“Hey,” Spencer calls out to me after-school as I walk out the 300 gate. I ignore him by turning my music up. “Hey!”

I give up; take my earbuds out, and turn to face him. “Yes?”

Spencer stops and takes a few steps back, as if the look on my face is something he never saw before. “Are you . . . okay?”

I nod. “Why wouldn't I be?” My mind thinks rattling thoughts. That he sees the disgust in my eyes, that I did not eat today, that I didn't talk to him for two days when we're supposed to be working on a project together. I rub the inside of my wrist, where the freshly place cut I made before 5th period still burns, and pull my jacket sleeve down. A splash of dried blood is there. “I'm okay.”

“All right.” He kicks the grass, and his dark hair flops in his eyes. “How far are you into Speak?”

I keep my eyes down on the concrete. Ants flint through the small spaces that separate the grass from the walkway. I haven't actually gave the book a chance to read. I've hidden it under my bed so Dad wouldn't find it and destroy it. I swallow.

“Well,” Spencer says, taking my silence as a answer that I didn't read it, “I'm up into Chapter 2, and it's really good. She's always silent, like how you're doing now.”

I take his comment like a slap. He has no clue how much that hurts. I take a step backwards. “Why is she that way?”

“You need to read to find out.” He waves the book back and forth, and his eyes stare at the houses blocked by a brick wall. “Want me to walk you home?”

I blink a few times, unable to get those words out of my head, and I am thinking if he is trying to make me talk more. He wants us to communicate. For me to have a connection with him. I put my hands on my arms, squeezing the small muscles, feeling that the heat in the Antelope Valley had dropped at least half the temperature. I shake my head at his offer, and say, “My mom is picking me up.”

As soon as I say that, my phone buzzes with a text. I take it out slowly, and see it's one from Dad. My heart skips two beats—yet when I open it, I am scared.

Hi sweetie, it's me, Mom. I can't mnake it. Your father tells me I can't leave the house. I hope you are okay if you walk home.

I love you so much. SO MUCH. GTG.

I am staring at the text for so long that I shake like a leaf. I keep myself silent, the words in the message burning a hole in my mind. Your father tells me I can't leave the house. Why does Dad do this? Why does he forbid her? Or, worse, forbid me?

Did he suspect Mom of cheating? Wanted her for his toy? I do not know I am breathing so hard until Spencer is saying my name and placing his hands on my shoulders, shaking me, and I am put in memory, scared for my life.

His hands, large and strong, press themselves into my bones, shaking me furiously. I am pinned to the ground by my feet, and he won't stop shaking me. He is angry, calling me a liar.

“YOU FUCKING WHORE!” He shouts in my ear. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! MAKING ME LOOK BAD IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS?”

I don't make a word; I am silent as the wind outside. I want to speak, but I can't. I want to move, but I don't.

“No matter,” he says, and slaps me across the face. “I'll deal with this personally, you slut.”

The wolves are my heartbeat, growling ferociously as his body moves restlessly above me on the bed, grinding and turning me into a plaything.

Tears are sliding on my cheeks and I push Spencer away. He staggers back and his eyes widen at the tears, and he says he's sorry.

I can't respond back. My mouth is dry and tongue is twisted. I take a few more steps back and run towards a tree for shade and silence. Breaths still short, I duck my head between my knees, trying to stop my racing heart. The memory feels fresh, even though I went through that last year, like a new wound opening up. Spencer has such a strange effect on me—getting a rouse of my emotions and pain—and making me relive every painful moment.

I want Carlson back; as bad as it sounds, I want him back in my life. I want him to wash away my troubles with the way his body is on mine, the way his mouth is on mine. I want my facing Spencer—who is almost like truth incarnate—to be nonexistent.

His feet stop right near my toes, and I look up to see him. Those light brown eyes hidden by glasses. Concern in those irises. How he shifts his weight uncomfortably, and then sits across from me. “Autumn,” he says, “is something bothering you?”

“No,” I lie blatantly. “I'm fine.”

“You're crying,” he states, taking out a tissue from his pocket and handing it to me. I dab my eyes gently. “Was it something I did?”

I take a smell of the summer heat, his cologne that smells like pinewood, and my small tremors have stopped. Oh, I want to say it's not his fault. That I remembered what Carlson had done. But he would be angry, and find him or worse—call the police. I can't let him call the police. Who knows what they would do.

They'd put Dad away. Mom would be in a women's shelter. I would be in a foster home until my mother is okay.

I shake my head.

“You've been ignoring me a lot for these past two days. Are you sure it wasn't—” I cut him off by shaking my head. “All right,” he says. “What seems to be the issue? You can tell me.”

I am ashamed of myself. I threw myself in the arms of my ex-boyfriend. I gave him a blowjob in the boys bathroom. Then, he slept with me for all of lunch. I skipped half of 4th period because I was puking for a while. I did not eat. And I hate you for making me feel these things I thought I had locked up for good. I want to know what purpose you have for making me feel my emotions. I want to tell him these things, so, so much.

But I simply shrug my shoulders, smile widely, and say, “I wish I knew.” then tell him I'll take his offer of him walking me home.

Spencer gets up and holds his hand out for me, but I rise up on my own, sniffing. I put my hoodie back on, hiding my face from others, but it slips off my head, and I groan. So I push my hair in front of my face, and start walking with Spencer.

We wait for a car to let us pass in the parking lot, and we nod in a thank-you as we cross the grassy field at the front of the school. Cars whiz on by on the street, stopping and making sharp turns that would almost result in an accident, but they don't. I keep my distance from Spencer, arms across my chest, head down, so I won't see him. See that look of his. That look that makes me feel.

We cross the street when the light says it okay, and I listen to people behind us. Talking about their friends, parties last weekend, projects that are due. I don't even talk to anyone about things like that. Because, well, I have no friends. I dare myself to lift my head, and I spare a glance at Spencer. His face is focused, kind, and soft. But there's a hardness there; right where his jaw meets his chin, that shows strength and truth.

I want to tell him what Carlson did—no, what I did to Carlson, because I do not have my diary with me today and I cannot confess my sins into the bland white paper with my pen as my mouth, becoming vicious and spewing venomous and disgusting words on the white lines. I need to confess and scream and shout to him what happened—

The rage in his eyes when he beat Carlson Monday flash in my mind.

I look away, keeping my eyes on the brick wall as we walk on the sidewalk in a bleeding, crushing silence.

The silence is shortlived however, when Spencer says, out of the blue, “Do you want to come to my house today, instead?”

I stop walking, my feet glued to the concrete as I look at Spencer in surprise. Sweat lines across his forehead shine in the sun, his glasses have a bizarre gleam to them today. He can't be serious. A shy smile ripples across his mouth, confirming my fears. HE IS.

“Why?” the word tumbles out of my lips.

He scratches the back of his neck, cheeks bright red. “I figured that since we have to do this project together, we probably need to be at each other's places to brainstorm together. We don't have all school day, and I don't know if your parents approve of you being afterschool. So, I was thinking, if you want to come to my place and read the book with me, and we can discuss what we want to do with our project?”

I want to die on this ground. I do not want to go to his house where Dad will question where I was when I return. He'll know that there is something up. He will get angry. And I can't let Spencer in my house. Dad will never allow it. I want someone to put a bullet in my head and end my life.

My mouth betray me though. “I . . . suppose.”

“Perfect.” Spencer says, and I can tell he's excited. I feel a little sick about that. “Oh, just one thing you need to know.” His face turns serious.

“What's that?” I ask.

“My mom will hug you and give you some frozen hot chocolate the second you come through the front door. Don't and I mean don't say anything about the song lyric tattoos on her arm.”

Spencer was right. His mom did hug me and offered me some frozen hot chocolate, which I politely declined, but thanked her. She decided to make us some iced tea, so Spencer and I sat at the table as she started to prepare for it. As she did, scents of cinnamon and apples fill the room. My tongue tingles with the flavors a warm apple pie in the room.

“So, Autumn, how long have you known my little Spencer?” Spencer's mom's says.

“Mom!” Spencer groans, putting his head in his hands. His face is turning red as his mother's hair. “You promised not to call me that.”

“Oh I did?” Mrs. Johnson giggles. “Must have slipped my mind.” Her eyes, same color as Spencer's, lock straight on my face as she gets a lemon from a basket. “Autumn, do you wish to answer the question?”

At first I bite the inside of my cheek, surprised at how . . . open and inviting she is. I am still feeling a warm, tingling feeling in my back after she had embraced me at the door, and her hair brushing along my cheeks. It feels foreign; like having someone else's skin on your back. It feels good, just not the way you expect it to feel good. “Y-yes,” I stutter, “I've known him not too long.”

“We met around the time I went to Mrs. Maria's for some brown sugar for Dad to make cookies for Steph. You were at your meeting at the time, Mom.” Spencer explains.

Mrs. Johnson nods quietly when he mentioned the word meeting, and she stirs the pitcher with a wooden spoon. “Well, that's still nice to hear. A friend of my son's is a friend of mine. And that explains why he wanted to get you that book. It's for your project that's due . . . next month, correct?”

“Yes,” we both say.

“I say you two get to it. But not without some refreshments—it must have been a hot day! Autumn, dearie, do you want to take off your jacket?” She frowns. She doesn't look as beautiful when she has a look of discomfort.

“No, ma'am. I just get cold easily, even with the hot weather.” I lie, and she takes it.

As she comes to the table pours us the tea, with her right arm in front of me, I now see what Spencer says. In deep blue ink, medieval font, are song lyrics with a crow spread from the inside of her wrist to the crease in her elbow, a butterfly right in the center of the crow's body, and dandelion seeds spread out in-between the words: Just like a crow chasing a butterfly, dandelions lost in the summer sky. . . .

The tattoo is beautiful. It is something so pure and deep that it causes something to constrict on my heart. I want to ask her what made her get that tattoo, but I choose to keep that question to myself. No one asks me why I may have a cut or bruise on my arms, so why ask her about the tattoo bearing her arm?

She leaves the pitcher on the table, and goes to the oven to pull out the source of the apple, butter and cinnamon scents. “Apple turnovers are ready!” she exclaims with cheer.

Spencer leans across the table to whisper quietly, “My mother goes on a baking streak every time when summer is almost over, because, fall is going to hit the Antelope Valley, and when it does,” He glances from his mother to me, a smile on his mouth. “My house will smell like a freaking bakery, and believe me, it's torture.”

I smile a little. I can imagine, but not as realistic as him. I have a different vision of torture.

“Hey mom, Autumn and I are going to read outside, is that all right?”

Mrs. Johnson mutters a yes, and Spencer hitches up his backpack on his shoulder and slides the glass door open. I pick up my cup of iced tea, and walk outside with him. My jaw drops at the backyard. Lush, strong trees—weeping willows—are on either side of the wall, a waterfall spills into a pond, and fruit trees and bushes cover the grassy areas. Under the weeping willow is a hammock.

“Welcome to my reading nook, would you like to come in?” Spencer gestures, and points to the patio table. “Leave your tea—books come first.” He smiles, and I notice in the sunlight, he looks angelic. His dark brown hair looks like warm chocolate, the golden light giving him a halo. I walk with him over to the hammock, and sit down beside him, taking out Speak.

I open the book, starting at the first chapter. Just a few minutes in, I'm finding a similarity of Melinda and myself. She and I are silent people, isolated, and we have reasons to feel this way. My fingers tremble as I turn the pages, going deep within the book and wanting to dive, dive, dive in their world. I glance over at Spencer, who already is 20 pages in, eyes focused and quiet.

“I take it you're enjoying the book,” he says, not even looking at me.

“How do you know?” I ask quietly.

“Your thumb is in the middle, keeping a sort of . . . bookmark between the pages.” Spencer adjusts his glasses, smirking. “And you're enthralled with words and pages, while some hear the audio.”

I nod in agreement, and continue to read. After an hour, I am 50 pages in, and my eyes are aching from staring at the same paragraph for the past two minutes. I use a scrap of paper from my notebook to bookmark, and close the book.

“Done?” Spencer closes his book and stands up, stretching his arms. He cracks his neck. “I think that was enough mental stimulation for one day. Do you want to eat? Mom's probably made a lot of things while we were out here.”

I run my fingers through my short hair, biting my lip once again at his offer. I make an effort to nod.

“Spencer!” a voice calls from the living room, high and alert.

“Oh my god.” Spencer groans in disbelief. “Can I hide behind you? You know what, I'd rather not wait for your answer.” He hides behind my back, his breath warm on the back of my neck. I don't know if I can talk right now.

A girl, about the age of nine, skips into the backyard, wearing a butterfly shirt and turquoise jeans. Her hair is red, with freckles smacked on her fair cheeks and nose. Her eyes are a green fire; radiant and alive. She looks back and forth, and her eyes lock on me. “Hi,” she says cheerfully. “Have you seen my brother, Spencer?”

I move my head, and she copies my movement. “What's your name?” I ask the same time she does.

“Stephanie.” She takes a few steps towards me, looking around my body.

“M-mine is Autumn. Autumn Wilkes.” I say.

“Boo!” Spencer shouts, coming out from behind me and pulling his sister in a tight hug, laughing. Stephanie playfully bites his arm, hitting for him to let him go. I'm watching them, warm and exciting faces, feeling the strange tingling in my chest from before.

I hate it now.

It burns. Like a brand straight on my heart that states in its copper-colored stamping

F O R G O T T E N A N D

L E F T T O D I E.

Once Spencer sets Stephanie down, gasping for breath, he ruffles his little sister's hair. “Did you have fun at school today?”

“Yes, it was awesome! We started to do some ice-breakers so everyone got to know each other. I made two new friends today.”

“That's great to hear.” His eyes go to my face, and he is concerned. “Autumn, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I'm fine.” I answer, sounding a bit perky. It feels wrong. “I guess I am kind of hungry.”

Stephanie goes over and grabs my hand, “Well, you've come to the right place!” then drags me through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. “Moomm, what can we eat?”

“There's some apple turnovers in the lower oven, and sandwiches in the fridge!”

“Thank you.” she calls back, and goes to the fridge, telling me to sit down as she pulls out a few bags of PB & J sandwiches with a carton of milk.

I get a text from Mom, telling me Dad is passed out and asking when does she want me to pick me up, and I don't know what to say. Either tell the truth of where I am, or lie.

I lie. I reply that I will walk home soon, because I'm doing my book project at the school library. The place is too warm, too full of life and happiness. I want to stay, but I want to leave.

It just reminds me of what I dreamed of for years.