Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

She wanted her dad to know how pissed off she was. All she had was her friends, and they were three thousand miles away when she needed them most.

She hated paradise. The sunshine pissed her off, and so did the smell of burgers on the grill, and seeing her dad’s sad face made her want to cry. They didn’t talk about anything that mattered that week. He tried—now and then—to make contact, but the pain in his eyes just sucked her in and made it worse, so she stopped looking at him.

She called her friends at least ten times a day until the vacation from hell was finally over.

When they landed back in Seattle, Marah felt herself relaxing for the first time, breathing easily. She’d thought the worst was over.

How wrong she’d been.

They’d come home to find music blaring through the house, empty food containers on the kitchen counter, and Tully in the closet, with Mom’s clothes all boxed up. Dad had blown a gasket and said terrible things to Tully and made her cry, but nothing he said was as bad as: “We’re moving. ”

Nine

In November of 2006, less than a month after Mom’s funeral, they moved to California. The two weeks before their departure were terrible. Horrible. Marah spent every waking hour either pissed at her dad or inconsolable. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping. All she cared about was talking to her friends, and when the four best friends got together it was just one endless goodbye, broken down into parts. Every sentence began with, Remember when.

Marah’s anger could hardly be contained. It was a thing inside of her, pushing against her ribs, making her blood boil. Even her grief had been consumed by it. She stomped around the house and slammed doors and burst into tears at every memento that had to be packed. She couldn’t stomach the idea of just locking up the house—their home—and driving away. The only slightly good news was that they weren’t selling it. Someday, Dad promised, they’d return. The big things—furniture, art, rugs—they left behind. They were renting a furnished house. As if different furniture would make them all forget losing Mom.

When the day finally came to move, she’d clung to her friends and sobbed in their arms and told her dad she hated him.

None of it mattered. She didn’t matter. That was the dark truth. Mom had been a reed; she would have bent to Marah’s will. Dad was a wall of steel, cold and implacable. She knew because she’d hurled herself against him and fallen in a heap at his feet.

On the two-day drive to Los Angeles, Marah said nothing. Not one word. She put her earbuds in and listened to music, texting one message after another to her friends.

They left green and blue Washington and drove south. By Central California, everything was brown. Stubby brown hills huddled beneath a bright autumnal sun. There wasn’t a decent tree for miles. Los Angeles was even worse: flat and endless. One freeway after another, every lane jam-packed with cars. By the time they pulled up to the house Dad had rented in Beverly Hills, Marah had a splitting headache.

“Wow,” Lucas said, drawing at least three syllables out of the word.

“What do you think, Marah?” Dad said, turning in his seat to look at her.

“Yeah,” she said. “You care about what I think. ” She opened the car door and got out. Ignoring everything, she texted Ashley, Home Sweet Home, as she walked from the driveway to the house’s front door.

It was a house that had obviously been remodeled sometime recently—an old seventies rambler had been punched up to look modern and boxy. The yard out front was flawlessly clipped and carefully manicured. Flowers grew where they were supposed to; their blossoms were supersized because of the sun and the sprinklers.

This wasn’t a home. Not for the Ryans, anyway. Inside, everything was sleek and cold, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a stainless steel kitchen and gray stone floors. The furniture was defiantly modern, with sharp edges and chrome accents.

She looked at her dad. “Mom would have hated this. ” She saw how her words hurt him, and she thought, Good, and went upstairs to claim her room.

* * *

On her first day at Beverly Hills High School, Marah knew that she would never fit in here. The kids were like beings from another planet. The student parking lot was filled with Mercedes-Benzes and Porsches and BMWs. The carpool lane actually had a few limousines in between the luxury cars and Range Rovers. Not every kid was dropped off by a driver, of course, but the point was that some were. Marah couldn’t believe it. The girls were gorgeous, with expertly colored hair and purses that cost more than some cars. They clung together in well-dressed pods. No one even said hi to Marah.

On her first day, she moved through her classes on autopilot. None of her teachers called on her or asked her questions. She sat alone at lunch, barely listening to the commotion going on around her, not caring about anything.

In fifth period, she took a seat in the back and put her head down while the other students took a test. The loneliness she felt was epic, overwhelming. She kept thinking how much she needed her friends—and her mom—to talk to. It hurt so much she felt herself start to shake.

“Marah?”

She looked up through the curtain of her hair.

The teacher—Ms. Appleby—had stopped at her desk. “Come see me if you need help getting up to speed. I’m always available. ” She set a syllabus on the desk. “We all know how hard it is, with your mom…”

“Dead,” Marah said flatly. If adults were going to talk to her, they might as well say the word. She hated all those pauses and sighs.

Ms. Appleby couldn’t move away fast enough.

Marah smiled grimly. It wasn’t much of a defense, having to say the word, but it was effective.

The bell rang.