The Shape of Thunder

Dedication

For Lillian Nour and Juniper Lee, who ask big questions

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

One: Cora

Two: Quinn

Three: Cora

Four: Quinn

Five: Cora

Six: Quinn

Seven: Cora

Eight: Quinn

Nine: Cora

Ten: Quinn

Eleven: Cora

Twelve: Quinn

Thirteen: Cora

Fourteen: Quinn

Fifteen: Cora

Sixteen: Quinn

Seventeen: Cora

Eighteen: Quinn

Nineteen: Cora

Twenty: Quinn

Twenty-One: Cora

Twenty-Two: Quinn

Twenty-Three: Cora

Twenty-Four: Quinn

Twenty-Five: Cora

Twenty-Six: Quinn

Twenty-Seven: Cora

Twenty-Eight: Quinn

Twenty-Nine: Cora

Thirty: Quinn

Thirty-One: Cora

Thirty-Two: Quinn

Thirty-Three: Cora

Thirty-Four: Quinn

Thirty-Five: Cora

Thirty-Six: Quinn

Thirty-Seven: Cora

Thirty-Eight: Quinn

Author’s Note

Resources

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

Cora

I like learning things. Especially about math and science, because they help explain why the world is the way it is. A famous mathematician once said, “Mathematics is the music of reason.”

I’ve always believed that. The best thing about math is that it makes sense. The actual best thing about math is that everything adds up, all neat and in order.

Here’s what I know about the number twelve: Twelve is four times three. Twelve is six times two. Twelve is ten plus two. This is all simple math, right? Elementary school stuff. Reason and logic. Twelve is also two less than fourteen.

Fourteen is how old Mabel was when she died.

I am twelve today. Someday in the future I will be more than twelve plus two. I will become older than my older sister.

There is no music in that fact. There is absolutely no reason. It does not add up, all neat and in order.

“You ready, Corrie?” Dad asks as he slips on his navy windbreaker. Grams is standing beside him in her puffy red coat. It’s not even that cold outside, and she’s been wearing it for ten minutes already. Grams is always ready before everyone else.

“We really don’t have to go.”

“Of course we do.” Dad gives me a smile and I know it’s supposed to look encouraging, but I can see the sadness leaking out behind it.

“Don’t be silly,” Grams says, draping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close enough to her that I can smell her hair that always smells like lemons. Grams is the only person I know who washes their hair with a bar of soap instead of shampoo. “We always go to Pete’s.”

This is true. Going to Pete’s for birthdays has been a Hamed family tradition for as long as I can remember. We go—all four of us—Grams, Dad, Mabel, and me. We sit in the same back corner booth—the one with saggy cushions—and order chocolate milkshakes and an extra-large pizza. Whoever’s birthday it is gets to pick the pizza toppings.

For Mabel’s, we’d always get barbecue chicken. Dad usually picks veggie, though I think he only does that because he’s always trying to get everyone to eat more vegetables. (When Mabel and I were younger, he printed off a copy of a nutrition guide, circled the vegetable and fruits section, and hung it up on our wall—Mabel let it stay for a day, before ripping it down and replacing it with a picture of a rainbow she’d drawn at school.) Grams usually chooses whatever the monthly special is, and me? I pick cheese. Mabel used to say that cheese was boring, and well, the truth is, I’m a little bit boring.