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It’s the glasses, Mike realizes. His dad used to wear plain wire rims; these are thick, black plastic, with an anti-reflective coating so you can see his brown eyes.

Mike: “You got new glasses.”

Dad: “Yes.” He leans his hands on his desk. There are piles of papers everywhere: on the shelves, on top of the printer. Mike’s mom calls this “vertical mess.” Mike’s dad has a collection of heavy brass paperweights. A hunting dog in the pointer position is balanced on top of a particularly huge pile.

Mike doesn’t like his dad’s new glasses. He’s not sure why.

Mike: “Why’d you change your glasses?”

Dad (hesitates): “I needed a new prescription.”

Mike: “You didn’t have to change the frames.”

Dad (tightens his lips): “What do you want, Mike?”

Mike: “I’m looking for Mom’s book.”

Dad: “Why?”

Mike can’t believe it. His mom’s been searching for an hour and his dad has no idea.

Mi diize="-1">ke: “Because it’s missing.”

Dad: “Why would her book be in here?”

Mike: “Because it isn’t anywhere else.”

Dad: “Well, it’s not here.”

Mike: “Are you sure?”

Dad: “Yes. Look, let me finish up. I’ve got to get to the gym before six.”

There’s an ache inside Mike. He doesn’t know why.

Go with him.

Though Mike on principle doesn’t like the idea of listening to a voice in his head, he thinks it might be on to something here.

Mike: “Can I go with you?”

Dad: “What?”

Mike’s not sure if his dad didn’t understand him or if he’s just questioning why Mike wants to go. To be safe, Mike remembers his lazy-lip exercises and speaks slowly and carefully: “Can I go to the gym with you?”

Dad: “Why? You never wanted to before.”

Mike doesn’t know what to say. He says, “I have to work out.”

Dad: “Why, do you think you’re fat?”

Mike grabs his belly, surprised there’s so much to grab. At least Mike is realizing how far he’s been letting himself go.

Mike: “Yeah.”

Dad: “You’re not fat.”

Mike: “Please take me with you.”

Dad: “You’re not a member.”

Mike: “Can’t I go as a guest or something?”

Dad: “I don’t know if the gym allows guests.”

Mike: “Can’t you at least call and ask?”

Dad: “I don’t know if the gym allows children.”

Mike: “Children! I’m fifteen!”

Dad: “Forget it, Mike.”

What’s with him? Mike wonders. It’s like there’s a wall around him and you can barely see over the top. Mike can’t shake the feeling that a few months ago his dad would’ve said, “Sure, c’mon, let’s go.”

When Mike gets back to the living room, his mom is holding the book to her chest.

Mike: “Where was it?”

Mom: “Hidden in plain sight! Actually, you gave me the idea. You said it was as big as a phone book, and there it was, in the pile of phone books. I guess I had to look up a number and stuck it in there without thinking.” She sighs. “Thanks for trying to find it.”

Mike: “I only looked in Dad’s room. He got new glasses.”

Mom: “I know.”

She doesn’t sound too fond of them, either.

CHAPTER 4

MIKE IS STANDING JUST OUTSIDE A FLEA MARKET. There’s one every week in a fenced-off vacant lot on Belle Drive. His mom says that flea markets are like crack for people with a clutter problem. They feel compelled to go in and buy something they don’t need and have no room for that will only make their lives worse.

It’s late August. Camp is over and Tamio’s in Japan, where he goes at the end of every summer. Mike finally received his schedule for tenth grade. He’s got three classes with Ralph Gaffney and none with Tamio, not even lunch. He and Tamio play on the high school baseball team (Tamio, third base; Mike, right field) but workouts don’t start until December. Mike feels adrift with nothing holding him steady.

Girl’s voice: “Are you staring at me?”

Mike blinks a couple of times. He didn’t see her before, but there’s a girl in front of him.

Girclass="underline" “Why are you staring at me, Mike?”

He knows her. It’s Amber Alley. He and Amber have gone to the same schools since kindergarten.

Mike: “I’m not staring at you.”

Amber: “I can always tell when someone’s staring at me. I can feel it.”

Mike finds Amber strange. He sees her stringy black hair that hangs down in her eyes, and notices she’s wearing a big long-sleeved shirt and baggy pants even now, when it’s a hundred degrees. She looks lost in her own clothes, he thinks.

But she’s not. She’s beautiful.

Amber: “What are you doing here, then?”

Mike: “I’m buying cat food.”

Amber: “At a flea market?”

Mike: “I just stopped for a second. Because it’s so hot.”

Amber breathes out and the air in front of Mike smells like cinnamon. “Do you have a cat?”

Mike: “Yeah, I have a cat.”

Amber (pointing to a thick brown thing around her neck): “Look, I just got this cool necklace. From that lady over there, the one who looks like a Gypsy, see?”

But Mike isn’t looking for the Gypsy; he’s looking at Amber’s eyes, at how flat and shiny they are, like glass. At first he wonders if she’s wearing contacts, but Tamio wears contacts and his eyes don’t look like that. Mike doesn’t see it, but actually her eyes look exotic, otherworldly.

Amber: “This is pure copper. Do you know what a healing object is?”

Mike (bored): “Something to heal you when you’re sick?”

Amber: “That’s medicine. A healing object is something that helps you become the person you are meant to be.” Mike doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Do you remember the butterflies?”

Mike: “What?”

Amber: “The butterflies! From third grade, Ms. Taylor’s class? You were my butterfly partner.”

Mike (dimly): “Right.”

They were butterfly partners! That’s perfect.

Amber: “Everybody in the class got paired off and was given a caterpillar. We had to take notes on it, what it ate and everything. We named ours Rainbow Sue.”

Mike remembers that he wanted to name it Mothra, but Amber insisted.

Amber: “She was in a cocoon for three weeks. She was the last one in our class to pop out, and when she did, she was so beautiful, orange and black. Then Ms. Taylor took us all outside and we released the butterflies—then pigeons swooped down and ate them! It was horrible!”

Mike remembers. Amber cried so much, her mom had to come pick her up.

Amber: “Rainbow Sue was born and died on the same day. She was supposed to fly to Mexico. Why’d we go to all that trouble? We raised her up just to get eaten by pigeons. Do you think our lives are like Rainbow Sue’s?”

Mike: “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know. I can’t discuss the meaning of existence in hundred-degree heat.”

Amber’s always by herself at school, and Mike thinks he’s beginning to understand why. But her solitude doesn’t surprise me. It’s always the most interesting people who have a hard time fitting in, but they go on to lead the most extraordinary lives.

Amber: “So, how’s your summer been?”

Mike thinks about how his crappy summer has only gotten worse. His mom cancels nearly all her appointments now, and is either asleep or in the tub, so Mike has to do the laundry and grocery shopping or they’d have nothing clean to wear and nothing to eat. And his dad’s never home, and Tamio’s halfway around the world, and when school starts he’ll never get to see Tamio—