When I was done making copies, I put my hand on the glass and made a single copy of my palm. I looked at the lines, wished I knew how to read them. I wanted to know what my future was, because in that moment, I could not imagine a future at all. I could not imagine how in the world I would keep this secret for the rest of my life. But I knew I would. And even then, sixteen years old, I knew that I would hate every person in my life who loved me, who took care of me, who helped me find a way to whatever life I would have, because I could never tell them who I was, what I’d done.

Mazzy Brower

MAZZY CALLED AGAIN A FEW DAYS LATER, AND I ANSWERED IT.

“Okay,” I told her.

“Okay?”

“I’ll talk to you. I’ll tell you.”

“Wow . . . well, thank you, Frankie. This is a good thing, I promise. I’ll do this in a way that honors your story.”

“Okay,” I told her. “I have to go.”

“Wait, just . . . why did you say yes?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” I said. “Mostly I’m tired. I’ve been feeling a little crazy ever since you called. And I figured it would only get worse. Maybe I want to say it out loud and prove that I didn’t make all of it up. I don’t know. But something like that, I guess.”

“When can I talk—” she started to ask, but I hung up the phone.

I was so close to the end. Not the end of the story, of course, because that would keep going, on a loop, forever. But I was getting close to the end of it being a secret. I wanted to go to bed, but it was ten in the morning. There were dishes to wash, a book that I wasn’t writing, box tops I needed to cut out for Junie’s school. But I went to bed. I got right back into bed, and I let myself dream about that summer.

Twelve

AT FOUR O’CLOCK, I COULDN’T STAND IT ANY LONGER, AND I drove over to Zeke’s grandmother’s house. I had filled my backpack with the posters, as if I couldn’t function unless they were close to me. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I pounded and pounded, yelling for Zeke, and then I went around the house and climbed the steps to the back porch. As I peered through the glass of the door, I saw him, crouched in the hallway.

“Zeke!” I said. “Can you talk?”

He shook his head, but I wouldn’t leave. He had to know that I wouldn’t leave. “Zeke! What the fuck?” I yelled, and then he finally came outside, closing the door quietly behind him.