of how isolated and forgotten the town was, a sad, lost place adrift in the
clouds. The clouds usually burned away by midmorning, when the sun
climbed above the steep hills, but some days, like the one Lori left, they
clung to the mountains, and a fine mist formed in the valley that turned
your hair and face damp.
When the Sanders family pulled up in their station wagon, Lori was
ready. She had packed her clothes, her favorite books, and her art
supplies in a single cardboard box. She hugged all of us except Dad—she
had refused to speak a word to him since he plundered Oz—promised to
write, and climbed into the station wagon.
We all stood watching as the car disappeared down Little Hobart Street.
Lori never once looked back. I took that as a good sign. When I climbed
the staircase to the house, Dad was standing on the porch, smoking a
cigarette.
"This family is falling apart," he said.
"It sure is," I told him.
THAT FALL, WHEN I was going into the tenth grade, Miss Bivens
made me news editor of The Maroon Wave. After working as a
proofreader in the seventh grade, I'd started laying out pages in the
eighth grade, and in the ninth grade I began reporting and writing articles
and taking photographs. Mom had bought a Minolta camera to take
pictures of her pictures, so she could send them to Lori, who could show
them around art galleries in New York. When Mom wasn't using it, I
wore the Minolta everywhere, because you never knew when you'd see
something newsworthy. What I loved most about calling myself a
reporter was that it gave me an excuse to show up anyplace. Since I'd
never made a lot of friends in Welch, I hardly ever went to the school's