Chapter One
Jessie put on her brotherâs True Athlete T-shirt. He was dead. She put on his blue jeans. He had been dead for a week, and it was her fault.
His belt fit around her hips. He was a year younger, a few inches taller.
She put on his white crew socks and his Nikes. They were only half a size large. She could wear them.
Jessie went to the bathroom mirrorâweird, how since the minute she had woken up, she knew just what to do. She found a pair of fingernail scissors and started to cut her long, wavy hair. The nail scissors didnât work very well, but shaggy was okay. She grabbed handfuls of hair, hacked them off, and let them fall into the sink. Around her ears and the back of her head, she cut her hair messy but short. On top she left a longer stubble. When she was sure she hadnât missed any places, she took her brotherâs gel and spiked the hair she had left.
She checked herself in the mirror. Ever since it happened she had not been able to face herself, but she could now. The look was right and so was the hair color, light brown. And the green-brown eyes and the short, straight nose and the freckles. People always said she and her brother looked alike.
She missed him so much. Her bigmouth bad-boy kid brother. Dead. How could Jason be dead?
She did not put on any makeup or earrings or perfume. She had not worn any of that stuff since the day he died. Not to school. Not anywhere. Not even to the funeral.
Makeup looked bad when a person cried. And Jessie cried a lot.
Not like Mom.
She had not seen her mother cry at all. Not a single tear.
But Mom would not look at her.
And Mom would not eat. Not at all.
Mom would not talk, either.
Mom had not talked to her since it happened.
Not one word.
Jessie scraped hair out of the sink with her hands and buried it deep in the bathroom trash. She wiped up what was left with toilet paper and flushed it down the john. She picked up some fallen hair from the floor. Not exactly hiding the evidence, she told herself. Just trying not to upset her mother by leaving the bathroom in a mess.
Once sheâd finished cleaning up, Jessie checked herself in the mirror again, took a deep breath, and thought about what she was doing.
Itâs the beginning of my senior year. My last chance to have a high-school life. I should be partying, finding some cool friends, maybe even a boyfriend â¦
Yeah, thatâll be the day , Jessie thought. She didnât seem to know how to act the way the popular girls did, or maybe she just didnât want to. Everybody wore black, black, black, and Jessie didnât like it. To her, black was forâ
Jasonâs funeral. Two days ago, Saturday. She remembered only blurry parts of it, of the whole week since the accident. She felt as if someone had hit her on the head and her brain wasnât working right. She could look at a slice of bread for minutes before she could think what it was for and whether she wanted peanut butter. But one thing she knew for sure: since Jason died, everything had changed.
Forget senior year .
Jessie breathed out a long sigh, got moving, went back to her room, and pulled her cell phone and her wallet out of her purse. Her driverâs license occupied a plastic pocket on the outside of the wallet, and the picture of herself caught her eye. She studied it for a moment. Smile, pretty hair. Gone now.
When Mom sees me this way, she has to look at me. Then she can kill me if she wants to .
She stowed the things deep in the pockets of Jasonâs jeans and headed downstairs fast and heavy-footed in the Nike crosstrainers, thumping the way her brother would have. Walking into the kitchen, she stood tall and made her shoulders wide.
Her mom was sitting at the table. Just sitting there in her bathrobe. Head hanging. Not looking at her.
âYo, Mudderâ Jessie said in a deep voice.
Mom jumped, staring, her mouth open. Then she closed her mouth and gave a soft smile. âWell,
Jessie put on her brotherâs True Athlete T-shirt. He was dead. She put on his blue jeans. He had been dead for a week, and it was her fault.
His belt fit around her hips. He was a year younger, a few inches taller.
She put on his white crew socks and his Nikes. They were only half a size large. She could wear them.
Jessie went to the bathroom mirrorâweird, how since the minute she had woken up, she knew just what to do. She found a pair of fingernail scissors and started to cut her long, wavy hair. The nail scissors didnât work very well, but shaggy was okay. She grabbed handfuls of hair, hacked them off, and let them fall into the sink. Around her ears and the back of her head, she cut her hair messy but short. On top she left a longer stubble. When she was sure she hadnât missed any places, she took her brotherâs gel and spiked the hair she had left.
She checked herself in the mirror. Ever since it happened she had not been able to face herself, but she could now. The look was right and so was the hair color, light brown. And the green-brown eyes and the short, straight nose and the freckles. People always said she and her brother looked alike.
She missed him so much. Her bigmouth bad-boy kid brother. Dead. How could Jason be dead?
She did not put on any makeup or earrings or perfume. She had not worn any of that stuff since the day he died. Not to school. Not anywhere. Not even to the funeral.
Makeup looked bad when a person cried. And Jessie cried a lot.
Not like Mom.
She had not seen her mother cry at all. Not a single tear.
But Mom would not look at her.
And Mom would not eat. Not at all.
Mom would not talk, either.
Mom had not talked to her since it happened.
Not one word.
Jessie scraped hair out of the sink with her hands and buried it deep in the bathroom trash. She wiped up what was left with toilet paper and flushed it down the john. She picked up some fallen hair from the floor. Not exactly hiding the evidence, she told herself. Just trying not to upset her mother by leaving the bathroom in a mess.
Once sheâd finished cleaning up, Jessie checked herself in the mirror again, took a deep breath, and thought about what she was doing.
Itâs the beginning of my senior year. My last chance to have a high-school life. I should be partying, finding some cool friends, maybe even a boyfriend â¦
Yeah, thatâll be the day , Jessie thought. She didnât seem to know how to act the way the popular girls did, or maybe she just didnât want to. Everybody wore black, black, black, and Jessie didnât like it. To her, black was forâ
Jasonâs funeral. Two days ago, Saturday. She remembered only blurry parts of it, of the whole week since the accident. She felt as if someone had hit her on the head and her brain wasnât working right. She could look at a slice of bread for minutes before she could think what it was for and whether she wanted peanut butter. But one thing she knew for sure: since Jason died, everything had changed.
Forget senior year .
Jessie breathed out a long sigh, got moving, went back to her room, and pulled her cell phone and her wallet out of her purse. Her driverâs license occupied a plastic pocket on the outside of the wallet, and the picture of herself caught her eye. She studied it for a moment. Smile, pretty hair. Gone now.
When Mom sees me this way, she has to look at me. Then she can kill me if she wants to .
She stowed the things deep in the pockets of Jasonâs jeans and headed downstairs fast and heavy-footed in the Nike crosstrainers, thumping the way her brother would have. Walking into the kitchen, she stood tall and made her shoulders wide.
Her mom was sitting at the table. Just sitting there in her bathrobe. Head hanging. Not looking at her.
âYo, Mudderâ Jessie said in a deep voice.
Mom jumped, staring, her mouth open. Then she closed her mouth and gave a soft smile. âWell,
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