Chapter 4: Ducks

"Ducks," Dottie said, standing in my bedroom door at seven that night with a bucket and a scraper. "I'm so sorry, they have to go."

"They've been there since I was four."

"They're a war crime, Anja."

"My grandmother picked them."

"Your grandmother would want you to live."

I looked at my wall.

Yellow ducks, in neat rows, with little orange feet.

My mother had said we would redo the room when I left for college.

Now Kenzie Finnegan was going to walk the halls with a clue the size of a pond.

"Fine," I said, and took the scraper.

We started at the corner by the window.

The paper came off in long, stubborn curls, and under it was a layer of old blue paint.

"This is deeply satisfying," Dottie said, peeling a whole duck family in one strip.

"Don't enjoy it."

"I am enjoying it so much."

At nine my phone buzzed on the dresser.

I wiped my hands and picked it up.

It was the fake number.

It was Rhett.

"You up?" he had written. "Stranger?"

Dottie leaned over my shoulder. "Is that him?"

"Don't read it."

"I'm absolutely reading it."

"He doesn't know it's me."

"He's texting you at nine at night, Anja."

"He wants to know who I am."

"Sure," said Dottie. "That's why."

I carried the phone to the window and sat down on the sill.

"I'm up," I typed.

"How's your week?"

I laughed out loud, a tired, ugly little laugh.

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