Indigo by Gina Linko Page A

out the door. Mom eyed me over the head of the red-haired assistant with the cell phone to her ear. There were too many peoplehere, and the other assistant’s clipboard hit me on the arm. Although my rules were relaxing, and I knew I was going to be starting a new kind of normal, this was too much.
    My skin tightened and the hairs on my neck prickled. I couldn’t breathe. I needed room to breathe.
    Myrna Sawyer popped off the bed as she spied me maneuvering past Rennick toward the door. “You, young lady,” she said, jumping in front of the door before I could get there. “Are you the young lady? Are you the one ?”
    I couldn’t breathe right, my temples thumped with each beat of my pulse. “I need to—” I tried to look over the head of the cameraman, who now had his camera pointed in my face. I tried to signal my mother.
    I shook my head, reached for the doorknob. Then Myrna Sawyer reached out, grabbing my forearm. I supposed she wanted to guide me back into the room. But I got a shock when she touched me. Maybe it was just a regular, everyday, static-electric shock, but it scared me.
    I jumped away from her like a startled animal. Myrna reared back, offended.
    “She doesn’t want to talk,” Rennick said, just this side of polite. He stepped in front of me, opened the door for me. He followed me out.
    I stalked into the waiting area, my arms crossed against my chest, my shoulders hunched. “I’m scared,” I said.
    “I know,” Rennick said. “It gets better.”
    “Yeah?”
    Mom came out of the room now, and a man in a suit met her just outside the door. They stood talking, their faces serious. We were out of earshot. “Who is that?” I asked Rennick. Mom took out her cell phone and looked at it.
    “I don’t know.” We watched their conversation and waited.
    Mom was shaking her head as she came toward us. “I guess this place is swarming with news reporters. That was a bigwig here at the nursing home. And Dad just texted me. There are reporters at the house too.” Mom rubbed her knuckles across her lip.
    “Corrine’s a real hero, front-page news,” Rennick said. But none of us smiled.
    “I can’t talk about this yet,” I said. Mom nodded.
    Rennick rubbed his jaw. “I can help,” he said.
    “What are you thinking?” Mom asked.
    “Corrine could come to my house for the day. There won’t be any paparazzi there.” He seemed a bit bashful, looking up through his eyelashes. And although I had been wondering about his motives, it came to me in a flash. I mean, why did he want to help me? But it just hit me—could Rennick Lane possibly like me? Was it that simple?
    It was a comforting thought. So very normal. So very high school. So much like my old life. But no, I knew that Rennick had his own reasons. Totally.
    I smiled as he explained to Mom where he lived. Forty-eight hours ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of going to RennickLane’s house for the day. But today was a new day in many ways. And it was tempting to think he could give me more insight into what I was going through.
    I pushed away the idea that this was Ren from the Pen. The things I had heard at school, they didn’t jell with the boy in front of me here.
    Mom turned toward me. “What do you think, Corrine? It’s up to you. We could just hole up at home. Dad could make sure the reporters let us in the door at least.”
    “I want to go with Rennick,” I said. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” This was me jumping in, giving it my whole self. Swimming the butterfly. I wanted to figure this thing out. And I felt myself slide back a little, back to my old self. Back into that comfortable place where I knew right from wrong, where I followed my instincts, where I acted with certainty and confidence. What was that word? Mrs. Smelser had taught me all about it when I had been learning that last piece by Chopin. A continuous, unbroken slide from one note to another. Glissando.
    My decision.
    Mom nodded. “I’m sure that’s