Prologue: Quinn
Quinn, age ten
“We can’t move her again; it’s the middle of the school year.”
Mommy was arguing with Daddy again, and I closed my eyes tiredly as I listened to their raised voices. They always seemed to be angry these days. Sitting on my bed, I looked at my shoes, black patent Mary Janes, and white socks with a frilled edge. I glared at them. I hated socks, and these shiny black shoes were for another girl. I liked my feet bare. My feet needed to breathe. Like the rest of me.
I flinched when I heard the door bang, and a few minutes later, the sound of the car engine and then silence. Daddy was gone, no doubt returning to the Navy base, where he got to yell at people all day long and order them around.
I waited patiently, and then there was a soft knock on the door.
“Hey, little girl, want to go for ice cream?”
Looking up at my mommy, I nodded once. Her face looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes were getting blacker, and the sparkle in her warm, chocolate brown eyes was gone. Something was wrong with my mommy. Daddy didn’t see it, or if he did, he wasn’t talking about it.
“Is Daddy coming?” I asked as I stood and straightened my white dress.
“No, baby, he’s got to work.”
The two of us headed to the front door, and I reached for Mommy’s hand. “Are we moving again?”
I felt the soft squeeze of her hand as Mommy opened the frontdoor, letting me through it before she turned to lock it. “Yeah, baby, I think so.”
“I don’t like it here anyway,” I said to her as I skipped to Mommy’s car. It was true, I didn’t like this base. There were hardly any girls to play with, only boys. Boys were dirty.
Mom waited until my seat belt was on before she pressed a quick kiss to my head. As she started the car, she looked at me over her shoulder. “You sure you don’t mind moving, Quinn?”
“No, Mommy, if we have to move, we have to move. Daddy’s work’s important.” I grinned at her as I pulled my pigtails. “He protects us all.”
My mom turned to face forward, but I saw her sad smile as we drove away from the house. “He does, my sweet girl, he does.”
* * *
Quinn, age eleven
“You’re a girl?”
I looked at the dark-haired boy staring at me with confusion. His hair was long —hippie long, as Daddy called it. His blue eyes stood out against his tanned, golden skin. He had skinny shoulders, but his hands were large. Glancing at his feet, I saw he had big feet too. When I was five or six, we had a dog called Buster. When he was a puppy, he had huge paws, and Daddy said he would grow into them. That’s what this boy reminded me of, Buster. Waiting to grow into his paws.
“You’re a boy,” I sassed back at him.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked me as he walked toward me, looking over my shoulder as if expecting someone else.
“It’s just me.”
His face scrunched up, and he looked back toward the big house that sat beside ours. “But they said therewas a boy . . . a new student.”
“What’s his name?” I asked as I stepped toward him. Maybe he was lost; he looked lost.
“Quinn.”
“That’s me,” I told him with a happy smile. He wasn’t lost; he was confused. People always thought my name meant I was a boy.
“But you’re a girl.”
Maybe he was dumb? “Well, what’s your name?” I asked him impatiently.
“Jett.”
