chapter one

Sometimes, I forget.
In the beginning, I told myself that this would never happen, the way that everyone must. Once, I was convinced that I'd keep every detail stored in some harddrive inside of me, etched into my veins. I thought of my memory the same as my fingerprints: fixed, unique, inalterable.But you can forget anything, if you try hard enough. You can forget the words to your mother's favorite lullaby, the girl who sat next to you in your third grade class; your home phone number or your best friend's dog or how many quarters you got for your first missing tooth. For seconds or hours or however long my eyes will stay open, I can make myself believe that this is all I've ever known. I can forget.
But sometimes, I remember all too well.
Here is how it happens:
I am running faster than I have in seven years. My eyes are closed tight, but somehow they feel open, fluttering, caught in mid-blink. The poorly kept cement track at Rutherford B. Hayes school is quick to fade into damp, cushioned grass, sweet-smelling and soft under my feet. In the dream or memory or curse, I can hear his heavy breath behind me, quick, alarming pants. He had asthma, he'd always refused to take his medicine to run or play. I can almost see his crayon-streak hair and sparkling eyes, held tight in a squint. As we collide, as he speaks, as his face draws closer to mine, I can feel my hands shake, though I'm still running just as fast. I am caught in this dreamland of far away and long ago until Noah's cloudy voice gives way to the very sharp and very real applause and whistles of the gym teachers.
As soon as the noise reaches my ears, the fantasy evaporates. I stop running abruptly, and my eyes open themselves before I even get around to thinking about it. When I turn my head and look behind me, most of my classmates are lagging a good twenty meters behind. The two P.E. teachers, Coach Ellison and Junior Coach Davis, stand by the sidelines and voice their excitement. The former beckons for me to come speak to him.
I would rather do almost anything than go have a chat with Coach Ellison.
Coach Ellison is six-two and all muscle, big ones. His arms are perpetually crossed, and the veins in his bulging biceps pulse when he yells, which is often. Sixty or eighty-three or however old he is, he’s still more imposing than any of the younger teachers or senior football stars, and it’s safe to assume that he could do significant damage to any one of them if he wanted to. He's calling my name now, or what he thinks it is, but his size is the last thing I’m worried about.
"Shephard!" he yells for the third time. He’s loud now; I can no longer pretend not to hear him, so I make my way over to the spot where he stands, by the water fountains. I jog as slowly as possible, cherishing a bit of hope that this will clear the ideas out of his head.
"Yeah, Coach?" I ask when I reach him. As an afterthought, I allow my arms to droop, take a huge swig of my water bottle, and try to appear out of breath.
If the look on his face is any indication- an elightened sort of bliss, as if he has just discovered the cure to cancer or the culprit behind global warming- he doesn't notice. "You did really well today," he says. When he speaks, he is without that warbly tone that the elderly usually have. His voice is strong, assertive. Just to listen to him, he could be younger than me.
I smile at him as graciously as I can and start to make a quick, quiet exit, but he keeps talking. "You were excellent, to tell the truth. Makes me wonder if you've been holding out on us these past few weeks."
He says it with a smile, but I can see that he's not joking, really. Anyone could see that.
I shrug, hopeless, searching for an excuse to explain my sudden (and completely accidental) show of comptency. "I'm not that fast, usually." I say. Coach Ellison raises his eyebrows, to make it clear that he doesn't truste me without actually saying anything. "It was probably some kind of adrenaline thing."
"Adrenaline." he stretches the word out in his old man's voice, shaking his head and laughing after. "Well, Miss Shephard, if any of your classmates did anything to scare you into running that fast, I think I need to hear about it."
My strangled attempt at laughing along with him isn't very convincing. "No, I was just sort of thinking- remembering something. I got a little carried away."
"Well, if you keep thinking like you were, I'm willing to bet you could take the girl's cross country team to State this year. They've been just a little shy of getting in for a few seasons, but you could be just the thing. A secret weapon."
At this, I have to try my hardest not to laugh. A secret weapon. I cannot think of anything more accurate.
"Practice started two weeks ago," he continues, "but when I tell Coach Amberly how you ran today, I'm sure she'll let you join a bit late. What do you think?"
"No." I say. It is an instant reaction; I've been waiting to let the word slip since he called me over here in the first place. Seeing the stricken look on his face, I backtrack a little, just to calm him down. That is important- keep everyone calm. If they start to worry about you, you have lost. "I just mean- I don't have the time after school, that's all. I'm taking three APs this semester. I'm really sorry."
He looks, for a few seconds, like he has accepted my answer, but then he starts back up again. "Shephard, come on. The captain this year is Vanessa Compton- you know who that is, don't you?"
Vanessa Compton is everywhere. On the announcements, on fliers for charity events, on Homecoming Court ballots. She's the senior who visits all of her favorite old teachers with homemade baked goods every other Thursday, and always waves when she passes the window. I've only been going to school here for a month, and while I try to avoid noticing people in general, Vanessa is impossible not to see. I nod, and the coach prattles on about her seventeen after-school comittments and the various positions of authority that she holds in each of them. I would find it vaguely creepy that he knows all of this about a student who as far as I can tell isn't even taking his class, but I knew most of that too. It's the way the girl is, the way she makes herself- known.
"Well," I say when he's done, glancing at the bleachers, "I'm really no Vanessa Compton, coach."
"Right," he says. "You are a much better runner."
It's becoming clear to me that I probably won't be able to win this argument the fair way. As we continue the way we have been, my excuses weaken and weaken. A simple I don't want to is shrugged off. My personal favorite, my parents won't let me, is protested heavily. Why, he asks, would a parent ever have a problem with their child improving upon their talent, maintaining physical fitness, and helping their school? I can't answer him on that one; I should have said the people masquerading as my parents. He wouldn't have questioned that.
If I try to reason my way out of this for much longer, it will be impossible not to attract attention. Already, Coach Ellison and I are being bombarded with strange looks. Those seem to follow me everywhere.
As I was at the last school, and the school before that, and so on until eternity, I am the Crazy New Girl. Everyone notices. There's something wrong with me. Hardly talks at lunch, winces every time the teacher says utters the phrase work with partners, and now she won't even join the freakin' track team? Clearly, a head job.
Coach Ellison goes on a bit about the importance of extracurriculars on a college applications, then pauses. He looks at me, expectant. He waits for my inevitable argument, which would have been more ridiculous than the last: I'm not going to college. I'm taking AP classes for the enjoyment of a challenge.
Funny, how that one woulnd't have been a lie.
I allow my voice to collect before I start, finding the right note. In my head, I can hear myself, though I haven't even opened my mouth. The sound is deep, rich, haunting. It's a beautiful voice. I don't say that because I'm cocky; I say that because it has to be.
The sound still just behind my tongue, I turn my back to most of the kids in the gym and lean forward a little, so it's just a whisper in his ear.
"Just forget about it."
His eyes go to glass, and I flee the room.
-x-x-x-
After a five-minute struggle with my locker, I head for the exit of the school. It is relatively small, Rutherford Birchard Hayes High, but beyond the front lobby is an enormous atrium, which is always freezing cold. The less outdoorsy- and, I have to assume, less popular- kids tend to lurk there while they wait for their parents. The huge glass walls act as a two-way miror: the people outside are visible behind them, but they appear as merely reflections from the other side. As usual, there are a couple of guys trying to drive everyone outside crazy by knocking on the walls and muttering at them through the glass.
I move past the other occupants of the atrium quickly: a couple making out in the corner, a group of girls who are always remarkably noisy (but in a pleasant way somehow), and a boy telling the kind of joke that you didn't really need to hear to know it was dirty. It's a shame to walk away so quickly-away from the interesting people and the cold, which is a sharp contrast from the natural climate- but I know this isn't where my sister will be.
Allyra is outside, and surrounded.
I can't help but smile as she pulls her books to her chest and nonchalantly declanes invitations to each of the weekend's parties. She grins at the cutest boys in the class as they try to entertain her and guess which one of them she wants to go to Homecoming with. After a few seconds, she catches my eye from across the courtyard and shrugs, apologizing with her trademark smile.
Instead of joining the frenzied circle of beautiful people, I sit down on the closest bench to wait for her. It's funny, watching her struggle between the need to get away and the (much stronger) desire to remain the center of attention. Funny and sad, and so familiar it could be the first episode of my favorite TV show.
If only Julian could see her now.
The first guideline that Allyra's father has always set for us, the most important, is that we remain anonymous. He makes certain that we are inconspicuous in every way possible- neutral clothes, no extracurriculars, no football games or parties. So that the money we have isn't too obvious, Allyra's shimmery blue convertible is restricted to weekend use; we walk to and from school. Every measure possible is taken to ensure that we don't draw attention to ourselves. But there's a flaw in the plan, one that Allyra shines so bright that the sun practically has to shield it's eyes to look at her, and a plain sweater and a curfew can't do much to cover that up.
She's pretty, I guess, is the start of her appeal. Pretty in a unique way- long, curly hair the color of honey; hazel eyes that turn up at the ends; curves in all the right places and none of the wrong ones. But she isn't too pretty, not better-looking than most of the popular girls, so they don't see her as a threat (and therefore the ho-bitch-skank that every boy they know must be protected from).
She is clever. Sarcastic. She says what she thinks, and she's usually right. People like her, genuinely like her, and she can't help it but she would never want to.
She spends another three or four minutes with her friends before she glances at me and nods, a signal that she is wrapping things up. I watch her hug six or seven of the people around her, who shout bye and love you and call me later. One guy calls her by a suggestive but still cutesy nickname, and I can hardly manage to control my laughter.
"Love the title," I say as she reaches the bench and we start our trek towards the house. "Although I really feel I must ask what you did to attain such a nickname."
"Oh, God. That was Jackson. He's such a neanderthal," she rolls her eyes and shakes her head like they all disgust her, but her involuntary smile doesn't fade. "Sorry I took so long over there. There's this huge party Saturday, so they're all really excited. They were trying to get me to agree to go." The curve of her mouth is starting to give now. She's a milimeter less happy every five seconds. "It's at this guy Ethan's house- he's really rich, I guess, and his dad's apparently been a total wreck of a drunk since his mom left, so they've got this huge wine cellar under their house, and then a ton of vodka and gin and whatever else that he won't even notice is gone because he'll think he took it all himself. Anyway, he's going away for the weekend, which he never does, so they're all going crazy. It's pretty ridiculous."
The way she says all of it is smart: focusing on the alchohol aspect, which doesn't appeal to her very much, maintaining the same tone of nonchalant disdain that is almost realistic. Or would be, if she were talking to anyone else. Allyra's an great actress, but I can see straight through her.
I look at her with half of a smirk, catch her eye, and look away, just to let her know that I don't believe her. She's silent for about twelve seconds, and then she glances at me and pouts. "Yeah, I really want to go."
"You could get there," I remind her, "Sneak out the window, or what-have-you. It wouldn't be the first time."
She smiles again, but only halfway, as a sign that she wants to change the subject. "So, apparently, you're on the verge of leading the Girl's Cross Country team to state victory for the first time in nine years.
"Oh, yeah. The Coach has been training me; pulling me out of class for extra practice seconds. Don't talk too much, though, becasue we don't want word to get out. I'm their secret weapon." I have to throw in the last bit of authenticity. It is too priceless not to include.
Allyra snorts, which only she can do while maintaining any level of grace and dignity. "If only they knew."
She doesn't inquire into the actual story about the track coach: she can tell that I don't want to go into it, and while she would usually have no qualms about questioning me anyway, she backs off this time.
"So?" I ask, after a few minutes of silence, "Good day?"
Most of the time, this is a surefire way to get Allyra talking all the way home, but she waits a minute before responding. "Great," she says, finally. "I really like it here."
I don't think there are many people in this world who could sound as sad as she does, saying that sentence. She manages to smile, though, after a moment. I can tell she's tring to forget that we'll soon be leaving for yet another town, for another school and another house and another life. That's what it is for us: reincarnation.
Now, we're in Austin, Texas, which is one of the best places we've been to, definitely. The street that we walk down is lined with nice little shops, littered with people who all look pretty and southern and sweet. Allyra herself could have just stepped out of a postcard advertising the place: big hair, broad smile, cowboy boots and a denim mini-skirt. But then, Allyra fits in almost anywhere. You'd think it would be impossible to stand out and blend in all at once, but she does it to berfection. I've never achieved the kind of popularity that seems to be imprinted somwhere in her genitc code, but that probably has more to do with my unwillingness to be social than anything. Allyra usually spends a week or two trying to keep in the background, but by nature she's too outspken, too magnetic. She never stands much of a chance of remaining anonymous for long. Allyra cries ever time we leave a town, and while I try to calm her down, putting my arms around her shoulders and my sleeve over her eyes, I feel lucky. Charisma is a curse.
Just thinking that makes me laugh: who would know it better than me?
Allyra shots me a side-long glance, smirking. We're used to each other's idiosyncorcies, random bursts of sardonic laughter and all. "So, someone was asking about you today," she says. She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, just to gauge my reaction. She really does know me far too well.
"One of your friends?" I try not to give her the satisfaction of any over-the-top facial expressions, but she smiles anyway.
"More than one. You became an actual point of conversation. Apparently, you're pretty mysterious. They wanted to know all this random stuff about you, what you're like. They asked me if you wanted to come to the party on Friday."
This comes as a surprise. Usually, the not-talking method works perfectly to ensure that no one notices me. It's definitely never been directly responsivle for my invite to a party before. "You told them I wouldn't, right?"
Allyra shrugs. She only looks guilty for about half a second before the smile finds it's way back to her face. "No. I said I might be able to convince you to come with me." she glances at me, and, upon seeing the look of horror on my face, rolls her eyes. "You go to parties sometimes. I mean, you've been to at least... two, I think. Come on, it's going to be fun. Everyone wants you there."
"They don't know anyting about me. I'm pretty sure taht if they did, they would be really, really, really grateful that I elected not to show up."
"I'm talking about making conversation, not giving them a detailed autobiography," Allyra says. Of course she isn't. Details are dangerous. "People would like you, you know, if they didn't think you were that girl from The Quiet."
"Don't you think that it might be a bad sing that they already think of me as a character in a horror movie?" I smile, but start to walk a little bit faster. The sooner we reach the house, the sooner this conversation comes to an end. "The people here are more perceptive than I would have thought."
"Oh, no, that was all me." She says, not the least bit discouraged.
"Damn it." I sigh, "I was kind of looking forward to that reputation. I could've had some fun with that one."
"If you come to the party, I will tell everyone you're actually a mute. I'll be your spokesperson." She jokes. We round the corner onto a street of huge, million-dollar white houses, one of which is ours.
"Well, in that case, sure, of course I'll come."
Allyra beams, pulling my left side into a hug. "I knew you'd come around. You're the best."
I blink at her, not sure whether or not she's serious. "Sorry. That was my best friend, Sarcasm, talking. You remember her, right?"
She groans. "Yes, which is why you need some new ones. Aria, please? You have to get out more. You have to talk to people every once in awhile, at least. Converse, and whatnot. You're kind of out of practice. What if you forget how?"
Instead of responding to her, I open my mouth a few times, soundless. I allow a confused, horrified expression to spread over my face.
She doesn't find this at all amusing, which, given my lack of social skills, doesn't surprise me much. "Seriously, Aria. It's scary, the way you act somtimes. It makes me worry about you. I don't get how you can keep on living like this."
She stopes as we come closer to the driveway of our house; she isn't ready to give this conversation up yet, and we both know that noghitng important can be said inside those walls. I stare at the house while she stares at me, waiting for me to respond. In her rare serious moments, Allrya is impossible to look at.
The house is always beautiful, but this one is exceptional. It's the creamy color of acceptance letter envelopes and heavy stationary, a flushed shade of ivory. It's plantation-style, embellished with collumns, balconies that are all just for show. There's a widow's peak on the roof, even though the ocean is hundreds of miles away. The house itself doesn't really fit in with it's surroundings, which is maybe why it was chosen in the first place, subconciously. The windows are ornamented by deep blue shutters, all of which are snapped (and probably locked) shut. Of course. Heaven forbid anyone catch a glimpse of us.
Allyra says my name quitely and raches for my wrist, but I'm out of her grasp before she can say another word.
"Stop worrying," I say to her, walking past her down the drive-way. "I don't plan on it."

prologue

Noah chases me through swamps and streets and supermarkets, always steps behind. He is taller and stronger- big, he says, only he’s really one of the skinniest boys in his class- but I am quick. My dad calls me rabbit, because I told him bunnies were for storybooks and babies.
If I look behind me, Noah’s face makes me laugh. His hair is wet and redder than usual; it sticks flat to his forehead like lines of finger paint or magic marker. He squints his eyes up into nothing and keeps his mouth in a tiny little line, like he’s mad, only I can tell he’s not. I know everything about him. Probably.
His mouth is like that because he thinks he’s going to catch me today. He bet his sister Jasmine his whole soccer ball piggy bank, which I told him was a bad idea. But I know everything about him, and the first thing I’d tell anybody is that you can’t talk him out of anything, once he decides.
If he reached his hand out, he could grab my hair. It flies behind me like ribbon or Halloween streamers or smoke. If he wanted to, he could pull it between his fingers and drag me right down, easy. I probably would do that, but Noah would say it was cheating, and he’s not the cheating kind.
Noah Breyers is my best friend, even though I am seven and he is eight. Plus, he’s a boy, which means that people sing us kissing songs at recess and say our names like just one (noahandaria,ariaandnoah). Our parents and his sisters talk about how we’ll get married when we’re grown-up. They’re all crazy, our mamas and dads, and Noah’s sisters especially, but I don’t know if I’d ever marry anybody else.
I try to think of other things.
We’re on the sidewalk now, Noah and me, and the hard ground hurts my knees and makes slapping noises under our sneakers. It’s almost nighttime, and the street isn’t crowded, but there are other people here. I can’t see them right; they are blurs of bare summer legs and arms, high ponytails and flip-flops. They look nervous when they smile, stepping out of the way. I keep going as fast as I can. The playground is close now. I get to the elementary school and cut across the front lawn, stretch my legs as far as they will go. The stopping point is the swing set at the end of the recess yard. I look back at Noah again. His eyes are still squinted up and his face is all sweaty. Even though I am way ahead now, his mouth is still that tiny little line like he’s positive, like he knows that he’s going to win.
When I break through the wooden playground gate (it’s summer and we’re not supposed to be here), all I can think of is white dresses and valentine heart candy and Noah’s little line mouth. I blink as fast as I can to get the pictures out of my head. I’m still running, but I can’t concentrate. Noah and Aria, sitting in a tree.
In seconds, Noah and Aria are sitting on the ground, a tangle of arms and legs and one-sided laughter. For forever or what seems like it, Noah grins and laughs and shakes his sweaty head. His eyes are sparkly now. They always get that way when he’s glad about something. The color in Noah’s eyes is my very favorite and the color in mine is his. Maybe we are meant for each other.
Thinking this way is scarier than anything.
Noah stands up and pulls me to my feet. He wipes the leaves off his legs and looks at me.
“Are you okay? Did I knock you down too hard?” He says it like a joke, but I can tell that he’s worried.
“I’m fine.” I say. I cross my arms and stare at his dirty, knobby knees.
He smiles really big and says, “You’re mad.”
“Am not,” I kick at the dirt on the ground so some of it hits front of his Converse high tops. His mama got them a week ago, but the part that’s white in the box is already brown from soccer and mudpies and chases. “I don’t care.”
“You are really mad.” He is laughing. Noah always laughs when I feel like smacking him.
“So what if you beat me once?” I ask, quiet, ‘under my breath’. That’s what my mother calls it when I say stuff this way, but it doesn’t make much sense to me. “I win every single time.”
“Not this time,” he says. He steps closer to me. His face is right in front of mine and his breath is sweet from the Popsicles his mama gave us before we started running. His feet are in between mine, practically. I stare down at them- our shoes match, except for his are black and mine are red.
His mouth is in that same tiny line again when I look back up- the decided one.
(k-i-s-s-i-n-g)
I close my eyes as tight as they’ll go and wait. I’ve seen enough movies to know what comes next.
When nothing happens at all, I open them back up again to see him smiling, big and bright.
“I caught you."