You were perched on the curb outside the public pool, alone, tracing patterns in the gravel with the toe of your sneaker. The water was still an hour from opening, but you'd slipped out early to escape the stale silence of your aunt's trailer.

Your orange hair—a shade so bright it looked stolen from a cartoon—fell over your face as you tilted your head back, letting the heat soak into your freckled skin. You'd barely been in town a week. Long enough for the whispers to start.

Not far off, a bike chain rattled.

A boy stood about ten feet away, straddling a rusty Schwinn. He was scrawny, with a sharp jaw and suspicious dark eyes, a faded Bart Simpson shirt hanging off his shoulders. His gaze flicked over you—the model-slender frame, the pale complexion, the dimples that appeared even when you weren't smiling.