Six Months Later, Page 8

  I thought it would make Mom crazy. Instead, she was so happy she cried. She made Maggie and me matching scrapbooks. Truthfully, I flipped through mine only once, but it was sweet. And I did remember everything about that weekend.

  “Terrific. I want you to go back and revisit that book. And I want you to find a few photographs that were taken more recently. Not portraits in a studio. Snapshots. I don’t want you to just focus on what’s happening in the picture. I want you to look at the background. Have you ever heard the saying ‘The devil’s in the details’?”

  “Sure.”

  “I believe there’s something to that. Not that there’s evil in the details, but that they can sometimes be much more important pieces to the puzzle than we initially think. Consider the details in both photos. Write down some observations and see where that gets you.”

  ***

  I’ll tell you where it’s getting me. Absofreakinglutely nowhere. Unless depressed is a destination. I might as well be watching a documentary of butterflies dying in the rain.

  I flip back to the cover of the art camp scrapbook, the one my mom painstakingly put together. A close-up of Maggie and me. My dark hair curling next to Maggie’s fine, strawberry blond waves. Her eyes are brown and mine are pale, but our smiles are the same in this shot: wide and genuine.

  The rest of the book is pretty standard scrapbook fodder. Me throwing clay. Maggie streaking dark ink across thick paper. Both of us offering gooey marshmallow smiles near a campfire.

  I linger on that cover picture though, because I remember posing for this like it was yesterday. Every detail speaks to me. Maggie’s cheeks and nose are pink, sunburned from swimming earlier that day. I can see turquoise paint spatters on my shirt and the orange-brown remnants of clay beneath my fingernails. And we’re both wearing one of those ugly, hammered bracelets Maggie made.

  Those things made their way straight to the metal box under the oak tree at the edge of Maggie’s property. We call it our Not Treasure Box because there’s no real reason to keep anything in it. It’s an oddball collection of our history. Buttons from our matching coats in the third grade. A photograph of Maggie kissing Daniel Marcum in the school play. Those hideous bracelets are in there too.

  This photograph says a thousand things to me, but not one of them help a damn bit.

  I push the scrapbook away and turn back to the recent photographs I found, the ones that might as well be pictures of another Chloe, one from a different dimension. I’m not too sure I want to go through these again. They creeped me out enough the first time.

  I need to get over it. I need to suck it up, put on my big girl panties—whatever it takes.

  One deep breath later, I spread them out on the table. Picnics and parties and a steak dinner that I’m pretty sure commemorates my seventeenth birthday. I remember none of it. I don’t remember having fried chicken and pink lemonade at a park. I don’t remember watching fireworks with half of the varsity lacrosse team, Blake’s arm curved around my waist like we were glued that way. I don’t remember playing softball ever, and certainly not with this group of girls, girls who I would never—wait a minute—

  Is that Julien?

  My finger traces over her image. Shiny blond hair, almond-shaped eyes in a plain but pretty face.

  I still can’t imagine her gone. She was probably going to be principal someday. Hell, maybe the mayor. Even when we were little girls on the playground monkey bars, she used to talk about buying a house on Belmont, living right across the street from her mom and dad. She knew her future, and her future was Ridgeview.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms, but no matter how hard I stare, the picture doesn’t reveal any more secrets. I shift it away, refocusing on the one of Blake and me. I know I should focus on the details, but the basics are eerie enough. The way our heads are mashed together, his golden hair starkly pale against mine. I stare hard at the picture, trying to imagine feeling comfortable like this. Trying to imagine a world where Blake’s arm around me would be easy and normal.

  “You’re like a couple from a movie,” Mom says, announcing her entry into the kitchen. “Almost too beautiful to look at.”

  “You’re delusional,” I tell her, but really she’s not. Not about Blake, at any rate. He does belong on a movie set. Blond hair, nice biceps, killer smile. And I’m…well, I’m me. I’ve got a great smile, but I’m not the kind of girl who makes homecoming queen. And I’m not the kind of girl who dates Blake.

  “I just call it like I see it,” Mom says, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  I watch the steam rise from her cup and frown. I’d managed about a third of my mocha from Rowdy’s this morning, but it still tasted terrible to me.

  “Mom?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you ever think it was weird that I had so many new friends?”

  When she turns to look at me, I see the wariness in her eyes, like maybe she thinks this is the start of an I’m-too-depressed-and-damaged-for-friends speech.

  “What do you mean?”

  I bite my lip, thinking. “I mean, I’m practically a different person. The grades, the friends—everything, really. I just wondered if it surprised you.”

  “Of course not.” She leans forward, putting her hand on mine. “Chloe, you have such a good head on your shoulders. Deep down, I always knew you’d do something with it. Once you joined the study group, you were surrounded by successful kids. It makes sense that you’d want to join in with that crowd.”

  “When have I ever been a crowd joiner? Don’t you remember the fourth grade, when I refused to wear pink because all the girls in school said it was the thing to do?”

  “But you’re not in the fourth grade anymore, are you? And you’re with Blake now. I guess I figured…”

  She trails off with a shrug, and I feel a rush of irritation flood me. “You figured what? That I did this to become someone worthy of Blake?”

  The shock registers on her face like a slap. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Isn’t it? I know this is going to come as a surprise, Mom, but I didn’t do any of this so I could be with Blake or so I could sit at the cool kids table in the cafeteria.”

  “Okay, fine. Then why did you do it, Chloe?”

  That stops me cold because I don’t have an answer. I was happy on the fringe. I wasn’t some school pariah with no social life and no prospects for the big dances. But I wasn’t popular either. And I was always fine with that.

  I think of Maggie’s face in the hallway, her eyes so flinty.

  God, what did I do? Is she right? Am I suddenly desperate to be cool? Was my entire summer some sort of late-onset in-crowd fever?

  Mom rinses her coffee down the sink and shakes her head. “Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s been a surprise, Chloe. The tutoring, the grades, all of it. But no one’s happier about your recent choices than I am.”

  I laugh weakly. “Yeah, I’m finally becoming the daughter you’ve always hoped for.”

  “You’re finally living up to your potential,” she corrects without flinching. She checks the clock on the microwave and sighs. “I’d better go. I’m meeting your dad at the garden center.”

  I nod because God knows this is going nowhere. Mom stops on her way out, glancing at the picture on top of the stack.

  Stacey Moss, Abbey Binns, Kayla Parkerson, me…and Julien Miller.

  “You must miss her,” Mom says.

  I startle a little, surprised she hadn’t already left.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Julien. You two were pretty close before she left. I was really worried about you when she moved. You were…torn up about it.”

  I shrug and hide my hands under the table. I don’t want her to see me shaking.

  Mom seems a little lost in her own memories. “You never told me what you were working on that night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The night she left. I tried not to pry. I know Julien had some…issues. You didn’
t ever want to talk about it. But I was scared that night.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yes, Chloe, scared. You locked yourself in your room and worked on your computer all night long.”

  My blood runs cold in my veins. This was all news to me. I clear my throat to make sure my voice doesn’t shake like my hands.

  “I just needed to work through some things,” I say. “I’m better now.”

  She kisses my forehead and leaves, happy to believe me. Happy to accept anything that will convince her I am still the new, perfect girl wants me to be.

  Chapter Ten

  I hate the bench outside the principal’s office. Nothing good ever comes from sitting here. The first time I perched my fanny on this slab of wood, I was waiting for my mom to pick me up when my granddad died. The second time was when Maggie and I got nailed at Starbucks during school hours and had to wait for detention slips. Today, I’m waiting so I can lie to the secretary.

  Mrs. Love is a thin blond who was the prom queen, the head cheerleader, and the girl everyone thought would end up in Hollywood twenty years ago. Now, she’s the school secretary. I’m never quite sure whether or not I should feel sorry for her for that.

  “Chloe? Chloe Spinnaker?” she calls, as if the office is swarming with Chloes and she has to be sure she has the right one.

  I approach the tall desk, tipping my head. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Love, but I had something special I thought you might be able to help with.”

  “Well, things are pretty busy. Thanksgiving’s coming.”

  Mrs. Love has a serious commitment to things like pasting paper turkeys and pilgrim hats and other seasonal stuff around the school. “I know,” I say, feigning empathy. “But it’s my senior year and you know my summer study group?”

  She brightens at that. “Of course I do. I was the one who framed that newspaper article about your scores. Have you seen it?”

  I wince, feeling kind of guilty. “I’m sorry, I haven’t.”

  “Well, it’s right in the trophy case,” she says, looking a little put off. Does she really think that anyone who isn’t wearing a letterman’s jacket ever checks the trophy case? I’ve never looked at it, unless you count using the reflection from the glass to check my teeth after lunch.

  I smile anyway. “That’s sweet of you. I’ll check it out.”

  “So what can I help you with?”

  “I’d like to send the SAT group a Christmas card,” I tell her. “Something handmade and special. But I want to make sure I don’t leave anyone out or spell anyone’s name wrong.”

  “Okay,” she says, blinking up at me with vacant eyes.

  “Well, I was hoping you might have a list here at the office.”

  Mrs. Love’s mouth forms a perfect pink o and then she looks around. “Now, Chloe, you really should have this information from last year, shouldn’t you?”

  “I know I should. I just went a little crazy deleting emails, and I thought I had a copy, and I don’t.”

  God, I’m laying it on thick. Apparently, she’s buying it though, because she gives me a tight smile and hits a few keys on her computer. Next thing I know, two sheets of paper churn out of the printer. “I think it’s good to stay connected with your school friends. You’ll never have this time again, so cherish it.”

  “I promise I will,” I say, biting back the urge to tell her that it might be okay for her to stop cherishing.

  “Well, good luck with it,” she says.

  I thank her with the first genuine smile I’ve worn today. I don’t even give the paper a glance until I’m out of the office and away from the windows where she might see me.

  The hallway clock tells me I have twelve minutes of my lunch period left, so I scan the list of names quickly. There’s more than a dozen. Maybe eighteen. I remember seeing some of them when I signed up for the group last spring. Blake, of course. Back then, he was still like a Greek god to me. Seeing his name near mine on a list was enough to make my palms sweaty.

  Another name jumps out at me, though I already knew I’d see it here. Julien Miller. I find Adam’s name too, to my surprise.

  I fold the papers and tuck them into my purse and head inside. I’ve got government next, which is almost as interesting as watching paint dry. I thought I was supposed to be a super study girl now, but Mr. Morris still talks like a grown-up on the Charlie Brown specials. Everything is “mwah-mwah-mwah” and I just can’t focus.

  Especially when I start thinking about the names on that list.

  Adam doesn’t need a study group. Blake either.

  For that matter, neither did Julien, but I could kind of buy it with her. She’s a Miller for God’s sake. If there’s a committee in Ridgeview, a Miller is on it. Going to pointless meetings is in their DNA. And Blake’s always been one to go the extra mile.

  But Adam? No way. His name was an inside joke on every dean’s list for the past three years. You can see the slow simmer of resentment in the teachers’ eyes when they call on him, wishing just once he’d give the wrong answer. But he never does. He never misses a beat and he never mouths off. Just delivers his response in that low, I-couldn’t-give-two-shits voice of his.

  I bite my lip, thinking about the way his dark hair tends to slide into his blue eyes. God, I have it so bad for this guy. I seriously have to get my crap together.

  The final bell rings. I dodge at least six people that want to discuss the weather, my hair, the truth about fair trade coffee—anything. I’ve been popular for like ten minutes, and I think I’m starting to hate it.

  I’m trying to get to the bathroom when Blake rounds the corner, sporting a wide grin as he reaches for me. “There you are, babe. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  Yeah, probably because I am avoiding him.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “No big deal,” he says, taking my books and then pulling me in.

  There’s no getting out of this kiss. I’ve avoided too many and stiff-lipped him through at least as many more.

  I tip up my head, letting him catch my lips. It’s soft and warm and so damn weird. I feel my shoulders tense, my hands like dead weights at the end of my arms.

  God, this is ridiculous! This is Blake. I would have given a kidney to kiss him in any one of the last several years. Memory loss or not, this shouldn’t be a chore.

  Blake pulls back, and my tension is reflected in his eyes. “What’s going on, Chloe? You seem…”

  “Distracted?” I guess, trying for a lopsided grin.

  He returns the smile, but he still looks wary, like he doesn’t quite believe that’s it.

  “I know.” I sigh. “I started in on college applications, and it’s just so much work.”

  His hand comes down on my shoulder, giving me a little squeeze. “I thought we already talked about this. Emory, Brown, Notre Dame, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just focus on your top three. Your scores alone should be enough to get you into most of the others,” he says, giving my shoulder another squeeze. “I don’t think Vassar’s going to happen, babe. You just don’t have the history of extracurricular work they look for.”

  I flinch. I’m not crazy about the squeezing or the babes or the fact that he’s delving out advice about my college prospects. Like this is all old news and we’ve decided together what’s best for me.

  “Did you need any help with the essays?” he asks. “You know I’d be happy to look at them.”

  My eye twitches. It really shouldn’t. This is a perfectly altruistic offer. Blake is a good student and an obviously sweet boyfriend, and I really need to back off the bitch factor by about a thousand percent.

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” I say, just barely keeping the bite out of my tone.

  “So dinner tonight?”

  “I can’t. Gotta look back over my Notre Dame stuff.”

  I even manage a regretful little sigh. Lies are getting easier than the truth.

&nbs
p; One of his hands kneads at my waist. “Well, I’m craving some quality time, so try to fit me in soon.”

  He reels me in, leaning down to kiss me again. It makes my stomach hurt to feel his lips against mine, but I force myself through it, hands fisted at my sides and spine like a steel rod. The kiss is just one more lie to add to my stack.

  If there is a hell, I am going there. Do Not Pass go; do not collect two-hundred dollars.

  Blake pulls back with a little humming sound. “Tomorrow. Breakfast. I’ll pick you up, and this time, I want to go somewhere and eat at a table. Thirty whole minutes with my girlfriend. Not too much to ask, is it?”

  He cocks his head, giving me a million-dollar smile. I remind myself he is the guy I’ve always wanted. And if I don’t resolve my crazy memory stuff, I’m going to push him away right about the time I realize how and why we ended up together.

  I squeeze his hand. “No, it’s not. Breakfast sounds perfect.”

  “Seven thirty.”

  “I’ll be ready. Promise.”

  He nods and steps away, saluting me before he heads past me and out the doors. I see Adam leaning against the lockers, watching him go. Watching maybe everything that just happened.

  I try to leave, but I feel frozen to the floor. Adam’s eyes find mine across the hall, and there’s a name for the look he’s wearing. I’d call it jealous as hell.

  ***

  It wasn’t easy finding Adam Reed’s address. I don’t know what I expected, but whatever the image I dreamed up in my head was, it wasn’t this. I once told Mags that Adam was probably a spoiled little rich boy, playing the bad kid to get daddy’s attention. Looking at the sad, cramped town house in front of me makes me feel cruel and stupid for saying that.

  This isn’t one of those swanky apartments you see on CW dramas—slick, modern lofts with community pools and weekly scandals. We don’t have those kinds of complexes in Ridgeview. We hardly have apartments at all, and the ones we do have are the kind nobody wants to think about.

  This row of town houses sits behind the abandoned strip mall two blocks from Maggie’s house. There are no welcome mats or fitness centers. Or grass, for that matter. The entire place looks tired, from the peeling paint on the identical front doors to the rusting Buick in the corner of the parking lot.