CHAPTER 1
Lukas
FOURTEEN YEARS OLD
The late afternoon sun beams down on me, warming the back of my neck as I pedal as fast as I can down the worn gravel road. I take the corner at full speed, yanking up on the handlebars of my bike so I hop the bump in the road; my tires land on the smooth asphalt of the highway. With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no cars are coming, I cross the road.
I pump my legs so hard my thighs burn with each cycle. Sweat beads down the side of my face, and I lower my head to brush my forehead against the shoulder of my shirt. A semi peeks over the main hill, its silver grill gleaming against the sunlight, and I smile, silently betting myself that I can make my turn onto old McRae Road before the eighteen-wheeler makes it down the hill. With my eyes glued to the road in front of me, I stand on the pedals to gain momentum, and I send up a hand, waving toward the semi as I turn well before it reaches me.
The driver honks twice and waves as he passes, and I sit down, taking the rest of the ride into town at a leisurely pace. I adjust my backpack, the weight of my baseball gear slides back and forth with my movements.
I wave as I pass Magnolia’s nana’s house, knowing that she’s likely sitting in front of the living room window, half watching the traffic pass and half watching the four o’clock game show.
It isn’t much longer before the pale yellow mailbox comes into view, one that matches the pale yellow siding of the craftsman-style house. White scalloped trim borders the windows, and the fresh flowers in front tell me that Magnolia’s mom has been busy planting all day.
My brakes come to a screeching halt once I hit their drive, and I hop off my bike, letting it fall on its side into the grass. Tossing my backpack on the ground next to it, I turn and have one foot in the air, ready to hop on the front step when I remember that Mags’s dad will be home from work any minute, and if he sees how I tossed my bike, he’ll let me have it.It’ll ruin your bike, son,he always says.You need to take care of what's yours.
I quickly jog back to my bike, picking it off the ground and wheeling it to the front porch, using one of the side rails to prop it up. Then I’m up the front stairs in two big steps, ringing the doorbell once, and knocking before the chime even ends.
A few seconds later, the door swings open, and Magnolia’s mom, Linda, greets me with a warm smile. She dusts the flour from the front of her paisley apron before huffing out a breath, blowing her honey-blonde hair out of her face. “I’m so glad you’re here, Lukas.” She opens the door so I can come in, and she gestures down the front hall toward the kitchen. “I just made some cookies, why don’t you help yourself to some.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kicking off my shoes, I wait until she heads toward the kitchen before I follow, strolling softly behind her. I half expect to find Magnolia sitting at the kitchen island, eating her own freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. Pulling one from the cooling rack, I glance sideways into the dining room, thenpeek around the corner into the living room, finding it empty. “Where’s Mags?”
Mrs. Banks huffs out a frustrated sigh and her hands come to rest on her hips. “She’s up in her room, pouting.”
“Is she alright? I expected her to be at school this afternoon.”
“So did I,” she agrees. “Milk?” She crosses over to the fridge, pulling out a glass pitcher of milk.
“Yes, please. She’s in her room, then?”
Mrs. Banks nods. “Been in there since we got home. She says she’s not going back to school tomorrow.”
I scoff at that. “We have our science project to present tomorrow. She’s made me stay after school and work at the library three times in the last week. There’s no way she’s skipping.”
She smiles at that, the apples of her cheeks perking up. She pushes a glass of milk toward me before spinning to reach for another from the cabinet. Filling that one, she slides it to me as well. “Why don’t you go bring her a snack and tell her yourself.”
Balancing a glass of milk in one hand, and a stack of freshly baked cookies in the other, I carefully climb the back staircase. My toes crack on the carpeted steps, and when I reach the white door at the end of the hall, I smile at the pink pair of ballet shoes dangling from a hook in the center.
I raise my hand that’s full of cookies, rapping against the wood with the back of my knuckle. “Mags, it’s me. Can I come in?”
When I don’t hear anything, I use my elbow to lower the knob. Her door opens a crack, and I nudge it a bit further, seeing her lying on her bed with her back facing me. “Mags?”
“Go away, Lukas,” she bites out, her voice muffled through her pillow.
I roll my eyes, yet smile. Even Mags at her crabbiest is still fun to be around. Setting my glass of milk on her dresser, I pilethe cookies next to them, picking one off the top and shoving it into my mouth.
I lean against her dresser, looking around at her room. Even though we’re teenagers now, Magnolia still has her room decorated like we’re little kids. Everything is light pink, from the comforter on her bed to the cushioned chair she sits on every day when she brushes her hair.
A huge poster of the Eiffel Tower is pinned above her bed. She says it's up there so she can stare at it and manifest her dream of being a professional ballerina in some fancy French company into existence.
Ballet portraits line one wall, starting from when she was just a toddler, three maybe, to her most recent one, and it shows how much she’s grown over the years.
And how obsessed she still is with ballet.
“I’ll bet it’s not that bad,” I tell her once I swallow my cookie. “And lying around in bed all day won’t make it go away. Let’s get out of here. It’s still hot outside. Everyone is waiting for us at the park.”
She sniffles once, tightening her grip as she tucks her arms under her pillow. “I said, no.”
