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have to sit there and
share
with people I barely know has

been excruciating. I’ve spent every minute lying my ass off.

“They must be running late,” Dr. Charles says when we

get to the empty waiting room.

Right. Late.

She’s either forgetting our last strained family-day ses-

sion or she honestly believes the best of people.

I don’t.

Which is why I wonder if my parents are late. Or if

they’re just not coming.

2

THREE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

“Don’t make me do this. Please, Mom. I don’t need to go anywhere—

I’m clean. I
swear
!”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sophie.” Mom snaps my suitcase shut and

marches downstairs. I follow. I have to fi ght her. Make her believe me.

Someone has to.

My dad’s waiting for us at the front door, his coat over his arm like

he’s off to work. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Mom says. Her heels click across the Spanish tile fl oor as

she takes her place next to him.

“No.” I plant myself at the bottom of the stairs, square my shoul-

ders, and cross my arms. My bad leg shakes as disappointment bears

down on me from both sides. “I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

My dad sighs and looks at his feet.

“Get in the car, Sophie Grace,” Mom orders.

I say it low and slowly. “I don’t need to go anywhere. I didn’t

relapse. Mina and I weren’t out scoring. I’m clean. I’ve been clean for

over six months. I’ll take any drug test you give me.”

“The police found the pills in your jacket, Sophie,” Dad says, his

voice is hoarse and his eyes are red. He’s been crying. Crying over me.

Over what he thinks I’ve done. “The bottle had your fi ngerprints on it.

You were supposed to be at Amber’s house, but you girls were out at

T E S S S H A R P E

11

Booker’s Point instead. You were buying drugs. Even if you didn’t get

around to taking the pills, you bought them—they didn’t just magi-

cally appear in your pocket. Seaside is the best choice for you right

now. Do you know how hard your mother had to fi ght just so you

wouldn’t get a drug charge on your record?”

I look desperately at each of them. Dad won’t even look at me;

Mom’s face is frozen; she’s in ice-queen mode. Nothing will crack it.

I have to try.

“I’ve told you before, they weren’t mine. Detective James has it all

wrong. We weren’t out at Booker’s Point for drugs—Mina was meeting

someone because of a newspaper story. The police are going aft er the

wrong people, and they won’t believe me. I need
you
to believe me.”

Mom rounds on me, the suitcase swinging in her fi st. “Do you

understand what you’ve put me and your father through? What about

Mrs. Bishop? Do you care what she must be feeling right now? She’s

already lost a husband, and now she has to lose her daughter, too! Trev

will never see his sister again. And all because
you
wanted to get high.”

She spits out the words, and I feel like less than nothing. A speck

on her shoe. Narrowing her eyes at me, she goes on. “So if you don’t

get in that car, if you don’t go to Seaside and learn how to stay clean,

I swear to God, Sophie . . .” Tears glimmer in her eyes as the anger

evaporates.

“I keep almost losing you,” she whispers, and her voice trembles

and cracks with the weight of the words. “This is what I should’ve

done the fi rst time, but I didn’t. I’m not going to make that mistake

again,” her voice hardens. “Get in the car.”

I don’t move. I can’t. Moving would be like admitting she’s right.

Six months. Five days. Ten hours.

That’s how long I’ve been clean, and I repeat it over and over to

12

F A R F R O M Y O U

myself. As long as I focus on that, as long as I’m committed to making

that number rise, minute by minute, day by day, I’m going to be okay.

I have to be.

“Now, Sophie!”

I shake my head and grip the banister. “I can’t let you do this.”

All I can think about is Mina. Mina’s in the ground and her killer’s

walking free, and the cops are looking in all the wrong places.

My dad grabs me around my waist, breaking my hold, and lift s me

over his shoulder in a fi reman’s carry. It’s gentle, Dad is always gentle

with me, like how he used to carry me upstairs aft er the accident. But

I’m done with his gentleness. It doesn’t make me feel safe anymore. I

pound my fi sts against him, red-faced, yelling, but it doesn’t stop him.

He yanks the front door open, and my mother stands on the porch,

watching us, her arms hugging her body like it’ll protect her.

He strides down the driveway and dumps me into the car, his face

stony as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Dad.” Tears are slick down my cheeks. “Please. I need you to

believe me.”

He ignores me, fi res up the engine, and drives.

3

NOW (JUNE)

My parents still haven’t shown up. Dr. Charles keeps check-

ing her watch and tapping her pen against her knee.

“I can wait by myself.”

Frown lines mar her smooth forehead. This is not the

way things are done. My parents should have been tear-

fully embracing my new and improved, squeaky-clean self

at least twenty minutes ago.

“Let me make a phone call,” she says.

I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. I sit

and wait, wondering if she’d even let me call a cab if she

couldn’t get a hold of my parents.

About ten minutes tick by before someone taps my knee.

I open my eyes, expecting to see Dr. Charles. But instead,

for the fi rst time in months, I feel a real smile stretch across

my face.

“Aunt Macy!” I throw myself into her arms, almost

knocking her over. My chin hooks over her shoulder as I

hug her. Macy’s a few inches shorter than me, but there’s

something about the way she carries herself that makes her

seem taller. She smells like jasmine and gunpowder, and

she’s the best thing I’ve seen in what feels like forever.

14

F A R F R O M Y O U

“Hey, kid.” She grins and hugs me back, her callused

palms warm against my shoulders. Her hair, blond like

mine, is down her back in a long braid. Her tanned skin

makes her eyes look shockingly blue. “Your mom got held

up on a case. Sent me instead.”

I haven’t heard from Macy the entire time I’ve been

at Seaside, even though after the fi rst two weeks, I was

allowed letters from people other than my parents. But now

she’s here and I have to bite my lip against the relief that

rocks inside me.

She came. She cared still. She didn’t hate me. Even if she

did believe everyone else, she
came
.

“Can we please get out of here?” I ask thickly, fi ghting

tears.

“Yeah.” She cups the back of my head, her fi ngers tan-

gling in my long hair. “Let’s get you checked out.”

Five minutes spent signing a stack of papers, and I’m

free.

I feel like running the moment I step outside. I’m half-

convinced that any second, Dr. Charles will come slamming

through the doors, suddenly seeing through all my lies. I

want to sprint to Aunt Macy’s ancient Volvo, lock myself in.

But running isn’t an option. It hasn’t been for almost four

years, since my right leg and back got messed up in the car

crash. Instead, I walk as fast as my limp allows.

“Your mom wanted me to tell you how sorry she is that

she couldn’t come,” Aunt Macy says as she starts the car.

“And Dad’s excuse?”

“Out of town. Dental convention.”

“Figures.”

T E S S S H A R P E

15

Macy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as we

pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I roll the

window down, trailing my fi ngers in the hot summer air.

I keep my eyes fi xed on the buildings blurring around me,

away from her questioning glances.

I’m afraid to speak. I don’t know what she’s been told.

The only visitors I was allowed were my parents, and they

came only when they had to.

So I stay quiet.

Nine months. Two weeks. Six days. Thirteen hours.

My mantra. I whisper the days under my breath, press-

ing the words against my lips, barely letting them out into

the world.

I have to keep adding to it. I have to stay clean, stay

focused.

Mina’s killer is out there, walking around, free and clear.

Every time I think about whoever he is getting away with

it, I want to bury myself with a handful of pills, but I can’t,

I can’t, I can’t.

Nine months. Two weeks. Six days. Thirteen hours.

Aunt Macy tunes the radio to an oldies station and

changes lanes. We leave the coast behind, the scenery

giving way to redwoods, then pines as we head into the

Trinities. I let the air fl ow through my fi ngers, enjoying the

feeling like a little kid.

We drive in silence for almost an hour. I’m grateful for it,

for the chance to absorb the freedom singing in my veins.

No more group. No more Dr. Charles. No more white walls

and fl uorescent lighting.

Right now, I can forget what’s waiting for me eighty miles

16

F A R F R O M Y O U

past those foothills up ahead. I can trick myself into think-

ing that it’s this easy: the wind in my hair and between my

fi ngers, the radio on, and miles of freedom ahead.

“You hungry?” Aunt Macy points at a billboard adver-

tising a diner off exit 34.

“I could eat.”

The diner is noisy, with customers chatting, cooks calling

out orders, and dishes clanging. I trace whorls of faded

glitter embedded in the formica tabletop as the big-haired

waitress takes our orders.

After she hurries away, silence overtakes us. It’s like

Macy doesn’t know where to start after all this time and I

can’t bear to be the person to speak fi rst. So I excuse myself

and head to the bathroom.

I look like crap: pale and too skinny, my jeans hanging

off hip bones that used to be a mere suggestion. I splash

water on my face, letting it drip down my chin. Dr. Charles

would say I was avoiding, delaying the inevitable. It’s stu-

pid, but I can’t help it.

I run my fi ngers through my straggly blond hair. I

haven’t worn makeup for months, and the dark smudges

underneath my eyes stand out. I press my dry lips together,

wishing I had some lip balm.

Everything about me is tired and cracked and
hungry
. In

more ways than one. In all ways that are bad.

Nine months. Two weeks. Six days. Fourteen hours.

I dry my face and force myself to walk out of the bath-

room, back to the table.

T E S S S H A R P E

17

“Fries are good” is all Macy says, dipping one in ketchup.

I wolf down half of my burger, loving it simply because

it’s not rehab food and doesn’t come on a tray. “How’s Pete?”

“He’s Pete,” she says, and I smile, because that pretty

much sums it up. Her boyfriend has tranquil down to an

art form. “I’ve got some yoga fl ows he put together for you.”

She eats another fry. “Did you keep up with your practice?”

I nod. “Dr. Charles let me bring my mat and blocks. But

I couldn’t have the strap. I guess she was afraid I’d hang