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I move slowly, extricating my arm from under Charlotte’s head, pausing to brush back the curls that have fallen over her face. Ms. Finch pulls a blanket over her and then shoos me out the door.

I follow Ms. Finch, but am confused when she doesn’t lead me straight to the front door. Instead, we end up in the kitchen, where she opens the refrigerator and stares into it for a moment before closing it again.

I’m afraid to speak first, but decide my fear of hanging out in the kitchen where there are sharp knives is greater. I mean, she did just catch me in her little sister’s bed.

“I tried talking to her about the trial,” I say.

She looks at me over her shoulder, her hand still on the refrigerator door. She doesn’t ask how it went though. I imagine it’s pretty obvious from my expression.

“The thing is…” I pause and swallow a hard ball of emotion rolling in my mouth like a marble. “I can see her point, and even though I’d do anything to keep her around longer, I’d also do anything to make her happy right now.”

She nods, turning back to the pictures on the fridge. The silence fills in the spaces around us like fog. She opens the fridge door again, staring at its contents like something new will have materialized from the last time she looked. Wishful thinking—sometimes that’s all we have to hold onto.

“I guess I’ll be going,” I say, taking a step toward the front door.

“Be sure to bring your sister back with you for dinner tonight,” Ms. Finch calls after me. “I’m not comfortable letting Charlotte out of the house so soon after a seizure, but I know she’ll want to be with you both.” She shuts the fridge door once more. “We’ll have to order pizza though because there’s nothing here worth eating.”

My whole face pinches as I try to understand what’s happening.

Ms. Finch chuckles. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, Mr. Hanson, if you intend to keep seeing my sister.”

“Charlie.”

She blinks.

“You can call me Charlie.”

“No. That’s my sister’s name and it would be weird if I had to call her boyfriend by the same name, so I’m going to continue to call you Mr. Hanson.”

“How about Jack?”

Her brows tick up with surprise.

“It’s short for jackass.”

Ms. Finch laughs, and I think it’s the first time in a long time she’s done any laughing because I can tell her face is unsure how to curve the muscles and her eyes are filled with surprise, and then tears. She blinks them away.

“That’ll do.”

6.6

We do homework at Ms. Finch’s house most days of the week. Even Greta and James stop by. Last Friday, we all watched a movie together. Well, Ms. Finch sat at the kitchen island grading papers, but the TV can be seen from there, and we could all hear her when she’d groan, “Oh, please,” during the cheesy parts.

This afternoon, Charlotte is sprawled out on the floor working on a sketch she’s been trying to finish this week, an intricate spiraling fractal. She keeps smudging out the lines and huffing with frustration, so I guess it’s not working the way she wants.

She grabs her phone and glances at the screen. She’s got a picture of a new fern leaf there. It’s the inspiration for her spiral. With a soft curse, she tosses the phone off to her side.

“Charlie, may I borrow your computer for a minute? I need to look something up online. My phone’s screen—”

She breaks off. The screen is too small for her to read. Her vision is getting worse.

“No problem. I could use the break.”

“I don’t want to disturb your super smart science-y work.” Her half grin lights up my insides. She curls up next to me and squints at my open screen. “Dear God,” she says, her voice teasing. “Is your computer broken?”

“It’s code.”

“For broken?”

I slide the computer over to her lap and rest my head on her shoulder. I could use a break from my programming homework. It was meant to be a fun elective, but the class has turned out to be more of a pain in the neck than Finch’s class. I smile to myself at that private thought.

Becca knocks once at the front door before barging in. “I come bearing gifts,” she announces as she jogs into the room. Her cheeks are pink from the cold air and wind.

“Where’ve you been?” Charlotte asks, looking up from my laptop. She blinks a few times, her eyes adjusting.

Becca shrugs and waves her off. “The bus takes forever.” A flicker of guilt for not being at school this week washes over Charlotte’s face, but disappears as soon as Becca drops a large envelope on her lap. “Your missed work.”

Charlotte slides my laptop onto the coffee table in front of us so she can examine the pile of assignments.

“And this,” Becca says, perching on the edge of the couch beside me, “came for you.” She hands me a large envelope, too. Mine has MIT emblazoned on the front and holds my future inside.

Charlotte freezes next to me. I can’t seem to pull air into my lungs and have the strange sensation that if I were able to, they’d explode. Probably best to just stop breathing altogether right now.

Becca is the only one still moving, bouncing beside me on the couch as she pulls at a lock of hair. “Open it, Charlie,” she squeals. “It’s a big, fat envelope. That’s a good thing.”

A good thing.

For seven years, this has been my goal, this envelope in my hands right now. And suddenly all I want to do is throw it across the room and dive back into Charlotte’s arms. Part of me is angry. Angry that I can’t enjoy this moment. I should be screaming and punching the air and calling Greta. Right. This. Minute.

I set the envelope next to my laptop. “Will you excuse me?”

“But, Charlie?” Becca’s confusion reaches out for me, trying to probe for answers I don’t have. I stand and move to the other side of the coffee table.

“I need a minute,” I say, looking at Charlotte—my beautiful Charlotte, an ocean of sadness behind her eyes.

She fakes a brave smile, sliding closer to Becca, patting her knee. “We’re not going anywhere.”

How I wish that were true. The anger and fear are choking me, making little black spots dance in my peripheral. I stride from the room, out into the backyard, pulling out my phone.

“What’s up, Chuck?” Greta answers on the first ring.

“Gret.” I can’t seem to get anything else out. All my shallow breathing is catching up to me. I sit on a lounge chair on the patio and put my head between my knees.

“Chuck?” The worry in her voice has ratcheted up a half dozen notches.

“I got in.”

There’s a pause before she offers, “Congratulations.”

“I feel like shit.”

“I’m sorry.” Another pause. “Where are you? Do you need me to come get you?”

I swallow a chunk of emotion that’s choking me. “I’m at Charlotte’s. How do I celebrate this with her? How do I leave her next year? How did I get into this mess, Gret? How?” I’m drowning again, tossing around in a body of feelings I can’t process.

“Chuck.” Greta’s voice is an anchor, heavy with purpose, stilling me in the middle of my confusion. “I’m going to need you to chill the fuck out.”

I’m surprised by the short bark of a laugh I cough up. I sit up straighter, suddenly able to breathe a little deeper.

“You are super smart, but you’re being super dumb right now. Do you honestly think Charlotte is going to be anything other than happy for you? Do you think she expects you to sit at her feet, putting your life on hold, until she dies? Do you believe we have any say in who we fall for? And, most importantly, did MIT send a financial aid packet because you need to get started with that immediately. MIT is not cheap.”

“I haven’t opened the envelope yet.”

“Well then this whole conversation is premature. What if it’s just a really fat rejection letter? Go open your future, Chuck. And do it with your girlfriend. Girls live for that shit.”

I rub my stinging eyes with my free hand. “Thanks, Gret.”

“Congratulations, Chuck.” She hangs up, and I stare at the phone in my hand, watching my breath puff in clouds around it.

Luna pushes herself through the doggie door and sits at my feet, resting her giant head on my knee.

“Did Charlotte send you out here to check on me?” I ask the mighty beast. She cocks one ear and thumps her tail twice.

“Do you need checking on?” Charlotte asks, standing in the open door. She’s wrapped in her favorite afghan, clutching it closed at her chest like a robe. Just the sight of her makes my insides relax. I take my first deep breath in too many minutes.

I pat the space beside me on the lounge chair. Charlotte shuffles over. When she sits, she spreads the blanket over my shoulders, too. In her hands, I notice the envelope. She doesn’t give it to me, but sets it on her knees.

“It occurred to me that I haven’t told you about my plans.”

“Plans?” I scratch behind Luna’s ears.

“I told you, before. There are places I want to go, things I need to see. You didn’t think I’d just be sitting around here twiddling my thumbs, did you?”

“I hadn’t—twiddling?”

“I’m packing my car full of canvases and sketch pads, pencils and pens, watercolors and brushes, and then I’m heading out. Going to make a big tour of the U.S. See all the artwork I can possibly see.”

I can imagine her doing that, too. Her car littered with coffee cups and sketches. “I could come with you. You know, I haven’t seen the Grand Canyon either.”

“No. You can’t,” she says, her fingers tapping a rhythm on the envelope. “Because you have important work to do at MIT.”

I pull her into my lap, making Luna skitter back a few steps. Charlotte looks up at me with the saddest damn smile, and my gut hurts like a battering ram just mauled me. “Is there art around Cambridge?”

Her smile transforms, and the heavy weight in my stomach dissipates. “Assloads.”

“You’ll visit?”

“As often as I can, but I’ll be pretty busy.”

We both know this is a game, like playing superheroes with Becca when I was six. But just like then, it feels good to make our own realities.

The envelope has gotten pinned between our chests as I’ve been cradling Charlotte in my lap. She pulls it out and the warmth of her body floods that spot on mine.

“Open it for me?”

She nods, her fingers trembling as she opens the flap and pulls out the sheaf of papers inside. Resting her head on my shoulder, she reads, “Dear Charles, On behalf of the admissions committee, it is my pleasure to offer you admission to the MIT Class of—”

I stop her with a kiss and taste on her lips the silent tears that slipped down her cheeks as she read. And part of me is sad that when I think back on this moment, the taste of the ocean will always linger in my memories. But most of me is happy to share this with Charlotte—my beautiful Charlotte with an ocean of unlived moments behind her eyes.

6.7

Even though she’s taking anti-seizure meds, no one thinks it’s a good idea for Charlotte to drive long distances. When she asks to go visit their dad, I watch a flurry of panic, distaste, and resolve wash over Ms. Finch’s face.

I’m getting pretty good at reading both of the Finch sisters’ expressions. They are variations on a theme.

Like the expression of gratitude Ms. Finch bestowed on me the day I officially put the Brighton revolution to rest. Between me telling off Brad while flailing a dead pig in his face and Greta’s big mouth, it was pretty clear the Tuesday I came back to school after skipping that a truce had been called. To be sure everyone was clear, I waited by the podium at the front of the classroom for Ms. Finch. When she arrived with her coffee, I wasted no time asking her, “Do you think you could recommend another book for me to read? I liked that Atticus character. Are there other books with heroes like him?”

Everyone waited for the punch line, but when it never came, they understood, it was truly over. I kind of like her class now that I don’t have to be a dick anymore.

“I can take her,” I tell Ms. Finch now. I rub Charlotte’s knee. “I’ll take you to see your dad.” It’d be the first time since our disastrous date that we’ve gone anywhere, just the two of us, together.

“I can drive,” Charlotte says through gritted teeth. I forgot to mention she is the only one in disagreement about the driving thing. “It’s just a day trip.”

“I want to help,” I say, winking at her. “Would it be so bad if you let me help?”

Charlotte looks like her saliva is lemon juice. Ms. Finch presses her lips together to keep from laughing at the expression on Charlotte’s face. “Let’s let the boy help. I think he’s earned the chance.”

I lean in and kiss Charlotte’s cheek. “It’ll be nice to have some time alone together.”

Her mood perks up after that.

Charlotte falls asleep on the drive to the small mountain town where her dad lives, a few hours from us. When she’s sleeping, the shadows under her eyes lighten and the now constant crease of pain between her brows releases. When she’s sleeping, she looks like the girl with the hope tattoo that I met in what is beginning to feel like another lifetime.

I can’t bear to wake her.

The town I pull into looks like a backdrop from an old movie. Black and white cows dot the foothills that nestle up to the tired, crumbly Appalachian Mountains. Houses are scattered down long winding lanes, and on a distant hilltop there’s a white church steeple cutting through the blue sky. I drive around town making turns at random, not wanting to stop the car for fear of waking Charlotte. I don’t realize it until I’ve arrived, but I’ve been slowly making my way to the old church.

I pull into the parking lot, where the pavement buckles and entire bushes are growing up through the gaps. On closer inspection, this is not at all what I was expecting. It isn’t a picturesque old church. It’s an old old church. The double doors are hanging askew with boards over them. Half the windows are boarded over, too. The paint is peeling and the spire on the steeple is bent. Behind the church are a handful of graves peeking out of the underbrush. An uninvited shiver runs down my spine.

“Creepy, huh?”

“Ahhaarraahheeeee!” My seat belt is the only thing keeping me in my seat.

Charlotte laughs.

“Not funny.”

Between her laughter, she croaks, “Oh, but it is so, so funny.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was until the ghosts of this place shook me awake,” she says, holstering her laughter. “What are we doing here?”

“I didn’t want to wake you, so I just drove around. I ended up here.”

“Interesting. Everyone in town says it’s haunted, you know. The church,” Charlotte nods toward the sagging building. “It’s one of the better ghost stories around. The preacher fell in love with a young woman in the parish, but she spurned his advances.”

“Spurned?”

“Yeah, spurned. It’s not as spooky if I say she thought he was lame and dissed him. So she spurned his advances, and he hung himself right there in the church. Legend has it that if you peek in the stained glass windows on a full moon night, you can see him dangling from the center beam.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“But if you don’t believe in ghosts, how will you come back to haunt me?”

A wisp of a smile crosses her face. “Damn, you’re smart. Okay. I’m the only ghost I believe in.”

“And my haunting?”

She grabs my hand. “I’d be honored to scare the bejesus out of you. Maybe you’ll wake one morning to find all your science books have been replaced with the complete works of Shakespeare. Or all the precious formulas on your white board have been replaced with quotes from Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. ”

“How will I know it’s you and not some random science-hating specter?”

“Well, we’ve already established I’ll be keeping my hair,” she says, tugging my hand closer to her. She opens my fingers and presses her soft lips to my palm before looking up at me. “You’ll know.”

Would it be wrong to ravage my girlfriend in the parking lot of a haunted church? I swallow back my want as Charlotte opens her door. A wisp of cool air curls around my ankles. The weather may be warming up where we’ve come from, but the mountain air still clings to winter like the Kudzu strangling the trees back home.

“Come on,” Charlotte says, motioning for me to follow. “I want to introduce you to some friends.”

Friends? In a cemetery? Dementia is an advanced symptom of brain tumors. But the devilish grin she gives me says she knows exactly what she’s doing. I reach in the backseat for our coats. Meeting her at the edge of the parking lot, I help her into hers.

Charlotte high steps her way through the underbrush. “As you’ve probably surmised, there isn’t a lot to do in this town. Kids have to be creative. Finding spooky places and daring each other to see who can stay the longest without freaking out is a popular pastime.”

“Oh-kay.” I pick my way through the graves, fighting the urge to keep saying, Sorry. Pardon me. Doh, my bad. I’d hate to think I was stepping on anyone’s hand or leg or face.

“I hold the record for every haunt in town.” Charlotte pulls a vine off the face of a tombstone to read the inscription. “Here they are.” She brushes pine needles from the top of a long, low stone and sits down. “Charlie, meet the Montgomerys.”

I peer around at the stones surrounding us—beloved mother, devoted father, dearest daughter, cherished son, even some teeny tiny stones—all Montgomerys. I shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable around their silence.

“I once spent the whole night out here.”

“Why?”

“Someone told me I couldn’t.” She motions for me to sit next to her, then leans back, closing her eyes and letting the sun wash over her. I sit, silently apologizing if my ass is in someone’s face, and try to relax, too. I’m not as brave as Charlotte, though, so I keep fidgeting. Her hand, colder than the stone we’re sitting on, sneaks between my elbow and side. I press it there, warming her slender fingers. When she rests her head on my shoulder, I kiss her hair. She smells like sugary gardens blooming in this mountain sunshine. I don’t mean to, but my chest feels full of lead, and my eyes sting as they fight to hold back tears.

I hate this place. I hate its stillness. I hate the loneliness of it. I hate the ghosts Charlotte isn’t afraid of. The hate is choking me. I jump up, knocking Charlotte off balance, and walk a few paces away from her. I stare up at the sun, willing it to burn away the tears before I cry them in front of Charlotte.

“Charlie?”

I shake my head and wave her away.

“I’m sorry.”

I whirl around and kneel before her. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, wiping my face with the back of one hand and blindly reaching with the other for her. Her fingers tangle with mine, and I can breathe again. “Nothing.”

She leans forward, brushing her lips against mine.

“I’m fine,” I whisper into the breath between us. “I was just startled when Mrs. Montgomery’s ghost reached out and pinched my butt.” I give her a smile. I try to take away the worry in her eyes. “I’ve never been felt up by a ghost before.”

Her eyes smile first, the most beautiful kind of smile. “Strange, since we were sitting on Mr. Montgomery.” She punctuates the joke with her laughter, which kind of makes me want to cry all over again, but I figure there will be a time for that. It just isn’t right now.

6.8

There’s nothing special about Charlotte’s dad. He’s a drunk. He wept from the moment she stepped into the dim, dingy house she used to call home. Like the old church, I can see it was once warm and inviting, but now it’s full of shadows, and it smells like old cheese. Charlotte says her dad started drinking after her mom died. She says he’s like Juliet without the balls to use the knife. He’s slowly poisoning himself instead.

“Baby,” he moans into her shoulder as he’s hugging her good-bye. “Please, please do the trial. Please.” He breaks off sobbing. This is the fifth time in forty-five minutes he’s begged.

Charlotte’s already explained (four times) why the trial isn’t the miracle he’s looking for. It’s like he’s deliberately trying not to hear her so he can keep up his melodrama. It makes me wonder, if she were doing the trial, would he be begging her not to take such a big risk with her life?

Charlotte pulls away from Mr. Finch. He drops his head into his hands and continues to wail. “Let’s talk about something else, okay? You’re coming to visit for my spring break, right? There’s an art show at school I’m entering a few pieces in.”

“About that,” he says with a sniffle. He stares at a point over her shoulder. “I think I’m going to be too busy here to get away.”

Charlotte’s face falls, and I wonder why she cares. Why she still tries. “Oh, okay,” she murmurs. Clearing her throat, she stands up straighter. “Well, then I’ll see you this summer.”

Mr. Finch’s eyes get full again and he grabs Charlotte up in his arms once more.

“Dad, can’t we just say good-bye without the tears? Can’t you just give me a big hug and say ‘love ya, Charley’ and give me a smile?”

It’s like she’s talking to a toddler. Mr. Finch snuffs out his big tears with the heels of his hands. His bleary eyes lock on mine. “What are you looking at?”

I step back from his anger. “Nothing, sir.”

“Think you’re better than me? You’re nothing. You’re just the son of a bitch nothing that’s going to let her die.” I’m sure he’d come after me if he could stand up straight.

“I’m not going to let her die.” I wanted it to come out all macho and loud and shit, but my voice has shrunk. Being around him scares me because I can’t hate him like I know I should. Part of me would love to join him, wailing on Charlotte’s other shoulder, begging her to stay with me a little longer.

“Don’t lie. You’re all in this together. You all want me to be miserable.”

Charlotte crosses her arms over her chest. “Now you listen to me.” Her body trembles as she waits for him to look at her. “You leave him out of this. And Jo, too. This is my choice. This is my life.”

He understands. For a picosecond, I saw the understanding wash over him, but Mr. Finch pushes it away, reaching for his glass. He takes a big swig, standing there in a Leaning Tower of Pisa sort of way, and says, “Well don’t let me get in the way.” He stumbles off with his glass in tow. “Love ya, Charley,” I hear him mumble as he rounds the dark corner.

Charlotte makes it to the car before everything falls apart. This horrible scream tears itself from her lungs, startling the birds around the house so they explode from the trees like machine-gun fire. She beats her purse on top of the car until the strap breaks and then she just uses her fists. Afraid she’ll hurt herself, I jump between her and her car, absorbing her fury as best I can, wishing I could draw the pain, like snake venom, from her body.

Eventually, she stops beating on my chest, and I scoop her up in my arms, holding her together as best I can, while sobs rack her body. I press my lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her neck, her hair, her eyelids—infusing her body with as much love as I’ve got to give. And then a little more.

It takes me 22.41 minutes to pick up all the pieces of Charlotte and patch her back together.

6.9

There comes a point when crying doesn’t make you feel better anymore—but never underestimate the power of the donut. There’s no Krispy Kreme in this little town, but Charlotte has assured me the ones at Miss Rose’s bakery are better.

“That’s blasphemy, you know.”

Charlotte doesn’t argue, but arches a brow at me in a we’ll see sort of way.

I smile when we reach the bakery. The door is not any old pink—it’s flamingo-ass pink.

As soon as we step inside, a large woman wearing a tiny pink apron descends on Charlotte like the Joker in baking gear. She’s got flour in her black hair and a big white smile framed by bright pink lips. My instinct is to grab Charlotte and run, but one of the woman’s meaty arms reaches out traps me in her crazy bear hug, too.

“Charlotte! Oh, my sweet girl.” The woman pulls back, keeping one hand on my shoulder and the other on Charlotte’s. “And you’ve brought me your beau.”

She drops Charlotte and takes me in both of her paws to examine me. “He’s tall.” She turns me this way and that. “And clean.”

Charlotte stands next to the woman, admiring me. “He’s smart, too, Miss Rose.”

“Of course he’s smart. He’s with you, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Yes, he is.”

Miss Rose pulls us in for another smothering hug before breaking away and dusting off her hands. “So, what can I get you?” She steps behind her counter, her cheeks flushed.

“As if you have to ask?”

Miss Rose smiles and busies herself putting together a pink cardboard box. “Charlotte, be a dear and get me some fresh cream from the back for your coffee.”

Miss Rose watches her go. “Jo tells me things,” she says, taking the box to the case and beginning to fill it with donuts.

“Oh, well.” My ears are on red alert.

“I’m glad Charlotte has you.” She shrugs a shoulder to wipe her cheek. “It’s not often we find people that can see through our shortcomings.”

“Cancer isn’t a shortcoming.”

Miss Rose’s hand falters and a glazed donut falls to the floor. Her brow wrinkles as she studies it where it has landed. “No, you’re right. It’s a damn curse,” she says, looking up at me. “But maybe I wasn’t talking about Charlotte.” Her pink lips curl into a wry smile. “As far as I know, Charlotte doesn’t have any flaws. Now you, on the other hand…”

A sharp laugh escapes me. “You have been talking with Ms. Finch.”

Charlotte comes out from the back with a jug of cream and a fresh pastry she snagged. “Talking to Jo about what?”

Miss Rose and I share a look. She smiles at me before pulling Charlotte into another big hug. “How much I’ve missed you, child,” she whispers into Charlotte’s hair.

Miss Rose joins us around a small bistro table half her size. She tells me stories about the Finch girls, until Charlotte and I are crying with laughter.

“She was so stubborn,” Miss Rose says. “Jo was learning to ride a two-wheeled bike, and Marcus—that’s Charley’s daddy—said she wasn’t big enough. Well, Charley wasn’t having any of it.”

Charlotte’s face takes on a determined light as she remembers. “I didn’t want to get left behind.”

“That’s right,” says Miss Rose. “Charley followed Jo around everywhere. So there’s Marcus running alongside Jo, encouraging her as she wobbled along, and the next thing we know little Charley comes zooming by on her bike, blood running down her legs and arms like she’d just gotten into a scrabble with a bobcat.”

“I stole Daddy’s tools and took off my training wheels.”

“And taught yourself to ride?”

“It wasn’t hard. I only fell twice.” Charlotte pulls up her sleeve to show me a scar on her elbow. “It healed up nice.”

“How old were you?”

Charley looks to Miss Rose for confirmation. “About four? Not too little at all. Daddy was just overprotective. Guess that’s where Jo gets it from.”

Miss Rose nods. “After that, we’d see the Finch girls riding all over town together. Inseparable.”

Charlotte’s eyes get glassy. “I just didn’t want to get left behind,” she says again, more to herself than to us. She looks up at Miss Rose. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“No, child, I guess you won’t.”

Charlotte gives me a shaky smile, and I pull her chair closer to mine. Miss Rose excuses herself, saying, “We need another round of donuts.”

Charlotte and I sit in the bakery window with the afternoon sun glancing off her black curls, my hand touching the small of her back, and the sound of her breathing soft in my ear. I kiss her neck and whisper, “You aren’t leaving us behind—not really.”

She pulls my face to hers, kissing me fiercely, like if we never come up for air, never move from this moment in space and time, then cancer and the past won’t matter because this is all there will ever be from here until forever.

Or from here until Miss Rose comes back with fresh donuts, which she does. She drops the tray on the table with a clang. We pull apart, my ears aflame, Charlotte’s cheeks flamingo-ass pink, and try to compose ourselves, but Miss Rose laughs, a loud booming laugh like a church bell. “Oh, excuse me. Did I interrupt something?”

Charlotte growls and throws a donut at Miss Rose, who chuckles and walks to the counter. “Let me get y’all a box so you can be going.”

---

On our way out of town, Charlotte points out the landmarks of her childhood—the playground where she broke her arm, the brightly painted cottage where she took her first art lesson, the junior high basketball court where her friends would meet late at night to play truth or dare.

“What kinds of dares?”

Дата добавления: 2014-12-24