Made You Up

  “What brings you to the fireside?” he asked, lifting his skewer and watching the marshmallow burn without the slightest hint of interest.

  “It’s too crowded.” I didn’t know what he was playing at—if anything—or if he was going to snap back to regular old Miles. “And too noisy. Mob mentality is running rampant in there.”

  Miles grunted.

  “So why’d you make Celia invite me?” I asked. “I can’t believe you’re that hard up for company.”

  Miles shrugged. “I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Consider it payback.” The marshmallow dropped dead into the fiery depths. He started on a second. “I asked off work for this. You’d think with all the alcohol consumption and the people groping each other”—he motioned to our Jaws of Life bench friends—“and the anonymous bedroom sex, it’d be a little more interesting.”

  I shivered. “I definitely kind of walked in on someone in a bedroom upstairs.”

  Miles made a weird coughing sound, like he was holding back a laugh. I’d never heard him laugh. “You walked in on them? What did they do?”

  “I didn’t actually walk in. The door was cracked open, and I heard someone talking—”

  “Who was it?”

  “Ria. I don’t know who the guy was, but it wasn’t Cliff.”

  Miles’s eyebrows set in a hard line above his eyes. The second marshmallow fell. He grabbed a third. “Whoever he was, I hope he doesn’t mind having his nose cartilage lodged in the back of his skull. Cliff can be territorial.”

  “You sound like you’ve experienced this. Does it have something to do with why you hate Ria? Ooh, were you one of those guys? The ones that she . . . y’know . . .”

  “No.” His look was deadly. “I hate Ria because there’s nothing going on inside her head besides volleyball and sparkly things. I hate Cliff for the same reason, only football instead of volleyball and sex instead of sparkly things.”

  It certainly hadn’t taken long for Evil Miles to show up again. He didn’t say anything else. We sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the snap of the fire and the music from the deck and the sounds coming from the bench couple, who were really going at it. Even with them making out right there and the bowling ball being so conspicuous, I still wanted to take a picture of it all.

  Miles burned his way through another three marshmallows. “I think Celia may hate you now,” he said finally.

  “No kidding? I wasn’t sure—that viper glare she gave me when you made her invite me didn’t quite get the message across, I guess.” I grabbed a skewer and jammed the prongs into a burning log. “What’s with her, anyway? She’s all over you. Is she your ex-girlfriend or something?”

  “No. I’ve never”—he switched gears in the blink of an eye—“she’s always been like that. I don’t know why.”

  “She likes you.” I still stood by what I’d said to Theo, even if she thought it was weird.

  “That’s . . . stupid.”

  “Oh, so you think so, too?” I said.

  Miles looked over at me. “Do you hate me?”

  The question was so sudden, and his voice was so bland and devoid of emotion, that I wondered if he even wanted an answer. “Um. You’re a bit of a jerk.”

  He seemed unconvinced.

  “Okay, okay, you’re a complete douche bag. You’re the biggest asshat on the planet. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No, the truth’ll do fine.”

  “Okay. You’re a jerk.” And you have beautiful eyes. “But no, I don’t hate you.” I became very intent on moving ashes into piles. I didn’t want to look at him again, but I could feel his eyes on me. “I do think the gutting of the books was a step too far.”

  “And gluing my locker shut wasn’t? Good job on not admitting that, by the way.”

  “Thanks. How’s your hand?”

  “Better,” he said. “Animalia Arthropoda Insecta Hymenoptera Formicidae Solenopsis. Little bastards. Lucky I’m not allergic to the damn things. If I’d had a reaction, I would’ve sued.”

  “And what business would a rich kid like you have suing a poor kid like me?”

  The end of Miles’s skewer hit the ground next to the fire. He turned his full attention on me. “What makes you think I’m rich?”

  I shrugged. “You’re a brat? You’re an only child? Your shoes are always polished?” It was true—his shirt was always wrinkle-free, his tie straight, his pants sharp and ironed, and his shoes were blacker and shinier than anyone else’s. And his hair, let’s not even get started on his hair, because he had hair that looked like he’d walked right out of the shower every morning and artfully styled it to dry in the most amazingly messy way. Like good-looking bed head, if that’s even possible. Whatever he was, he certainly took pains to make himself look nice.

  “My shoes are always polished?” he said incredulously. “That’s why you think I’m rich? Because I like shiny shoes?”

  I shrugged again, heat seeping into my face.

  “And sometimes there’s a good reason why someone’s an only child, so don’t even go there.”

  “Fine!” I held up my hands. “Sorry, okay? You’re not rich.”

  Miles turned back to the fire. Another silence blanketed us, but this one wasn’t awkward, either. Just really, really heavy. Like one of us should have kept talking until we ran out of things to say.

  “Exactly how good are you with history?” Miles asked, his tone back to bland and unaffected.

  “That depends. There’s a lot of history—what do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” he said, but before I could ask what the hell that meant, he added, “Who was the fourteenth president of the US?”

  “Franklin Pierce. The only president from New Hampshire.”

  “What was his second child’s name and what did that child die from?”

  “Ben—no, Frank—Robert Pierce. Frank Robert Pierce. Died of . . . typhus.”

  “At what age?”

  “Uh . . . four? Five? I can’t remember. Why are you so interested in an obscure president’s second child?”

  Miles shook his head and looked away. But he also smiled. Weird, lopsided, more of a smirk than a smile, really, but it got the point across. How smart was he? A genius, but in what? It seemed like he was good at everything—he helped Theo with calculus, he could destroy chemistry without blinking, he slept through his A+ in English, and everything else seemed to bore him. He knew the name Huitzilihuitl. (And, more importantly, how to pronounce it.) He knew everything.

  Except the truth about me. And I needed to keep it that way.

  I locked my eyes on the fire, but was quickly distracted by the Jaws of Life couple; clothes were being removed, and if Miles’s expression was anything to go by, they were going to get skewered if it went any farther.

  A second later it didn’t matter. The noise from the deck swelled toward us, and before I could consider running, Celia Hendricks slid onto the bench beside me and someone else slid in on Miles’s other side, and the five inches between us disappeared. We were smashed together, my shoulder in his armpit, his arm braced behind us, my legs nearly on top of his. Seemingly everyone from the back deck made a ring around the fire.

  I froze. I’d never been this close to so much of a person. Except Charlie. I didn’t even let my mother get this close to me.

  Miles’s neck and ears had gone red. This must have been torture for him, too. Because of the people crowding us, I probably looked like I’d thrown myself at Miles, and he probably looked like he wanted it.

  “Well. This is awkward,” said Miles.

  The triplets laughed somewhere behind us. Miles and I twisted to find them at the same time. His jaw smacked my forehead.

  He groaned. “God, is your head made of steel?”

  “Why, too hard to bite through, Jaws?” I sniped back, rubbing my forehead. The triplets were already on their way, blond blurs in the crowd.

  A hand dug into my ribs.

 
“Hey guys!” Celia flashed two rows of white teeth. “How d’you like the party?”

  “It’s . . . um . . . great,” I said as Miles grabbed my leg and pulled it over his, shifting my weight off his rib cage. I lost my balance, and he grabbed my leg again to steady me. The leg in question had turned to jelly.

  Kids crowded all along the back of the bench, barricading any escape. I barely kept myself from punching Celia. I didn’t realize I was squeezing myself closer to Miles until he coughed and tilted his chin up to avoid my head.

  The scent of tobacco and wood shavings filled my nose. His jacket. It was the kind of smell I’d only previously caught off my parents’ pipe-smoking, dirt-digging history colleagues. I was close enough to him to get a clear whiff of something else . . . pastries. And one more. Mint soap. It was like someone had mixed together all the best-smelling things in the world and made Miles bathe in them.

  “Get me out of here,” he muttered. The arm he’d been holding out behind me dropped, and his hand brushed down along my side. Hairs shot up all over my body. Miles’s face went red. “Sorry . . . arm was getting tired . . .”

  We were nose to nose. Straight nose. Square jaw. Clear eyes. Yes, I thought, yes, very cute. Cuteness confirmed.

  “I’m going to try to find a way out,” I said breathlessly, twisting around. My task was made much harder by Celia, still trying to get Miles’s attention.

  And also by the flicker of light behind Celia, the pungent smell of burning hair, and someone yelling, “YOU’RE ON FIRE!”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Fifteen

  The two seconds between the realizations that I wasn’t on fire and Celia was were a very blissful two seconds.

  Celia screamed and batted at herself, making it hard to see if the fire had caught her hair or her clothes or both. Someone ran up behind her and dumped a bucket of water over her head, dousing her. She stood motionless for a moment, the ends of her hair curled and black, her makeup running in streaks down her face.

  “WHO DID IT?”

  Everyone stared at her. She’d been sitting too far from the fire for it to reach her, hadn’t she? The back of her sweatshirt was as singed as her hair. She didn’t seem hurt, though. She seethed, eyes roving through the crowd, until she zeroed in on me.

  I had my camera pointed at her. I’d gotten it out before I realized that her burning hair was not a delusion.

  “You were right next to me!” she screeched.

  I shoved my camera into my pocket and tried to retreat, but the bench hit the backs of my knees. “You think I did it?”

  “You were RIGHT. NEXT. TO. ME. Who else?”

  I don’t know. Only the ten or so people behind you.

  I stood there looking stupid, because that’s what I do when I’m accused of something I didn’t do. Forget making a case or, you know, denying that I’d done it.

  Denying hadn’t helped me in the past.

  “Oh my God, you did do it! What the hell is wrong with you?” Celia grabbed at the burnt tips of her hair, her face contorting in rage. She looked between Miles and me, then cranked her bitch level up to eleven. “You’re jealous!”

  I stared at Miles. Miles stared at me. We both stared at Celia.

  “The fuck?” Miles said.

  Then Celia lunged at me, and everything fell to pandemonium. Someone pulled me over the bench and through the sea of bodies as everyone converged, ready for a fight. People were going every direction, yelling, screaming, the music suddenly louder than ever.

  As soon as we broke free, I saw it was Art dragging me along, his mammoth muscles straining against his shirt. I would have been thankful if it wasn’t for the fact that he usually showed up when Miles was pulling a job. If Art had been there waiting to yank me out of harm’s way, then Miles must have been involved with the fire, right?

  I set my jaw; as soon as we were back on the driveway, I yanked my arm out of

  Art’s grip, grabbed his huge shoulder, and spun him to face me. “Did Miles do that?”

  “No,” he said immediately. He scrubbed at his short hair.

  The brush of invisible fingers crawled up the back of my neck. I jabbed a finger at him. “You had better be telling me the truth, Art Babrow. Not just what Miles tells you to say.”

  “Scout’s honor,” Art said, holding up his hand.

  I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. It felt like I had cotton packed down my throat. I was suffocating. I tugged on my hair with both hands, turned in a full circle to make sure there were no cameras on the houses or the lampposts, and set off down the sidewalk.

  “Where are you going?” Art called. “I know you didn’t drive here yourself.”

  “I’m going home!” I yelled.

  Home. Home was good.

  “Isn’t your house a few miles away?”

  “Probably.”

  “The fuck,” someone said. The privacy fence gate clacked closed. “Where are you going? I told you to keep her here.”

  I looked behind me; Miles had caught up to Art. I marched back, planting a finger in the middle of Miles’s chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You torch someone’s hair and let her blame me? Because apparently I’m jealous? What kind of retribution is that? The books were one thing, and the desk, and all that other stuff—but this is ridiculous.”

  Miles rolled his eyes. “Would you shut up and stop assuming you know everything?”

  “Would you stop being such a jackass?”

  It came out of my mouth too quickly, a reflex reaction to the guilt flooding my stomach. I had no proof, but I wanted him to stop talking. It worked—his mouth snapped shut, his hands balled into fists. A muscle worked in his jaw. I glared at him as he floundered, but I floundered, too; I couldn’t think of what to do next.

  Home. Had to get home.

  I kept picturing a Celia-led mob chasing me down the street, screaming about my devilish crime like Puritans at a witch trial. I hadn’t done anything wrong—I never did anything wrong—it wasn’t my fault. . . .

  “Alex, I can take you home,” Art said.

  Always be polite. “No, thank you.”

  I turned and started walking again. I didn’t care where. Anywhere other than here. Art said something else. The words hit me and bounced off. I kept my eyes forward. The street went very quiet.

  Ahead of me, Miles stepped out from behind a tree.

  How had he gotten there so hellishly fast? He’d been standing behind me not ten seconds ago, and now he emerged at least three houses down the street. He ambled toward me with his clothes in tatters, like he’d gotten mauled by a bear. When he got close, the smell of alcohol and pond scum invaded the air.

  Where his freckles had been, a hundred little holes pulsed blood down his pale cheeks.

  “I don’t want to talk to you.” I tried to walk past him, but he loped backward, keeping his eyes on mine. His hands hung limp at his sides. His fingers looked longer than usual, like he had too many knuckles. My stomach knotted. I didn’t know what he’d done to his freckles, but I couldn’t let him see how much they creeped me out.

  He wouldn’t leave.

  I wanted him to leave.

  “Go away!” I yelled at him. He didn’t blink. His eyes were bluer than ever, bluer than they should have been in the darkness. The sun glowed behind them, melting them from inside like candle wax. The color seeped from his skin.

  “Alex!”

  Someone grabbed my arm. Spun me around.

  Miles was there, too. Except not bleeding. And his clothes weren’t torn. And his eyes were the right shade of blue. I pulled my arm away and backed up. And ran into Miles.

  “Who are you talking to?” Miles—regular Miles—asked. Art was right behind him.

  “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  Oh no. There were two of him. I knew it was wrong, I knew there
shouldn’t be, but he reached up for my face, and I felt the cold roiling off his skin.

  The roots of my hair screamed as I tugged on them.

  “Both of you stay away from me.” I pointed to both Mileses, backing up onto the nearest lawn. One Miles was bad enough. Two was unbearable.

  Regular Miles frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Keep your mouth shut, idiot! the little voice in the back of my head screamed. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad.

  He’s not real.

  He is.

  He’s not he’s not.

  A cold finger brushed down my cheek.

  Then how can he touch you?

  Bloody Miles stared at me, his mouth curving into a wide grin. The blood stained his teeth, too. Miles never smiled. Not like that.

  I dropped to the ground as Bloody Miles lunged at me. The world went dark. I heard footsteps. Art yelled something I couldn’t understand.

  Fingers grabbed my shoulders and tried to pull me up. I balled my hand into a fist and lashed out, connecting with something fleshy.

  A groan.

  The fingers released me.

  “Damn. She clocked you, Boss.”

  “No shit. Can you carry her?”

  “I can try.”

  I squirmed away, but Art’s spicy aftershave drowned out the smell of alcohol and pond scum. One big arm snaked around my shoulders, the other behind my knees. He lifted me up. “She’s shaking so bad—I can hardly hold on to her.”

  “This way. I’ll take her home.”

  Warm air moved past my face. I didn’t open my eyes, because he would be there.

  The truck door creaked open. I cracked my eyes open to see Art buckling me into the passenger seat.

  “Go back to the party.” Miles climbed in the driver’s side. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

  No, Art! Don’t leave me alone with him!

  But Art nodded and turned away. Miles started the truck.

  “Alex.”

  I stared out the window. Where was he?

  “Alex, please look at me.”

  I didn’t.

  “What’s going on?” His voice rose and cracked. “What are you afraid of? Just look at me!”