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PROLOGUE
AMBER: 2ND GRADE
I walk into my classroom feeling confident and ready to make new friends in second grade. Mom ironed my pretty green dress and told me it looks okay with my red hair. I wanted to wear a pink one, but Mom said she had a teacher once who made her read a boring book, and the book said redheads don’t look good in pink. I have no idea why she listened to a book called—what was it called again? Banned in Green Marbles, I think.
I still think my pink dress would’ve been better.
“All right Amber, have a good day,” Mom says, standing above me. She doesn’t crouch down to get on eye level like other parents seem to do with their children. She also doesn’t hug me goodbye.
Her blonde hair and blue eyes are so pretty, and I remember a comment she made about how I got my looks from my dad. I’ve never met my dad, but my mom doesn’t like him. And she definitely doesn’t like that I look like him instead of her.
“And remember, you’re just as good as everyone in that classroom. Don’t let anyone look down on you because of where you live or the clothes you wear.”
I have no clue what she’s talking about. My clothes are fine, and our apartment might be small, but it’s clean. I even have my own room. We painted it pink. I can have pink walls, but not pink dresses.
“Okay, Mom,” I say, hoping she might bend down and kiss my cheek. But she simply glances at her wrist watch—one of her boyfriends gave it to her—and leaves.
I head inside my classroom, and smile at a few of the girls already seated at their desks. The desks are in groups of four, and each one has a name taped on top. I look around for mine.
When I find it, I drag my hand over the top. It’s laminated and has colorful apple stickers surrounding my name. A snuffling sound grabs my attention. It sounds like someone’s crying. I spin in a circle trying to find where the sound is coming from. After a few seconds, I realize it’s coming from under the group of desks where I’ll be sitting. Getting down on all fours, I see a boy curled into a ball, rocking back and forth as he cries.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, even though he’s obviously not okay.
He doesn’t answer.
I glance from side to side, noting that our teacher, Ms. Montgomery, is in the front of the classroom speaking to a few of the students, and not noticing the boy.
After checking to make sure no one is watching, I slip under the tables and sit beside him. The space is cramped, so I have to hug my legs to my chest.
The boy who is crying has short but messy hair. It looks like he’s been tugging on it. The dark strands rest against his light, clammy skin. He’s sweating, and his hair looks a little damp. I wonder if he’s always pale and sweaty, or if it’s because of whatever’s going on right now.
My mom would be furious if she knew I was under a table on my first day of school. She doesn’t like it when I draw attention to myself.
The boy’s crying quiets, and he momentarily stops rocking. His arms slide down, and he peeks up at me through his tears. He looks into my eyes for a few seconds before moving his gaze up slightly… like maybe he’s looking at my hair?
“Hi,” I say, offering a hesitant smile. “I’m Amber.”
He blinks with eyelashes so long and so dark, I know Mom would be jealous of them. Even though he’s not looking at my eyes, I can tell his eyes are dark brown. Kind of shiny and pretty too. I like them. They’re kind eyes.
He doesn’t speak, but he tilts his head down in a nod. “Hi,” he finally whispers.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, hoping the question won’t send him back into his meltdown.
His head jerks away, and he looks down at his feet.
“Are you nervous about the first day of school?” I ask.
His head tilts back in my direction, and he nods.
I release a deep breath, glad that’s all it is. “It’s okay to be nervous.”
I notice his hands are trembling, and instinctively, I cover them with mine. I’m hoping the touch comforts him.
The boy jerks like I scared him and pulls his hand away. “A-a-a-re you?” He stutters the question out. “Nervous?”
I smile easily. “No, but my mom says I’m a social butterfly.”
His nose scrunches up. “That doesn’t make sense. Butterflies are solitary insects.”
