“You’reback?”Mrs.Lin’svoicecamefromthelivingroom,hergazesweepingoverCralikearadars.“HowwastheEnglishvocabquiztoday?”

        “Istudied.Seventy-five.”Craslippedoffhershoesaedthescoreinaneven,unremarkabletone.

        “Englishislikebiology—it’syourlifelineifyouwanttogetintoanationaluyorack.Itotdrop.”Mrs.Linstood,watgherdaughter’squiet,obedientposture,hervoicesofteningslightly.“AndthatRockMusicClubofyours…onceyou’reinthesedsemesterofeleventhgrade,shouldn’tyouquit?Wouldn’titbebettertouseyourweekendafternoonstodomoremathproblems?”

        Cra’sstepspaused—justslightly—atthefootofthestairs.Shepushedherrimlessgssesup;therefleonthelenseshidwhatevermovedinhereyes.

        “Clubwon’taffectmygrades.”Hervoicestayedcalm,buttherewasastubbornnessinitthatrefusedtobend.“I’mgoingupstairstoshower.”

        Beforehermothercouldsayanythingelse,Crawentupquickly,turhedoorknob—

        *Click.*

        —andlockedherselfihecrampedroomthatwasbarelyfourtatamimatswide.

        Theroomwastiny.Asinglebed,adesk,andasimplewardrobefilledalmostallthespace;eventurningarouawkward.ButtoCra,thiswasherbunker—herair-raidshelteragainsttheentireworld.

        Shetossedherbackpatothebedand,fromthedeepestinnerpocket,pulledouttanesemangavolumeslikeamagi—coversprihwide,watery-eyedgirls.Shedroppedherselfontothesoftmattress,thenreachedoutandpressedthepybuttonontheoldCDstereobythebed.

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