The Speed of Mercy by Christy Conlin (good books for high schoolers txt) 📕

see the mystery that is behind that thin piece of rice paper we call life. You can’t just go making art out of everything you see. There’s something called privacy. Something called permission. And we have to hide them.”

Aurora slid the phone in the back pocket of her tight jean shorts. “Whatever. Jesus Christ, Mom. I just want you to go to a hospital. There’s no one after them. There’s no one after you. Or me. You’re paranoid. Can’t you see? No one wants to get you. And who would be after her?” The teenager pointed at Stella.

“Except maybe the police would come for you . . . for kidnapping me. I’m supposed to be at the foster home. You’re not supposed to even see me until you get some help.”

Seraphina’s face crumpled but she shook off her shame as quickly as it had come. “I’m sorry about that, you know, dreadfully sorry. SorrysorrysorrysorrySOSOSorry.”

Stella studied Seraphina’s face. Age seemed to have trailed behind Seraphina and, when she wasn’t looking, leapt out and settled into her skin, as it has done to Stella. Only Dianne seemed younger than her age, although today her years were showing more than they ever had.

Dianne didn’t care about their mother/daughter problems. She was slowly walking in a circle around them now, her legs stiff. “Got any water, Serrie?” Dianne opened her mouth and pointed inside. Stella thought Dianne was worried Seraphina might not understand English.

Seraphina walked to the truck and came back with a glass bottle of water. “I’m only using glass now. For the environment. They say microfibres are in the sand of every beach on Earth.”

Dianne passed the bottle to Stella and Stella took a drink, knowing Dianne would insist even if she refused. She then passed it back to Dianne. She guzzled the water, gave Seraphina a wide, toothless smile and wiped her lips.

“The two of you should get back to the centre. You’ll be safe there. I can drive you.”

Dianne looked at Stella and Stella shook her head. She would rather take her chances with the people who were supposedly after them than go back to the centre. They were going to send her away, and send Dianne away. Stella would gamble with running through the woods before getting into the truck with Seraphina.

“Suit yourselves,” Seraphina said, suddenly giving up, cocking her head to the side, listening to something no one else could discern, receiving instructions. “Okay, let’s go, daughter.”

Aurora hesitated, but Seraphina was already making for the truck and didn’t notice. Stella watched the teenager trying to decide what to do — to leave her mother to her own devices or to go with her. Aurora ran over to the truck, where Seraphina was throwing her hands up into the air, bellowing at the sky: “Hallelujah!”

Aurora dashed by the truck and down the narrow lane between the tombstones as Seraphina started the engine and followed, stopping in the road behind her daughter. Aurora kept walking as Seraphina yelled out the window. They shouted back and forth at each other. Then quiet. A truce. The girl got in the truck and away they roared. A quiet settled in. The breeze dropped. One bird sang out.

Stella’s stomach churned and her crotch felt raw. But she was not going back to the centre. The sun was over in the west now. It must be mid-afternoon. Maybe a bit later.

Seraphina was right — Stella had gone over to Lupin Cove when Isaiah was her guardian. They had spent time at the cottage with a fireplace made of beach stone, with pieces of amethyst, agate and jasper interspersed with smooth grey stones.

Stella began walking, wondering if some of Seraphina’s energy had possessed her. Or maybe the drink of water had revived her.

“Stella, Stella, you’re heading the wrong way!”

Stella knew she was heading the only way she could. North. She would walk to Lupin Cove. What she needed to remember might come to her if she went to the shore, to the cottage, to the Bay of Fundy. Dianne hopped behind, calling her name. They got to the top of the hill where the sidewalk began by the farmhouse at the edge of town. And Stella was out of breath. There were some bikes on the lawn. She picked one up and got on, stabilized herself, leaned forward and began pedalling.

Dianne shrieked, “Stella, Stella, you can’t take that. We’re too old for biking.”

But Stella kept pedalling, her knees creaking, euphoria building — she was on a country road riding a bicycle and no one was stopping her.

Dianne came up behind, huffing and puffing on a squeaky bicycle. “You’re not going alone, Stella. Not you. You’re not acting normal. Not that I know what normal is. Time to go back. Now.”

Stella knew Dianne didn’t suspect they were going to send her to a nursing home and Stella to a group home in the middle of nowhere. Dianne would be in a locked ward for old people who wandered. And Stella would be trapped in that house in the woods way up on the South Mountain with David Jessome, the brand-new volunteer, miles from the nearest town, no walking trails, a prisoner.

The Disease of Melancholia.

Then

Stella’s father beams as they drive east to the Jericho County Care Centre. It’s been three days since Cynthia got caught with the essay in her backpack. Stella thought her father wouldn’t follow through with his promise of an outing but, of course, because Cynthia is involved, he has. He drives slowly, pointing out landmarks and such, all the way.

“Girls, I’m not quite sure what we’ll discover when we arrive. I’ll be Frank with you, okay?” He waits for them to laugh — only Cynthia does.

Stella wants to give him a slap, make him stop behaving like a teenaged boy. She wishes it was Cynthia she wanted to slap, but any way Stella looks at it, she knows Cynthia is just being polite, with that adult understanding of men she