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I spend as little time at home as possible. I study with Laurel, stay at her house most nights, and only go home to refill on clothes or money or if I need something signed for school. My drama friends haven’t ditched me (most pity me), so I hang with them too. When I do go home, I try to leave for the bus as early as possible.

Sunday night, two weeks after the play, Dad picks me up at Laurel’s. I hear him in the kitchen, talking.

“So have you adopted my daughter?”

“She and Laurel love spending time together,” Mrs. Mendez says. “It’s so nice that they’re friends. She said she asked you if she could stay over those days. Didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she texts me at nine at night and tells, not asks.”

“Is that true?” Mrs. Mendez notices I’ve entered the room.

“What’s the big deal?” I ask Dad. “Violet doesn’t want me around. I’m just granting her wish.”

“That’s not true,” Dad says.

“It isn’t? So if Violet had a choice between living with both of us or just you, she’d choose both?”

Mrs. Mendez takes the pot she’s stirring off the stove then starts for the door. I don’t blame her. “I’ll just let you two talk.”

“We’re leaving. Thanks for having her.” Dad takes my overnight bag from me. “Violet loves you.”

“Yeah, I can see the adoration in her eyes. She practically busted a gut from pride when I got the lead in the play. She wasn’t crazy-jealous at all.”

“We’ll discuss this in the car.” He opens the door and waits for me to go out.

In the car, he puts on his serious Dad voice and matching expression that he must copy from reruns of
Full House
. “Celine, Violet is a successful lawyer. An adult. Why would she be jealous of a teenage girl?”

“You’d have to ask her that. I just know she is.”

“Violet tries. She just doesn’t know about kids. That’s why we didn’t have any.”

She has him so brainwashed. I wonder if
that’s
witchcraft. “Give me a break. I’m not some baby crying. She was fine when I was a kid. It’s now, now that I’m old enough to be a threat.”

“Why would you be—?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the stuff that’s happening.”

He stares at the road, taking the Dad-eyes off me. “What stuff?”

Well, first off, my mother being killed by a freaking MONKEY.

“You ignore it,” I say. “You ignore it all. You’re so hot for her you don’t see what she is.”

“And what’s that?”

“A witch.”

Stunned silence. All I can hear is the car’s air-conditioning, blowing too cold on my leg.

Then, Dad laughs. “Good one, Celine. I thought you were going to at least tell me she was a criminal, something that could be real.”

“
This
is real. You know it. She reanimated a bird when you were kids. Then, she made that dog attack my mother in high school. Then, she made a monkey kill her. You were there when all those things happened. You saw it!”

“You’re insane.” My father is practically shaking. “You need help. I should—”

I stop talking. Violet would be completely happy to have him put me in some facility for troubled teens. I may be troubled, but I’m not crazy. I’ve just finally—finally—realized the truth.

But Dad’s never going to see it. He’ll never believe she’s a witch even with all the evidence. No one would, I guess. But he’s not even going to admit she hates me, that she hurts me on purpose.

The other, harder, truth is that my father loves Violet more than he loves me.

“Fine,” I say, “maybe it’s my imagination. But I’m not imagining that she doesn’t like me. You know she doesn’t want me around, even if you won’t say it. So why can’t I just stay at Laurel’s?”

“You can go there after school sometimes, but you can’t live there. You’re my daughter.”

We’re pulling into our driveway now. I say, “Fine,” knowing I’m going to do whatever I want. I jump from the car as soon as it stops moving.

“Violet has a good heart,” he calls after me.

I don’t answer. Anything I say would be worse than saying nothing.

I don’t speak to Dad for the next few days. It’s not obvious
because I just go to school early and come home late. I sleep at home and avoid the cats like they’re murderers—which they may be.

Friday, I’m standing, waiting for the bus with Laurel, when Goose comes running up to me. “There’s been an accident! It’s your dad.”

“What? What kind of accident?” I flash back to the day with my mom, and it feels like a fist squeezing my heart. Would Violet hurt Dad?

“A woman came up to me and told me to get you. Your father’s been in a car accident. He was airlifted to Jackson. That’s all she said. I can take you there.”

“Who? What woman? Did she have red hair?”

“No. She looked a little familiar, but I’m not sure from where. Come on.”

I follow him and Willow in silence. What is this? Why would Violet hurt Dad? And who was the woman Goose talked to?

Please let Dad be okay.

We pull up in front of the emergency room. Now that we’re here, it seems so much more real. Airlifted to Jackson. What if he’s really hurt or . . . worse? “I don’t know what to do,” I tell Goose.

“I’ll go in with you. Let me figure out where to park.”

Then, I see Violet running toward me.

“That’s my stepmother,” I say to Goose. I start out of the car.

“I can still come with you. Just follow her, and I’ll catch up.”

I really want Goose to stay. Really. But I know he probably wants to leave. And I’m sure Willow does. It would be too weird to have them stay at the hospital.

“It’s okay. Thank you. I’ll go with Violet.”

“All right. Let me know what’s happening. Text me, day or night.”

“Okay.” I run after Violet.

Violet’s hair is half up, half down. She’s taken off her five-inch heels to go faster and holds her shoes in her hand. When I catch up to her, I can see that her face is tearstained. It’s the one time I’ve seen her not perfect. She runs to the front desk. “I’m looking for my husband, Gregory Columbo. He was airlifted here. He was in a car accident.” A huge sob rips from her throat.

“You’re Mrs. Columbo?” a nurse asks.

“Yes.” Violet’s still sobbing. “Where is he? You have to take me to Greg!”

“Just wait a moment. I’ll get the doctor.”

“Please! You have to take me—” But the nurse walks away.

Violet follows her. “Maybe you shouldn’t follow her in there,” I say.

She looks at me like she’s just realizing I’m there. “I have to. Time is ticking.” I can hear her breath, shallow, like a panting dog’s, and that’s how I know she suspects what I do: He’s dead. My father is dead. I go to put my arm around her, but she shoves me aside and runs after the disappearing nurse, through the emergency room doors. “Greg! I have to see him! Greg!”

She’s intercepted by a female doctor in a white coat. “May I help you? You shouldn’t be back here.”

“It’s my husband, Gregory Columbo. He was brought here. I need to see him.”

“Yes, I was on my way out to you. I’m Dr. Martinez.” The doctor is about Violet’s age, short with blond hair in a messy bun. She looks like a mom, and her voice is soft. “I’m so sorry, We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it.”

“Noooooo!” It’s a shriek. I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I wish Goose had stayed. I wish Goose had stayed. But Violet’s reaction is much, much more. The sound is inhuman. “I have to see him! You have to take me to him!”

The doctor tries to get in front of Violet, who shoves against her.
“He was badly injured. It may be upsetting. In a little while, you can identify the remains.” She places her hand on Violet’s shoulder.

“No! Not a little while!” Violet’s voice fills the room, and the doctor jolts back as if shocked. “You have to take me to him now! Right! Now!”

I hear glass shatter. The window on one of the doors has broken, but no one touched it.

“Very well. Just calm down,” the doctor says. “You might want to have the girl stay here. She shouldn’t see him like this.”

“She can stay.” Violet wipes the tears from her face, but they just keep coming. “I have to see Greg! Greg!” It comes out a wail.

“Follow me.” I notice the doctor keeps her distance from Violet.

Violet follows, still breathing like a mastiff, practically running and almost overtaking the doctor. Despite the doctor’s instructions, I follow, but when I get to the door she holds open, I stop.

My father—his body—lies motionless on a bed, a sheet covering most of him. Still, I can see that his head is bashed and bleeding. His face is almost unrecognizable. I stop. He isn’t my father anymore. The doctor is right. I don’t want to see him like that. But Violet elbows past me into the room.

“Greg!” She throws herself onto his body, embracing him, like she’s trying to touch as much of him as possible, give her life to his, and she begins to make weird noises. It sounds like she’s praying or speaking in tongues, but not exactly. Not exactly words, either. She isn’t crying anymore, but her voice rises to a wail in the quiet room, and her whole body vibrates.

I remember what Laurel’s mom said about the bird that was dead, then wasn’t. Is Violet trying to bring my father back? Can she?

I would be willing to deal with everything about Violet if she could do that, anything to have him back, even for a minute, anything to make things right.

The doctor comes up behind me. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have
let her . . . I’ll get a nurse for your mother, with a sedative.”

I nod, biting the back of my lips, then get out, “My stepmother. She adored him.” I know it’s true. If I ever doubted Violet’s love, seeing her writhing, covered in my father’s blood, changes that. Violet is insane with grief. I feel my own, like a weight on my chest. I have no one I can turn to. I have no one but Violet.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor says.

Violet’s on the floor now, still wailing. But now, I understand words. “Greg! Come back to me! I can’t lose you so soon! I can’t . . . I can’t! I caaaaant!”

I run to her, trying to avoid looking at Dad’s body.

“Violet, let’s get out of here. Looking at him can’t help.”

“He can’t be gone!” she screams. “What good is it to be able to fix birds and cats when the only one I want is dead on a table?”

Birds and cats.
But I lead her out into the hallway. I try to embrace her, but she falls to her knees. She throws her head back and shrieks so loudly that the floor seems to shake like the ground is opening. The doors rattle, and again, a glass window breaks. Then another. And another. How is this happening? Is her grief so huge that she could make this happen? Is there a tornado outside? Did Violet cause it? Is she really a witch?

I know the answer. If I didn’t before, I know it now.

“Violet, stop!” I yell. “You can’t do this. It won’t—”

“Violet!” A woman is walking toward us. She’s about Violet’s age, with a beautiful face and dark hair streaming down her back. The woman from Target. Kendra.

Goose said the woman who spoke to him looked familiar. It was her.

She wears a black dress that looks like it’s from another era. An orderly tries to stop her, but she stares at him, and he backs off. “Violet, I’m here.”

“Kendra.” Violet collapses in a ball onto the floor. “How did you know I was here?”

The woman, Kendra, kneels by her, embracing her. “I knew, my darling. I am always there for you, Violet. It’s all right, my sweet.”

“No!” she sobs. “No! He was my life! Now, he’s gone. He’s dead, and it’s all for nothing. Nothing! It’s all worthless.
I’m
worthless without Greg!”

The orderly who tried to stop Kendra is with Dad now, covering his body, covering his face so I don’t have to see it again.

“This is a punishment!” Violet wails, “a punishment for what I’ve done, for what I am!”

“There, there, Violet.” Kendra rocks her, like a mother with a small child. “There, there.”

Between sobs, Violet says, “But Greg was the only one who ever loved me!”

“No, dear,” Kendra says. “I love you. I love you, and I will be with you forever. Forever and ever and ever when everyone alive today is gone. I love you.” She holds Violet for a long time, letting Violet’s sobs shake them both.

Finally, she looks up at me. I know I’m staring, and I feel that my mouth is open. I shut it.

“You’re Celine. We’ve met before,” she says. When I nod, she adds, “Poor child, both parents gone. You and Violet are all each other has.”

Horrible thought. My throat feels full at that thought, like I might never swallow again, like I might choke and die and be with my parents sooner, and be happy. But I nod. I breathe through my nose until I can speak. “But who are you?”

“I’m Kendra,” she says. “I am Violet’s sister.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Kendra, at least, turns out to be normal, though I’m still not sure about the sister thing. Wouldn’t we have known if Violet had a sister? She talks to the hospital and police about my father’s body. Together, she and I visit the funeral home and make the plans. Violet stays in bed the whole time.

“Celine?” Kendra taps my leg. I look up from my phone. I’d been thinking about sending a text to Dad. It seems like I should be able to. After all, it’s only been a day. How can everything change in a day?

“I’m sorry, dear,” Kendra’s saying, “do you prefer dark wood like mahogany or cherry? Or we could get something light like poplar.”

“What?” I put in Dad’s name, text
I love you.

“For the casket. I’m so sorry.”

“They’re all nice,” I whisper. Now that I’ve sent the text, I can see the whole line of others, all from me, unanswered, saying I’m sleeping at Laurel’s. I slip the phone back in my purse and jab my finger at a reddish-brown one. “That one.”

Kendra nods. She plans everything and doesn’t ask me anything else.

The next day, the day before the funeral, I go to school. It seems better than staying home with Violet, better than thinking about Dad being gone.

But as soon as I get off the bus, I realize it’s a huge mistake. I stand there, not sure what to do, staring down at the sidewalk where the class of 2014 has painted lots of happy, green cougar paw prints, walking toward the school. All I can see are everyone’s feet, yellow Converse, blue Converse, plaid Converse, flowered fake combat boots, white Vans, all walking with and against the paw prints, turning into an impressionistic painting as my eyes fill with tears.

“Hey, hey, why are you here? You shouldn’t be here.”

I’m still looking down, but I can see the top of Goose’s head, one dark curl going into another. He looks at me, his eyes meeting mine.

“I just figured that out,” I say, and then, I start to sob.

Goose begins to reach up to put his arm around me, then stops and tugs my hand instead. “Come on,” he whispers.

“Come on where?”

“Shh. Quick. Get in my car. It’s still early.”

“What about you?”

“Shh. Be quiet. Have to be casual in case someone sees us. School doesn’t start for twenty minutes.” He tugs on my hand.

“Won’t Willow wonder where you are?”

He looks away. “We broke up. I don’t want to discuss it. Or anything. Be quiet.”

He pulls me along, through the Converses, Vans, Keds, and I
follow. I don’t want him to take me home.

“Don’t worry. I won’t take you home,” Goose whispers, reading my thoughts. Then, real loud, so everyone around can hear. “We’ll just go get that paper you forgot, then come back.” He tugs my arm. He is brilliant at navigating through the legs of taller kids, and he just pulls me along.

I’ve stopped crying, at least. “Okay, let’s hurry then.”

Finally, we reach his car. The parking lot isn’t crowded yet. The bus always gets there so early. I think I hold my breath the whole time we’re buckling our seat belts and pulling out against traffic, but in a minute, we’re free. Goose drives a block, then another, not looking at me. When we reach the park, he pulls into the parking lot.

“Are you okay?” he says.

When I collapse in tears against his shoulder, he says, “Okay, dumb question. Dumb question. Aw, Celine.” He puts his arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”

“I have nobody,” I say. “There’s nobody left.”

“There’s nothing I can say. I wish I could make it better, but . . . I’m going to shut up, like I never do.” He holds me harder. His arms are surprisingly strong, and I sink against him and sob. My head, my neck, my jaw hurt. Everything aches with the emptiness that comes from wanting to talk to Dad and realizing I never will, never again. Goose just holds me.

Finally, when it’s almost eight, I say, “I don’t want to go home. I came to school because it feels so empty there.”

“I understand. We can go to my house and watch TV or something. My mom’s home. I mean, I’m not trying to lure you there for immoral purposes.” He’s trying to make me laugh.

“Your mom’s home? Won’t you get in trouble?”

“She works from home. She’s an artist. And nah, she’ll write me a note. She knows people need personal days sometimes. I needed a
ton of them in seventh grade, when I took PE.”

“That must’ve been tough.”

“I’m not into sports . . . especially when people try to use me as the ball.”

I finally laugh. “You’re the best.”

“I know. I’m awesome. We covered that. Come on. I hate missing Hoda and Kathie Lee. I hear they’re doing makeovers.”

I really don’t want to go to school or anywhere else. “Okay. I love a good makeover.”

“Girl, there is nothing to make over about you.” He turns the key in the ignition.

“Yeah, just my life,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”

We pull out of the parking lot, driving right past a police car. Goose nods at the guy. “Seriously, if you ever need a place to go, you can stay with us.”

“Right.”

“No, really. My mom is big on taking in strays. Stray dogs, feral cats, foster kids. She has a kind heart. She probably wouldn’t even notice you’re there.”

“Great. I’m a stray.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant you’re a friend, and if you were in trouble, we’d help you.”

“Okay.”

He stops the car again. “Look at me.”

Since there’s not much choice, I do. The sun streams through the windows, and I blink at him.

He says, “I’d do anything for you.”

I’m stunned for a second. It’s a strange thing to say. Then, I recognize it. He’s quoting the song “I’d Do Anything” from
Oliver!
I laugh. “Anything?” I parrot the song.

“Anything.” He says it seriously, not a joke.

“Okay. Thanks. Can we go now, before we get picked up for truancy?”

He nods. “Anything.” He starts the car again.

We pull up to a big yellow house with marigolds planted in the front flower boxes. “After you, milady,” Goose says in a Cockney accent. A spotted cat jumps out of our way as we approach a black door that’s a little wider than usual. “The woman who owned the house before us was in a wheelchair, so they had lower counters and stuff,” Goose explains. “That’s why the door’s so wide, which we didn’t need, but the other stuff was perfect for us.”

I notice the cat doesn’t try to murder me. I like that in a cat.

He walks in and calls, “Mom!”

The house smells of coffee, a homey smell. A blond woman, shorter than Goose and wearing light blue sweatpants, comes out of the kitchen. She’s carrying an African American baby in one arm and a bottle in the other hand. “School’s out a little early, isn’t it?” She sees me. “Oh, I didn’t know we had company.”

“Celine, this is my mom, Stacey. Mom, this is Celine. She’s having a rough day.”

“Aren’t we all?” She looks at Goose. “Don’t you have a test in history today? You can’t just blow off school for no reason.” She has a southern accent. Over her head, I can see three kids, two boys and a girl, eating cereal at the island in their downsized kitchen. An orange cat is walking around. It rubs against my legs, but it doesn’t try to attack me or anything.

“It’s more than a normal bad day, Mom,” Goose says. “Celine’s father died Friday.”

“Oh my God.” Stacey rearranges the baby in her arms so she can give him the bottle. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. You didn’t want to stay home with your mother?”

My throat feels tight. “I don’t have one of those either. She died when I was eight. I just have my stepmother now, and she’s flipping out. I had to get out of there, but then, I couldn’t handle school. Goose was really sweet and brought me here. I hope he’s not in trouble because he was just being nice.”

“Yes, my sweet boy. You poor thing.” The baby turns away from her, but she coaxes him to take the bottle. He sucks for about a second, then starts fussing again. “I have to get them ready for school, but you stay. Of course, stay as long as you want.” She adjusts the baby again.

“Thank you. Um, can I hold him for you?” I suddenly really want to be useful.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Well, that would be nice, thank you. Do you want to sit on the sofa and hold him?”

I can tell she’s worried I’ll drop him, so I sit down on the squashy white sofa. She settles him into my lap. “His name is Jeron. After he drinks the bottle, you rub his back until he burps.”

“Okay.” The baby feels warm and a little sweaty, but when he is in my arms, he starts to suck on his bottle contentedly. “Good boy, Jeron.”

“He likes you.” Stacey disappears into the kitchen, where I hear her telling the kids to hurry. Goose sits next to me and starts flipping through the channels, which are mostly morning news shows and cartoons. He settles on
SpongeBob
for a minute, then changes his mind. Stacey walks through the room with the three kids behind her, wearing blue and white school uniforms. The two boys look about the same age, maybe eight, and they’re dwarves or little people (I don’t know which is the right term, and I’m afraid to ask). One has dark hair and looks a lot like Goose. The other has red hair and freckles.
The little blond girl is about five, an average-sized five-year-old.

“Are they all your brothers and sisters?” I ask.

“They’re all my brothers and sisters,” Goose says. “But if you mean did my parents have all of them, no. Tyler, the one with red hair, is adopted. His parents abandoned him. He’s the same age as Tony, my other brother. Department of Children and Families contacted my mother because he was a person of short stature, and they thought she’d deal with him better than his parents had. She was fostering before that.”

I file away
person of short stature
in my mental bank. I wonder if Tyler’s parents ditched him because he was one. It seems impossible, but clearly, some parents suck.

“And Jeron is a foster kid, but we might get him too. We’ve had other babies that got sent back to their parents. My mom really likes babies. She had one that died, right after my sister, Isabella, was born. There’s this genetic thing. So that was sort of the end with her, and she started fostering instead.”

“So there are seven of you here?” I say. “Must get crazy in the morning.”

He shrugs. “I’m usually out of here before they wake up.” He flips through the channels some more and settles on a movie. “Oh, man, I love this movie. I love this! Have you ever seen it?”

“What is it?” Onscreen, a red-haired girl in crazy clothes and a hat is talking to a guy in even weirder clothes. All the extras look like corporate lawyers. Like, they’re high school students who don’t own jeans.

“
Pretty in Pink.
It’s a John Hughes movie. He was, like, the god of teen flicks in the 1980s.”

“Yeah, my dad made me watch
Breakfast Club
together last year. That was him, right? I loved it.” My stomach drops at the realization that, now, I will never watch another movie with Dad. I feel my eyes
starting to fill, but I inhale and try not to cry.

“
Breakfast Club
’s great too.”

“Let’s watch this,” I say. “Did it just start?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty close to the beginning. It’s about this girl, Andie, from the wrong side of the tracks, and she likes this rich guy, Blane.”

So I get totally engrossed in the story of red-haired, offbeat-dressing Andie and her best friend, Duckie, a short, weird guy who has a crush on her. People at school make fun of them because they’re poor and also sort of weird. By the time Stacey comes back with the kids trailing behind her, Jeron is asleep in my arms.

“Oh, my gosh,” Stacey whispers. “You got him to sleep? That kid never sleeps.”

“I forgot to burp him,” I whisper back.

Stacey says, “Hey, if he went to sleep, that’s better. Do you want to try to put him in his crib?” She says it like she doesn’t think it’s a great idea.

“Nah, he might wake up. I can keep holding him if you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’re watching
Pretty in Pink,
Mom.” Goose has paused the TV.

“That’s a great movie. Good music.”

“If you like music from the eighties,” Goose teases.

“Hey,
I’m
from the eighties,” Stacey says.

The little girl is starting to sit down with us, but Stacey gestures to her to come on. “We’ll be late, Isabella.” To me, she says, “I’ll take Jeron off your hands when I come back.”

“It’s no problem. It’s sort of . . . life affirming.” The same cat from before rubs against my legs again. I sort of jump. “Sorry, cats hate me.”

“Oh, these cats are harmless.” Stacey takes Isabella and Tyler by the hands and says, “Come on” to the other boy. He follows her out.

“She seems like a really great mom,” I say. “You’re lucky.”

“Guess I am.” Goose unpauses the movie. “This is my favorite part.” Onscreen, Andie’s friend, Duckie, is wearing a yellow jacket and doing a crazy dance to an old song, “Try a Little Tenderness,” trying to impress her and obviously failing miserably. I giggle.

“That’s love,” Goose says, “when you’re willing to make a total ass of yourself for a girl.”

“Have you ever done that?”

“Not so far. Not on purpose anyway. But . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing. I talk too much. Shh. Let’s watch this.”

I wonder what he means. Stacey doesn’t come back for a while, and in the movie, Andie accepts a date with Blane, breaking Duckie’s heart. Then, Blane breaks her heart by asking her to the prom, then canceling because his rich friends don’t approve. My arm is starting to ache, and I ease Jeron onto the sofa, planting myself on the floor so I can keep him from sliding off.

“I don’t see what Andie likes about Blane so much,” I say to Goose. “He’s got no spine. He doesn’t want to admit to his friends that he likes her.”

“I guess he’s supposed to be hot,” Goose says.

“He’s not that hot. And hotness only goes so far.” After seeing my dad spend seven years with beautiful but crazy, I know that for a fact. “After you’ve known someone a while, you stop looking, I think. Character is more important.”