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middle of the sidewalk. The Texas Talent Show had disbanded after what happened to her mom. All the performers agreed it would be impossible to find a replacement—not that any of them wanted to replace Ana Lee.
    But now they were performing without her—and without Lyssa too? Who was going to pull the curtain back forthe opening performance? Who was going to re-paint the set when it started to look worn? And—the thought made it difficult for her to breathe—were they going to
replace
her mom? Was someone else going to braid her hair and put on motorcycle boots and dance around stage with an accordion made out of paperback novels?
    Lyssa looked up from the flyer. Who had thrown the paper airplane in the first place? How had it gotten here all the way from Texas? It’s like it had appeared out of thin air. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
    The wind makes the world spin a little too fast,
she thought.
    At the bottom of the page there was a short paragraph below the photo:
    Join hands with the Texas Talent Show for one last concert protesting the destruction of beloved singer Ana Lee’s home. Show the Austin Real Estate Corporation that we’re not letting them knock down this community landmark without a fight!
    Lyssa clutched the paper so tightly that it crumpled beneath her fingers. Her mom’s house—
her
house? Knocked down?
    When her mom had first described her plan to donate the house to a charity, for use as community center, Lyssa hadn’t liked the idea of giving away their home at all.
    “But don’t you see? That way we’ll always be there,” her mom had explained. Even sick, lying back on the pillows of the Austin General Medical Center, she had seemed to glow. “We may travel far away, but we’re leaving our roots behind.”
    Whenever Lyssa remembered this, she imagined standing shoulder to shoulder with her mom in their backyard, toes dug into the earth and faces lifted toward the sun like they were flowers, like they’d been left behind in the garden even after everything had changed.
    Now it felt like they were going to be ripped out of the soil, left to wither in the rain and shade. It made Lyssa’s stomach turn to think about it.
    “Lyssa!”
    Michael’s voice thundered down to her. He was standing at the top of the cliff, his face bright red. He was clutching his hair with both hands: it stuck out all over his head in awkward clumps.
    Michael didn’t usually get upset—Lyssa had only seen him like this once before, when she’d tried to plant a flower garden in one of his new speakers (it looked like a planter!) and short-circuited a wire when she poured water over the seeds. The explosion that followed had made Lyssa’s braids stick straight out.
    She knew she should wait for Michael to get down toher, but the crumpled-up paper plane was making the hollow feeling in her stomach grow even bigger.
    Something rumbled in the distance and a fat raindrop fell onto Lyssa’s nose. A storm was coming—just like the storm in her dream. And, just like in her dream, she knew her mother was trying to give her a message.
    But this time, Lyssa thought she knew what it was: Go to Austin. Go back home. Stop this, somehow.
    Lyssa wiped her nose with the back of her hand and turned away from Michael. Hunching up her shoulders against the chill, she hopped onto her scooter and pushed off, rolling faster and faster, until the evergreens that lined the sidewalk were just a blur of green.
    By the time she reached the house, her tank top and jean shorts were soaked all the way through. They clung to her back and shoulders in lumps, making the skin beneath cold and clammy. She pressed her icy blue lips together—trying to keep her teeth from chattering—but her jaw jumped up and down on its own.
    All Lyssa could think about was the crumpled-up flyer in her pocket and the horrible words printed across it:
destruction, knocked down.
When she arrived at the house, she leaned Zip against the porch