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change who I am, either.
    I leave the sidewalk for a graveled road that leads to an older section of Nevada Bluff, then up a steep hill to the few farm houses that belonged to the original residents of the town. Perched on the top of the hill is our white three-story house. It’s not much to look at, and the plumbing is so ancient you have to flush twice. There’s no dishwasher, which is a tragedy in a house with six kids—well, seven kids if you count K.C., who sleeps in a room over the garage.
    The wooden gate creaks as I enter the yard, setting off the yapping of Mom’s pom-poo Sassy. Her barking sets off shouts of “Quiet, Sassy!” from inside the house. I recognize Dad’s voice and nerves knot in my stomach.
    Avoidance is my best—my only—defense. So I sneak around to the back and reach into thick ivy for the almost invisible string that dangles from my third story balcony. I yank on the string and a roll of fabric tumbles down into my hands. It’s a silken ladder, originally from Japan, but a great find in an antique shop for $4.99.
    A secret back way into the house.
    I climb up the swaying ladder, balancing carefully so I don’t fall. When I reach the balcony, I grasp the rail and heave myself over onto the wooden deck, which is old and in need of a paint job like the rest of the house. But the third floor is blissfully all mine. For the first time in my life I have a room to myself—practically a suite, with a large bedroom and kitchenette and bathroom. There’s no closet, only a large wardrobe, which is fine with me since it’s the reason my three sisters chose rooms on the second floor. My twin brothers are only five, so they share a room on the ground floor near my parents. And K.C. has a private apartment in the backyard garage.
    I roll the ladder back up and dangle the string down into the ivy before I go inside and toss my backpack on the floor. I stare at it for long minutes before finding the courage to reach inside for the letter. My parents are sure to come to me tonight for a grave discussion and I need to be prepared.
    Dear Minister Matthews,
    I’m writing to discuss the serious and alarming matter of your eldest daughter. As a parishioner of your church, I admire your dedication and hard work, but I am very concerned about Beth Ann. I am in close contact with teachers at Nevada Bluff High, so I am aware of the truth of her behavior. The issue is not only her shocking appearance, but her consistently rude treatment of authority figures as well as her classmates. She is a poor reflection on her parents—and on the Church of Everlasting Hope.
    Beth Ann, who insists on going by the crude name of Thorn, disregards rules and is in danger of failing at least one of her classes. She only associates with disorderly students. Her contempt for other students is evident in her refusal to volunteer for campus organizations.
    If I did not have such high respect for you, Minister Matthews, I would go straight to the Church’s board of directors with my concerns. But as a parent, I realize it’s a challenge to control a difficult teen. Still, you must control Beth Ann before irrevocable damage is done to your reputation and, by association, to the reputation of the church and its members.
    If Beth Ann’s behavior continues on its deteriorating course, I will have no choice but to recommend that the Church board of directors find a new minister. I would deeply regret having to do this, but it will be my duty.
    Sincerely, Your Concerned Friend
    The anonymous signature is a mask hiding a coward’s identity. The letter writer is no friend of my mother’s; it’s a bully wielding threats instead of fists. And the threat is clear. Either I give up everything goth, including my friends, or my mother loses her job. And with Dad out of work, Mom is the sole support for our large family.
    There’s a knock at my door.
    I shove the letter into