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paying comes in. One way or another, you have to pay the price for everything you get in this life. He says once you know that, you know all there is to know.
    Me, I’ve always thought, sure, you have to pay for things. It makes sense, right? And if you’re smart, you know that you get what you pay for, so you’re careful, you go for quality. Right?
    The thing I’ve always wanted, my big-ticket item, is change. You would too, if you were me.
    I grew up in this town. I went to the same kindergarten as every other kid here. I went to the same elementary school too, the same one as Addie. We didn’t have any choice. If you live anywhere in Monroe Township, you go to Monroe Elementary—unless your parents send you to a faith-based school. Our parents didn’t.
    Addie and I met in first grade when we were assigned to the same table at the front of the class. We were both shy. I live on a farm outside of town, and up until kindergarten, I spent almost all my time at home. My playmates were mostly my cousins. Three of them live in a house on our property, along with my aunt, who has multiple sclerosis, and my uncle. Four more live down the road on another farm. I have another aunt and uncle who live ten miles away, in another township. And that’s just on my mom’s side of the family. My dad has five brothers. Three of them are farmers like my dad, one is a veterinarian and one is a surgeon. All but one of them live close by, they’re all married, and they all have kids. All my cousins are older than me.
    Maybe because I’m the youngest by a couple of years and got shut out of a lot of activities, I’ve always been shy. By the time I got to grade one, I’d been asked a thousand times if the cat had got my tongue. After that I was teased for being afraid of my own shadow. It wasn’t all that long ago that my mother told me she’d been worried about me back then. She’d thought I had a hearing problem or maybe some kind of disability. That’s how quiet I was. Like Addie.
    Addie has a brother, but he’s ten years older than her and has been away at school since she was in second grade. He’s some kind of science genius and has almost finished his PhD. Both of Addie’s parents were only children. All four of her grandparents died before she got to elementary school, two in a car accident, one of a heart attack and one of cancer. Her family is as tiny as mine is huge. But for some reason, we hit it off right away.
    Addie was—still is—as quiet as I was. She was—is—much shyer. Even when she was little, she wore her bangs long so that they hung over her eyes, like a curtain. Our second-grade teacher once brought a barrette to school and pinned her hair back. So I can see the girl under there , she said. Everyone laughed at that—everyone except Addie. You know how some people are afraid of snakes? Or the dark? Or whatever it is they imagine is hiding at the back of the closet?
    Well, Addie is afraid of people. She’s afraid they’re watching her and measuring her and finding fault with her.
    She’s deathly afraid of being teased or laughed at.
    But we were buddies. Until we got to high school.
    The high school is a comprehensive located in Monroe. Kids from six different elementary schools get bused in. In grade nine, for the first time ever, I found myself in classes with kids I had never met before. Addie was nervous about that. She spent the whole week before school started freaking out that she and I might have different timetables and not be in all the same classes. That didn’t bother me.
    Confession—I was hoping we wouldn’t be in any classes together.
    Sounds mean, huh? Especially since I just said she was my best friend all through elementary school. But that started to change. It changed for good because of something one of my cousins said to me while I was visiting Boston—her father is the surgeon.