Like Never and Always

by Ann Aguirre

  The sun is bright but it feels good. This space used to be wasted; the school is designed in a square O, and they recently greened it up to make use of this area. Which means a few picnic tables, benches, and plants have been added. It’s an ongoing project for the agriculture students, actually, and a few of them are planting a tree as Nathan sprawls in the shade before a trellis where someone’s trying to get jasmine to grow. There’s a small flower garden and a patch of sweet-smelling herbs. Most students prefer air-con and safety from bee stings, so there are only five people out here, including the ones who are working.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” But why do you care?

  “Clay asked me to watch out for you,” he says then, crushing my nascent dream that he senses who I am, what we meant to each other.

  “You don’t have to. I’m dealing.” My tone is icy, pure Morgan. I’ve heard her deploy it when someone crosses the line.

  “You’re doing me a favor. The guys are so awkward, they don’t know how to treat me. One asshole is talking about all the condolence pussy I’ll get, like that’s a bright spot.”

  “Seriously? Let me guess, Braden Wilkes.”

  Nathan flashes me a surprised look. “How’d you know?”

  “It’s the Young Republicans you have to watch out for. They seem so responsible and then they come out with the most revolting shit.”

  “True. But I didn’t think you knew my friends that well.”

  “Liv and I did talk, you know. I paid attention.” At least I hope that’s true.

  He flinches slightly when I say her name. My name. God, this sucks. He shakes it off, running a hand through dark hair that’s already practically standing on end. With a sigh, he tries to smile, like I didn’t see how much he’s hurting. It only exacerbates how I feel.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me. Don’t act like everything’s okay.”

  “Thanks,” he says softly. “That … helps.”

  For, like, ten minutes, we just sit there soaking up the sun, and I’m nearly asleep when he whispers, “You never told her, right?”

  What the hell? Does this have anything to do with the text? And why does Nathan know, if I don’t?

  “What do you think?” That’s not a great response, but it’s the best I can do on the fly. I’m starting to wish I’d pretended to have amnesia. Then nobody would expect me to know anything.

  “I’m guessing not. Liv wasn’t the type to hide it if she was mad.”

  That answer doesn’t clarify anything. This is going to drive me crazy. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap, pushing to my feet.

  Great exit line, but I can’t shake the questions this conversation has planted. Doubts spring up like weeds, and I already have more of those than I can handle.

  10

  The rest of the day, if I’m not worrying about that text, I’m wondering what Nathan was talking about. In study hall, some art kids surround me. For the most part I recognize their faces but I can’t remember half of their names. The ringleader is Oscar Sanchez. He hasn’t come out, but he’s fabulous, all Goth glam style. With a full coif, black nail polish, eyeliner, and a spiked collar, he’s clearly going for a particular vibe.

  “You didn’t even wait for us when you left Visual Arts,” he complains. “And you vanished when I was looking for you at lunch.”

  So this is Morgan’s social backup system?

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “I figured you’d want to hang out more, now that your circumstances have changed.” Oscar makes it sound like Liv has moved away and cut Morgan loose. At long last.

  “Be nice,” one of the girls chides. She’s wearing a black latex dress, ripped fishnets, and combat boots.

  “It’s fine,” I say with Morgan’s inscrutable half smile.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Oscar protests.

  The teacher comes in and shushes us. I pass the period reading for American Lit, as little of my homework can be completed sitting at a desk. I have some research to do for Sociology, and two projects already assigned in my two art classes. I’d always thought art must be a blow-off specialty, but I’m already learning how badly I misjudged Morgan’s workload.

  After school, a Frost Tech employee is waiting for me out front in a logo-bearing hatchback. I’ve already been delegated. I don’t know the man behind the wheel, but since he’s waving, Morgan must. Crap. He’s not wearing a security badge. Pretty soon I’ll be reduced to saying things like, Hello, name, how is your family and/or significant other? Then when people give me that look, I’ll tell them I’m practicing to be a robot for an avant-garde art show. I’m sure that’ll work.

  Somehow I choke down a semi-hysterical laugh. This is so dangerous. Since I don’t know everyone Morgan would, a kidnapper would have the easiest time playing me. He’d just have to say that Mr. Frost sent him and I’d be afraid to question it, afraid if I do, it’s a mistake, and I’ll be found out.

  Then … what? They’ll perform an exorcism? Honest to God, I can’t even conceive of how anyone would react if they did suspect. Maybe they’d write off any inconsistencies—it’s a result of stress or whatever, she’ll be fine in time—sort of thing.

  The Frost Tech guy lowers his hand, crestfallen. “You don’t remember me.”

  “Sorry,” I say with a shrug and a smile.

  “Well, your dad sent me. You can call to confirm if you want. He’s in a meeting but he’ll pick up for you.”

  I’d rather have Mr. Frost think I have a bad memory than get in a car with someone who might make me disappear, especially since I know Morgan’s been keeping secrets and it seems like she’s being blackmailed. Clay’s words resonate with me: “… this will eat you alive, along with everything else.” Does he know what’s going on?

  Without wasting any more time, I switch on my phone, half expecting another sinister message. Nothing new. Good. I call Mr. Frost to check this guy’s story. He picks up on the second ring. “You okay?”

  I can hear a low hum of voices behind him. “Fine. Just making sure this tall blond guy is really my ride.”

  “Flint’s driven you around before.”

  “You think I pay attention?” I manage a sweetly teasing laugh, not identical to Morgan’s but close enough.

  “True. You’re always on your phone.”

  “See? But I’m being careful. Points for that?”

  “Definitely.” Mr. Frost doesn’t even say bye before hanging up on me.

  “All set?” Flint asks as I climb into the front seat.

  “Yeah.”

  In the car, I try using reverse lookup, but the site only tells me that it’s a mobile number, registered in Renton, and “low risk” for fraud or spam. I need to know who’s after Morgan, but I have no idea how to find those answers. The scientist in me wants to come up with a hypothesis, but this is the kind of shit that’s damn near impossible to corroborate.

  I exist. I am Liv. I am not dead.

  Yeah, I can’t prove any of that.

  Or figure out who’s out to get Morgan. I curse beneath my breath.

  Otherwise, I don’t speak except to thank Flint as I climb out. My side hurts like hell, even in flats, so I pause in the kitchen to take some pain meds and scrounge up a snack. There’s a note on the fridge letting me know that the housekeeper is at the market and I should text her if there’s anything special I want her to pick up. That means I’m alone here, nobody to interrupt or ask what I’m doing. So I eat quickly, then head upstairs as fast as my wobbly legs will carry me.

  It feels like burglary when I open Morgan’s dresser drawers. At first, I find only meticulous clothing. Like, I’ve never seen anything so neat and organized. The T-shirts are all folded into perfect squares and then, instead of lying flat, they’re pressed upright vertically in two neat rows so you can tell at a glance what’s there, by color, at least. I marvel at that before moving on to her desk, where I find about what you’d expect: old movie tickets, stubs
of charcoal and pastels, ink pens and pencils, a few ragged-looking hair accessories, a handful of coins from various European countries. I dig deeper and find a birth control wheel, about half the pills missing.

  This isn’t exactly a surprise, though Morgan didn’t tell me much about her sex life. I knew she wasn’t a virgin, though. She did it for the first time when she was a freshman, some guy in Venice, she claimed, and said it was no big deal. I was still in junior high then, and she seemed so amazingly grown up. That means Clay will probably expect you to sleep with him, sooner or later.

  Great, another problem.

  I lift a tray full of paper clips and other office oddments to find an unmarked manila envelope. Since Morgan was prone to doodling, that seems noteworthy. I pull it out and dump the contents onto the desk. First I pick up some candid photos of Morgan and a guy I don’t know. He seems older but these are black-and-white, taken in a strip of four at one of those stupid booths, so I can’t be sure. These are not exactly high-res.

  In the first pose, she’s sitting on his lap while he nuzzles her neck. The second one shows them full-on kissing while the third is mutual sly smiles, and the last is her head on his shoulder. I flip the photos over and see that she’s written Step one in Sharpie on the back. What the hell? From any normal teenage girl, you’d be more likely to find hearts and the guy’s name. But Morgan is a law unto herself. And I’m only now realizing how much she kept hidden.

  But where does this leave Clay? Maybe she dumped this other dude?

  The next thing I find is a broken friendship bracelet; this thing is filthy and smells faintly of blood. When I pick it up, a wave of horror floods me, and I drop it on the desk. Yet to look at it, this is just frayed blue and green yarn woven together with plastic beads bearing faded letters that spell 4EVER. I don’t touch it again, just nudge it aside with the envelope and go on digging through her stash of incomprehensible secrets. There are two receipts, one for a convenience store near the school, and one for a shop I’ve never been to, mostly since it’s in Paris. I have no idea why these two things were important enough to save. There’s also a Post-it with six numbers and a scrawled, gate code. I memorize that since it might come in handy.

  Finally, I pick up a blue film. I stare at it for a few seconds, trying to process what I’m seeing. This is a freaking ultrasound. I immediately slap my hands over my stomach. Is Morgan … am I pregnant?

  11

  Reeling, I brace myself against the desk.

  If so, who’s the dad? Clay? Mystery photo guy? This might be what the blackmail text was about. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.

  Wait, but wouldn’t the accident have caused problems? The doctors would’ve informed me if I’d lost a baby while I was in the hospital and they would’ve mentioned an existing pregnancy, too.

  Searching Morgan’s room hasn’t helped at all, only raised more questions. Time to explore elsewhere.

  The pain meds have kicked in, so I hurry downstairs, favoring my side. I find the study unlocked. My hands are shaking as I turn on Mr. Frost’s computer. But he has a password, dammit. I should’ve thought of that. This is pretty much his forte, and I was dumb to think I could just wander into his home office and unearth his secrets, if he has any. His desk drawer is locked, too. Because of a childhood obsession with using my grandparents’ RV as a secret fort, I have rudimentary lock-picking skills. I always wanted to take Morgan and hide out to get away from Jason, but Mom said it wasn’t a place for us to play, so she’d never give us the keys. At nine, that didn’t deter me, however. I read basic books about locks and I didn’t stop until I could get into the camper without the key.

  If I’d gathered some supplies first, I might have gotten inside, but I’m not exactly an expert, so I might scratch the metal on my way in. Disappointment spreads like spilled beer, so I turn. No point getting caught when there’s nothing I can accomplish.

  But as I head for the door, a picture on the far wall catches my eye. The man in the photo with Mr. Frost looks familiar. I take a couple of steps to verify, and holy shit. This is totally her make-out buddy from the candid strip upstairs. In this picture, full color, it’s obvious that he’s in his late thirties, old enough to know better. By the way he’s shaking hands with Mr. Frost, it seems like he’s Somebody, a politician or another CEO, maybe.

  What were you doing, Morgan?

  “I’m home,” Mrs. Rhodes calls.

  I scurry out of the study and close the door, then go to meet her. She seems surprised by this, another clue that Morgan wasn’t gregarious at home. But before we can play another round of Gosh, you’re weird and not acting like yourself, Clay calls.

  You’re always saving me lately. Relief fills me, and it’s like sinking into a hot, sweet-scented bath. Consequently, my voice comes out warmer than I intend. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Not much. I’m off today. Want to hang out?” He’s tentative, remembering what I texted about needing some time.

  Not a good idea. But I can’t think how to backpedal from my bright greeting. “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “I’d rather hang out at your place.” Where I can see Nathan.

  I’m horrible. But I’m doing this anyway.

  A long pause. “Really? But … you hate my house.”

  “Not today.”

  “Whatever you want,” Clay says.

  Ten minutes later, he’s at the front gate, buzzing the intercom. I let him in and am waiting outside by the fountain when he pulls up. He’s driving a small green hatchback, not the Corvair. I get in and after I fasten my seat belt, he touches my arm lightly.

  “How much did school suck?” he asks.

  “On a scale of one to ten? Six. Where did you get the car?”

  He starts the engine. “The auto shop is loaning it to me while they check out my Corvair.”

  So the Corvair might not be beyond saving. I’m not sure I’ll be able to ride in it again, though, considering that I died in it.

  I’m quiet as we cover the six miles between Morgan’s mansion and the Claymore house. They live, literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. Cliché, but Renton does have train tracks and if you live on the south side of them, well … I watch as the slightly seedy, trying-to-become-gentrified downtown yields to rusty chain-link fences, cars up on blocks, and living room furniture in the front yard.

  I don’t mind Nathan and Clay’s place, though Morgan apparently did. We pull into a gravel alley shared with the house next door and he parks in back. The front yard is fenced, and it’s cleaner than the neighbors’ on either side. They live in a shotgun house, once painted orange for cheer, but now peeling badly. Cement blocks support the structure, and I know for a fact that stray cats sometimes have kittens under there; Nathan showed me a litter earlier this summer.

  Sagging wood steps lead up to the front porch. I approve of the swing, having spent some sweet nights there with Nathan. Considering how rarely I’ve seen Mrs. Claymore around, the house is pretty clean, even if everything is ancient, worn, and faded. The appliances and carpet date to the seventies, I’m sure.

  “Home sweet home,” Clay says with enough edge that I know he’s waiting for me to come out with something judgmental.

  The sofa and armchair are covered with faded sheets, probably to hide the stains that can’t be scrubbed off, but I can tell from the smell that they’ve been washed recently. The carpet is forest-green deep shag, and the walls are a dingy gray. There are posters up, none framed, and one of them is hiding a hole that Mrs. Claymore’s asshole boyfriend added with a fist. The door that leads to the front bedroom is closed. Pressing one hand to my side, I sit down carefully. A sigh slides out. This isn’t home, but it feels closer than Morgan’s place. She preferred to hang out at my house and I completely understand why.

  “Want something to drink? I have beer, water, and lemonade.”

  “Pass on the beer. I’m still on the good meds.”

  Clay seems to remembe
r Morgan’s allergies belatedly. “You can’t have it anyway. Sorry, I forgot. Water?”

  “Lemonade please.”

  “It has sugar,” he reminds me.

  “Oh. Yeah. Water, then.” God, this diet sucks. I’m going to end up devouring chocolate bars in Morgan’s walk-in closet.

  When he comes back, he’s got a beer and I accept the Mason jar with a half-smile, the best I can manage. I thought for sure Nathan would be home. It’s not like I believed we’d really have a chance to talk, but seeing him would’ve been enough.

  “Thanks.”

  “So … are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He sinks down on the other end of the couch, a move that leaves me grateful.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can tell something’s bothering you,” he says quietly. “Besides grief. It’s cool if you don’t want to tell me why you’re worried, but don’t think I’m oblivious.”

  Clearly there’s more to Clay than I previously estimated, and … I’m so tired. There’s a slim chance he may already know about this, plus I can’t keep fighting alone. It’s bad enough living in someone else’s skin. Finding out the truth may prove impossible on my own. So … I decide to trust him.

  Without comment, I pull up the text message and hand him the phone. He skims it, then his gaze snaps to mine. “What’re they talking about?”

  So much for the possibility that Morgan confided in him.

  “I wish I knew,” I mutter.

  “You should tell your dad. Whatever it is, he’ll be more pissed at whoever’s shaking you down over it.”

  “That presumes me being able to confess only what I’m being blackmailed for,” I say. “Because otherwise I have to dump my purse, so to speak.”

  He grins faintly. “The perils of being bad.”

  Ironic, because I wasn’t as Liv, and I didn’t know about Morgan’s secret life, especially not the older guy from the picture. I mean, she told me when she did crazy shit in Europe, but those always just sounded like … stories to me. Maybe I didn’t entirely believe her when she told me about having sex with a stranger on a train, or sneaking out to a club after her dad went to bed. Seems like I should have paid more attention.