Chapter 1: The Girl Behind the Curtain

I was reborn.

Ten years back, just like that.

The words echoed in my mind like the first notes of a song you haven't heard in years. Familiar. Kind of haunting. The world around me hadn't changed yet, but I could feel the weight of time pressing against my skin—a ghost of every mistake and heartbreak lingering just out of sight.

"Hey, Tommy! Wow, it’s been forever since you called! What do you mean it’s not a good time? Of course it is!"

A woman’s familiar, syrupy voice filled my ears.

It was my mom.

Her voice always had that sticky-sweet edge when she was talking to her so-called friends, especially the ones she thought might help her out. She sounded like she was on a late-night radio show, every syllable stretched out, selling some version of herself. I remembered how, even as a kid, I could tell when she was putting on a show for other people.

"That brat… I’ll just kick her out, it’s no big deal. She can stay at Grandma Carol’s for a night, it’s fine. Mhm! Okay, I’ll wait for you!"

She was calling one of her acquaintances.

It was always the same. She’d talk about me like I was an old piece of furniture she could just stick in the garage for a night. Her voice would get all casual, dismissive, like my life was just a piece in her social chess game. Even at ten years old, I’d learned to keep my head down and my expectations lower.

"Savannah! Are you deaf or what? Where’s the towel I told you to wash?"

Her voice cut through the air, sharp and shrill.

Typical.

That voice could cut through walls, I swear. It didn’t matter if I was two rooms away or hiding in the bathroom with the faucet running—she’d find a way to make sure her words reached me. That sharp tone was as much a part of my childhood as the smell of hairspray and cheap coffee drifting up from the salon.

After a bitter divorce from my dad, she opened a beauty salon and rented our old apartment above the hardware store.

I had nowhere to sleep, so I lived in a bed separated by nothing but a faded floral curtain, even doing my homework behind it.

The curtain blocked the view, but not the noise.

From middle school through high school, I listened to my mom flirting with different men who came for haircuts.

I’d do my homework while crying. Sometimes, I was so disgusted I’d start to tremble.

Sometimes, the laughter and low voices from the other side of the curtain felt like they were pressing right against my skin. I’d hunch over my textbooks, trying to tune it all out, but it always seeped in—the jokes, the teasing, the way she’d toss her hair and act like she was still a teenager. I’d stare at the yellowed wallpaper, my hands shaking, wishing I could disappear. In the small town of Maple Heights, privacy was a luxury we couldn’t afford.

But now—

I yanked the curtain open.

"I’m doing homework. Keep it down."

My voice came out steadier than I expected. Maybe it was the second chance, or maybe I was just too tired to care anymore. Either way, the words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

My mom, who might look pretty with her brows and makeup done, gave me a sharp, contemptuous glare. "Oh wow, you really think you’re gonna be valedictorian in this town? With your chicken-scratch handwriting, how many points do you think you’ll get, huh?"

She never cared how I did.

She had this way of looking at me, like she could see every flaw magnified. Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but underneath it, I always thought I heard a kind of fear—like she was scared I might actually be better than she ever was. Still, her words stung. They always did.

Still, I met her gaze.

"Math, 124. English, 70. Literature, 130."

The numbers rolled off my tongue, crisp and clear. For once, I wasn’t shrinking away or mumbling. I wanted her to hear every single point, to know I was more than just the girl behind the curtain.

She froze for a second.

"You always make me help at the salon, so I have to skip my after-school English tutoring. That’s why English is my worst. Satisfied now?"

I watched her face shift—surprise, maybe a flicker of guilt, but it was gone as fast as it came. I’d learned to stop hoping for anything more.

Maybe she didn’t expect me to talk back, because she grabbed the dirty rag beside her and flung it at my face.

"What’s the use of all that grammar crap! Sucking up to outsiders, huh? What, the local boys aren’t enough for you, you want some city guy now? Pathetic!"

I ducked, but the dirty water still splashed across my cheek. The smell hit me instantly—old sweat, mildew, something sour. My eyes stung, but I kept my jaw tight. "Sucking up to outsiders." She always made it sound like wanting more from life was some kind of crime. Like the world outside Maple Heights was just a threat to her.

—Sucking up to outsiders.

—Chasing men.

—Pathetic.

The words circled in my mind, each one digging a little deeper. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, the sticky wetness clinging to my skin. That smell would stay with me all day.

I told myself: Savannah, remember this feeling. Last life, you let so-called family drain you dry, lost the one you loved. This time, never forget this feeling.

I pressed my palm to my cheek, letting the sting burn in. I wanted to brand this moment into my memory, to make sure I’d never let it happen again. Not this time. Not ever.

My glare made my mom uneasy. For once, she looked unsettled.

"What are you staring at? You look just as unlucky as your dad."

"Yeah, he was pretty unlucky, getting stuck with you. I’m unlucky too—I didn’t get to pick my mom," I said.

She was speechless, mouth open. For a second, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

My mom, Marlene Carter, looked stunned.

"What did you say?!"

Her voice trembled, just a little. I could see the lines around her mouth deepen, the mask slipping for a second. But I didn’t back down.

"I said you’re a joke—ugly and always fooling around!" I shouted, louder than her. "All you ever think about is men, men, men! No amount of advice can save someone determined to ruin herself. If you want to jump into a pit, don’t drag me with you!"

My voice echoed in the small room. For once, I was louder than her, my anger filling every corner. I could feel my heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. I’d spent so many years swallowing my words—now they poured out in a rush, raw and honest.

She pointed at me, speechless, then grabbed a rat-tail comb and threw it.

"Getting bold, huh! Learned how to talk back! Get out! Don’t come back if you’ve got the guts!"

The comb clattered against the wall, missing me by inches. I didn’t flinch. I just grabbed my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out. No hesitation this time.

I walked straight out.

And ran right into Big Mike, the butcher from Main Street. His body jiggled as he eyed me up and down without shame. "Hey there, Savannah, where you off to in such a rush?"

Big Mike’s voice was as greasy as his pork. He always had this way of looking at girls—like we were just another cut of meat behind the counter. The summer air smelled of raw meat and sweat, and I felt my stomach twist.

My mom didn’t care, just stood there.

"Going to visit my dad’s grave," I said.

The man froze, his fat face stiffening.

"What?"

He looked like he’d swallowed his own tongue. I held his gaze for a beat, then let a sly smile curl on my lips. Sometimes, a little shock was all it took to shut a man up.

I grinned at him. "Big Mike, I’m just going to get a snow cone, okay?"

Then, before he could react, I dashed off.