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That night, when I go to sleep, I dream of the orchard again. But this time, when I reach for the fruit, I fall from my father’s shoulders to the ground, into a pile of apples, some ripe, some rotten. Down, down, I sink deep into them, and they multiply like cancer cells, massing around me, eating me alive. I look up, searching for my father’s hand, but he is doing nothing to save me.

I wake, sweating, sobbing. I reach out, searching for the nightstand, the clock. There is only air. Gradually, I remember where I am. Goose’s house. Safe. For now. Objects take shape in the darkness. The buzzing of a thousand bees becomes a ceiling fan. A monster in the corner becomes Isabella’s giant stuffed bear, the kind people win at the fair. I try to sleep, but now, I am awake. I can’t listen to music because I left my phone with Kendra. I don’t want to disturb the family, especially Isabella, but the more I lie here, the more terrified
I become, thinking of Violet coming for me. Not only for me, but for Goose and his parents, his siblings, even little Jeron. I’m putting them all in danger. They are all at risk for me, and there’s no end in sight. Kendra has no plan. Maybe I should run. Or just give myself up to Violet.

In the darkness, I climb down the ladder. My backpack is still there, packed. I take out jeans and a T-shirt, put them on. Isabella stirs in her sleep. I stand still until she settles back in. I pick up the backpack and my shoes.

In the family room, I sit on the sofa to put on my sneakers. I leave the lights off. I don’t know where I’m going. I have my birthday money, over a hundred dollars. Maybe I could take a bus somewhere, somewhere far from Violet, then look for a shelter. I start to tie my shoelaces.

The lights go on, blinding me. I blink then look toward the door. It’s Mr. Guzman.

“Night owl, huh?” he says.

“I had a nightmare. Then, I couldn’t sleep, and I feel . . .” I stop.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just insomnia.” I know if I tell him I feel guilty about being here, he’ll just try to reassure me, tell me how much they want me here. I am already taking enough from these kind people, who are risking so much for me. I don’t need to burden them with my guilt too.

He says, “Are you okay? What was the dream about?”

I notice he’s dressed for the office already, carrying a briefcase. I remember what Goose said about how hard he works.

“I don’t want to make you late,” I say.

“I’m not late, I’m early. I like to read the paper when it’s quiet. You’re . . .” He hesitates, looking me up and down. “You sleep with your jeans on?”

I nod.

“Shoes too?”

“I was just putting them on.”

“I can see that. My question is why? I know you can’t be thinking of taking a walk.”

“I was thinking about leaving.” It just pops out.

He doesn’t reply, only nods. I add, “I guess I just . . . I feel bad, making you hide me.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t make us do anything. We volunteered.”

“I know, but—”

“But nothing. We’re responsible for you. You think if you left, we’d just forget about you, like a cat that shows up on our doorstep for a while, then leaves?”

“I guess not.” I really thought he didn’t want me to stay. I know Goose and Stacey pressured him to keep me.

“My wife and son didn’t talk me into anything,” he says, reading my thoughts. “I’ll admit I was . . . hesitant to take you in, but now that we committed, we’re in this. If you left, we’d have to look for you. We couldn’t just leave you out there on your own, in danger. The police would be involved. Do you want that?”

I shake my head.

“Me neither. So why don’t you go back to bed for a while? It’s not even six.”

“Maybe I will.” I stand and start to go.

When I reach the doorway, he says, “Celine?”

I turn back.

“I have a big trial today. I’ve been preparing for months, and my client stands to lose big if I do a bad job.” He pauses, staring at my feet, still in sneakers. “I don’t have to worry about whether you’re going to run away, do I?”

“No, sir. You don’t need to worry. Thank you.”

I go back to bed until Isabella wakes me, wanting to know if I can braid her hair. Goose has already left for school.

I practice the piano all day, except when Jeron is asleep. That’s when I make oatmeal cookies from the recipe on the box of oatmeal. I learn Tony’s whole piano book. That day, after school, Goose brings me an
Adult All-in-One Piano Course
book and a book of Jonah Prince’s greatest hits. “I stopped at the music store in Suniland. So you have something to write ‘I heart Jonah’ in,” he says.

I’d wondered where he went. I flip through the pages. It has “Beautiful but Deadly,” my favorite song, and all these pictures of Jonah.

“I heart your family,” I say.

“You should’ve known we’d be awesome, having met me.”

“I did. I just didn’t know
how
awesome. You’re so lucky.”

“We don’t want anything to happen to you,” he adds.

I wonder if Goose’s dad told him about my escape attempt. I hope not. I don’t want him to know. And I don’t want anything to happen to them either.

Later, in my room, I cut one of Jonah’s pictures out very carefully, with scissors, and tape it up next to my bed. A souvenir of the life I used to have, when I cared about things like rock stars.

That night, I don’t have any nightmares. Instead, I dream I’m with Jonah. It’s the same kind of weird dream I used to have, where he rescues me. This time, I’m a princess, like Sleeping Beauty, comatose in my golden bed. Jonah comes through the window and kisses me. I wake and gaze into his eyes. A handsome prince! He rescues me, taking me into his strong arms. We’re in love, will be in love forever.

Of course, I know it’s not real. Still, I wonder if the dream means I’m safe.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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When you’re little, you think it would be cool not to have school, to just sit home and watch TV all day, every day. When my mom was alive, and sometimes even in the early Violet years, I used to love staying home, eating soup, and watching
Fairly OddParents.

Let me tell you: It gets old real fast. There’s a definite limit to how many game shows, courtroom dramas, and soap operas a person can watch—especially if that person isn’t eighty years old. When you find yourself
really
rooting for the uniformed soldier to win the hot tub in the showcase, it is time to turn off the TV.

I do. I study for classes I’m not taking at school. I’m way ahead in Spanish. I research different ways to French braid Isabella’s hair. I practice on her dolls. I bet she has the best hair at school. I listen to the Jonah Prince CD I made, and Goose loans me an old iPod he has.
I make cookies almost every day, which makes me Tony and Tyler’s favorite person. I also get good at the piano real fast. By the end of the first week, I can play Bach’s Minuet in G by heart
.
But, when I tell Goose I want to learn
Für Elise
, he says I need to learn to play scales first.

“Okay, that should take a day,” I say, feeling jazzed.

“You need to play them well,” he says, “two octaves, twelve different scales, and that’s just the major ones.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Teach me.”

“You’re welcome.” He sits beside me on the piano bench. He’s wearing some cologne that smells citrusy. Then, he starts in on C, showing me how to sneak my thumb under the first two fingers to reach the F. His hands are small, but he makes up for it with speed and skill, then he tells me to try. I do.

“Arch your hand more.” He reaches for it, lifting my palm.

“Next, you’re going to hit my knuckles with a ruler.” I stare at my fingers, remembering the one Kendra held in her hand.

“Only if you don’t practice the right way. Again.”

“Such a power trip,” I say. “You’ve just been waiting for someone to boss around.”

“Nah, I’ve had siblings for years.”

I’ve noticed that, since I’ve been here, Goose comes right home after school. I know he didn’t before. He hung out with friends, went to their houses, played pranks at Target. Even Stacey commented on how much he’s around. Thank God for Goose. I’d explode from loneliness if he didn’t spend the hours after school with me. I don’t care if I have to help him with his homework. I’d
do
his homework for him if he wanted. He is my best, my only friend now.

Today, I ask what I’ve been wondering about for weeks. “So . . . why’d you and Willow break up?”

“The F major is a little different than the first few,” he says. “You
use the first four fingers, then roll the thumb onto the C.”

“Goose?” I say.

“I’m ignoring you,” he singsongs.

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“It was mutual,” he says. “Now, you try.”

I start the scale, but I don’t remember where I’m supposed to use my pinky. So I stop.

“So, okay, mutual’s good,” I say.

“Yeah, we
mutually
decided that since she’s a senior and I’m only a junior, and we’re not in love or anything, she should date someone who’d look better in her prom pictures.”

He plays the scale for me again, so I can see where my fingers go. “You actually don’t use your pinky at all,” he says.

“You’re kidding,” I say. “I mean about Willow, not the pinky. She said that to you?”

“Not in those words.” He points to my fingers, and I try again. I get it sort of right.

“What words, then?” I cross my arms in front of my chest. I’m done playing until he talks.

“Well, for context, you have to know that when I took her to homecoming, her mom made me stand on a step stool for photos. And I was still a head shorter than her.”

“That’s because she’s super-tall.” When he gives me a look, I say, “Well, partly.”

“Oh, completely. It was definitely her freakish
tallness
that was the issue.” He stands up. Have I overstepped? But he says, “So then, when I asked her about prom, she said she thought maybe she should go with someone else. Not anyone in particular, just ‘someone else,’ like anyone but me. Then, she said—actual words here—she didn’t want me to have to find a tux because she knew it was hard for me to rent in my size.”

“Seriously?” I say. “Well, it’s her loss.”

He shrugs like he did before, but doesn’t sit down. “I wasn’t in love with her. She wasn’t ‘the one.’ It just sucks to get dumped.”

I nod. “She sucks. You’ll meet someone better.”

He sits back down. “I guess.” He gestures at me to try again.

I do. This time, I get it perfect, but he yells at me to arch my hand. “You’re hitting extra notes with your palm.”

“Okay, okay.” I start again, arching my hand sarcastically high. Goose seems to think it’s perfect.

“Good. Again,” he says. When I start to play, he says, “Sometimes, I get tired of always being the court jester.”

I’m not sure I heard him right, over the music. I stop playing. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I think it was something.” I cross my arms again.

He gestures for me to play again, but I don’t, waiting for him to elaborate. He says, “People only like me because I’m funny.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. Like, last year, in English class, we had to write a poem and read it aloud. I don’t know if you know this about me, but I write poetry.”

“How would I know that?” I start to play the scale again but also, sneak glances at him out of the corner of my eye. He has strangely long eyelashes, and, in the lamplight, they make a shadow on his face like a moth flying.

“I guess you wouldn’t,” he says. “But I do. This should have been an easy assignment. But I knew that, if I read some teen angst poem, or even something about a tree, people would’ve busted a gut laughing. It would have challenged their image of me in a way they wouldn’t want it challenged. So I wrote a limerick and got a C. But at least when they laughed, they weren’t laughing at me.”

“Are limericks that easy to write?” I finish the scale. “I thought they were hard.”

“They’re easy if you write about a girl from Nantucket,” he says.

“I’m surprised you even got a C.” I laugh, but then say, “Okay, so here’s what I think about that. First off, you’re too hard on yourself. People love you. You’re super-popular. You could be class president if you wanted.”

“Yeah, right. If they love me, they love me because I’m funny.”

I shake my head and go on. “They like you because you’re
fun.
You’re the most fun person I know
,
which is different than just being funny. Secondly, you don’t know if they’d have laughed because you didn’t give them a chance. You were the one who didn’t want to challenge their image of you. You chickened out.”

“I know what would’ve happened.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But third, you’re probably right. You probably do have to change who you are some to be popular. Everyone does. When I was in middle school, Whitney and the mean girls wanted me to be in their clan. But they only liked me because of my looks, and I didn’t want to be a mean girl. So I decided just to stop trying, not have a group. That’s why I’m not popular.”

He thinks about it, then says, “Okay. But I wasn’t
normal
not popular before I changed. You could be popular if you wanted. Your looks are enough. My looks are another story.”

I nod, acknowledging that’s probably true. I know what it’s like to look different, but I can’t pretend that being beautiful is the same—at least outside of Violet’s house.

I say, “Tell me about it.” Because I know he wants to, even if he won’t admit it.

“I’d rather teach you the G major scale,” he says.

“Let me guess. One sharp, so it goes like this.” I play exactly the same fingering as C major, but starting on G with the F a half step higher.

“That was right,” he says, looking sort of stunned.

“I’m gifted,” I tease. Actually, the G major scale was in my piano book, right before Minuet in G, and I worked on it. “Now, tell me your sad, sad story, and I’ll tell you mine. Bet I win.”

He laughs. “Challenge accepted. Okay. So, when I was a kid, I had no friends. Zero. I was smaller than everyone, and no one wants to hang out with the weird-looking kid. Occasionally, people would be
nice
to me, like take obvious pains to include me, to show they weren’t assholes. Or because their parents told them to. But I was never the kid who just got invited to hang out after school.”

“That sucks,” I say.

“It did. And there’s more. Once, when I was nine, this kid, Coleman, invited me to his birthday party. I was excited because, usually, I didn’t get asked. People would hand out invitations at school, and every boy would get one except me and this kid, Ricky, who picked his nose until it bled. But Coleman invited me. So I showed Stacey the invitation, and the next day, I told him I could go.”

“Okay.” I finger the G major scale again, to distract him from the fact that he’s actually expressing an emotion for once, instead of being a total
guy
like he usually is. “So then what?”

“He said, ‘Oh, I only invited you because my mom said I had to ask all the boys.’ I felt like someone kicked me in the stomach.”

“Ouch,” I say, wanting to reach back through time and hold that little nine-year-old boy’s hand. But I play the scale again. I hate Coleman. I don’t even know him, but I hate him.

“Yeah. Anyway, I wasn’t really invited, so I didn’t want to go. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But I’d already told my mom about it, and I didn’t want to tell her why I’d been invited either. She was so happy. She bought this big gift, a Lego
Star Wars
starfighter set. So that Saturday, I faked a stomachache to get out of it. Stacey was so upset. She kept asking me
if I felt better, telling me it was okay if I went late. She was worried I wouldn’t get invited again if I blew it off. She was even a little mad at me. Finally, I told her the truth. Man, did that reek.”

“What happened?” Though I can imagine.

“She cried. She flat out bawled. She kept saying how cruel kids were, threatening to call Coleman’s mom and tell her. I begged her not to. It wouldn’t make things better. Finally, I told her to please stop talking about it. So then, she gave me Coleman’s gift. I spent that day, making a starfighter with my mommy because I had no one else to make it with.”

“Stacey’s the best, though.” His story is so sad I sort of want to cry myself, but I suppress it. “Do you want to show me A major?”

“Nah, that’s enough new stuff for one day. Work on those. Try with both hands.”

“Okay.” I start playing C major, but softly.

“Anyway,” he continues, “one day right after that, I told a joke in class, just by accident, said something funny. I don’t even remember what. I’d been funny to my family all along, but never in school. I was too shy. But everyone laughed. Actual positive attention from my peers. I liked it. So, I decided I was going to be funny all the time. That weekend, I went to the library and got all these joke books and books of insults, and when I got to school, I started telling them. The first kid who insulted me, I said, ‘You’re so dumb, you’re flunking recess.’”

I laugh. “That’s funny.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. If you’re nine, it’s hilarious. Everyone laughed and started making fun of him, instead of me. So the next time someone insulted me, I said, ‘Is that your nose, or did the
Millennium Falcon
park on your face?’ I thought of that one myself. I was a huge
Star Wars
freak, and this guy had an enormous nose, so it was perfect. It was easy to come up with jokes when I did it ahead
of time, not on the spot. And people laughed at that too. The next week, someone invited me over to his house for real, not just to be nice. It was the same guy I’d told the nose joke about. Turned out he liked
Star Wars
too. And he respected me now.”

“Or feared you,” I say.

“Nah, we were friends. We still are. It was Tristan Hernandez.”

I gape. That was the guy who played Bill Sikes. Tristan’s huge (as is his nose), and they’re best friends. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. So ever since then, I’ve spent every spare moment thinking of funny things to say, coming up with pranks and stuff. It’s hard work. But no one makes fun of me anymore. They want to be my friend. I’m cool. But they don’t know the real me.”

“Do I know the real you?” I hold my breath, awaiting his answer.

He shrugs. “This is him. You like him?”

“He’s a good piano teacher,” I say.

He smiles, showing a dimple on one cheek, but not the other. “Thanks.”

Silence. I want to say something else, tell him he’s
not
that ugly kid he obviously thinks he is, that he’s funny and charming, but he’s also handsome, especially when he smiles. Sure, the first thing I noticed about him was his size, but his beautiful, brown eyes were a close second. But that would be awkward, so instead, I just sit there with a dumb grin on my face, playing F major.

Then, we both speak at the same time.

“Is the real you
ever
funny?” I ask.

“It’s not that I’m never funny,” he says, then laughs when he realizes what I’ve said. “Of course I’m funny. I’m hysterical, obviously. Just not all the time. I have deep thoughts too.”

“Got it. Deep thoughts. I’d hate to think it was all a lie. Can I read your poetry sometime?”

He looks away. “I shouldn’t have told you about it.”

“Why can’t I?” I stop playing and make my lips an exaggerated pout.

“’Cause it’s embarrassing. What if you hate it? What if you think it’s stupid?”

“I wouldn’t. I’m your friend.”

“Right. Friends.” He nudges me over and starts playing “Clair de Lune,” a piece he says he plays to relax
.
He’s still not making eye contact. The music is soft and gentle, moonlight over a river. “Okay, how about this? Someday, I might leave a poem lying somewhere, where you can find it. Just don’t ever tell me you read it, okay?”