I swear, that’s the only thing I ever stole. I felt so guilty about it the second I did it, I took an extra five dollars out of Mum’s wallet to leave for a tip.”

Bryce looked sideways at me. “So you stole from your mom’s purse to pay for the stolen glasses.”

I’d never thought of it that way before and hung my head in shame. “I’m a serial stealer. I haven’t stolen anything since, I swear. I’m going to sneak five dollars back into Mum’s purse when I get home.”

He grinned at me, amused. “You’re a little different, aren’t you?”

I analyzed the question for a moment then asked seriously, “Aren’t we all a little different in our own ways? And doesn’t all of us being different actually give us something in common and, therefore, make us all the same?”

Bryce raised his hand. “Question.”

I held my hand over my eyes like a visor and squinted, like he was at the back of a large classroom, then pointed at him with my non-visor hand. “You, the cute boy with the dark curly hair.”

And gorgeous blue eyes and shy dimpled smile. He really was cute. Especially when he blushed the way he was right then.

He looked at his feet as he spoke. “I’ve been wondering, why do you call your mom mum?”

“First,” I began, holding up a finger, “always ask a question as soon as you have it. You might not get the chance to ask again, and then you’ll have to go through life with an unanswered question. Not good.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave a little salute.

“The answer to your question is, I’ve always called her that. She says mum sounds worldly and more exotic than mom.” I shrugged. “That’s it. No one’s ever asked me that before. Guess I should come up with a more exciting story.”

Bryce shook his head. “Always tell the truth. I want to know the real you.”

I’d been rendered speechless. And that didn’t happen often. Over the last couple of months, Bryce and I had been getting to know each other. We were at the point where we could say things like I want to know the real you and not feel stupid. I realized, for the first time ever, that by traveling as much as Mum and I did, I’d been missing out on something important—true friendships and connections.

I blinked, my eyes stinging suddenly. “I want to know the real you, too.”

“Ainsley, Bryce, wait up.”

I turned to see Gabrielle Fernandez, my best friend, running towards us across the school lawn. Well, what used to be lawn. The grass had turned crispy months ago. Maybe it was because of Bryce’s real you comment, but the impact of the label best friend also hit me. Until Gabrielle, I had never, not once in the fifteen years of my life, had a friend I could call a best friend. We moved too often for me to get to know anyone well enough for that to happen.

Bryce and I stopped walking and waited for Gabrielle to catch up. When she got to us, she hung on to my shoulder and bent over to catch her breath.

“What’s the emergency?” I asked.

“I had to tell you,” she gasped.

“Tell me what? Wait. Catch your breath first, or you’ll pass out.”

Thirty seconds later, she was ready.

“You’re in.” Gabrielle twisted her straight, deep-brown hair into a bun and wrapped the elastic from her wrist around it. “It’s hot today. Isn’t it hot today?”

“It’s a little warm,” Bryce replied. “But you were running.”

“That could be it. It rained earlier, too. Feels a little muggy.”

I waited for them to finish discussing the weather and then asked, “I’m in what? Wait. You don’t mean the talent show, do you?”

“Um, yeah. You killed it at your tryout.”

“I did?”

“Told you,” Bryce said.

Gabrielle fanned the back of her neck with her hand. “Before we even started discussing anyone else, we unanimously voted you to be the closing act. That’s the most coveted spot. Actually, I was forced to abstain, because we have a personal connection, but you know I would’ve cast my vote for you if I could have.”

There was the C word again . . . connection.

This whole thing started when Gabrielle stopped by our apartment one day last spring and saw my ghost fiddle. I had the glasses set out on the coffee table and was playing “Hedwig’s Theme” from Harry Potter. I’m not sure how long she’d been listening before she started squealing.

“Ohmigod,” Gabrielle had said. “You have got to be in the talent show next year. You have to!”

“Next year?” My heart sank as she snapped a picture with her phone of me with my fiddle.

“Yeah. Gives you all summer to practice your act.”

“True. Practice is a good thing.”

What I hadn’t told her was that the chances of me seeing a second school year in Holly Lake, Colorado were astronomically low. We’d been there for almost six months at that point. I’d never lived anywhere for that long.

Now, Gabrielle was standing in front of me, still fanning her neck, and waiting for me to respond to the news that I’d made it. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Of course I am. Have to admit, I’m a little nervous, though.” Also, my mind was boggled by the fact that five or six months ago I’d made a plan, and the plan happened. My life never worked this way. I didn’t trust it.

“You? Nervous?”

“Well, sure. Now that I’m in the show, I’ll have to be competitive. I’m not used to that.” I closed my eyes. “I have to wear this information for a minute and decide how I feel about it.”

“She’s so weird,” Gabrielle said.

“That’s what I love about her,” Bryce added.

Something in my belly fluttered at his words. I opened one eye to see his sunburned-embarrassed look turn third-degree-burn embarrassed and worried that he’d burst into flames.

Gabrielle’s dark eyebrows arched high and she mouthed wow. “I’m gonna go.” She gave me a hug. “I’ll call you later and let you know how things will go with the show.”

She headed back to the school, where her mom was probably waiting in front of the building to take her home. Bryce and I walked along in silence, cutting through the football field.

“Sorry,” Bryce said, after we’d gone from one end zone to the other. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

I bumped my shoulder against his. The red on his face had faded to pink. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m sorry if you are.”

“I am a little. And since I already am, can I ask you another question?”

“You just did.” I grinned at him.

“Can I ask you many other questions?”

“Go ahead. Lay them on me.” I threw my shoulders back and lifted my chin, ready for whatever he had to ask.

“I’ve been wondering about your hair.”

“You mean why my bangs are white?” The rest of my hair was red, smack in between auburn and copper penny.

He nodded.

“I’m a mutant.”

He laughed. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously. It’s a genetic mutation. I’m not like Rogue from the X-Men. I can’t kill people with the touch of my hand.” I opened my hand wide and reached for him. “At least, I don’t think I can.”

He took my hand and held it as we walked. The little fluttery feeling in my belly from before got bigger. It traveled up into my chest, warming me and making me feel super-charged. Another entry for my Journal of Firsts. A boy held my hand today.

“It’s called piebaldism. I’ve also got patches of white skin.” I lifted my bangs to show him the spot at the center of my forehead at the hairline. “This is my triangle of power. That’s what Mum always called it. There are splotches on my elbows.” I showed him, but didn’t mention the ones on my butt cheeks. “There are some on my back, too. My father must have it, because I guess that’s usually how a person gets it. From a parent. Mum is one-hundred-percent blonde.”

Bryce looked confused. “You don’t know if your dad has it?”

“Never met him,” I said. “He took off before I was born. Mum says I’m not missing out on anything.” We got to the town’s unadorned main road of old single-story, sun-bleached shops. I pointed right. “I live three blocks up.”

He pointed at a bench sitting in a gravel patch twenty yards away. Technically, the bench and the gravel patch were a city park. A small bronze plaque on the bench dedicated the spot: To Jorge Romero, in loving memory from his partner and children.

“Do you want to sit for a while?” Bryce asked.

“Sure.”

It was Thursday, which meant Mum was working the nightshift. I was on my own for dinner, and I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than sit in the tiniest park ever with Bryce Dalton. He set the box filled with my glasses safely on the ground next to the bench. We sat there for probably two hours and talked. I can’t say how much getting to know him filled me with happiness. He was especially curious about all of the places I’d lived.

“Where haven’t I lived? The first place I can remember is Florida. Or maybe it was Georgia.” I waved toward the southeast. “One of those states down there. Then we started the westward expansion, as Mum called it, going as far north as Missouri, then into Kansas, down to Oklahoma and Texas. Over to New Mexico.”

“That’s where you started your ghost fiddle collection.”

“Right.” I smiled. Not because he remembered, but because it felt good to have someone know about my life. “Then Arizona, Utah, and now here.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He brushed my white bangs out of my eyes.

“Me, too.” My heart was pounding like I didn’t know it could. I’d never felt this way before.

“One more question.”

“Okay.”

“Is it alright if I kiss you?”

All I could do was nod.

He leaned left, and I leaned right, so we bumped noses. We laughed. Then he leaned right, and I leaned left. Again we bumped. Again we laughed. He put a hand beneath my chin, and a little shiver, like when you touch your tongue to a 9-volt battery, shot through me. Then he tilted my head to the side a little and placed his lips on mine. I closed my eyes so nothing would disturb the moment.

A boy kissed me today.

My first ever boy-kiss was soft, gentle, and ever-so-slightly moist. It felt like the world had stopped to allow us to hold that kiss forever. It felt like we’d barely kissed at all.

He pulled away, and I sat there with my eyes closed. Maybe he’d do it again. If not, I’d live in the moment for a little longer.

“Ainsley?”

“Right here,” I said dreamily, eyes still closed.

His voice was as soft as his kiss. “Everything okay?”

“Yup. I’m imprinting that kiss on my brain.”

He kissed me again. Just as soft. Just as sweet. Just as perfect.

When I opened my eyes, he was sitting back and grinning at me.

“That was nice.”

“It was,” he agreed and then frowned. “I have to get going, though.”

“Okay. Should I walk you?”

He pointed toward the other end of town. “I live way that way.”

“I could still walk you.”

“You’re almost home. You can walk me tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. What a beautiful word. Especially when Bryce was attached to it. Tomorrow was my new favorite word.

“Okay. It’s a date.”

“Tomorrow is Friday,” he reminded. “We could go get burgers then head out to the reservoir. I guess there’s a meteor shower going on. It’s good and dark there so it’s a perfect spot to watch.”

“You mean a real date?”

“Do burgers and a meteor shower count as a date?”

“Will we be doing those things together?”

“That’s the plan,” he said.

“Then it’s a date. I’ve never seen a meteor shower before.” Or been on a date. My journal was going to get a lot of entries.

We exchanged numbers, I picked up the box with my ghost fiddle inside, and Bryce walked across the street with me. He gave me one more kiss before saying, “See you tomorrow.”

Then he headed west, and I went east.

I walked the last three blocks to my apartment in a happy daze. What a day this had been. One of my best ever, and I wanted it to last forever.

“Ainsley!”

I blinked, my brain foggy and my lips still tingly from Bryce’s kisses. Mum? She ran up to me and grabbed my hand, yanking me not only down the block but out of my happiness bubble.

“Where have you been? School was done hours ago.”

What was she so upset about? And why wasn’t she at work? Something bad must’ve happened. The happy flutter in my belly turned to a hard, acidic lump.

“I tried out for the talent show.” I nodded at the box in my arms as proof. “Remember?”

She grabbed my elbow and dragged me down the sidewalk.

“Mum, stop it. I’m going to drop my fiddle. What’s going on?”

I walked into our ground floor apartment and stopped dead as my whole body went numb. There were boxes sitting by the back door, which was open, giving me a clear view to the garage. Our ancient, red Volvo wagon was in the driveway, our tiny trailer attached to the hitch.

No. Not again. Not now. “Mum—”

“Pack your stuff.”

“What? No. Why?”

“They used your picture. He’s coming.”