I made a mental note to look up MFA when I got home.

“I still write every now and then. Mostly short stories, and I’m working on a longer novella. But with the little ones…” She smiled stiffly. “It’s hard to find the time.”

“I understand.” The wine coursing through my veins tempted the honesty out of me. Before I could stop myself, I was telling her about Gus.

Sweet, four-year-old Gus, with his messy head of golden hair and inquisitive eyes, the same shade of green as mine. Gus was born when I was in sixth grade, two years before my mom was found dead in the front seat of her car. Some lady found her slumped over the steering wheel in the Price Chopper parking lot and called the cops.

I wasn’t sad, not really. My mother’s death was something I’d anticipated long before it happened, an inevitable occurrence that left me feeling ambivalent as I helped my father clean out her closet the day after she overdosed. Except for a short-lived stint when she was pregnant with Gus, my mother had always done drugs. In elementary school we learned that drugs kill you. My mother had been killing herself for most of my life, and I wasn’t surprised when she died.

The worst part of her death was what it did to my father. I was old enough to understand that unlike my mother, my father was one of the numerous addicts in Langs Valley who was able to stay functional. He worked construction to keep us afloat, and though on plenty of nights I’d hear my parents ripping lines in the living room and cackling with laughter into the wee hours of the morning, my father always dragged himself to work the next day, while my mother slept it off or went to a friend’s to continue her bender.

My father was lucky to have a job, he always said so. The employment rate in Langs Valley had plummeted since the big cotton mill closed in the late sixties after too many companies took their businesses overseas. The mill had employed hundreds of workers, my grandpa among them, and when it tanked, people lost everything: jobs, health insurance, hope. The town was never the same after that.

Crack cocaine was a city drug, but it made its way to Langs Valley in the mid-eighties, and once my mother had a taste, that was it. I’d overhear my father lecturing her about its dangers, his anger booming through our tiny house when she stumbled home at night, out of her mind.

My mother didn’t last a year chasing the crack high. A month after we buried her, my dad was on it, too. I could tell by the smell of the smoke on his clothes, how his hands trembled the same quivery way my mother’s had when she was on crack. The messages on our answering machine asking why he hadn’t shown up to work. He went from scrawny to gaunt, cheeks hollow and angular, lips black. He started leaving town for days on end; I pieced together enough to know he’d driven to Albany to buy more drugs, Boston or New York if he was desperate.

I explained to Libby that this was why I had ended up caring for Gus—my mother was dead, and my father would be soon.

She was quiet when I finished speaking. I half expected her to fire me on the spot; no matter how liberal she considered herself to be, women like Libby couldn’t have the daughter of crack addicts babysitting their kids.

But Libby slid her hand across the counter, and I nearly flinched when she squeezed my palm.

“Heather, you poor thing.” Her eyes were watery and wide. “I’m so terribly sorry.” She picked up the bottle of red and refilled my glass, then her own. “I have a few things to say. First, I hope—for your sake, as well as the sake of your employment here—that you aren’t doing drugs. Are you?”

“I don’t do drugs.” I shook my head emphatically. “Most people I know do, but after watching what they did to my parents, I—I can’t. Not with Gus.”

It was the truth. Even though coke and pills were nearly impossible to avoid at parties, even though I’d watched my friends blow lines and roll their faces off countless times—Burke more often than anyone else—I couldn’t bring myself to touch anything besides alcohol.

“I’m so glad to hear that.” Libby sipped her wine. “Drugs will ruin your life. And you have so much potential, Heather.”

I smiled, wondering if she really thought so or if it was her blue-blooded manners speaking.

“Second thing. I want you to bring Gus here when you come and sit for us. I didn’t realize you had a little brother who’s alone while you’re gone.”

“That’s very nice of you, but the neighbors—”

“End of discussion.” Libby held up her palm. “You’ll bring him. Please, Heather.” Her eyes landed softly on mine.

I nodded. “Okay. Thank you. He’ll like that. He and Nate are close in age.”

“Nate will love having someone to play with.” Libby smiled warmly. “Okay, last thing. I want to talk to you about your future. I’m not trying to parent you too hard here, but it’s an important discussion to have, and I get the feeling it’s not one you’re having with your father.”

I shook my head.

“Have you thought about the future, Heather? Are you planning on applying to colleges?”

The future had always been a hazy white space at the edge of my mind. It once held the probability of Burke, and our shared intention of leaving Langs Valley, getting married, and starting a family. I also had the vague objective of more financial stability than I’d experienced growing up, which meant going to college. A state school, most likely, and ideally one that would accept Burke, too. The only thing I knew with sheer certainty was that when and if I did have kids, I’d raise them nothing like the way my parents had raised me.

But the details of my looming future had come into razor-sharp focus the day I’d met Libby back in October, the moment I’d tasted a life that was the opposite of mine yet close enough to touch. In meeting Libby and seeing her beautiful house and expensive clothes and groomed manners, I’d realized just how small I’d been dreaming. The seed planted itself in my head, the concrete notion that such a life was possible for me, too. And now, what I wanted more than anything—more than Burke, even—was for every door to open for me and stay that way.

This was what had clawed itself around my heart when I called Burke and told him, with finality, that our relationship was over. Kyla said I was an idiot for dumping him. When I told her the truth—that I wanted to focus more on school and getting better grades—she looked at me as if I were speaking another language. Screw it. Kyla could spend her life waiting tables at the diner and buying coke with her tips, but I wouldn’t end up like that, and I wouldn’t end up married to someone like that. I was going somewhere, and I finally understood that the only way to get there was to work for it—no one was going to hand me anything. I was going to become a woman like Libby—well, an employed version of Libby, at least until I found someone rich to marry. And if I was going to become an employed version of Libby, then I needed a high-paying job, which meant I needed a college degree from a reputable university, which meant I needed better grades and decent SAT scores. It meant I needed help; I needed someone like Libby to take me under her wing.

“You know, it’s funny you ask about the future.” I tucked a wisp of my hair behind my ear. “I’ve recently started thinking about college and have realized how badly I want to go, but I don’t know much about the process. None of my friends have plans to apply, so it’s not something people are talking about. I mean, I know a few older kids who have gone to SUNY Plattsburgh, but I … I really think I can do better than a state school. It’s just complicated because I have Gus.”

“Oh, honey.” Libby’s impeccable face softened; I could feel her maternal instinct kicking in. “We’ll figure out what to do about Gus.”

We’ll.

“Right now, the most important thing is that you start focusing on college. How are your grades?”

“Better this year,” I told her honestly. “Freshman and sophomore year they weren’t great.”

“That’s okay.” Libby waved her hand. “If you have really solid grades junior and senior year, that’s the most important thing for college admission boards to see. My mother worked in college counseling at an upper school for years, so I know how it all goes. I still have all my SAT books, though they’ve probably got new ones by now. Have you thought about when you might take the SATs? And what schools you might be interested in?”

“I really haven’t.” I shrugged, loving how easy it was to submit to this helplessness. “I honestly don’t even know where to start, Libby. I keep trying to make an appointment with the college counselor at school, but he’s really backed up. He pretty much only sees seniors.”

“Seriously? Is there only one counselor?”

I nodded. Again, the truth was in my favor.

“That’s ridiculous.” Libby scrunched her perfect nose. “But don’t worry. Because I’m going to help you, Heather. You’ll get into the college of your dreams. I promise.”

Chapter Seven

Skye