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Dan had no idea how much time passed, and for most of it he was in and out of reality. Minutes, maybe, or hours. He wasn’t sure. The first sign he had that he’d survived was the sound of Captain Charlie’s voice.

“Harris… we thought we lost you.” The guy’s tone was frantic. He slapped Dan’s cheek a couple times. “Get up. We gotta get you warm.”

“Wh… what?” He tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut. “What happened?”

“You got lucky, that’s what.” Charlie grabbed his arm. “Come on, get up.”

Dizziness swept over him, and as he lumbered to his feet he jerked to the side and threw up. Two times, then a third. He wiped at his mouth and forced himself to see through the slit in
his thick eyelids. The skies were blue, the storm gone. The captain and another deckhand helped him down below the hatch, walked him to a bunk.

“Bury him in blankets. Whatever you can find.” The captain stood beside him a minute longer. “You’ll be okay, Harris. You’re strong.”

Dan felt weak and sick and feverish. But he had survived the storm, so the captain was probably right. He’d drink some bottled water and get warm and he’d be good as new in a day or so. This time, the storm wouldn’t take his life.

But if it had, then what? Tracy and Holden would miss him, yes. But he was no longer a part of their lives. The truth was something Captain Charlie didn’t understand: it didn’t matter if Dan survived.

Because in every way that mattered, the storm had already won.

E
LLA WALKED BY HERSELF TO THE DRAMA ROOM
. S
HE SHOULD’VE
been the happiest girl at Fulton High. LaShante and the girls were still celebrating for her. Telling everyone how she had won the role of Belle, and congratulating her because Jake Collins threw three touchdown passes to beat nearby Johns Creek High over the weekend.

But as Ella walked into her sixth-period drama class, she couldn’t shake the cold feeling in her heart. The football game was fun, but afterward she and Jake had gone with a bunch of kids to the parking lot of Stone Mountain. Almost everyone was drinking, including Jake —which was why Ella insisted on driving home. The whole way, Jake kept tickling her and trying to touch her in places where she didn’t want to be touched.

She wanted to blame her irritation on Jake’s drinking, but the closer she got to home the more she remembered Jake and his buddies picking on the special-needs kid. Maybe Jake wasn’t the great guy she thought he was. So, yeah, that was a problem.

Then there was the whole deal with her parents.

Her mom spent the weekend wearing dark sunglasses and a lightweight turtleneck. “I never like anyone to see the work until it’s healed up,” she told them. All weekend she seemed flighty and distracted, and since she never asked Ella about her news, Ella never told her. And though her dad was in town that weekend he never came home. Even her little brothers figured out something was wrong with that.

“What’s up with Dad?” Alex literally had to take hold of their mom’s hand and force her to stop long enough to look at him.

“Yeah.” Andrew walked up, identical in looks and concern with Alex. “He should be home.”

“He’s busy. Lots of meetings. His contract’s up at the end of the year.” She smiled, but across the kitchen Ella noticed her chin was trembling. Like she was fighting tears. “He said to think good thoughts for him. This might be his year.”

Think good thoughts?
Ella hated that phrase.

Ella reached the classroom and set her backpack on a desk at the front. LaShante was a Christian. Well, maybe not a practicing Christian, but at least she went to church every now and then. And when something went wrong or any of the girls needed help, she was the first to offer to pray.

Prayer made sense. At least that meant asking help from a higher power. But good thoughts? Like what … like people had the power to think something good into existence?

Ella had done a little snooping around on Sunday afternoon when her mom was out getting the color in her hair extensions adjusted. She called the clubhouse and asked for her father. The man too busy practicing baseball to come home and see them.

One of the player personnel guys answered. “He’s been in the weight room all weekend.” He knew Ella, and he made a few minutes of small talk. Concern leaked into the man’s tone. “The boys are off Monday. I’m sure you’ll see him.”

“I’m sure.” Ella didn’t want the guy to think he’d said something wrong. He ended up being right. Her dad came home late that night and stayed home Monday. But he was distant and distracted, on the phone a lot.

Ella dropped into a classroom chair and stared blankly at the empty stage at the front of the room. Her dad needed to start hitting or he’d never be the guy he used to be. He’d done this a number of times while they were growing up, whenever he wasn’t
playing well. When that happened, her mom slipped into some strange insecurity. She spent every morning at the gym with a trainer and every afternoon at the spa getting one treatment or another. This time the distance between her parents seemed worse than usual.

For all Ella knew, they could be on the verge of a divorce. There was no telling.

Even LaShante noticed. She’d come home with Ella once last week and the scene was embarrassing. Ella’s mom was applying mascara at the living room mirror when they walked in. She wore tight black jeans and a skintight white tank top. When the girls headed back out to Ella’s car, LaShante whistled. “Your mom,

Ella … Wow.”

“I know. Too far, huh?”

“She’s trying awful hard.” LaShante had beautiful dark-brown skin and bright brown eyes. Her hair was a spray of short braids that fit her fun personality. “I mean, I might get hair extensions. You know, sport the Jordin Sparks look.” She made a concerned face. “But your mom … I mean, wow.”

It was to the point where Ella hoped both her parents would stay away from Fulton. Life was hard enough without them showing up and making a bunch of kids talk. When he was around anymore, her dad seemed like some washed-up wannabe, dressed in designer jeans and white V-necks and high-fashion jackets. And her mom … well, LaShante said it best.

Wow.

The drama class was filling up, and Mr. Hawkins was sorting through a stack of scripts piled high on his desk. Rumor had it this might be Mr. Hawkins’ last year at Fulton. He was pretty old, and he didn’t have a lot of patience for the kids with nervous stage habits or the ones who had trouble memorizing their lines. If Mr. Hawkins were a character from Winnie the Pooh, he’d be Eeyore for sure.

Sixth period with Mr. Hawkins was only for the kids cast in the play. Up until now, they’d gone over basic theater and production. The turnout at auditions had been small—despite LaShante’s grand ideas about a hundred girls vying for the role of Belle. Budget cuts forced the school to charge a production fee this year, so the numbers were down, and there weren’t a lot of guys in the cast. The boy playing Gaston was tall and self absorbed. So that would work out. The Beast was being played by a guy with so much facial hair the costume people wouldn’t have to do much.

But other than that, the townspeople all looked pretty wimpy and mild-mannered. It was hard to imagine them slamming their pitchforks against a stage shouting that it was time to “Kill the

Beast!”

Oh, well. It didn’t matter. The kids at Fulton High never came to the plays anyway. The theater would be maybe a quarter filled with parents and relatives. It would be a very forgiving audience. Ella figured she might not tell her mom about the play at all. That would serve her right for not asking.

“Okay, young thespians, on your feet.” Mr. Hawkins sounded worn out, but he changed up his usual monotone. “First day of rehearsals. Let’s warm up.”

This was the way Mr. Hawkins always ran his program. Vocal warm-ups would lead to the kids learning the ensemble numbers. Once they had the music down, the blocking would begin. In the meantime, they were all responsible to learn their own lines. Two weeks into rehearsals everyone would be expected to know their part.

Mr. Hawkins took his place at an old upright piano in the front corner of the room. “Ready …” He held up one hand. “Begin.”

He led them up and down a series of scales, changing the vowel sound with each set. Five minutes of that, and he motioned
for the production secretary to pass out the scripts. “Turn to the first number. It’s one of the biggest in the show, and it’s one you’re probably familiar with. In the first half hour today I want us to be comfortable with the rhythm and lyrics. Then we’ll break into parts.”

Ella loved this—watching a show come to life. The music started and they sang in unison, some with better vocal control than others. Ella had taken voice lessons since she was six, so the number was as simple as it was familiar, and she easily sang her several solos in the song.

“Oh … isn’t this amazing … it’s my favorite part because you see …” She was midway through the prettiest few lines of the song when a movement near the open classroom door caught her eye.

She kept singing, but she looked away from her music to see a line of kids walk by. It was the special-needs kids, headed to the small gym—their last class of the day. They walked past the drama wing every day at this time, but Ella never really noticed them.

He had to be there, right? The kid with the blue eyes? She kept singing, kept watching, and then there he was, last in line. He was flapping his arms again, but as he heard the music he slowed to a stop. His arms settled at his sides and he took a half step into the room, holding onto the doorframe. This time he didn’t look at her the way he had in the lunch area. Instead he closed his eyes and swayed to the music.

Ella’s voice died off, and the others were drawn into the interruption.

“We have to focus, people.” Mr. Hawkins pushed back from the piano and cast a disappointed look at Ella. He didn’t seem to notice the kid in the doorway. “I’m counting on your leadership, Miss Reynolds.” His shoulders dropped a few inches and he tossed his hands. “Everyone take five. We’ll pick it back up at the beginning.”

Ella barely heard him. She moved from her seat, slowly, so
she wouldn’t startle the boy at the door. By then he had his eyes open and he was looking at her, those piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through her. Once more she had the strangest feeling she knew him. It wasn’t possible, of course. But his eyes had that sort of pull on her. As she drew closer, one of the special-ed teachers came for him, gently touching his elbow and encouraging him out into the hall again.

At first the kid looked like he might yell or throw a fit. He turned away from Ella and stared straight up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. He took a few steps toward the gym, set his backpack against the wall, and then dropped down and began doing push-ups. Perfect, military-style push-ups. Ella stepped into the hall, drawn to the boy. Why was he doing that, and how come he wouldn’t talk?

“He’s autistic.” The teacher turned to her, her voice quiet. “He does push-ups when he gets overstimulated.”

Overstimulated?
“I think he liked the music.” Ella had heard of autism, and she’d seen an old rerun of
Rain Man
on television last year. But she’d never known anyone who had it. “Can’t he stay? So he can hear us sing?”

The woman shook her head. “He needs to be with other special-needs kids.” She took a few steps closer to the guy, still on the floor doing push-ups. So many push-ups Ella was starting to worry about him.

“Maybe he’d feel better if he stayed.”

Her expression grew impatient, as if Ella couldn’t possibly understand someone with autism. “Not today.”

The kid was getting up, his face red and sweaty. He walked a few steps toward the gym, then back their way again, but he wasn’t looking at Ella the way he did before. She closed the distance between them and stopped a few feet from him. “Hi.” She held out her hand. “I’m Ella Reynolds.” In the classroom behind her she could hear Mr. Hawkins starting up again on the piano.

The special needs kid walked to his backpack, unzipped the top, and pulled out a large deck of flash cards. At least they looked like flash cards. He sifted through them super fast and found whatever he was looking for. Then he held up the card so Ella could see it. The card was a pair of eyes with two words written beneath them:
I see.

“You see? You see me?” Ella looked back at the teacher. Her arms were crossed and she was clearly ready to move along. She turned her eyes to the kid again. “What’s your name?”

“Holden Harris.” The teacher was clearly out of patience. “His name’s Holden Harris. That’s his favorite card. ‘I see.’ It’s the only way he has to communicate.” She motioned dramatically to the kid. “Come on, Holden. Time to go.”

“What does it mean?” Ella wanted to know. If the look in Holden’s eyes was any indication, he saw a lot. More than people probably thought.

“Nothing.” The teacher directed Holden to his backpack. “It’s the card he shows people when he’s upset, when he doesn’t know what’s happening around him.”

“Ella!” One of the girls from the Beauty cast poked her head out the classroom door. “Hurry up. Break’s over.”

She was out of time. Holden was placing the card with the eyes on it back into the deck. She didn’t have long. “Bye, Holden.” She ignored his teacher. “Come back again, okay?”

He looked at her, but only for a few seconds. Then he lifted his backpack over his shoulder and walked quickly toward the gym. His teacher didn’t say anything, just hurried after him, like she was glad to have him back on task.

Ella watched him go, and then hurried into the room. The kids were back in their seats for the most part, and Mr. Hawkins was at the piano, flipping through the score. She came to his side and lowered her voice. “Mr. Hawkins, what if there’s a student who wants to sit in on our class? Would that be okay?”

Mr. Hawkins let out a heavy sigh, and ran his hand over his balding head. “Miss Reynolds, why do I think you’re not serious about this production?”

“Serious?” Ella felt her expression fall. “Of course I’m serious. This has nothing to do with me. I’m talking about a kid from the special-needs group. He wanted to stay, but his teacher wouldn’t let him. So next time, I just thought maybe he could—”