Six Months Later (10 page)

“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.

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 anything 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.

“Adam!”

“I’m here!” he shouts back, and then arches a brow at me, dropping his voice low.

“I need a drink,” she says, slurring each word.

His face grows even darker as he smiles at me. “Do you want one too, Chloe?”

Test. I can see it in the half sneer in his eyes. He’s testing me. I’d bet a thousand dollars right now that he never touches those liquor bottles. The disgust in his eyes is a little too obvious.

Inside the living room, the woman begins to snore.

I reach forward, spanning the distance between us to take his hand. “Thank you for letting me in.”

I only meant to reassure him, but something serious flickers over his face, something that makes my heart skip three beats. It skips three more when he laces his fingers through mine and pulls me toward the stairs.

I
step
through
the
classroom
door
and
look
around. It’s only half-full, maybe twelve of us or so. Cally glances up from her phone, giving me a little wave, and Kyle and Seth nod from their desks. Adam looks up too, but the smile on his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes. I feel a hand—Blake’s hand—on the small of my back. We make our way to our seats, and then I feel something else. Adam’s eyes burning into me as we pass.

He releases my hand once we’re upstairs. I look around the narrow hallway and then follow him through his open bedroom door. I blink in the sudden brightness, and I feel like I’ve stepped onto another planet.

I never thought about Adam’s room before, but if I had, I would have guessed death metal posters and clothing strewn all over the floor. Maybe a stolen street sign nailed to the wall next to a spray-painted quote about anarchy.

This room is so clean it belongs on a sitcom. No, maybe on one of those crime shows, where murders seem to occur in only meticulously tidy houses. As if serial killers all share a rule about freshly scoured sinks and bedroom floors that are never, ever littered with yesterday’s dirty socks. His room is like that, so Spartan it almost looks like pretend.

The bed is neatly made. Two bookshelves above it are filled with a variety of fiction, and I’m not talking about X-Men comic books. Tolstoy, Nietzsche. Serious stuff. Stuff I’d probably only read if I were ordered to do so at gunpoint.