have been to her liking, though. Her upturned face was bathed
in light from the cabin, and she was smiling.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Addison.”
“My name’s Tad,” the boy said.
What kind of stupid name is Tad?
Verity thought, her face
twisting into a scowl that she instantly regretted.
Because then, there she was.
She appeared in the doorway next to Tad and squinted out
at them.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked. Her voice was a silky
alto, rounded at the edges, and Verity loved it at once.
“Two of the girls from the other camp,” Tad said. “Addi-
son and . . .”
“Verity,” she squeaked, her eyes flitting nervously from
Addison to Tad to the girl. Verity was too embarrassed to make
eye contact with her, but unable to stop looking at her either.
The girl laughed. “You mean you can see us?”
“Uh huh,” Verity said, the syllables barely squeezed out
before her throat closed up altogether.
The girl smiled. “Do you know how long it’s been since
anyone saw me? Other than these jackasses, I mean.”
Still unable to form words, Verity shook her head, an idi-
otic grin pasted across her face.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she said. “That would be
just my luck. I haven’t seen anyone new in a year, and when I
do, she doesn’t talk.”
Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Verity noticed
Addison.
One year, Verity had sung in the middle school chorus, and
their director had insisted on rehearsing for an entire morning
205
