Prologue
No one tells you that dying feels a lot like falling. Like a meteor crashing through the earth’s atmosphere, burning itself up so that by the time it actually hits the surface, it’s a crumbled mess of dust that no one will be able to put back together.
I don’t remember much from before. Just a glimmer of things, memories—the familiar scent of my mother’s Beverly Hills perfume, the way my grandmother would yell at the TV during Wheel of Fortune, the gentle melody of Christmas music playing from the old radio in the kitchen as Mom tried that new recipe she found in Home and Garden last week.
Then there was heat. Fire. Smoke. The feeling of drowning, but you’re not under water. Choking on the words never said, the plans that will never come to fruition, the what if’s that made life and the future feel so open to possibilities, now doused in darkness.
Flashes of the past and present assaulted my senses as I could feel myself being carried, my body limp and tired, the last bit of my life barely hanging on as this devil, withits long, hard stone body, and sharp talons, took me to wherever souls go next.
But there was one last thin thread that tied me back to reality, to life. I wasn’t dead yet. I was barely alive, but I wasn’t dead. The thin thread that held on against all odds pulled at my chest, at the amulet around my neck.
The meteor that was my fleeting life hadn’t imploded yet. It hadn’t erupted into dust. But it was close.
Chapter One
Walking through the crowded terminal of LaGuardia Airport, I felt my anxiety pressing in like the rising tide, threatening to crush me from the inside out. I was a sandcastle, helpless to watch the waves edge ever closer, licking away at the fragile base of my foundation.
And it didn’t exactly help that the rush of the fellow passengers around me were pushing me further into the unknown, into a city I didn’t know how to survive in. I had never traveled anywhere so far from my small town in Georgia, with a population so minuscule you could probably fit the entire city in this airport alone.
The wave of humans surrounding me carried me toward the baggage claim, where I hoped to find my suitcase. Having never flown before, I had been fearful of every possible thing that could go wrong, from lost luggage to a plane crash. The worst that happened was the flight attendant forgot to give me my free snack, but I had been too concerned about living through the flight to even mention it.
My stomach growled impatiently as I walked up to baggage claim. I ignored the hunger pangs and searched frantically for my black suitcase that held everything I owned. I wasn’t simply worried for the material objects, like clothes and shoes, but rather for the handmade quilt Nana had given me for my birthday last year and an old photo album with the only pictures of my parents I had. My heart raced as my bag was thrown carelessly onto the moving carousel, and I squeezed my way through fellow passengers who grumbled at my impatience.
“Hey! Watch it, kid!” one rotund, balding man yelled. I ignored him as I reached over and grasped my suitcase. I backed out of the crowd that had now grown as more flights had arrived. I held the suitcase to my heart, thankful it remained intact.
I wandered until I found a bench near the exit doors where I could sit alone for the first time since I had left my house early that morning. I held my suitcase closer to me and pulled my big wool sweater tighter around my small frame. I could feel the icy cold of New York waiting on the other side of the glass doors. The far-off skyscrapers, glistening from the frost of winter that was now building in November, looked ominous.
I continued to pick at the already chipping glitter black nail polish on my left thumbnail. It was a horrible habit; one I saved for especially nerve-wracking experiences—like meeting my new family.
My Nana, the only family I have ever known, died two weeks ago today. I had been allowed to stay in my childhood home for longer than most social workers would allow. They expected me to simply pack my things and leave without looking back. But life doesn’t work that way. I had been shattered, my world torn apart and stitched back together in a foreign way. I spent the majority of the last two weeks watching old black and white films, the ones with Audrey Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor, while crying into my worn-out quilt. I couldn’t remember if I had showered or even changed out of my funeral clothes. None of that seemed important.
But now, my allotted grieving period was over, and I had flown from Appling, Georgia, to New York City—my new home. But calling this giant place “home” felt alien and awkward. Like the words didn’t make sense and tasted funny in my mouth. I still couldn’t grasp the fact that the moment I walked out of this airport, I probably would never return to the only home I had ever known. The thought made me nauseous, killing any hunger I may have had previously.
The next of kin who were responsible for a still grieving sixteen-year-old girl were my Uncle Dan and his wife of five years, Tiffany. I really am grateful for them; they could have let me bounce from foster family to foster family back in Georgia. It was clear they were decent people if they made the choice to take me in versus letting me fend for myself.
But what aremychoices now? I could run away. I was still sitting on a bench near the exit doors, but no one knew me here. I could easily disappear into the crowd. But then what? What would be my next choice? I sighed, continuing to chip at my nail polish. Disappearing only sounds good if you can actually disappear. I didn’t know this city, and I’d probably end up on some rerun episode of20/20. A small-town southern girl gets killed within the first few minutes of trying to make it in the Big Apple. What a cliché.
No, I was moving to New York City and living with an uncle whose only line of communication with me had been a birthday card sent faithfully every year. His only fault was getting a good education, becoming a lawyer, and moving to New York City while the rest of my family, Nana, moved down to Georgia after my parents died. Because of that, Nana didn’t really talk to him much. In her mind, Uncle Dan thought he was better than us. But I never knew him, not really, so I couldn’t judge him quite yet.
I sat in the airport with my luggage tucked by my side, waiting for my new family to pick me up. My plane had been early, so I couldn’t blame them for being late already. I checked my phone, frowning when I didn’t see any messages beyond Uncle Dan letting me know I’d be picked up promptly at 3:00 PM. I continued to chip at my nail polish till I had successfully created a small pile of sparkly black shavings on my lap.
“Amaris Pollard?”
I looked up, surprised to find an older man in a nice black suit standing above me. But he looked nothing like the pictures I had seen of my Uncle Dan.
In the photos Nana had, my uncle was tall, young, and looked exactly like my father, but with brown eyes instead of blue. Dan’s hair was deep brown and wavy; his face was kind and his eyes were full of hope. At least they were in the picture from his graduation from law school. But the man who was now standing in front of me was older with graying hair and wrinkles that surrounded his gray eyes.
“I go by Mari,” I corrected quietly.
He smiled, relieved, happy to have found the right sixteen-year-old girl sitting alone in LaGuardia. “Hello Miss Mari. I am Mr. Lewis. I’m Mr. Pollard’s driver, and I’m here to take you home.”
I quickly brushed the pile of nail polish chips off my lap as I stood to face my uncle’s driver. I knew my uncle was well-off, but I didn’t expect a personal Uber to pick me up. I had imagined my uncle to be the middle-aged man he was, running through the airport in jeans and sneakers, rushing me to get into his yellow cab where the cabbie was still running the meter; something I had seen from a TV show. And weirdly enough, I had actually looked forward to that part—riding in a yellow cab.
I tried to smile at Mr. Lewis. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I tucked a stray blond curl behind my ear. I hadn’t bothered to really take care of myself recently for obviousreasons, only doing the bare minimum when it came to hair washing and cosmetics. My curly hair felt huge around my head, like a lion’s mane that hadn’t seen a brush or a comb in weeks.
He smiled back, his hand reaching for my suitcase. I hesitated before releasing it to him. I just hoped he’d be gentler with it than the baggage carousel had been.
