When I feel safe enough to look again, I crawl to my knees and peel the curtain fabric back an inch. The hoop is quiet. The driveway is quiet. Now is my chance.

Racing to the driveway, I scoop up the remaining things that I left there before and close the hatch to the car. I don’t glance at his house, and I don’t dwell long enough to know anything for certain. But I am positive that the front door was open—the inside of the house barely hidden behind a thin porch screen.

And I’m pretty sure my mystery neighbor from hell was standing there…watching.

Chapter 2

Yesterday was registration. I missed it. Too busy with the move for my mom to find the time to drive the two point five miles to Woodstock South. I don’t have a car. I barely have a license, so borrowing a car without one of my parents in the passenger seat is out of the picture too. And two point five miles—while not far with wheels—is a hell of a long way by foot.

So I begin Woodstock South High School today—completely and utterly lost.

Dad dropped me off on his way to Milwaukee. It was early enough that I was able to get the printout of my schedule from the front office and find my way to the music room. My first two periods are music—the first one with the band as a whole, and the second one is independent study. This is the only part my father made sure of. The rest, me getting into honors English and math, was all my doing, all the result of my persistent emailing to my guidance counselor to ensure I was not trapped in a public school classroom with burnouts.

This is the first year I’ve gone to school without a uniform. I know most girls my age would love the rebellion of this, the freedom to choose, to find a look all their own.

I miss my uniform.

Uniforms are easy. No decisions to make. Instead, I spent the first half hour of my morning switching from jeans to leggings and back to jeans again. It’s fall in Illinois, the leaves are changing, and the winds come and go.

I’m glad I settled on the jeans now as I stand outside the band room door, my knuckles pink and tender from rapping on it repeatedly, hoping someone will let me inside.

“You in, Harper?” I hear a male’s voice behind me, rounding the corner. I’m unable to stop myself from turning to see who it is. Soon I’m looking right into the eyes of my mysterious neighbor, the one I named Demon Spawn last night as I worked myself up over how cocky and rude he was in the driveway. His lip ticks up, and his eyes squint when he notices me, but he looks away fast.

“You know it! Let me just…make an appearance,” he says, pounding his knuckles with the first guy to speak. The group of four guys passes me, and the demon never glances my way again. Once they’re a few steps away from entering the main hall doors, I hear them erupt in laughter, drawing my eyes to them again, expecting them to all be looking at me—teasing the new girl.

But they’re not. They disappear behind the doors seconds later, and finally the band room door opens and I slip inside.

“Oh my god, how long have you been waiting out here? I’m so sorry; we never hear the door in the morning. It’s too loud in here,” says a girl with reddish blond hair piled into a bun on top of her head. She’s wearing tight black jeans and a black hoodie, and her gloves are missing their fingers. She almost looks tough, except her face is dotted with freckles and her breath smells like strawberry from the giant wad of gum she’s popping through her smile.

“Not long. It’s okay,” I lie. I was out there knocking for a solid five minutes, but this girl seems nice.

“Oh, good. Here, come on in. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Brody,” she says, waving me forward. I drop my backpack next to the others that are piled by the door. The room is full of noise—saxophones, trombones, flutes—everyone tuning.

“I’m Willow, by the way,” she says, reaching out her hand. I shake it and notice how cold her fingertips feel compared to the knitted part of her hand still covered by a glove.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Kensington,” I start, but pause, struck instantly by the realization that as much as I don’t want to be here, it is a new beginning. And new beginnings do have their perks. “But people call me Kensi.”

“Kensi…cool! I like that!” she says, her enthusiasm maybe a little obnoxious. I like her anyway.

“Mr. Brody, I found Kenny,” she says, already blowing my new identity, as I trail behind her into a small office to the side of the main band room. A small man stands at my introduction. He’s maybe four or five inches shorter than I am, and his glasses are propped on top of his head, which barely has any hair. He’s eating a donut, so he finds a tissue on his desk and rests the half-eaten treat on it before dusting his hands for crumbs along his gray pants.