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Prologue

Franky

“Field trip, friends!”

Kneeling in the grass, I placed the jar on its side and nudged the kale leaf toward the opening. 

Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson was chilling under a spinach leaf. A bite-sized chunk was missing—tiny, because snails—so one of them had eaten on the ride over to the cookout at the Kershaws. Speedy had retracted most of its body inside its shell; maybe it was digesting its food.

I liked to bring them when we went out, which was weird to observers, but on brand for me. “Your emotional support snails,” my sister Cat called them. Of course, being snails, they didn’t understand where we were going, especially as it was dark inside my backpack. But these tiny, miraculous creatures were exceptionally sensitive. They had four tentacles, two larger ones for detecting light, and two smaller ones for touch and smell. And I called them “friends” instead of “boys” or “guys” because they were hermaphrodites, which meant they all had the ability to reproduce, but for some reason they preferred mating with other snails. Weird, right? What was the point of having the means to go it alone, but you still sought out another of your species to help the process along?

Today, we were at the home of Theo Kershaw, a defenseman with the Chicago Rebels, the hockey franchise my dad retired from a couple of years ago. I had brought my friends because one, it was always nice to have someone interesting to talk to at a party, and two, Theo had a huge backyard, which made for an uncharted landscape for the snails. This spot behind a large oak tree, some distance from the crowd, with its leafy undergrowth and dew-dropped greenery, was perfect. With the distant sounds of music and laughter and the scents of cooking, I felt both safe and pleasantly apart here. Not that anyone ever made me feel unsafe—the Rebels were a very inclusive bunch—but I was constantly aware that I was not like others.

Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson (always known by his full name, thank you very much) was making tracks, sensing a golden opportunity to explore a new habitat. Usually, I kept them in a terrarium in my bedroom, and we made daily excursions to the garden, the one at the back of our house where I lived with my dad, my stepmom, Violet, and my sister, Cat. Today was different. 

Today was goodbye. 

Tomorrow, I would be heading to Atlanta with Cat to spend a week with our mom, and as I couldn’t take the snails with me on the plane and I didn’t want to task my dad or Violet with caring for them, I had resolved to release these ones back into the wild. I had briefly considered sneaking them into my backpack for my trip but assumed there might be problems at the airport with the X-ray scanner. Not to mention the ructions their presence would cause with my mother. For most of my childhood, she had despaired of my scientific interests and constantly complained to my dad of the misery I caused her.

It’s such a disgusting habit, Bren. You need to talk to her.

At least Caitriona likes music. But Franky? I despair, I do.

The optician said fifteen-year-olds can wear contacts, but she won’t do it.

Mom thought my glasses made me look ugly, like one of those girls who would die buried in a book. They would find me, shriveled up, surrounded by disintegrating pages and desiccated snail shells.

Disintegrating and desiccated weren’t regular guests in Mom’s vocabulary, but that’s what she meant, so I happily filled in the blanks for her. To be honest, I didn’t mind the idea. Books and snails? That sounded awesome.

Speedy was living up to his name, having overtaken Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson on his flight to freedom. I was so involved in my observations that I didn’t notice the arrival of company until it was too late.

“Ugh!” I heard behind me.

Feeling my color rising along with the hairs on the back of my neck, I turned to Mikey Callahan, nephew of another retired Rebels player, Ford Callahan. I didn’t know him well, but his reaction was, shall we say, unsurprising. Behind him was a boy I didn’t recognize and another I did: Jason Isner. At thirteen, Theo’s brother—half-brother, to be precise, and I was always precise—was tall for his age, even taller than me, and I was two years older. I rarely spoke to him. Partly, because he was a stinky, teenage boy, but mostly because he didn’t like me.

There could be any number of reasons why, from the classic undercurrent of tension between jocks and nerds to the fact I wore glasses. They signified physical weakness while he was a healthy, strapping boy, already being talked about in hockey circles as a future prospect for greatness. But the most probable reason for his dislike was my friendship with his brother. Sean was the same age as me and someone with whom I had common interests. He read books, for a start.

Mikey stepped forward, a little too close to the snails.

“Please don’t.”

“Why? Worried I might”—he lifted his sneakered foot—“stomp on it?”

“Callahan.”

That was Jason, controlling the situation with a single word. His voice sounded deeper than the last time I heard him, though I doubted this maturity to his vocal cords corresponded to maturity elsewhere.

He closed the gap between us, subtly displacing Mikey. “What are you doing?”

“Releasing them.”

He thought on that for a moment. “Why did you capture them in the first place?”

“So I can study them.”

Mikey inclined his head and peered at Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson, who had created a mucin trail over a flat rock near the shrubbery. “It’s so fuckin’ slimy. Real ugly.”

Like you. Unsaid but definitely implied.

I was fairly accepting of this viewpoint, especially when it came to boys. I wasn’t pretty or talented on the guitar like Cat. I liked science and Percy Jackson and romance novels and creating habitats for my friends.

Snails and slugs. My best friends.

“Yeah, it is pretty gross,” Jason agreed. Mikey laughed at that, as if it was the most original opinion instead of a rehash of what he had already said. Jason met my gaze head-on, his green eyes all challenge, making it clear the snails weren’t the only thing that was gross. He and my mother would have so much in common.

The boy I didn’t know moved closer to get a better look. “You some kind of nerd?”

Really? How was I supposed to answer a question as stupid as that?

Ignoring him, I stood, pushed my glasses back into place, and moved between the snails and the threat. A quick glance down showed the grass-stained knees of my white jeans and the blue toenail polish that Violet had applied last night while we watched Little Women. Timothée Chalamet was the perfect Laurie, despite marrying Amy after being in love with Jo (I had hoped they might deviate from the book, but unfortunately, no). I didn’t really understand why the author had to make Jo get married to the German professor at all because she was a writer and, if she couldn’t be with Laurie, she would have been better off alone with her books. Violet said that career-oriented spinsterhood would be too modern a take for the time.

But not now. I was pretty sure career-oriented spinsterhood was the life for me, and the reason was the mix of disgust and fascination currently rolling off Jason Isner.

Who was fixated on my chest.

I had started developing late, but my breasts had grown in the last few months. No longer bumps on a log, they filled out my bra and looked far too obvious behind my “Easily Distracted by Snails” T-shirt, the now too-tight one Violet bought for me last year.

My cheeks burned when he should be the one embarrassed to be staring at me so obviously.

“Pervert,” I said, pushing my glasses back up my nose.

“As if,” Mikey responded in his friend’s defense, because the idea of Jason Isner showing any romantic interest in someone like me was incroyable, as the French would say.

Jason remained silent, just stared at me with those eyes, as hard as emeralds. I kind of agreed with Mikey—as if—but I also knew that boys Jason’s age were walking hormone factories, barely able to control their impulses and immature sexual feelings. Jason wasn’t interested in me as a person, just as a pair of breasts in his immediate sightline.

“Weirdo,” he finally said.

“Jock,” I snapped back, a rather weaksauce response.

He stepped closer, his breath smelling of fruity Starburst. “Four-eyed loser.”

“Dumb jock.” Heat flushed my neck and cheeks. I wasn’t a confrontational person as a rule, but I had to make a stand. For the snails. For myself. 

A sneer curled his lips. “Slug Girl.”

“Jason!” A new voice entered the arena, one I recognized. Sean, Jason’s older brother, was approaching at a clip. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jason said lazily, but there was a smirk there, too. He’d issued the final insult, and he knew it would stay in my head forever.

Slug Girl. I shouldn’t have minded being identified so closely with the things I loved—even if my research focus had moved to snails lately—yet the way he said it was so dismissive. So hurtful.

Sean turned from his brother to me. “You okay?”

“Of course. Just trying to keep the Neanderthals away from defenseless creatures.”

Mikey and Unnamed Boy were already retreating, likely feeling uneasy in an older boy’s presence. Jason remained, a young sapling looking to put down roots. That attitude would be useful for a future in professional hockey but would likely piss off any woman he dated. Far too intense.

I glared at him, willing him to leave. Finally, he turned away, but not before I witnessed an eye roll in his brother’s direction, one that said, why are you bothering with this waste of space, dude?

Once they were out of earshot, Sean checked in again with me. “Seriously, you okay?”

“I’m fine!” My gaze fell to Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson and Speedy, both now approaching the hostas edging the flower beds. The Great Escape, snail style.

I plunked down in the grass, my heart still thundering, determined to watch them to the end. I had come here to say goodbye to my friends, and Jason Isner had ruined it.

Sean took a seat beside me. “So what are we doing?”

“Just sending them onward to new adventures. I’m visiting my mom tomorrow so I can’t take them.”

“Right.” He thought on that. “Looking forward to clothes shopping and makeovers?”

I laughed, and the tightness in my chest eased slightly. Sean and I had become friendly in the last few months, while I helped him with algebra after school. 

“Cat will provide good cover. Mom’s so excited she has a boyfriend.” My sister was dating a rising senior at high school, and my mother couldn’t wait to give all the advice in person. “I might be able to hide out and read the latest Sarah Dessen.”

“Or you could try to enjoy it. See it as a vacation.”

With my narcissistic mother? That time she freaked out in the granola aisle of Whole Foods, the catalyst for us to come and live with my recovering alcoholic dad, was the best thing to ever happen to me. Over the last six years, I’d seen Kendra a few times a year, and it never got easier. I was still her biggest disappointment.

“Not likely. I’ll need a vacation when I come back.”

Sean’s brow crimped. 

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—” He shook his head. “My parents are getting a divorce.”

“Oh, Sean, I’m so sorry.” I reached for his hand, and he let me squeeze it before pulling away. 

During our after-school study sessions, we had shared a little, me about my mom, he about his dad. His parents’ marriage was in trouble, and having been there myself, I understood what he was going through.

“I guess I’m just hoping I’ll still see my dad when it’s over.” His shrug managed to convey a lifetime of hurt. “He’s already met someone.”

My mom had met her boyfriend Drew before she and Dad separated, and despite her faults, I didn’t blame her for seeking comfort elsewhere. Dad’s alcoholism had not made things easy for any of us. But I also knew this: my parents were better off apart.

“Just because I don’t want to see my mom doesn’t mean you and your dad won’t have a relationship.”

He huffed. “Just sucks.”

It probably sucked for Jason, too. Was I supposed to cut him some slack because his parents were splitting up? With anyone else, I might. But I’d seen how he looked at me, like I was nothing. A bug he’d happily crush beneath his boot.

I didn’t want to think about Jason anymore. Sean was the only Isner I cared for, and right now, he needed a friend.

“When I come back from Atlanta, we could go see the new Superman movie.”

“You don’t even like superhero movies.” But I could tell the prospect cheered him.

“The Man of Steel is a ridiculous do-gooder. But I do like Lois Lane and her rule-breaking tendencies. She’s got moxie.”

“She’s got what?”

“She knows what she wants.” And she was much more interesting than that underwear-sporting doofus in a cape.

The snails had finally made it to the hostas. Speedy was nestled under a large leaf while Dwayne “The Snail” Johnson was looking for his next meal. They no longer needed me.

“Bye, bye, friends,” I whispered. “Have fun storming the flower beds.”

Slug Girl won’t forget you. And when it came to Jason Isner, neither would she forgive.

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