I don’t know how I became the girl with the killer SAT scores, but I’m not stupid. This is my ticket to my own perch in a chair like Dr. Kirkpatrick’s. I’m not about to throw it away.
I take a breath and tilt my head, schooling my expression to sincerity. “I feel busy. So busy sometimes that I’m starting to lose track of things. Sometimes I forget so many things it’s scary.”
“Things at school?”
“Conversations, mostly,” I say, forcing a mild look onto my face. “Social stuff.”
“Do you still have time for your friends?” she asks, searching for something on my chart. She must find it because her eyes pop up to meet mine again. “Do you still see Maggie?”
Maggie.
“No,” I say, swallowing hard. “No, Maggie and I don’t talk much anymore. Too busy.”
She sits back at this, watching me while a minute or two ticks by. “It sounds like you aren’t happy with how busy things are, Chloe.”
I nod, my mouth still thick and dry at the thought of my best friend. My ex-best friend, I guess.
“What do you think you can do to change things?”
“I don’t know. But I want to do something about it. About the forgetting thing mostly. I was hoping there’d be an exercise that might help.”
“That’s a great idea,” she says, as I knew she would. She loves exercises. “If you’re open to the idea, we can try one now. Just sit back and close your eyes for me.”
It’s a comfortable chair. Probably purchased with this exact kind of exercise in mind. I close my eyes and follow her instructions to let my mind drift a little. To let go of my classes one by one. Then the hospital and the tests.
It sounds like nonsense, but sometimes it works. I saw it in my elective psychology class last year. And now, I’m feeling it myself, loose and warm around the edges, kind of lost in a soft limbo.
“Now, I’m going to say a few words. I want you to pretend you’re one of those old slide projectors or those viewfinder toys where you flip through picture discs.”
“I had one of those,” I say. Mom bought them for long car rides to the beach.
“Good. I want you to pretend you’re looking into one of those right now. When I say a word, think of an image. Just one. You don’t have to tell me what it is. Just see it in your mind.”
“Okay.” I try to stay relaxed. It’s hard because I’m excited. This could help. I mean, it’s not a guarantee, but it could happen.
“Home,” she says.
Click. I have a picture of our backyard, the picnic table with peeling paint, and a plastic pitcher of sun tea sitting in the middle.
“Fun.”
I see Maggie and I posing with our tongues out on prom night.
“School.”
A row of lockers, posters of varsity teams stretching above them.
“Love.”
A boy looking up from a book. Dark hair and a killer smile.
Adam.
I jerk my head up, eyes flying open. Dr. Kirkpatrick is writing in her book. Her face is serene. “Are you all right, Chloe?”
“I have no idea.”
***
Maggie’s house is probably not the best idea. But where else can I go? My parents are busy grieving the mental decline of their briefly perfect daughter. I could call my boyfriend, except that I barely know him. And since I’m associating the word love with an entirely different guy, I’m pretty sure I’m not as close to my boyfriend as I should be.
I ring the doorbell and plunge my hands back into the pockets of my coat. Footsteps echo in the entry inside just before Mrs. Campbell’s face shows in the sidelight window. She looks surprised and delighted in equal parts.
“Chloe,” she says as she swings the door wide. She squeezes me in a hug that smells like the bakery she owns. “It’s been so long. Come on in, honey.”
I swallow hard. “That’s okay. I know it’s kind of late. Is Maggie home?”
“Of course, sweetie. Come in out of the cold.” I step inside and stand on the rug while she heads for the stairs. She seems to think better of it, stalling halfway to the steps and tilting her head at me. “Why don’t you just go on up?”
“I’m not sure—”
Mrs. Campbell ghosts a hand over her reddish hair and smiles at me. “You know, whatever this is, it’s long past time for you two to work it out. Go on, Chloe.”
I nod and take the stairs slowly while Maggie’s mom disappears into the kitchen. Even with her words bolstering me, I feel like I’m climbing my own gallows.
I should have waited another day. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so wound up by my memory of Adam. But why? Why would I picture him with love? I mean, just how messed up am I?
I turn left at the top of the stairs and see the collection of bumper stickers on Maggie’s door. Too late for second-guessing now.
She tells me to come in before I even knock. There’s a squeaky board right outside her door so she always knows when someone’s close. We used to call it the parental alert system.
I open the door and stand there, looking over Maggie’s pillow-strewn bed and the posters of obscure punk bands hung above it. Her enormous white dresser looks as buried as it always does, lost under a sea of silk scarves and discarded earrings. She’s flopped sideways across the bed with her laptop open in front of her.
She looks up, and the shock of me being the visitor registers quickly in her face. “Why are you h-here?”
I shrug. “You didn’t return my call.”
“That usually means someone d-doesn’t want to t-t-talk to you.”
I frown and look at my feet. She’s stuttering. She doesn’t stutter this much. Not with me. I bite my lip, feeling bruised all over.
Maggie shifts on the bed, sitting up. “I think you s-said plenty the last t-time we talked.”
I take a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know what came over me then,” I say, which is totally true. “But I want to talk to you, Mags. I miss you.”
“No, you d-don’t,” she says. “What do you really want, Chloe, b-because I’m not going to be your p-pet project?”
I can’t believe this. I can’t process that this cold, mean girl is Maggie. “I don’t…I don’t know what you mean.”
She laughs then. It’s usually one of the friendliest sounds on earth. Today it burns like acid.
“Maybe I’m not smart enough t-to explain it,” she says. “Why don’t you go ask one of your study b-buddies, like Julien…Oh, wait, you c-can’t ask Julien anything anymore, can you?”
Her words punch at my gut like a cold fist. My mouth goes dry with fear. “I think something happened to Julien, Maggie. That’s what I was trying to tell you in my voice mail.”
She crosses her arms, obviously not affected. “Yeah, Chloe, I g-got your voice mail. About three months t-too late.”
“Why are you acting like this? What if she’s in trouble, Maggie?”
“Why are you acting like you c-care? I told you all of this, Chloe. I t-told you months ago.”
“I was confused,” I hesitate, desperate to know what she knows before I say too much. “Confused and distracted, okay? But I’m trying to be better, and I want to talk about it.”
She folds her arms over her chest and glares up at me, her face closed off like a wall. “Well, tough shit. I d-don’t.”
Eight years. That’s how long I’ve known Maggie. We fight like sisters, but she has never shut me out like this. Not ever.
“You should go,” she says.
I open my mouth, ready to plead my case, but then she leans forward.
“I want you t-t-to go.”
Tears blur my vision, but I shake my head, feeling my chin tremble. “Maggie—”
“Just go, Chloe!”
And I do.
I fly down the stairs and right past her mom. I’m desperate to be out of this warm, familiar house and all of its memories. Away from Maggie’s hard words and hate-filled eyes. Mrs. Campbell calls afte
r me, but I ignore her. I fling the door wide, rushing into the cold darkness beyond it.
I thunder down their porch steps, wiping tears as I run for the sidewalk. Sobbing and half-blind, I run until I slam blindly into someone’s back. Whoever he is, he’s tall and broad and he barely shifts at the impact.
“What the hell?” he says, and I leap back because I know that voice.
Adam turns around, shaking his hair out of his eyes and rubbing the back of his arm where I plowed into him. I stumble back in fear, and he catches me, fingers curling around my arms.
“God, Chlo, what is going on with you?”
I jerk myself free, feeling my eyes go wide. “How did you know I was here? Why are you following me?”
“Following you? I live here,” Adam says, narrowing his eyes.
I shake my head, panting hard and feeling like a trapped animal. “No, you don’t. I’d know if you lived here.”
“You do know,” he says, frowning. “I live in the apartments on the other side of the middle school.”
He looks like this is all very obvious. But it’s not. Nothing’s obvious except that I’m crazy. I’m totally crazy and I’m not getting better.
I’m supposed to be better. I did everything they told me to do a year ago. I went to therapy, and I wrote insanely long journal entries. God, I even did yoga! And it had worked. Dr. Kirkpatrick had said my results were so good that I didn’t have to come anymore.
And now this. How in the hell am I going to fix this? When will she ever say I don’t have to come again?
Pain rises up my chest, right into a little ball in my throat. Adam is just standing there, watching me closely while I choke all over my own breath.
I shake my head. “Stop looking at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m supposed to know things I couldn’t possibly know. Or like you know me, which you don’t, okay? You don’t know anything about me.”
“Hey, hey,” he says, dropping his backpack and rubbing his hands briskly up and down my arms. “Calm down. Just breathe.”
I glance at Adam’s hands on my arms. I don’t have that feeling of someone invading my personal space. Adam’s touch feels good. No, it’s better than good. His touch feels like home.
He steps in even closer and slides his hands down to the cuffs of my coat. He tells me again to breathe.
This time I listen. I inhale, long and deep. And something smells…familiar.
“I smell something,” I say. Something sweet and spicy that prickles at the back of my mind. I can almost remember it.
Adam laughs. “All right.”
Just like that, I get it. This clean mix of soap and leather and cinnamon—it’s him. This is Adam’s smell. And it’s curling in my mind like a memory.
“Just wait,” I say, and for some crazy reason, I take his hand.
His skin is warm and rough, though it can’t be thirty degrees out here. But he’s not cold. His strong fingers wrap around mine without a bit of hesitation. This time, I don’t think about how insane it is to touch him. All I can think about is that image I saw today. The one that sent me running to Maggie’s house in the first place.
I close my eyes and grip Adam’s hand tighter, trying to focus.
The picture forms in my mind again, and I exhale slowly, willing it to move.
Nothing.
“Chloe—”
“Please,” I whisper. “Just give me a second.”
He doesn’t owe me a second, or anything else, and I feel my cheeks going hot. I know I’m being weird, but he sighs and stays still. His fingers go soft, sliding until they interlace with mine. Our palms close together, and I shiver though I don’t feel cold at all.
And then I remember.
A classroom. Study hall from last year, but it’s nighttime. And the posters are different, so it’s not last year. It’s this year.
Adam’s bent over a book. I can hear myself talking about something. Science, maybe. But Adam’s ignoring me, his eyes scanning the pages.
“Ugh, I can’t focus,” I hear myself say. “I feel all jittery and distracted.”
Adam doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Why’s that?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
He looks up like he doesn’t trust me. Like maybe he’s heard me wrong. But then he lets himself smile, just a little. I feel warm and bright to the point of bursting, like the sun is rising somewhere deep inside my chest.
“One of these days we’re going to have to do something about that,” he says.
I’m sure he’s right.
It’s over as soon as it starts. Back in the present, I’m cold and panting, standing on the sidewalk. Every part of me is shaking. I blink up at Adam, our hands still locked.
“I remember something,” I say. “Something about you.”
Adam’s expression is so intense, I swear it could power small cities. I feel his gaze crackle through every cell in my body. I don’t know if he’s mad or happy, or maybe both of those things mixed up, but when he steps closer, I forget where I am. Hell, even who I am.
“I can’t figure you out, Chloe,” he says softly, shaking his head. He reaches up, fingering the tips of my hair. “I can’t figure you out at all.”
I feel the delicious weight of his hand on my face for one soul-blistering second. He lets me go and turns toward the sidewalk, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t.
“You coming?” he asks.
“What?”
“C’mon,” he says, sounding half-distracted. As if he didn’t just have his hand on my face and the promise of more in his eyes. “I’ll walk you home.”
Chapter Seven
My parents look up from the news when I come in. Mom’s been crying. Again. It’s getting seriously melodramatic in this house. I’m half expecting a mournful instrumental score to play every time I leave a room.
Mom pushes on a bright smile, but this isn’t my first rodeo. She cried every night for a week after I was diagnosed with panic attacks and anxiety. Now they don’t even have a name for what I’ve got. Come to think of it, it’s probably a miracle she’s not in a padded cell rocking back and forth.
“Hey, you,” she says, trying for brightness. She’s a terrible actress. “Was Maggie ready to talk?”
“We talked for a minute.”
“Well, baby steps are best,” she says. “So how are…”
“How’s the brain pan?” Dad asks, filling in her silence.
Mom kicks him under the coffee table. It’s like I’m still six years old and won’t notice. Maybe they’ll start spelling the words they don’t want to say in front of me.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m feeling better.”
“Really?” Mom asks.
“Really,” I say, which was true until I got here. It’s easier not to think about your looming mental health issues when you’re busy obsessing on the number of times a guy’s hand brushes your sleeve. Adam didn’t say much else, but just having him near me was plenty distracting.
“You look flushed,” Mom says. “You should have taken the car.”
“Cold air is still fresh air.” I shrug. “I should go up. I have homework, and I’m getting a late start.”
“Do you want some dinner?” Mom asks, practically turning herself inside out to keep her eyes on me as I walk behind the couch. “There’s pad thai on the counter.”
“I’ll grab some later,” I say, taking the stairs two at a time.
I don’t want to eat.
I want to figure this out. Julien disappearing, my bizarre Blake repulsion and inappropriate Adam obsession, this whole hot mess with Mags—all of it.
My bedroom door clicks softly shut behind me. I flip on the radio on my alarm clock. I learned that trick through a Psychology Today article. Music buys privacy. Many people (read: parents) are less likely to pop in on you if you’ve got a radio on.
Helpful tip for when you don’t
want to be checked on.
I flip open my laptop and cringe at the new background picture. Blake and I, arms linked around shoulders and waists.
It’s disturbing. I used to spend hours daydreaming about our wedding, doodling his name in my notebooks. Now everything about the guy makes my skin crawl.
Add it to the list of everything else that makes absolutely no sense right now.
I open a spreadsheet and my Internet browser and then check Facebook and Twitter and a couple of other random sites. It’s a little surreal seeing all the crap I’ve blathered on about. I don’t even read it at first. Not really. It’s like getting into a cold pool. I inch my way around it, dipping my toe into profile pictures and dates.
From the looks of things, I was a busy Internet beaver all summer. Until somewhere in the middle of September. After that…total radio silence.
It’s creepy, really, looking through posts and status updates. Almost like I’m stalking myself. Though, I’ve got to admit, this is not quite the James Bond experience I was hoping for. And if all of my posts are as boring as these, I really need to get a life. Or make one up, at least.
I scroll through my last month of activity again, looking for anything scary. Or hell, even interesting.
08/02: Stalking my mailbox. Where are my scores?
08/06: Sixty days without coffee. I should get a spiffy coin.
08/17: Really? Still no scores! Gah.
08/20: New jeans + new boots = me actually looking forward to colder weather.
08/24: Blake bought me daisies. Just because. How sweet is that?
08/24: Okay, not that sweet. Blake got his SAT scores (ridiculously good). Flowers = preemptive apology for my potentially bad scores. If they ever show up.
08/25: They’re here! They’re here! They’re here! And…I’m afraid to open them.
08/25: 2155 *dies*
09/09: Second week of senior year and still no coffee. Take that, doubters!
09/13: Wrapping up extra credit project number four. So far, so good. Let’s hope university big shots agree.
09/18: I’m so excited about the party this weekend. I’ll talk Blake into it, for sure!
I scroll over the list, feeling my face curdle like day-old milk. It’s like I’ve been possessed by an academic pep rally. The last entry is the worst. When the hell did I start saying crap like “for sure”?