Dread. Every time I go back. I hate this house. I hate the people inside it. Standing on the curb and staring at the brick prison fills me with anger. It's so deceiving. It seems quaint, yet the inside's musty and abusive. Nobody would know from passing by. They'd have to live under its roof to know. I know. I wish I didn't, but I do.

No one's in the tight living room, which is odd. I'm not often the first one here. Unless everyone else is in their rooms as quiet as a corpse.

I open the door to my room, and it sweeps my fallen jackets, making a little path for me. I drop my backpack on the floor and freeze before taking another step. From the messy state of the room, I can't tell if anything's off, but I sense there's been an unwelcome guest.

Or two.

Interlopers.

My eyes scan the room like lasers, trying to find something out of place.

My mattress is not aligned with the wall.

I stop short in the middle of the hall before I get to the living room. The door that leads to the loft opens, and Curt and Diane step off the stairs. They both stand in front of the door, not bothering to shut it. Curt has his arms folded, and Diane has something behind her back. I don't know what it is. Not exactly.

"Looking for this?" She holds up my pink songbook.

I'm not worried, but I hate that she went into my room and snooped around. "Where did you get that?" I say, knowing the answer.

"Under your mattress. You have some nerve hiding this from me."

And you have some nerve trespassing. "I'm a songwriter. I have to write them down somewhere."

"I don't approve of such a silly profession." Silly? Silly? She thinks writing is silly? Why am I so surprised? She thinks everything is silly.

I turn my hands into balls. "It's not silly."

"You will respect your mother," Curt growls.

"She is not my mother!"

He takes a stride, making me step back, but Diane stops him.

How dare he call her my mother? She never has and will never be my mother. But what will she do to me? I yelled at her. I talked back. She's going to murder me for sure.

"You're not my kid." That shouldn't hurt, but it does. Like needles in my veins instead of blood. "You are in so much trouble for what you did, you bitch. Did you think we wouldn't find out?"

Yes. Wait. This is about me getting suspended, right? I have no clue. No one knows about my suspension.

"I'm waiting," she says through her teeth. "Did you really think we wouldn't find out?"

"Did you really think I'd listen to all your insane rules?" Fuck. What have I done?

Diane stares at me with her thin eyes and marches into the living room, where she offers up my songbook to the fireplace's flames. I hold my breath, and my eyes sting, even though she fell for the trick.

I rush to my room, and Max opens the door.

"Are you okay? I saw everything."

"I'm fine," I snap, turning my back to him. But how did he see? Was he in the living room when it happened?

"But you love writing songs. Now, they're all burning."

"I said, 'I'm fine.'" I face him. "I'm just offended."

"How can you be so chill?"

"Because," I sigh, "that wasn't my songbook. It was a dummy."

His eyebrows squish together. "Huh?"

"I wrote actual songs in that one. Songs she wouldn't know. My real songbook is hidden somewhere she'll never find it."

"Your car?"

"How did you—"

He smiles. "You hide everything in your car."

Not everything. "If they find that out, I have the keys. They don't."

"One word—bricks."

"Yeah, I wouldn't put it past them," I say, folding my arms.

"But that was smart. Do you think you can hide my Spider-Man comics there, too?"

"I'm not a U-Haul." I remove a stray hair thread from my face and flick it into the air. "Hide them in your closet."

"Too easy. She'll find them." It is too easy, but his things aren't my things.

"There's that loose floorboard in your room. Hide them under that."

"I would, but it's full," Max says, rubbing his arm.

"Under the rug?"

"Ooo, that's good." He runs out to do that.

"And put on a sweater," I call after him.

I may have anticipated Diane finding my fake songbook, but why burn it? Did she think that would stop me from writing? I've already stopped—little does she know. I've been too depressed to write anything new. Now, I listen. I listen to music. I don't write it anymore. What's the point? All my songs could have been wasted tears. They all could have been turned to black dust with The Sorcerer's Stone. There's no point in doing anything worth having fun and hope here. It all gets destroyed. This place destroys hope. It destroys souls and eats them for dessert.

"Knock, knock," Agatha says, appearing in my doorframe. She's smiling, so this can't be good for me.

"Go away."

She walks in, stepping on my jackets. "From the smoke in the air, I can tell Diane burned your little songbook." What?

I cross my arms again. "How did you know it was my songbook?"

She glowers at me. "Who do you think told Diane where you've been hiding it?"

I lose it, dropping my arms to my sides. "Why would you do that?"

"I told you I'd get you back." She turns, and, as she leaves, she says, "I hope you remember them all."

Agatha is the worst. What kind of hatred she must have to rat me out and hand it over to Diane? Knowing how much I love songwriting. Burning my songbook is not an equal payback for telling her that her exes don't have a life. It's not the same.

The house smells of burnt pages and toxic chemicals once again. If we're all diagnosed with cancer in five to ten years, I'll know why.

To get away from it, I sit in my car when everyone has gone to sleep. Every time a happy, poppy song comes on the radio, I change the station to one playing a sad song. Breakups, betrayal, not getting the girl or the guy. No one sings about not having a family. No one tends to sing about being lost—That's it. That's the feeling that leaves me like a feather in the wind.

I'm lost.

There aren't many songs about it. It'd be nice if there were more, which is why I used to write them for myself.

I'm hoping tomorrow will be better. I always hope tomorrow will be better, but it never is. Cinderella's chores are never done, are they?

At twelve-twenty, I sneak into the house, go to my room, and release my hair from my ponytail. Braids, makeup off, and pajamas on. That's always going to be the drill, isn't it?

I'd like to go to sleep happy for once. I'd like to not think about how meaningless everything seems. I'd like to have a full stomach. I'd like to not have pain in my chest. I'd like to not feel I'm about to explode. There are a lot of things I would like. Things I can never have. I'd like to not think about that, either.

Two more years.

* * *

Once ready, I sneak out my window and drop my bag at my feet at five in the morning.

Curt still has me blocked in.

I run to the stop. The neighbors must think I'm insane if they're up. The last time I did this was last year when I was late for school because I stayed up all night writing an essay.

Before I can get to the bottom of the hill, the railroad alarm goes off, and the crossing gate comes down. Do I have time to go under it and hurry across?

Do I dare?

The train horn blows from the right. The train's lights seem so far away, but it'll be here in less than five seconds. I've timed it out. The train passes about twenty seconds after the gate goes down. And there it goes—clickety-clack.

It'd be nice if I could afford a Metro pass. Then, I could take the train wherever I want, whenever I want. I'd go to New York City, I think. It's pretty. Loud, but pretty. Christmas was the best there with Irene. The wreaths, the lights, Rockefeller Center...

What does Emerson, New Jersey have? That annual Santa celebration the fire station hosts? Tree lighting in the park? That tree doesn't even compare to the one at Rockefeller.

The train passes by, revealing the bus leaving the stop.

And here I am, thinking I could leave before the others got up. Life doesn't want me to win, huh? No matter what I do. No job. No bus. The next one won't be here for two hours. The train, on the other hand? The one going in the opposite direction will depart from the station in thirty minutes. Perks of having a Metro pass over bus tokens. How nice it must be to be one of those people?

I catch the later bus and spend some time in town. After grabbing lunch, I go to the music shop. Johnny's not here, as I thought he'd be, but regulars aren't never-leavers.

"Going on a picnic?" Mama says.

I forgot I'm carrying a bag of sandwiches. "It was supposed to be lunch for me and my foster siblings, but I forgot they're at school."

She narrows her focus on the plastic bag. "It looks like there're two in there."

"That's because I ate mine."

She wears a bemused expression. "Don't you have three foster siblings?"

"I do, but the oldest is super picky. She only eats organic food and says the deli doesn't have anything fresh... Which is true."

"Uh-huh," she says, nodding, and puts her hands on her wide hips. "I've noticed the dull, brown-edged lettuce and stale bread."

"Don't forget the cold, pre-cooked grilled chicken."

"It doesn't have any grill marks, so who are they fooling?"

I put my free hand up. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Mama's gaze fixes on me, and she exhales, hands still on her hips. "What're you planning to do with them?"

"I can't refrigerate them, so either I'll eat them throughout the day before they get old or give them to the neighbor's dog. Sounds okay to me." Wait. Could she be hungry? Is that why she's asking? "D-Did you want one?"

She scrunches her face and waves her hand like she's swatting a fly. "Oh, no, dear. I've already had my lunch. But thank you."

I nod, and Mama scrutinizes me. Then, she says, "Do you know a Henry Mills?"

"No." That was random.

"He was here this morning, looking for you." Looking for me? Why would someone be looking for me? I haven't done anything to get in trouble. No one should be looking for me.

I shake my head and say, "I don't know who that is."

"He's a kid, so I didn't think you did."

A smile slips from me for her unintentional rhyme.

"He had a photo," she goes on. "I asked if he was a brother, but he said he was a friend." That's a lie. I have no friends.

I look down. "He's neither."

"He asked me where you live."

"It's a good thing you don't know," I say, lifting my eyes.

"I wouldn't have told him if I did, you know?"

But I don't know. She could betray me like others—if she has an interior motive. It doesn't matter if she's been kind to me. People aren't fully good. It's an act most times. Kindness is not always sincere. People are nice when they want to be—when they need something. If this Henry had something Mama needed, she'd give away my address within a heartbeat.

I say, "No, I don't know."

"Bella?" She has disappointment on her face. It weighs down her large features.

"What did he look like?" I ask to get back on the subject, averting my eyes to the guitars hanging from the ceiling.

"Brown hair. Brown eyes."

"If he's a kid, shouldn't he be in school?"

"Shouldn't you?"

I stare hard at her in surprise. She never questioned it before. Why now? "Day off."

"Funny. He said the same thing." He can't be off. I have a reason why I'm not at school, but what could be his?

"I know why I have a day off, but why does he?"

"It's strange," she says, shaking her head. "I don't know where he is now."

"He had a photo, you said?"

"Not sure where or how he got it. It looked like something he pulled from the Internet. A yearbook photo or something. He had a map, too." A picture and a map? Who the fuck is this kid, and what does he want with me?

"Thanks for telling me. Do you think I'm in danger?"

"No. He's a kid. What kind of threat could he be?" Probably not much. But I'll keep my eyes open just in case.

I tell Mama about what Agatha and Diane did to me yesterday. Whenever I share these stories with her, an anxious thought says she'll call social services or the police. But part of me wants her to. She could save us. Prevent other kids from experiencing Curt and Diane's neglect and wrath.

"Why would you say that about her boyfriends?" she says.

"You're blaming this on me?"

"No, but you instigated it."

"Aren't siblings supposed to tease each other? It's what happens in the media."

"But she isn't your sibling. And, for some reason, she doesn't like you. Don't give her a motive to come after you."

"I can't believe you're blaming this on me." Pressure builds in my nose as though I'm holding in a sneeze, except they're tears.

"I'm not blaming—"

"Yes, you are. No matter what I could've done, it gives her no right to get my songbook thrown in the fireplace."

"You said it was a fake."

"But she thought it was real. She told the foster mom, who burned it. What if that had been my real one? I would've lost everything."

"Next time, don't say anything. Leave her be."

I can't believe this. I was right. Mama's like everyone else. I didn't want to be right. I wished and hoped I wouldn't. But here she is, siding with rubble.

I'm not talking to her again. I'm not coming back here again. God, I loved it here. Music is everything. And just like that, it's gone—taken—stolen. Why must my life be like this? Can't I have one person on my side? Must I fight this war on my own? I don't want to be alone in this world. But I am. Mama was the last person I had.

I suck in a breath. "Leave her be? You don't understand how lost she makes me feel—how everyone makes me feel."

"Just because you're lost don't mean the world's forgotten about you."

"I'm pretty sure it has. It did. A long time ago."

"Darling—" She has the nerve to call me that?

"I gotta go."

She straightens herself out. I can tell by her face she thinks I'm being over dramatic. "Alright, dear. See you tomorrow."

"Goodbye." Forever.

Out of all the people I could lose, it had to be Mama. It couldn't have been Diane? Or Agatha? Why Mama? Why the one person I like? The one person who likes me? This sucks. Life sucks.

I sit outside the shop, and the cold air burns my eyes as if my approaching tears didn't do that already. I unwrap one of the sandwiches, and when I take the paper off, a stray golden retriever perches itself beside the bench. Its fur is dirty and coarse but also stringy.

"Hungry?"

The dog sits there, looking at me and panting.

"You can have it." I toss the sandwich at its feet, and the dog uses its paws to separate it and isolate the chicken. "So, what's your story? Owners abandoned you? Born out here? Escaped the kennel? Lost?"

The golden retriever lays down and chews on the meat.

"I'm the first, trying to do the third, and I'm the last. The kennel isn't fun, boy—or girl. Sorry, I can't tell when you're lying down like that. Though, you probably don't appreciate people checking, anyway."

It goes for the bread next.

"I'm alone. Like you. I don't have anyone. No friends. No family. It's just me... You got a name, boy-girl?" I check for a collar. "I guess not. I'm Bella. If I didn't have evil foster parents, I might consider bringing you home. I may not be able to save myself, but I can save you." I flag down a nearby police officer, and he jogs across the street.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"I have to go, so I can't do this myself. Can you get this dog somewhere safe? Like a vet or shelter?"

He looks at the dog. "Sure. I'll make sure he's taken care of."

"Thanks." I stand, take the bag with the remaining sandwich, and hand it to the cop. "For your efforts."

He holds it out, puzzled, as anyone would be if a stranger gave them free food out of the blue.

"Good luck," I say to the stray. "I hope you find your family."

I hope that officer does what he said he would. If you can't trust the police, who can you trust?

* * *

I'm not sure how much longer I can keep the bottle sealed. It wants to explode. The pressure's building. But tears equal weakness. And I am strong. I won't cry. I will not cry.

At around three-thirty, when I return to the house, I catch Chrys about to walk into the kitchen of death.

"Hey! What are you doing?" I hurry over.

She jumps and takes her hand off the service door. "I wanna know what's in there."

"Well, it's definitely not food."

"I know, but aren't you curious, too?" I am. I've always been. But one step in there is asking for a death sentence.

"Yeah, but I'm not stupid."

"Come on. As a favor to me. I didn't tell anyone you got suspended."

My heart rate speeds up. "How did you find out?"

"Your school called the other day, and I picked it up. I told the man that Curt and Diane weren't home, but they were. You owe me."

My jaw tightens. "I am not letting you go into the kitchen. Diane would kill us both."

"Please." She holds out the word, which is the most annoying sound ever.

"Stop it, Chrys. I don't care if you kept my suspension a secret—"

"What?" Diane stands in the archway.