Chapters (53)
- Front Cover
- Letter from the Author
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- • One •
- • Two •
- • Three •
- • Four •
- • Five •
- • Six •
- • Seven •
- • Eight •
- • Nine •
- • Ten •
- • Eleven •
- • Twelve •
- • Thirteen •
- • Fourteen •
- • Fifteen •
- • Sixteen •
- • Seventeen •
- • Eighteen •
- • Nineteen •
- • Twenty •
- • Twenty-One •
- • Twenty-Two •
- • Twenty-Three •
- • Twenty-Four •
- • Twenty-Five •
- • Twenty-Six •
- • Twenty-Seven •
- • Twenty-Eight •
- • Twenty-Nine •
- • Thirty •
- • Thirty-One •
- • Thirty-Two •
- • Thirty-Three •
- • Thirty-Four •
- • Thirty-Five •
- • Thirty-Six •
- • Thirty-Seven •
- • Thirty-Eight •
- • ∞ •
- • Thirty-Nine •
- • Forty •
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Excerpt from Be Dazzled
- One
- Two
- About the Author
- Back Cover
So he kept it all to himself. And, just like Dr. Poesy had said, in the absence of his own telling, his story was taken up by others. The Hartford Courant ran a piece on the accident, promising a follow-up as the investigation progressed. They didn’t name Kane, but they didn’t have to. East Amity was small, the town going silent around Kane every time he left the house. People whispered and told their own stories. It had been a very awkward haircut.
The heat of the memory spurred Kane up and out of Sophia’s room. He found his mom downstairs in her office.
“Sophia says I look like a poodle that just joined the military.”
His mom considered him. There was no denying this. The barber had left Kane’s curls tufted on top and done their best to clean up the hair that had gone crispy around Kane’s burns, which were more prominent than ever.
“What about wearing a hat? You used to love to wear your grandmother’s beret.”
Kane shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be any gayer.
“Hmm. I don’t know, honey. I think you kind of look rock-and-roll, you know? Like, a tough guy. A tough-guy poodle.” She grinned. “Or should I say…a ruff guy.”
“That’s not funny, Mom.”
“Well, it certainly seemed to give you…paws.”
Kane tried not to laugh and failed. Things had been tense with his parents, too, and this moment felt like progress. They had tried everything to get him to open up, but when he simply didn’t, their warmth had cooled to firmer kind of love. Something like fear, actually. Moments of easy banter were rare, and Kane leapt at the opportunity to pretend nothing was wrong.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he said.
“That’s not really the right pun, Kane.”
He rolled his eyes. “Throw me a bone?”
“Better, but your jokes are a little far-fetched.”
“Mom, please. Do I have to go back to school looking like this?”
The question flipped her from Pun Mom into Clinical Psych Mom, which Kane was ready for; she taught psychology to freshman at St. Agnes, and these flips happened a lot more since the incident.
“While a haircut is not a good enough reason to not return to school, your father and I have been meaning to discuss the option of homeschooling with you. That is, if you feel like the pressure of returning would be a further distraction. Is that something you’d like to have a conversation about?”