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reminded me of a different word, or a different expression on Dad’s face. I took a breath and said, “Casting me as a witch was the kindest thing that’s ever been done for me.”
    Nick frowned into the silence, but it wasn’t until we’d passed through the third block of Main Street and were turning up Ellison toward our part of the township that he asked, “Why?”
    I couldn’t look at him while I said it, so I turned to watch the broken brown stalks of old corn flashing past. The gray sky above made the stalks seem almost golden. “Because of my parents.” I paused, and when he remained silent, I assumed he understood. “I read for Lady Macbeth, but there’s a scene where she’s kind of lost it, and she keeps seeing blood all over her hands.” My shudder melted into the vibration of the racing car. “Stokes didn’t want me to have to go through that every performance. Not to mention at rehearsals. And if it was me onstage, nobody in the audience would be thinking about Macbeth or the play—they’d be thinking about my parents.” I licked my lips and looked back at my lap.
    Nick didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like there was anything that needed to be said.
    After another moment, the car slowed and pulled onto the crunching gravel of my driveway. I remembered ruining the white dust under my bloody fingers. If I won the lottery, the first thing I’d do would be to pave the road. Then I’d move to New Mexico.
NICHOLAS
    I stopped the convertible behind a Volkswagen Rabbit with a mess of stickers on the bumper and rear window. My Sebring’s engine ticked quietly, and I pulled out the keys while I read all the Rabbit’s stickers. Did people really still have SAVE THE WHALES bumper stickers? Answer: yep. And every Democratic presidential campaign sticker since Dukakis.
    Turning, I leaned my back on the door and hooked my knee up a little onto the seat. Still as stone except for the wind in her dark pixie hair, Silla stared at her hands where they clenched together in her lap. Where’d all the rings come from? They didn’t look like cheap crap from Claire’s or Hot Topic. The antique settings twisted in knot patterns and graceful swirls. I’d have bet that at least some of the jewels were real. I drew my gaze up her arms to her face. “Hey, so, Silla.”
    She slowly raised her head.
    “That your car?”
    Her lips parted as though it was the very last thing she’d expected. “Um. No, that would be Gram Judy. She’s rabid.” Silla smiled fondly.
    I wanted to ask her about Saturday night. If I’d imagined iton a dark, lonely night in a cemetery. She looked tired, though. And sad. And what if she said I was crazy? I touched her wrist. “How’s your finger?”
    “My finger?” She lifted it up, and then her eyelashes fluttered really fast. “Oh, um. That. It’s fine. I used peroxide, like you said.” She showed me the Band-Aid wrapped around the cut.
    “You should be more careful.” It wasn’t supposed to sound as condescending as it did. But the Band-Aid on her thumb reminded me so sharply of Mom.
    She moved suddenly, like she’d realized she was on fire, grabbing her backpack off the floor at her feet and opening the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
    I winced while her back was turned, realizing I’d probably scared her off by being a prick. “Sure, anytime. I’ll be at rehearsal most nights, I think.”
    “Oh, really?” She paused after shutting the door gently, and leaned in, maybe a little eagerly. Or I was imagining it. “I meant to ask what you were talking about with Stokes.”
    “I’m going to be on the stage crew.”
    Her smile widened, and was undeniably real. “Good.” Then the smile folded back under the quiet mask she was carrying around. “See you, Nick.”
    “Good night, Silla.” I forced myself not to wait until she’d gotten up the porch and into the house. Instead I fired the engine and zipped out onto the road.
SILLA
    From the porch, I listened to Nick