Later he would tell his father that it had all been because of the new girl. And Dad, Ryan knew, would understand. It was Mom who never got it.

“What are you doing, Ryan?” Mrs. McGirk asked, with the stupid look on her face that would cause children to abhor her for ages.

“I’m drawing a picture,” he replied.

Mrs. McGirk was new — just two years teaching pre-algebra — but Ryan already knew how she’d be judged by history. Reducing equations in search of the ever-elusive ‘x’, all the while with that stupid look on her face, like she was handing out the keys to the universe, and the ones who didn’t get it would rue the day.

“Is your picture in some way related to algebra?” Mrs. McGirk asked with a smirk, because of course she knew it wasn’t. Because that’s exactly how clever she was.

The new girl’s name was Michelle. She had arrived that morning and had immediately attracted everyone’s attention, for one reason and one reason only: she was beautiful.

The boys were in love with her and the girls already hated her, but it wouldn’t be that way for long. Eventually the only boys still in love with her would be the ones she hadn’t turned down, and the only girls who still hated her would be ones outside her circle of friends. But at the moment they were all anonymous, thirty-five thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, none more interesting than the other. But Ryan was about to change that.

Read the rest of this chapter »

The front room in the cabin by the lake was aglow with the light of early morning. Sunlight shot through gaps between the curtains, cutting long lines on the hardwood floor. Illuminated dust hung in the still, quiet air.

Jane was asleep on her side on a small sofa, her legs bent, her toes pressed against the armrest. The corner of a worn duvet was pulled up over her hip; the rest draped down the front of the sofa to the floor. Wearing only her panties and a sleeveless undershirt, she slept clutching herself against the chill. An empty wine bottle sat on a nearby end table; beside it, an empty glass.

Down the hallway in the large bedroom, Walker sat fully dressed in an upholstered armchair, his socked feet propped up on the bed he had not slept in. The air was filled with smoke, and between two fingers hung a cigarette, the latest of the dozen or so he’d smoked during the night. The pack, almost empty, was tucked away in his breast pocket.

Across the hall, in the other, smaller bedroom, slept Ryan, their twelve-year-old son. He had gone to bed early, before the wine drinking and cigarette smoking had begun in earnest. He had not heard the hushed, urgent argument that had kept Walker and Jane up until long past midnight, nor had he witnessed the final violent break that had split them into separate rooms. Ryan had slept soundly for hours. It would be some time before he would sleep so soundly again.

Read the rest of this chapter »