Gloria Lutz, your unwavering support and unconditional love are a guiding light in my life. Thank you for using your wicked editing skills on this project. I love you and I’m very grateful.
Tamar Rydzinski, one of the best days of my life was when you agreed to be my agent. Your tireless work, incredible perspective and insights on this manuscript were integral to making it what it is. What you’ve already taught me about writing and publishing is invaluable. I’m truly grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I can’t wait to work with you on more projects.
Janet Cadsawan. You. Are. Brilliant. Thank you for introducing me to Tamar. Without your help, this book would not be what it is today. You’re a creative genius, and I look forward to seeing the heights to which your talent will take you.
Aaron Draper, when I first saw your photograph of the girl in the water, it gave me goose bumps. Your picture told a story. You captured something so delicately beautiful and undeniably vulnerable through your lens that I had to try to find you to at least tell you how much I loved it. Thank you for agreeing to allow a version of it to appear as the cover of Under Different Stars. I could not have found anything else this perfect to represent Kricket and the story.
Regina Wamba: Thank you for using your exceptional experience and artistic talent to create the cover of Under Different Stars. You married the genre of the manuscript with Aaron Draper’s photograph and created a perfect representation of the story. You’ve exceeded all of my expectations. You’re a rock star.
Cristina Suárez-Muñoz, I couldn’t have found a more generous and thoughtful friend if I scoured the world for her. Thank you for beta reading this story and giving me your opinion. Thank you, also, for all of your hard work and dedication to this project. Your skill with marketing has helped me tremendously. I’m grateful for all that you have done and continue to do to make this novel a success.
Trish Brinkley, you’re a very powerful person. I don’t think you realize it, yet. Over 2013, you’ve managed to carve out a very serious niche in a cutthroat market with the launch of your organization: The Occasionalist. I’m extremely grateful to you for what you have done for my career, beginning in Boston with help from the amazing Megan Ward O’Connell, and heading into the future. I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next.
Amber McLelland, your wicked wit and savage sense of humor keep me laughing every day. Thank you for being such a good friend to me and for beta reading Under Different Stars. I’m so lucky to have found you.
Janet Wallace, you’re amazing! Thank you for including me in your insanely creative world. Your generosity towards me knows no bounds. I marvel at what you have accomplished in such a short period of time. I’m eagerly awaiting your next jaw-dropping feat of awesomeness. See you in UtopYA.
To my lovely Hellcats: Georgia Cates, Shelly Crane, Samantha Young, Michelle Leighton, Rachel Higginson, Angeline Kace, Lila Felix, and Quinn Loftis. Thank you for allowing me to turn myself loose in our chat room every single day. It has not gone unnoticed by me that I often sound like a degenerate sugar addict set free in a candy factory, but I love you all for humoring me. Clearly, you’re the reasons why I’ve been able to maintain control and haven’t had to be soaked down with Mace on a daily basis. I love all of your guts. Always.
ALSO BY AMY A. BARTOL
INESCAPABLE: THE PREMONITION SERIES – VOLUME ONE
CHAPTER 1
MOVING DAY
As I drive past the placid façade of Crestwood College’s stately clock tower, I realize that this is the building they refer to as Central Hall. It’s the trademark of the school, and they stamp its image on everything they use to represent them. My acceptance letter had been embossed with its seal. The scent of autumn drifts through my open window along with the deep, echoing bell from the clock as it tolls out the hour. The loud, desolate sound sends a chill over my skin. It is funny to me how something as harmless as a clock tower can be winsome and sinister at the same time.
In the car behind me, my Uncle Jim gives me a couple of short honks of his horn. As I gaze at him in my rearview mirror, I see him gesturing for me to turn left at the next stop sign. His paranoia that I will miss the street to my dorm makes me smile, so I turn on my signal to relieve his anxiety. Crestwood’s campus has only a few streets; if I miss the turn, it won’t be fatal. If I manage to get lost here, then I don’t deserve the academic scholarship they gave me, I think to myself, using my mirror to refresh my lip-gloss.
I ride slowly under the tunneling oak trees that line the pavement. I had always thought that I would go to a larger school—one in a major city, like New York or Chicago, but when Crestwood offered me a full ride with no strings attached, I couldn’t pass up such an amazing opportunity. I mean, who needs a sprawling city if you’re totally broke all the time? And Crestwood is consistently ranked as one of the top private schools in the country for academics. Plus, this way I get to stay in Michigan so I can visit Uncle Jim more often. He’ll only be a few hours away—and he needs me. I’m his only family, just as he is mine.
Unease creeps over me as my dormitory comes into view. I don’t know a single person at Yeats Hall, or even Crestwood for that matter. I had met a few coeds on my brief tour of the school last year, but I had been just a prospective student then, so none of us really bothered to make friends. A fresh wave of panic hits me, or maybe it’s remorse for all the familiar things I’m leaving behind. Don’t stress, I tell myself while taking a deep breath. This place will be the making of you. Everything will be fine.
I park in a spot under a shady elm tree and cut the engine, waiting for my uncle to slip into the spot next to mine. Pulling up next to me, he parks his truck and leaves it idling. With his stereo blaring Baba O’Reily, he is head-banging and playing air guitar to the raging bass.
Normally, something like this would horrify me, especially since he is drawing frowns from the other parents hauling boxes and desk lamps out of their cars, but not today. Today, I’m trying to take a mental snapshot of this moment because it’s so quintessential Uncle Jim.
We had basically raised each other, he and I. When my mom died soon after I was born, he stepped up and assumed guardianship of me. It couldn’t have been easy; he’d been a kid himself at the time, only twenty years old.
As my eyes rove over him, lip-syncing with his mouth curling in a rocker-like scowl, I smile, knowing he is doing it for me. He is trying to make me laugh so that I won’t be nervous.
As I climb out of my old Jeep, I pretend not to notice when small pieces of the rusted door flake off as I close it. “You rock a mean air guitar,” I say after he cuts his engine and grins at me through the truck’s open window.
“I know—missed my calling. I was born to rock,” he replies with hubris, climbing out and joining me.
“Undoubtedly,” I agree. He slips his arm around my shoulder, trapping my long, auburn hair beneath it as he gives me a quick squeeze before letting it drop.
“You ready to check in?” he asks me as he runs his hands through his dark-brown hair, which immediately falls back over his forehead again.
“Yeah,” I nod, handing him a comb from my purse.
He smiles, taking the comb from me. “You know what I like most about you, Evie?” he asks me.