Nothing Left to Burn (35 page)

Brave
.

The word hangs in the air for a moment and then falls away, almost like even it knows it has no business being used to describe me. I’m not brave. I’m scared. I’m so freakin’ scared, I can’t see straight, and I can’t see straight because I’m too scared to look very far. I’m a train wreck. All I’m doing is trying to hold on to what I have left. Only I’m not sure what that is. When I say nothing, she laughs too loudly. “Well, you’re wearing your father’s favorite outfit, so just pretend it’s a superhero costume.”

That makes me laugh. I glance down at my favorite boots—black leather covered in metal studs. My ass-kicking boots. Ever since Dad married Kristie, Mom lets me get away with anything that pisses him off, and wow does he hate how I dress.

“Grace, if you feel the pressure in your chest again, take a deep breath, hold it, and count. Concentrating on counting helps keep your mind from spiraling into panic.”

“Yeah. Okay.” But I’m not at all convinced. “I missed most of first period.”

“Skip it. Don’t worry about getting in trouble. Where are you now?”

“Bathroom.”

“Why don’t you go to the library? Relax and regroup, you know?”

Regroup. Sure. Okay. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

“If you need me to get you, I’ll come. Okay?”

I meet my own gaze in the mirror, disgusted to see them fill with tears. Jeez, you’d think I’d be empty by now. “Thanks, Mom.” I end the call, tuck the phone in my pocket, and head for the library.

The library is my favorite spot in the whole school. Two floors of books, rows of computers, soft chairs to slouch in. I head for the nonfiction section and find the 770s. This is where the photography books live—my stack. I run a finger along the spines and find the first book I ever opened on the subject—
A
History
of
Photography
.

I pull the book off its shelf, curl up with it in a chair near a window, and flip open the back cover. My signature is scrawled on the checkout card so many times now that we’re old friends. I know how this book smells—a little like cut grass. How it feels—the pages are thick and glossy. And even where every one of its scars lives—the coffee ring on page 213 and the dog-eared corner in chapter 11. This is the book that said, “Grace, you
are
a photographer.”

I flip through the pages, reread the section on high-key technique—I love how that sounds.
High-key.
So professional. It’s really just great big fields of bright white filled with a splash of color or sometimes only shadow. I took hundreds of pictures this way—of Miranda, of Lindsay, of me. I practiced adjusting aperture settings and shutter speeds and overexposing backgrounds. It’s cool how even the simplest subjects look calm and cheerful. It’s like the extra light forces us to see the beauty and the flaws we never noticed.

I unzip my backpack and take out the school’s digital camera. It’s assigned to me—official student newspaper photographer. I scroll through the images stored on the card—selfies I shot over the last few weeks. Why can’t everybody see what I see? My eyes don’t sparkle. My lips don’t curve anymore. Why don’t they
see
?

I shove the camera back in my bag. With a sigh, I close the book, and a slip of paper floats to the floor. I pick it up, unfold it, and my stomach twists when I read the words printed on it. A noise startles me, and I look up to see Tyler Embery standing at one of the computers. Did he slip this paper into my favorite book? He’s had a painfully obvious crush on me forever. Every time he gets within five feet of me, his face flushes and sweat beads at his hairline. Tyler volunteers at the library during his free periods and always flags me over to give me the latest issue of
Shutterbug
that he sets aside for me as soon as it arrives. He grabs something off the desk and walks over to me. I smile, thankful there’s still one person left in this world that doesn’t think Zac McMahon is the second coming of Christ. But Tyler’s not holding a magazine. He’s holding his phone.

“Six-eighty-three.” There’s no blush, no sweat—only disgust.

I jerk like he just punched me. I guess in a way he has. He turns, heads to the magazine rack, and places this month’s issue, in its clear plastic cover, face out, in a subtle
fuck
you
only I’d notice. I stuff the paper into my backpack and hurry to the exit just as the bell rings.

I make it to the end of the day. At dismissal I make damn sure I’m early for the bus ride home so I can snag an empty row. I plug in my earbuds to drown out the taunts.
It’s not so bad
, I tell myself repeatedly, the taste of tears at the back of my throat familiar now. I don’t believe me.

Once safely back in my house, I let my shoulders sag and take my first easy breath of the day. The house is empty and eerie, and I wonder how to fill the hours until Mom gets home. Thirty-two days ago I’d have been hanging out after school with Miranda and Lindsay or shopping at the mall or trying to find the perfect action photo at one of the games. In my room, I stare at the mirror over my dresser, where dozens of photos are taped—photos of me with my friends, me with my dad, me at dance class. I’m not welcome at any of these places, by any of these people anymore. I don’t have a damn thing because Zac McMahon took it all. I think about Mom killing all of my online accounts and switching phones
just
until
things
settle.
But now that the video of me that Zac posted on Facebook has 683 Likes, it’s pretty clear that waiting for
things
to
settle
is a fantasy.

I rip all the pictures off the mirror, tear them into tiny pieces, and swipe them into the trash bin next to my desk. Then I pull out the slip of paper I found in the photography book, and after a few minutes of staring at it, I dial the number with shaking hands.

“Rape Crisis Hotline, this is Diane. Let me help you.”

SEND

Patty Blount

All Daniel Ellison wants is to be invisible.

It’s been five years since he clicked Send, five years since his life made sense. Now he has a second chance in a new town where nobody knows who he is. Or what he’s done. But on his first day at school, Dan sees a kid being picked on. And instead of turning away like everyone else, he breaks it up. Because Dan knows what it’s like to be terrorized by a bully—he used to be one.

Now the whole school thinks he’s some kind of hero—except Julie Murphy. She looks at him like she knows he has a secret. Like she knows his name isn’t really Daniel.

TMI

Patty Blount

Best friends don’t lie. Best friends don’t ditch you for a guy. Best friends don’t post your deepest, darkest secrets online.

Bailey’s falling head over heels for Ryder West, a mysterious gamer she met online. A guy she’s never met in person. Her best friend, Meg, doesn’t trust smooth-talking Ryder. He’s just a pictureless profile.

When Bailey starts blowing Meg off to spend more virtual quality time with her new crush, Meg decides it’s time to prove Ryder’s a phony. But one stupid little secret posted online turns into a friendship-destroying feud to answer the question: Who is Ryder West?

About the Author

Powered by way too much chocolate, Patty Blount loves to write. She’s written everything from technical information to poetry. After writing her first novel in an ice rink on a dare by her oldest son, Patty’s debut novel,
Send
, was the first in a series of Internet issues novels for teens. Patty adores happily-ever-afters and frequently suffers from a broken heart when her love affairs with fictional heroes keep getting ruined by real life. Patty is an RWA member and vice president of her local chapter, and when she’s not reading, writing, or volunteering, she likes to hang with her family in their Long Island home, even though it doesn’t have nearly enough bookshelves…or chocolate.

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