Page 144 of Tattered (Lark Cove 1)

“That guy you introduced me to in the gas station. I haven’t seen him around before.” I added that last part hoping I sounded more curious than desperate for information.

“That’s Jackson Page. He just moved to town to work with Hazel down at the bar. I think he’s from New York or New Jersey? I can’t remember.”

“That’s good.” More like freaking fantastic.

Dad gave me a sideways glance. “Is it?”

Uh-oh. Maybe I hadn’t hidden my crush as well as I’d hoped. “Totally!” I came out too loud as I scrambled for a recovery. “It’s, um, good that Hazel has some help. Don’t you think she’s kind of old to be working at the bar all by herself?”

Dad frowned as he turned down the street toward our house. “Old? Hazel isn’t all that much older than me and your mom. But I guess teenagers think anyone past thirty is old.”

I giggled. “Ancient. You’re practically fossils.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his heart, pretending to be hurt as he pulled into our driveway.

“Just kidding.”

Dad smiled. “Try to save part of your candy bar until after dinner.”

“Deal.” I hopped out of the car, escaping inside while Dad went to check on Mom’s progress in her vegetable garden.

I yanked my diary out from underneath my mattress and got comfortable on my bed. Then I tore into my Snickers bar, chewing as I opened to a blank page. My pen flew across the paper, leaving a trail of purple ink as I recounted every second at the gas station. When I was done, I closed the book and clutched it to my chest, smiling at the last line I’d written.

One day, I am going to marry Jackson Page.

I just had to get him to notice me first.

Nine years later . . .

“There’s one,” I whispered, pointing toward the shooting star that streaked across the midnight sky.

Even though I was alone, pointing them out had become a habit. My dad had been my stargazing partner for as long as I could remember. As a kid, he’d taught me about the constellations and galaxies. We’d have contests to see who could spot the most shooting stars.

These days, he preferred to sleep at night unless there was a special stellar occasion, like a comet or a lunar eclipse. So my nights counting falling stars were done alone. I’d come out to the playground behind my house, sit in the same swing with my eyes to the sky, then report to Dad the next morning how many I’d counted.

Sending some wood chips flying, I kicked off the ground and got my swing moving. My hands gripped the chains as I pumped my legs for some speed. When I had my momentum built, I let my head fall back. The tips of my long, blond hair nearly touched the ground as I smiled at the Milky Way.

Today had been a good day. No, an incredible day.

Months ago, I’d petitioned a charitable foundation in New York to buy the Flathead Summer Camp, the children’s camp where I worked as the director. It was owned by a local church, but after years of barely covering the overhead and maintenance costs, they’d decided it was time to let it go. The church had wanted to sell it to someone who’d continue it as a camp, but with no buyers, the camp would have to be closed down permanently and the land sold off for private development.

But kids needed that camp. They needed a place to escape for a week every summer without toys or iPads or video games. So I’d written a proposal and sent it to various charitable organizations around the country, then wished on a hundred shooting stars for a miracle.

I still couldn’t believe my wish had come true. Earlier today, the Kendrick Foundation from New York City had agreed to buy my camp. And as a bonus, they were keeping me on as director.

Tonight, I wasn’t

wishing on falling stars. I was simply grateful.

My swing slowed to a stop. I pulled myself upright and took in the quiet night. Behind me was Lark Cove School. Its cream cinderblock walls glowed with reflected moonlight. The school and the long playground took up the whole block, except for five houses—three straight ahead and two to the left, one of which was mine.

My parents had never needed to build an outdoor play area. Instead, growing up, I’d just cross the invisible boundary that separated our lawn from the playground’s and use the same swing set and jungle gym that I played on during recess.

All of the houses were dark tonight, the only light coming from across the street where a few porch lights were on. I was admiring a hanging basket of flowers when a dark figure strode onto the sidewalk.

I gasped, nearly falling off my swing as he stepped off the cement and onto the grass.

My fingers slipped into the right pocket of my navy sundress, palming the small canister of pepper spray Dad had bought me for nights when I came out here alone. He’d also given me the whistle I was wearing around my neck.