"You what?"I can't believe you think you can go through my stuff.

"I just wondered if you've really thought this through. You're obsessed with this-" She looks at the sketches, "This Meghan girl-but what you decide now could affect your entire life. I know you're still struggling with what that man did to you-"

"What he did to me has nothing to do with this!"

Mom squeezes her hands together. "Maybe you don't think so now, but in a few years-"

"No, Mom. Not ever." Nothing as beautiful as Meghan and me could ever come from something as awful as abuse.

"Well, if it's not the s.e.xual abuse that made you this way, then what is it? Help me; I'm trying to understand."

"I never asked you to."I can't believe we're having this conversation.

Sadness creases Mom's face. "I know you didn't. You didn't even tell me about her."

Because I didn't think you'd be able to hear it. Didn't think you could be happy for me. Guilt presses against my heart: Did I misjudge her? "I love her, Mom. She makes me happy."

"The way Sarah made you happy? And then so unhappy that you wanted to die?"

I stare at her, my eyes stretching wide. You knew. You must have known all along, and you never said anything. Not about the pills. And not about Sarah. "That wasn't about Sarah. That was about the memories I was having." It was about the pain I couldn't hold.

"Whatever it was, I'm sure this h.o.m.os.e.xuality didn't make it any easier. All I'm saying is, maybe you can talk to Carolyn about this. Make sure you aren't becoming a h.o.m.os.e.xual because of the abuse."

h.o.m.os.e.xual. The way she says the word feels like a fist in my mouth, like it's something hurtful, something disgusting. She never talked about even the abuse like this.

"Did you even listen to me, Mom? Did you hear what I said?"

"Of course I did."

"She makes me feel good. She makes me feel happy."

Mom twists her ring around her finger. "This is all my fault. If only I'd spent more time with you when you were little. If only I didn't ask Sandy to look after you-"

"Sandy didn't make me a lesbian!" I clench my teeth. "How can you be so hypocritical? Sandy's your friend- and you don't try to change him!"

"He's not my daughter!"

But I am. Great. I can see where this is going, now. "I don't want to change, Mom. I don't need to."

She bows her head and goes silent.

I lean forward. "Please-can't you just try to understand? You say I never talk to you. But how can I, if you won't even accept who I am? I need you to do that, Mom. I need you to accept me."

Mom nods and looks at me, her eyes shiny with tears.

"I think I'll need some time. But you're right, Kendra; you don't need to change. And you shouldn't. Not for me and not for anyone else. That's something I've always admired about you-your pa.s.sion for things you care about. I wish I could be more like that."

"I-thank you." Sometimes she surprises me.

"I'm not saying I understand, yet. But I'll try. Sandy's a good man and a good friend, and once I got past him being gay, I could see that. People will see that in you, too."

Okay... at least she's trying.

Mom gets up. "You're my daughter, Kendra, and I love you. I know you sometimes find that hard to believe, but I do. And I want you to be happy. So if you feel this strongly about Meghan, then I'll support you."

She reaches out to hug me. I hug her back. For the first time in a long time, I feel like Mom loves me. Or at least she's trying to.

23.

I hear Mom walk quickly down the hall, like she can't wait to get away from me. I can hardly believe that she admires something in me. She's never said that before.

Her bedroom door squeaks, and I know she's gone to lie down, worn out by our conversation. Or maybe by all the emotion she tries to lock inside of her. I hear her shoes. .h.i.t the floor, hear her sigh. I try not to let guilt swallow me up.

I stare out my window. There are shadows in the backyard that the moon doesn't light up-shadows that move and flit through the night the way they flit through my mind. They're probably just racc.o.o.ns, rooting through our garbage, but I can't help thinking about the footsteps following me home. I wish it was Monday already. Wish I was in Carolyn's office. I have so much to tell her.

I run my hand through my hair. No, I wish it was Sat.u.r.day and I was with Meghan, not stuck here in my room.

The side door slams. "I'm home!" There's the creak of the bed as Mom gets up, the shuffle of her slippers going down the hall, and then her voice, thin and high. Dad's voice rumbles back.

I dive into bed, switch out my light, and pull the pillow over my head.

Their voices rise and fall, then there's quiet. Footsteps thump down the hall.

"Kendra?" Dad says softly.

Maybe if I pretend I'm asleep, he'll go away. I keep my eyes closed, make my breathing slow and steady.

"Kendra, I know you're awake."

s.h.i.t. I lift the pillow off my head and turn over. Dad's in my doorway, hands shoved into his pockets the way he does when he's nervous.

"Your mother and I are worried about you. I know you've been having a rough time lately-"

Not another talk. I can't stand it. "I'm fine, Dad. I already told Mom that."

"You don't look fine."

"Well, I am. Why can't you both just stop worrying about me?"

"It's part of our job." Dad clears his throat. "Do you think this lesbian thing could have anything to do with, you know, the s.e.xual abuse?"

"G.o.d, not you, too! Can't you leave it alone? It's not the problem you guys think it is."

"It's not that simple, Kendra. Saying there's no problem doesn't mean there isn't one."

"Why is it a problem? Because if I like girls, I'll be different from you?"

"No. Because if you choose to be lesbian, you choose a hard road. People are afraid of what's different. They're afraid of what they don't know. And people can get pretty mean when they're afraid."

I'm not sure it's a choice. The way I was drawn to Sarah, the way I feel about Meghan-it's so strong. "Is that what got Mom all twisted up? She's afraid of me being different?"

Dad jingles the change in his pockets. "I guess so. She's afraid of how other people will treat you. She's afraid you're making things harder for yourself. She's worried that on top of everything you've been through, this will be too much."

"Too much for me or for her?"

"Good question."

He's really listening to me, taking me seriously. Why can't Mom and I talk like this? Maybe it's because she doesn't know me, not really.

Dad's still jingling the change in his pockets. I've never seen him so nervous.

I rub my eyes. "Is there something else you wanted to talk about?"

"Yes." Dad clears his throat again. "This knife Terry saw. Um, I mean, Mr. Blair. You're returning it to school on Monday, right? That's the last we'll see of it?"

"Absolutely. You'll never see it again."I'll make sure of that.

"Good, good. Well, sleep well, Kendra." Dad hesitates, walks in, then kisses my forehead. "I love you, kitten. We'll get through this. Just hang in there."

"Yeah. Night, Dad."

Dad turns and walks down the hall, his footsteps heavy and slow. I hear the creak of the bed again, and then their voices murmuring.

I want to tell them to stop worrying, but I can only say it so many times and they don't seem to listen, anyway.

I stare up at the ceiling, thinking I won't be able to sleep. But I close my eyes, and I do.

24.

I avoid Mom and Dad all morning, and wait for Meghan to call. I clean my desk, roll up the painting I did of Meghan and slide it into a cardboard tube, and check my cell. I look at my homework, put the books back down again, make a few doodles, and stare out the window until the phone rings.

Seconds after we hang up, I'm out of there with the tube in my hand. "I'm going to meet a friend. Back later!"

The door slams behind me. I start off down the street, pretending I can't hear Mom calling after me. My feet hardly touch the sidewalk. The air smells of freshly mown gra.s.s and flowers. The sun is warm. And Meghan is waiting for me! I laugh out loud.

The closer I get, the tighter my stomach gets. I toss the tube from one hand to the other. I don't know any more if the painting is such a good idea. Maybe she'll get weirded out. Maybe it'll look like I'm coming on too strong.

The back of my head p.r.i.c.kles with that being-watched feeling. I whirl around-but there's no one there who could be him. Just a woman walking a dog, a guy on roller blades, and two girls giggling together.

His hand, gripping my wrist. A handkerchief falling to the floor.

I pick up my pace until I'm almost running, but I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

A car pa.s.ses me slowly, rolling by like there's a shaky old driver behind the wheel. Or someone who's tailing me. I run until I reach the Sat.u.r.day-morning shopping crowd; then I slow down and try to blend in. The air smells like coffee, fresh bread, and car exhaust.

Meghan's standing outside the Java Cup, looking like she's drawn all the sunshine to her skin. I want to hug her, but I don't know how to do it without looking stupid. So I hang back.

"Hey," she says, grinning like she's glad to see me.

"Hey, yourself." I grin back at her, then peek over my shoulder at the crowd.

There are lots of men now-husbands with their wives, men carrying children on their shoulders, businessmen talking on phones, men reading their newspapers and sipping their cappuccinos. I don't know where he is, if he's here at all. He could be sitting right outside the Java Cup, and I'd never know it.

"Everything okay?" Meghan asks.

No. But I want it to be. "You feel like taking a walk?"

"Sure." Meghan shrugs. "I'm easy."

We start off down the street. I love how Meghan can just go with things, how she doesn't get rattled by a change in plans-the way I would.

"What's in the tube?" she asks, reaching over and tapping it.

I breathe in the sweet smell of amber mixed with her sweat. "It's for you." I thrust the tube into her hands.

"For me?"

"Yeah." A nervous giggle, like a hiccup, pops out of my mouth.

Meghan pulls the lid off the tube, slips the paper partway out. "Hey-is this one of your paintings?"

"Yeah."

Meghan taps the painting back in, snaps the lid on. "Then I want to wait till we stop someplace. I wanna look at it proper."

She's treating my art like it's something special. I rub my sweaty hands on my jeans. Part of me wants her to just get it over with, and part of me really likes that she cares about my art enough to look at it slowly. That she cares about me.

Meghan bops me on the head with the tube. "Thank you," she says. "You shouldn't have."

"You don't even know what I painted."

"I know it's something good," she says firmly.