Prologue
Franky
* * *
“Field trip, friends!”
Kneeling in the grass, I placed the jar on its side and nudged the kale leaf toward the opening.
Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson was chilling under a spinach leaf. A bite-sized chunk was missing—tiny, because snails—so one of them had eaten on the ride over to the cookout at the Kershaws. Speedy had retracted most of its body inside its shell; maybe it was digesting its food.
I liked to bring them when we went out, which was weird to observers, but on brand for me. “Your emotional support snails,” my sister Cat called them. Of course, being snails, they didn’t understand where we were going, especially as it was dark inside my backpack. But these tiny, miraculous creatures were exceptionally sensitive. They had four tentacles, two larger ones for detecting light, and two smaller ones for touch and smell. And I called them “friends” instead of “boys” or “guys” because they were hermaphrodites, which meant they all had the ability to reproduce, but for some reason they preferred mating with other snails. Weird, right? What was the point of having the means to go it alone, but you still sought out another of your species to help the process along?
Today, we were at the home of Theo Kershaw, a defenseman with the Chicago Rebels, the hockey franchise my dad retired from a couple of years ago. I had brought my friends because one, it was always nice to have someone interesting to talk to at a party, and two, Theo had a huge backyard, which made for an uncharted landscape for the snails. This spot behind a large oak tree, some distance from the crowd, with its leafy undergrowth and dew-dropped greenery, was perfect. With the distant sounds of music and laughter and the scents of cooking, I felt both safe and pleasantly apart here. Not that anyone ever made me feel unsafe—the Rebels were a very inclusive bunch—but I was constantly aware that I was not like others.
Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson (always known by his full name, thank you very much) was making tracks, sensing a golden opportunity to explore a new habitat. Usually, I kept them in a terrarium in my bedroom, and we made daily excursions to the garden, the one at the back of our house where I lived with my dad, my stepmom, Violet, and my sister, Cat. Today was different.
Today was goodbye.
Tomorrow, I would be heading to Atlanta with Cat to spend a week with our mom, and as I couldn’t take the snails with me on the plane and I didn’t want to task my dad or Violet with caring for them, I had resolved to release these ones back into the wild. I had briefly considered sneaking them into my backpack for my trip but assumed there might be problems at the airport with the X-ray scanner. Not to mention the ructions their presence would cause with my mother. For most of my childhood, she had despaired of my scientific interests and constantly complained to my dad of the misery I caused her.
It’s such a disgusting habit, Bren. You need to talk to her.
At least Caitriona likes music. But Franky? I despair, I do.
The optician said fifteen-year-olds can wear contacts, but she won’t do it.
Mom thought my glasses made me look ugly, like one of those girls who would die buried in a book. They would find me, shriveled up, surrounded by disintegrating pages and desiccated snail shells.
Disintegrating and desiccated weren’t regular guests in Mom’s vocabulary, but that’s what she meant, so I happily filled in the blanks for her. To be honest, I didn’t mind the idea. Books and snails? That sounded awesome.
Speedy was living up to his name, having overtaken Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson on his flight to freedom. I was so involved in my observations that I didn’t notice the arrival of company until it was too late.
“Ugh!” I heard behind me.
Feeling my color rising along with the hairs on the back of my neck, I turned to Mikey Callahan, nephew of another retired Rebels player, Ford Callahan. I didn’t know him well, but his reaction was, shall we say, unsurprising. Behind him was a boy I didn’t recognize and another I did: Jason Isner. At thirteen, Theo’s brother—half-brother, to be precise, and I was always precise—was tall for his age, even taller than me, and I was two years older. I rarely spoke to him. Partly, because he was a stinky, teenage boy, but mostly because he didn’t like me.
There could be any number of reasons why, from the classic undercurrent of tension between jocks and nerds to the fact I wore glasses. They signified physical weakness while he was a healthy, strapping boy, already being talked about in hockey circles as a future prospect for greatness. But the most probable reason for his dislike was my friendship with his brother. Sean was the same age as me and someone with whom I had common interests. He read books, for a start.
Mikey stepped forward, a little too close to the snails.
“Please don’t.”
“Why? Worried I might”—he lifted his sneakered foot—“stomp on it?”
“Callahan.”
That was Jason, controlling the situation with a single word. His voice sounded deeper than the last time I heard him, though I doubted this maturity to his vocal cords corresponded to maturity elsewhere.
He closed the gap between us, subtly displacing Mikey. “What are you doing?”
“Releasing them.”
He thought on that for a moment. “Why did you capture them in the first place?”
“So I can study them.”
Mikey inclined his head and peered at Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson, who had created a mucin trail over a flat rock near the shrubbery. “It’s so fuckin’ slimy. Real ugly.”
