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Cruel Illusions

Margie Fuston
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. CHAPTER 1
  5. CHAPTER 2
  6. CHAPTER 3
  7. CHAPTER 4
  8. CHAPTER 5
  9. CHAPTER 6
  10. CHAPTER 7
  11. CHAPTER 8
  12. CHAPTER 9
  13. CHAPTER 10
  14. CHAPTER 11
  15. CHAPTER 12
  16. CHAPTER 13
  17. CHAPTER 14
  18. CHAPTER 15
  19. CHAPTER 16
  20. CHAPTER 17
  21. CHAPTER 18
  22. CHAPTER 19
  23. CHAPTER 20
  24. CHAPTER 21
  25. CHAPTER 22
  26. CHAPTER 23
  27. CHAPTER 24
  28. CHAPTER 25
  29. CHAPTER 26
  30. CHAPTER 27
  31. CHAPTER 28
  32. CHAPTER 29
  33. CHAPTER 30
  34. CHAPTER 31
  35. CHAPTER 32
  36. CHAPTER 33
  37. CHAPTER 34
  38. CHAPTER 35
  39. CHAPTER 36
  40. CHAPTER 37
  41. CHAPTER 38
  42. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  43. More from the Author
  44. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cover

Cover: Cruel Illusions, by Margie Fuston

Cruel Illusions

Margie Fuston

Author of Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things

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Title Page

Cruel Illusions, by Margie Fuston, Margaret K. McElderry Books

Dedication

For Lucas, who’s the best storyteller I know

CHAPTER 1

I always stop for lost-pet flyers. I can’t stand the thought of animals out on the street when they have a home and a family waiting for them. This one’s a cat, and even though the paper’s yellowed from the sun and the ink’s smeared from the rain, I memorize the gray stripes and the name: Suzy.

Maybe Suzy’s already back home.

Still, I dig a pen out of my backpack and write the number on my wrist, where I’m less likely to wash it off. I’ve found a missing pet only once, but I remember the way the little dog squirmed in my arms when we reached his door and the way his owners almost cried and then hugged me like you would a long-lost relative—they gave me twenty bucks, too.

Sometimes I wish I could post a flyer and have a kind stranger show up at my door and give me back everything I’ve ever lost.

But most lost things never come back.

My hand drifts to the four quarters I always keep in my pocket. I pull them out and fan them between my fingers, blinking them away almost as quick. I give a bow to a watching squirrel. It turns and runs into the street, dodging a car just to escape my performance.

I smile. Magic reminds me of Mom and Dad. The good memories.

The bad one creeps in too. It never leaves, and this time of year, it’s all I can think about.

Shoving my quarters out of sight, I speed the hundred yards down the sidewalk. I take the stairs to my foster house two at a time and fumble with the lock on the red door while the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” runs through my head.

The hardwood floor creaks as I enter. No matter where I go, this house speaks to me with every step. Even when I’m not moving, when I lie in bed staring at the notches in the wooden beam dividing the ceiling, it groans and whispers as it stretches its worn joints. It has too many stories to tell to stay silent. I love to listen to them, especially at night when everyone else is asleep.