With a sigh, she turned to Dad. “Arthur, maybe we should just let him try it. It’s his first day. If being with Beverly will help him get settled in, maybe we can make an exception.” Her voice was gentle but firm, a quiet plea of her own.

Dad’s brows shot up. “You’re actually going to let him do this?”

“He’s not asking for much,” she reasoned. “Just to start with Beverly. We can always reassess after the first week. He needs to feel comfortable.”

Dad opened his mouth to argue, but something in Mom’s tone stopped him. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before running it through his hair.

A sure sign he was caving.

Blake and I both held our breath.

Finally, Dad let out a resigned sigh. “Alright,” he muttered, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was agreeing to.

Blake’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.”

They both smiled, satisfied with their decision, and the second their attention shifted, Blake shot me a sly wink.

Yeah, he knew exactly what he was doing.

4

BLAKE, 1994

13 years old

I knew I was being unreasonable.

I knew that being a year older than Beverly meant we couldn’t be in the same class. Rules were rules, and no amount of pleading could change the fact that grade levels were rigid, separated by a clear, immovable line. No amount of logic could alter that reality, and logic was something I respected. It was how I made sense of the world, how I measured what was worth my energy. So I knew there was no rational excuse for digging my heels in the way I was.

Logic told me I had to accept it.

But logic couldn’t stop my stomach from twisting violently at the thought of stepping into class alone.

It wasn’t fear; I knew that much. It wasn’t the classrooms or the teachers or even the students that made my pulse quicken. I wasn’t intimidated by new faces. I wasn’t worried about making friends, about whether I’d fit in. I wasn’t even worried about the teasing that I knew was inevitable.

What bothered me—what had been gnawing at me all summer—was the idea of being untethered.

Back in the foster care system, I had mastered the art of being invisible. Staying quiet, staying out of the way, never giving anyone a reason to look at me too long or ask too many questions. I had learned how to blend in with the background, to sit in the corner of the room and become a shadow. It had been a survival skill.

But now?

Now, I wasn’t invisible.

Not to Mom and Dad. Not to Beverly.

And definitely not to so-called experts who dissected every move I made and every decision I came to.