sister who'd been so loving yet elusive, especially during those last few months.
I prop my pillows against my headboard, until it's comfortable enough to lean against. Then I reach for Zoë's
diary and flip through the pages, picking up where I left off.
June 27
At first I thought I'd take those seeds and plant them right underneath my window. You know, as an act of
charity for some future generation, some yet-to-be-born teenage girl who won't have to sneak down the hall, looking
for escape, like me. But now that three days have passed and Marc hasn't even bothered to call, I think I'll probably
just dump them in the trash, and try to forget the whole sick thing ever happened.
I mean, why hasn't he called??
Maybe he really is crazy.
Maybe I should just hang up on him when (if) he does.
June 28
Hung by the pool with Paula all day, just working on my tan. All she could talk about was her crush on Keith,
determined to get to the bottom of who he looks like more—Russell Crowe or Ben McKenzie ? Boring! I just pretended
to be asleep.
I know I'm being a bad friend, but what can I say? Marc still hasn't called, and because of that I've decided to
take a vow of mental celibacy. That's right No more thinking about, dreaming about, or even talking about guys.
Any guys.
Because they're all the same.
They all suck.
June 30
Still celibate.
Still hate guys (with the exception of Dad—well, most of the time).
Extremely tan though.
July 2
Omigod. Where to begin? OK, started my job at the head shrinker today—way way better than I thought, though
it's not like 111 be confessing that anytime soon. As far as my parents are concerned he's a fair yet firm employer, who
has exceedingly high expectations that I will struggle to meet, and that's the story I'm sticking to.
When the truth is he spends most of the day behind a closed door, listening to all those messed-up whiners
drone on and on about their lonely, miserable, fucked-up lives.
Which means my day is filled with long, leisurely fifty-minute breaks where I can nap, talk on my cell, surf the
Net, whatever, just as long as the filing gets done and the phone answered within the first three rings. Not bad for a
summer job.
But today I mostly napped. Because I was sooooo tired from last night. And here's why—
/ was in my room, watching TV with the volume down low, when I heard someone calling my name. Not like
yelling it out or anything, more like a loud—okay, really loud—whisper. So I immediately jumped up, ran to the mirror,
combed my fingers through my hair, dabbed on some lip gloss, and sprayed some perfume, the whole time my heart
beating so fast I thought it would break through my chest.
And then right as I started to run to my window, I stopped and thought—What the hell? He doesn't call for over a
week, and now he shows up at one in the morning expecting me to do the whole Rapunzel thing again? Well, screw
him.
So I plopped right back down on my bed and lifted the remote, ready to turn up the volume and tune him out.
But then he called my name again and I started to worry that he was gonna wake the whole house, so I opened my
window and faced him.
"Shhh!" I said, pressing my finger against my lips and shaking my head so he'd know that I meant it.
But he just raised his arm, the one holding the bouquet of flowers.
So I slipped down the stairs and out the front door, running all the way across the lawn to meet him.
"Here," he said, handing me the flowers he probably clipped from my next-door neighbors yard. And when I
brought them to my nose their smell was so sweet, it was hard to stay mad.
'What's going on?" he said, all casual, like everything was totally normal and not at all weird.
I just looked at him, as gorgeous and sexy as ever, but eemingly unaware of the fact that it was the middle of
the night! "Um, what's going on?" I said. 'Well let's see. It's after midnight, I haven't heard from you all week, and now
you decide to just drop by and yell out my name 'til you wake the whole house." I shook my head and looked at him,
trying my best to appear really mad.
But he just shrugged. 7 don't have your number," he said.
So I go, "OK, well, you could've asked somebody for my number, you know, like Paula, or someone?"
But he just goes, "I don't have Paula's number either/' Then, "Listen, I was up at the lake, at my grandmother's
house, and I didn't get back until late."
I just looked at him. He didn't seem like the kind of guy to hang with his grandma. So I go, "Please, your
grandmother's house?" Then I shook my head, rolling my eyes for emphasis. And then I realized that I really didn't
have a good reason not to believe that, other than the fact that it just seemed like a lie. "OK so why are you here
now?" I asked, holding the flowers tightly to my chest, my heart pounding like crazy.
"Because I wanted to do this,"he whispered.
Then he leaned in and kissed me.
And when he pulled away he reached into his pocket and grabbed a pen. Then he pushed up his sleeve and
held out his arm. "Here," he said. "Write down your number so I can call you. And write big so I can see it in the dark."
And when I was done, he flipped open his phone and walked away. And by the time I made it back to my room,
mine was ringing. And we talked for so long, I had to plug it into my charger. And he told me so many things, and
answered so many questions, I don't think I've ever known anyone as well as this. Seriously, he even told me about
how...
Crap. I drop the diary and listen to the doorbell ring. One time, quickly followed by two. Gotta be Parker. And I hate to
admit this, but I wish he'd just go away so I can finish reading about Zoë and Marc and how it all began. It's like, in the
beginning they were so much in love, but then later, they were a lot less so. And I need to know what happened in
that space between, learn exactly what it was that made everything change.
But then the bell rings again, and I push the diary back under my mattress, gazing at the tree outside, and
wondering if I should try to rappel my way down and run across the lawn just like Zoë would've done. I mean, it
definitely seems a lot more romantic than making my way downstairs, opening the front door, and letting him in the
usual way.
But then again, I'm not Zoë.
Which means I don't even stop by the mirror to check my reflection before I go downstairs to greet him.
Sixteen
I've never cooked dinner for anyone before, much less a guy. Though to be honest, I guess I still haven't. I mean, my
mom's the one who actually made the lasagna. All I did was reheat it.
"This is excellent," Parker says, taking another bite.
"Glad you like it." I nod, hating the way I sound so stiff and formal, and how it's practically impossible for me to
ever relax and be normal around him.
"I had no idea you were such a good cook." He smiles. "Which makes me wonder what other talents you're
hiding."
I reach for my glass and sip my water, even though it's really more about nerves than thirst. "Well actually, I
didn't really make it. You know, the lasagna," I say, mentally rolling my eyes at my lame-brain self, wondering what the
heck he's even doing here. I mean, is he desperate? Is this some kind of bet?
"Well, you've got the whole reheating
gig down, and that's gotta count for something, right?" He smiles.
We mostly talk about school, classes, teachers, people we know. And every time there's a break, every time it
gets silent, the scraping of his fork sounds so incredibly loud that I say just about anything to fill up the gap.
He helps me clear the table, then I lead him to the den. But just as I make a beeline for the couch he touches
my arm and goes, "Where's your room?"
And I go, "Oh, urn, it's upstairs." Then I point in that direction, like he doesn't know where up is. Oh God.
"Can I see it?"
I glance at the clock, then back at him, knowing my parents won't return for at least another hour. Which
technically should make me want to say yes, even though I'm a lot closer to no.
"Come on. I just wanna see what it's like," he says, smiling in a way that's trying a little too hard to seem friendly
and harmless, and like he has no ulterior motives.
If i was Zoë, I would've served the entire meal on my bed, sitting Indian style on my duvet, with plates and
dishes spread all around, just lighting candles, cranking a CD, and not giving a shit if anything spilled. But even
though I'm nothing like her, that doesn't mean I have to act like me. So I grab his hand and take a deep breath,
promising myself it will all be okay.
He stands in the doorway, scoping it out. "Yup," he says, making his way across the room until he's standing before
my bookshelf.
"Yup, what?" I ask, leaning against the wall and trying to see my room for the very first time, to see it like he
sees it.
His eyes scan the titles of all of my books, as his fingers brush lightly over my Softball trophies, second and
third place, from fourth and fifth grade. "Just like I thought," he says, turning to smile.
I just stand there, wondering if I should feel more disappointed that I'm apparently so predictable and easy to
read.
"Lots of books, a few CDs, but thank God no puppy posters or pictures of Aaron Carter." He laughs.
"Well, I got rid of all that on my fifteenth birthday. Dumped it right in the trash. I'm into older men now. You know,
octogenarians. Know where I can find a good Harrison Ford centerfold?" I ask, going over to lean on the edge of my
desk and smiling nervously.
He checks out my TV, my iPod dock, and my bulletin board full of cards and letters and photos, including the
one of me, Jenay, and Abby, making faces and hamming it up for the camera, and the one right next to it of Zoë and
me sitting at the kitchen table, heads close together, crossing our eyes and sticking our tongues out at my dad, who
was taking the picture. Then he wanders over to my bed, and sits on the edge. "When're your parents coming
back?" he asks, trying to sound casual, like he's only mildly interested in the answer.
"An hour, two at the most," I say, gazing down at my feet and my messed-up pedicure, and then curling my toes
under so he won't see.
"Would they freak if they found me here?"
I shrug. I mean, I really don't know the answer to that since it's not like I've ever had the opportunity to risk that
kind of trouble before.
"No worries," Parker says. "If they come home, I'll just jump off your balcony." He nods toward my open french
doors. "Or scale down that tree." He smiles.
Then he pats the mattress like a silent invitation, and I take a deep breath and move toward him.
We're kissing. We're lying on my bed and kissing. And I can taste the lasagna lingering on his tongue, and
smell the garlic mixed in with his breath. And even though it's not near as bad as it sounds, it's not what you'd call
"amazing" either.
Still, I'm going through the motions, moving my lips against his and running my hands through his hair, even
though all the while I can't help wishing it was just a little bit better, just a smidge more romantic than it actually is.
But maybe it will never be like that for me. Maybe I'm not the kind of girl who inspires guys to spontaneous
midnight visits and secret-message gift giving. Maybe I'm just like all the other girls who pretend they're content with
this, when really they're longing for something more.
So far Parker hasn't tried to do anything more than just kiss, which mostly makes me glad. And the only reason
I say mostly is because I'm hoping he's just trying to be cautious and respectful, and not because he's turned off by
my dowdy sweatpants and tee.
I know I should've brushed my hair. Or at the very least, smeared on some lip gloss. I mean, we've been dating
for less than a month, and I've already let myself go.
I move in closer, kissing him harder, and shifting my body so I'm lying on top of his. Then I squeeze my eyes
shut and dream of another place, one where he's not really him, and I'm no longer me.
I run my fingertips down the side of his face, imagining his long dark lashes resting against his high, chiseled
cheekbones. And when I reach up to brush my hair out of the way, I pretend that it's smooth, wavy, and rich, not limp,
lank, and dull.
"Echo," he says, rolling me off 'til we're facing each other, lying again on our sides.
"Hmmm," I mumble, my eyes still closed, feeling happy and dreamy and free.
"Open your eyes," he whispers.
So I do. Slowly lifting my lids, until I'm startled by the sight of his golden blond hair and blue eyes, so different
from the familiar, dark stranger I held in my mind.
"Should I go?" he asks, gazing at me, before leaning in to kiss the side of my cheek.
I squint at him, wondering why he's asking.
"Your parents. They'll be back soon, and I don't want you to get in trouble. I was just joking about scaling down
your tree, you know that, right?"
But of course you were, I think, feeling disappointed that we're back to being us, so different from who I really
want to be. And just as I roll over, and start to get up, Zoë's diary slips from its hiding space, and lands hard at my
feet.
"What's that?" he says, reaching down to retrieve it.
But luckily I'm closer, which makes me quicker as well. So I swoop it up and hold it tight to my chest, then I look
at him and say, "I think you should leave."
Seventeen
All day at school I went through the motions—nodding, smiling, taking notes, acing pop quizzes, waving to friends,
eating lunch, acting cute with Parker by sharing my brownie and laughing at all of his jokes. Yet the whole entire time,
my eyes were searching for Marc. And I found myself lingering in the hall where he smokes, leaning against the wall
where he eats, and stopping to tie my shoe in the area just outside the girl's bathroom where I ran into him that very
first day.
And it's not like I was planning to actually talk to him or anything. I mean, I didn't even know what to say. It's
more like I just wanted to see him, be near him, and share the same space with this person who I know so much
about, but in such a strange, remote way.
And all the while, for the whole entire day, I was just waiting for the bell to ring, knowing that's when I could
finally go home, lie on my bed, pick up Zoë's diary, and take up from where I left off.
Even last night after walking Parker to the door, I had every intention of bolting back up to my room and reading
the diary. But then my parents drove up, and my dad, his face all flushed and happy from an evening of intellectual
conversation and one too many glasses of wine, insisted we hang out in the den, watch a little TV, a
nd get
reacquainted during the three-minute commercial breaks.
And by the time I finally snuck out of there, it was late, I was tired, so I decided to call it a night.
"Are you guys going?" Jenay asks, shifting her books and stopping, having just reached the corner where we say
good-bye and head our separate ways. "You know, to Teresa's party?" she adds, removing a piece of windblown
blond hair from her lip gloss and tucking it back behind her ear.
I just shrug and look at Abby. I mean, it's not like Teresa actually invited me or anything. But then I guess it's
not really that kind of a party. It's more the haphazard, last-minute kind. The kind that gets planned the moment
someone's parents unexpectedly head out of town.
"I heard it's going to be couples only. So count me out," Abby says, staring off toward our street.
"Are you serious? Just couples? That's so elitist," i say, shaking my head and laughing, trying hard to appear
like my normal, slightly sarcastic self, so my friends won't see just how much I'm changing, and how I no longer care
about any of this, especially now that I prefer Zoë's world to my own.
"I think that's only to keep the head count in check, so it doesn't get all crazy and out of control. So no excuses,
Ab. I mean, it's not like there's gonna be a velvet rope and a bouncer, so it's not like you'll get turned away at the
door. At least think about it before you say no," Jenay says, nodding encouragingly. "Please? Besides, if you want a
date, I have the perfect guy all lined up and ready to go. All you have to do is say the word."
"Forget it," Abby says, blushing furiously but standing her ground. "I don't accept donations, hand-me-downs,
charity dates, or mercy hookups."
"But you haven't even met him! At least think it over, before you go all negative on me," Jenay says, rolling her
eyes but still laughing. "Listen, this guy is perfect for you, and this isn't some crazy, random pairing because I've
actually been thinking a lot about this. He's super nice, really funny, and he's incredibly smart too. And I mean like,
majorly smart. He's in my history class and he's never once stumbled when he gets called on. Seriously, even when
he's messing around, he still knows all the answers."