Chapter One
Kinsey Brock
“O h my god, I can’t believe we made it!” the girl standing on my right choked out. She turned toward me and grabbed my forearm. Tears shimmered in her giant, chocolate brown, Disney princess eyes. Lord, she was open-mouth crying. I felt like an official ass for being dry-eyed when she—and most of the other girls around us—were crying. “We made it!” she repeated in a garbled voice.
“Yeah, we did,” I said in a stunned, monotone voice, pulling my arm away from her death grip of enthusiasm. We’d had show choir together earlier this year, but other than that, I knew nothing about her—only that her last name came alphabetically after Brock, my last name.
Still, she was excited. Who was I to ruin her good mood just because the reality of today terrified me?
I dropped my gaze to the football field’s manicured grass, curling my yellow-painted toes in my white sandals. “Good luck. With ... college, I guess.” I had heard her telling the football player sitting on her other side that she was going to Augusta State in the fall.
“You too, Kinsey!”
Grabbing my necklace, I fiddled with the thin silver chain the key hung from and mumbled, “I’m not going this year.” Luckily, she didn’t hear me, because, when I lifted my attention from a bald patch of grass, she had turned in the other direction and was jumping up and down with a small congregation of her friends, celebrating their escape from high school with even more open-mouth crying and high-pitched squees of accomplishment.
Speaking of escape ...
Sucking in a harsh breath of fresh air and shielding my eyes from the harsh mid-morning sun, I maneuvered through the sea of unzipped black robes and diplomas, determined to find my foster mom so we could leave before the traffic became insane. The hand cupped over my eyes felt sweaty against my forehead—a reminder of just how nervous I was. Later today, I would bring up the subject I’d been terrified to talk about with Mrs. H for the last few months.
I’d turned eighteen a couple weeks ago, in the middle of May. And now, I was a high school graduate, which scared the hell out of me, because the woman who’d taken care of me since late last year was no longer obligated to me. In my nearly two year run of foster parents—three homes counting hers—Mrs. Hudson was the first person who hadn’t treated me like a paycheck.
I didn’t want to lose her.
“Stop worrying,” I hissed to myself, approaching the concrete bleachers overflowing with my classmates’ friends and families. “At least until we get home.” But I stopped short when I noticed a familiar face. It wasn’t my parents—I hadn’t been stupid or naïve enough to believe they’d show up and everything would magically be right in the world—but it was the petite aerial acrobat I’d met at a performing arts camp in seventh grade.
Though she was from Savannah and I’d lived in and around Atlanta my entire life, Lyra Amador and I had kept in touch, talking every couple of days on the phone or online. I’d moved so many times since we’d met that she was one of the few things that was consistent in my life.
“Lyra!” I shouted, a smile splitting my face. She whipped her head around in the direction of my voice. Once she spotted me, she grinned broadly and held her hand high in the air, moving it from side to side. Even her version of waving looked fluid, beautiful.
One sec , she mouthed, rolling her eyes. She gestured down to the line of well-wishers crowding her path off the bleachers.
I nodded. I was just ecstatic she was here. When I had invited her to graduation last month, she had told me she would move heaven and earth to be there, but I wasn’t so sure. Lyra had—literally—ran away and joined a traveling circus after she turned seventeen last year, and they were touring this summer.
I envied her.
Lived vicariously through the colorful postcards she’d sent from the various
Kinsey Brock
“O h my god, I can’t believe we made it!” the girl standing on my right choked out. She turned toward me and grabbed my forearm. Tears shimmered in her giant, chocolate brown, Disney princess eyes. Lord, she was open-mouth crying. I felt like an official ass for being dry-eyed when she—and most of the other girls around us—were crying. “We made it!” she repeated in a garbled voice.
“Yeah, we did,” I said in a stunned, monotone voice, pulling my arm away from her death grip of enthusiasm. We’d had show choir together earlier this year, but other than that, I knew nothing about her—only that her last name came alphabetically after Brock, my last name.
Still, she was excited. Who was I to ruin her good mood just because the reality of today terrified me?
I dropped my gaze to the football field’s manicured grass, curling my yellow-painted toes in my white sandals. “Good luck. With ... college, I guess.” I had heard her telling the football player sitting on her other side that she was going to Augusta State in the fall.
“You too, Kinsey!”
Grabbing my necklace, I fiddled with the thin silver chain the key hung from and mumbled, “I’m not going this year.” Luckily, she didn’t hear me, because, when I lifted my attention from a bald patch of grass, she had turned in the other direction and was jumping up and down with a small congregation of her friends, celebrating their escape from high school with even more open-mouth crying and high-pitched squees of accomplishment.
Speaking of escape ...
Sucking in a harsh breath of fresh air and shielding my eyes from the harsh mid-morning sun, I maneuvered through the sea of unzipped black robes and diplomas, determined to find my foster mom so we could leave before the traffic became insane. The hand cupped over my eyes felt sweaty against my forehead—a reminder of just how nervous I was. Later today, I would bring up the subject I’d been terrified to talk about with Mrs. H for the last few months.
I’d turned eighteen a couple weeks ago, in the middle of May. And now, I was a high school graduate, which scared the hell out of me, because the woman who’d taken care of me since late last year was no longer obligated to me. In my nearly two year run of foster parents—three homes counting hers—Mrs. Hudson was the first person who hadn’t treated me like a paycheck.
I didn’t want to lose her.
“Stop worrying,” I hissed to myself, approaching the concrete bleachers overflowing with my classmates’ friends and families. “At least until we get home.” But I stopped short when I noticed a familiar face. It wasn’t my parents—I hadn’t been stupid or naïve enough to believe they’d show up and everything would magically be right in the world—but it was the petite aerial acrobat I’d met at a performing arts camp in seventh grade.
Though she was from Savannah and I’d lived in and around Atlanta my entire life, Lyra Amador and I had kept in touch, talking every couple of days on the phone or online. I’d moved so many times since we’d met that she was one of the few things that was consistent in my life.
“Lyra!” I shouted, a smile splitting my face. She whipped her head around in the direction of my voice. Once she spotted me, she grinned broadly and held her hand high in the air, moving it from side to side. Even her version of waving looked fluid, beautiful.
One sec , she mouthed, rolling her eyes. She gestured down to the line of well-wishers crowding her path off the bleachers.
I nodded. I was just ecstatic she was here. When I had invited her to graduation last month, she had told me she would move heaven and earth to be there, but I wasn’t so sure. Lyra had—literally—ran away and joined a traveling circus after she turned seventeen last year, and they were touring this summer.
I envied her.
Lived vicariously through the colorful postcards she’d sent from the various
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