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struggling against myself. My own art. I have two weeks to produce pieces that will outshine my own very best. I get up and go to the kitchen.
    "Dad?" He looks up at me, lowering his paper. "Do you still my old glassblowing equipment in the garage?"
    He purses his lips and nods. "Yes, I believe so. I didn't throw anything away. Why?"
    My mother has set a plate of scrambled eggs, fresh bread, and sausages on the counter next to my dad, and she points imperiously. I sit. "I've got a chance to beat out Marv and earn the Harrowgate nomination with some new work. He lied." It hits me then. I laugh. "Of course he lied. He doesn't have the contract with Harrowgate yet. He's just in the running. So if I can submit superior pieces, well, I can prevent him from selling my art."
    "Oh, honey," says my mother. "That's wonderful!"
    "Two weeks?" My father looks skeptical.
    I sigh. "I know. But I'm going to do my best. What other choice do I have?"
    My dad smiles. "No choice at all. That's my girl." He smoothes my hair, and I give him a weary smile.
    "OK, enough." My mother crosses her arms. "If you don't eat now, I'm sending you to your room."
    I laugh, and somehow, being here with my parents, my heart lifts a little higher.
     

Chapter 6
     
     
     
    After breakfast I grab my dad's bike and head into town. We live on the outskirts of Honeycomb Falls, on the east side of the Conway River, past the elementary school and right at the edge where the forest begins. It's a cool spring day, and the sunlight filters through the tree canopies and gives me a gentle, warm caress which alternates with the chill of the shadows. It's Saturday morning, and everybody is up and about. The last of the winter snow and ice is noticeable only in the few remaining icy berms that sit humped in the darkest shadows, but everywhere else the green is back, vibrant and amazing.
    I get a kick riding my dad's bike. It's how Drake, Dean and I used to get around until Dean bought his secondhand Camaro at the end of that last summer. We'd meet up on Bridge Street, then either head up into the hills to ditch our bikes and go hiking, or if the weather was right, head over to Lookout Pond for a swim.
    I'm partly riding around for the fun of it, but also because I need to find a studio. A place where I can work on my art, which is a tough call because I'll need to set up in record time, and few places have the right kind of layout to practice glassblowing safely. Houses are out. Office buildings are out. I need something old, something from Honeycomb Falls' industrial past, when a few large brick buildings were built alongside the Conway at the turn of the century.
    I hit Bridge Street, and can't help but smile. It hasn't changed at all. The morning sunlight illuminates the hand-painted sign of the Gypsy Cafe, and there's Tin Pan Alley, a red sign indicating the presence of Art's movie house at the back. I walk my bike along the sidewalk, nodding politely to folks as they pass, some carrying books, some cups of coffee, and one lucky kid a massive ice cream with three scoops balancing precariously atop his cone.
    It's good to be back. I've grown used to the tension of living in New York City, where life moves so quickly that I felt like I was diving into a rushing river every time I left my front door. You have to have a purpose in New York. You have to know where you're going, how you're going to get there, and what you're going to do when you arrive. Only tourists wander. Every local is on a mission, focused and moving fast.
    Not here. Honeycomb Falls seems to belong to a different era. People walk slowly, for one, and I have to consciously pare back my New-Yorker-quick stride. I see some old folks sitting on a sidewalk bench, just taking in the sun after the long winter. Every other store seems to be a gallery or hobby shop of some kind, and from somewhere comes the delicious smell of coffee.
    The road slopes down gently to the Conway River, and the new trestle bridge that