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Prologue
Azalea
“Hereyougo,”mydad says, plunking my rolling suitcase down on the sidewalk in front of me. He pulls the handle up until it clicks into place. “Do you know where you’re supposed to meet your teachers?”
I look over at the sliding doors that lead into the airport. Currently, they are being partially blocked by a preschooler throwing a temper tantrum while his luggage-laden parents try to bribe him into compliance. “Dad, I don’t really—”
“Azalea.” Dad squeezes my shoulders and turns me to look at him. “This will be good for you. You’ll be fine. I’ll use the time at home alone to get the house a little more put together.”
The thought of Dad beinghome alonehere, in Des Moines, doesn’t sit quite right, because we’ve only lived here for a week. On Monday, I started at my new school. The counselor who gave us a tour of the building also informed us that the senior class trip was coming up in a few days and they had one extra spot. I would have rather spent my weekend organizing my new room, but Dad jumped at the suggestion and wrote the check on the spot. That was four days ago; now it’s before dawn on Friday morning, and he’s leaving me at this airport I’ve never been to with all these people I’ve never met.
“You gotta go,” Dad says. He pulls me in for a hug, then gently shoves me toward the doors. The crying child has been tossed over his own dad’s shoulder and hauled inside. “Do you have your gum?” he asks.
I pat the pocket of my jacket. “Yeah.”
“Do you know where to meet your teachers?” he asks again, his eyes flicking toward the entrance with mild concern. “I can come in if you want.”
“No, I know where I’m going,” I lie quickly. I don’t, but I’m used to the airport in Denver, which is many times larger than this one. It can’t be that hard to find the group, and the last thing I want is for everyone to see my dad escorting me inside like a little kid.
“Call me when you land.”
“I will.”
He walks to the drivers’ side of the car and yanks the door open. Before climbing inside, he calls out one final directive: “This cost me a grand! Have fun!”
I sigh to myself. I know that if Ireallyput up a fight, he would let me come home with him. The part of me that knows he’s right, that Ishouldbe here—making new friends, having new experiences—doesn't let me do that.
With a forced smile, I give him a wave. “Bye, Daddy.”
Pulling my suitcase behind me, I walk through the sliding doors, eyes already darting around in search of someone—anyone—who looks familiar. I know that Mrs. Griswold, the counselor who ruined my weekend, is a chaperone; other than that, I have zero clue as to who will be accompanying me on this trip.
“Hey!” I hear as I putter across the tiled floor. “New girl!”
Startled, I turn toward the voice. A tall, blonde girl my age stands a few yards away, Starbucks cup in one hand, wildly waving at me with the other. She looks vaguely familiar—I think I may have seen her in algebra. Either way, I’m certain that I’ve never spoken to her before, but I’m not really in a position to turn my nose up at someone offering help. I slowly walk her way.
“Mrs. G was afraid you wouldn’t show up,” the girl says without preamble as soon as I’m within earshot. She slurps whipped cream off the top of her drink. “Sorry, I already forgot. What’s your name again?”
I clear my throat and roll my luggage in front of me like a shield. “Azalea.”
“Did you just get here?” she asks, skipping over her own introduction.
“Yeah.”
The girl tilts her head to the right. “We’re all over there.”
I look toward where she gestures and see the group overflowing from a small waiting area nearby. There must be a hundred kids leaning on the wall, sprawling across chairs, sitting on the floor. Mrs. Griswold and two other teachers stand off to the side, talking in a closed-off circle.
“Callie!” someone calls, and my rescuer waves. I commit her name to memory, relieved to know someone besides Mrs. Griswold.
Then Callie steps away without a backward glance, and my short-lived relief fades. Not wanting to seem like a lost puppy, I don’t follow her. Instead, I stand against the wall until an adult yells that it’s time to go through security. I lag behind the rest of the group as we go through the motions of unpacking and repacking. At the gate, I find a spot to sit alone until the announcement comes that it’s time to board. I’ve been relatively calm about the flight up to this point, but dread curls low in my belly when I hear the monotone voice on the intercom call our flight number.
I shuffle along behind a cackling, roughhousing group of boys, keeping a safe distance so I don’t catch a foot or elbow. They get to the gate agent and suddenly realize that they’re not sure where their boarding passes are. The agent, looking entirely unamused, gestures for me to come forward with mine. I grimace but do as requested, and she waves me through.
As always happens when I fly, the breath seems to leave my body the second I step onto the jetway. I go ahead and pop a piece of gum in my mouth. Every step closer to the plane constricts my lungs further, and I suddenly wish Ihadpulled out the crocodile tears so I could’ve stayed home.
I focus on breathing evenly as I shuffle down the aisle. I stow my suitcase in the overhead compartment and sink into my window seat, hoping against hope that the aisle seat will stay empty and I won’t have to spend this flight hemmed in by a stranger.
No such luck. It’s not long before a guy I’ve never seen before stops in the aisle next to me. He busies himself with putting his carry-on away, then sits heavily in the seat beside me. I’m trapped between him and the window, and my panic kicks up a notch.
