Free The Princesses of Iowa by M. Molly Backes

could get a jump start on trying to write something without anyone watching, where I could freak out in peace. Field after field flashed past me, yellow soybeans and tawny corn, shimmering poplars, goldenrod and bittersweet, red vines twisting around farmers’ fences. In the late afternoon light, everything looked golden, and I could almost forget that Lacey was distant, Nikki was wasting away, and Jake suddenly felt the need to be Lacey’s knight in shining armor.
    I parked at the trailhead that led to my favorite spot in the world: a hidden spring, deep in the woods and far away from everything. A circle of boulders marked the place where the springs bubbled up, feeding into a small pool that spilled in a tiny, perfect waterfall to the stream below. Further on, the stream curved around a bend, wound its way under a wooden bridge, and eventually met up with a large lake. As far as I knew, the only other person who knew about the spring was my father, who had introduced me to this spot when I was still a little kid, back when he spent more time at home than on the road. Though the lake, with its boat launches and beaches, was a favorite hangout for fishermen and drunken teenagers alike, I had never seen anyone else here at this spring in the woods, and I considered it to be my secret.
    I grabbed a notebook and pen from my bag. If nothing else, I could always follow Mr. Tremont’s instructions:
Keep your pen moving.
As I hiked up the steep path toward the spring, I wondered if I could capture it again, that feeling of freedom and release as my pen skipped across the page like stones over water. The words had come from nowhere, and afterward I’d felt lighter, almost giddy.
    The woods were full of dappled sunlight and flashing birdsong. As I walked, I tried not to think about the tangle of my friends and friendships. I did not want to think about Lacey, or Nikki, or Jake. I didn’t want to think about my mother, or my sister, or the fact that I’d barely seen my father since I’d gotten home. Instead, I turned my mind to creative writing class, to Mr. Tremont’s casual posture against the board as he explained freewriting.
    It took me longer than usual to find the little path to the springs, but eventually I found my way. I took a deep breath for the first time in forever and just listened. This. This was what I’d missed in Paris. Green all around me; no cars, no people. Just birds and water and quiet.
    I climbed up on a sun-warmed boulder and propped the notebook on my knee, remembering Mr. Tremont’s instructions. “Start with
I see,
” he’d said. I stared at the blank page, feeling nervous and more than a little stupid.
I see
. . . I paused, looked up and around me. What did I see? Trees. Um . . . the sky.
I see the sky. I see a pool and bushes.
    Ugh. I drove my pen through the words. This was stupid. In class, it seemed like someone took over my hand, like the words weren’t coming from me so much as through me. I wanted to write something true again, even if it was just describing the woods around me.
    Mr. Tremont said it should be difficult.
If it’s easy, you’re not working hard enough.
I looked down at my legs, my black boots. I wasn’t the kind of person who gave up so quickly. At least, I didn’t want to be.
    I see . . .
    I see red sumac, a few leaves beginning to turn yellow. Clear water. A squirrel hopping along a fallen branch, pausing to look at me looking at it. I see . . . my house, the front door painted crimson. I see . . . a girl alone in a strange city, far away from her friends, her boyfriend, the roads and trees she knows. She is lying in her narrow bed, listening to angry voices arguing in the next room. She tries to pretend she’s not here. She tries to pretend there was never any reason for her to be here. That when Lacey said,
“Paige, this is not a choice, you have to come to this party,”
she’d said,
“Actually, it is, and I choose to study for finals and work on my