Chapter One
Kanton, Iowa
The blue-black sky squeezes the edge of a nearly full moon as I exit Kanton High School, trading musical rehearsal for the rare luxury of having the house all to myself this weekend.
Rehearsal began right after school, but it was tech night—with a freshman at the sound board, no less—and lasted much later than normal for a post-football-season Friday night.
A few friends from the cast invited me to go with them to catch the late movie in Sommerton, but for the first time in a long time, I can hardly wait to get home.
I click the remote that lets me into Parre Hills, the gated golf course community I call home. The iron gates open . . . and an invisible vise loosens its hold on my chest.
I draw in a fuller breath than I’ve taken in a long time, envisioning the peaceful night stretching before me.
The last few hills and curves often tense up my shoulders, but not tonight.
I usually dread going home to my mother’s “How was your day?” greeting.
More often than not, that seemingly innocuous question becomes a lecture, complete with verbal bullet points outlining how I could better use my time at Kanton High and how I should channel my energy toward leadership opportunities instead of singing, acting, dancing—the sorts of things intelligent people do not pursue as careers.
“You could be Class President next year,” she might say. Or, “Remember, every grade counts toward your cumulative G.P.A. Don’t get distracted with your hobbies.”
Hobbies. That’s how she interprets the passion that drives me toward the stage. As a hobby. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.
I am the unexplainably artistic Prescott, the strange child who shies away from nets and bats and balls but hungers for the stage.
Academically speaking, I do almost as well in school as my brother did and slightly better than my sister.
But it’s never good enough. I never quite live up to my potential—at least not in my mother’s eyes.
Call me a slacker, I guess, for being Vice President of the sophomore class with a 3.
8 G.P.A. Since I don’t play sports, like my brother and sister did when they were in high school, and my parents did before them, there’s no excuse for anything less than a 4. 0.
This weekend, however, Mom went with Dad to one of his medical conferences. I have the house all to myself. No one will be breathing down my neck about homework or complaining about the “unnecessary volume” of the music seeping out from under my bedroom door.
Freedom.
Since I don’t want the camera-monitored security company to send my parents another warning listing my license plate, I’m careful to follow the artfully posted speed limit.
After curving through several paved hills, I reach the private drive that leads to my family’s sprawling Craftsman-style bungalow.
Light breaks through the evergreens lining our long driveway.
What? I slam on the brakes. The house should be dark, but as I inch the car forward, more light breaks through. Too much light.
Mom would never leave more than the porch and foyer lights on, a fact that offers two possibilities. Either Mom and Dad didn’t go to the conference after all . . . or they called in one of my two older sibs to watch the house—and me—while they’re away.
“Let it be Ryan.” I grip the wheel. “Please, let it be Ryan.”
Eleven years my senior and in the second year of a surgical residency at the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics, Ryan already answers to Dad’s title of “Dr. Prescott.” Regardless of the age gap between us, we’ve always been close.
But Ryan is busy being a doctor. He just got engaged to his longtime girlfriend, Danielle.
What are the odds he would be able to answer Mom’s beck and call?
Slim to none.
When my headlights illumine the U-shaped driveway in front of the house, there are at least six cars crammed around the curve, leaving no doubt as to the identity of my Zen-breaker.
“Gretchen,” I growl my sister’s name like a curse word. “Great.”
So much for solitude.
All I want is an empty house where I can relax. Maybe even practice my songs and lines somewhere other than behind my closed bedroom door. Instead, I have the pleasure of dealing with my party-crazed sister and her obnoxious friends. Again. Yay, me.
My headlights catch on a six-pack of silver and blue-labeled bottles awaiting retrieval on the roof of one of the cars, which means there must be enough alcohol flowing inside already that its owner hasn’t missed his beer yet.
At least I know what I’m walking into.
Gretchen will be twenty in January, but her pre-law major is a tad ironic considering the level of respect she gives certain laws. Such as the legal drinking age.
And I’m the one who needs supervision?
As I pull around to my assigned parking spot, a single-bay carport by the garden shed, I’m glad it’s a safe distance from the other vehicles.
Mine is a hand-me-down car, but it’s mine.
Besides, I don’t want to have to try and convince my parents it’s not my fault if a dent shows up overnight. Again.
I clench my teeth and shove the gearshift into park. Even if Mom and Dad are aware of their middle child’s abuse of their trust, they’ll never let on.
When I open the car door, my ears are assaulted by a thumping bass beat. If the neighbors complain about the noise, my parents will assume it was me, the music lover. I won’t bother correcting them. Neither will Gretchen.
Gretchen is the golden child. Literally.
Whereas Ryan and I take after Dad’s side of the family, Gretchen inherited Mom’s blue eyes and the entirely unfair combination of blonde bombshell femininity and athletic prowess.
Her gilding is figurative as well, at least according to my blind, deaf, and really dumb—as in ignorant, not mute—parents, because Golden Gretchen can do no wrong.
Muttering a few choice words, I slam the car door, but my temper fizzles when a cold wet nose presses into my palm.
“Hi, Janey.” I kneel and kiss her fluffy gray and white head. “Looks like Gretchen’s at it again, huh?”
Janey makes a throaty sound. Affection. Agreement. Solidarity. She doesn’t much care for Gretchen or her loud crowd. I don’t want to make her go inside, but . . . maybe we don’t have to. At least not yet.
“Whaddya say we hike up to the waterfall?” It’s November, but not really winter yet. And even a cold hike through the woods beats subjecting myself to Gretchen’s drunk and handsy friends in the house.
Janey’s warm tongue wets my face from chin to hairline. “Okay, okay.” I laugh. “We’ll go.”
I pull out my phone and send my sister a quick text.
Faith:
Got home at 8:45. Taking Janey for a hike. Be back later.
I don’t expect a response, but because someone around here needs to be responsible, I send a follow-up.
Faith:
Be safe, k?
Before stowing my phone in my pocket, I pick a playlist and put my ear buds in.
The November wind has taken the night off, and although its absence keeps winter’s coming chill at bay, it is far from warm.
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt from beneath my insulated vest and grab my gloves from the passenger seat. “Okay, Janey. Let’s go.”
Four miles west of the small town of Kanton and fourteen miles east of Sommerton, the closest city big enough to have a decent hospital, the Parre Hills subdivision includes over a hundred wooded acres with manicured trails for walking, running, and biking.
The location appeals to professionals like my parents who make their living in Sommerton but prefer the relative peace of “rural” life, the social status of living in a golf course community, and the quality education afforded their children in the smaller Kanton school district.
What I like about Parre Hills is how the west and north sides of those carefully kept woods are bordered by a not-so-tidy nature preserve.
This is where Janey and I usually trek. Our most frequent destination is, of course, the waterfall—my secret stage.
It’s not much of a waterfall—this is Iowa, not Oregon—but it’s mine.
As we wind our way up through the woods, I silently review the night’s practice of Annie.
Earlier this fall, against the warnings of my Drama Club friends, I tried out for a named part—a daring deed, virtually unheard of for a lowly sophomore.
The underclassmen of Kanton High are almost always relegated to the chorus.
But . . . my risk paid off. The drama coach broke tradition and cast me as the bimbo airhead, Lily St. Regis.
Yes, it’s a smaller part, but playing a character role is crazy fun, and even though I did make temporary enemies of a few junior and senior girls by snagging the role “away from them,” most seem like they’re over it now.
I duck under a low-hanging branch, smiling as I mentally replay how I vamped it up at practice tonight, scoring a wink from the senior boy cast as Daddy Warbucks.
At the top of the hill, I veer to the left, following a familiar deer trail rather than the carefully maintained Parre Hills paths.
Without needing my command to know where we’re headed, Janey crawls under the dilapidated wire fence separating our gated community from the county nature preserve.
I follow, climbing over it. A few moments later, the steep bank of the creek welcomes us to follow it to my favorite perch.
Glad for the moon to light my path, I find a few outcroppings of rock to use as footholds, and I descend the creek bank.
Tracing the water’s path, I don’t need to think about where I’m going, but it’s nice to have that ambient light to point out fresh obstacles that have fallen in the creek bed since the last time we were here.
Several yards ahead of me, Janey stops, on point—or as much “on point” as she can with that tail curling over her back.