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says, “You know, Mom, Sylvia can really sing. She has a voice like yours once she gets going, with bells in it.”
    Auntie Sally is pleased with this news, and launches into the history of her singing career, unfortunately sidelined by motherhood, and how lessons really help when you have raw talent which sadly none of her own girls inherited. I don’t argue with her at all, or tell her I have no time for singing lessons. I’m just glad that Auntie Sally is so perfectly happy to ignore the fact that Brooklyn is fully tacked-up with bridle and saddle. There will be no news bulletin going to my parents about my doing a solo trail ride. Brooklyn has cooled enough that I give him a quick brush-over then leave him in his paddock. Fortunately Kansas is still nowhere to be found—she wouldn’t have been as easily fooled.
    It’s a miracle, but I’ve escaped getting into trouble. Except for the trouble that I’m in with myself, trying to control my brain and the image that I can’t erase.

chapter
seven
    Dad is in a better mood after work, which is not to say great. At least he’s not throwing things. He even volunteers to take me to the bike shop in the morning to talk to them about fixing my bike.
    â€œFixing it?” says Mom.
    â€œIt just needs a little straightening. It’s a perfectly good bike,” says Dad.
    â€œIt’s a perfectly good twisted metal sculpture,” says Mom.
    I hate it when this happens, when something I’ve done becomes the focus of one of my parents’ arguments. Though even if I wasn’t around, they’d have lots to disagree about, they wouldn’t exactly go back to being a happy romantic couple. They are always disagreeing on money for one thing. Dad says it’s what comes of him being a saver who’s married a spender. Mom says it’s what comes from her marrying a total cheapskate. It usually gets worse from there.
    I don’t have a great appetite at dinner. As much as I try not to, I can’t stop thinking about the big hairy creature with the big hairy breasts. I’m pushing the peas around on my plate hoping no one will notice that I’m not eating. Fat chance. My mom is always on the lookout for my developing an eating disorder.
    â€œEat up, Pumpkin,” she says. “There’s fruit salad for dessert.”
    I eat a pea. Mom reaches over and feels my forehead. I force myself to swallow a chunk of potato before she comes up with some sort of terminal diagnosis requiring quarantine in the house.
    â€œHow was school?” she asks.
    School. That was like an ice age ago. I try to remember, then give up and tell her it was fine.
    â€œMaybe she’s tired out from walking to school and back,” says Dad with a smug tone that makes me squirm.
    No one was home when Auntie Sally dropped me off. She promised not to tell.
    â€œYeah, that’s it,” I say, steadying myself. “I’m not used to walking.”
    â€œIt’s a good lesson for you then,” says Dad, tipping his head sagely.
    Oh brother. But I nod. “That’s right, Dad.” I’ll say anything that helps me get my bike back so I can spend time with Brooklyn and Kansas. Not that I can talk to Kansas about what I saw in the woods; she’d kill me for going off on my own like that. I wish there was someone I could talk to, and for some reason I think of Logan Losino and feel better. I’m even able to finish my dinner, then I go to my bedroom to do my homework. It’s Friday night and I have all weekend to finish it, but I’d rather keep Saturday and Sunday free for riding. Or bike shopping. Sigh.
    I don’t sleep very well that night. I don’t have any lucid dreams either.
    In the morning Dad and I head out to the bike store. He has a tee-time at the golf course at eleven, so he figures he has enough time if we stay organized and focused.
    He’s in a pretty good mood when we set