Last year I was still in elementary school. Last year I was a pirate for Halloween and Lottie was a parrot. Last year Mom didn’t have a boyfriend, and she and I went on a camping trip, and even though she complained and whined and said she’d never do it again, we did it. Last year I danced at the grad formal with Matthew, and we had knocked knees and laughed about how we couldn’t believe we were leaving that school where we’d grown up. But I’m not grown up. High school broke me. Lottie broke me. Aidan broke me. Paige and Breanne and the rest of the school broke me. Pete broke me. And so Dee came, and she turned me into a force, and here I am. One last, feeble kick to the locker, and I am done. I leave the school the way I came, my bag slung over my shoulder, a plan in place.

Chapter 29

29

It is Sunday.

Is this my last day? I don’t see it that way. Maybe it’s a new start. I am rattling with nervous energy. Like it’s the day before my birthday party, Christmas Eve, the first or the last day of school.

I got home to a dark and empty house last night. Mom had left me this note:

Stevie hon

Have a great weekend! We love you!

Mom and Reg xoxo

I took a pen and changed the “We” to “I” and scratched out Reg’s name.

This morning I have to do some digging around the garage.

This place is like the Stranger Things’ Upside Down version of the Makers’ Space: it is dark and disorganized, and it makes me nostalgic for my dad, because most of this shit is left over from him. It is like the treasure trove of a sloppy pirate, a general dumping ground for paint cans, buckets, gasoline, nails, screws, clamps, hand tools, electrical tools, paintbrushes, tires, grimy old canisters and toolboxes, pieces of cars, mysterious jars of metal objects, and firecrackers. And it’s the firecrackers I want. Those childlike dynamos of power are the perfect choice. I find an old paper bag of them. Varying sizes. I hold them in my hands, reading the names of them: Black Cat, Thunder King, Forced Entry, Happy Nut, Scarface. I choose a handful that will fit perfectly into my piece.

I find gunpowder, too, in a coffee can. I stir my finger into it and my stomach jumps. I put a little in an old baby food jar full of nails that I dump out. I might need it. To make a bigger bang.