"But don't you even-I mean, you didn't know someone had-hurt me ... until that group."

Mrs. Archer looks down at her hands. She folds them, then unfolds them. She looks back at me. "Kendra-I knew from your art. It's so intense. And I knew from your behavior that you'd been through something painful, something that hurt you deeply. That's why I encourage you so much-besides your being the most talented student I've ever had. I think you've got to get out whatever's hurting you through your art, so it doesn't twist you up inside."

She looks at me like she's trying to see if I'm listening. "And if my being in the art therapy group stops you from expressing yourself, I'll leave. I care more about you than about my training; I can get that any time."

I want to cry-and to laugh. Mrs. Archer still likes me!

"Don't leave," I say. "I want you there." I smile at her, as much as I can smile. I'm ashamed of how I acted-but I feel closer to her, too. And if I hadn't said anything, I'd never have known that things are all right between us. I'd never have known that it was my shame and fear I was seeing, not hers.

20.

"I'm so glad," Mrs. Archer says as she stands. "You're a delight to work with." I wonder how I could ever have thought she was judging me. She's so much better than that.

She dismisses the cla.s.s. I carry my sketchbook up to the front. When I'm sure no one is looking, I pull out the X-acto knife and slip it back onto the table, behind the paintbrushes. I look around fast, but Mrs. Archer is still talking with a student and everybody else is busy gathering their stuff and leaving.

I let out my breath. I didn't feel right with a knife that wasn't mine. Especially one from Mrs. Archer's room.

Now that I've put it back, I can focus on art cla.s.s. I choose my paints and paper carefully, humming under my breath. I know what I want to paint: Meghan.

I paint her over and over, but I can't seem to get it right; I can't seem to capture that tenderness and vulnerability that sits in her eyes, behind all the toughness. Mrs. Archer smiles at my work when she pa.s.ses by, and I know she thinks it's good. But it's not good enough for me. I want it to be perfect.

I put my work away reluctantly at the end of cla.s.s. I don't want to stop until I've got it right. Even in science and English, I'm still trying to get on paper that look Meghan gets in her eyes. I draw Meghan tender and sweet, strong and fierce. I draw her playful and happy, the way she's been with me. And I write her name, over and over, next to mine.

I don't want to stop thinking about her. Every time I stop, dark thoughts crowd me and p.r.i.c.kle my mind-the footsteps, Dad losing his job, therapy ending-and I can't go there, not without wanting to cut. So I just keep thinking about Meghan, and feel warm and good all over.

When the last bell rings, I head over to Meghan's locker and wait. I silently rehea.r.s.e what I want to say, trying for casual, spur of the moment. Lockers slam shut around me, and people call out good-byes to each other. The halls are emptying fast.

When I look up, Meghan's heading toward me, Tyler attached to her like a leech. I ram my hands into my pockets.

"Hey," Meghan says. "What're you doing here?"

I can't tell if she's glad to see me or not. "I was just ..."

Tyler's looking at me like I'm a joke.

I stare at the floor, then up at Meghan again. Her eyes urge me on. I swallow. "You want to hang out this weekend?"

Tyler howls. "Told you she's got the hots for you!"

My cheeks are hot as a slap. I wish I'd never said anything.

Meghan plucks Tyler's arm off her waist and shoves him away. "Grow up, Tyler." She turns back to me. "Sounds good. Sat.u.r.day morning? First thing? I'll call you."

"Great!" Happiness spreads to my belly like warmth from a cup of hot chocolate. I race down the hall away from her before she can change her mind.

I leap down the stairs, three at a time, using the banister as a pole vault; it's like I'm flying. I swing myself off the last few steps and slam right into a hard body-right into Mr. Blair.

I scramble away from him. "Oh my G.o.d, I'm so sorry!"

Mr. Blair smooths out his shirt. "Hey, that's all right." His face softens as he looks at me over the top of his gla.s.ses. "It's good to see you having fun."

I stand there, waiting for a reprimand. But Mr. Blair just pushes his gla.s.ses back up his nose, then leaves. I can't tell if he really meant what he said, whether the warmth I saw in his eyes was real or not.

His hand gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear. "I will kill you if you tell."

I stare at the s.p.a.ce where Mr. Blair was, waiting for more shadows to wrap around me, but nothing comes. Maybe he's not the one.

I shrug and step out into the warmth of the afternoon, a soft breeze brushing against my face. I flash to Meghan and me on the hill, sitting in the sun.

I see her tomorrow!

Excitement fizzes through me, lifting me up until I want to run all the way home.

21.

Mom's not at the door to greet me. Maybe she's finally letting me be.

I walk in and climb the back stairs to the kitchen, expecting to smell oil paint and turpentine, but there's a heaviness in the house instead. Mom's sitting there, drinking chamomile tea, a pile of crumpledup tissues on the table in front of her. She gets up abruptly when she hears me, her mug rocking against the table. "Kendra, I want to talk to you."

I cross my arms over my chest and wait.

"Your father got a strange call at work this morning. From his friend, Terry Blair. Your math teacher."

My hands grow cold.

"Your dad thought Terry was calling about their hunting trip, but instead, Terry was calling about you. He says you've been acting strange lately. Different. Maybe depressed. He's worried about you."

I'll bet he is. "I'm fine."

"Mr. Blair didn't seem to think so. He wants us to come in for a conference. He thinks something might be worrying you."

"Nothing's worrying me!"d.a.m.n it, why is this happening? "Believe me, I'm fine!"

Mom bites her lip, staining her teeth with lipstick. "He said he thought he saw something strange in your pocket- something that shouldn't be there."Oh, G.o.d! My chest aches with held-in air. He can't have seen the blade. He can't have!

"Kendra," Mom says, and she's crying now, "you're not thinking of suicide, are you?"

"Of course not!" I force a laugh. "That's absurd."

"Even so-I need to check your pockets. I need to know ... . "

I can't breathe properly, can't suck in air. I drop my backpack to the floor, lick my lips. "Mom-" I try to smile, but I know I'm grimacing. "This is all a mistake. I was a little down today; I admit it. I probably flunked my history test. That must have been what Mr. Blair was picking up on."One little lie isn't so bad. "But I'm not suicidal. I haven't thought about it for months."Not since I've been seeing Carolyn.

"And what he thought he saw in my pocket-"Is still there- "was something I borrowed from the art room, to cut some matting. I meant to return it today and forgot." Okay, two little lies.

I reach for my blade and pull it out, trying to look nonchalant. I'm glad I always clean it off after I cut, glad there's nothing to give away what I use it for, except a slight discoloration.

"But a blade, Kendra? Why would you have a blade in your pocket? And one without a handle?"

"It made it easier to carry. And I just forgot about it. I'll return it on Monday, I promise."I don't know if I'm making sense. I don't even care; I just want her to believe me.

"But that's dangerous. You shouldn't be carrying it around like that."

"I know how to handle mat knives, Mom. I respect them, believe me." I tuck it back into my pocket.

Mom's looking at me like she's not sure what to think.

Sweat trickles down my sides. "Come on, Mom.... Has Carolyn called you? Have you heard any worried reports from her?"

"No, but-"

"Mr. Blair doesn't know what he's talking about. I tell Carolyn everything. There's nothing wrong, okay?" I hug her fast.

Mom clings to me. "Your dad and I were so worried about you."

"Well, there's nothing to worry about."

Mom pulls back and looks me deep in the eyes. "You're telling me the truth?"

"Yes, I'm telling you the truth," I say. And I am. Cutting isn't anything to worry about. Now, the footsteps and the man coming after me-that's something else again.

The kettle screams, and Mom switches the burner off. "Your dad thinks we should set up a session with Carolyn, to find out what you haven't been telling us."

"You can't do that. My sessions are private!"

"How else are we supposed to find out what's going on? You never talk to us."

"I'm not supposed to!" I want to rip my arm open and let the blood gush out. "That's what teenagers do; they grow away from their parents!"

"Not like this. We're worried about you, Kendra. You're so unhappy. And if you won't talk to us, we'll have to find some other way of getting the information. We have the right to know what's going on. Carolyn said as much to me."

And you pay the bills. I can't believe this is happening. But money talks. I just didn't think Carolyn would be like that.

I want to slash my arm as hard and as fast as I can. But I can't give in; I can't risk Mom finding out.

I shove my hand into my pocket, touch the sharp edge of the blade, then the smooth warmth of the stone. I won't let myself panic. Not until I talk to Carolyn and find out what's going on. Because Mom doesn't always tell the truth.

22.

I shut the door to my room, take out my cell, and punch the speed dial b.u.t.ton for Carolyn.

Her voicemail switches on.

I throw my phone onto my bed, pace over to my window, then come back again. The light on my alarm clock blinks at me like a warning signal. I yank out the plug.

I can't keep the blade in my pocket any more-not now that Mom's seen it-but I have to have it on me. Need to have it. I pull the blade out, pressing it into the tips of my fingers. I don't draw blood; but just knowing I can helps me breathe.

Then I roll up my pant leg and tug open my sock. The blade slides in easily and lies against my skin, flat and warm. I snap the sock against my leg. Then I roll my jeans back down. Perfect.

I try Carolyn again. No answer, still. Calm. I must stay calm. The blade calls to me, screaming for me to use it, but I can't risk Mom barging in on me.

I sit down at my desk, getting out my paints and paper with shaking hands. Watercolor this time, not gouache. I don't know what I'm going to paint until Meghan's face starts to appear beneath my brush. I lose myself in the act of stroking paint onto paper, letting the pigments spread beneath the bristles.

It's only when I dab the last detail onto her face, add the brightness of her eyes, that I lean back and look at what I've created. It's Meghan laughing, golden sunlight all around her like an aura. Flowers sprout from her skin, and b.u.t.terflies rest on her head and shoulders. There are no shadows, no hidden corners of pain-just happiness and light.

I sit back. I don't think I've ever painted something without the pain leaking through; it feels good.

The painting is almost as beautiful as Meghan-one of the best I've ever done. But would she like it if I gave it to her? Or was she just being polite at the Java Cup? The mistakes I've made start to jump out at me: the brush strokes that are too heavy, the clumsiness of the flowers, the way her smile doesn't look quite right.

"Kendra? Can I come in?"

I turn to see Mom in my doorway.

What am I supposed to say? No? "Yeah, sure." I shove my painting on top of the filing cabinet beneath my desk, and cover my brushes under some papers.

Mom sits down on the edge of my bed. "I found these in your bag," she says, holding out some notes ripped from my binder. No, not notes. The sketches of Meghan I did in my cla.s.ses.

"You went through my stuff?"

"I was worried about you."

"Well, don't be. My friendship with Meghan is a good thing. You don't have to try to fix it."Or ruin it.

"I don't want to fix it, I just-"