by Cat Patrick
“Freaking stupid,” Ella says as we pull into traffic.
I turn around and look at Betsey, who seems like she might agree. Probably sensing my worry, she tries to lighten the mood.
“At least we got ice cream.”
On the way home, we decide to wait and see what Grayson does at school. If she asks about it—which I hope she won’t—we’ve got a story ready. If she doesn’t, we’re in the clear.
With Ella’s “freaking stupid” comments all the way home, by the time we arrive, I don’t feel like hanging out anymore. I take two pieces of pizza to my room and call Sean. As it rings, I worry about Mom seeing his number on the bill, but I ignore the thought in favor of Sean’s voice.
“Lizzie B.,” he says, like he’s been waiting for me.
“Hey,” I say, melting onto the bed.
“Hi,” he says, and I can hear his smile through the phone. “I still have sand in my pockets.”
“I still haven’t washed my T-shirt,” I admit, gripping the phone like it’s a fish trying to squirm away from me.
“You look good in it,” he says. “You should wear it every day.”
“I’m not sure the others would go for that,” I say, happy that I can talk about Ella and Betsey. Happy that he knows about them.
Sean and I are quiet for a couple of seconds, listening to each other’s stillness. And then: “So, I have to talk to you about something,” I say, remembering a conversation from earlier.
“Something else?” Sean asks, and even though he’s joking, I can hear his nervousness. “Should I be worried?”
“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, but you might.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Well, you know that our mom will only let us date Dave,” I say slowly.
“Yeah, but I sort of assumed…” Sean’s words trail off. This is what I was afraid of: that he’d think I could simply start dating him instead. “You’re going to keep seeing him, aren’t you?” he says, voice dipped in jealousy.
“Well, it’s not like I like him,” I say. “But it’s that or nothing. And dating anyone is a step in the right direction.” I sigh. “Besides, it’s not me who’s dating him. I just have to tolerate him at school.”
“You’re not exactly selling me here, Lizzie,” Sean says quietly.
“My… the others and I talked about it, and we think there’s a way for us to date both of you at once.”
“Won’t your mom know?” he asks.
“Not if we’re careful.”
“I don’t like this,” Sean says. “What about at school when you’re with Dave? I’m just supposed to pretend I don’t care when you’re holding his hand in the hallway?”
“I don’t hold his hand in the hallway.”
“Ella probably does,” he says.
I blow my hair out of my eyes, frustrated. Getting to know Sean shouldn’t have to be this complicated. I don’t answer because I don’t know what to say.
“So, what are we doing then, Lizzie?” he asks seriously.
“I…” I begin. “I’m not sure.” When I hear him tsk on the other end of the line, I hastily add, “But I know what I want to be doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Will we?” I ask, feeling hopeful and defeated at the same time.
“Yeah,” he says, surprising me by sounding sure. “We will.”
sixteen
Monday at the switch, Betsey follows me outside to meet Ella. Even though it’s lunchtime, she’s still wearing pajamas. I hear her fuzzy slippers shhshhshhshh on the walkway behind me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking over my shoulder. She ignores me, so I turn forward again. I pull the bottom of my pink tank top so it’s smooth under the white cardigan. I stop walking and wait for Ella to park, shifting my weight to my left foot. I hate these flats. Ella wears them all the time, but they pinch.
Ella takes her sweet time getting out of the car, but finally she appears. She flips her curly hair over one shoulder and starts toward us, removing the necklace and eyeballing Betsey at the same time.
“How was Grayson?” I ask. They have history together.
Ella shrugs. “Quiz day. She was late and I rushed out at the bell, so she didn’t have the chance to say anything. I’m not sure she was going to, though.”
Ella looks at Betsey. “What’s up?” she asks, manicured eyebrows furrowed. It reminds me that I meant to pluck this morning. I hope no one notices that Elizabeth Best’s eyebrows are less sculpted after lunch.
“Give me the locket,” Bet says, holding out a hand.
“Why?” Ella asks, looking fearful, like she thinks Betsey might smash it or something. I gotta admit: I’m a little afraid myself. Betsey is getting pretty gutsy where Mom’s concerned. She’s seemed genuinely unfazed since Grayson saw us Saturday.
“Just do it,” Betsey says impatiently. Just when I’m wondering whether Ella’s going to refuse, she hands over the necklace, and Betsey quickly clasps it around her neck. Then Betsey looks at me.
“All she needs to hear is a heartbeat,” she explains. “A calm, steady heartbeat. What’s more calm than being at home all the time?” she asks with a smile, waving her right hand toward the house. “I’ll just take it off when you’re in dance, then put it back on for creative writing, and take it off again when you’re at cheer. No problem.”
“Except that if she logs on to the GPS tracking site and finds that the necklace is at home, we’re dead,” Ella says.
Betsey shakes her head. “She won’t. If there are no irregular heartbeats, no unexplained periods of time when the locket is silent, she’ll have no reason to worry. No worry; no problem.”
“What if she sees it on you?” I ask. “You’re with her all afternoon.”
“I’ll hide it under my shirt,” Betsey says. “Or I can pretend I’m cold and wear a scarf. I’ll figure it out; don’t worry about it!”
It makes sense, except Ella doesn’t look convinced. I’m not sure I am, either, but I’m not about to second-guess the chance to spend an entire day without the possibility of being spied on.
“This is crazy,” Ella says quietly.
“Being tagged is crazy,” Betsey says. “This is very sane.”
“She does it for our protection,” Ella says.
“No,” Betsey says, raising a palm and looking suddenly mad. “We live like we do for good reason, but the necklace isn’t that. It’s about her being absurdly overprotective and nothing more.” Bet pauses a second, her eyes softening. She takes hold of Ella’s hands. “El, is this what you want? To live a third of a life? To barely know what the world looks like at night?”
“To be banned from cheerleading just because you’re good at trigonometry?” I add softly.
“But this is what we agreed to,” Ella says. “It’s just how things are.”
“It’s what we agreed to when we were too young to know better,” Betsey says. “And it’s not how it has to be.”
Ella yanks her hands out of Betsey’s, ripping herself from the truth.
“I’m not sure when you turned all Che on us, but I happen to be okay with my life,” she says. “No matter what’s up with Mom right now, the fact is that we don’t have a fraction of the pressure that other girls our age have. Mom provides for us and basically leaves us alone. I’m dating Dave. We have everything we need. I’m satisfied, and I don’t want you two messing it up.” She exhales loudly. “I mean, first it’s telling Sean, then all of us going out together and getting caught—it’s all just too much. It’s not worth it.”
I bite my tongue instead of pointing out that she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. Her mention of Mom providing for us reminds me again that we have no idea how she’s managing to do that. There’s more to those twenty-thousand-dollar deposits; I just know it. But with Ella upset and the lunch hour dwindling, I choose to leave it alone for now.
“Let’s talk about it later,” I say t
o Ella, who shakes her head and goes inside. Betsey calls after her.
“Just don’t say anything about the locket.”
The day feels like one of those eggshell days from then on out, like things are going to crack if I bump them wrong. But then creative writing makes it all better. We have a sub, one who’s clueless about the subject she’s teaching and annoyed by the kids in class. So it’s essentially a free period.
A free period with Sean.
Right after the bell, he turns in his seat to face me, moving in the direction of the wall so his back is to the rest of the class. We’re in our own little bubble.
“Your hair is curly today,” he observes, eyes playful.
“It is,” I say, unconsciously grabbing a curl and twisting it. It’s one of those perfect ringlets that I think looks good on everyone else, especially Ella. But this curly mane has never felt right on me. Sean scrunches up his eyebrows and looks me over one feature at a time. When I could swear he’s staring at my nose, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Just making sure…” he says. His eyes fall to my chin. He tilts his head to the side a little and purses his lips as his eyes dance down my arms all the way to my fingertips. “Yep.”
“Yep what?” I ask, confused.
“Yep, it’s you,” he says confidently.
“How can you be so sure?” I tease. “We could be Parent Trap–ing you right now.”
“You’re not,” he says, smiling.
“Seriously,” I say, leaning forward. “I’m Betsey.”
Sean leans forward, too, and we’re almost inappropriately close for class. I can feel his breath on my lips. Without hesitation, he says, “You’re Lizzie.”
Smiling, I exhale and lean back again. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“About some things,” he says, shrugging. Then: “About this.”
We hold gazes for a moment. Loud laughter across the room makes us look away. When we’ve both checked it out—a guy fell out of his chair—we’re back in our bubble.
“I got you a present,” Sean says before leaning over to get something out of his bag.
“Oh, yeah? What is it?”
Under my desk, he passes something from his palm to mine. His fingertips touch my wrist at the transfer, and he might as well have just kissed my earlobe for the jolt it gives me. I move my hand to my lap and look down: It’s a phone.
“It’s prepaid, and only I have the number,” Sean whispers. “Your mom won’t be able to monitor when we talk to each other.”
“No, she won’t,” I say, smiling with my whole face at him. I’ll never have to worry about Mom checking the bill again. “This is spy stuff: You’re pretty sneaky.”
“And you’re just pretty.”
Sean scrunches up his nose at the line, but cheesy or not, I love it. And I love the way I feel when I’m near him, too.
Grayson looks at me quizzically at the start of cheer practice: I brace myself for the question I know is coming. Then halfway through the hour, when everyone’s going through a new cheer in small groups, she pulls me aside.
“Am I mental or do you have sisters who look just like you?” she asks.
I pause, probably a second too long, actually considering telling her. Now that we’ve told Sean, we can tell others, too, right? Then I snap out of it.
“You’re mental!” I say, letting loose a laugh that I mean to sound breezy but doesn’t at all. “Either that, or you need to have your eyes checked.”
Grayson blinks at me; she’s not buying it.
“I was with my cousins on Saturday,” I explain. “Our moms are sisters, so some people say we look alike.” I dramatically roll my eyes. “God, I hope not. You should see the nose on one of them. And the other is like a foot taller than me.”
I force another laugh, and Grayson laughs politely herself, even though nothing’s funny. Nothing at all.
“That makes sense,” she says, probably thinking that it doesn’t. But instead of saying anything more, she says simply, “Well, it was fun to bump into you anyway.”
“You, too,” I say.
We smile forced smiles at each other and she goes back to the front of the room to gather everyone. She eyes me suspiciously a few more times before practice lets out, but she keeps her mouth shut about the whole thing. I guess that’s all I can really ask for.
seventeen
Life feels like one of Sean’s pictures for two weeks: captured in a moment and standing still. I don’t want to say perfect, because Mom and her secrets are always on my mind. I don’t want to say normal, because that’s not a word I know. So I’ll say steady. Life is steady. But then it starts moving again.
Two weeks before Halloween, on a Thursday, Sean and I are parked in the lot of an abandoned superstore eating drive-thru tacos when I look down at my purse the second before it rings. I answer the call; it’s Betsey.
“She wrote back,” she whispers.
“What?” I say, plugging my left ear. “Who wrote back?”
“The girl from Twinner!” Bet says. “Her name’s Petra and she lives in Oregon. And listen to this: She’s adopted.”
“Shut up,” I say, allowing her enthusiasm to rub off on me. “I didn’t really think it could be possible, but what if—”
“I know!” Bet whispers excitedly. “I mean, I didn’t tell her anything really, but—”
Her words drop off. “Bet?”
“Shh!”
I glance at Sean, who’s looking at me with amused curiosity. I realize then that I’m hunched over and clutching the phone like it’s precious. Before I can say anything to him, Bet’s back.
“I have to go,” she says. “Mom’s lurking around: I’m hiding in the closet. I’m going to write Petra back later and see if I can get more information out of her.”
“Maybe you should become a detective when you grow up,” I joke.
“Why do I have to wait until I grow up?” Betsey asks, laughing at herself. “Anyway, see you later.”
I hang up, then relay the call to Sean.
“Does this mean that you’re finally going to do something about it?” he asks.
“About what?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m being an idiot. “Lizzie, your mom is borderline abusive—you get that, right?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m five,” I snap. “And I know my mom… a lot better than you do. She may be one hundred and fifty percent overprotective, and she may have more than a touch of OCD, but she’s not abusing us.”
Sean sighs and scrunches up a taco wrapper.
“I think you have Stockholm syndrome,” he mutters.
“I think you’re making this more dramatic than it needs to be,” I say. “I mean, yeah, I hate it. I want out of the arrangement as it stands. And yeah, my mom’s wacked. But I’d appreciate you toning it down a bit.”
“Just trying to help,” Sean says.
“Well, stop.”
“Fine.” He’s clearly annoyed. “But you said yourself, you get used to things to the point where they don’t seem weird anymore. And you’re used to this… but, Lizzie, believe me when I tell you: It’s still weird.”
“I get it, okay?” I say, looking out the window. “Can we just go back to school?”
He clenches his jaw and starts the car.
Barely anyone’s around when Sean drops me off by the main entrance. Without words, he pulls away—he’ll go to the student lot to park. I rush inside, feeling sick about our first fight, particularly because I know I’m the one who’s wrong.
I shove my way through the swarm of students buzzing through the main hall. For the billionth time since we started at Woodbury, I wish that our assigned locker were in one of the less congested areas of the school. Sighing after someone elbows me in the back as she passes, I rush through the combination—3, 33, 13—wanting to just stash my books, get what I need for Spanish, and get out of here.
Dave makes sure that doesn’t happen.
Usu
ally, I don’t see Dave at school, which is a good thing. Despite all of us knowing that he can’t tell us apart, Ella still seems happy to be dating him, and even Betsey said he was funny after they went out for coffee when he just showed up as a surprise after night class. I’m the only one who’s emotionally allergic to the guy. Which is, of course, why I’m the one he asks to the Halloween Dance today, of all days.
In the most humiliatingly public way possible.
I yank open the locker door and dozens and dozens of tennis balls come spilling out all over the main hall. The girl at the locker next to mine squeals and points at the ball avalanche, drawing even more attention to me and the situation. Since the hallway’s so packed, everyone has to dodge the furry balls or risk tripping and falling: I get a seriously scary look when a girl wearing inappropriately tall heels nearly breaks her ankle trying to make it through the mess.
Almost in the same instant, I realize three things: Three of the balls are pink with words written on them; Dave and his friends are watching nearby; and approaching from the other direction is none other than Sean.
My real boyfriend.
The one who’s already super mad at me right now.
Grayson and a girl I don’t know are standing by their shared locker across the walkway. I look at Grayson, pleading with my eyes. Despite the fact that she probably still thinks I’m a liar, she smiles warmly and weaves through the crowd, bending to pick up balls as she approaches. By the time she makes it to my side of the hall, she’s got an armload.
“Lily, will you go get a bag from the office?” Grayson calls over her shoulder.
“Sure,” Lily says, slamming the locker and disappearing into the sea of people. I glance at Dave and catch one of his friends elbowing him on the arm in congratulations. It’s annoying. Meanwhile, people continue to stare and laugh at the locker that vomited tennis balls and the girl desperately trying to contain them.
