My stomach growls, ready for the rush of sugar. "Bring it out. I need something to cheer me up," I say. "There's a problem with my trip to Spain."

Irina gasps. "Oy, vat hoppened?"

I shrug. "It's a long story."

"I come bring pie right now, da?" Irina says before disappearing into the kitchen. She comes back a few minutes later with a huge slab of pie. I can tell before I taste it this is going to be a best-selling dessert at Auntie Mae's Diner next week.

Before I take the first bite, I say "You're the best, Irina," and dig my fork into the white moistness speckled with graham cracker, caramel, and chocolate chips. She always waits next to me until I swallow the first bite and give her my analysis.

"It's awesome," I say, savoring the moistness of the creamy part and the soft crunch of the chips blended with the smooth caramel and crumbly texture of the graham crackers. "One of your best."

Irina whisks herself back into the kitchen with a flutter.

"I see Irina found you," Mom says as she holds a tray full of double-decker platters. "By the time you finish the pie, I'll be done here and we can go home."

I watch as my mom places the platters expertly in front of the hungry bowlers.

When I take my second forkful, another customer walks in. It's an old lady with grey hair, white pants, and a turquoise jacket. Mr. Reynolds greets her with a kiss on her cheek. "Mom, why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he asks the lady. "Wait, where's Gladys?"

"I fired her yesterday," the lady says. "She was a pain in the you-know-what. Besides, I don't need a caretaker. I made it here without one, didn't I?"

Mr. Reynolds looks worried. "Mom, why can't you get along with anyone I hire to help you? I swear you just fire them to spite me."

The old lady stands up straight with her chin in the air like a three-year-old. "I don't need any help."

"You have a heart condition," Mr. Reynolds says.

She waves her hand in the air, dismissing his concern. "Who says?"

"Your doctor."

"What do doctors know, anyway? They call it practicing medicine because that's all they ever do. Practice. If you'd visit me once in a while, you'd know I'm doing fine."

"I just saw you on Saturday." He huffs, then says, "Are you hungry?"

"What do you have on special this week?"

"Irina will make you anything you want, Mom. Name it."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Corn and a big, juicy steak."

Mr. Reynolds shakes his head and chuckles. "Mom, you have diverticulosis and a heart condition. Try again."

"You're no fun, Lou."

"And you're a barrel of laughs. Just sit down at a table. Wait ... follow me and you can meet Linda's daughter. You've never met her before."

I look down at the pie, trying not to give away the fact I've been eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Maggie, this is my mother," Mr. Reynolds announces. "Mom, this is Linda's daughter Margaret. Everyone calls her Maggie."

I smile and hold out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Reynolds. Are you the Auntie Mae?"

The old lady takes my hand and shakes it. "Dearie, Mae was the name of my son's first dog."

No way! I look to Mr. Reynolds for confirmation. He's smiling sheepishly.

"It's true," he whispers. "Shh, it's a secret. If the town finds out I named my restaurant after a dog, this place will be deserted within a week."

I highly doubt that. Auntie Mae's is crowded almost every night. Besides, there's not another diner within a ten-mile radius.

"I didn't know Linda had a daughter. How old are you, Margaret?" she asks, ignoring the fact that her son told her everyone calls me Maggie.

"Seventeen."

"She just started her senior year of high school, Mom," Mr. Reynolds announces loudly, as if his mother is hard of hearing. "And she's going to Spain in January for school. Why don't you sit with her while she tells you all about it. I'll go in the back and have Irina fix you something to eat."

"Tell her not to make it too healthy," Mrs. Reynolds orders before sitting down on the opposite bench from me. She eyes my plate. "Lou, tell Irina to cut me a generous slice of that pie, too."

I don't think Mr. Reynolds was listening to her last request, or maybe he wanted to let her think he wasn't listening.

The old woman places her purse beside her in the booth, then looks at me. She doesn't smile, she doesn't frown. She tilts her head, as if trying to figure out what's inside my thoughts. "Why do you want to leave Paradise so badly?" she asks, almost as if she really can read my mind.

"I just do," I say, hoping she'll leave it at that.

She makes a tsking noise with her tongue. "If you don't want to talk about it, just say so. No sense in beating around the bush."

I had been busy chipping the nail polish off my fingers, but I stop and look at Mrs. Reynolds. "I don't want to talk about it."

The old lady claps her hands together. "Fine. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it."

The only thing standing between me and this woman is the pie I have and she wants. And awkward silence. It's not that I'm trying to be rude, I just don't want to put into words how my life has become one disappointment after another. It's almost as if misery is following me and I've been cursed. If I only knew how to break that curse ...

"I'm sure you have your reasons for not wanting to talk about it. I can't imagine what those reasons are, but you're probably better off being silent and brooding about it rather than talking it out with someone who has nothing better to do than listen."

I shove another forkful of pie in my mouth and focus on the salt shaker at the end of the table.

"You want the salt?" Mrs. Reynolds asks, knowing full well I don't have salt on my mind.

"They revoked my scholarship," I blurt out, then look at the old lady sitting across from me.

She doesn't have a look of pity on her face like I expected. She looks kind of... well, angry. "Well, why would they go and do a thing like that?"

I take my time chewing and swallowing, then look up. Mrs. Reynolds has her little hands folded on the top of the table and she's looking intently at me, waiting for my answer.

"I applied for an athletic scholarship, but I'm not on a team anymore so it's been revoked. I can go, but now I'll have to pay tuition we can't afford."

She nods her head, lets out a long breath, then leans back in the booth. "I see. Well, dearie, maybe one day your luck will change."

Yeah, right. All I need is a little magic dust and a fairy godmother. I'm not holding my breath for either of those.

THIRTEEN

Caleb

"Caleb, I hope you passed the tests," my mom calls out from the kitchen.

I'm washing my hands for the third time tonight. I've got paint up to my elbows, compliments of my community service job. The old couple from the senior center signed up to have their kitchen painted a bright pink to match their fake pink roses on their kitchen table. "I tried my best," I say.

"Let's hope your best was good enough."

I dry my hands on a towel, wondering when she'll stop treating me like a stranger. One day I'm going to cut through her plastic exterior. One day soon.

The phone rings. My mom answers, then hands it to me. "It's for you. It's Damon." I take the phone. "Hey."

"The manager from The Trusty Nail said you were late."

Oh, shit. "I had to stay after school because--"

"I've heard it all, don't waste your breath," he barks out, cutting me off. "Zero tolerance. You sign in for community service on time. Period. You got it?" I got it.

"This goes on your record, Caleb. I can petition a judge to have you sent back to the DOC. Keep screwing up and I'll do it..."

He's still babbling, but I'm too pissed off to listen.

"... I told you to be a model citizen and be on time for your job. You let me down. Don't let it happen again."

"It wasn't my fault," I argue.

"If I had a dime for every time I heard those words, I'd be a millionaire."

Hardass. "I get it, Damon. Loud and clear."

"Good. I'll check in with you tomorrow," he says, then hangs up.

When I put the phone down, I realize Mom's been listening to my half of the conversation. She's staring at me, but there's an emptiness in her eyes--like she's not all there. "Is everything okay?"

"Yep," I say. Just peachy.

"Good." She grabs her purse off the couch. "I'm off

to the grocery store. I'm going to bake my Spaghetti Spectacular for the Fall Festival Saturday night."

Mom is always volunteering for shit. She loves the attention, I guess. Her Spaghetti Spectacular dish has won the Ladies' Auxiliary best recipe award every year. She's even got the awards neatly stacked on top of the mantle in the living room.

Mom flies out the door in her usual flurry of chaos.

"She's nuts, you know," Leah says from the kitchen doorway.

Today my sister is wearing black jeans with chains dripping from them. The end of one chain is attached to one of her pant legs and the other end is attached to the other pant leg. How can she walk like that?

I watch Mom drive down the driveway as I look out the living room window. "Tell me about it."

"Do you think things will ever get back to normal?" Leah asks, hope filling her voice.

"They'd better." I'm going to spend my days trying, starting right now with my sister. She's about to walk back into the kitchen, but I blurt out, "Do you ever talk to, you know, Maggie?"

She freezes, then shakes her head slowly.

"Not once since the accident?"

She shakes her head again. "I don't want to talk about it, Caleb. Please don't make me talk about it. Not now."

"When, then?" She doesn't answer. "One day we're going to discuss it, Leah. You can't avoid the conversation forever." I put my jacket on, grab a basketball from the garage, and head outside. I avoid even looking at the Armstrongs house as I head for the park in the opposite direction. I need to shoot some baskets to clear my mind.

My screwed-up sister is the one who needs group therapy. I'm the one who was locked up and everyone who stayed home is a frickin' nutcase. Oh, the comic irony.

The next day I'm sitting in the principal's office. Mom and Dad had to come with me to hear whether or not I've passed the tests. God this sucks.

Meyer opens a folder and stares at it. Folders suck, too. Especially ones that have anything having to do with me.

The defense lawyer assigned to my case after the accident had a folder outlining the accident, my arrest, and the history of my life. The warden in the DOC had a folder much the same. It's like I wasn't a guy anymore. I'd been reduced to words written by others about me. Even Damon relies on a damn folder. I could tell them a hell of a lot more than any folder could say.

"While Caleb did surprisingly well in almost all of the exams," Meyer directs his attention to my dad, "he hasn't passed the requirements for social studies."

Gee, that's no surprise considering what Leah said.