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“That's great that your parents are back together,” Duncan said finally.

“They were never apart,” I reminded him.

“It isn't so bad here,” Delilah said. “And there's a newspaper at Sandyland High.”

“Any good?” I asked, trying to work up some enthusiasm.

She paused, trying to find the perfect words. “It's embarrassingly amateurish,” she admitted. “And no one reads it.”

“But it would be better if you worked on it,” Duncan said, squeezing my hand.

My eyes filled with tears. Duncan was so sweet. Why wasn't that enough?

Someone pushed open the curtain that hung between the two “bedrooms.” It was the girl Leo had been dancing with, with the severe black hair and all the piercings.

She pointed her thumb toward the closed bathroom door. “Do you know who'th in there?” she lisped. Apparently, her tongue was pierced, too. Of course it was. “Becauth I've been waiting for, like, ever, and I've really got to take a pith.”

At that, the bathroom door opened, and she scurried inside. This was so different from the parties back home.

“I know moving's rough,” Duncan said, squeezing my hand. “But I really think you're going to like it here, G.G.”

The nickname, which I'd once found funny, suddenly depressed me even more.
I don't even get to keep my own name.

 

Duncan insisted on walking me home. But first he insisted on dancing with me. The boy could move, I'll give him that much. It was as if he absorbed the lights and music swirling around us, like they became a part of him.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. Ricki, that girl from the beach, wasn't there, but I caught the pierced “pith” girl shooting him glances, plus this tall girl with super-short brown hair and bright blue eyeglasses kept trying to cut in on me. Duncan just smiled at her and put his hands on my waist.

What would my real friends think if they could see me now? Would they even recognize me? Did I recognize myself?

Duncan slipped his hands around my back. I looped mine around his neck and looked into his bright green eyes. It was getting really hot in here.

We touched damp foreheads, his face so close that it looked like he had only one eye. He pulled me toward him and tilted his head to one side for nose clearance. His breath warmed my face.

I jerked my head to one side just before he reached my lips.

“Tell me your name,” I commanded into his ear. I needed to know who he was. Without a name, he wasn't quite real.

He stopped dancing. He took a step back. He shook his head once.

And then he walked me home.

 

“Where was Rose tonight?” I asked as we turned off Main Street. My ears were still rushing from the aftereffect of the music, like I was holding conch shells to my ears. My hand itched with the desire to be held, but Duncan kept his hands in his pockets.

He shrugged. “My house, probably.”

“So things are going good with your dad?”

He shook his head. “She just keeps stringing him along.” His shoulders pointed slightly forward, as if he were drawing into himself. The streetlights lit his profile. There was a slight bump in the end of his small nose. It suited him somehow, gave him even more character.

We passed the Sandyland Library and the Sandyland Town Hall. The quaint town gave way to dingy mini-marts and auto repair shops. A single car passed. Otherwise, we were alone.

“Will you be a sophomore this year?” I asked when the silence became unbearable. “Or a junior?”

“Sophomore,” he said. “They were gonna make me repeat freshman year, but then they figured it was best to just move me along or they'd never get rid of me.”

I forced a hollow laugh. “I'll be a sophomore, too. Maybe we'll be in some classes together.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and shook his head. “If you were going to be in honors classes at your old school, you know, the
really good one,
you'll be in honors classes here. You'll see a lot of Delilah—she's really smart. I'm in all the dumb classes.”

“Don't say that!” I said.
Just like Kyle Ziegenfuss, only cuter.

He shrugged. “That's what they are. Whatever. I don't show up much, anyway.”

My flip-flops seemed loud in the night silence. I chose my words carefully. “A learning disability is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Huh?” He squinted with confusion.

“I've had training,” I said. “In my peer leadership program. We went on this retreat last year, and they taught us some techniques. Like, there's this thing called a split page? You take a piece of paper and fold it in half, and then on one side you write—”

“I'm not learning disabled,” Duncan interrupted. Against my will, I imagined him writing,
I do note want too tok abowt this.

I thought back to my training. “Some people go their whole lives without being diagnosed. And they think they're stupid and they have all kinds of, like, self-esteem issues. But they're not stupid at all. It's just they have this problem with the wiring in their brains. So stuff gets jumbled sometimes, like maybe you're looking at the word “dog,” but your brain tells you you're seeing—”

“I am not learning disabled.”

“God,'” I said.

“I'm not!”

“No,” I explained. “‘God' is what you think you see when you read the word ‘dog.'”

He stopped on the sidewalk. “Dog: D-o-g. God: G-o-d.”

“That doesn't prove anything,” I said.

He sighed and closed his eyes. “I have been evaluated by”—he opened his eyes and looked at the night sky, counting—“four special ed people. No, wait. Five. That I can think of. And you know what they figured out?” He turned to face me. “I. Am not. Learning disabled.”

“Oh.” I crossed my arms over my chest. Against my will, I thought,
So, that means you're just stupid?

“I never should have left you a note,” he said, resuming his walk.

I blushed with shame. “Why?” I asked lamely.

He didn't answer, didn't say anything at all until we'd almost reached the grocery store. “It doesn't matter,” he said to the night. “I'm going to work on a fishing boat like my dad. When you're out in the middle of the ocean, it doesn't matter whether or not you can do fractions.”

Oh, God, he sucked at math, too?

“But what if that doesn't work out? What if you get, I don't know, nerve damage or something, and you can't handle the hooks?”

“Then I'm screwed.” He sighed. “But I'm not stupid.”

“Of course you're not!” I chirped. I really need to learn to fake things better.

“No, I'm serious,” he said. “They tested me for that, too. My
IQ is actually above average.” He caught my expression. “You don't have to look so surprised.”

“I guess I just don't understand….”

“I've moved a lot,” he said. “And sometimes my dad took a while getting me enrolled in school. And sometimes he was working and he thought I was in school but I was caught up in doing something more important. Like sleeping. And sometimes I went to school but just didn't go to class.” We'd reached a big blue mailbox. He leaned against it. “There's just no point anymore. I'm too far behind.”

A strange feeling surged through me. Hope? Sympathy? I couldn't quite identify it. “I can help you! We can work together, get you caught up.”

“Delilah already tried it,” he said.

“For how long?”

“I don't know. A couple of weeks? She gave up.”

“I wouldn't give up.”

“If you want,” he mumbled. “But I don't even know how much longer I'll be living here.”

I froze. How ironic if I moved here just as Duncan left. How sad.

“We'll just have to work fast then,” I said.

If he moved, I'd deal with it. I'd just have to make the most of whatever time we had left together. And after that—what? Maybe I could tutor some other kids.

“Is there any kind of peer leadership program at your high school?” I asked. “Or student-to-student tutoring?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Don't think so.”

“There should be,” I said. “There was a whole group of us at
my old school. I really think we made a difference.”

“Maybe you can start a new program,” Duncan said softly.

“That's what I was just thinking!”

He kept his eyes on the ground. “That would look really good on your college application.” He had a new edge to his voice.

“That's not why I—” I swallowed. “I just want to help you.”

Whatever warm feeling had surged through me was gone now. We walked in silence the rest of the way. His hands stayed in his pockets. If he tried to kiss me good night, I'd let him. I wouldn't even ask his real name.

But he didn't try to kiss me. He didn't even try to shake my hand.

“See ya 'round,” he said. And then he was gone.

A
FTER
R
OLF, YOU WOULDN'T THINK
I'd be surprised when hot turned cold suddenly and without warning, like when you're standing in a steamy shower and someone flushes the toilet next door. Okay, that's going from cold to hot, but you know what I mean.

I tried to slip into the dark motel room without being heard, but my mother was sitting up in bed, waiting for me. “I know your curfew used to be midnight and it's only eleven fifty, but—”

“If you want to be able to track me down every second of the day, get me a cell phone,” I interrupted. I fished my camera out of my top drawer and retreated to the patio, which was the only place besides the bathroom that offered any privacy. At that moment, I'd forgive Lexie's betrayal if only she'd let me share her big house. That would show Duncan. I couldn't believe the way he'd pulled away from me. It wasn't my fault he couldn't spell. You'd think he'd give me some credit for being able to look beyond that.

It was bright on the patio. The lights were on timers. They'd shut off soon.

The camera, warm in my hands, chimed to life. Even with the patio light, the pictures on the little screen were easier to see than they'd been in daytime, the colors richer, the details more distinct. It didn't take long to find the window shot. There were the table and chairs, the painted trim. Outside was a shadowy tree branch, a hint of fog-touched sky. There was Ronald Young, grinning through the pane like a shining angel.

A ray of sunlight: that was Larry's explanation. And yes, it was weird to have something bad happen to Ronald Young after Francine Lunardi's death, but coincidences happen—as do lapses of attention. He was there and I just didn't notice him. It was the only thing that made sense.

The row of patio lights shut off with a loud click. The night was black, the moon covered with dense clouds. My camera screen glowed like a handful of embers, the colors sharper than ever without any surrounding light to dilute them. And that's when I saw it: Ronald Young wasn't simply brighter than the rest of the photograph, as if he were lit from within. Surrounding his slightly fuzzy edges was faint bluish light so subtle that it hadn't shown up on the printed picture.

Blood rushing in my ears, I thumbed back to the shot of Mrs. Lunardi in her pink bathrobe. Sure enough, she, too, had a fuzzy blue halo clinging to every edge.

The night swirled around me. People don't give off blue light. Ronald Young hadn't been a Peeping Tom any more than Francine Lunardi had strolled past me in her slippers.

What was going on? Had my camera foreseen their misfor
tune—or did it somehow cause it? Mrs. Lunardi had been ill for years; my camera had nothing to do with her death. But what about Ronald Young? If not for that truck, he'd be fine.

I couldn't handle this on my own. I bolted back into the room and out the front door, ignoring my mother's “Where are you going?”

From the parking lot, I scanned the road for Duncan. There was no sign of him. I hurried across the asphalt and onto the sidewalk. The streets seemed darker than when Duncan had walked me home, and the air was just as cold—especially without Duncan's brown sweatshirt to keep me warm. My flip-flops slowed me down. I traveled half a block toward town before realizing that Duncan would have been heading in the opposite direction: away from the ocean, toward the Valley View apartments.

I retreated back to Home Suite Home and continued past it, following the sidewalk to a murky tunnel under the freeway. Around me, the walls shook from cars passing overhead. The smell of urine burned my nose. I scurried through as quickly as I could, but when I emerged on the other side, the night sky seemed even blacker. Trees hung low, and clouds swallowed the moon.

At a fork in the road, I tried to remember which direction we'd taken to see the apartments. Did I even want to go there? The complex had been creepy in the daylight; at night it could be dangerous. Besides, I didn't even know Duncan's apartment number.

I paused on the cracked sidewalk, heart pounding, palms sweating. In my pocket, the camera sat warm and heavy, like something alive. What would happen if I snapped a picture here, on this deserted street? Would someone new turn up? I slid the
silver camera out of my pocket and turned it on, its chime tinny in the hushed air. Aiming for nothing but darkness, I clicked the shutter: nothing. Next, I snapped the cloud-covered moon, and at the mouth of the underpass I captured the silhouette of a tree. After each picture, I checked the screen, but there were no figures, no faces, only the sad shapes of a gloomy night.

On my way back through the underpass, I held my breath and tried to ignore the scratching sounds of small creatures scurrying around. By the time I reached the other side, the murky clouds had traveled beyond the almost-full moon, which lit up the sky like an enormous night-light. My pulse slowed. I sighed with relief. I aimed my camera at the man in the moon and snapped a picture as a gesture of appreciation.

 

My mother was sitting up in bed. “We'll get you a cell phone. But you need to be home by midnight.”

“Okay,” I said, as if I were giving her permission. And then, after a pause: “Sorry.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

I zipped my hot camera back into its case and placed it on the kitchen table. I didn't want it too close to me while I slept.

 

When I woke up the next morning, the camera was gone. Okay, truth: it was afternoon. But the camera was really gone. For a single, sweaty moment I thought it had been spirited away, but my mother, seeing my panicked expression, said, “Your dad took the camera. He wanted to take some pictures of the work site.”

“But I need it!” I croaked.

“
He
needs it,” my mother corrected, putting her empty coffee
mug in the little stainless steel sink. “They're having problems building a retaining wall, and your father had some ideas.” She looked me in the eye. “This could be a big deal for him.”

“What? He could be promoted from ditchdigger to wall builder?”

I regretted the words as soon as they were out (though my mother should have known better than to speak to me before I'd had my coffee). The crease between her eyebrows deepened to a near-canyon. “This is difficult for all of us.”

“My camera is the only thing I have left!”

“That's more than I have,” she said.

I was about to say she had about twenty ceramic roosters in a storage unit in Amerige, but I held it in, asking instead, “Where's Dad's job site? Because maybe I could walk down there, and if he's done taking his pictures, I could get my camera back.”

“No.” For added emphasis, she said it like it had two syllables: No-wah.

Aargh. I really wanted to show Delilah the blue lights, but there was no point arguing with my mother when she was like this. Actually, there was no point arguing with my mother most of the time.

She was dressed in regular clothes: a pale blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, and bright white sneakers. My mother cleans her sneakers in the washing machine.

“Aren't you working today?”

“It's my day off,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I hope that's okay with you.”

There was no way I was going to hang around that room. I put on my bathing suit and headed for Psychic Photo.

 

Delilah wasn't in the shop. Instead, Rose flitted around the room, arranging things on the shelves. There was a new crystals section, I noticed, right next to a photo album display.

“Hi, Madison.” Rose smiled as if she had been expecting me. In a simple white sundress, with her auburn haired pulled back in a tidy clip, she looked almost old enough to be a mom. Her ears, neck, and hands were free of jewelry, but she made up for it with an anklet and four silver toe rings.

“Going to the beach?” she asked.

For a moment, it freaked me out that she knew that without being told—but then I realized that my board shorts, bikini top, and beach bag may have tipped her off.

“Uh-huh. I thought Delilah might want to come with.”

“She's not big on the beach—burns too easily—but you can ask.” She gestured toward the back of the shop, which led to the stairs.

At the doorway I paused. “Did Delilah tell you that we figured out who the guy in the window picture was?”

“Leo did.” Her mouth twisted. “Delilah doesn't like to encourage me. At least Larry can calm down now that he knows that guy won't be hanging around.”

“Isn't it kind of a weird coincidence?” I said. “You know, that he got hurt right after showing up in my camera? And that Mrs. Lunardi died?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But coincidences happen. In my business, you have to admit that. Otherwise, people won't ever believe you.”

“But what if the lighting was weird in both pictures, like something I've never seen before? What if Francine Lunardi and Ronald Young both kind of…glowed?”

“Larry thinks it's just sunlight. He's probably right.”

“It's more than that,” I said, dropping the bomb. “I couldn't see it until I looked at my camera in the darkness, but the figures are surrounded by a blue light.”

She froze for a moment before asking, “Both of them?” I nodded and took a deep breath. “Francine Lunardi and Ronald Young weren't there when I took the pictures. I'm positive. There's something going on.”

She didn't say anything at first. And honestly? She didn't look all that surprised by what I'd said. Something flickered behind her eyes. “Do you want to tell Delilah or should I?”

 

It wasn't an easy sell.

“It was late morning. The sun was overhead.” Delilah sat on the couch in her apartment, knees drawn up to her chest.

“It's about the same time now,” I said, pointing to the window permanently shadowed by a cramped tree and the inn next door. “You see anything but shadows?”

She chewed her freckly lip. “Maybe the flash went off.”

“Then it would have reflected against the pane,” I said calmly. “And anyway, it wouldn't have turned their edges blue.”

“Where's the camera?”

“My dad has it.”

Oh, God. What if he deleted the pictures by accident? Then Delilah would never believe me. I was tempted to dash over to my dad's work site and reclaim the little Canon, but if my mother found out, she'd kill me.

Delilah caught me looking around the room. “He's not here.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Duncan,” she said. “He went out on the boat with his father this morning.”

“Oh,” I said. “Whatever.”

Footsteps sounded on the steps outside the apartment.

“Energy,” Rose said, bursting in.

“Who's watching the shop?” Delilah demanded.

Rose waved at the air. “We can leave it for a couple of minutes.” She plopped down on the floor and pretzeled her legs into what I think is called the Lotus position.

“Please don't launch into your energy routine,” Delilah moaned.

“What energy routine?” I asked.

Rose took a deep breath before speaking, her hands moving like a hula dancer's. “There's electric and magnetic energy all around us. We can't see it. Sometimes we feel it, but we attribute it to something else: a breeze, a virus, a cold front. In my work, I tune in to this energy, try to make some sense of it.”

“Can we just cut to the photo?” Delilah snapped.

Rose ignored her. “Sometimes energy trumps time and space. Time folds in on itself, and if you tap into the right energy and the right place, you can—”

“Don't say it,” Delilah moaned.

“So you think my camera is giving off energy?” I tried. “Making things happen?”

“No.” Hands on knees, chin tilted up, she paused for a moment before continuing. “I think it's just really…sensitive. I think it's picking up on energy that people—even sensitive ones like myself—can't detect.” She looked me straight in the eye. “I think your camera is seeing the future.”

“Her camera cannot see the future!” Delilah insisted, but she sounded more frightened than assured.

“It's seeing something,” Rose said.

“I've had the camera for two years, and nothing strange ever happened before the repair,” I said.

“It wasn't the repair,” Rose said. “It was the energy. The forces in the back room were off the charts the day you dropped off your camera. A night immersed in that kind of electromagnetism must have sharpened your camera's sensitivities.”

“But what if it happens again? What if someone else shows up?” I asked, suddenly afraid to take any more pictures. “Do I try to find the person? Do I warn them?”

“You have to,” Delilah said.

“I thought you didn't believe in this stuff,” I said. It came out wrong, like an accusation. In truth, I wanted Delilah to remain skeptical, to tell me the world made sense. It was one thing when I thought my little Canon could see ghosts. That was kind of fun. Now it had turned into an electronic Grim Reaper, and it was really starting to scare me.

“It wouldn't do any good,” Rose said from the floor. “The past, the present, the future—they're too intertwined. You can't stop the future because it's already happened.”

 

Delilah wasn't nearly as creeped out as I was. “You need to know that my mother is infantile, egocentric, and deluded,” she said, twisting the pole of her beach umbrella into the sand. She'd dressed for the beach in knee-length board shorts, a long-sleeve rash guard shirt, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. I'd never seen someone expose so little skin at the beach. It was
like she was Amish or something.

I rummaged through my beach bag and pulled out a bottle of store-brand sunscreen. “What your mom said made sense, though, didn't it?”

“No.” She popped up the umbrella. “That energy stuff is ridiculous.” She tilted her pale, freckled chin toward the sky and sighed with frustration. “I wish I could just sit in the sun like a normal person.”