Oliver looked up at me, his face solemn and pained, and I realized with a terrible rush that we weren’t playing anymore. “Colleen,” he said, “coming home feels like being kidnapped all over again.”
I looked at him, waiting for the laugh or the “Just kidding!” something that wouldn’t make my heart feel like it was free-falling. “What?” I said. My hand dropped to my side, the imaginary microphone plummeting into the grass.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—” Oliver blew out a slow breath and leaned back in the swing, still holding on tight to the chains. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Did you mean it?” I asked. Both of our houses were dark, the closed blinds letting out no cracks of light.
He bit his lip and looked away, then right back at me. “Yes,” he said. “I meant it.”
“Then you should say it,” I whispered. “I don’t want you to lie to me. You never lied to me before. Don’t start now.”
“It’s just, it just feels the same.” He shrugged, tipping his head to the sky like the stars had advice to offer him. “I got taken away from everything I knew, my friends, my dad, our apartment, homeschooling, and now I’m in a new house with sisters—I have sisters, Emmy, I don’t even know what to say about that—and a mom I don’t know and a stepdad I’ve never known, new friends, new school. And this house just feels so small, like the walls are touching sometimes when I sleep, and this town . . .” He trailed off, glancing toward the street like he could see a way out. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how Drew does it.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had never thought of my town as small before, but Oliver had been all over the country. He had been living in New York. Suburbia must have felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“And I can’t talk to my dad because I don’t know where he is,” he continued. “I can’t ask him where he went, why he did this, just like I couldn’t ask my mom where she went, why she left us.”
“But she didn’t leave you, Oliver, she—”
“I know that!” he said, sharper than usual, but his voice still sounded sad. “Sorry. I know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two totally different things. I barely even remember you, Emmy. Sorry, but it’s true. I don’t.”
I didn’t realize my eyes were filling with tears until he reached out to blot them with his thumb. “Shit,” he sighed. “See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew it would hurt you. This is why I don’t tell anyone.”
I pushed his hand away, though, shaking my head and wiping my own eyes. “You don’t have to protect me,” I said. “I told you, I don’t want you to lie to me.”
“But it’s hurting you.”
“It’s hurting you, too.” I dragged my wrist cuff across my eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about this is fair,” he said. We were both resting our heads against the swing chains now, swinging opposite each other in tiny arcs. More like rocking than swinging, really. “If this was fair, I wouldn’t have left.”
“Did you tell your therapist?” I asked. “Could she help?”
“Maybe. But, you know, I don’t know her, either. She’s a stranger.”
“And I’m not?”
He looked up and smiled at me as we passed each other again. “Apparently not,” he said, making us both laugh. “I wish I remembered more about you.”
“Me too,” I murmured. “I wanted you to come home so bad that I never thought about what would happen after. I just wanted my friend back.”
Oliver beckoned his fingers toward me and I reached out, clasping on to his chain. He wrapped his hand around mine, his fingers cold, and I realized he had been outside for a long time. “I guess we both have a new friend now,” he said. “I didn’t really have a lot of those growing up.”
“Because you moved a lot?”
“Well, yeah, kind of,” Oliver said, then gestured to me. “My dad homeschooled me, too. It’s just disappointing because I thought maybe I would finally get to do that, y’know? Just be normal, with friends.”
“Well, you’re friends with me, right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, then was silent for a few extra seconds. “Caro and Drew, though. We were friends, too, before I . . . left. Are they . . . are they, like, mad at me or something?”
“Mad at you?” I repeated before I could stop myself.
“Yeah. They don’t really talk to me or that day when you came over to say hi at lunch, Drew didn’t say anything and then he came over and sort of pulled you away.”
“Oh, Oliver,” I sighed. I felt so horrible. Picturing Oliver alone was one thing. Picturing him lonely was another issue entirely. “When you first came back, everyone said that you needed some space. They told us to let you ease in on your own, so Caro and Drew gave you space. That’s all it is, I swear. No one’s mad at you. Why would they be? What’d you do?”
Oliver swung a little more, his feet making an empty pit in the sand. “I don’t know. Nothing. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Ugh, this is the last time I listen to my parents,” I muttered, then sat back up. “Look, no one’s mad. We were just trying to give you space to adjust to a new school, a new neighborhood”—I thought of his earlier confession—“a new life. That’s all. But we totally want to hang out with you.”
“You do?” Oliver looked at me and even in the darkness, I could tell that the question wasn’t casual.
“I do,” I said, then corrected myself. “We do. We’re still friends. That hasn’t changed. It never did.”
Oliver laughed through his nose. “Weirdest friendship ever,” he said.
“Definitely,” I agreed. “But it’s ours.” I retwined our grasp so that my hand was on top of his. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the exclusive.”
He just nodded, resting his forehead against my knuckles, and we hung there together, not moving, suspended in midair, as if we were waiting to fall.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We finally got up when it was too cold to stay still anymore and the shirt and sweater Oliver and I were wearing, respectively, did nothing to block out the coastal fog that always rolled down the street after dark. “See you tomorrow?” he said, just before opening the sliding-glass door. I could see the TV on in the den, one of the twins’ Barbies lying sprawled on the floor, hair hacked off and her pink party dress gathered around her waist.
“Yeah, of course,” I said, and then Rick was standing in the doorway. “Oh, there you are,” he said. “Emmy, your parents are worried about you.”
They were?
“I’m right here?” I said, looking at Oliver as if to say, Isn’t that right? “We were just sitting back here.”
“Your mom sounded a little frazzled on the phone,” Rick said. It was always so odd to hear him speak; his voice was so different from Maureen’s. She had always been fond of the verbal italics, especially during a crisis. I guess living in a nonstop nightmare for ten years could do that to a person. Rick, though, was always cool under pressure. Maybe that’s why Maureen had married him, an anchor for her lost ship. “She said she tried calling your phone,” Rick said, “but it just kept going to voice mail.”
I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at the screen. Dead.
Wonderful.
“Better go,” I said. It was so quiet out that I could hear the wet grass crunching under my shoes, the kind of quiet that made your head hurt because you knew it was about to shatter into the loudest sounds.
I was right.
“Where have you been?!” My mom was standing in the kitchen and I saw her standing there, phone in hand, her eyes frantic. “We’ve been calling and calling you! We even called Caro!”
“I was next door!” I cried, gesturing to Oliver’s house. “I just came home and I heard him in the yard and we started talking! I’m sorry, I just forgot.”
“And you couldn’t answer your pho
ne?” my dad asked, but he didn’t seem that worried. I wondered if he was keeping up the pretense for my mom, if it was easier to keep up with her than let her lead the charge alone.
“It died,” I said, holding it up to prove my point. “I’m sorry, Oliver and I just started talking. My car was in the driveway the whole time,” I added.
My mom rested her hands on the countertop and took a deep breath. It was one I had come to know well, the “give me strength to not throttle my child” deep breath. Every mom had one. “Next time,” she said slowly as she exhaled, “when you text us that you’re coming home, come home.”
“Okay,” I said, then debated whether or not I should ask my next question. “Am I grounded?” If they took my car away, I was screwed.
“Yes,” my mom said.
“No,” my dad said.
I looked between them as they looked at each other.
“She’s late!” my mom said.
“She was next door with Oliver,” my dad pointed out. “And her phone died.”
“Standing right here,” I muttered, waving a little. My dad’s eyes cut to me and I dropped my hand back down. “I’m really sorry. Oliver was just stressed after the interview, that’s all.”
Now both of my parents turned to look at me.
“He was?” my mom asked.
I nodded. “We were just talking. I was trying to be a good friend.” I made my eyes wide and blinked once, twice for good measure—just an innocent girl next door who was merely chatting with her long-lost childhood best friend.
“Nice try, Bambi eyes,” my dad said, shaking his head at me, and I went back to my normal expression with a sigh.
My mom finally set down her phone on the counter, which she had had in a death grip since I walked through the door. “Next time,” she said, “come home. Or call. Or do something so that we’re not running around worried about you.”
I bit back my comment about how, if they had really been running around, they would have seen my car in the driveway or heard Oliver and me talking in his yard. “Got it,” I said. “Absolutely. Learn and grow, I always say.”
I saw my mom’s lips twitch, trying to repress a smile, and I took advantage to put my arms around her and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Does this mean I’m not grounded?” I asked in my nicest daughter voice. (You don’t live with worrywart parents for ten years and not pick up a few tricks here and there.)
This time, she couldn’t suppress the smile. “Get upstairs,” she said. “It’s late.”
“It’s nine—” I started to point out.
“Bed,” my mom said, pointing at the staircase. “Or homework. Or something that keeps you upstairs for the rest of the night and doesn’t have me worried to death.”
“Consider it done,” I said, then gave my dad a kiss on the cheek for good measure before dashing up the stairs. Once I was in my room, I plugged in my phone, watching as the battery sign flickered to life, then checked my computer. There was an email from Caro:
Your parents are making me be a Luddite and resort to email you to find out where you are. Do something pls.
I smiled and tapped out a fast message. “I’m fine, was talking to Oliver. Thanks for sacrificing your beliefs for the cause.” Then I shut it before Caro could reply. She would have questions that I didn’t want to answer, like What were you talking about? And questions I didn’t know how to answer, questions that I was scared to ask myself. Why were you talking to Oliver? Is he all right? Why does your heart beat faster when you think about him? Why can’t you stop feeling his fingers on top of yours? You’ve thought about him every day for ten years, so why is it different now?
“Everything’s fine,” I whispered to myself as I clicked out the light. Across the way, I saw Oliver’s light flicker on, then off, our signal, and I repeated it with a smile. “Coming home is like being kidnapped all over again,” he had said, his words cushioned by darkness and privacy, and I lay down on my bed and tried not to think about what, or who, would go missing this time around.
THE TEAM
Emmy isn’t having a lot of fun at Drew’s fifth birthday party.
She went to it directly after her T-ball game, for starters, which means her uniform feels hot and scratchy and dirty in the afternoon sun. Worse, all the other little girls are wearing party dresses, not stirrups and cleats, and Emmy catches one of them—a little girl with a huge pink bow in her hair—eyeing her. Emmy glares right back.
This is all Oliver’s fault, she decides. He’s the one who wanted to play T-ball. She just joined because that’s what friends do. They stick together. But the only good thing about T-ball, Emmy quickly learned, is the granola bar and juice box they get at the end of the game.
Emmy tries to cheer herself up by eating two pieces of cake (her mom is busy talking to Oliver’s mom, so she doesn’t notice), but all the frosting makes her feel sick and she finds herself sitting in Drew’s brand-new gazebo in the backyard, watching the other kids jump around in the bounce house and wishing she could just go home and watch TV.
“Hey!” Oliver says, running up. “What are you doing out here in the zagebo?”
“This party is stupid,” Emmy tells him. “And I’m not wearing a dress.”
“Drew has an older brother named Kane,” Oliver says, climbing up to sit next to her on the stairs. “Did you know that? I want a big brother. Or a little sister.”
“You can have mine,” another voice says, and Emmy sees Caro coming over to them. She’s new in their kindergarten class, but Emmy likes her because she shares toys and doesn’t tattle if you use too much paste. “I have five brothers and sisters.” She looks as hot and annoyed as Emmy feels.
Drew comes running up to them. He’s wearing two party hats on either side of his head, which make him look like a creature out of a storybook, and there’s a smear of frosting on his cheek. “Why are you guys sitting out here?” he says. “Kane’s gonna let us play with his remote-controlled car!”
“It’s too hot,” Emmy says.
“I want to play!” Caro says. “I want to go first!”
“First after me and Kane!” Drew corrects her and the two of them go off, leaving Emmy and Oliver behind.
“Don’t you want to play with the car?” Emmy asks him. They’re sitting next to each other.
“Not really,” Oliver says. “I like the zagebo.”
“Me too,” Emmy replies. “It’s our supersecret hideout!”
“Yeah!” Oliver agrees. “Just for us!”
“Yeah,” Emmy says with a smile. “Just for us.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next morning, Drew caught me in the hallway.
“Hi!” he said, landing in front of me as if he had been perched on top of the lockers like a puma.
“Your hair is wet,” I said, and he shook it in front of me. “Did you go surfing without me this morning?”
“Maybe. Okay, yes. The swell was good and I thought I’d let you sleep in. You’re welcome.” He gave one last shake in my direction and then swept his bangs off his face.
“Jerk,” I said, because I knew Drew would recognize it for the term of endearment that it was. “Next time take me with you. Hey! Wait!” I came to a halt in the middle of the hallway and turned around to glare at him. “I forgot. I’m not talking to you. You”—I poked him in the chest—“didn’t tell me about Kevin.”
“Ow. And you”—Drew poked back but not as hard—“probably forgot to tell me about something at some point in our friendship, so we’re even.” He smiled brighter. “Anyway.”
“Why are you so . . .” I waved my hand around his face. “Shiny?”
“Guess who’s parents are going out of town?” he said.
“Kevin’s.”
“Nope.”
“Caro’s.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Mine? Oh please, say mine are going on a romantic spa vacation in Big Sur or something.”
The happiness fell away from Drew’s face. “Look
, Em, I love your parents, but I never want to imagine them in a spa together ever. Ever. Now stop distracting me and just guess already!”
I paused and looked at him. “Your parents are going away?”
Drew nodded, his smile spreading so that it seemed to crack his face in two. (In a good way, I should add. That sounded creepier than I meant it to.)
“Your parents never go away!” I cried, clutching at his arm. “This is so great! Your house is so big!”
“I know!” He clutched me back and we jumped up and down together. “So you have to come over. A bunch of people are already coming over, but I want you to be there first.”
“A party?” I asked. “An honest-to-God party at your house. This is, like, unbelievable.”
“I know, right?” Drew paused and then stood up straight, a perfect imitation of his mom. “Something tasteful, though, not tacky. And no themes, of course.”
“Simple, but elegant,” I chimed in. “A chilled white-wine spritzer, perhaps, served only in the finest red plastic cups.”
“We’ll put the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in the good crystal, though,” Drew added, giggling. He paused and then said, “Kane’s coming home this weekend and he said he’d get us booze. And Kevin might be there.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.
I laughed even as I shoved him away. “Stop doing that, you know I hate that!”
Drew just shook his head. “Whatever. I really want you to meet him, Em. He’s nice.”
“Caro said he’s hot.”
“Caro is not a liar.”
“How come Caro’s met him and I haven’t?”
“Because you”—Drew wrapped his arm around my neck and began to walk down the hall with me in tow—“have been busy with Neighbor Boy.”
“Neighbor Boy, as a nickname, is a lot better than Milk Carton Boy. And we need to talk about him.”
Drew just looked down at me. It’s a real disadvantage when your friends are a) taller than you, and b) right. “You took him surfing,” he said, “and you didn’t tell Caro.”
“Because Caro would make it a thing,” I told him, emphasizing the last two words. “And it wasn’t a thing.”