Chapter 1 - A Million Rainbows

“Oh my god. What the hell do you have on your face?” I brought a sleeve up and brushed the white crumbs from Charlie’s freckled cheeks. “What have you been eating?”

She shuffled her feet. Hitched up her backpack. “Saltines,” she mumbled.

“Saltines?” I sighed a gut-wrenching sigh that left my empty stomach feeling even more hollow than it already was.

I tucked a strand of Charlie’s copper ringlets behind her ear. “Give your teacher the folder, okay? I filled out the form for free breakfast and lunch. It’s the green one. Make sure she gets it. You’ll be able to eat. You gotta hurry, though.”

Charlie sulked. “Bree, I don’t want to go.”

I pulled in a deep breath, holding it tight while I steadied myself.

The hollow ache in my gut was no longer caused by hunger but was from a dreadful mix of annoyance and pity—and a whole lot of love—for this tiny person in pink.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, lifting my shoulders weakly. The weight of everything pulled them down, then moved to my chest, crushing me like a heavy bear.

And it was only the first day.

I knelt beside Charlie and met her big blue eyes, so full of love for me. So full of expectation and hope. She wanted me to rescue her, to get her out of it. I would if I could, but we would both have to face this day one way or another.

My knee dug uncomfortably into the concrete. A scramble of children and teachers and cars and moms surrounded us, but we were in our own world, like always, Charlie and me.

She was my sweet little sister, whom I looked nothing like.

Charlie was all cute with pale, rosy skin and freckles, and a pile of red hair tumbling in curls over her petite frame. I wasn’t quite so cute with stick-straight brown hair, mud-puddle eyes, and sun-kissed skin, towering at a solid five foot nine since at least the sixth grade.

We had one thing in common, though—dads who split, and a mom who drove them away.

She touched the scar on her lip, barely visible. It pinched her top lip, pulling it up a little, making her strawberry pout even cuter. She’d been born with a cleft lip. Charlie, in fact, had been born with a lot of things that made her special—unique, I should say—and this scar always reminded me of that.

“Mia says I look funny,” she said with a wriggle.

“Mia? She’s in your reading class, right?” If I was remembering correctly, this was the same Mia, a first-grade autistic girl, who also once told Charlie she had angel hair.

Charlie nodded.

I sighed. “Look, Mia didn’t mean anything by it. You know that.”

“Is she right, though? Does it make me look funny?”

I met Charlie’s baby blues. “No. It doesn’t make you look funny. It makes you look strong. Like a badass.” I winked at her, giving her scar a playful tap.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And do you know how I know?” I turned my wrist up, revealing my small DIY tattoo—the Chinese symbol for strength. “Because I’m a badass, that’s how.”

Charlie nodded, but she was being quiet, her eyes on her sneakers.

She struggled with making friends at school. She was so shy around other people and kept to herself, becoming only a faint shadow of the bright bubbly Charlie I knew and loved.

I lifted her chin. “What do I always tell you?”

She covered her top lip with her bottom one, a nervous gesture that meant she was actually upset and not just trying to be difficult.

I took a deep breath. “I tell you to be yourself. It’s how you make the right friends. Okay?”

“But I don’t know how.”

“Pretend everybody is me, that’s how. Just act yourself … like you do in front of me.”

“Even the sixth sense stuff?”

I laughed. “No … geez. Not the sixth sense stuff.” I shook my head at her. “It’s probably best we keep that between you and me. Okay? It’s the one thing you need to keep to yourself. No one’s going to understand it. Trust me.”

Charlie readjusted her backpack. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay.” I wrapped her in a hug. “Charlie, you’ll be fine. Now go be a first grader.” I let go, taking a step back, and pointed her to the playground where the teachers were gathered, at the elderly lady with gray hair. “Your teacher, Mrs. Donavan, I had her when I was your age. She’s really nice.”

Charlie twisted around, spotting her teacher. She turned back to me and lunged forward, wrapping her arms around my legs. “Bye, Bree.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you after school, all right?”

“The park!” She clapped her hands, a gleeful smile turning her pout around.

“Sure, we’ll go to the park.”

“I’m gonna try again,” she informed me.

“I know.”

I pushed her forward and waited until she was among the pool of teachers and students before turning to go.

Our city, Ellis, Maine, was a small, old, New England mill city nestled along a river. Ellis was so small, even rural in parts, no one would ever actually call it a city, and no one ever did. We were townsfolk, through and through.

All the ancient brick school buildings were still in use, and they were all clustered together in the same vicinity, making my school, Ellis High, just a football throw behind the elementary. Not a far walk, but that didn’t matter—I was already late.

I stepped onto the sidewalk with my dingy sneakers. I had my tattoo and my faded jeans with matching holes on both knees, pulling the look together with an old ratty Beatles T-shirt (likely not even vintage) I scored at Goodwill. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. I did my best to make it work, but everyone knew my style wasn’t a fashion choice—it was the truth.

I tried not to let it get to me; I did. But I was coming up on another fresh school year, and the taste of envy was strong as I thought of the popular kids with their perfectly polished nails and smiles, wearing brand new clothes probably washed in Tide. They were always so clean, so put together, and smelling like they had roses shoved up their butts. It infuriated and fascinated me at the same time. They were like goddamn sculptures, painstakingly chiseled to perfection. I didn’t even understand how they managed it.

I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. It was never worth the soul-shattering heartache, not when I had a million other things waiting in line to hit me with a sledgehammer.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Because my life, my status, the holes in both the knees and pockets of my jeans were temporary. I had a plan for my future. Mine, and Charlie’s. And that plan included some rose petals of my own—a whole bouquet of them.

I wasn’t going to let this rough patch that was my childhood deter me from that future.

Focusing on things I couldn’t change right now was useless, so I focused on the things that I could, which included staying on top of everything, my grades, my emotions, my hope …

Especially my hope.

That was the hardest one.

Once upon a time, I was a bubble of hope, so full, so close to bursting. But reality was setting in, and that hope was fading. And I was starting my senior year desperately clinging to what was left of it.

I clung to it because I needed to believe that my life could be better. That if you wanted it bad enough, you could make anything happen. I needed that hope to keep me going.

It was the only thing keeping me going.

I took a steadying breath and pressed the buzzer at the school’s entrance. The door clicked unlocked, and I opened it.

“Hold up!”

Kyle Roberts, one of those rose-smelling museum pieces, was running up the sidewalk toward me.

He was one of the perfectly beautiful ones with his sandy blond hair, salon cut, and perfectly tousled at the top where it was longer like he wasn’t trying—sure. His clothes looked like he’d grabbed them right off the mannequin at Aeropostale, and his Nikes were as bright as the moon.

He had annoyingly perfect skin, too. Gorgeously golden tan with no blemishes—none. And he even had cute dimples when he smiled.

And he was always happy and smiling. But why wouldn’t he be? He had everything, and that included the confidence and charm to go with it.

I waited with my foot in the door, my head bowed, hoping to God that Kyle wasn’t somehow gifted like Charlie was. When you had Charlie as a sister, you let these crazy notions enter your head. She made me believe anything was possible, and I’d be completely mortified if Kyle were reading my mind right now.

“Hey, thanks, Bree,” he said, taking hold of the door, thankfully not noticing the sunset that was painting my face.

I shoved aside as he entered, a little taken aback that he even remembered my name. The last time Kyle and I spoke we were swapping glue sticks in kindergarten.

“My mom’s car wouldn’t start. She made me walk,” Kyle said, talking to me like we were friends.

I stared at Kyle, my brain short-circuiting, trying to find its way around the sarcastic comment about a rich kid with car problems. Nothing else was coming to me.

I tossed the rude thoughts aside and offered what I hoped looked like a sympathetic smile. But this interaction with Kyle felt so foreign, and I think I was just making things awkward.

His stiff smile back confirmed that.

“Mr. Roberts … Miss Dover,” The office lady called from her spot behind the glass partition that divided the office and the atrium Kyle and I were standing in.

We huddled together near the small opening in the glass. The Tide from his clothes, or maybe it was just his natural God-given scent, drifted sweetly to my nose. I hugged my body, trying to put some space between us, knowing the only thing drifting over to Kyle was my shame and humiliation.

I pulled out a note, “written” and “signed” by my mom, handing it to Mrs. Torres. She was a middle-aged woman, overweight, probably from sitting behind a desk all day. Her skirt and blouse ensemble, though thoughtfully put together, was nothing fancy, just regular people’s clothes. And though she wasn’t ugly, she also wasn’t beautiful. We matched better and my nerves settled being next to someone who was a little more my equal.

“I had to help get my sister to school this morning,” I explained.

I was a straight-A student. I was just under the top of my class, hoping to get there this year. I was not a troublemaker. I was not late for school unless I had a good reason. The kids in this school didn’t know that, but Mrs. Torres did.

She was one of the sweeter office ladies, and I was always happy to have her answer the phone when my unpredictable home life forced me to call out. Mrs. Torres never asked why my mom wasn’t the one to make the call, and she never bugged me with too many questions. I sensed that was because she already knew the answers.

It was probably my clothes giving me away.

She folded my paper without question and signed a late pass for me. She then lowered her glasses and fixed a stern gaze on Kyle. “What’s your excuse?” She held out her hand, waiting for his note.

Kyle backpedaled. “Oh, I don’t have a note. My mom’s car wouldn’t start.”

Mrs. Torres lowered her glasses a notch, a doubtful gaze lingering on Kyle.

“What? It’s true.” He looked offended.

Mrs. Torres readjusted her glasses, exchanging a quick is-he-for-real look with me before turning back to Kyle. “Bring the note tomorrow, Mr. Roberts.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right, you two head on to class. Second period just rang.” She handed Kyle his pass.

I shuffled down the hall, annoyed I hadn’t made it before the bell. Walking into class after it started, with everyone looking at me, was the worst.

“The car really wouldn’t start,” said Kyle, who, for some reason, was still walking beside me and was still talking to me.

“Doesn’t your mom drive an Escalade? I knew she did because his mom dropped him off at school every morning and that car was hard to miss.

“Yeah,” huffed Kyle, “and she’s completely shit at upkeep. They do have batteries, you know?”

Ha—the perfect Kyle Roberts was letting little ol’ me get under his skin. It was too funny, and I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

Kyle laughed. “Happy to brighten your day there, Dover.”

I squinted curiously; no one called me that.

Kyle pulled his syllabus from his pocket. “The dreaded calculus,” he groaned. “I can’t believe I have to sit through another year of this shit. Just kill me now.” He brought a finger to his temple and pretended to shoot.

“Me too,” I mumbled, but this class was part of my plan, and I was coming in prepared, not ready to die over it yet.

“That’s right,” said Kyle. I guess now remembering we had always been in the same math class together, had been for the past three years. He smiled, his dimples popping into place. “You know, Lyndsay loses her shit when you’re first to finish a test.”

I knew Lyndsay Lewis was Kyle’s girlfriend. “She does?” This was news to me. I didn’t think I touched Lyndsay’s radar.

“Yeah, but that stays between us. Got that, Dover?” He flashed me a wink and turned into the classroom.

I entered behind him, wrapping my arms around myself while Kyle talked to Mr. Lord. I felt like a capital-L loser standing there in front of class. My cheeks, burning hot (probably all red and splotchy) making it worse.

Mr. Lord was a tall, lanky middle-aged man, who never spoke more than he needed to. He took our passes and nodded for us to sit.

I found a seat in the front of the class. I couldn’t see for shit, and Mom didn’t have the money or inclination to get me glasses, so I always sat in the front. What I wanted to do was sneak to the dark corner in the back and hide behind my textbook.

The clap of hands as Kyle was high-fived by his friends cut through the quiet room, revving my self-loathing to full throttle. He even surrounded himself with the best, smartest, and I could hear his girlfriend Lyndsay, the actual top of the class, laughing and whispering to him as he sat down.

I inwardly rolled my eyes, but outwardly slumped—as low as I could—in my seat.

My best friend, Emily, wasn’t in this class. I liked her because she was nice and quiet and reminded me of Charlie. She was more of an artist type, though, which was also like Charlie, and she struggled with math and was retaking algebra this year.

Mr. Lord resumed his lecture, silencing the chatter. I opened my textbook, pulled out a clean sheet of paper, and pulled the cap off my pen with my teeth.

Math came easily to me. It made sense when so much of the world around me didn’t. It was predictable, unchanging, and the only thing in this room that couldn’t judge me.