I shook my head again. The fact was, I didn’t have a single friend. Besides Darrell, an older kid who lived a few houses up from us on the circle. Sometimes he’d invite me over for a soda, or to see his motorcycle.

The counselor leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk. He was wearing a skinny purple tie. It matched the purple frame on his glasses. “What about the future? What do you dream about?”

“At night?” I asked. I didn’t mention how he’d just ended three of the last four sentences in prepositions. That would really bug Mrs. Spooner. She was also my language arts teacher.

“No, in general. What are your aspirations?”

I told him I wanted to fix my skin. Maybe that would help me find some “good buddies to lean on.” People were afraid I was contagious. Even the teachers never came too close. Well, besides Mrs. Spooner. The only person who actually liked my spots was Maisy. Ever since she was little she’d thought there was a map growing out through me. That I was the key to some treasure. Sometimes when Gloria said mean things, I’d find a tiny note on torn paper under my pillow. “You ar beeutifell.” Even though it was weird for Maisy to say that to her brother, I kept every one.

“What other things? What makes you happy, Rowan?”

I didn’t tell him my idea of getting on a train and going back to find Gran. Which was impossible now, because Gran was dead. Instead I told the counselor about my dream of hitting a home run. Having that bat in my hands, swinging it as hard as I could, and striking the fat round ball out of the park. The crowd always leapt up from the stands and screamed and roared.

“Do you imagine that a lot?” he said.

“Yeah. I do. All the time.”

“Maybe we should start a team in September. Get uniforms. I could coach.”

I stared down at my hands. There was a neat white island over the bottom part of my thumb.

“The school might fund it.”

“Still,” I said. He thought I was worried about money. “I don’t think it’d work.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. I didn’t mention that in my dream I was the only one on the team. And I certainly didn’t mention that when I looked down at the bat it was often a blur of red. Bits of bone and broken teeth. Sometimes in my imagination the ball was just a ball, but most times it was a head. Sound of a melon smashing as the swinging bat tore it straight off. My stomach filling up with satisfaction.

Mrs. Spooner always told me I had a creative mind.