by Ann Aguirre
Something flashes in Nathan’s green eyes. “Cruel. Don’t people claim you never forget your first time?”
“Is that what I said?” Once, I fell off the jungle gym and got the wind knocked out of me. That’s how I feel now, though I frame a smile, trying to cover that gut-punched reaction. “Maybe I lied. Maybe my first time was with a hot Italian guy.”
He seems oddly serious, palms flattened on the counter, as if he’s restraining the urge to reach for me. Or her. The uncertainty is excruciating. “Some things, you can’t lie about. In some cases, it’s pretty damn indisputable.”
So … the summer before our freshman year, Morgan hooked up with Nathan. I don’t know the circumstances and I can’t ask, but … she lied to me. She claimed it was some guy in Venice. I remember the dispassionate way she talked about it. Fast, awkward, and messy … that was Nathan? Who claimed he was waiting. For me.
I don’t know what’s true anymore.
All I’m sure of is that the guy I thought loved me more than anyone in the world? He was Morgan’s first. Shit, if she’d wanted to keep him, he probably wouldn’t have even looked at me. Pain lances through me, so I have to curl my fingers around the edges of the table in discreet, white-knuckled anguish.
If Nathan was Morgan’s first, does Clay know?
There’s a limit to how much I can take. Before, I was so anxious about Nathan, but now I can’t stand to look at him. My phone pings.
It would be awesome if it was Clay or even one of the art kids who want to annex me, but instead, it’s from my favorite blackmailer. The message reads, Tick-tock. Your father’s getting an email tomorrow. While Clay told me not to worry—that I can talk my way out of it—I’m not so sure anymore. The deeper I dig, the scarier my best friend’s secrets become.
And the more painful.
“Who’s it from?” Nathan asks.
“My dad.” I lie without hesitation. “I have to get home. Sorry to cut this short.” Morgan wouldn’t ask if he’s all right, and I don’t. At the moment I don’t particularly care.
Being careful has gotten me nowhere. As I pause outside the blue VW, I tap out a reply. Don’t be like that. Let’s meet and talk about it.
Just send the money.
No deal. I may be in for a shit-storm, but without seeing me, YOU don’t get paid. This is more for your benefit than mine.
Maybe this scumbag has some answers.
An hour later, I’m on my way to the arranged meeting point and wishing like hell there was someone I trusted as backup.
20
I’m ten minutes early for the meeting.
The blackmailer will know Morgan on sight, but he or she hasn’t given me anything to work with in terms of a description. I take a seat near the window. Georgette’s Diner has delicious pancakes, decent patty melts, and mediocre iced tea. I order the latter since the first two are off the table. This place has a retro vibe with checkered flooring, red vinyl booths, and an actual jukebox at the back. This seems like an odd place to meet up for clandestine business, but I wouldn’t have agreed to something like, “the quarry at midnight, come alone.” Each time the bell jingles, I eye the door with chills crawling down my back.
A bearded guy in his forties seems a likely suspect, but he strolls past me, directly to the washrooms. Five minutes go by. Ten.
Now this asshole is late.
I check out the people who were here when I arrived. Two elderly couples are nursing coffee after dinner while other booths are occupied by people from my high school. With a wince I recognize Oscar Sanchez, but oddly, he’s alone. He stares at me for a full five minutes, then he finally comes over and slides into my booth.
“I see you got my message.” His face is dead serious, and I have no idea what’s going on.
Trying to imagine how Morgan would react, I say, “If you need to borrow money, I can probably help you. Forcing me will get you nowhere. Go ahead, send my dad whatever.”
His eyes ice over. Grabbing my glass, he swigs half of my tea like he’s proving a point. The silence builds, until I can hardly stand it. What, exactly, does Oscar know? Somehow, we’ve started a staring contest, and neither of us is willing to look away.
Finally, he grins. “How far are you going to take this?”
Oh my God, is this a drama thing? An improv piece they were working on?
“You seemed pretty committed to the bit,” I say coolly.
“Props for playing along. But if you wanted to hang out, you could’ve just said so. No need to be melodramatic.”
I point out, “Drama is like cake to you.”
Relief swirls through me. Finally my luck has broken the right way. Oscar might have a terrible sense of humor, but at least I’m not being blackmailed.
I wonder why Morgan purged Oscar’s contact information, though. His name and picture should’ve come up if they messaged each other regularly.
Did she think someone was spying on her? Given what I’ve uncovered about her secret life, it’s not the most outlandish theory.
“You make a good point. I know I’m not supposed to talk about the pictures, like ever, but I can’t help wondering what happened with that old guy.”
It clicks for me then. Since Morgan couldn’t have taken the photos I found on the cloud, a third party had to be involved. I never would’ve guessed she’d be working with Oscar, yet photography is one of his hobbies. He’s always popping up with a camera, and his specialty is unflattering candid shots. Hypothetically, if Morgan had gotten Oscar’s text, she would’ve recognized the number and realized he was making an oblique reference to a secret they shared.
“It’s kind of hard to explain,” I mumble.
“Try.” By his tone, I can tell he’s let this slide before but curiosity must be getting the best of him. If I don’t give him something, a blackmail prank could turn into the real thing.
I can’t open the Pandora’s Box of I think he killed my mother, therefore I’m Humbert-Humberting him. So I come up with a story that I think Oscar might believe. Adopting Morgan’s faintly scornful expression, I say, “Have you seen any of his campaign ads? He promises family values and honesty yet you know how easy it was to get him to abandon those principles? I’m waiting for the next election and then I’ll leak those photos. With some judicious face-blurring on my end, of course.”
Oscar tilts his head, obviously unconvinced. “There are dishonest politicians all over the place, Morgan. What makes you so eager to bring this guy down?”
“He’s giving my dad a hard time.” That’s kind of the truth, though it’s more that he’s pestering him about supporting … I’m not sure what; I just remember something about an influx of capital and that Mr. Frost isn’t on board with the project.
Comprehension dawns. “I can see why you’d fight to keep some old bastard from chopping down your money tree.”
It seems like Oscar thinks Creepy Jack is threatening Mr. Frost’s business, and I roll with that assumption. “You’d do the same in my shoes.”
“Maybe,” he allows.
It’s good that Oscar is appeased without knowing too much. There must be a reason why Morgan trusted him enough to ask him to take those photos. The fact that he hasn’t posted them says volumes about how much I can trust him, even if he has a caustic personality and a twisted sense of humor.
“Want something to eat?” I ask. “It’s on me.”
“That’s more like it.” He grins and opens the menu.
Oscar orders a patty melt and a chocolate shake. The best thing about him is that he seems able to carry on a conversation with minimal input from me. He rambles about a project he’s working on for Visual Arts and I make interested noises until his food arrives. Then I try not to drool while watching him eat.
“It’s been a while,” I say, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks.
He nods. “Almost three months. We haven’t hung out since school ended last spring.”
“Sorry about that.” Maybe Morgan wouldn’t
apologize but he seems to appreciate it, based on the smile I get in reaction.
“You’ve been busy with Claymore the Elder since you came back, I get it.”
“Plus, I’m bad about keeping up with anyone during summer break.”
Fortunately he takes the bait. “How was Europe?”
This is one area where I can shine, as I spent hours listening to Morgan recount her adventures. I muster some animation and repeat a couple of stories. He likes the one about the hot musician busking on the tube platform, and he cracks up over the pickpocket chase scene at Camden Market, too. This carries us through the meal at least.
“I need to get back,” I say eventually. “My dad doesn’t even know I took the car out, so there will probably be a reckoning.”
If he knew Morgan as well as Clay did, Oscar would object to this, but he nods. “Call me when your old man cuts you loose.”
“It should be better once the stitches are out. I really can’t blame him for feeling overprotective right now.” That’s the most honest thing I’ve said in this conversation.
He sobers. “Yeah, about that … I’m sorry about Liv. I didn’t know her well but she seemed like a cool person.”
No matter how many times I hear that, it never gets easier. Not because my old life is gone but because I’m living a lie and nobody suspects a thing. It’s heartbreaking for both of us—for Morgan, that I could slip right into her life and nobody can tell the difference—and for me, because not a single soul, no matter how much they loved me, senses that I’m still here.
It’s like people are LEGOs, and everyone is replaceable.
21
Lately, I have all the privacy I could want and it’s sort of hellish.
When Morgan’s dad comes back, he seems exhausted and I regret some of my resentment over being delegated. I can’t imagine what kind of problems would plague a CEO, so I should cut him some slack. It’s not like I’m entitled to his time and attention.
I’m just … lonely. I miss my mom and dad. And Jason.
“Productive day?” I ask.
He stares at the meal I’ve laid out. “Is it a special occasion?”
“Huh?”
“Normally when I work late on the weekend you make me eat alone.”
Maybe I’m too sensitive, but there seems to be a major rift between Morgan and her dad. “Oh. I guess I’m trying to be more understanding. How am I doing?”
“Great,” he says, smiling, but his eyes are wary and watchful.
He doesn’t say much as we eat but I can tell he’s preoccupied. Asking doesn’t yield any results, though. Mr. Frost only says, “I’ll take care of it. You focus on feeling better, okay?”
“Sure,” I mutter. “I’ll just sit quietly and watch my flesh knit together.”
That doesn’t faze Mr. Frost. “On that note, you have an appointment Tuesday morning to get your stitches out. Flint will take you.”
“I’m fine to drive myself. I’ll take it easy, I promise.”
Hesitating, he looks me over as I pick at my roasted vegetables and tofu. Since my lack of appetite might mess things up, I take a huge bite and smile. My head’s still swirling from what I learned from Nathan, so it’s an effort, but it seems to reassure Mr. Frost. I can tell his resolve to keep me like a caged bird is weakening, though.
I press the advantage. “Do you want me to develop a phobia of driving or something? The longer you keep me from getting behind the wheel—”
“They say you should get right back on the horse that threw you, right?”
I’m not sure that applies if the “horse” in question killed your best friend, but since I want the freedom Morgan flaunted, I don’t object to his analogy.
“What time’s my appointment?” I prompt.
He finally gives me the info and reminds me it’s at the clinic where I had the checkup before, like I’m brain damaged in addition to being banged up. I swallow a cranky retort and promise to be there on schedule.
“You sure you don’t want anyone with you? Wanda can—”
“No, I’m good. But I’ll miss the first few periods of school. Don’t forget to call that in.”
“I’ll e-mail the principal and the attendance secretary now.” Mr. Frost gets out his phone and from that point on, it’s like I’m not even there.
I don’t want to sit with him. I don’t want to eat. I just want to run. And I’m not even sure why. A haunting sweetness drifts to me on the air-con breeze, a familiar woman’s perfume; I’ve smelled it twice before, but I still can’t remember the name. My knee starts to jog.
Need to go, now. I mumble an excuse, but he doesn’t look up from his screen as I hurry upstairs. Once the bedroom door shuts behind me, an odd sense of sanctuary steals over me. The tightness in my chest recedes and I let out a long, slow breath.
Is this how Morgan felt?
Sitting down at the desk, I get out the list I made and draw a line through the first question. Now I know what secret Nathan and Morgan shared, and I kind of wish I didn’t. I also cross off the blackmail issue. It’s a profound relief to realize that there isn’t a sketchy individual about to send incriminating evidence to Mr. Frost. While I’m all for Jack Patterson being punished, I can’t take action until I at least try to finish what Morgan started. Whatever my misgivings, however conflicted I feel, I owe her that much.
The rest of the weekend, I rest and work on projects I have no idea how to complete. With a miserable pang, I think about all the science and math I’m missing. Instead of studying what I want, I’ll turn in substandard work and try to talk the teachers into going easy on me. From what I’ve seen, Morgan’s good at that.
Monday, I avoid Nathan and hang out with the art kids.
In this clique nobody seems to be dating anyone else, which is what usually kills a group. First comes the hook-up, then the ugly dump, and then the circle takes sides, and pretty soon nobody is talking to anyone else. These guys have been hanging out since freshman year and I don’t remember anything like that.
“When are you inviting us over?” Oscar asks, out of the blue.
I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, so how about Wednesday?”
They all seem astonished for, like, ten seconds and then Eric says, “Are you serious? That would be amazing.”
He’s had a crush on Oscar’s younger sister, Kendra, for, like, six months. Everyone knows about it but either Kendra hasn’t gotten the memo or she’s ignoring it. Maybe he’s afraid to make a move because Oscar is one of his best friends. My throat tightens when I recall how Morgan and I watched Eric circling Kendra at Emma’s party a few weeks back. Like a slightly evil sports announcer, she ran such hilarious commentary that I almost peed my pants laughing.
He’s got a beer. Now he’s chugging it. He’s watching her from across the yard. Is this it, ladies and gents? Eric is heading for Kendra. He might speak, he might—oh, no, a last-minute choke and he’s veering off.
Those moments are gone forever; I’m alone in Morgan’s skin. The pain of it washes over me until I don’t know why everyone at the table can’t hear the screaming in my head. It’s so loud, it practically deafens me, but they’re excited, making plans to hang out at the mansion on Wednesday night. I let that wash over me, wishing I could escape like Morgan did. Then I cut that thought down to the quick because it seems like I think she did this to me on purpose. For all I know, it’s something I did, this life I stole.
Thankfully lunch ends soon and I muddle through another day. Clay messages me as I exit my last class. You have your car today?
Yep, I send back.
After gathering my stuff, I head out the front doors into the sunshine. I’m astonished to see him shove off the bike rack and saunter toward me, offering a brilliant smile. “Thought so. If you didn’t talk your dad around by now, well…” He answers my unspoken question next. “I bummed a ride. Since I’m off today, I figured we could do something.”
“Li
ke what?”
He steps into my space so smoothly that I don’t recoil. Clay drops a soft kiss onto my mouth and then unloops my backpack from my shoulders. He doesn’t seem self-conscious about carrying it, though it’s definitely a feminine design. I lead the way to the VW and unlock it, still waiting for an answer as to what he wants to do.
“I’m more interested in what you want.” Like he hasn’t just dropped a massive bombshell on me, he opens the door and gets in.
It feels like forever since anyone’s asked that. The fact that Clay is helming the question, that’s messing with my head. I consider as I start the car.
“How about the mall in Anderson?”
“Is there something specific you need to buy?” he asks.
“Not really. I just want to get out of Renton. Walk around a little, maybe get a drink.”
“Sounds good. I’m all yours today.”
“Yeah?” I’m happier to hear that than I should be but I can’t staunch the thought, At least somebody is.
“Definitely. Remember, I promised to make it up to you if you checked on Nathan on Saturday. And he seems to be doing better now.”
“That was nothing.” As we talk, I pull out of the parking lot and head for the highway.
He brushes the hair away from my face lightly, so gentle that I can hardly believe that he has a bad reputation. “It was something to me.”
I find myself softening toward him, and before I know it, I’m saying, “You know, Nathan and I are having dinner at Liv’s house on Thursday. It might be … bad. Do you think … could I stop by India Ink if I need to see you, afterward?”
His breath hitches, barely audible over the air-con vents blowing chilly air. “When you put it like that, you could do pretty much anything you want, sweets.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He nods. “Close to closing, it’s usually just me and Blue, and she won’t say anything if you swing by.”
“It’s not against the rules?”
“Nah. You just never showed any interest before.” The soft way he says it makes me think maybe he wishes otherwise. He studies my profile for a long moment before adding, “You’re different somehow. Since the accident.”
