Table Of ContentCopyright 2011 Marni Mann
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Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Rachel Brookhart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or
deceased is unintentional.
Print ISBN 978-1-935961-29-1
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-033-7
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961145
DEDICATION
To Susan, my light.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the conception of my novel to its birth, you've stood by my side, Mom.
Your endless support and advice gave this book the love it needed. When I had
doubt, you never stopped believing. Dad, I never would have made it here if you
hadn't listened to my rants. My P, Nicole Vander Clay, you caught me before I
fell. Your words brought me to the place I needed to be. Nina Kesner, your
excitement was and always will be a force that drives me to reach further. Jen
Howard, I will never be able to thank you for everything you've done. Your
guidance and wisdom made this novel shine. Jane Ryder, you always made me
smile; your support will never be forgotten. Jody Ruth, my partner-in-crime,
your voice kept me going when I thought I couldn't take another step. Melissa
Roske, you pushed me to find the right words. Your feedback made them
sparkle. Katy Truscott, Kathy Dieringer, Junying Kirk, and Pat Mann, I couldn't
have done this without your love and support. To the crew, Erin Burke, Mike
Lucido, Katie and Dan Kinnetz, thanks for the inspiration and amusement. Never
say never, right? Rachel Brookhart, I appreciate all your hard work and
commitment. Greg Simanson, thanks for bringing life to my novel. Krista
Basham, thank you for being the best manager I could ever ask for. This journey
wouldn't be the same without you, and I'm honored to have you along for the
ride. Katherine Sears and Ken Shear, thank you for giving me a chance and for
believing in me. Tess Hardwick, you made this all possible and I will be forever
grateful. Big hugs, my friend. Codi and Bella, you have my heart. And Brian, my
dreams are all possible because of you. Don't ever stop holding my hand. I love
you.
The wall that I built
To bind myself in the dim
When the world outside
Pierced through my skin
And the steel breeze
Swept away my dreams
Another day forgotten
For I felt no pain
No noise
Or echoes
Because I was numb
Like a cold body
Frozen in a chained box
These dark walls
Lost dreams
Tainted frames
Were all that I owned
And the days and nights
Looked akin
So I conversed in the mirror
Where nobody could break in
Or soothe my fading soul
-N J
http://www.nithinjacob.com/
CHAPTER ONE
Eric sat behind the wheel of his beat-up '89 Toyota Corolla. His seat was so
close to the steering wheel his knees hit the dashboard, and he couldn't see out
the rearview mirror. He hadn't complained once about having no legroom or that
his back was slumped forward because there was an enormous box of clothes
behind his seat. His lips were stuck in a perma-grin, and his eyes were wide and
glued to the taillights of the car ahead.
It had taken us almost six hours to reach the border between New Hampshire
and Massachusetts when it should have taken less than four. Eric said the rabbit
—what he had named his Corolla because the thing wouldn't die, like in those
battery commercials— topped out at sixty. I didn't think all the extra weight was
healthy for the rabbit either. I could hear the poor thing chugging.
Eric had emptied his entire bedroom and packed it all into the backseat and
trunk. A lampshade teetering on top of a pile of clothes kept jabbing into my
head, and the corner of his TV rubbed against my elbow. But I didn't complain
either.
I hadn't put that much thought into packing. I grabbed some pants from my
closet and some dirty shirts that were on my floor. I swiped a few toiletries from
the bathroom and crammed it all into two backpacks. The ounce of weed I'd
scored the night before went into my purse, and that's all I brought.
No one ever left Bangor; we called it The Hole. There was something about
the place that sucked you in and kept you in shackles. If you went away for
college, you never came back. If you stayed in-state like Eric and me, you were a
Bangor lifer. No matter how much money you tried to save or plans you put
together, you'd end up, years later, married to someone you met in high school,
with kids, a Labrador, and a Cape Cod house. And then it was too late to leave.
You had to escape as a teenager. It was the only way.
Two weeks earlier, Eric and I had been sitting in his car. It was late at night,
and we were passing a bowl between us. He went on about his dead-end job at
the auto repair shop, never having any money, and the nerve of his parents for
charging him rent. My advice had always been the same: I told him to go back to
college. He never should have dropped out in the first place. But that night, my
advice was different. A month before, I'd dropped out of the University of
Maine, halfway through the spring semester of my sophomore year. I'd quit my
