In desperation, I called Aunt Lil. I told her about Brand New Day and my dark thoughts. I could hear the concern in her voice. She had made a few calls and gotten me wait-listed for a dozen high schools, but no luck. I told her I couldn’t wait much longer.

She called me back the next day with the last-minute audition for the School of Performing Arts. We planned my escape and here I am.

“Thank you,” I say now, “for saving my life.”

“You saved your own life, August.” She slides her phone in front of me. “But I decided you need to call your mom.”

I slide it away. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“You need to call your mom,” she repeats, sliding her phone in front of me.

I push it back. “How about you call her?”

“I already did.”

“You did?” I ask, surprised. That wasn’t part of the plan. She went off book.

Aunt Lil removes her glasses and cleans them with a napkin. “I’m a lot of things, my dear nephew, but I’m not a child thief. I hated the thought of your mother not knowing where you were. She needed to know you were safe.” That explains why my phone stopped buzzing around Times Square. Guess that’s when they talked. She continues, “And I had some news to share.”

“News?” I ask.

“August, Mr. Daniels called. You’re accepted into SPA.”

Everything in the room slows down. My head starts spinning. “I got in?”

“Yes,” she says, then kisses my forehead. I let the news sink in. I was accepted. I’m going to one of the top high schools for performing arts in the country. I want to remember this moment forever.

“I can’t believe it,” I finally manage to say.

“Believe it, buddy. I knew you would. You must have really impressed Mr. Daniels. You can start classes on Tuesday if . . .”

“If?” I ask.

“If your mom signs the transfer forms. So, we need her on the team.”

“Did you tell her I’m August now?” I ask, worried.

“No,” she says in a soft voice. I feel instantly relieved. “Call her, please.”

I pull my phone out—just as it starts ringing. It’s my mom. Is that a good sign or bad sign? “What do I say?” I ask Aunt Lil, freaked out.

She runs her hand through my hair. “You know what to say. You can do it, brave boy.”

I wish I could believe her. I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, sweet daughter.” She sounds relieved. That’s not like her. Good sign? Maybe the stress of a runaway child has changed her forever. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been about you? I have the entire church praying for your safety.”

And there’s my mom in all her religious glory. “I’m sorry, Mom, I really am.”