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      For Mommy and Grandmommy,

       who helped me learn the easy way.

      Also to anyone who has ever had to pay for their

       mistakes, or wished someone else would

      PROLOGUE

      I pressed down on the accelerator. It felt good to have power back in my life. Even if it was just power over my car, or power over my fate: dying or living.

      The road was a winding one, with trees on either side, and very little traffic. I watched the speedometer reading rise from thirty mph to forty.

      All I could think about was how sorry everyone would be when they found out. I pictured the local news coverage, the headlines, the sheet of paper they’d send around the school, offering grief counseling to my classmates.

      Forty-five.

      Maybe it wasn’t that I wanted to die; maybe I just wanted to scare them. I wanted them all to realize what could have happened and to feel awful for how they’d acted. I wanted them to try to apologize and beg for a chance to make up for everything they’d done.

      Fifty.

      Fifty-five.

      I pictured the faces of my friends as they heard the news. Grasping each other’s arms, waiting to be told everything would be okay. Then hearing that it wouldn’t be, or that the doctors weren’t sure. Maybe visiting my hospital room, where I would lie motionless, the sound of my heart monitor beeping not nearly often enough.

      I wondered who would visit me, who would refuse to leave until I woke up. Perhaps even get into a nasty snarl with one of the doctors who told them to leave because visiting hours were over.

      I pictured Meredith having to explain to my father what had happened while he was out of town. She’d admit how she’d treated me, and my father would tell her not to speak to him. Maybe he’d even kick her out of the house. Maybe he’d feel guilty for never being around.

      And what if I did die? Who would go to my funeral? Who would read the eulogies? What smiling picture of me would they place in the flower wreath next to my casket? Who would break down while deciding which outfit to wear to the service?

      I pictured Liam giving a eulogy for me, vowing never to love again.

      My engine roared, my tires eating up the pavement.

      I had been paying more attention to my thoughts than to the road, and when I shook my focus back to my driving, I found myself coming too fast into a curve. My foot jerked from the accelerator to the brake in an instinct to survive. Suddenly I wished I could take back the thoughts I’d just had. They were stupid. I was being reckless. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to drive back to school and pretend I’d never left at all.

      The side of the road veered down an embankment, where the only things that could stop me were the trees.

      In seconds, the car tires bounced over the edge of the road into the grass and rocks. My foot, still pressed hard on the brake, shook like a muscle rarely used. I didn’t know if I was screaming. All I knew was that my side of the car was heading toward a huge tree.

      Oh, my God, I’m going to die. Icy fingers clutched my heart.

      What happened after that I’d never be able to explain. I don’t know if it was a dream, I don’t know if it was real, I don’t know if it was my Oz. But it wasn’t what I would have expected.

      There were no three ghosts, no big silver screen with the movie of my life playing, no well-intentioned angel looking to earn his wings. Just a jury of people I’d wronged, deciding whether or not I got to live.

      Everything was done. I couldn’t take it back, couldn’t change it. It was way too late to say the two words that could have saved me if I’d just meant them sooner.

      I’m sorry.

      I’m sorry.

      I’m sorry …

      But we’ll get to that. First I have to tell you why I got in the car to begin with.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Nothing interesting ever happens or begins on a Thursday.

      Friday and Saturday are the weekend. Sunday is the end of the weekend, the last day of rest. Monday is the beginning of another week. Tuesday’s a cool name. Wednesday is “hump day,” an expression I loathe.

      But Thursday is nothing. Everything that’s going to happen during the week is over, and the weekend is coming but it’s not there yet. Even that old rhyme about the day you were born just says Thursday’s child has far to go.

      What does that even mean?

      When I woke up that day, I had no idea the day that lay before me was the beginning of the end. There was no strange weather event, the neighborhood dogs weren’t howling, no meteors struck Earth.

      Maybe if I could have read the shreds of cereal at the bottom of my bowl like tea leaves, I would have gone back to bed. Or just transferred to the local public school right then. Instead, I ate the stupid cereal, drank the crappy coffee my stepmother made (fair trade=bitter and thin in my book) and idly checked to make sure my phone was charged.

      Same as every day.

      Then, just like every day, I left the bowl by the sink and glanced at the clock on the stove. It read 7:05 a.m. I still had ten minutes before I had to leave for school. Just enough time to double-check my makeup and outfit. I’d started toward the stairs to my room when I heard my stepmother’s high heels clopping into the kitchen.

      “Hey, Bridget?”

      I sighed audibly.

      “What?” I had like a million things I’d rather do with my ten minutes than stand here waiting for her to stumble her way through yet another awkward conversation.

      “Well …” She came into