Things have been this way for as long as I can remember. I’ve never had control over my life, never had the chance to be my own person. I’ve never had the freedom to explore who I am, what I like, what I want. But what I do know about myself is that I sure as hell don’t want to stay home after I graduate and wait for a future husband my parents approve of to put a ring on my finger and knock me up. I want to finally be able to explore who I am.

The outfits burning on the lawn were a step in the direction of self-discovery, my way to find out what I like. But in the back of my mind when I was wearing each outfit, there was a voice whispering that what I was doing was wrong. I heard it every time I did something rebellious, and the voice sounded like my mother’s.

“You don’t want to turn out like your aunt Ashlynn, do you?” she asks as the fire simmers and hisses.

Whenever I screw up, she always throws Aunt Ashlynn into the mix. She’s what the Harveys consider the bad seed of the family. I haven’t seen her since I was four years old—hardly remember anything about her—yet I feel like I know her since she’s constantly used as an example.

I almost reply yes, that I want to be like Aunt Ashlynn, shunned from the family, free from this lifestyle. But the fear that I might get kicked out stops me. While I want to escape the house eventually, my parents won’t allow me to get a job, because again, it gives me too much control over my own life. So, I have no money of my own, no place to live, no nothing.

“No,” I mumble, watching the flames blaze higher.

“Good, because after the stunts you’ve been pulling, I was beginning to wonder if maybe it was time to give up on you,” she says coldly. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s time.”

Maybe it’s because I don’t think I can do this anymore.

Silence settles in as the fire crackles, singeing the clothes and melting the jewelry.

I look down at my hands again, at the jagged, elevated scars that cover my palms. Considering my history with fires, you’d think she’d have picked a different punishment. But nope. That’s not my mom’s style. She likes to punish to the max, making me as uncomfortable as she can.

Finally, I can’t bare it anymore.

“I need to go to the store to pick up a few things for a school project,” I lie, backing away from the fire.

“That’s fine, but take your phone with you so I can see where you are at all times,” my mother shouts as I slide open the back door to the house. “You’re on thin ice, Luna. If you keep heading in this direction, then . . .” She trails off, turning back to the fire. “This punishment will be the least of your problems.”

I step inside the house and shut the door, wanting to scream until my lungs explode. Scream that I’m not a bad person, that I behave better than most of the people I know. Scream that I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment.

Instead, I go out to the car and drive to the store, just like I told my mother I was going to.

By the time I pull up to Benny and Gale’s Corner Store, the sun is setting behind the shallow hills. Soon, the entire town will close up shop for the evening. That’s how things work in Ridgefield. It has that ’50’s, small town, homey, good neighbor vibe to it. Once the sun begins to set, every store and gas station locks up for the night so everyone can return home.

Tourists who drive through here during the summertime always beam about what a fantastic place it is and how wonderful the people are, but I’ve grown up here, and not everything is how it seems. Exactly like every other place in the world, the people in Ridgefield have secrets, things kept hidden behind locked doors. Sometimes the occasional secret slips out and ends up printed in the news, like the time Mable Marleinton got arrested for drug possession and assault.

I have secrets, too. Mine have remained a secret, though, thank God. Otherwise, I’d already be living on the streets.

“Hey, Luna,” Benny, the owner of the pharmacy, greets me as I enter the store. “What are you doing out this late?”

I hold back a sigh. It’s not even six o’clock yet.

“My mom needs me to pick up some last minute stuff for a brunch party she’s having tomorrow,” I lie.

His warm smile makes me feel a pang of guilt over what I’m about to do.

“Tell her I said hi, would you?” he asks as he punches a few buttons on the register. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.”

“I will,” I say then hurry down the nearest aisle, tying my hoodie around my waist.

I wander up and down the aisles, trying to figure out what I’m going to buy for the fake brunch party I just made up. I decide on some paper plates and cups with silly smiley face hearts on them. Then I turn down the makeup aisle and study the section of brightly colored nail polish.

My mom would lose her mind if I painted my nails a bold color like luscious purple or seductive red. I don’t even like red or purple that much, but just thinking about her telling me I can’t paint my nails makes me want to. What if I did it? What if I said to hell with her rules and did whatever I wanted to? What would she do? Probably get rid of me like she did Mr. Buttons, a puppy I brought home with me when I was eight. My mom thought he was the cutest puppy in the entire world until he was still pooping on the carpet and chewing up a favorite pair of shoes after weeks of trying to train him. Then it was bye-bye Mr. Buttons.

Is that where I’m heading? Is my mom going to kick my ass out the door like she did with Mr. Buttons?

Do I care?

Anger, frustration, and guilt blaze through me like the fire did with my clothes. Why can’t she simply accept me for who I am? Why can’t I just be who I want to be without feeling guilty?

As my lungs constrict, I snatch up bottles of nail polish and stuff them inside the pocket of my hoodie that’s around my waist. For a second, I feel calm, like I have control over something. Then the images of my clothes on fire flash through my mind, and those invisible fingers always wrapped around my neck tighten their hold. Struggling not to scream, I start stuffing random items into my pocket, one after the other. I’m not even paying attention to what I’m picking up. Usually, I’m more careful, but today has been overwhelming, and I can barely think past the fact that I just burned most of my clothes.

They’re just clothes, I keep telling myself. But they weren’t just clothes and items—materialistic objects. They represented the time I’ve spent finding my place in the world, who I am when I’m not under my parents’ control. And now that’s gone. Where does that leave me? Back to being my mom and dad’s puppet? Back to dressing how they want, only listening to music they approve, going to church, spending at least three hours a day on homework even when I don’t have anything to work on.

I might have been doing most of those things already, but being able to dress how I wanted gave me a bit of room to breathe. It gave me air. Now the air is gone again, and I’m going to spend every day feeling as though I’m slowly drowning.

I add more items into my pocket, growing more furious by the second. But as I’m stuffing a bag of rubber bands into my pocket, I realize I’ve messed up big time. Because standing down the aisle with his eyes trained on me is Grey Sawyer.

I freeze, mid-pocket stuff, gaping at him with a hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look on my face.

Grey is one of those guys who is perfectly put together. His brown hair always looks so soft, and he has these incredibly blue eyes. Plus, he’s taller than me, which is rare considering I’m almost five foot eleven. I used to have a crush on him—still do when I’m being honest with myself. Normally, I’d be dancing up and down that he’s staring at me so intently. Right now, though, I wish he’d go away.