After the tragic death of her father, fifteen-year-old Kara Spencer feels lost. Unsure what her future holds, she obediently follows when her mother moves her and her younger sister to a new home in a new town. While exploring their new house, Kara and her sister find a magical secret that may prove deadly. With her sister’s life hanging in the balance, will Kara be strong enough to step into the unknown to protect her family?
Download the eBook FREE on Kindle this weekend (July 29-August 2)!
“We’re from different worlds,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t even know if it can work out, really.”
Theomund turned his spectacled gaze back to me. He looked mildly amused.
“If you were from the same world, you still could not know in advance that everything would be smooth and fine,” he said. “And if we knew such things in advance, we would miss much in the way of adventure.”
I snorted.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. I met his eyes and gave him a tentative smile. “Are you saying I should go for it?”
“I am saying that if you wait for certainty, you may spend your entire life waiting,” he said. “Do not let fear limit your paths, Kara, or you may one day find yourself looking back with regret at a labyrinth of untaken roads.”
Welcome to YA Scavenger Hunt! This bi-annual event was first organized by author Colleen Houck as a way to give readers a chance to gain access to exclusive bonus material from their favorite authors...and a chance to win some awesome prizes! At this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive content from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt. Add up the clues, and you can enter for our prize--one lucky winner will receive one signed book from each author on the hunt in my team! But play fast: this contest (and all the exclusive bonus material) will only be online for 72 hours!
Go to the YA Scavenger Huntpage to find out all about the hunt. There are SIX contests going on simultaneously, and you can enter one or all! I am a part of the INDIE TEAM--but there is also a red team, a gold team, an orange team, a red team, and a blue team for a chance to win a whole different set of signed books!
If you'd like to find out more about the hunt, see links to all the authors participating, and see the full list of prizes up for grabs, go to the YA Scavenger Hunt page.
SCAVENGER HUNT PUZZLE
Directions: Below, you'll notice that I've listed my favorite number. Collect the favorite numbers of all the authors on the indie team, and then add them up (don't worry, you can use a calculator!).
Entry Form: Once you've added up all the numbers, make sure you fill out the form here to officially qualify for the grand prize. Only entries that have the correct number will qualify.
Rules: Open internationally, anyone below the age of 18 should have a parent or guardian's permission to enter. To be eligible for the grand prize, you must submit the completed entry form by October 8th, at noon Pacific Time. Entries sent without the correct number or without contact information will not be considered.
SCAVENGER HUNT POST
Today, I am hosting Cydney Swanson on my website for the YA Scavenger Hunt!
Cidney Swanson is the award winning author of the bestselling Ripple Series and the Saving Mars Series. Saving Mars was named an SCBWI Spark Honor Book, 2013 and was also named to Kirkus Reviews' Best of 2012, starred. Cidney is easily distracted by shiny objects like Mars in the night sky. She lives in Eugene, Oregon, with her family and cats and entirely too much rain.
Find out more information by checking out the author website or find more about the author's book here!
Seventeen year old Martina, raised as part of Helmann's elite Angel Corps, wants nothing more than to rebuild the life she lost because of Helmann's lies. In a single afternoon, she discovers the truth about the woman who raised her and the childhood sweetheart she thought she'd never see again. Meanwhile, her Uncle Fritz Gottlieb has his eye on the Angel Corps, and he has no qualms sacrificing Martina's dreams to make his own come true.
EXCLUSIVE CONTENT
BONUS CONTENT FROM THE RIPPLE SERIES
by Cidney Swanson
Add to your Goodreads by clicking Here!
Anyone who’s enjoyed Cidney Swanson’s RIPPLE series will be quick to confirm there’s a whole lot of mouthwatering food consumed in each book. What could be better than getting the recipe for Bridget Li’s notoriously delicious chocolate chip cookies? As Gwyn Li says, the only thing hotter than a smokin’ hot boyfriend is a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookie.
As a special treat for YASH participants, Gwyn’s mom has agreed to share her top secret recipe. So, if you like cookies that are slightly crispy around the edges and hot and melty inside (sort of like a certain hero in books 3 and 4), you’ll want to drop everything and bake up a batch.
For best results, measure carefully. And as Gwyn would say: “No substitutions! Baking is chemistry, with fewer explosions.”
Bridget Li’s Best-Ever Chocolate Chip Cookies
Preheat oven to 350* F
2 ½ c flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
½ cup butter, softened at room temperature (do not melt)
½ cup shortening
¾ cup sugar
2/3 cup brown sugar, packed tight
1 T honey
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ tsp almond extract
2 eggs
1 ½ cups chocolate chips
In a small bowl, mix flour, soda, and salt. Set aside for later.
Using mixer, beat butter, shortening, both sugars, honey, vanilla, and almond extract until well creamed. Add one egg, mixing completely before you add the second egg, also mixing completely. Slowly, on low speed, add flour mixture. Stir in chocolate chips by hand.
Using a 3 Tablespoon size cookie scoop, measure golf-ball-sized scoops of dough onto cookie sheets, allowing room for spreading as they bake. (Do not flatten—they will flatten as they bake.) Bake for 10-12 minutes at 350*F until the tops are golden brown and the edges darker brown. Makes 2-3 dozen large cookies. Nom!
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And don't forget to enter the contest for a chance to win a ton of signed books by me, Cydney Swanson, and more! To enter, you need to know that my favorite number is 6. Add up all the favorite numbers of the authors on the indie team and you'll have all the secret code to enter for the grand prize!
CONTINUE THE HUNT
To keep going on your quest for the hunt, you need to check out the next author, Kelsey Ketch!
After about twenty minutes, Meghan’s name was called, and she and Mom went back to see the doctor. I waited in the lobby, fidgeting with the magazine and examining the other patients. All of their injuries seemed so normal. I found myself wishing that if Meghan had to be here, it could be for something as simple as a sunburn or sprain. Would the doctor even know what to do for Meghan’s impossible injury? I shook my head and switched back to the more plausible version of events. Maybe the mirror frame had been rusty and Meghan had tetanus? I had no idea what the symptoms of tetanus were, but I knew that you could get it from rusty metal.
It felt like years before Mom and Meghan reemerged, and my sister’s spirits seemed marginally improved by the pair of lollipops she held up in her unbandaged hand to show me. I grinned at the little goblin.
“I got you red!” she declared, thrusting one of the lollipops at me.
Mom smiled.
“Meghan insisted that the doctor give her one for you, too,” she said, giving me her patented now-say-thank-you look.
I smiled at my sister and took the lollipop from her.
“Thanks, Megs,” I said, ruffling her hair. I looked at my mom questioningly over the top of Meghan’s head.
“We’ll talk in the car,” she said, patting me on the shoulder and ushering us both out of the clinic.
On the way to the pharmacy, Mom told me what the doctor had said. The wound was some kind of insect sting and Meghan was having a reaction to the venom. He’d prescribed her some Benadryl and Tylenol and said to come back in two days if the wound wasn’t healing. We picked up the medications at the pharmacy, and then we went to the local exterminator and made an appointment for him to come out the following week.
Meghan slept whenever we were in the car and never even unwrapped her lollipop. I kept mine wrapped, too. I twirled it between my fingers and hoped that Meghan would feel better soon. When we got back to the house, Mom carried Meghan straight to bed. I spent the rest of the day unpacking my books and stuffed animals and then rearranging them over and over again. I unpacked some of Meghan’s stuff for her, too, even though I was sure she would rearrange it once she felt better. Meghan never woke up or noticed my presence in her room. She slept fitfully, frowning and squirming like she was having a bad dream.
That evening, Mom and I made a cold dinner of sandwiches. Mom took some broth to Meghan, who had to be coaxed to drink. After dinner, I claimed tiredness and excused myself early again. I repeated my routine from the previous night, getting ready for bed slowly before laying in my bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. I was worried about Meghan, but I didn’t know what I could possibly do. I checked on her once near midnight, and she seemed worse than before. She rolled her head and shifted her limbs as if she couldn’t get comfortable. Her face was puffy and red. I watched her helplessly for several minutes before wandering back to my own room. When I walked past the bathroom, I heard a thump from above. I held my breath and listened for a few minutes as the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I strained my ears and thought I heard another noise from the attic.
Without really thinking about what I was doing, I quietly slipped into my room and found my flashlight. My heart was pounding as I crept across the kitchen to the attic stairs. As I ascended, I stepped carefully on the outside edges of the stairs to avoid the squeaky middles. I almost cried out when my shins bumped something in the dark at the top of the stairs.
Boxes! They were our winter clothes, forgotten on the landing.
I took a couple calming breaths as I shimmied around the cardboard boxes. The attic door was closed, and I squeezed the handle slowly, trying to open it quietly. I pushed gently on the door, but it refused to move. I realized a second later that I had stopped breathing and forced myself to take another deep breath. I pressed my shoulder to the door and shoved. The door moved an inch as my bare feet slipped on the smooth wooden landing. I took another breath and pressed harder against the door, opening it a little further. As soon as I could, I set my flashlight down and put my hands between the door and the frame to pry them apart as I had the day before. The barricade was back. Something had been in the attic. Something might be in the attic right now. I focused my mind on silently making an opening I could fit through, refusing to chicken out.
When the gap was wide enough, I snatched up my flashlight and squeezed through the space. I pushed the door shut behind me before I switched on my flashlight. The sudden brightness in the small room blurred my vision, and I blinked a few times before swinging the beam over to the large mirror. When the light touched the mirror, the glass absorbed the light instead of reflecting it back. My stomach did a little flip and I stared dumbly at the mirror for a full minute before I wrenched my eyes away from it. I looked at the pile of things that had somehow moved back to block the door. I saw the heavy chest I’d been about to open before Meghan had pulled away my attention by falling through the glass. I shuddered.
There was enough room for me to get out of the attic, so I didn’t bother to drag anything further from the door. Anyway, I figured it would be a waste of time if it was all going to move back again. I took a breath and looked again at the chest. The beam from my flashlight caught something shiny on the lid. I leaned closer and found tiny chips of colored glass embedded in the wood. They formed an image that wasn’t obvious without the direct light. A grinning cat’s face looked up at me. The Cheshire cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland popped into my head and I remembered the character’s mocking smile. I felt like I was being watched, measured, and judged. I stared at the cat’s face for a full minute as chills ran up and down my spine.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered and I crouched down in front of the chest. I told myself I was opening it to see what was inside—not to get the cat to stop staring at me.
I had to set the flashlight down momentarily to undo the two ornate clasps on the chest, but I lifted the lid slowly, one-handed, so I could shine the beam inside. At first, I thought the box was empty, but a small glint made me move the light. Something metallic was resting against the near side of the chest. I picked it up carefully and turned it over in my hand. It was a brooch in the shape of a bee, worked in gold. There were tiny topazes inlaid throughout the wings, and the eyes were set with emeralds. I set the flashlight back down and turned the brooch over in my hands. It looked old, but well cared-for, like it was someone’s favorite piece of jewelry. I was examining the bee when I heard a scuffing noise behind me. All the blood drained out of my face as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over me.
Something really had been watching me! My breath caught and my heart sped up. For a panicked moment, I couldn’t decide whether to turn around or run away. Either way, I realized, I had to get up. I scrambled to my feet, accidentally kicking the flashlight as I did so. It shot across the smooth floor, spinning as it went, brightening the room in flashes like a strobe light. The flashes disoriented me. I couldn’t remember where the door was in the room. I looked around frantically as the beam of light slowed. I saw movement. The flashlight spun again. As the light hit the mirror, I saw the back of a leg and a dark boot sticking out of the glass.
Someone had just been in the attic with me.
I started hyperventilating. The beam of light circled again, slower this time, and the leg was gone. The flashlight made one more rotation, slowly illuminating the room in pieces as it spun. When it stopped, the light was shining straight at the mirror. The glass was swinging gently back and forth, the hinge of the frame squeaking at each pass.
Squeak. Squeak. Sque-ee-eak.
I watched in stunned silence as the mirror slowly came to a stop. My heart was still pounding as I shifted my weight from foot to foot and waited for my breathing to slow down. I unclenched my fists and felt a small pain in my left hand. When I forced my fingers apart, I found the bee brooch still in my hand. The needle-sharp stinger had pierced my thumb, and the tiny puncture wound made me think of Meghan. Something inside the mirror had hurt her. Maybe something inside the mirror could make her well again. I had to try.
I gripped the brooch tightly again, like a lucky token. I approached the mirror.
My reflection grew larger as I walked toward the glass. I looked silly in my nightgown, but I was glad to see that the expression on my face wasn’t scared. I looked determined. I took one more deep breath and gave myself a grim nod.
We moved south at the end of May. We rambled down, out of the Colorado foothills in our U-Haul. We drove past mountains and pine trees still snow-capped in early summer. As we moved south, things became more barren—more brown. We drove through New Mexico over the course of two days. Cars and trucks whizzed past us as we groaned up the hills and chugged down them.
My mother had found us a house in a sprawling suburb in West Texas. It had apparently been miles and miles from town when it was built, but the city had slowly crept closer to the strange building.
Each wing was one large room, and Meghan and I each had our own. Mom took a wing for herself and the fourth became the dining room. There was a bathroom between Meghan’s room and mine that we would share. A second bathroom sat opposite ours, and that one was for Mom. The basement would be the family room. The huge kitchen and entry way were located in the middle of the house, and the ceiling there was higher than in the other rooms. The front door faced south and was located between Mom’s room and Meghan’s. Opposite the front door, the two gently spiraling stairs began, one arching up over the door of my room and leading to the attic, the other descending past the dining room and leading to the basement.
The house had been the home of a strange old woman who had died without a will or any known family. The town decided to sell the house and its contents as-is, and had been trying unsuccessfully for almost ten years. My mother was very proud of the amazing deal she got on the house, and the town seemed happy enough to have it sold. Some townsfolk had protested the idea of the sale, wanting to destroy the house instead. They said the house was haunted. But Mom was happy, and that lifted my spirits slightly.
Moving in was a slow process. The house had been empty for years and was dusty and full of cobwebs. Someone had broken in at some point and smashed several pieces of old wooden furniture. Mom and I spent the first couple of days cleaning while Meghan pranced about, occasionally coughing at the dust or shrieking at a spider.
My new room was an absolute mess, filled with ugly broken furniture. The largest piece was a wood-framed daybed with an ornate sunburst on the back panel. The peeling bits of paint that clung to it were blood red, blinding yellow, and safety orange. It was also heavy, and Mom and I had to drag out the dusty mattress before we could move the frame. There was also a strangely shaped bookshelf in the room; the outline of it was like an upside-down coffin for the world’s fattest vampire. I decided to keep it, and an ugly nightstand, planning to repaint both pieces as soon as possible.
Meghan helped sweep out the rooms before we painted, kicking up more dust than she moved out. I would have complained, but mom seemed so amused, and I couldn’t deny her something that made her smile. We draped all the “keeper” furniture with sheets and drop-cloths, taped up the windows and doors, and painted the house, room by room.
Meghan’s was first. We coated the walls with a soft shade of lavender, and then Mom and I used sponges to print a wiggly line of pink flowers all the way around the room. My room was second, and I’d chosen a creamy blue with no embellishments or edging. Mom’s room became a pale yellow over the course of an afternoon. She said she chose the color of the walls because it reminded her of her daughters’ hair. Finally, we painted the dining room a pretty shade of sage green.
We let the walls dry overnight, sleeping again on our air mattresses in the family room. The next morning, we began moving in our old furniture.
“Beds!” Mom decided. “Beds first.”
That did improve my mood. I relished the thought of sleeping in my own bed instead of on the thin air mattresses Mom had set up for us in the basement. I didn’t even complain about assembling Meghan’s bed, too. They were both sturdy models, and the long bolts took a while to get fitted into place. It took me most of the day to put the two beds together. Meghan’s had a short railing along the side for me to attach because Meghan was a restless sleeper and still occasionally rolled out of bed at night. My own bed had once included a canopy, but one of the supports had cracked in the moving van. I thought about trying to repair it, but decided to just leave the canopy off. It made me feel kind of grown up to not have the frilly lace around my bed. I was more than satisfied when I finally crawled under the covers at the end of the day.
The day after beds, we moved the other large furniture—the sofas and desks and wardrobes. We almost tipped the couch over the railing on the stairs when Mom and I moved it down into the family room. We arranged the seating pieces in a loose half circle around the entertainment center that Mom had assembled while I was working on beds. We all piled into the couch when we were done and stared at the empty spot where the TV would be once it was moved down. Mom said she’d hook up the electronics the next day and promised we’d relax and watch a movie that evening.
I spent the rest of the afternoon arranging and rearranging furniture in my room and Meghan’s room. I went back and forth between our rooms several times. I placed Meghan’s desk and shelves where she said she wanted them, but when I got back to my room to move my own furniture, Meghan decided her desk was in the wrong spot. After I repositioned her desk, I got a few minutes of work done in my own room before she declared that her shelves needed to be moved. It went on like that for nearly an hour.
I was frowning into the mirror over my dresser, deciding if I liked where it was, when I saw Meghan’s reflection appear in the doorway. I rolled my eyes, wondering where she would want her furniture this time. It seemed like we’d tried every combination.
“Kara?” she said, blue eyes wide. I turned around to face her.
“Now what, Megs?” I said, irritation coloring my voice.
“Thanks for moving my stuff,” she said brightly, not catching my frustration with her. She disappeared from the doorway before I could respond. I was embarrassed that I’d assumed the worst.
“You’re welcome!” I stammered after her, and then turned back to my dresser. I decided it was fine where it was and went to help my sister unpack her toys and art supplies.
The next day, we started filling closets and drawers with clothes. I’d realized when we’d packed in Colorado that I had a lot of clothes. That surprised me since I never seemed to have anything to wear. Now my wardrobe was cut in half, since most of my winter clothes would probably never be needed in the desert. So, my cumbersome box of jackets and sweaters stayed taped shut.
I had just finished filling my closet with summer clothes and was frowning at the winter box when I heard a high-pitched moaning behind me at my doorway. I checked the mirror above my wardrobe, thinking that I’d put it in the best possible spot. A cross between a ghost and a mummy stood just outside my room, wrapped up in an old sheet. Her skinny ankles and purple socks showed below the draped cloth.
“Oooo-ooo-ooh,” she moaned theatrically. Noticing her sheet didn’t have eye-holes, I rolled my eyes, but gasped for her benefit. She laughed and threw off the sheet, revealing—surprise—my younger sister. She grinned like a maniac, her blue eyes sparkling.
“Did I scare you?” she demanded.
“I was terrified,” I said solemnly, nodding at her.
She seemed satisfied with my answer.
“Mom said to come tell you to help me take my winter clothes to the attic,” she said with all the authority she could muster.
“All right, squirt,” I said, “where’s your box?”
“It’s in my room, but—don’t call me that—it’s too heavy. Mom said you’d carry it.”
I sighed and looked at my own box. I kicked it once for good measure before I picked it up and carried it out of my room and to the foot of the attic stairs. Meghan skipped around me in a circle, her pigtails bouncing behind her; then she ran ahead of me to her room. Her box of winter clothes was smaller than mine, but still heavy. I carried it back to the stairs, too, and set it on top of my box. I was just barely able to lift both boxes.
“You first, squirt,” I commanded my sister, “get up there and open the door for me.”
She sprinted past me up the stairs, then stopped suddenly and spun to stick her tongue out at me.
“I said don’t call me that!” she pouted. I stuck my own tongue out, and then started lugging the boxes up the stairs as she looked down on me from the landing.
“Open the door,” I told her again when I got to the top. I was breathless from carrying the heavy boxes.
“Can’t,” she said simply.
“Why?”
“Stuck.”
I made a frustrated noise and filled the landing with the boxes. Luckily, the attic door opened inward.
“Scoot, Megs. Let me try.”
She hopped down a few steps and then she put her elbows on my winter box. She watched me around the side of her box. I tried the latch to the attic and found that the door wasn’t locked. I gave my sister a quizzical look before pushing against the door.
Nothing happened.
“It’s stuck,” I said intelligently.
“Yuh,” she said derisively, “told you so.”
I gave the door a shove and it budged an inch. I shoved again and got a little more space between the door and the jamb. Through the gap I could see that there was a large pile of random things stacked up just inside the door. I gave the door another good shove to make the opening wide enough to wedge my knee and both hands through and started pushing the door away from the frame. The door slowly gave more ground, until there was room enough to squeeze through. I crawled over the junk, noticing a large chest, a rolled up carpet, and a tall stand lamp with a crooked shade. Meghan followed me in before I could protest.
Afternoon light filtered into the room from four small, high windows—almost skylights in the steeply sloping ceiling. There was very little dust, and as I spun around something tickled the back of my mind. There was no way in or out of the room except the door, and it had been barricaded from this side. The windows were far too small for anyone to come through and didn’t seem to have any mechanism for opening, anyway.
I looked around. Every piece of furniture had been pushed against the door except for one. Across from the door was an antique-looking mirror in a standing frame. It looked like something out of a story—a real, old-fashioned looking glass. It was huge, almost the size of the door it faced, and had hinges on the sides so you could tilt the glass up and down. The large, oval frame was made of wrought iron, decorated with an intricate pattern of vines and roses all the way around. The leaves and vines had long-ago been copper plated and now were a deep green. The flowers were also copper, but they each shone as if they’d been recently polished. The glass of the mirror was smooth and clear, without a trace of dust.
The pile behind me called my attention from the mirror as Meghan knocked the lamp over. I barely caught it before it hit the ground. Meghan grinned at me, then finished crawling over the rolled up rug to join me in the middle of the room.
She gawked around while I started moving things away from the door. The lamp was easy, but many other items were surprisingly heavy. I couldn’t lift the carpet at all but had to drag it away from the door. I didn’t even try to lift the large wooden chest. I was shocked when I shoved it with all my strength that it shot across the room like it was on wheels. I landed on my knees in surprise. I stared at the box blankly for a few seconds before I went to open it. I thought I’d heard something inside the chest rattle when it hit the wall. Whatever it was couldn’t have been very big, since the box was so light. I was just undoing the latch when I heard Meghan laugh behind me.
“Ooh, pretty!” she exclaimed, and I turned to look as she examined the mirror.
“Be careful,” I admonished absently as she reached for the frame, “some of those thorns look sharp.”
She made a frustrated noise and I could almost hear her roll her eyes (a habit I knew she’d gotten from me).
“You’re not the boss of me,” she pouted, and I turned to raise an eyebrow at her. She met my gaze. She stuck her tongue out at me again and defiantly shoved her hand at the mirror.
“Don’t—” I started, but the words died in my throat. Time seemed to slow down. Meghan’s expression shifted to confusion. I gasped as I watched her stubby fingers go straight through the glass as if the mirror’s frame was empty.
My jaw dropped and I was on my feet before I had even thought about standing. I threw myself across the room to her. Meghan, who had expected to encounter some resistance from the mirror, lost her balance and began to fall toward the glass. Her right arm disappeared to the elbow, and then her left arm also vanished through the mirror. I grabbed her around the waist just as her head was about to follow her arms. I saw both of our faces reflected in the mirror—twin masks of fear, two pairs of wide, blue eyes staring back at me in horror. Meghan cried out in pain as I pulled her back. She was about to stick her hand in her mouth when I saw the blood between her fingers. I caught her wrist.
I pulled her up onto my hip and carried her out of the attic, holding her arm away from her. She protested and whined, but I restrained her and called out for Mom when we got to the foot of the stairs.
“What’s up?” my mom asked, poking her head out of her room. She looked equally concerned and silly with her dusty bandana wrapped around her hair. Her gaze went immediately to the bloody hand I was holding and her eyes widened.
“Take her to the sink,” Mom said. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
She ducked back into her room for a minute and returned with the small white box. I sat my sister on the kitchen counter and turned on the faucet.
We washed her hand and revealed a round puncture in the center of her palm, red and slightly swollen around the edges. It looked like a bad insect sting. Mom applied ointment to the wound and wrapped it in gauze, cooing at Meghan before turning to me.
“What happened, Kara?”
Meghan answered before I could open my mouth.
“Something in the mirror bit me!”
“Mirror?” my mom said, looking at me.
“There’s a mirror in the attic,” I explained.
“And a wasp’s nest?” Mom asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t see one,” I said honestly, “but something must have stung her.”
Mom turned to Meghan, “Did you see what stung you?”
“No, Momma, it was in the mirror.”
“Well, let’s stay out of the attic, then,” she said with a small smile, “until I can get an exterminator up there, okay?”
Meghan nodded gravely. My mom chuckled softly at Meghan’s serious expression. She patted Meghan on the cheek. “How about we order some pizza tonight?”
My sister’s face lit up and I made sure I sounded enthusiastic when I answered, but my mind was elsewhere. I debated telling Mom what had really happened, but I wasn’t sure if even I believed it. Meghan couldn’t have really put her hand through the mirror, could she? It sounded crazy.
Meghan acted normally for the rest of the afternoon. She seemed excited as we waited for the pizza delivery driver, but she barely ate any once it arrived. She picked at her slice, only eating a few bites. She seemed tired.
Mom made good on her movie promise, and we all piled onto the sofa in the basement after dinner. Meghan fell asleep halfway through the movie, lying across Mom’s lap. I excused myself during the credits and went straight to my room, even though it was only nine o’clock. Mom didn’t seem concerned with our behavior. Maybe she thought we were just tired from unpacking.
I got ready for bed slowly. I washed my face and brushed my teeth in the bathroom I shared with Meghan. I carefully braided my hair and secured it with a little rubber band. I changed into one of the extra-long tee shirts I used as nightgowns and climbed into bed.
I had hoped that the familiar routine would relax me, but I was still wound up. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, doubting my sanity. Had Meghan really fallen into the mirror? That couldn’t really happen, right? Maybe I’d had some bad milk with my cereal or something and hallucinated the whole event. Meghan had hurt her palm on one of the thorns in the mirror’s frame—that was the only explanation that made sense. I told myself that was what had happened over and over until I almost believed it, and I drifted to sleep, though I was not well-rested in the morning.
I checked on Meghan as soon as I woke up. She was much worse off. She was paler than usual and had dark circles under her eyes. Her hand was swollen and the bandages were crusted with pus and blood. When mom changed the dressing, the wound was an angry welt that seeped a murky yellow fluid. Meghan’s fingers looked like sausages. Mom said nothing while she cleaned and rewrapped Meghan’s hand, but she went straight from my sister’s room to the phone book to look up a pediatrician and an exterminator.
I knew immediately that something was wrong. I wasn’t expecting to be picked up early, and they didn’t call me on the intercom. There was a light rap on the door and we all looked up from our quizzes. Mrs. Loveday, the guidance counselor, and my Aunt Sandy were standing in the doorway. Mrs. Loveday spoke to Mr. Brewer, the algebra teacher, for a moment while Sandy gave me a weak smile.
“Bring me your quiz, Ms. Spencer,” Mr. Brewer said.
I zipped up my pencil case and tossed it in my backpack. I scooped up my pale blue sweater. I could feel the eyes of the other students on me, but I kept mine on the floor as I threaded between desks to give my half-finished quiz to Mr. Brewer. Putting her hand on my shoulder, Mrs. Loveday gently pushed me out of the classroom. She closed the door behind me, leaving me alone in the hall with my fidgeting aunt.
“Hey, Kara,” my aunt said to me in a falsely bright voice, her blue eyes wide.
“What’s going on, Aunt Sandy?”
“I’m picking you up, honey,” she said, “come on.”
I fell in behind her as she started loping toward the exit. I was a little bit stunned. Sandy hadn’t called me honey in years. She still used endearments with my little sister, Meghan, but not me since I’d sided with my mom in one of their arguments. Sandy and Mom had never been close, and they didn’t seem to agree on anything. Sandy is my dad’s sister, and I don’t think she believes that anyone’s good enough for her baby brother.
I kept my eyes down as I followed my aunt through the quiet school halls. Sandy was still wearing her scrubs, pale pink and covered in little cartoon cats. I could see her ankles with every step, covered in dark pink socks above her matching Crocs. Her scrubs bottoms were always too short. Sandy was tall and lean, like my dad, and she preferred her pants short rather than baggy. Her long, pale hair was braided and twisted into a ball at the nape of her neck. She wore no jewelry and barely any make-up. She must have come straight from the dentist’s office; she must have taken off work to get me. What was going on?
I followed my aunt out of the school and into the parking lot. It was easy to pick out her car. Sandy was completely New Age when she wasn’t cleaning teeth. Her Toyota Prius was plastered with stickers about crystals, meditation, rainbows, and carbon footprints. I’d always looked up to Sandy for her confidence and rebellious nature, but I didn’t like anyone yelling at my mom. Since the fight, she and I hadn’t been really close.
“Are we picking up Meghan, too?” I asked when we were both in the car. I was fidgeting with the zipper on my sweater. It had been cold in the morning, but now it was after lunch and the day was clear and almost warm—April in Colorado.
“No, honey. Nana Joyce is getting your sister.”
She gave me another fake smile.
Sandy was usually tough as diamonds. Something must be really wrong.
“What’s going on, Aunt Sandy?” I asked, not sure if she could hear my whisper. She held on to her smile for a moment, but it melted after a minute of me staring at her.
“Oh, Kara,” she said, her voice cracking, “your daddy got hurt.”
We drove the rest of the way to the hospital in silence.
Sandy had composed herself by the time we arrived. She turned off the engine and then explained what had happened in a lifeless voice while we sat outside the main entrance to the hospital.
“He was meeting a client for lunch”—My dad, Phillip Spencer, was an architect. He designed ski cabins for people wealthy enough to have personalized ski cabins—“and someone ran a red light…”
I saw it all in my head as Sandy glossed over the details. The light had turned green, so Dad had gone into the intersection. Dad drove a small, light, efficient car; something suitable for a man who was always on the go, meeting people around town. He had been on the phone with his secretary, talking into the little clip that always hung off his left ear when he was working.
The vehicle that hit him was a large truck. It was a massive steel machine, old and heavy, and the impact of the collision made Dad’s car flip over. Both cars slid through the intersection, bumping at least one other vehicle, before plowing into a telephone pole. Dad’s car was pinned between the big truck and the pole, upside down. Dad’s secretary had heard the whole thing, but didn’t know where Dad was when the accident happened. She stayed on the phone with him until he lost consciousness.
The scene played out in my head over and over again, even though I hadn’t actually witnessed the accident.
Tears streamed quietly down my cheeks as we entered the hospital and made our way to the waiting room outside the huge swinging doors that led into the intensive care unit. Sandy had told me that Dad was in surgery, but I didn’t know what part of him was being fixed.
My mom was pacing back and forth in the waiting room, wringing her hands. Her wavy auburn hair was a mess, and I knew she’d been running her hands through it a lot. She did that when she was upset. Mom didn’t wear a lot of make-up, and the little she had on was smeared and tear-streaked. She was wearing the work clothes she’d hugged me in before I walked to school: a fluttery copper blouse over her chocolate-colored herringbone slacks. I wanted to hug her again, now.
“Maggie,” my aunt said gently.
“Mom!” I called at the same time.
She looked at us with puffy, red eyes, and I dashed over to wrap my arms around her. She clung to me like she was drowning and I was a life raft. I clung right back.
About an hour later, a tall man in dark green scrubs came through the large, swinging doors. He approached the three of us, now sitting silently in the corner of the waiting room, me flanked by my mom and aunt.
“Ms. Spencer?” he said, looking between my mom and aunt.
“I’m Mrs. Spencer,” Mom said in a quiet but firm voice, just as my aunt was about to speak.
The man in scrubs took off the little sweat-soaked cap from his head and looked my mom in the eyes.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said, “we did everything that we could…”
I didn’t hear anything he said after that and I don’t know if my mom or aunt said anything back. All I heard was a dull buzzing, like the room had filled with bees. My vision swam as fresh tears filled my eyes. My mom and my aunt each took a turn going back with the tall man behind the big, swinging doors. I looked at the clock and saw that my friends would be just getting out of their last class of the day. It was Friday, and they’d be full of excitement for the coming weekend. I couldn’t imagine ever being excited about anything again.
I never finished my math quiz. I didn’t go back to finish my freshman year of high school; the district excused me and my sister from the last month of school and we spent a lot of days with Nana Joyce, who tried to distract us with food and presents. She took us shopping and to the movies. I felt like a zombie, but I didn’t cry any more.
I caught Mom crying many times during the month, and my six-year-old sister, Meghan, stole across our room and climbed into my bed almost every night, sobbing. I think mine were the only dry eyes at the funeral. I turned fifteen two days later.
.
By the end of April, I didn’t feel quite as numb, and Meghan had stayed in her own bed for a whole week. I’d even interacted with some of my friends from school. They threw me a kind of subdued party as a belated birthday present. We ate a lot of ice cream and watched movies where no one died. It made me feel almost normal, but the sad looks that I caught throughout the event reminded me that I wasn’t.
On the first day of May, I caught myself singing along with the radio while I loaded the dishwasher. I was mad at myself at first, but then I thought that maybe it was okay to let myself feel a little bit of happiness, even though my dad was gone.
That night, Mom told us that we were moving.
We’d made dinner together—spaghetti with meatballs—and in the middle of the meal Mom explained how we’d be leaving Colorado soon.
“I met your father, here,” she explained, “and I see him everywhere I look. I think we need a fresh start.”
I didn’t voice my objections, and she took my silence as support. I didn’t want to start my sophomore year of high school someplace new. I didn’t want to leave my friends behind, but the way they looked at me now was upsetting. The move seemed to be the only thing my mother wanted, so I resigned myself to the incredible unfairness of life. I was sad, and I was angry. My father shouldn’t have died when I was barely fifteen. He was supposed to teach me how to drive and dance with me at my sixteenth birthday party. He was supposed to try to scare off potential boyfriends and threaten my prom date. He was supposed to give me away when I finally found the right guy, the one he approved of.
My daddy couldn’t die. It wasn’t fair.
Some days—even now—I can’t decide whether the adventures I had after we left Colorado were worth losing my father. It was such a steep price.
