Six Months Later

  “So how are those applications coming?” he asks me.

  “I didn’t do too much. I was pretty wiped last night after dinner,” I say.

  “Slacker,” he teases. “Two of mine are already done.”

  “Yeah? Which ones?”

  “Brown and Notre Dame,” he says.

  “Huh, those are two of my schools,” I say, wiping a little condensation off my water glass.

  Blake laughs. “Uh, yeah. That was the point, remember? Getting into the same school.”

  No, I don’t remember. I have no idea which colleges he’s applying to, and I sure the hell don’t remember planning out the next four years of my life based on a guy I’ve been dating for what? Three months?

  Okay, I’m freaking out. I don’t want to watch my carbs or go to Notre Dame. I don’t want to be here at all.

  Our waitress sets down our plates, and I stare at the scrambled eggs and wheat toast I never would have ordered. I have a sweet tooth in the morning. Eggs or meat this early just gives me a stomachache.

  Blake watches me closely as I pick up my fork, and it’s pretty clear he can tell something’s up. His look turns cool and detached, and I put my fork down, feeling like something in a petri dish. My stomach squirms, and I feel a cold sweat slick the palms of my hands.

  I sit back in the booth. “Blake, I’m sorry, but I’m really not feeling well.”

  “Maybe some hot tea will help. Chamomile is supposed to be soothing,” he says, looking around for our waitress.

  “No.” The word comes out a little louder and harsher than I intend. I feel bad enough to bite my lip and look down.

  “What is it, Chloe?” he asks, and there it is again. That almost clinical expression that makes me think he should be holding a clipboard. If this were biology class, I’d be the thing in the metal tray with the pins holding my skin apart. And I don’t want to be dissected.

  “It’s my stomach,” I say, and for once it’s the God’s honest truth. “I think I need to head home.”

  “Let me get the check. I’ll drive you.”

  “I appreciate that, but I don’t want to puke in your car.”

  For a minute I can tell he’s not a fan of that possibility either. But he covers it up fast with a worried frown. “Chloe, don’t be crazy. You can’t walk. It’s got to be two or three miles.”

  “If you cut through the neighborhood, it’s nothing. I used to walk here with Maggie for pancakes every Saturday morning.”

  Saying her name sends another kind of pain through my middle. I might cry if I stay here. I can feel it, and I don’t want to do it in front of him.

  I stand up, pushing my plate away. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “Well, feel better. Call me if you need me.”

  I barely manage to nod before I rush out the door and into the too-bright morning. The air is crisp and dry, clearing my head and unknotting my nerves.

  I should head straight home, but I don’t. I feel pulled back to Belmont Street. My feet know all the shortcuts by heart, so I follow without thinking. Across Mound Street, then through the newer development to Belmont. I follow the elm trees that line the street, proving just how long these houses have been here. Before I even understand why I’m here, I’m standing in front of Julien’s house.

  I try to remember Mrs. Miller in the flower bed or Julien on the porch swing, but I don’t even know if she liked to sit out here. She was practically a stranger to me before. Now, she’s like a ghost in my mind, a hazy silhouette of girl I never really knew. And never will, because she’s gone.

  I close my eyes and try to picture her. Maybe hear her voice. She is just a set of vague features. Blond hair, small nose. Shy smile. It could describe half the girls in my school.

  “You’re sad that she’s not coming back, aren’t you?” a young voice says.

  I look down at the girl in front of me, coat half-zipped and cheeks red from the cold. She can’t be more than eight or nine.

  “What?” I ask, though I’m sure I heard her right.

  “Julie,” she says. I’ve never heard anyone call her that, but I doubt she’s referring to someone else.

  I bite my lip, realizing this little girl probably saw her like an idol, the beautiful princess from the biggest castle on the street. I smile down at her. “I’ll bet she misses you.”

  “Yeah, maybe. She made snowmen with me sometimes. I don’t think you can do that in California,” the little girl reasons, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her coat. She looks up and must not like the pity she finds in my eyes. She crosses her arms and tries to look tough. “But it’s not like I stand here crying because she’s gone.”

  “I’m not crying.”

  The little girl blinks up at me. “Maybe not now, but you did then. I saw you crying here. The night she left.”

  Goose bumps rise on my arms, but I try to chuckle, as if I can laugh them away. “I’m sorry, you must be thinking of somebody else.”

  “Nuh-uh. You were wearing that same red coat. You stood out there for a long time. You know, my mom was going to call the cops.”

  “The cops? Why?”

  She shrugs and makes a circle on the sidewalk with her boot. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought you were going to do something bad.”

  “I wasn’t,” I say, but I don’t know that. I don’t even remember being here, so I sure the hell don’t know what I was doing. Or why I was crying.

  “Well, I gotta go. Don’t be sad about Julie. You can send her letters. She likes my glitter paper, so you can borrow some if you want.”

  I try to thank her, but there’s no voice left in me. Instead, I watch her leave, a ribbon of dark hair flapping above her pink coat as she runs. I wish I could run too, hard and fast until my lungs burned and my eyes watered.

  But I know it would never be fast enough. I’m sure my past would still catch up with me.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’ve covered all my bases. I called school and my parents and even changed back into pajamas. As if I’m actually going to sleep. I’m a million miles from sleep.

  I double check my phone for the thousandth time, making sure my text message to Maggie actually sent. I can’t imagine her ignoring a message like this, no matter how terrible things between us have gotten.

  I look at it again, wondering if maybe I wasn’t clear.

  I need your help, Mags. I’m really in trouble. Please, please call.

  No, I’d say that’s pretty freaking clear. But she hasn’t called, and I can’t sit here waiting around for her to do it. As much as I wish things were different, they obviously aren’t. I’m on my own.

  I sigh and toss my quilt back over my bed, shuffling into a pair of fuzzy bear-feet slippers before I settle in at my desk. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look like an advertisement for depression medication, all thin lips and dark circles under my eyes.

  Okay, enough. I don’t care what the hell happened in the last six months, I’m not going to turn into one of those girls who writes bad poetry about endless suffering in solitude.

  I stick my tongue out at myself in the mirror and cross my eyes. Better. I’ll pick goofy over whiny any day of the week. And twice on Sundays.

  I clear my throat and open my laptop because I’ve got the whole Internet at my fingertips. Surely some study group secrets are out there. There were eighteen of us, for God’s sake. Someone had to say something. I just need to find it.

  By lunchtime, the most exciting thing I’ve found is knitting instructions on Cally Baron’s blog. I’m not even kidding. I’ve practically surfed my way into a coma because this is the most pathetic stalking adventure ever.

  These people aren’t just clean. It’s like I type in their names and get routed directly to the definition of Goody Two-shoes. There isn’t a single current reference to any study group member that isn’t good-grades this and another-success that, and it’s all so boring I could just die.

  It’s also mostly useless for an
ything other than filling me in on a few gaps about the group itself. The Ridgeview SAT Study Group lasted the entire summer, and it was a crazy success. God knows exactly what worked, because from what I can tell from everyone’s posts and tweets, we basically just hung out a lot.

  Once a week, we’d get together officially to do outlines and flash cards and—meditation and tea? I guess it’s studying with a side of Zen or yoga or whatever. And somehow we’re now all born-again Einsteins? This is ridiculous.

  I mean, really. This does not make sense.

  Frowning, I flip screens back to the study group website, sure I’m missing something in the fine print. There’s a knock at my bedroom door, and my dad appears, looking a little worn out.

  “Hey. Aren’t you home early?” I say.

  “I’m coming down with something too,” he says, sniffling. “Figured I’d check in on you.”

  “Oh, I just had a stomach thing,” I say, which isn’t entirely untrue. “I feel better now, but I figured I was already in my jammies.”

  Dad’s face tightens briefly, but in the end he relaxes. I don’t tend to skip school, and he doesn’t tend to play the heavy. Or maybe he’s just tired. His nose and eyes are a little red.

  “Do you want me to heat up a can of soup for you?” I offer.

  He shakes his head and produces a tissue, blowing his nose trumpet-style. Then he nods at my computer. “Did they ever update that website?”

  I glance back at the study group with a frown. “Uh, I guess not.”

  My father crosses his arms, looking a little haughty. “I figured he’d be all over getting his corporate sponsor stuff front and center. I still can’t believe they’re planning on charging for that next year.”

  “Charging?”

  “For the study group,” he says, then he narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t tell me you changed your mind. You were halfway ready to write the school board when I told you about it.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I wave my hand over a stack of miscellaneous papers. “I’m all wrapped up in this history paper.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s some ginger ale in the fridge if you want it.”

  “Already had one. You look like you could use some sleep.”

  He grunts and turns around, closing my door behind him.

  And I stare at it, more confused than ever. The whole thing is turning into a Scooby-Doo episode. Who’d be all over this? And what corporate sponsor? Why in the world would I care about any of it?

  My phone buzzes, and I glance over, seeing an incoming call. My phone screen goes bright with light, and Maggie’s picture dances across the screen. Every cell in my body does a little jump for joy.

  I dive for my phone as if I’ll blow up if I miss the call. I just might.

  “Hello?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. And failing miserably.

  “Hey.”

  The sound of her voice alone is enough to make me feel better.

  “I’m so glad you called,” I say, closing my eyes as relief washes over me.

  “I’m n-not sure I should have. But you seem pretty freaked out. Though I’m not sure what you think I’m going to d-do about it.”

  “I am freaked out. And I’m not expecting—”

  I cut myself off, taking a deep breath and leaning back in my chair. The piece of paper I found in the book stares up at me.

  Maggie was right.

  “You were right,” I tell her.

  “It’s known to happen.”

  I grin at that, wishing things were still easy between us. Losing Mags feels like losing a sister. Or maybe a limb.

  “Maggie, I have to tell you something, and I know it’s going to sound crazy.”

  “I doubt you can t-top the last four months of crap you’ve spit out.”

  “The last four months feel like a blur,” I say softly. “A really bad blur that I can barely remember. Or remember at all. And I know this is going to sound completely paranoid, but I think there was something really weird about that SAT study group I was in.”

  “Gee, you think?” she asks, and there’s no missing the sarcasm in her tone. I can even picture her face, pale brows arched in mock surprise. “How many times did I t-tell you that, Chlo? A d-dozen? A hundred? And every t-time you threw your New Age crap back in my face, yammering on about your perfect boyfriend and eating healthy and your meditation horseshit—”

  “Meditation?”

  “Why d-did you call me, Chloe?” she asks, sounding irritable.

  “Because I want to know what happened to Julien Miller. And I think you might have an idea.”

  It’s a hunch but not a crazy one. That note in my book and the things she’s saying—it means something. I hear her sigh on the other end of the line, and I know she doesn’t want to tell me anything. Maggie doesn’t trust me anymore. It’s impossible but true.

  “Why don’t you j-just ask Blake?”

  “I don’t want to ask Blake. I’m asking you, Mags. Not him. You.”

  She waits awhile, and I can hear her adjust her phone. Switching ears or something. When she speaks again, her voice is very soft. “I don’t know if I want t-to talk to you about any of that. I don’t know if I want t-to talk to you at all.”

  “I know. And I know I probably deserve that,” I say, because the truth is, Maggie is damn near impossible to piss off. I don’t know what I’ve done, but the hatred she’s spewing at me has to be warranted in some way.

  “There’s no probably about it,” she says.

  “Will you think about it? About talking to me? I know there’s something going on with this group, but the details are all fuzzy now. I can’t explain it, but it’s almost like the whole summer was a bad dream.”

  She’s quiet again. I know I should stop myself from getting too hopeful, but I don’t. I go on, careful to keep my voice light. “I want to pick up the pieces, but I don’t know where to start.”

  “I already t-told you where to start,” she says. “Dr. Kirkpatrick.”

  The world screeches to a halt, my body’s rhythm’s hitting an awkward pause. I want to say something, but nothing comes out. Maggie doesn’t wait long thankfully.

  “Look, Chloe, I know she called it monitoring, b-but there was something way creepy about that. Is it normal to have a psychologist sit in on a study group? I mean, it wasn’t a study group for the mentally disturbed, so what g-gives?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, swallowing thickly, feeling the hot fingers of adrenaline needling up my spine. I think about Dr. Kirkpatrick’s comments about how hard I’d worked over the summer. She wasn’t blowing sunshine—she knew because she was there.

  “It’s a place t-to start,” she says with another sigh. “Look, I gotta go, but, Chloe…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get some help. Someone you trust.”

  “I trust you,” I half whisper.

  “I c-can’t get involved,” she says, but I can hear a little bit of regret in her words. Or maybe I’m making it up, but either way, I’ll take it. Anything is better than the silence she gave me before.

  “I’m glad you called, Maggie. It means a lot.”

  She doesn’t say anything else, but I still smile when she hangs up.

  ***

  Adam doesn’t look thrilled to see me at his house. Again. He wedges his shoulder in the door and glances at his shoes.

  “I’m sorry to come over, but I need to talk to you,” I say.

  “You couldn’t talk to me at school?”

  “I wasn’t in school today.”

  His eyes shoot up then, a concerned look softening his face. “I figured you just skipped our classes together. Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m—”

  How the heck am I going to finish that? No, Adam, I’m not sick. I’m dodging my boyfriend because he gives me the creeps. And also because I’m completely infatuated with you.

  Yeah, I don’t think so.

  “I just had a lot going on,” I say, “but
I really need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

  He gives me that hard look again, and suddenly it isn’t so unreadable. He’s embarrassed. He doesn’t want me to see his house.

  The stranger inside chokes out that same rattling cough, and I force myself not to flinch.

  “Look, I get it,” I say. “I can tell that you don’t really want me checking out your space, but I don’t care about that. Unless you’ve got a goat-sacrificing ritual going on in the living room or something, it’s cool, okay?”

  He doesn’t answer that, just cuts his eyes sideways. It’s hard not to stare at him, even now. It’s hard to imagine anyone this perfect-looking living in such an ugly space.

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I say, and then I drop my voice low. “Not with this.”

  It’s completely quiet for a second. Then he pushes open the door, and I force the surprise off my face as I follow him inside.

  It’s not dirty. I mean, it’s not lick-the-floors clean, but the tiny dinette right inside the door isn’t sporting piles of dirty plates, and the kitchen counters seem freshly wiped. It is tiny though. Just this little kitchen and dinette and a set of stairs across from a door I’m guessing leads to the bathroom. And another room I can’t see well in the back.

  A pale blue light spills out from that back area. A television, I guess. I hear the coughing again, coming from the unseen room. It’s the kind of noise I imagine when people say “death rattle.”

  Adam stays right in front of me on our way to the stairs. We are so close I can smell him. Six inches and we’d have full body contact. I feel hot and cold at once, and then he stops abruptly, one foot on the stairs.

  He stares me down, eyes glittering. It’s like he’s daring me to say something. Or maybe to chicken out. He’s going to have to stand there a long time if he thinks a little icky coughing is going to scare me out of here. I’m actually not sure an army of opera-singing roaches would change my mind. I’m beyond desperate.

  “Adam?” someone calls. A woman. I’d guess grandmother by the sound of her voice. But somehow the row of liquor bottles I saw on the back of the counter tells me she’s not the type to bake cookies and start college funds.