Bounce Read online

  EPIGRAPH

  “The world is full of magic things,

  patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

  —W.B. YEATS

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Part Three Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Excerpt from The Swap

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Praise

  Books by Megan Shull

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  1.

  “I’M NOT TRYING TO BE mean or anything, but . . .” Alexis Wright stops midsentence just long enough to scrunch up her nose and share a huge smile with her two best friends. “Do you even wear deodorant?” she asks.

  All three girls burst out laughing.

  Alexis Wright is not talking to me.

  She doesn’t even really know me.

  I just happen to be the lucky girl sitting beside her, three rows from the very back of the bus, squished between her gigantic paisley backpack and the window.

  “Dirty Smelly,” Alexis starts back up.

  That’s what they call her. The girl sitting one seat up and across the aisle with pale skin, long, tangled, white-blond hair and wild blue eyes. I am trying not to watch and trying not to listen, but I can’t really block it out. It’s all going down right in front of me.

  “Dirty Smelly,” Alexis says with a smirk. “Hellooooo, I’m talking to you.” She giggles.

  I turn and glance at the girl. Her head is down and her eyes are closed as if she’s wishing she were someplace else, or maybe was someone else. And right at this moment, I am suddenly feeling very bad that I don’t even know this girl’s name. She’s in seventh grade, just like Alexis, and just like Alexis’s stupid friends, and just like me. We all go to Redwoods.

  “Hey.” Alexis reaches out her hand across the aisle and pokes the girl. “Yoo-hooooo, Dirty Smelly! I’m talking to you. Hello? Seriously, um, like—” Alexis stops again and shoots another grin at her two friends. Both of them are smiling.

  My shoulders tighten.

  Alexis leans forward in her seat. “Dirty Smelly, are you listening? Seriously, do you not believe in washing your clothes? Or do you just like to wear the exact same disgusting outfit every single day?”

  I start to feel sick.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I wish I had the courage to say something.

  What I want to say is, Stop!

  What I want to say is, Leave her alone!

  But what I want to do and what I do are two very different things, and so I keep my mouth shut and the side of my face mashed against the cold bus window. A steady rain is falling, and I focus on the drops of water hitting and sliding down the glass. The only good news—if there is any—is that today is Tuesday, December 23, which means tomorrow is Christmas Eve, which means we won’t have school for a whole ten days.

  When the bus stops and Alexis and her pack of friends stand up, I work very hard at not making eye contact. The last thing I need is for Alexis to turn on me next. I’m sure she’d have something to say about the huge gap between my two front teeth or my messy, long dark hair, or the fact that I have a zit the size of a small city on my forehead. I wait for Alexis to grab her bag and move toward the narrow aisle of the bus before I lift my head and watch.

  Alexis Wright and her friends are the sort of girls boys notice. If you saw them in the yearbook, they would be:

  Best hair! (Whitney Miller)

  Sweetest smile! (Tay Griffin)

  Most popular! (Alexis Wright)

  They stand bunched together, almost hugging, as they wait for the kids in front of them to file off the bus. I watch the line and wish it would move faster, because I know they are not finished.

  “Merry Christmas, Dirty Smelly!” the three of them sing in unison.

  “Oh, and also, pro tip for the holiday”—Alexis whirls around, tosses her long, straight hair back and flashes a sarcastic smile—“I mean, seriously, Dirty Smelly . . .” She pauses. “Take a freakin’ shower!”

  When the bus jerks to a start, I jam my knees up against the cracked green vinyl seat in front of me and wish I was brave, and not so scared all the time. I stay just like that when the bus stops again and I watch on the other side of the glass as Dirty Smelly gets off, steps into the rain, and walks with a huge backpack over her shoulders along a narrow patch of wet gravel on the edge of a busy road. Cars are whizzing by. She’s wearing only a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. No jacket. She must be freezing.

  2.

  WALKING UP MY EMPTY STREET through the coldest drizzling rain, I can’t stop thinking about the girl on the bus and how she didn’t even have a jacket, and I don’t even know her name, and how saying nothing when you want to say something is just about the worst feeling ever.

  I look around. The sky is totally gray, and besides three life-size plastic reindeer on my neighbor’s muddy lawn, it does not feel like Christmas. My neighborhood is not like those huge mansions where the bus dropped off Alexis Wright. No. Our house is the ordinary two-story fading brick one at the top of the hill. No flickering colored lights, no giant Santa, definitely no trumpet-blowing plastic angels on the rooftop. We don’t even have a tree. My mom says we are “too old for that kind of thing!”

  “We can’t even get a really little one?” I asked.

  My mom just, like, snapped. “No! And don’t ask me again. I’m the only one who waters it, and I’m the only one cleans up the mess, and I am the one who lugs it out to the road,” she said. “So, no. Until you learn how to help . . . no!”

  Inside my house, I drop my bag at the door.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  “Hello?” I repeat.

  Wait. Let’s back up.

  If I’m really being honest, I might as well tell you this: as soon as I turn the key, push open the heavy door, and step inside the front hall, my heart starts thumping like crazy, because it’s scary-quiet and kind of darkish (before I turn on all the lights), and I am pretty positive (no matter how many times I come home after school to
an empty house) there will be somebody waiting for me who will jump out and _________. (Just fill in the blank with anything that scares you. Chances are I’ve probably worried about exactly the same thing.)

  I take small, silent steps, making my way from the hallway into the kitchen.

  “Hello?” I say to nobody, because nobody is there.

  Nobody is ever here but me.

  I am about to go lock myself in my room (like I always do) when I hear the front door scrape open, then—footsteps, and in an instant, panic floods me—my heart begins pounding, and I crouch down behind the kitchen counter.

  That’s when I hear her.

  “Oh my God, Frannie, you’re such a little baby!”

  I rise slowly and peer over the edge of the counter to see my sister standing in the doorway staring at me. She has on her usual uniform of a black T-shirt and skinny jeans.

  She raises her eyebrow at me. “Seriously, though,” she says, “what’s your problem? You’re twelve years old! When I was your age, I stayed at home by myself all the time.”

  “I, um—” I start, but . . . yeah. I give up.

  And for a few seconds the quiet grows until—

  Carmen looks me over. “Frannie, seriously, ew! There’s a toothpaste stain on your jeans. Wait a second. Is that my sweater? Did you go into my room?” Carmen’s eyes settle on mine. She lights into me. “One, don’t ever do that again. And two? That looks horrible on you. Take it off.”

  I stand there and look at her like, Are you serious?

  Carmen’s eyes widen and her voice gets louder. “Take it off,” she demands. “Now!”

  I hesitate only for a second; then right there, in the middle of the kitchen, I take her stupid sweater off and throw it at her. “Fine. Take it,” I say.

  “Nice bra,” she says, laughing. “Really, you’re sooo mature. And oh, my God, Frannie”—she pauses—“that zit, it’s like . . .” Carmen moves closer as if she’s examining some sort of science experiment growing on my forehead.

  I flinch and take a step backward. “Don’t,” I say in a small voice.

  “You should really do something about that,” Carmen says, scrunching her nose. “So gross. I’m serious.”

  My heart is somehow lodged in my throat. I swallow hard, bite down on my lip, and just stare back at her. My sister Carmen is seventeen years old and perfect. She’s five feet nine inches tall, with dark long hair, and beautiful.

  I stand, frozen, in kind of a daze. I do not know what to say. But that’s okay, she says it for me—

  Carmen picks up the fuzzy blue sweater from the floor. “Seriously, Frannie,” she says, turning to walk away. “I literally can’t believe we are even related!”

  3.

  FIVE HOURS LATER I AM sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for some “family meeting.” Already this is, like, a very strange thing. My family is not the type of family that has meetings. Honestly, nobody really ever talks to each other. We don’t even eat together. I can’t remember the last time we were all home at the same time, let alone in the same room.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, so I try and sit completely still and just not say anything, so I won’t get yelled at before the meeting even starts. My sister is sitting across from me, scanning her phone, which keeps buzzing.

  I glance at my father, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table. His hair is shaved close to his skull, and he has a big square jaw. As usual, he is dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie, his sleeves neatly rolled up. His eyes are fixed on the television. He has a drink in one hand and the remote in the other. I watch him and quietly hope he is in a good mood. When my dad is in a bad mood, the slightest thing may set him off, and he will scream and yell so loudly that if you are near him, you will feel it in your body. Your heart will literally shake.

  My mother is pacing back and forth in the long hallway, practically shouting into her phone about some real estate deal. She’s dressed in all black, head to toe: suede black boots, narrow black skirt, cropped knit sweater. She has glossy dark hair and high cheekbones—just like Carmen, except my mom’s hair is shorter and sleeker and cut at a sharp, slanty angle. She’s wearing bright-red lipstick. “No, listen to me,” I hear her say. She seems angry. “Will you be quiet for a minute?” She pauses. “The buyer has until midnight to counter the seller’s offer. The offer you are competing against has no contingencies. . . .” My mom is always on her phone.

  I stare out the kitchen window at the three reindeer planted in our neighbor’s lawn, lit up and glowing in the darkness.

  “So what’s this big meeting about?” I hear.

  I turn. My brother, Teddy, has stepped into the kitchen. I can see on his face he doesn’t really want to be here. He is tall and handsome with thick dark hair, dark blue eyes, and dimples. Ever since he’s been home for Christmas break from college, he has the beginnings of a mustache on his face and some light-brown scruff on his chin.

  “Hey, Teddy,” I say. “You can sit here,” I offer, patting the chair beside me, hoping he’ll somehow protect me.

  “I’m good.” He barely looks at me and plops down next to Carmen. He’s changed from his usual sweats and hoodie into jeans, a blue sweater over a white T-shirt, and a Princeton baseball cap pulled over his eyes. He smells like shampoo, fresh from the shower—which usually means he’s going out for the night.

  For a few seconds we all sit around the table and nobody speaks. My heart starts racing. My stomach clenches with the sense that something terrible is just about to happen.

  My mom sits down across from my dad. She seems jittery in the way people do when they are nervous for what they are about to say. She glances at my father, then at us. She folds her arms across her chest.

  “So, okay,” she starts. She takes a big deep breath. “I have an announcement to make, and I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it, but I think it’s going to be really great and I hope you can understand.” She clears her throat. “Your dad and I are going to do something new this Christmas.”

  Carmen suddenly looks up from her phone. “Wait, what?”

  My mother sips a glass of water, then sets it back down. “At first this will seem like it doesn’t involve you, but it does.”

  Now the three of us are all looking up. Even Teddy.

  I watch my mom’s face. I can see whatever she’s going to tell us is something big, and for a second I get kind of excited. Until—

  “So,” she starts again. She looks at my dad while she speaks. “We are going to take three days while we have vacation, and we are going to treat ourselves to a last-minute holiday getaway, which is something we haven’t done in the nineteen years that we’ve been parents.”

  My eyes light up. “Wait, are we going too? Where are we going? Is it warm? Are we going to get to swim? Are we going to a beach!”

  “Frannie, shut up!” Carmen says. “Let her finish.”

  My mom flashes an uneasy smile. “Actually, it is somewhere warm, but”—there is a pause, during which my mother glances nervously at my father, then goes on—“you three are going to be here, holding down the fort and having your own Christmas.” She looks around the table and continues, “We feel like you are old enough, and your father and I want you to show us that you are responsible enough to have Christmas on your own this year.”

  I look a little stunned. “You’re canceling Christmas?”

  “We’re not canceling Christmas. Your dad and I are going to have a wonderful time, and you are going to have a wonderful time too. Look, we need to get away. We’ve been working hard. We work constantly.”

  Carmen does not seem disappointed. “So, like, wait—we can have people over?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

  “A few friends, sure,” answers my mom. “But you know the rules. So help me if we find out you had a party in this house.”

  I look at my mom. “No presents?” I say. I can’t help it. I just blurt it out.

  My mom stares at me then s
hakes her head. “Will you be quiet for a minute?” she says sharply. “Listen, there are plenty of kids worse off than you. And, frankly, I feel like you’re all getting too old for Christmas.”

  “Too old for Christmas?” I repeat. My voice is shaky.

  “Frannie.” I hear him. It’s my dad. And if you knew his voice, you would know this means, Stop. Talking. He gives me a silent, seething look and slowly zips his finger across his lips.

  My body goes on high alert.

  My shoulders tense and I get the worst cramp in my stomach. I look at Teddy for help, but he is looking down—messing with his phone under the table.

  My mother turns to my sister. “We expect you three to take care of each other and be responsible.”

  Carmen’s eyes grow huge. “Whoa. Wait. I’m not watching her! Do you really think I’m going to babysit her for three days?” She says this right in front of me, like I’m not even here. Then she stops and smiles this big fake smile. “Unless you want to pay me?”

  “Carmen,” says my mother.

  “What? I’m totally kidding! Wow. Of course we’ll take good care of our little baby sister,” Carmen groans. She looks at me with her big blue eyes. Grow up, she mouths, before turning and grinning all innocently at my mom.

  I look back at my sister. I seriously hate her. For a split second I wonder if we’ll ever be friends.

  Teddy glances up briefly from his phone. “We’ll be fine,” he says.

  I feel sick. My face is heating up. “Please, please, please take me with you?” I hear myself whining. “Please?”

  My mom rolls her eyes. “One Christmas where we’re not together won’t kill you,” she says. She glances at me, then at Carmen. “We’ll bring you some stuff from Jamaica. And we’ll all have so much to tell each other when we get back the day after Christmas.”

  I turn to my mom. I can feel tears and I swallow hard. “But, I mean . . . it’s Christmas—” I begin, until out of the corner of my eye I catch a look from my dad, and I immediately freeze. For a second, I stop breathing. My chest feels tight. “Sorry,” I say softly. My stomach hurts. Like I told you, he’s scary. You never know when he might boil over. It’s much safer to just shut down and keep whatever you are feeling in. I just try and, like, not even move, not say a word.