"Here," he says and shoves both into my hands.

"Okay. Um, thanks. Thanks for everything," I say, stepping back.

After he drives away, I open the note clutched in my hand.

If you're ever in trouble again, call me.

Jai 214-555-5555 I stuff the paper into the front of my book bag with a frown. So much for hoping he was trying to give me his number. But what does he mean by trouble? And more importantly, why does he think I'll be getting into it?

Chapter 9*Envy.

She looks into the glass and sneers. The winkles have multiplied. Like a web, lines crisscross her face. The essence of their youth never lasts long enough for her. She clenches a knife. Though ancient and stone, it gleams in the light. Her own blood will have to suffice until the ritual. The sharp tip finds the underside of her upper arm causing blood to drip onto the waiting blade. Her fingers wipe the liquid off and smear red into each wrinkle while she chants in a language long unused. The words are hard and piercing.

She lays the knife on the counter.

Her chant becomes raspy. Her body trembles. She bends and gasps in pain. Yet her eyes never leave her reflection. Her teeth clench as the pain becomes almost unbearable.

But she bears it as the scarlet smears dry and fills the cracks in her skin.

She collapses onto the floor and pants against the tile.

Her skin is new.

For now.

Chapter 10*Snow.

"Of course he'd chase you. He's responsible for you!"

I flinch from my spot on the counter stool. Chilly digs his head under my arm. My father has never yelled at me before. I wish they'd just go to dinner and leave me in peace. Though I hoped our relationship would improve with this marriage, I'm starting to miss the simple coexistence we used to share.

"It just seemed so weird when he came after me," I say, trying to calm him down.

"Weird?" He places his hands on the speckled granite while a vein pounds along his left temple. "Your behavior was weird." He glances over his shoulder at Mali, who leans against the dark doors of the pantry. "Mali was sick with worry."

Her eyes narrow on me. "You could have been hurt."

Worried my ass. Her words may sound caring but behind my father, her gaze is pure anger. "I'm sorry," I say to her and hold in a sigh of frustration before meeting my father's irate expression. "Look, I won't do it again."

He folds his arms, wrinkling his navy suit. "No, you won't, or there will be hell to pay."

Now, I hold in a snort. What's he going to do? Ground me? I don't go anywhere. Withhold my allowance? I don't buy anything. Take away my phone? I don't call anyone. My computer's the only thing left, and so what if he takes that. I only use it for homework. My twitter, my email, my Facebook, my 234 friends have all become things of the past because they remind me too much of the past.

He lets out a sigh then tosses a thin box across the counter. "Here. It's a gift from Mali. Though at this point, I'm not sure you deserve it."

Oh great, a gift from the beauty queen. I wonder if Valentino or Oscar de la Renta is on the tag. Or maybe being custom made, the gift has no tag. Feeling her angry eyes still on me, I keep my face neutral as I take the box. My eyebrows rise when I open it. A bracelet lays inside on white tissue paper. It looks like something I'd wear. I lift the chain for a closer inspection; small white knobby stones connect with oval pieces of copper.

"As soon as she saw it, Mali thought of you," my father says while she comes around the kitchen island with her heels clicking on the blue slate floor.

Chilly growls as she gets closer.

"Here, I'll help you try it on." She ignores the dog's bared teeth and wraps the chain around my wrist between plastic bracelets. Her cold fingers twist the clasp together. Standing back, she says, "It's definitely you."

I lift my arm. "Yeah, it is." Now, I feel awful. She's finally doing something nice, not calculating, and my thoughts had been so snarky. "Um thanks, I really like it."

A satisfied smile graces her lips. "I knew you would."

My father pushes away from the counter. "You need to apologize to Smith in the morning. Though he's Mali's chauffeur, he's ours now too."

I frown. My head rings, simple coexistence. "O-okay, but how long is Harrison going to be on vacation?"

He shrugs his coat on. "Don't know. Mali's in charge of domestic affairs now."

"Two weeks," she hoists her designer purse from the counter, "unless he calls to extend his vacation. I suppose deep sea fishing for some can be addicting."

My frown deepens. I've a hard time imagining Harrison fishing. He isn't an outdoorsy kind of guy. He's more like a Harley Davison convention kind of guy.

As my dad helps her into her coat, Mali points to the fridge. "Your dinner has already been delivered."

I nod while my stomach, knowing some gross healthy concoction waits for me, does a flip.

"Don't wait up," my father says over his shoulder as they leave the kitchen.

At the click of the front door, I get a doggie treat and set Chilly on the floor. Relieved they're finally gone I pull out my dinner from the stainless steel fridge. Grilled salmon surrounded by an array of raw vegetables under a plastic lid. Yuck. The hunk of pink meat is going to stay under plastic forever. I toss the fish into the garbage and open the freezer to search. After digging for some time, I'm worried Mali has gotten to Rosa. Then at the bottom, under a bag of organic peas, I find a single pepperoni pizza.

While the microwave brings the scent of sauce and pepperoni into the air, I study the bracelet. The white stones are dull with a brownish tinge while the copper shines bright. My wavy reflection stares back at me from the metal. It looks like something from a craft store or a flea market. Where had Mali found it? An overpriced art boutique is the only place I can imagine.

With an ice of glass and a hidden Coke, I go to the computer in my elegantly appointed room. The room is so not me. In my old room, drawings and artwork covered the walls. Cartoon characters in the form of posters and knickknacks littered the space. Now those things gather dust in storage. Such items wouldn't go with the modern ambience my father's decorator created with dark woods, cream linens, and shiny, turquoise pottery. Only two things of mine help decorate the room, a Bugs Bunny cup full of pencils and a framed photo of my mother and me at our cabin in West Virginia. I usually pile books in front of the picture so I don't have to look at it, don't have to face those memories at the cabin.

In between slices of pizza-Chilly sits at my feet waiting for his piece of crust-I search for where Mali found the bracelet. The curiosity is killing me. I suppose because of her desire for me to be a mini-Mali, the gift amazes me. I type a variety of words in the search engine, but nothing for sale is the same as the bracelet I wear. After an image search, the only items comparable are ancient pieces of jewelry on museum sites. Some are so similar mine is obviously a reproduction from ancient history, which is cool. A bracelet inspired by early civilization. Now I really want to identify where she bought the thing. I click shut down on the computer. I'll have to ask her tomorrow.

Finished with dinner, I do homework. I won't be able to sketch tonight. Since missing my afternoon classes the other day, I've been behind. One hundred pages of the Grapes of Wrath, a page of equations, a five-page essay about Communism, studying for a test on French verbs, and a packet of unit conversions for Chemistry are all on my agenda for the evening. Almost five hours later, I've had enough. The French verbs will have to wait for the morning.

After Chilly's nightly walk, I dress in a Mighty Mouse tank and sweats for pajamas. I release my ponytail and remove my bracelets, but the new one won't unclasp. My fingers attempt to push the bracelet off. It squeezes my hand until my skin becomes red. Giving up, I let it dangle on my wrist. With a shrug, I flip off the lamp next to the bed and cuddle next to Chilly. It's not like a bracelet is going to hurt me.

Chapter 11*Snow.

Running late the next morning, I stuff my phone into the front of my bag-I'm not going to be without it ever again-and race out the front doors of our building. The doorman tips his hat to me. In such a rush, I skip my usual hello. Monotone Smith waits at the curb with the Mercedes SUV passenger door open. I dash past him saying, "Sorry about yesterday, I'll try to be a better passenger." I leave my apology at that because in reality I'm not sorry, and if put in the situation again I'd still ditch him.

"No harm was done," he says in his monotone voice.

Ugh. I'd rather he yell than talk like that.

He slips into the driver seat and pulls away from the curb.

"Do you mind?" I ask, pushing the overhead light on. The morning is still gray.

Monotone Smith shakes his head. "You should have done your homework last evening."

Wow. He's so annoying. I pull out my French verb notes and begin to study. Cramming sucks but I'm a pro. Back home, I played on the basketball team, ran track, and was the president of the art club. If I didn't keep my grades up, my mother wouldn't let me do anything extracurricular so I learned how to cram big time. Immersed in the foreign tenses swimming before my eyes, I don't look up until an old warehouse looms above us.

"Hey, where are we?" I ask.

Smith whips out a syringe with a long needle from under his coat.

My eyes widen. "What the-"

The blast of the needle in my neck stops the words. Shock freezes me. The papers in my hand flutter to my lap.

I blink at him in unbelief.

The sensation of the cool liquid entering my veins snaps the shock out of me. The urge to get away from him surges through me. More than whatever he just injected me with. I twist before jerking away from his hands. Clearly written French verbs tear, crack, and flutter between us. The syringe flops against the side of my neck while my nails dig at the door handle. A gloved hand yanks my hair. I yell and scratch at the fingers creating fire on my scalp. He pulls harder. I scratch harder. The needle wobbles and tears at my skin, but I'm determined to get free.

Smack! He belts me across the face.

Fire spreads to my cheek but anger makes my skin hotter. I find the strap of my book bag and swing at him with vengeance. The weight of my books hit his head with a thud before his skull whacks against the glass. I want to smash his head into the glass again. Instead, I rip the needle from my neck and pound the point into his thigh.

He screams.

The sound fills the car's interior.

I hope I've hit bone.

"Bitch," he pants breaking his monotone.

He claws at the needle. I claw at the door. It won't unlock. Desperate to be free, I belt him with my bag again, give the needle an extra push, and reach across him to slap the unlock button.

The echoing click sounds like freedom.

He seizes me just as my feet hit the cement. I drop my bag, unzip my coat, pick up my bag, and flee. Skidding around an icy corner, I look back. He isn't out of the car yet. Through the foggy windows I can see him bent over, wrestling with the needle. The idea of him in pain gives me a twisted surge of glee. I slip both arms through my backpack straps and race away. I almost slip again while veering around a forklift. The man driving the machine yells out a, "Whoa!" as I pass, but my feet keep going. I have no idea where I am. Location doesn't matter, only getting away matters.

I race past warehouses covered with neon graffiti and veer around a man lying on the sidewalk. Another man, dressed in rags, gasps out a stream of fog when I jump over him and rush past a car waiting at a stoplight. I keep checking behind me. My attacker never materializes. Though in an industrialized part of town, I'm pretty much free.

My nerves calm as I slow to a walk. The morning, the area, becomes peaceful. A spike of energy rushes through me. So what if Smith is behind me? Does it matter? Suddenly nothing matters but the moment. Breathing, walking, seeing matter. The pump of my heart, the pressure in my ears, and the blink of my eyes feel amazing and new. My skin tingles. My brain hums with a nameless song as the world around me changes into a kaleidoscope. Living art encircles me. My surroundings rush past me like the smear of a paintbrush dipped in every color. Colors mesh, the snow sparkles like shiny diamonds, and the sky is a lush blue backdrop peppered with wisps of cotton.

I stroll along in admiration until a gleaming orange semi stands in my way. I stop and stare. The lines and shape of the truck are like a moving masterpiece. Straight then curved. Straight then curved. The truck is a streak of bright orange against the sparkly snow. The spin of glistening black wheels outside of brilliant silver hubcaps is mesmerizing and lovely.

Lost in appreciation, I don't hear the voice behind me until the slur is almost in my ear.

Chapter 12*Snow.

"Hey girlie, wanna buy some?" the voice slurs.

I turn toward that oily voice and horror steals my breath. The shock isn't from the echo coming out of the toothless mouth. Or even the odor of BO and piss filling my nostrils. Nor does the grimy paper bag, filled with who knows what, he holds up scare me. Rather his melting face with burning eyes makes my feet tangle as I try to back away. It can't be real. His face drips and I stumble. It looks pretty freakin' real. The man's face is actually dissolving before my eyes.

"I can make the price right." His voice sounds as if it's coming from down a long tunnel.

My backpack hits the side of the building. The once beautiful surroundings turn as grim and horrifying as his face. The bright colors twist into drab and bleak, the snow transforms to pale ashes, and the buildings loom over me. My lungs constrict while the man's face keeps melting. I release a high-pitched scream into the wind and catapult forward, knocking the man on the ground.

I run again. This time, I run through hell. Dark buildings almost topple on me. Faces melt as I pass by. Snow pulsates, wants to swallow me. Unable to escape the sinister structures or the melting faces by running, I duck behind the walls of a crumbling building.

I burrow into a corner with my head tucked into my knees. Sobs shake my body as I search for a piece of reality, a piece of the real me, inside myself. Some part of me, a small part, recognizes that whatever Monotone Smith injected into me has flipped my world sideways then upside down. Now, without vision I concentrate on that sliver of knowledge, repeating to myself again and again, it's not real, it's not real, it's not real.

When I lift my head and open my eyes, the images still seem real, but the chant remains in my brain. I watch my breath fog in the air. The cloud of warm air and the fact I sit in snow remind me of the frigid weather even though I'm not cold. Refusing to look at the brick wall looming over me, I keep the chant-it's not real-in my head.

I close my eyes. I want to go home. The home that explodes in my brain isn't my father's penthouse. Visions of our ranch at the end of the cul-de-sac with its mismatched furniture, piles of books, homemade afghans, and family pictures on the walls flash through my mind. My mother opens the door and reaches out to hug me, but her hands are rotten and decaying, her mouth a black hole.

No! I shoot up and open my eyes not caring if the wall falls on me. My cheek scrapes the bricks. I welcome the pain. It feels real. Panting, I force my mind to clear the image, but it pulls at me and threatens to plunge me into a pit of despair.

I bang my head against the moving bricks. I have to get out of this nightmare.

Then-like a bright beacon in the dark-Jai's note tucked in the front pocket of my bag calls to me. If you're ever in trouble, he had written. This is definitely trouble. I wiggle off my backpack while keeping my eyes averted from the pulsating world around me. The crinkled paper quivers in my hand while I concentrate on the numbers. Each button pushed is a major victory. Hitting send is like conquering the world.

After several rings, I hear an uncertain, "Hello?"

The word sounds far away, but the sound of his voice fills me with hope.

"Jai?" My voice cracks in the middle of his name.

"Nivi?"

"Yes, yes," I gasp and laugh like a crazy woman.

"Are you all right?"