All week I’d been trying to get Sam to show me what she was working on. Friday after math class was my last ditch effort.

“You can’t keep holding out on me. It’ll feel so much better when you do,” I insisted.

“You sound like a bad teen actor in a PSA.” She arched a brow, as deliberate as every one of her pointed comments. “There are three hundred kids in senior year,” she said as she wedged her math text on top of the others in her backpack on her desk. “Three have come up to me this week. One guy tried to convince me there was a new student tax. One girl asked me in the bathroom if I had a tampon or cocaine, in that order. And Tommy Atkinson—” she jerked her head toward the jock laughing with his friends “—wanted to know if it was true I’d transferred here because I got pregnant and had twins in Georgia.”

“Your point being…?”

Sam straightened, tugging down the hem of her shirt where it’d risen up at her back. “No one’s interested in the new kid unless it helps them. So why do you care what I’m drawing?”

“Because your drawings are beautiful. And beautiful things deserve to be seen.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she recovered fast. “You know you’re completely full of shit, right?”

I caught sight of what was in her bag as she shifted it onto her back. “Whoa. Are those extra math texts?”

Sam lifted a shoulder. “It’s no big deal. I fell behind switching schools.”

“I can help. I’m pretty good at math.”

She looked me over, assessing. “I’m fine. But thanks.”

But Monday she stopped closing her notebook when I tried to peer over her shoulder.

It was a revelation. Her drawings might’ve been on lined paper with a mechanical pencil but there was so much conviction in them it didn’t matter.

They were realistic but also larger than life. Sometimes individual characters, sometimes entire scenes.

What I said with words, Sam said with pencils. She was expressive, spilling pure emotion onto the page like it was a spirit trying to escape her body.

I could tell what kind of mood she was in from what she was drawing.

Bright, energetic characters meant it was a good day. Those were the days I might earn a smile.

When the pages of her lined notebook filled with villains and destruction…those were the bad days.

I asked Max once what he thought her deal was, and he shrugged like he’d never considered it. “Everyone’s got their issues, Ry. Some aren’t for public consumption.”

Max was content to live in his own head, but I wanted to be in hers.

The next week after a particularly diabolical pop quiz in math, I'd convinced her to study with me after school.

We walked up the stairs of my porch and she shot a look down the street. “What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing. I live six down.”

“How is it possible I didn’t know that?” I asked, fishing in my pants pocket.

“I dunno.” She watched as I dropped my backpack on the porch, reaching inside up to the elbow. “Don’t you have a spare house key hidden somewhere?”

“Like in public?” I snorted.

“Believe me. If someone wants to break into your house, they’re not going looking for the key.”

I came up with the key and stuck it in the lock. “So what. You just leave it under the door mat? That’s the first place I’d look if I wanted to break in.”

“You don’t put it under the mat.”

“What’s yours under?”

She blinked at me. “I'm not telling you.”

I shook my head as I pushed the door inside.

She followed me up the stairs to my room.

I wondered what she thought of the movie posters covering every available surface, but though her gaze lingered, she didn't comment. We both dropped onto the floor. She leaned against the wall while I hunched over my crossed legs to stare at the textbook in front of me.

I tried to focus on the questions but found my mind drifting to what she’d said earlier about being the new girl. I snuck a look over at her. “Hey Sam. Can I ask you something.”

“Don’t tell me you’re done thirteen already.”

“It’s not that. Why did you move here? I’m assuming it’s not the pregnant with twins thing.”

She dropped her gaze from mine, balancing her pencil across the back of her knuckles. “My mom died last year. My dad wanted a fresh start.”

The matter-of-fact way she said it had my throat closing up. “Was she sick?”

“She was perfect,” Sam said immediately. “Someone broke into our house in the middle of the day. I guess they got scared when they realized she was home, and shot her. Right there in the living room.

“The carpet was ruined,” she went on, her voice sounding like it was detached from her body.

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt pain like the one in my chest. I shifted closer, forcing her to move her hand from the carpet when my knees bumped hers.

“I’m sorry.”

“It happens. You think it doesn’t but when you look it up…” she took a breath, her gaze finding mine and the sadness in it tearing at me like an animal. “It happens to a lot of people.”

I doubted that.

“My dad was on a shift at the hospital. He’s a cardiothoracic surgeon. He literally fixes broken hearts,” she added as she plucked at the carpet fibers. “Anyway, after mom he applied to a job at Boston Children’s Hospital and got it. So here we are.”

I got it in that moment.

Sam cried onto the page like other girls would cry into their pillow. Her art was her outlet. Her way of showing emotions when she didn’t know how, or who to trust.

Though in this moment, I realized, she trusted me. I felt the weight of that responsibility like a stone on my back. But I was glad to have it there.

“Thanks for telling me.”

She lifted a shoulder. “It's okay. I mean, I wouldn't tell someone who's going to gossip about it. But I know you won't.”

Before I could say anything, my door swung wide. “Lee. You want chicken fajitas for dinner?” My sister Grace didn’t knock, but unlike Annie, at least she’d ask about my dinner preferences.

Grace had long, straight dark hair and was built like a basketball player. She used to dress like one too, until she swapped her gym clothes for short skirts and tank tops.

“Yeah fajitas are good. But leave the onions—”

“On the side,” she finished, rolling her eyes.

“Thanks. Hey,” I added on impulse. “Sam’s staying too.”

Sam started shaking her head. “I don’t need to—”

“Whatever.”

Sam stared after my sister long after she disappeared, her footsteps making the stairs creak.

“Your family calls you Lee?”

“Just my sisters.”

“Lee.” She said the word carefully, then again with more decisiveness. “Does it sound weird when I call you that?”

“No.”

Actually, it sounded good. Like we were members of some secret club.

“She doesn’t look anything like you.”

A muscle in my side twitched. “Yeah. I’m adopted.”

My family never talked much about it. Not because we needed to hide it, because we’d built something that had nothing to do with what came before it.

Plus talking about it inevitably had people asking questions that felt too close, too intimate. Things that were harder to laugh off.

“Your birth mom gave you up?” Her stare intensified.

Every impulse told me to deflect, but I remembered the weight on my back, and I nodded. “She wanted to go live her life and I wasn’t a part of that. I ended up in foster care for awhile, then eventually here.”

“But your sister is your adopted mom’s?”

“Annie too. Our dad’s in the Navy,” I went on without knowing why. “He’s gone a lot, which translates to great presents from Japan.”

“So if they already had kids, why did they adopt you?”

Normally I was good at glossing over this part but with Sam, the words shook free, tumbled out. “When I was four, I went to the emergency room. I’d fallen down the stairs, broken three ribs and my arm.” I rolled up my sleeve, showed her the white mark where they’d had to go in and operate to fix my elbow. Where the bone had stuck through my skin. “My mom was one of the nurses on duty when I came in.”

“Did someone do that to you?” Her voice was level, compassion running like a current beneath the surface.

I never talked about this part. Any of it, come to think of it, but the words spilled out of me.

“No one was home when it happened.” I turned my arm, inspecting the old scar just to have somewhere to look. “I remember it was light outside when I hit the landing. I couldn’t move but the birds were chirping outside, I could hear them through the door. Eventually they stopped.”

Sam sucked in a breath. “They just left you there.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t talk about it to many people. Max only knew parts of the story. But now that I’d started, the memories came flooding back like a nightmare. The time before things were good.

Lying there panicking. Each breath causing tears to stream down my face as I lay awkwardly on the tile. I couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t stand.

“I told myself it couldn’t get worse, but it did. It got dark. I kept waiting for the monsters to come and find me. I couldn’t fight back, not with the pain in my arm, my chest.”

My mom told me later it was midnight when I’d been found by my foster parents and brought in to the hospital.

Sam’s finger reached out to touch my arm, her touch cool on my skin bringing me back as she traced the shape of the scar on my arm. “We all have our shit,” she murmured, reaching for a pen from her pencil case. She took hold of my elbow, drawing. “It’s all in how you wear it. We can wear it like scars…” I twisted to get a better look at the lines forming across my pale skin. A heart, with a sword through it. “…or like tattoos.” Her lips curved at the corner and a breath I hadn’t known I was holding released.

She re-capped her pen with a flourish and met my gaze head on.

As quickly as it’d come the darkness vanished, the pain, the monsters.

I felt lighter immediately. Lighter than I had before she’d told me about her mom. Lighter than I had in years.

I wanted to ask how she'd done it, but knew she'd just look at me like I was nuts.

Instead I asked, “You ever think of getting a tattoo?”

Her mouth curved. “I couldn’t decide on just one. I’d run out of places to put them all.” I couldn’t help the laugh because I could picture exactly that.

“Hey,” I asked. “You ever wish you had a normal life? Like what’d happened to you hadn’t?”

She turned it over. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But then I think, normal’s overrated. Wolverine, Nancy Callahan, Diana Prince… you think any of them had a normal childhood?”

I leaned in. “I think about that too. I mean, I have an Xbox and friends and a Samurai sword my dad brought me from his last tour. From all the bad shit came some really good things.”

“And the bad shit helps you appreciate the good.” Sam was reading my mind.

“But do you ever wonder what the point of it is? What’s to stop the same thing happening again?”

“You get smarter.”

“How.”

“Me?” She shrugged. “When she died, it broke my heart. I’m never letting my heart get broken again.”

I let out a half-laugh. “So what, you’re just never going to love anyone or anything?”

Sam shook her head, and some of the lightness I'd been feeling evaporated.

“Dinner Lee!” Grace’s voice hollered up the stairs.

“Lee,” Sam repeated. “Lee, Lee, Lee.”

Her experiments with my name set something bouncing around in my stomach.

“I’m not saying I can’t enjoy life,” she went on, shutting her barely touched textbook. “I’m just going to enjoy it in moderation. It's easier that way.” Challenge filled her gaze. “You got a problem with that?”

I rose, offering a hand. Sam stared at it a second before taking it.

Every part of my body woke up at the feel of her touch as I pulled her up. I started to respond but the words died on my lips.

“For once you have nothing to say,” she teased. “I’ve silenced you with my profound logic.”

I stretched my tingling hand as I followed her down the stairs.