"Thank you very much," said Hazel.

Mrs. Jacobs regarded her. "You're very welcome, Hazel."

They had art cla.s.s that afternoon. The walls of the room were lined with galleries from each grade, and on the fifth-grade wall two of Jack's pieces were at the very top. At one time, this had made Hazel very proud.

Their art teacher was named Ms. Blum, though in her head Hazel had always called her Mrs. Which, because she wore weird baggy clothes and seemed like the sort of person who might tesser in some dark and stormy night. It seemed now an odd thing to think.

Ms. Blum was introducing their new project, speaking, as she always did, with grand hand gestures that Hazel used to find dramatic but now made her fear for the jars of paint.

"I've noticed," said Ms. Blum, her hands in the air, "that we've all been spending time making art about things we know. But you don't have to just make a picture of something you know, something real. So for our next project I want you to show me a place that isn't real, something you make up."

Hazel frowned along with the rest of the cla.s.s.

One of the girls raised her hand. "Like . . . pretend?"

"Yes," said Ms. Blum. "This is what artists do all the time. They, like, pretend. They don't have to just show the world as it is. You can use art to express something. . . . Think of an emotion or an idea and make a place that evokes that idea."

Hazel stared at the paint-splotted table in front of her. There was a time when she would have loved this a.s.signment, when she had a thousand made-up places at her fingertips just waiting for someone to ask to see them. But now she could think of nothing. There were so many real places in the world, and they had so much weight to them. There were front hallways and bus stops and the s.p.a.ce on the other side of cla.s.sroom doors. There were lonely big slides and microscopically out of line desks and lunch tables that survived gravity shifts. How could anyone ever make something up?

She moved to the supply table with the rest of the cla.s.s, able to see nothing but the world as it was.

She took a piece of plain white paper and stared at it. It was an empty, inhospitable thing. Hazel exhaled. And then she remembered Jack's sketch.

Hazel drew a tiny fort in the middle of the page-an austere palace framed by four tall turrets. In Hazel's hands they looked a little like deformed lollipops. Then she drew a long line coming out from either side of the palace, stretching out across the landscape of the paper.

Hazel felt the presence of the teacher behind her.

"That's your sketch?" Ms. Blum asked.

Hazel nodded. The thing with not being able to draw very well is you didn't have to spend any time at it.

"What colors are you going to use?" Ms. Blum motioned to the paint wall.

"Just white," said Hazel.

The teacher stared at the drawing, and then gave Hazel a searching look.

"This is different for you," she said.

"It's a fort," Hazel explained. "No one can ever find you there."

"That's very interesting, Hazel," the teacher finally said.

"Thank you, Ms. Blum," said Hazel.

A second-grade girl sat next to Hazel on the bus and started showing her her sticker collection. The boys were already in the back, but there was no Jack there, either. Hazel wondered what had happened to him. Maybe Jack was pretending to be sick. But that wasn't logical-it wasn't like Jack was upset. He was completely happy to be a total jerk.

Maybe his father had kept him home for the day, just to be safe. His father worried a lot more, now.

It was possible that he was actually sick. Maybe he got hurt worse than anyone knew. And no one was telling her. She had no information at all. He could be in the hospital hooked up to tubes and beeping things with people in scrubs standing over him whispering dramatically and scribbling on clipboards, and she would have no idea, no one would tell her. Maybe she should go visit him, maybe he needed her, maybe when he saw her the beeping would get stronger and Jack would sit up in bed and the doctors would gasp and scribble about the miracle before their eyes.

The poison lifted. Her heart breathed free. And- "Are you okay?" the second grader asked, closing her sticker alb.u.m.

Hazel swallowed and turned to stare out the window at the slushy gray real world.

On the way from the bus stop, Hazel walked by Jack's house slowly. She tried to sneak glances at the front windows while at the same time making a show of looking straight ahead. It was not easy.

And then, from behind her, the sound of a car. Hazel turned. The red station wagon was pulling up in the driveway. Hazel felt a wave rise up inside of her and crash. Jack's parents got out of the car and began to walk toward the house. No Jack.

Hazel took a deep breath and called out, "Mr. and Mrs. Campbell?"

They turned around. Mr. Campbell had his hand lightly on his wife's back. Hazel didn't even know she ever left the house.

"Um, is Jack okay? He wasn't in school. And-"

And what? And he was mean.

And, that.

Jack's mother gave her a hazy smile. Something about it made Hazel's stomach rotate a few degrees. She seemed more human, but still somehow wrong, like they'd gotten the souls mixed up and put the wrong one back inside her.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Campbell said. "He's just fine."

"Oh."

What did Hazel expect? He went temporarily insane and we took him to a doctor and he got a pill and now he's better and wants to see you?

"He's just gone away for a while," Mrs. Campbell added.

Hazel blinked. "What?"

"He's gone to live with his dear elderly aunt Bernice," she said, voice gaining strength. "She needs help, you see. He's doing just fine, and we needn't worry."

She smiled at Hazel again, and both parents turned and disappeared into the house.

Chapter Eleven.

Magical Thinking

Hazel stood staring at the doorstep where Jack's parents had been. Maybe they would come out, tell her it was all a big joke, tell her Jack would be out in a minute, tell her everything was going to go back to normal.

But they didn't.

Hazel replayed the words Mrs. Campbell had spoken, trying to find the sense in them. But there wasn't any.

Her mother agreed. "I didn't even know he had an elderly aunt," she said, after Hazel told her what had happened.

"Me neither," said Hazel.

"Maybe she means great-aunt. But why would they send Jack? I mean, what about school?"

"I don't know," said Hazel.

"And it's not like he's particularly qualified for elder care. I mean, he's eleven. What do they expect him to do, teach her to play Zombie a.s.sault?"

"I don't know," said Hazel, shifting a little. She was beginning to feel like it was her fault.

"Weird." Her mom shook her head. "They have to be making it up. But why wouldn't they make up something believable? I mean, his elderly aunt is named Bernice." She shook her head again. "And Mrs. Campbell told you this? How did she seem?"

"Um . . . " Her mom wouldn't respond well to the soul-switching theory. "Kind of . . . weird."

Hazel's mother sighed. "I suppose it's none of our business. Maybe it was better to have him away right now. It has to be so hard on him. But at least this will make it easier for you, right? Not to have to see him all the time?"

Hazel looked at her feet.

"Come on, hon. I'll make some pasta." She let out a small laugh. "I know, I know. For a change."

"Mom?" Hazel pointed her toe. "What if he doesn't come back?"

Her mother put her hand on Hazel's shoulder and looked into her eyes. "Then you'll be okay. You will. Now, come with me." She straightened and motioned to the kitchen. "I'll teach you how to boil noodles."

Hazel smiled a little. "And microwave some sauce?"

"Don't get carried away," said her mom. "I can't give you all my cooking secrets in one day."

Hazel looked down at her feet, poised in perfect third position, and then undid them and followed her mom into the kitchen.

When Hazel woke up on Tuesday morning, the truth of things finally hit her. Jack was gone. Just gone. He didn't call her, or come over, or leave a note, or anything. He didn't say good-bye, because he didn't care to. He didn't try to explain the things he said, or the way he acted. He was perfectly happy to leave her feeling like this. And there was no witch, no wraith blade, no evil corporate brain-thingy that had caused the change in him. He had just changed. He just didn't like her anymore.

And that meant, even if Jack came back from his elderly aunt-or wherever he was-he was still gone.

She dragged herself down to the kitchen for breakfast to find her mother sitting at the small breakfast table waiting for her, with a face that made Hazel think she should turn right around and crawl back into bed until summer.

"Sit down, hon. I need to talk to you."

Hazel slid into the hard chair.

"I talked to your father," her mom continued, and Hazel's eyes snapped to the long gouge she'd made in the table when she was seven and wanted to play Excalibur. "I'm so sorry. About the ballet lessons. Your dad says he can't do it right now. With the wedding, you know . . ."

Hazel moved her head in an approximation of a nod.

Her mother exhaled, and moved to put her hand on Hazel's. Hazel did not let herself blink. "About your dad . . . you know . . ." Her voice was fraying from the strain of picking words so carefully. "I know he's not being that . . . communicative now, but that's his way. If he's not calling you, it's not because he doesn't want to . . . but because he feels . . . bad. I wish it were different. Believe me. But it doesn't mean he doesn't love you to the stars, do you understand?"

Hazel near-nodded again. The scar on the table blurred.

"We'll get you lessons someday, hon. I promise."

"I better go," Hazel said, standing up from the chair. "I'll be late."

At the bus stop, Hazel took her spot at the edge of the sidewalk, a few feet away from the twins. When the bus came, she boarded it with her eyes down. This is how she was going to get through the seven-hour leper-o-rama of school-with her eyes always on the ground.

Of course, she'd just b.u.mp into people.

Immediately when she walked down the aisle of the bus she felt eyes boring into her. She looked up and saw Tyler staring at her.

Hazel wished she had something in her hands to throw. She looked away and sat down.

She opened up the new library book she'd brought for the bus ride and willed her thoughts to disappear in the pages. The girl in it was reading A Wrinkle in Time. She was best friends with a boy who lived in the apartment below. And then one day the boy stopped talking to her. Hazel closed the book.

When the bus arrived at school, Hazel gathered her things slowly, waiting for everyone else to get off. But when she got off she found Tyler waiting for her.

"What?" she snapped.

"Um, Jack's not here today either?"

"Doesn't look like it, no."

"Do you know where he is?"

So that's what this is about. He couldn't call over there himself? Couldn't boys do anything by themselves?

"He went to stay with his elderly aunt Bernice," Hazel responded primly. "She's sickly and she needs his help." Hazel smiled in the way people who have superior information do, and walked away.

When she pa.s.sed Mr. Williams's cla.s.sroom, she did not stop to look in.

As she walked into her cla.s.s, she wondered if people noticed the change in her, if you could extract such a big part of yourself but still look the same on the outside, or if people would notice that she was part girl, part hollowed-out s.p.a.ce.

Hazel sat down, ignoring the presence of the boys behind her. Mikaela smiled a greeting at her, and the girl part of Hazel smiled a little back, because that's what you do. And then the hollowed-out part took over, and Hazel settled in for a Jack-less day.

As Mrs. Jacobs yammered on that morning, Hazel found her eyes drawn to the busy street out the window. This is what there was in the world, busy streets thick with the smell of car exhaust and fast-food hamburgers. Maybe everyone was right, maybe she did let her imagination run away with her, and maybe she could be a baby sometimes.

Then it was time for recess, and Hazel girded herself. She got up and was heading outside with everyone else when Mrs. Jacobs stopped her.

"Hazel?"

She looked.