BY THE TIME I GET BACK to the diner, a torrential downpour slams against the roads and floods the sidewalks. I run from my car through the storm and cover my hair with my jacket, relieved to finally get inside.

Since I turned on the neon CLOSED sign before going to the park, it's completely dead in here, the smell of coffee and ketchup hanging in the air. The Kit-Kat clock ticks. Over the hum of the refrigerators and radiator, bluesy guitar riffs play from the old antenna radio. Our cook, Paul, must've already packed up and left, because there are no pans banging from the kitchen. But the sound of Mom's TV grumbles through the ceiling. Dee's Diner was the perfect package for us, an established restaurant with an apartment built upstairs. Mom bought it with the money my grandma left when she died five years ago, right after my dad took off.

A sigh escapes my lungs. Worrying about Nolan overwhelmed me earlier, so table eight is still piled with trash: candy wrappers filled with chewed gum—compliments of the kids that family had with them—and napkins blotted with lipstick and mustard stains that have been, for whatever unholy reason, stuffed into the water cups. I go to the bar and wipe a sticky glob of maple syrup off the counter with a rag, before I grab a bus-bin and finish cleaning up.

It takes twenty minutes to get the last load of dishes on the drying rack, but I'm finally done. Just as I'm about to head upstairs, a reminder dings in my head. I pull out Carson's resume, now crinkled from being stuffed in my pocket, and smooth it onto the counter.

It's formatted nicely. Much better than some of the others we've gotten. Ethan Leeds handed one in last week with red Comic Sans lettering which is just... the epitome of unprofessional. Carson clearly spent time on this.

In a way, he tried to get his brothers to back off earlier. And he carried himself decent when he asked me to take his resume, I can't deny that. But still—there are too many reasons to not want someone like him around. Maybe it's too late to protect Nolan from bad shit. Maybe it's dumb to think I can stop him from seeing how ugly the world can be...

But I have to try, right?

I take one last glance at the resume before I drop it in the trash, thinking, sorry, Blue, maybe some other time.

***

When I get upstairs, Mom is lying on the couch under Grandma's hand-knitted afghan, the one with the white wool interwoven with pink. Her eyes, glazy and tired, are focused on the rerun of Dawson's Creek on the TV. A lion's roar of thunder grumbles outside, and steam rises from her mug of hibiscus tea. I turn on the lamp and fill the room with a dim light.

"Oh hey, Jillie." She sits up and rubs her eye, and the blanket falls down to reveal her pale green pajamas. "I didn't hear you come in."

I plop down on the wicker rocking chair. "How you feeling, Mom?"

"Exhausted, honestly. Today was rough. How was your shift?"

"Fine." I nibble on my lip and try not to think about the resume that's now tucked in the garbage next to a half-eaten burger. "Could've used another person, but we made it." I don't tell her I closed half an hour early to check on Nolan, because she'd get pissed at me for not asking her for help. And after working the whole day shift, my mom needs the rest.

"I'm telling you," she says, "I never thought we'd lose two of our best waitresses at once."

My heart dips. A month ago, Amy left for college, which was all fine until Debbie passed away not even a week later. Her death cast a rain cloud over the whole town, and it was just as hard on us—not because we lost an employee, but because we lost a friend who'd been there since day one. I can still picture Deb zipping around serving tables like she was twenty even though she was in her late sixties. Heart attacks are a cruel bitch; I can't think of a more unfair way to go.

That's why we put that HELP WANTED poster out front. We need day staffers and people who can do nights. We need dependable workers who bring in positive vibes... not someone like Carson Blue. I wring my finger along my necklace, guilt rising in me. Mom can't know what I did. With her savior complex, she'll want to hire Carson on the spot. Even if he'd bring trouble around. Even if he'd be a bad influence on Nolan.

"Yeah." I focus on the TV, where Pacey and Joey are fighting. "It's a shame."

Mom shuts her eyes and sips from her tea. Her hair, pin straight and blonde, is just like mine. "Oh well. I'll go through all our new resumes tomorrow. Who knows, maybe there will be a hidden gem in there."

There's a photo on the table tucked beneath a box of off-brand Kleenex. It's only the top corner, but I'd recognize that picture anywhere. I swipe it up and smooth it on my lap. It's of Dad and I in front of his band's tour bus. Judas Cradle is painted in flame lettering across the body, and the other band members are shirtless in the background, tattoos and all. Dad's long brown hair falls in scraggles over his patched leather jacket and sunlight gleams off his aviators. Next to him, I'm smiling as big as a braced-faced eleven-year-old me could. The sun was sweltering hot that day; I remember the stink of the farm's manure and the peeling burn on my shoulders. I remember the disappointment when five minutes after this was taken, Dad disappeared for the rest of the night and bailed on our drive-in plans. We were supposed to see Transformers. The one with Mark Wahlberg where he has a daughter he actually gives a damn about.

"Mom," I say, tossing it on the table, "I thought we agreed you'd get rid of this thing."

Delicate crow's feet reach from the corners of her eyes. "I know, sweetheart, but you look so happy here."

"I wasn't. And he had no problem letting us go."

"Jill, I know you don't want to remember your father, but it's okay to hold on to the good memories."

"There are no good memories."

She flinches, and my chest sinks. To say there are no good memories is a lie—if there were none, his betrayal wouldn't sting so much. If there were none, maybe I wouldn't even care, and it wouldn't bother me that Mom's still thinking about him even though it's been five years since he left us.

It's always hard around this time of year. For us, March brings more than melting snow—it brings Dad's birthday, our annual reminder of his existence. Mom's doing her best; I should be more grateful. So I say, "Sorry, Mom. I'll just go to bed. Night, love you," and go to my room.

I close the door and press my back to it. My bedroom is my safe space. It's barely the size of a walk-in closet, but cork boards plastered with photos line the wooden walls, and I've had these stuffed animals since before I could read music. My bed is covered in mismatched quilts, some from Grandma, some from the IKEA three hours away.

I want to forget everything, but memories of my dad burn through me like a lit cigarette through pine needles. They ember until a full-blown forest fire singes my insides. This is why I need to be there for Nolan. I didn't want his dad to ever make him feel the way mine made me feel: unwanted. But I know it's already too late for that, so now I need him to know at least the rest of his family loves him.

Getting a grip, I swipe up my guitar and lay on my bed. I stare at the ceiling and pluck at my strings, singing a song about two coins and the ferry that takes us from one life to the next. It's a slow, morose piece I've been working on for a few weeks now, and when I'm done, I think I'll put it on YouTube. Ten thousand subscribers might not be much in the world of the internet, but it's twice the population of Hull, so I'm proud of it. It's the one thing I've built all on my own.

When my callused fingers are too numb to keep playing, I set my guitar aside and shut off the light, drenching the room in darkness. Without the melodies to keep my mind occupied, dread creeps in.

I have to face Carson at school on Monday, and I have no idea what I'll say.

***

Mom has always called Hull, Kentucky home, but to me, it's more of a "just passing through" type of town. I guess that's one of the few traits my dad and I share—we always want to fly away like Canadian geese, migrate as far from our responsibilities as our wings will take us. The difference between him and me is, I'd never do it.

The morning wind breezes through my hair, and I take in the time-honored scenery as I drive. Electrical wires drape above the road like unruly vines, and we have one landmark: a giant satellite dish that overlooks downtown, but the thing is just a lame tourist attraction now. Old pines turn into sun-bleached birches until single-story houses with broken-up driveways are all I pass.

My car's fuzzy dice bop together as I park outside Val's place. I honk three times, and she flies out with her backpack thrown over her shoulder, her black jacket half zipped-up.

"Took you long enough," she says and shoves the CDs aside with her butt. The station wagon's too old to connect my phone, so I've got a collection of Mom's CDs—borderline relics, but I like the old school feel of them. I tuck them into the glove box.

"Hey, at least you're not walking," I say.

Val lights one of her thin black cigarettes and fills the car with the stench of tobacco before it billows out the open windows. "So listen, I know you're trying not to drink or whatever, but I wanna hit Shae's party this Friday. You in?"

Shae Evans, Carson's best friend, is the King of Cocaine and the master of hosting parties with unhappy endings. The last time I went to his place, I threw up over the back porch because Ethan Leeds knocked three of Eric Bradshaw's teeth out, and that was more than enough to get the stomach churning. And Val knows I don't like being around drugs.

"Do I have to?" I ask.

"No. I mean yes. I mean no, but pretty please?" We both laugh, and Val says, "Jacobi's gonna be there and I want revenge. I finally convinced my sis to lend me The Pants. That dude is gonna regret breaking up with me if it's the last thing I do."

Val and I have been inseparable since her family moved here eight years ago. We have other friends, but they're party friends or acquaintances, no one we'd have movie marathons with or take with us to enact revenge on Val's on-again, off-again ex. Usual best friend stuff. So I sigh and say, "I guess one party won't hurt. But only if you're in The Pants."

"That's my girl." Her eyes, hidden under layers of mascara, narrow on me. "Hey, you okay? You look like a ghoul."

"Gee, thanks." I peek in the rear-view mirror. Val isn't lying. I have bags on my skin as deep as craters, and I was too tired to do my makeup properly. Oh well. "I was up all night practicing guitar," I say and start driving.

"Jesus, give yourself a break, will you?" Val ashes her smoke out the window.

"I couldn't stop myself. I was on a roll. I think this is my favorite song I've written, but I can't share it with anyone until it's perfect."

That wasn't all that kept me up though. Val and I tell each other everything, so I spill the situation with Carson's resume and his brothers giving Nolan a beer. She slaps my arm with a wicked smile.

"Oooh, you know he still loves you, right?"

I laugh once. "He does not love me. He's never even asked me out. If Carson Blue was in love with me, he would've said something by now. He sure as hell doesn't have an issue hooking up with other girls."

"Uh-huh. That's why he kissed you in the sixth grade."

My cheeks heat up, but I fake a laugh. "Pretty sure it was a dare."

"Maybe, but I still think he has a crush, he just doesn't ask 'cause he knows you'll say no. Poor guy's probably terrified of rejection. Which makes me feel so much harder for him—asking you for a job must not have been easy."

"I know, but..." My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "Blue isn't a bad guy, but he does do a lot of drugs. Everyone knows that."

"Oh yes he does. So are you gonna tell him the truth?"

"I have to." My stomach retches at the idea, but Mom didn't raise me to be a coward; I'll play that mantra in my head until I work up the courage to face him.

***

Hull District High's orange lockers haven't been painted since the eighties, and the speckle-tiled floor is mucked-up with shoe prints. The hot, post-storm mugginess cramps the air. At least now the sun's shining, so maybe if I'm lucky, it'll shine some luck on me.

I doubt that. There's no way Carson's going to take this well. I do my best not to make enemies—I don't pick fights or make fun of people, and I try to play Switzerland when it comes to drama. It's hard to see him not hating my guts after this.

Val goes to her first period class, so I head to the H-shaped hall. I find Carson leaning his forehead against the inside of his rusted locker, his limbs looking like they weigh ten tons. With a heavy sigh, he shoves a textbook into his backpack and zips it up. I stop at the corner and hug my arms. How am I supposed to break this to him? Hey, Blue, you're a nice guy and all but I don't want your drug habits or your crappy brothers anywhere near mine?

Well there's no use in drawing it out. I suck in a breath and walk right up to him.

"Hi, Blue."

Our eyes meet and a hesitant smile tugs at his lips. Even though I'm five-foot-eight, Carson makes me feel puny. There's a tiny rip along the side of his red plaid shirt, and he smells like aftershave and cigarettes.

"Jill, hey..." He clears his throat. "Listen, I'm really sorry about my brothers last night. The way they acted wasn't cool."

Why does he have to be so nice about it? It'd be easier to let him down if he acted more like Garnett and Lucas, but for whatever reason, Carson is different from them.

"Yeah, about that..." I look at my feet, at the orange laces woven into my blue Converse. "No offense, but I can't have guys like them near my cousin. He's really impressionable right now. Especially since his dad took off."

"Sorry, I heard about that. But I'm not like my brothers. I don't think it's funny to get little kids wasted."

"I know you don't, but..." Forcing myself to meet his stare, I say, "Listen, Blue. I know you tried to stop what was happening, and I know you mean well. But I don't think you working at Dee's is a good idea. I never gave your resume to my mom."

My face burns as I dread his reply. Carson blinks at me, once, twice, three times. Then, "But last night wasn't me, Jill. I'd never give Nolan a beer or a smoke or anything like that. If I ever caught Garnett and Lucas doing that again, I'd try to stop them. I swear that on my life."

"I'm sorry, but I've made up my mind. It's really not personal."

He studies me with an intent gaze, irises flecked with earthy browns and greens like tree bark. "It sort of is. I—" He inhales a jagged breath. "Forget it. I'm not about to beg you. I thought we were cool, Jillian."

"We are cool. I told you, it's not personal. If you need help finding work, I can ask around elsewhere for you. I can help."

"You think I haven't applied everywhere? No one will hire me 'cause of my family's reputation. Hell, maybe your mom wouldn't have been any different, but I still deserve a fair chance. If she wants to reject me then fine, I can take it... but you said yourself it's not up to you who gets hired."

My throat is all clogged up, and people glance at us as they pass. Carson puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. In a lower voice, he says, "You can think what you want about me and my family, but it's not right to make decisions about my life 'cause you're scared it'll affect yours."

"It's not about my life, it's about my cousin's."

"You sure about that? 'Cause he lives two minutes away from my family. If he wants to see them, he can, whether I'm working with you or not. Pretty sure this is about you."

His words chip at me. I feel for Carson, I do. Everyone knows he doesn't have it easy, and there are a lot of theories on why he is the way he is. Most of them fall into some sort of a family curse, but that's horseshit to me; he isn't cursed, he's just got issues. We all do. But it's not my job to help him when I already have so much to worry about.

"I'm sorry, Blue. I have a lot on my plate right now with my aunt and my cousin, plus my mom's been going through some things too. I don't need anything else."

He scoffs and shakes his head. "Yeah. Wouldn't wanna upset your balance." Carson shuts his locker and disappears into the hall, leaving me with a giant ditch in my gut.