Six Months Later (2 page)

My car isn’t in its normal spot. Then again, I’ve misplaced a couple of seasons, so why should this surprise me? I finally find the aging Toyota in the south lot, resting under a thin blanket of snow. So I haven’t been here long.

Only six months or so.

Panic rushes again, squeezing hot fingers around my throat. I force myself to count to ten. And then twenty. Finally, I give up on trying to harness my inner calm and I pry open my frozen car door.

I start my engine and find my scraper in the backseat and set to work shaving the ice from my windshield. I’m shaking so hard that my teeth are rattling.

I stop once to call Maggie, getting her voice mail twice in a row. The fact that she doesn’t answer is as stupefying as everything else. She doesn’t take a shower without propping her phone on the sink. Now, three calls and nothing?

I hear the roar of an engine and look up like a trapped deer as a pair of headlights turn into the parking lot. My heart flies into my throat. It stays there, pumping hard, while the red Mustang cuts a slow arc toward me.

Blake?

Oh God, please not now. Not when I’m completely frozen and totally unstable thanks to an acute case of freaking amnesia.

For some reason I can’t even fathom, the Mustang is pulling straight toward me. How would he even see me from the main road? It’s like he knew I was here.

The car rolls to a stop and the door opens. Maybe it’s his sister or his mom or, God, maybe someone stole his car and is now about to kill me. Every one of those options would be preferable to this.

But it’s not someone else. It’s him. The blond-haired, dimpled lacrosse player and not-so-secret crush of at least half of the girls in this high school.

“God, Chloe, I was worried sick,” he says, slamming his door shut and striding toward me.

Before I can speak or blink, he hauls me into a tight hug. He smells just like he did this morning, like real cologne, the kind most of the guys around here can’t even afford to look at. And yes, before this moment, I would have given everything I own for even a sideways arm-around-the-shoulder hug from him, but right now, it’s just too much. His cologne, his supersoft down coat. I feel suffocated.

I lift my hands to push away, but he pulls back first, his face a weird mix of worry and irritation. I take a step back, my ice scraper still dangling from my left hand.

He reaches out, tucking some of my dark hair behind my ear. The strands drag along my neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake. They shouldn’t reach my neck. I hacked my hair into a chin-length bob last week, but it isn’t short anymore.

Blake smiles, and I try desperately to force one in response, but I can’t.

Behind me, I hear heavy footsteps approaching from the direction of the school. Blake’s hand falls off my shoulder. I don’t need to look to know who it is, but I can’t seem to resist.

I wish I had. The expression Adam’s wearing turns my stomach to stone. I know this feeling creeping through my middle, but it can’t belong to me. What would I have to feel guilty about?

Adam flips his dark hair out of his eyes and offers us a half-hearted salute. He slings his backpack over one shoulder and turns to lope through the school yard in his half-laced boots.

He’ll freeze in this snow. Where’s his car?

And why do I care? He’s a stranger, and I don’t care where his car is. Except that he’s not a stranger. And I obviously care a lot.

A touch to my arm brings my attention back to Blake. He’s also mostly a stranger, but not the kind I need to be afraid of. He’s the poster boy of nice. Good citizen. Class president. He probably does commercials for the Boy Scouts when he’s not helping little old ladies cross the street.

He’s the one I should feel safe with.

“Chloe, are you okay?” he asks me, his hand resting just above my elbow.

“No. Not really,” I admit.

“Is your head all right? Why are you muddy?”

As soon as he says it, I reach for a spot just above the nape of my neck. My fingers graze a swollen lump, and I wince in pain. What the hell? When did that happen?

“Easy,” Blake says, and I step back from him, wary. He ignores me, reaching forward to take my hand. “You bumped it pretty hard. I can’t believe you didn’t go straight home. Maybe I should get you to the hospital.”

“I didn’t bump my head,” I say, even though it’s clear I did.

And it’s equally clear he saw me do it.

He looks really concerned now. Like daytime TV worried, his brow all puckered and eyes sad. He doesn’t know me well enough to worry about me like that. Or to hug me.

The world starts a precarious tilt, so I rest my palm on the roof of my car and try not to pass out.

“Chloe, I think I should take you to the hospital,” Blake says slowly. “Do you even know why you’re here? And why are you so filthy?”

I prod the tender bump, hoping that the pain will jar my memory.

“I don’t know. I remember…” I trail off because what am I going to say? I remember falling asleep in study hall. On the last Tuesday in May.

“Do you remember the walk we took at my house tonight?” he asks.

A walk with Blake Tanner? Not possible. If Blake passed me a napkin in the cafeteria line, I’d dissect it with Maggie for three days. I wouldn’t forget a walk.

“Do you?” he repeats softly, and I feel his fingers lacing through mine.

His hand is warm and large and everything that a boy’s hand is supposed to be.

“Do you remember slipping on the porch? That’s when you hit your head. I don’t know how you got so dirty though.”

I touch my head again, this time conscious of the cold, black stains on the knees of my jeans. Is that what this is? A stupid head injury or whatever?

I want it to be true. I need it to be true.

“I…I slipped. By the sidewalk,” I say, the lie spilling out of me automatically as I brush at my filthy jeans. “I’m really tired. My brain is just fuzzy.”

“Let me take you home,” he says. “At least there your mom could take a look.”

I glance back at my half-scraped car and then over to his snowless, clearly garage-stored Mustang. The dark interior is probably toasty. Maybe if I just sit for a moment, I’ll figure this out.

“Okay,” I agree. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

He laughs at that, like it’s ridiculous for me to even think it. “No, Chloe. It’s not too much trouble to take my girlfriend home.”

Girl-what?

Girlfriend.
He said
girlfriend
.

It’s a joke. This whole stupid thing is an enormous prank but why? Because I have a crush on him? Who doesn’t?

No, that can’t be it. Blake isn’t into that kind of juvenile crap. He’s on the Bully Patrol, for God’s sake.

But it can’t be anything else.

Blake doesn’t seem to notice me standing there gaping like a goldfish. He takes the scraper from my hand and turns off my car, locking the doors when he’s done. And since he doesn’t fumble with the locks or my ignition, which tends to stick, I’m guessing he’s done this before. He hands me my purse with a frown.

“This was on the floor.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles and guides me over to the Mustang. I fidget and watch him open the passenger door, and then he helps me into the seat like this is all routine. Like I wouldn’t normally be stumbling over myself in rapture at the chance of setting foot in his vehicle.

When I sink into the leather seat, I don’t feel rapture. If anything, I feel a little uneasy. Maybe even nauseous. I shift my feet, painfully aware of the mud on my boots and his pristine carpets.

It’s deliciously warm though, like sitting by a fire. I smell new car and Blake, and I don’t know why, but I don’t like the mix. Blake slides behind the wheel, and we both fasten our seat belts in silence. Then he tugs something out of the backseat.

“You left your coat when you ran out tonight,” he says, and then he hands it to me. “You must have been freezing.”

I run my hands down the rough red wool. It’s my coat, all right. I spent a small fortune on it at the beginning of my sophomore year, so it’s not something I leave lying around.

“Oh, thanks. I really must have hit my head harder than I thought,” I say, baring my teeth in something that I hope passes for a smile.

Blake turns up the heater and rolls out of the parking lot without another word. He turns right on Main before I can direct him and makes the immediate left onto Birchwood, proving that he knows where he’s going.

When he slides his hand to my knee, my whole body goes cold and tense. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t look like someone playing a prank. His body language is relaxed. Touching me is comfortable for him.

For some insane reason, I’m pretty sure Blake believes this. He thinks I’m his girlfriend.

I ignore my swimming head and Blake’s squeezing hand, and stare out the windshield. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me.

“What a crazy night,” I say, figuring I can’t just sit here in silence forever.

He doesn’t react at first, but I see a muscle in his jaw jump when I turn to him.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “What all do you remember?”

It’s a weird question. And a short list. Darkness. Snow. Terror. Adam.

I linger on that last one longer than I should, my mind forming a picture of him. “It’s kind of a blur.”

He sighs in a way that borders on theatrical. “I just wish you’d tell me why you’re so tense. Is it still about your SAT scores?”

“My SAT scores?”

He turns to me, half rolling his eyes. “Mine aren’t that much better, you know.”

“I haven’t taken—”

I cut myself off, realizing that I probably did take the test. Like everything else, I might just not remember it.

“I’m just stressed,” I say weakly, half expecting that awful itchy anxiety to return. Instead, I feel numb. Heavy and slow, like I’m half-asleep.

Huh. I must be going into shock. Fine by me. It’s infinitely preferable to the flailing and panicking.

Blake pulls to a stop in front of my house. I look up at the dormer windows and black shutters. Mom’s Thanksgiving wreath hangs on the door, and the windows give off a warm, yellow glow. In my whole life, home has never looked so sweet.

“Want me to walk you in?”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m really tired.”

He nods and then tilts his head. “Hey, stop worrying about your scores. You’re in the top three percent, Chloe. You’re one of the elite.”

I open my mouth because I have no idea what he’s talking about, but before I can say anything, he’s kissing me good-bye. And I can’t remember what I wanted to ask him about now because this is Blake. Blake Tanner. Kissing me.

I’ve imagined him doing this for as long as I can remember. I never dreamed it would feel so horribly wrong.

Insistent electric beeping wakes me. It can’t be seven o’clock yet. I’m too tired. Too snug and content here in the cocoon of my blankets.

The clock blares on, unmoved by my silent protest. I roll over and mash the snooze button and then burrow back into the blissful warmth of my quilt. Two more minutes and I’ll get up. I mentally catalog my sandal options. Is my blue tank top clean? Maybe. Or I could—

My thoughts cut off as I remember. The snow. The darkness. Blake.
Adam
.

I sit up, scanning my room as I kick the covers off my legs. It’s cold and dark.
Too
cold and dark for seven o’clock in May. I shiver as I rise from my bed, padding across my wood floor. My curtains are tightly shut, not a sliver of daylight showing around the edges.

I pull the drapes open quickly, like I’m ripping off a bandage. Outside, it’s still winter. Inside, I die a little.

I press my palm to the cold windowpane with a sigh. The street looks magical, every house and mailbox dipped in a snow so white it looks like sugar. It’s like a Christmas card.

But I’m not ready for Christmas. I’m ready for jean shorts and sweet tea and long, sticky nights with cicadas singing in the grass.

I return to my bed, curling into a ball. It wasn’t a nightmare. I’d known that, of course, but nothing else seemed possible when I’d stumbled in here last night.

Now, the newness of the day hits me like teeth, gnawing at the unwelcome truth. I’m missing time. A lot of it.

“Chloe?”

My mom’s voice drifts up the stairs, familiar and just a little scratchy so she probably hasn’t had much coffee.

“You want breakfast, honey?”

No, I really don’t. I want my six months back.

I try dialing Mags again before giving up and heading downstairs. Mom is peering into the fridge, her hair in a towel and her shirt buttoned wrong. Nothing newsworthy there. Until she turns at me and breaks into a grin.

“Morning, Superstar. Need some oatmeal to keep that brain churning?”

Uh, what? I blink several times, and she just laughs, pulling out a carton of blueberries and a couple tubs of yogurt. Which is…weird. We don’t do breakfast. Not together, anyway.

“Too early, I guess.” She nods at a cup and saucer on the counter. “Your tea’s ready.”

Tea? We have tea in this house?

I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I’m too tired to care. The coffeepot is sputtering, so I head over to get myself a cup. One whiff and a wave of queasiness rolls through me. I push the pot back onto the burner.

“What’s wrong with the coffee?” I ask.

My mom sighs and takes another sip while my stomach cramps in protest. “Don’t start again, Chloe.”

My hands are shaking now. I can’t handle this. It’s just too scary.

“Mom, I need to talk to you.”

“Is it about Vassar? Honey, I know it sounds hoity-toity, but with these scores, you’ve got to consider—”

“It’s not about Vassar, Mom. It’s about me. I’m having some trouble.”

She looks up, her gray eyes clouding with worry. “What kind of trouble? School trouble? The kids in the SAT group?”

I can’t blame her for asking. If I go down in the yearbooks for anything it’ll be Most Likely to Not Live Up to My Potential. “No. I’m just…I’m forgetting some things.”

Her relief is palpable, bringing pink back to her cheeks. “Of course you’re forgetting things. You’re exhausted, honey. You’ve been studying day and night, putting in extra credit.”

“I think it’s more than that,” I say, though the idea of me investing in extra credit is just insane. I’m a Play Now, Work Later girl, and she knows it better than anyone.

She takes a breath, hands moving absently to her throat. “You don’t think it’s those
panic
attacks
again, do you?”

She says it like a dirty secret, almost whispering it. I feel like she’s poised on the edge of a knife. One wrong word from me now and she will return to the mother I remember. Quiet. Distant. Disappointed.

“Maybe I just need some sleep,” I say with a sigh.

Mom nods so quickly it’s like she spoon-fed me the answer. She clears the table, though I’ve barely touched my yogurt. Typical. I get a smile and a pat that’s supposed to be reassuring. And then she’s up the stairs and I’m left on my own.

Across from me, the fridge whirs to life and I glance at the clutter strewn across the doors. I watched a
Dateline
episode once about how criminals could learn everything about you from digging through your trash. They’d have better luck looking at our fridge.

Bills, birthday pictures, concert tickets, notes we leave each other, it’s all stuck up there, layered so thickly most days, it’s hard to find the handle to get the darned thing open. And today there are some new things to the mix, one in particular that I can’t stop staring at.

It’s a printout from a website placed front and center on the left door. I remember the logo in the corner from the information they passed out in homeroom. It’s the SAT website.

Blake’s words from last night play through my mind.
You’re in the top three percent, Chloe.

My scores. My SAT scores are on my fridge.

My heart starts pounding harder and faster. Even from here I can see my name at the top and a series of numbers circled in red in the middle. There are comments from both of my parents, stars and exclamation points all over the place.

I stand up and head over, frowning at the four digits that spell out the impossible.

Two thousand one hundred and fifty-five.

My mouth drops open. No, it can’t be right. I’d hoped I’d manage maybe 1650. Anything over 1700 and I would have lost my mind, but this?

I check again. My name, the scores, the dates. It’s all there.

It has to be a mistake. What else could it be? This is the kind of score genius kids get. Future rocket scientists and surgeons and…psychologists.

I press my thumb over the four numbers and think of the row of psychology books lined up above my computer desk. I think of that first panic attack when I sat there panting and shivering in the girls’ locker room, sure I was dying and desperate to understand how something like this could happen to someone like me.

When I pull my thumb away, the numbers remain.

2155.

Maybe I don’t remember that test, but I took it.

This score? It changes
everything
.

***

My shower is beyond brief. I spend a minute checking myself over in the mirror. My hair is at my shoulders now, but it’s still dark and curly enough to be a hassle. The rest of me seems unchanged. Green eyes, narrow nose, and dimples I’ve hated since I first noticed them in the second grade.

My phone rings when I’m finishing my hair, buzzing on the sink.

“Mags,” I breathe, scrambling as it skates across the vanity. I catch it and search for her name, but it’s not Maggie. It’s the number I saw over and over in my phone last night. The one I obviously call all the time these days.

I answer it, hoping that Maggie’s number has changed—that she’ll be yelling at me for not calling and asking me what we’re doing for lunch.

“Morning.” It’s Blake. My shoulders sag, and he goes on, not waiting for me to respond. “How are you feeling?”

My eyes search for the mirror. I look tired and pale. Maybe even a little scared.

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? Did you have your mom look at your head?”

I test it with my fingers, but it’s barely sore now. Not likely a brain injury.

“She did. It’s fine,” I say, because lying is easier than explaining I totally forgot about my head after his good-bye kiss completely squicked me out.

“Good,” he says. “So you want me to come in? I’ve got your breakfast.”

My spine goes stiff. “Come in? Are you here?”

He chuckles at that. “Your car’s at school, babe. Did you think I’d make you walk?”

Babe. Girlfriend.
All kinds of impossible words that feel too ridiculous to be believed. They also feel sort of…nauseating.

“No,” I say, forcing the word out through a tight throat.

Blake makes a noise on the other end of the phone, something between a snort and a sigh. “Are you sure you’re all right? I hate to say it, but you’re acting like a total head case.”

The word pinches the last nerve I’ve got, but I’m sure he can’t mean anything by it. And he’s got a point. If he really thinks I’m his girlfriend, then I am being a head case.

I force a stiff chuckle. “Sorry, I didn’t get enough sleep. I appreciate you stopping by. Can you give me two minutes?”

“I’ll be here.”

I don’t need two minutes, but I take them to get my nerves settled. I slide in a pair of silver hoops, noticing new pictures tucked into the frame of my dresser mirror. The three new group shots turn my skin cold at one glance.

I don’t belong in these pictures. These aren’t pictures of my people. I’m not a social leper, but I’m not the girl that belongs in these pictures. They’re filled edge to edge with the rich, the beautiful, the brilliant…and
me
.

Blake stands next to me in every last one, his arm around my shoulder and my head tipped toward him. It’s the kind of pose that leaves no question to our status. We’re together.

Un-freaking-believable.

My memory decides to have some sort of massive file corruption and
these
are the months I missed? What about my years in braces? Or the summer my dog and grandmother died a month apart? No, I get to miss the six months that turned my life from train wreck into perfection. Lovely.

I glance out my window where Blake’s Mustang is idling at my curb. Things definitely could be worse.

I make my way outside to his car. He opens the door for me, a doughnut in his mouth and a paper bag held out for me to take.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing myself to kiss him when he leans in. It’s still stiff and awkward, but it will get better. It has to. He’s Blake Tanner, for God’s sake.

I bury my nose in the bag and inhale. “Smells awesome. Thank you.”

“Hop in. We’re going to be late.”

I’ve never been so grateful for a blueberry scone. I savor every bite, chewing slowly so that I don’t have to say anything. I need to fill in a few more blanks before I talk myself into a corner. It works like a dream, and before I know it, we’re in the parking lot.

Blake drops me near the doors, and I automatically take his trash with mine. I feel like we’ve done this dance a thousand times. My body knows the steps, even if I can’t hear the music.

Salt crunches beneath my feet as I climb the stairs two at a time out of habit. I doubt it matters if I’m late now. With the scores I’ve got tacked to my fridge, I could probably schlep off a month of school and still pick almost any college I’d like.

And apparently those pictures on my dresser weren’t a joke. I’m
popular
. Not just,
Oh, hey, there’s Chloe
, but, like, squealing and waving and air kisses from girls who barely nodded at me before. Even Alexis gives me a shoulder squeeze and a “Hey, girl!” as I pass her.

By the time I get to my locker, I feel dizzy with all the greetings that have been aimed my way. I’m getting so much in-crowd attention, I feel like I should have pom-poms and a pleated skirt.

I approach the locker that’s been mine since freshmen year and grin when the combination hasn’t changed. Okay, I can do this. I can figure this out.

And then, when I didn’t think things could get any better, I see Maggie across the hall. Her strawberry blond hair is six inches shorter, curling just above her shoulders. But I’d never mistake the set of her shoulders or the half smile that always seems present on her lips.

“Maggie!” I shout.

She looks up at me, and for one second, the world is right. Maggie will drag me to the bathroom and borrow my lip gloss or ask me if she should go a shade darker with her hair. Then I will tell her about my stupid amnesia, and she will help me diagram every major event I’ve missed. My secret will be safe. Everything will be perfect.

I think all of those things in the nanosecond before our gazes lock. And then Maggie’s eyes go cold and flat. Her mouth purses into a frown I’ve rarely seen, and she looks away.

***

I’m standing in the hallway, staring at the empty space where Maggie once stood, when the bell rings. Lockers slam, classroom doors close, and then I hear the soft drone of more than one teacher addressing their students.

My feet feel glued to the ground. I could force them to move, but where would I go? I don’t know which class I belong to. I don’t know what to do, and I can’t ask for help, not without giving myself away.

Stupid! What was I thinking coming here? Thinking I could get away with this?

Tears are stinging the backs of my eyes, choking my throat. I need to get out of here. I need to get help because I am
not
okay.

A classroom door opens in front of me. A hall check. And here I am, in the hall when I should be at a desk in one of these rooms. I can see it all—the principal’s office, the questions. The end of this perfect life before I have one second to enjoy it.

I hear someone rushing up behind me and then a strong hand sliding between my arm and waist, poking at the books I have clamped to my side. I fumble, watching everything fall to the floor. Mr. Fibbs pokes his balding head out of his classroom, a look of wariness in his eyes.

“Hallway collision,” someone says behind me. “My fault. We’re just getting her books.”

Adam. Relief rushes over me at the sound of his voice. Wait, not relief. It has to be something else. It kind of feels like relief though.

His arm brushes my calf as he crouches down, carefully collecting the notebooks and folders he just forced me to drop. I stare, mute and dazed as he gathers my things into a neat pile.

“Move fast,” Mr. Fibbs says, and this time he leaves his door cracked as he returns to class.

I hear nothing but my own breath and the soft hiss of paper against paper, his long fingers pulling them together.

I’ve never been this close to Adam. He’s kind of famous around here, our resident criminal and all. I’ve never thought much about it, or him for that matter. But when he tilts his head and looks up at me, I wonder how in the world I
haven’t
thought about him.