Setting my mug on the ground, I texted her.

Don’t worry about last night. I still think you’re awesome.

After I hit send, I went in and refilled my coffee. It was properly hot now, and the taste was improved. I decided to take it up to my bedroom, where I’d left a half-finished novel I’d abandoned when I moved into the studio’s attic. Crawling into my soft bed, away from the mess and the smell of the main floor, I could feel myself relaxing. It was all going to be okay.

The sound of car doors slamming, wailing, and tense voices announced my family’s return. I snuggled deeper into my bed, not in the mood to deal with the sights, sounds, and smells that accompanied my new brother. I was pretty sure my parents were too exhausted to remember how many kids they had, so I’d be able to read my novel, drink my coffee, and wait for Freya’s response in peace.

“Low?” It was my dad’s voice, calling up the stairs. Dammit.

“Yeah?” I hollered back.

“Stop yelling,” I heard my mom admonish. “You’re upsetting Eckhart.” Sure enough, Eckhart’s cries had turned into frantic, hiccupping sobs. He was such a spaz. Dragging myself up, I went downstairs.

“What?” I asked, standing on the bottom step.

“This was on the front porch,” my dad said, pointing to a pile of stuff on the floor behind him. As my dad moved to the kitchen, I saw my sleeping bag, my pillow, half a package of cinnamon raisin bagels, and a white plastic garbage bag. I jumped off the step and opened the red drawstring top. Inside were my handmade pinch pots, smashed to smithereens.

I felt the color drain from my face (not that it ever had much color). Freya had found my camp and it had so enraged her that she’d destroyed months of painstaking work. I could visualize her tossing my tiny pots into the garbage bag and then smashing the whole thing on the ground. Or she might have thrown each of my handmade creations across the room, then swept the refuse into the sack. My legs trembled as I heard in my head her angry scream, heard the bisque clay breaking. In that moment, I hated her more than I’d hated anyone.

Gathering my belongings, I hurried back upstairs. My parents, absorbed by my malcontent brother, didn’t sense the hurt, anger, and betrayal consuming their eldest child. Alone in my room, those emotions gave way to another, more powerful one: fear. Freya hated me. She was cutting me out. My phone buzzed then, and I picked it up off the floor.

Stay away from me, stalker

It was from Freya.

24

Jamie

Autumn is not as spectacular in the temperate rain forests of the West Coast as it is in the deciduous forests in the east. Most of the trees here are conifers, but the few maple, beech, and birch trees seemed determined to make up for their small numbers with a display of colorful leaves. As Freya and I strode along the packed-earth path, my eyes darted to the vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges above us. Soon, the leaves would fall to the ground and winter rains would turn them into a brown, sodden carpet, but for now, they clung to their hosts, dazzling me with their beauty.