CHAPTER ONE

CALLA

THE BIG SISTER

Calla was wearing the wrong bra. This sort of confrontation called for her sports bra, the one with six no-nonsense hooks anchoring her down and all the sex appeal of old goulash. Instead, she was in her limpest bra, the one with the missing underwire, making her right breast pop over the cup like a gopher.

She drew the long dark twists of her hair over one shoulder. She prayed it would keep anyone from noticing she currently had three breasts. If she'd known this morning she would end up at a disciplinary meeting at her little brother's school, she would have dressed more authoritatively. Her boobs wouldn't be giving her this much shit trapped in a blazer.

The balding man sitting across from her dwarfed his chair. Calla was envious of how his bulk communicated clout where hers communicated an affinity for chicken tenders. He tapped a Sharpie on a thick stack of paperwork. "Ms. Williams, we're glad you could make the time. I'm afraid we found drugs in your son's backpack."

Calla snuck a look at her brother. Jamie was her own little Virgil, ushering her from work into the bowels of hell, which was a tight, awkward circle of folding chairs in the guidance counselor's office.

"Of course," Calla said. "I'm very concerned about Jamie's behavior." That sounded right, like something a good guardian would say. "What exactly is your role here, Mr. . . . ?"

"Thomson. Mr. Thomson. I'm an in-school suspension resource officer. And this is Jen, Jamie's guidance counselor. We understand Jamie is troubled. We've made allowances for his circumstances. But your son's attitude is unacceptable," Mr. Thomson said.

In-school suspension resource officer could not be a real job. Calla wasn't clear on what he did aside from stroking his neon-yellow-and-green lanyard, a proud layer of school colors across his windbreaker, and sighing heavily as though Jamie had personally offended him.

At the end of the lanyard, Thomson's badge had the misfortune of including a picture, his red weathered face badly shrunken down to the size of Calla's thumb. The name under the photo was partially scrubbed off, reading only P THOMSON. She obsessed over Thomson's first name. Perry? He massaged the lanyard when he spoke, and Calla wanted to burn it while he watched.

She did not like that he'd introduced himself as Mr. Thomson. Calla was not the student here, though she felt like one, for sure. Going back to high school had that effect. Something about the march of battered lockers, the universal smells of bubbling hormones and stale Tater Tots.

Where Thomson was obviously a blowhard, the guidance counselor present appeared to be a ghost. She had yet to speak a word, only nodding weakly in Calla's general direction. She had purple bags under her eyes and clutched a bottle of ginger ale in her lap. Calla was starting to suspect the woman was hungover.

"He's my brother," Calla corrected. She was mildly offended Paul or Percy or whatever thought she looked old enough to have spawned a sixteen-year-old. She was only twenty-five. It only confirmed what she knew, deep in her bones: taking care of Jamie was prematurely aging her. It was a wonder they hadn't mistaken him for her grandson.

"Right, your brother." Patrick (?) opened a file, thumbing through notes. His voice was shockingly high, a reedy embarrassing falsetto. "We have a zero-tolerance policy for drugs."

Calla's chair was jammed against a bookcase precariously full of self-help books and ceramics and dozens of waxy apples crammed between framed photos and cups full of pens. Jamie's head was obscured by a sprawling spider plant, long speared leaves poking into his hair. He didn't move a muscle, and Calla wasn't sure her little brother was awake.

Improbably diverse students hugged each other in posters behind Jen, the bulletin board half-covered by flyers for French Club and SAT tutoring, basketball practice and biology internships.

Calla crossed her legs. Sitting like a lady took real effort on her part; her thick thighs did not want to stay closed.

Phineas, maybe, shifted his bulk in the narrow metal chair. He could totally be a Phineas. "As you know, Jamieson isn't a first-time offender. We're going to have to take a harder line here."

Preston sent a quick glance to the guidance counselor. Jen took a long breath and a hefty swallow of ginger ale. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here, swallowed both by the brown fabric of her T.J. Maxx suit and her overgrown hair. Undoubtedly, she'd met hundreds of Jamies. Calla related-one Jamie was enough to drive her to drink. Hundreds would put her in rehab.

"We want your son to succeed here," Jen said. "To thrive here. And while we want to be compassionate due to his background, it's clear that he's just not trying. Mr. Thomson, will you tell Mrs. Watson about the altercation?"

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?" Calla was not going to sit here being slowly consumed by fake apples while her brother moldered into a plant. This was why she'd wanted backup. Dre, her middle brother, was probably too busy flirting with a hot waitress at work to remember where he was supposed to be.

"Mr. Thomson," he enunciated slowly.

"Your first name. Paul? Perry?" Calla shifted, dislodging an old yearbook. It clattered behind her chair, drawing sleepy raised brows from Jen and a dry cough from Pedro.

"Peregrine." He looked down at his lap.

Wow. Okay. She could see why he wanted to stick to Mr. Thomson. "Nice to meet you, Peregrine. I'm Calla Williams, and this is my little brother. Jamie, what happened?"

She elbowed Jamie roughly in the ribs.

He stirred from his chair, slouching on Calla's right. He was in a black hoodie, NIKE scrawled in faded red across his slender chest, a mustard splotch marring the "I." He crossed his legs, black joggers tapered close to the shins. His feet shot out enormously in heavily dented Timberlands, classic tan, with custom maroon laces. His dreadlocks were slightly longer than Calla's fingers, soft yellow at the ends and stiff with beeswax. Calla had always thought Medusa should be black, and this was why, the way Jamie's locs writhed and cascaded with a will of their own.

His eyes were Calla's eyes, but better. They shared the same round shape, the same deep-brown color, except he had a thick fringe of lashes where hers were stubby and stingy.

Everything about him was drawn and stale; his sweatpants were peppered with lint, his eyes crusted at the edges, and his smell-the cheapest dankest weed to be found on Rainier Avenue South-made Calla breathe through her mouth. His eyes were bloodshot, streaked with violent red.

And still, through all of that, he was carelessly handsome. He clenched his jaw as he realized everyone was staring at him, little creases stretching taut at his cheeks, just a promise of how his round baby cheeks would evolve into sharp edges.

He cleared his throat, and it went on forever, like something was lodged in there. Peregrine balled his fist around a pen, disproportionately outraged, and Jen peeked at her cell phone.

"You want me to . . . what now?"

"Tell me what happened."

"Uh, I thought they were gonna tell it." Jamie swallowed wetly.

"And now I'm asking you." Calla used her new voice, the one she'd acquired only in the last year. The voice that emerged only when faced with children past your fucking limit, pushed to a level of aggravation beyond what you thought was possible.

"Uh, I was just-" Jamie looked at the door. Calla wasn't the only one dreaming of escape. She also wasn't fooled. Her little brother wasn't just silver-tongued; he was dipped metal all over. It took a while to wear down his skin for the glibness to show.

She waited impatiently, furtively checking the time. She was hoping to make it back to the office before the workday was over. She estimated her odds were about 64 percent.

"I saw him walking around during class time. Without a note," Peregrine volunteered.

Oh, goodness, Calla would need smelling salts. Jamie had walked outside of class, like a lunatic.

Jamie rolled his eyes. "I had a note from Mr. Spencer. You didn't even give me a chance to get it from my pocket."

She lowered her chances at getting back to work to 32 percent.

"You were clearly high, clearly skipping class. You completely ignored me." Peregrine's neck started to spot with red. Calla wished she could tell him to pace himself. Jamie was bad for the blood pressure.

Jamie studied his shoes. "Look, it's been a hard time for me. I just needed a minute to myself." He linked his fingers, holding his own hand, and when he glanced up his gaze was heavy and soft. Soulful. "I genuinely didn't hear you. I was lost in my thoughts."

Shit, Jamie was warming up. Her hope shriveled to an ambitious 14 percent.

"You tried to run away," Peregrine said flatly.

"I run when I'm upset. My therapist said exercise is a good coping mechanism." Jamie wiggled his feet, the sole on the left shoe nearly flapping. "I thought exercise was a healthy way to express my feelings. Supposed to be better than alcohol or unprotected sex. I guess I was wrong."

"Jamieson, please," Jen said. "It's important that you take responsibility for your actions. We can't move forward without accountability. We all know why we're here."

"Yes, we do." Jamie...