Page 1 of Knowing Amelia

Prologue

I blink awake, blinded by the sunshine seeping in through the windows. My head pounds like maybe my baby sister, Katie, hit it with a hammer. I can’t believe they abandoned me. How could Dad do that? How could he leave me here with his grouchy old mom, just because I had a tummy ache? I’m eleven, not dumb. I’m their kid, not Jessie the cat, who they leave without a second thought.

Why are they out exploring anyway? Aren’t we here for Amelia’s husband’s funeral? And sure, I guess that guy is my grandpa, but I met him once.

The point is, funerals are for crying and thinking. Not exploring.

But then, Grandma hasn’t even cried. Aren’t wives supposed to cry when their husbands die? Again—eleven, not dumb. I’m pretty sure all wives cry when their husbands die.

Except Amelia.

The lady has one emotion: grouchy. I thought even grouchy women cried sometimes. “LIKE WHEN THEIR HUSBANDS DIE,” I whisper aloud.

Ugh.

I throw the blankets off my legs, kick out my feet, and stare up at the ceiling. That’s when I see it—on the nightstand next to my bed, a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of orange juice. “Huh. At least I don’t have to see Amelia and her sour looks.” I’ve been napping in her dusty old guestroom all morning. And while I slept, she brought me food.

Climbing out of Amelia’s spare bed, I creep over to the bedroom window, my favorite part of this room. I can see the big elm between her house and the neighbors perfectly. The towering, majestic tree is never cranky. Its glossy green leaves sway in the wind as if they are waving hello to me. I wiggle my fingers, waving back. “Hello, pretty tree.”

A thud drops my eyes to the ground where a curly-haired boy stands on the grass, a soccer ball at his feet. He kicks the ball right at the elm. The black-and-white ball bounces off the rough bark of my tree and back to his feet. He laughs, and somehow it makes my tree an even happier sight. I smile, watching as he hits the ball with his knee, flinging it high into the air. I study him as he jumps, hits the ball with his head.

Thud! I step back from the window with the pound of the ball against the house.

“Logan Heyborn!” Grandma Amelia snaps. She’s outside. I didn’t notice her, but that was her voice. I hurry back to the window, my nose pressed to the glass. Amelia’s a grumpy person, but this is the first time I’ve heard her raise her voice.

I push both my palms against the cold windowpane and stare at the laughing boy two stories below. “Run!” I whisper, knowing he can’t hear me. “Go, boy!”

And then, Amelia walks into view, turning my blood to ice. She stands beside the lovely elm tree, her folded arms and stance stern. She doesn’t look right next to the joyful elm, not like the happy laughter of the boy she called Logan.

With my forehead pressed to the cool glass, I watch the top of her salt-and-pepper head, unable to see her grumpy face. Maybe he got away…

“Hey, Logan,” she says, her voice filtering through the barrier of the window. “When did you get home?”

There’s a muffled noise—the boy is speaking, but I can’t make out what he says. I push myself closer, leaving nose prints on the glass. But they’re done talking.

“Gah!” I gasp. Amelia’s wrapped her arms around him. She’s hugging him. His dark curls poke out beneath her chin as he embraces her back. Two seconds later, it’s over. My heart pounds in my chest. Logan—the boy—peeks up at her, and I’m instantly frightened he’ll catch me spying. I leap from the window, forcing my body flat against the wall and out of sight.

I give myself three breaths and then I look again, staying back one foot from the window. Amelia kicks the ball over to Logan, who’s halfway into the neighbor’s yard now. He picks up the ball, waves to Amelia, then disappears into the house next door.

I scurry back to my bed, a shiver crawling down my spine. What was that?

I cover my aching head with Amelia’s old quilt and listen to my breaths, in and out. I sit there a long time, listening and breathing—not one of my books in sight. Ugh. If only I could read.

Finally, I slip my head from the blankets, braving the room once more. I eat my sandwich and drink my juice, my mind on repeat. The curly-haired boy. Amelia’s hug. She hugged him. She’s never hugged me.

I’ve never even seen her hug Dad.

With my sandwich gone and my juice downed, I lie back. But I’m bored. And my books are all downstairs. If I had my books, I could read the day away.

But then I was always pretty good at being sneaky. Who saw all the Christmas gifts last year without getting caught? Not Grayson, my bigfoot brother. And not Baby Katie, who can’t keep her lips zipped.

Me.

This is a job for Olivia. Me. The slyest Benson of them all—just like Nancy Drew. I can get my books without one grouchy glance from Amelia. I know it.

I tug the bedroom door open; the creaking shrieks into the quiet space. “Shh!” I hush at it. On tiptoes, I descend the wooden staircase, one by one. I peek into the living room—no Amelia. Whew. And there are my books on that old square coffee table.

Gliding down the rest of the stairs, I silently hurry over to the table and reach for my collection of Shakespeare. My fingers freeze on the spine as a horrible blubbering cry sounds from Amelia’s dining room. My head jerks upright and my eyes swivel to the doorway that leads to the cry. Who is that?