at drawing. What do you want to do when you get older?”
Kennedy thought about it. “Truth?” she asked him.
“Truth.”
She leaned closer. “I want to do . . . whatever my mother doesn’t want me to.”
****
Four Weeks Later
They were working on their ladder. Prosthetic leg or not, Brent couldn’t climb trees like he used to—and there were a lot of good climbing trees on the acres between their houses. So they’d decided to build a ladder. A good one. A tall one. One that would get him to the highest branch.
And if they had time, Kennedy wanted to build a hut, like the Ewoks in Return of the Jedi . They’d watched the movie in her home theater the other day during a thunderstorm.
Thinking of the movie made her think of where she’d had to go after the movie—to her final dress fitting. For the dress her mother commissioned for Claire’s party. The party that was one week away.
“Are you coming to Claire’s graduation party?” she asked.
Brent took the nail out of his mouth, lined it up, and pounded it into the wood in two quick strikes. “I don’t know. My parents are.”
“Of course your parents are coming. That’s not what I asked.”
He stopped and looked at her, his face serious. Kennedy didn’t like it—it made him look not like Brent. Because her Brent was never serious.
“I don’t think so.”
Kennedy put down the saw and moved closer to him. “Why not?”
Now there was sadness in those round blue eyes.
And it was all wrong.
“I think . . . I think they’re embarrassed of me, Kennedy.”
Anger sparked inside her, quick and hot. “Did they say that to you?”
Brent shook his head. “No, just a feeling, you know?”
The anger fizzled, but only a little. “Your parents love you, Brent.”
He nodded. “I know. But you can love something and still be ashamed of it, can’t you?”
And that was true. She couldn’t lie to him, because it was the story of her life. All she could do was let him know he wasn’t alone. “Then you should definitely come to the party. My mother’s ashamed of me all the time.”
The sadness in his eyes lightened, and he gave her a small smile. Then he put his hand over hers and squeezed.
****
The party was perfect—exactly as her mother planned. A full orchestra filled the night air with elegant music, pristine white tents covered tables with overflowing centerpieces, fine china and high backed chairs. White gloved waiters were everywhere, their trays laden with champagne flutes, caviar and oysters. There was a constant hum of conversation among the hundreds of guests—anyone who was anyone was in attendance. The flash of the photographers’ cameras burst like fireflies on a dark night. Recording these moments for posterity, making the guests feel like they were worthy of their very own paparazzi. And in the center of it all was Claire Randolph, her long blond hair shimmering, her pale yellow ball gown not fit for a princess—but for a queen.
Kennedy was bored out of her mind.
She sat at a table, alone, a small smile plastered in place, because, as her mother had warned her—unsmiling young ladies looked sullen. Sullen equaled pouty. And pouting was never allowed.
At eleven, she was the youngest here—the only girl still considered a child—because none of the other guests would entertain bringing children to such an affair. She was too young to drink, too full to eat more, too uninteresting to engage in conversation for long.
But as she gazed through her glasses at the crowd, she saw him—standing beside his parents, looking as handsome as a prince in a sharp tuxedo. Brent had come—he would save her from the boredom monster. Kennedy darted out of her chair and walked straight to him.
“Hello, Kennedy.” His father greeted in his familiar rough, deep voice.
“Hello, Mr. Mason.”
Brent’s mother, always soft and sweet, smiled genuinely and Kennedy smiled back. Then her eyes fixed on her friend. His hands were
Kennedy thought about it. “Truth?” she asked him.
“Truth.”
She leaned closer. “I want to do . . . whatever my mother doesn’t want me to.”
****
Four Weeks Later
They were working on their ladder. Prosthetic leg or not, Brent couldn’t climb trees like he used to—and there were a lot of good climbing trees on the acres between their houses. So they’d decided to build a ladder. A good one. A tall one. One that would get him to the highest branch.
And if they had time, Kennedy wanted to build a hut, like the Ewoks in Return of the Jedi . They’d watched the movie in her home theater the other day during a thunderstorm.
Thinking of the movie made her think of where she’d had to go after the movie—to her final dress fitting. For the dress her mother commissioned for Claire’s party. The party that was one week away.
“Are you coming to Claire’s graduation party?” she asked.
Brent took the nail out of his mouth, lined it up, and pounded it into the wood in two quick strikes. “I don’t know. My parents are.”
“Of course your parents are coming. That’s not what I asked.”
He stopped and looked at her, his face serious. Kennedy didn’t like it—it made him look not like Brent. Because her Brent was never serious.
“I don’t think so.”
Kennedy put down the saw and moved closer to him. “Why not?”
Now there was sadness in those round blue eyes.
And it was all wrong.
“I think . . . I think they’re embarrassed of me, Kennedy.”
Anger sparked inside her, quick and hot. “Did they say that to you?”
Brent shook his head. “No, just a feeling, you know?”
The anger fizzled, but only a little. “Your parents love you, Brent.”
He nodded. “I know. But you can love something and still be ashamed of it, can’t you?”
And that was true. She couldn’t lie to him, because it was the story of her life. All she could do was let him know he wasn’t alone. “Then you should definitely come to the party. My mother’s ashamed of me all the time.”
The sadness in his eyes lightened, and he gave her a small smile. Then he put his hand over hers and squeezed.
****
The party was perfect—exactly as her mother planned. A full orchestra filled the night air with elegant music, pristine white tents covered tables with overflowing centerpieces, fine china and high backed chairs. White gloved waiters were everywhere, their trays laden with champagne flutes, caviar and oysters. There was a constant hum of conversation among the hundreds of guests—anyone who was anyone was in attendance. The flash of the photographers’ cameras burst like fireflies on a dark night. Recording these moments for posterity, making the guests feel like they were worthy of their very own paparazzi. And in the center of it all was Claire Randolph, her long blond hair shimmering, her pale yellow ball gown not fit for a princess—but for a queen.
Kennedy was bored out of her mind.
She sat at a table, alone, a small smile plastered in place, because, as her mother had warned her—unsmiling young ladies looked sullen. Sullen equaled pouty. And pouting was never allowed.
At eleven, she was the youngest here—the only girl still considered a child—because none of the other guests would entertain bringing children to such an affair. She was too young to drink, too full to eat more, too uninteresting to engage in conversation for long.
But as she gazed through her glasses at the crowd, she saw him—standing beside his parents, looking as handsome as a prince in a sharp tuxedo. Brent had come—he would save her from the boredom monster. Kennedy darted out of her chair and walked straight to him.
“Hello, Kennedy.” His father greeted in his familiar rough, deep voice.
“Hello, Mr. Mason.”
Brent’s mother, always soft and sweet, smiled genuinely and Kennedy smiled back. Then her eyes fixed on her friend. His hands were
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