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Claire emerged alone from the dressing room in an overcoat with her head down. She didn’t notice us at first. The second her eye caught us, it was as if the world had stopped.

After a long pause, she marched right out the door without saying a word. Mom strode after her, followed reluctantly by me and Dad.

“Claire, ” Mom said in a tone that said a million things. You will stop and listen to me, young lady. What happened? Who have you become? What can we do about this?

Claire didn’t stop. “You weren’t supposed to be here, ” she said, as though this was all our fault, and there wouldn’t be a problem if we hadn’t come.

“The car’s this way, Claire, ” Dad said. He didn’t yell. He’d never been the disciplinary parent. But when his stern tone came out, there was this instant fear that rose up. At least in me. Obviously in Claire, too, because she stopped in place. Her whole jaw trembled.

Mom and Dad and Claire all stood there like dogs at the ends of their leashes. If Claire didn’t follow along to the car, my parents wouldn’t know what to do with her. If Claire walked, it would be more than two miles, and I doubted she had the stamina for it. But she probably didn’t have the energy for a barrage of questions from our parents, either. I wondered who was supposed to give her a ride home. Had they deserted her?

I took a step toward Claire. Then another. Without a word, I grabbed her hand and gently tugged her toward the car. She came willingly, and even though there were no tears on her cheeks, she shook like she was bawling her head off.

During the car ride home, my whole family stayed silent. Claire headed straight for her room without saying a word to any of us. I stood in the foyer while my parents sat in the living room together eyeing me, like they were waiting for me to get out of earshot. I headed for the stairs. They obviously needed to talk. But before I left, I turned back to say, “Are you going to do something about this? ” Because I had to know.

Mom looked away, and I wondered if it was guilt—for not believing me. Or for letting that whole auditorium of people see her daughter’s problem before she could admit to it.

Dad nodded. “Yes, Loann. ” He let out a long breath. “Why don’t you head up to bed. ”

I did.

I thought I would be happy to have this off my chest. To have someone else dealing with it.

But I was anything but happy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The next morning, Mom made an appointment for Claire to see Dr. Quinton. Apparently, Claire had regained some emotional strength overnight and walked into the kitchen with balled fists.

“But, Mom, I have to work today, ” she said, and took a bite of her banana, as if to prove she was fine.

I held my tongue from telling Mom that Claire hadn’t been working at all lately. I wanted to keep out of this as much as possible. Claire probably didn’t know that I’d been the one to make the family go to her ballet production and I didn’t want that to accidentally come out.

“I took the morning off. You’re going. ” Mom plunked the dishes in the dishwasher roughly, and I cringed with each one, waiting for one to break.

“Besides, I don’t know what you’re so worried about, ” Claire went on, as if she hadn’t heard Mom. “So I lost a few pounds. I’ll put it back on. You know how it is when you’re a teenager. ” Claire tried to give Mom a knowing nod, but Mom wouldn’t have it.

“Dr. Quinton can see you this morning, and so we’re going this morning. I’ll call your boss if you need me to, ” she added.

“Why can’t we go tomorrow? ”

“Today, ” Mom said firmly, not even bothering with the obvious argument: that she had already taken this morning off.

“I’ll eat more, I will, ” Claire practically begged.

At least Claire was admitting she avoided food more than she avoided bad fashion. Though she said it as though it was really no big deal.

“Ten minutes. ” Mom headed out of the room. “Get your shoes on. ” Her voice gave away a slight quiver.

* * *

I don’t know what happened in Dr. Quinton’s office, but when they got home, Claire went straight to her room and slammed the door. Mom strode for the phone on the hutch. She hadn’t noticed me, so I picked up a book and slunk into the couch to make myself invisible.

“I’d like to admit my daughter, ” was the first bit of conversation I caught. Mom leaned forward against the hutch while she talked, like she had a stomachache.

Mom wasn’t talking to the University of Wisconsin. It was a hospital of some kind.

The more Mom went on, giving doctors’ names and Claire’s medical history, the more I realized it wasn’t just a stupid crash diet or even an eating disorder they were talking about. Claire had some serious medical problems. From putting the pieces together of words Mom repeated, I understood that San Diego had a clinic that could treat liver and stomach disorders as part of their program. Claire had a serious liver or stomach problem?

“Uh, yes. . . I appreciate you making allowances with your waiting list. . . ” Mom went on. I could hear her trying to force strength and calm into each of her words. “Claire Rochester. Yes, we’ll be there by the end of the week. ”

Mom noisily fumbled the handset back into its holder. As she turned my way, I brought my book up to my face, probably a little too close, maybe a little too fast. I just didn’t know what to say, and I doubted Mom did either.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Mom rushed between arranging her luggage, phone calls, and programming her GPS for the trip. She’d worked herself into a frenzy since she’d found out about Claire. “There’s dinner in the fridge, Loann. Your dad won’t be home until late. ”

No surprise there. Dad hadn’t been home at a reasonable hour since Claire’s recital. It had always annoyed me the way he ran away whenever things got stressful, but this was really serious. It was his oldest daughter, and I was having a hard time believing he could try to avoid this.

When Mom seemed to have everything together, she kissed me on the forehead, told me she’d be back the following night, then moved like a whirlwind toward the front door. Claire inched herself in that direction, but looked back at me like she wished I’d grab her hand and pull her back. “Bye, ” she said in nearly a whisper.

“I hope. . . ” The words stuck in my throat. What did I hope? I hoped to have my happy, normal sister back. I hoped she wouldn’t ever hide something this big from me again.

“I hope it helps, ” I said finally.

When the door closed behind them, I stood in place and just listened to the silence. The sick feeling in my stomach intensified until it almost snaked up my throat. Claire had looked so scared and I hadn’t even hugged her, hadn’t even really said good-bye. All I’d been able to think about lately was how weird she’d been acting, how much she’d been hiding, but the truth was, five minutes after she left, I ached to have her back.

I’d told Marcus I probably wouldn’t be in today, but I couldn’t stay in the empty house. I grabbed my bag and headed out the door, just to stop thinking about her.

* * *

Armando was nowhere in sight, and Marcus sat alone at our table. He wore a long-sleeve black shirt today, which must’ve been stifling in the heat. He was probably covering up another bruise. I looked at him for a long time before finally pulling out a chair. Could I really find it in me to argue with him about opening up today?

“My sister has stomach problems from her eating disorder, ” I said, my voice empty and tired.

“Yeah, ” he said, but by his tone it might as well have been Duh, which sure didn’t seem very sympathetic.

“She’s going away to a clinic of some kind in California. ”

“Hmm, good. ”

“Good? ” I scowled at him. “That’s all you have to say? ” I shook my head and stood up. He called out something as the door shut behind me, but I ignored him. I so was not in the mood for his short answers today. I picked up my pace and ran all the way to the high school.

There was a soccer practice going on in the backfield. I steered clear of that and headed toward the portable classrooms. As I walked behind the buildings, I was overcome by a flood of emotions. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I sat down between the trees. Somehow, the place where I’d been with Josh, the place where I’d been so stupid and careless and lost a piece of myself—that was the place I wanted to be.

I let myself get good and angry, and remembered every stupid thing I’d ever done. I pulled at the roots of my hair until it hurt and didn’t bother to wipe my eyes or my nose.

The strange thing was, being in this spot, I felt completely different than I had the last time I had come here. Last time I’d been starry-eyed, not just about Josh, but about Claire, too. My one-night stand with Josh was only the start of my realizations. Nothing was what I’d thought it had been back then.

Two hours later, the punishment finally felt like enough. At least for the moment. I picked myself up, and headed for home.

Over the past few months, Claire had become pretty private about her room. Whenever I knocked, she usually just met me at the door, then started to close it in my face if I tried to come in.

But now all I wanted to do was sit on her bed and pretend she hadn’t left.

When I walked into her room, though, the first thing that registered was the stench. All those dinners she’d brought to her room to eat—I wondered if they were still in here somewhere. Ugh. I scrunched up my nose as I strode to open her window, then headed for her unmade bed.

I’d heard Mom call her bulimic, but I was pretty sure there’d also been long stretches when Claire didn’t eat at all. I wondered how many kinds of disorders she really had. But then, it didn’t really matter, did it? What mattered was that I hadn’t figured it out sooner. I’d never paid close enough attention.

“I miss you, Claire. ” I lay back on her bed and murmured into the ether. But after five minutes, I couldn’t wallow anymore. And I couldn’t stand the thought of Claire’s normally pristine bedroom looking like this.

After making her bed, and tidying up her messy clothes, I dug through her drawers, looking for anything that might be rotting. I could barely believe my eyes at the top drawer. Skittles, Milky Ways, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups—she practically had a whole candy store in her desk! I closed the drawer tentatively, wondering if it would be better to dump it all in the garbage or tell Mom first. Opening the other drawers by rote, I found a bag of rotting fruit in the back of the bottom one. That would explain the stench, which actually felt like a relief. I grabbed it, and the rest of her garbage, too, figuring I should empty it, since she probably wouldn’t be back for a while. But when I reached for her garbage can and looked inside, I blinked hard, not believing my eyes.

I’d given Claire copies of the grad pictures I’d taken of her, Josh, Jaz, and Laz. And sure, it would have been expected for her to stuff them away somewhere after her breakup with Josh, at least until she got over it.

But that was more than a month ago. And the grad pictures I saw now, crumpled at the bottom of her garbage can, had nothing against Josh.

Every impression of Claire had been obliterated with thick black felt marker.

What did my sister think of herself? Did she hate herself that much, and I’d never even seen it?

I didn’t look away from the garbage can until our doorbell rang, snapping me out of my daze. I made my way down the stairs, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. The person outside started knocking, annoying me even more.

I swung open the front door.

Marcus.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, ” he grumbled.

“Then don’t say anything. You’re pretty good at that, ” I snapped. I didn’t invite him in. If anything, I gave the door a slight push closed to give him the hint.

“Yeah, well, I just came to say I’m sorry. I meant that it was good that Claire’s getting some help. I’m sure it’s been really hard and confusing for you. ” He turned to leave.

He knew how to make me feel like crap in two sentences flat. Crud. He was a good guy for tracking me down, even when I’d been such a bitch. And I knew none of this was his fault. I guess it was just easier to take it out on him than on myself.

I walked outside and down the driveway in my socks, until I stood at the edge of our street. Marcus had made it across to the other side already.

“Hey, putz! ” I yelled.

“What? ” he asked, without making any effort to laugh or retort or come back.

“You want to make me some coffee? I could use some help. ” I motioned my head back toward the house.

Even with the distance, I could see him crack a grin. He started to walk toward me.

I waited for him and then led the way to the kitchen without a word. I was mentally forming my apology, because he definitely did deserve one. Marcus opened Mom’s coffeemaker, looked inside it, then closed it again.

He turned to me. “I should make you dinner. ”

“Yeah. Sure, ” I said, caught off guard. “Can you cook? ”

“Kinda, ” he said.

“Mom said she left something in the fridge, so we could just heat it up, ” I told him, in an attempt to let him off the hook if he hadn’t really meant cook cook me dinner. I tried to act like I wasn’t practically hyperventilating at the thought of him making dinner for me—a real date if there ever was one.

I braced myself for him to take back the offer.

But then he said, “Let’s go to my place. I’ll cook for you there. ”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

We rode the elevator to Marcus’s third-floor apartment in silence. He had explained on the way that his mom was called into work and his dad always bowled until ten on Wednesdays. It seemed like he’d really thought this through, and maybe it hadn’t been a last-minute invitation. Maybe the reason he’d been short with me at the Arts Club was because he was nervous.

He pulled a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. We both stood there for a second, staring down at it like we had to work up the guts for whatever we might get into inside. The lock clicked open. My heart pounded hard against my chest. I could hardly believe Marcus was finally bringing me here.

I followed him into the dark hallway, and even when he flipped on a light, the yellowy glow didn’t do much to brighten the beige walls. We kicked off our shoes and he led the way down the hall. I expected to end up in the kitchen, but instead we stood in his bedroom.

It was small, more like an office. I was willing to bet the knee-high cabinet at the end of his bed was put there because his bed didn’t quite fit his long legs. An old-looking computer dwarfed a small desk beside the bed. It definitely didn’t look like this place suited tall and lanky Marcus, and I tried to picture him coming back here every day. Sitting in his chair. Sleeping in his bed. Thinking about being in Marcus’s bedroom made my heart speed up.

“I just have to change, ” he said, and lifted his shirt over his head so quickly I didn’t have a chance to back up and give him some privacy.

He grabbed a short-sleeve shirt, but stood there for a few seconds, looking at me. Or letting me look.

A dark red mark stretched across his chest. One of his arms was covered in bandaging.

I covered my mouth. “Oh, Marcus. ” I reached out my hand, but I didn’t actually want to touch anywhere it might hurt. I drew back my hand.

He pulled the new shirt on, covering his injuries.

“It’s exactly what you think, ” he said. “My dad. It’s been happening for a long time. ”

This new intimacy between us felt scary. Fragile. And I didn’t want to do anything to break it. I took a few slow breaths, then said his name again.

He cringed and turned his face away, like I’d slapped him. “Just. . . give me a minute. ” He blinked hard a couple of times. We’d gotten this far, and I would let him take his time with this if that’s what he needed.

I scanned his room again, in an attempt to take the pressure off. I looked again at the computer desk in the corner, his bed covered with a plain navy comforter, the picture of us on his small dresser. . .

Wait. Picture of us? I picked up the frame to study it.

Marcus had taken the family print I’d given him from Claire’s grad and cropped out the rest of the family and Claire’s friends. I smiled at that, wishing I’d thought to do the same thing. Marcus and I looked good together, despite our height difference. I remembered what he’d said about me being his whole life, and it didn’t escape my notice that there wasn’t a single other picture in his room. I held the photo to my chest, wishing I could hold him close instead. Or do something to show him how I was here for him. No matter what.

Marcus cleared his throat behind me. “I’d better get started on dinner, ” he said, swishing past me out of the room.

By the time I put the picture back in place and caught up to him, Marcus was bent over, pulling casserole dishes out of cupboards in the kitchen.

Was he going to avoid the subject now? He brought me here. He showed me the bruise. He must want to talk about it. I moved close to him, but he reached for a drawer on the opposite side. That’s when I noticed the pinkness on his neck.

I swallowed. I’d never seen Marcus embarrassed before. Even when he’d been teased at school. Even when we’d almost kissed.

“So, uh, what are we making? ” I wanted to show him somehow that I would give him all the time and space he needed.

“We are not making anything, Loey, ” he said, perfectly composed. “Sit down over there. ” He motioned to a bar stool by the phone.

I allowed myself a small smile at the renewed thought of him cooking me dinner. And in the next few minutes, Marcus fell into his element. He cracked eggs open single-handedly while whisking with his other hand.

“Wow, where’d you learn to cook? ” I asked.

“I didn’t, ” he replied.

“Coulda fooled me. ” Every sentence made the room feel lighter. “Maybe you should be a chef or something. Or start baking food for Armando’s café. ”

He muffled a laugh, but I got the sense that he’d thought about it.

After sliding a casserole dish into the oven, he turned to me in the small kitchen and just started talking.

“For years I was too young to get out of here by myself. Then, as I got older, I started to question my mom on why we had to stay with him. ”

I nodded, afraid to interrupt.

“He threatens her with a lot of things. ” Marcus breathed out a humorless laugh. “I don’t believe him anymore, but she still does. He mocks the idea of us going to the police and getting a restraining order. He tells us we could never make it without him. My mom says she’s afraid for Uncle Armando. He’s not really allowed to be living here. In the country, ” Marcus added.

A silence settled between us as I thought this over. “But if Armando knew things were this bad, or that he was the reason—”

“I know. It’s just an excuse, anyway. My mom’s just too afraid to be on her own after all these years. ” He softened. “She was only sixteen when she married him, and she’s never done anything without him. ”

“That’s no excuse! ” I tried to rein in my volume, but I couldn’t believe this. “How could she just sit by while her son gets the crap beaten out of him? ”

Marcus stayed calm. He’d obviously been over and over this in his mind. “She doesn’t know about most of what he does to me. He does it when she’s not around. He thinks he has me under his thumb because of that, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m only waiting for the right time, when Mom’s ready. I don’t get much time alone with her, but I’m trying to get her used to the idea, now that I’m older. ”

I shook my head, hoping he could see he was being blind. “She’ll never be ready. ”

His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened.

“If you told her about everything he does, maybe, ” I said, “but otherwise, why would things change? I mean, how long has this been going on? ”

He nodded, knowing my question was rhetorical. “I’m almost eighteen. I can leave soon. ”

“But will you leave your mom with him if he’s abusive? ” I knew Marcus. I knew the answer as I watched the realization settle in on him. Age had nothing to do with this and he knew it.

“Look, I’m scared too, okay? My dad makes the money, he pays the bills, and he knows how to calm my mom down. She. . . freaks out sometimes. ” He took a big breath. “I can’t do all that, and she’ll blame me for not being able to take care of us. ”

“She won’t blame you for wanting to be safe, ” I said gently. “You need to tell her. You need to tell somebody what’s really going on. ”

He balked. “I thought that’s what this was. ”

I swallowed. “I’m not enough, Marcus. We need to actually do something. We need to get you help. ” I hesitated, and then said, “But we can do this together. ”

We stood there like that for a long time. There were things I could say about getting his mom into counseling, or going on financial assistance, but I sensed something had changed in Marcus. Maybe he’d just felt too alone to act on any possible solutions before.

There seemed to be a hint of hope in his eyes.

Seconds later, a key rattled in the door. I darted a look at Marcus but his eyes stayed fixed on the hallway that led to the entry. He took a step in front of me, and I knew it was a protective gesture. I slipped off my stool and inched behind him further.

The door opened, knocking against the wall with a thud.

“You home? ” a gruff voice called. I tried to swallow, but my entire mouth, my entire face, had gone numb.

“I’ve got a friend here, ” Marcus called out, and his voice was surprisingly light. His tensed hands gave him away, though.

I heard his dad grunt before he came into view. “You’re not entertaining on our budget, I hope. ”

My eyes darted to the oven, where the timer Marcus had set was ticking down. I couldn’t breathe.

“Nope, ” Marcus said, his voice still light.

His dad was exactly what I expected in some ways—dark, growly face, big, muscular arms and hands—but not at all like I expected in others. I guess I’d assumed he’d be a drunk who forgot to shave and comb his hair, but this guy looked pretty respectable. He wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt with a tie, and his hair was trimmed right up over his ears.

He glared at Marcus and tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better view of me.

Marcus protectively took half a step sideways to continue blocking his view, but I did not want him to get in trouble over me.

“Hi, ” I said, ducking around Marcus. “I just stopped by to ask Marcus about some stuff. . . ” I was about to say “for the Arts Club, ” but then remembered what Marcus had said about Armando and didn’t want to say anything wrong. “For my job, ” I said. “At my parents’ restaurant. ” I hoped his dad knew Marcus could cook and this might seem believable.

He nodded, but his eyes stayed squinty, like he didn’t trust me.

“She just stopped by, ” Marcus repeated. “I thought you were bowling, so she wouldn’t disturb you. ” It bothered me how much Marcus cowered around his dad.

His dad raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I shoulda been bowling, ” he said, as if it was Marcus’s fault he wasn’t. He came a step closer and whacked Marcus on the chest in what I might have mistaken for a playful gesture if I hadn’t known better. Marcus didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, though I saw his knuckles whiten at his sides. “Can’t bowl with a screwed-up hand, though, can I? ” his dad added.

Silence filled the small kitchen. I needed to get out of this place. But I couldn’t leave Marcus here, not with his dad.

“My friend was just leaving, ” Marcus said, as though he could hear my thoughts. I noticed how he hadn’t used my name, and I decided I wouldn’t volunteer it either. He reached for my hand and tugged me past his dad. I hoped we could come up with some sort of a whispered plan, but his dad grabbed a beer from the fridge and followed us all the way to the door. He watched me bend down to put on my shoes.

I tied them slowly, trying to think of something—anything—I could do to help. Marcus’s dad obviously wasn’t in a good mood, and I suspected the knock to his chest was just a prelude.

“Can you walk me home? ” I asked Marcus. “It’s getting kind of dark. ”

“Nope. ” His dad put a controlling hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “He’s not going anywhere tonight. He’s got work to do around here. ”

“So give your parents my best, ” Marcus said, as if to hurry me out of his apartment. I was about to argue, say I wouldn’t leave, even if it meant us both getting the crap beaten out of us. But then he added, “And tell your parents to get some biscotti for the restaurant. Certain people, ” he said, “really love biscotti. ”

The way he said the last part reminded me of something he’d said before. Like polizia, I thought suddenly. He wants me to go to the police.

Marcus’s dad grunted, and Marcus opened the door to push me through.

“Biscotti, ” I said, barely able to breathe out the word. “Got it. ”

As he nudged the door closed behind me, I felt something fall into the back of my hoodie. Then the door shut and locked from the other side.

* * *

After finding Marcus’s key in the back of the hood of my sweatshirt, I ran all the way down three flights of stairs and dialed 911 from my cell in the lobby.

I’d never called 911 before, and I couldn’t help but think of how casually I’d taken the whole idea of an emergency number when we’d first learned about them in kindergarten. Emergency situations were not casual. In fact, my whole body shook with fear.

They asked me the nature of my emergency and patched me through to another operator. I had to look outside for Marcus’s address while trying to talk slowly enough so they could understand me. When they asked if Marcus’s dad has any weapons, I just about dropped my phone. “N-not that I know of, ” I said. “But maybe. ”

They promised they’d send a couple of officers right away, but I paced the lobby and couldn’t stand the waiting. I’d assumed Marcus had just wanted me to call the police, but then why did he give me his key?

And what if Marcus’s dad did have a weapon? What if he even just broke a beer bottle? My stomach clenched at mental images of injuries produced by a jagged piece of glass. What if the police hadn’t taken me seriously, or took too long to get here?

I hadn’t helped Claire soon enough, and I wasn’t going to make that same mistake with Marcus. I headed for the stairs and took them three at a time back up to Marcus’s floor. There were muffled sounds from inside, but they weren’t loud enough to tell what was happening. When I put my ear to the door, I could hear Marcus’s dad’s voice, but not what he was saying. I didn’t hear Marcus at all at first, but I figured he must be in there, must still be okay, if his dad was still lecturing at him. A sudden bang sounded from inside, like a baseball bat on a wall. Or against someone’s head. I closed my eyes, said a quick prayer, and fumbled the key toward the lock.

Even though I was moving as fast as possible, I felt like everything was in slow motion. Voices sounded from the stairwell. The police! I backed up, leaving the key in the lock, just as two of them rushed from the stairwell door.

I waved them toward the door. The words “Go, go, ” came out of me in a choked whisper.

When one officer pushed the door wide open, I saw Marcus with a bandanna shoved in his mouth. His dad held him by his neck against the mishmashed blinds of the front window.

“Stop! Please stop! ” I yelled, and the slow motion went into hyperdrive. Suddenly everything was happening at once.

The officers had moved in behind Marcus’s dad, but he seemed to only notice me, yelling from the hallway. One officer told him calmly to release the boy, but in Marcus’s dad’s surprise, he whirled around and hit the cop, knocking him over.