by Diana Urban
A look of disgust crossed her face. “No, don’t be stupid. I like Zane. And I’d never . . . no! Ugh!”
She and Zane had been obnoxiously flirting ever since I started hanging out with them, but they’d been friends since forever. Did she really have feelings for him? Or was she trying to make me believe she wasn’t hooking up with Scott? “Then what were you doing?” I prodded.
“Nothing,” she snapped. “Just forget it. Let’s go to your place. I’ll drive.”
She dragged me toward the parking lot. I glanced back at Scott, who leaned against the bleachers. He watched us go as he flicked his lighter, cupping his hand to ward off the breeze. If they weren’t hooking up . . . what else was she doing with Scott under the bleachers? She couldn’t have been doing drugs with him . . .
But if she had some sort of dirty little secret, drugs would fit the bill. The only question was: What the hell was she on?
34 Minutes Left
“What’s Amber talking about?” Robbie asked Sasha, who shrank against the table, the syringe shaking in her grip. “What secret are you hiding?”
Sasha shook her head, eyes wide. “Nothing. I have no idea.” Priya exchanged a knowing glance with me and I nodded, confirming her suspicions.
Robbie watched this exchange. “What is it?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled in concern. Sasha would be mortified if Robbie learned the truth. She’d constructed such a sturdy façade of perfection, she hadn’t even confided in him.
Scott let out ragged breaths as he stared at the syringe, sweat running down his temples. I had to say something. Sasha couldn’t really think her secret would die with Scott. I’d asked her about it point-blank months ago, and she’d denied it, thinking she’d put it to bed. But if she didn’t realize I knew . . . if she thought Scott was the only one safeguarding her secret . . . would she actually plunge the syringe into his shoulder?
I couldn’t risk that. It was too soon. There was still time. I had to reveal her secret.
“Sasha’s been buying drugs off Scott,” I said. Sasha shot daggers at me with her eyes, pursing her lips.
Robbie balked. “What kind of drugs?”
I shook my head. “That, I don’t know.”
“Wow,” he muttered. “That kind of explains a lot.”
Sasha lowered the syringe. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Scott sank against the wall in relief.
“Well . . .” Robbie rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve been acting real antsy and panicky. And your eyes get all bugged out and stuff, just like they are now.” Sasha blinked rapidly, trying to de-bug her eyes. “I knew you were stressed. We’ve all been stressing about next year.” He gave me a meaningful look. “So I chalked it up to excessive coffee or something. I never thought you’d do drugs. I mean, Jesus.” He shook his head, his mind clearly blown.
“That’s why I needed something,” said Sasha. “I had to stay awake. You have no idea how stressed I’ve been. No idea! I had too much on my plate . . . and I had to keep my grades up for Harvard. I had to stay awake. I had to focus.” Her voice cracked. She still hadn’t received a response from them, and each passing day left her more anxious than the last. “The stress was too much.”
“But there are other ways to cope.” Diego shook his head. “We’re all under stress, right? I mean, try running a business and going to school at the same time.”
“Oh, please,” Sasha snapped. “You’re already a millionaire. You don’t need to worry about school anymore.”
Diego scrunched his brow. “Says who? I want to become a biomedical engineer, so I need to worry about lots more school. I’m just saying, you’re not the only one with a zillion things on your plate. And either way, Harvard’s not worth becoming an addict. There are plenty of other schools.”
Sasha narrowed her eyes at him. “Easy for you to say. You already got in.” She clenched her jaw so hard I thought the vein in her neck might explode. “Harvard’s the best of the best. I have to get in. I have to.”
The best of the best. I didn’t get it. She’d do whatever it took in her perpetual quest for perfection—cheating, lying, taking drugs, or worse. It seemed to stem from more than just pressure from her mother—but where was it coming from?
“Anyway,” Sasha said, glancing at the bomb’s timer, “we don’t have time now for a freaking intervention.”
“So what’ve you been selling her?” Robbie rounded on Scott, his nostrils flaring.
Scott opened his mouth to answer, but Sasha cut him off. “I’ve been taking speed, alright? It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” Robbie yelled. “You could be in deep shit if you’re busted for taking meth!”
Scott scoffed. “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch—” He winced, glancing at his knotted ankle. “I’ve been selling her Ritalin, not speed.”
“WHAT?” said Sasha.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “You lied to her about what you were selling her?”
“Hey, I was doing her a favor.” Scott’s voice was low and gravelly, like each word took effort. “One day, she asks me if I’ve got any speed to sell. Like I’m some bona fide drug dealer.”
“You are,” said Sasha.
He screwed up his face. “Selling a few joints doesn’t count.”
“Anyway, go on,” I prodded.
He hesitated and darted a quick glance at Sasha. “So at the time, I’d just finished weaning off Ritalin, but I still had a ’scrip. So I figured, no rind off my orange to keep refilling it. I let her think she was getting speed, sold her something less dangerous, and made a few extra bucks. It was a win-win-win.”
Sasha raised the syringe like a dagger above Scott’s shoulder. “You tricked me!” she hissed.
Scott leaned away and yelped from the pain the movement caused. “For your own good!”
She took a step closer. “I didn’t even know what I was taking. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”
“Not as dangerous as doing meth.” He wiped his bloodied forehead with the back of his hand. The syringe wavered in Sasha’s grip as she mulled this over.
Robbie shook his head. “I can’t believe either of you.” He kicked the chair next to him, making Sasha flinch. Oh, God. What if she accidentally pressed down the plunger? The liquid would get all over Scott’s arm.
“Sasha, put the goddamn syringe down!” I balled my hands into fists to keep them from trembling.
“Yeah, put it down,” said Scott. “I thought I was helping you.”
Now that was a stretch. “Seriously?” I shook my head at him. “You sold her a drug that was illegal for her to take. She really could have hurt herself!”
“She clearly already did.” Priya stared at Sasha’s shaking frame.
“And you did nothing to help her,” I said. Scott pursed his lips. “You just kept letting her hurt herself, when you could have gone to someone for help.”
“Oh, please, Red. You didn’t, either.”
“I didn’t know the whole truth! You wouldn’t tell me anything concrete. You just played coy about some dirty little secret she had. And when I confronted her, she denied it . . . just like she denies everything else.”
3 Months, 2 Weeks Ago
OCTOBER OF SENIOR YEAR
“Sasha, I literally can’t keep my eyes open anymore.” I rubbed my burning eyes. Our SAT prep notecards were spread across my bedroom floor. The last time I’d dared a glance at my alarm clock, it was after two in the morning. Priya had already nodded off twice, and we’d cycled through my “Top Original Scores” playlist three times. My parents didn’t mind if I hung out with friends until the wee hours of the morning, even on a school night, as long as we were under their roof. Their leniency was a blessing and a curse, since it meant I didn’t have a good excuse to kick anyone out.
“Shut up and tell me the definition of transitory.” Sasha waved a notecard under my nose.
“No more.” I slammed my head back against my mattress.
“We
have to keep going.” Sasha wiped the sheen of sweat from her upper lip, and I narrowed my eyes at her. I’d been watching for signs that she was on something, but so far it was hard to tell what was stress, and what could be something else. “This is my last shot at retaking the SATs. I need to beat Diego.”
It was common knowledge to everyone who would listen that Sasha scored a 1540 on the SATs. But Diego scored a 1560, so as far as she was concerned, she’d flunked.
“Why do you need to beat him so badly?” asked Priya, grabbing another handful of trail mix. In an attempt at a continuous sugar rush, she’d added M&Ms, though she’d probably regret it when she crashed in the morning. Thanks to her hypoglycemia, her mother wouldn’t even let her in the same room as a candy bar. But once a chocoholic, always a chocoholic, so she’d sneak some sweets here and there—and would pay for it later with an epic headache.
“Harvard rarely accepts two students from the same school,” said Sasha. “I can’t risk that.” Mittens chose that moment to edge open my bedroom door and prowl between us. He plopped belly-up onto the cards littering the carpet, stretching his paws, clearly asking for belly rubs. I was pretty sure he was a dog in a past life.
“Get off of those!” Sasha snapped, making a shooing motion. Mittens scrambled to his feet.
“Hey!” I scooped up Mittens and hugged him close. “Don’t yell at my cat.”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She flicked my arm with the notecard. “C’mon, don’t be an idiot. This is an easy one. Transitory.”
I glared at her. “My patience will be transitory if you keep being a bitch.” Priya raised her eyebrows and silently munched on her trail mix.
Sasha threw the card down. “Good enough. Next one. Abscond—” She narrowed her eyes at Priya. “Ugh, I’m so jealous.”
Priya froze, her head tilted back, a fistful of trail mix hovering in front of her lips. “What?”
“I wish I could eat that much sugar, but it’d go straight to my thighs.” She slapped her skinny jeans. “I’ve gained weight just looking at it. You’re so lucky a fuller figure looks good on you.” Priya’s face fell, and she lowered her hand. Sasha turned back to me and practically shouted, “Abscond.”
“Why don’t you abscond?” I shot back, unsure if that even made sense.
“Fine. I gotta pee anyway.” She hopped up and dashed to the door. I set down Mittens, and he followed Sasha upstairs. Stupid cat.
“She just called me fat,” Priya grumbled.
“Priya, no she didn’t. She was calling herself fat.”
She shook her head. “Whatever.” She chucked the rest of her trail mix in the trash. “How the hell does she have so much energy, anyway? I’m ready to pass out. And now my stomach hurts.”
I stood to shut off the music and collapsed on my bed. “I was ready to pass out like two hours ago.”
“Can’t she study on her own?” Priya grumbled. She snatched one of the pillows from under my head and lay on the floor. “Why’d you have to make us her study slaves?”
“Oh, stop it. You know she invited herself over.” Splitting my time between the two of them was like a tug-of-war, and there was only so much of me to go around.
“Couldn’t you say no for once? She could study with Amy and Maria, or Zane, or someone, anyone else.”
I bit my lip. The mention of Zane made me wonder for the hundredth time if I should tell Priya about Sasha’s feelings for Zane. Maybe she lied to cover for whatever she was doing with Scott under the bleachers. I didn’t want to get Priya upset over nothing. After a few minutes, I propped myself onto my elbows. “What’s taking her so long?” Priya grunted, half asleep. I stood, shuffled out the door, and headed upstairs to the bathroom next to the kitchen. But the door was wide open, the lights off. “Sasha?” I whispered. My parents were asleep, so I didn’t want to yell. No reply. Maybe she wanted to use the bathroom upstairs? That would be weird.
As I headed for the stairs, something clattered overhead. It sounded like it was coming from . . . shit.
I raced up the stairs, quiet as a mouse. Maggie’s door was open a sliver, light streaming into the hall. My heart dropped to my feet. No, no, no. Mittens sat outside the door, his green eyes glowing in the dark, staring at me. He let out a single meow, like he was reporting the intrusion. Like he knew that room was off-limits.
I slipped into the room and shut the door behind me. Sure enough, Sasha hovered over my sister’s vanity. I couldn’t stand to see anyone in here with Maggie’s things. “What the hell are you doing in here?” I whispered.
“I was looking for mouthwash, the downstairs bathroom didn’t have any.” She smacked her lips with a sour look on her face, like she still hadn’t found any. “I thought this was the bathroom. Whose stuff is this?” Sasha gripped a bottle of my sister’s most expensive perfume, staring at her vanity cluttered with makeup and hair accessories. The bookshelves were filled to the brim with fantasy and science fiction novels, and the walls were lined with posters of Legolas, Captain America, and Thor. Mom wouldn’t touch anything in here, as if Maggie would come home and be upset if she noticed anything out of place.
“It’s my sister’s. It’s her room.” I nervously thumbed my amethyst bracelet.
Sasha started to spray her wrist with the perfume, and her eyebrows shot up mid-spritz. “Seriously? You have a sister?” Oh, geez. If Mom smelled Maggie’s perfume on Sasha, she’d go ballistic. The lavender and mahogany teakwood scent was unmistakable.
“Don’t touch that! I’ll get in so much trouble—”
“Chill, it’s just perfume.” She dropped the bottle on the vanity and scanned the corkboard overhead. Maggie never hung pictures of herself—she hated how she looked in photos, just like me. “I . . . I thought you were an only child.” She stepped toward her desk, running her fingers over Maggie’s old laptop. Seeing her step on the spot where Maggie died sent shock waves through my soul, triggering memories—such awful memories. It was like watching it happen all over again, as clear as though almost four years hadn’t passed.
Our parents had been out to dinner that night, and I’d been in the kitchen getting water when I’d heard something crash upstairs. “Mags?” I’d called out. No reply. Then I’d heard another strange noise. It sounded like . . . retching. Was Mittens coughing up a hair ball? I’d glanced into the living room, where Mittens was perched on the couch, his tail dangling over the back cushion.
There was the retching sound again. It was definitely coming from upstairs. A chill ran down my spine. “Maggie?” I’d raced up the stairs. The bathroom door was ajar, and I pushed it open. The room was empty, greeting me only with the plip, plip, plip of water dripping from the leaky showerhead. I ran down the hall and tugged on Maggie’s doorknob. It was locked. I pounded on the door. “Maggie? Are you okay?” No response. Maybe she had headphones on. I cupped my mouth and shrieked as loud as I could at the door, “MAGGIE!”
Nothing was louder than the silence that followed.
“Maggie!” Frantic, I rattled the doorknob. But the door locked from the inside, and there was no key, just a pinhole for picking the lock with a screwdriver in an emergency. Where did Dad keep his toolbox? In the garage? I had a strong feeling I didn’t have time to find it. Would I be able to kick the door down? Our house was over a century old. The walls and doors had so little insulation you could hear everything going on in the next room. I was probably strong enough to kick down the brittle door.
But what if she was blasting music through her headphones? What if I was freaking out over nothing? She’d be furious with me, and Mom and Dad would sure be upset if I broke the door. But the chill racing along my vertebrae told me I wasn’t wrong. I reared back and kicked the door just to the left of the knob. Pain stabbed at my heel, but when the door didn’t give, I kicked it again. This time, the wood splintered, and I pushed the door open.
The room was dark. The only light came from the laptop screen on her desk, illuminating her empty bed in an eerie glow.
I switched on the light.
Maggie was splayed across the floor, her face a terrifying shade of purple. “Maggie!” Her desk chair had toppled over with her in it. I crossed the room and knelt over her. Her eyes were closed, and an awful gurgling noise was coming from her throat. She was alive. Was she choking on something?
My mind raced. What should I do? I’d learned about the Heimlich maneuver in class—you were supposed to stand behind a choking person and thrust your fists into their abdomen below the rib cage. But I wouldn’t really know what I was doing. No . . . I should call the police. They’d send help. They’d know what to do. I dashed to her desk—her cell phone was next to her laptop.
That was when I saw the pill bottles—a dozen empty orange bottles with prescription labels, and several other white ones with names I recognized: Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin. All empty. Like she took every pill we had in the house.
I’d called 911, but she was dead before the dispatcher could walk me through rolling her onto her side. She’d drowned in her own vomit on the very spot Sasha was standing now, while I’d hunched over her, hoping more than I’d ever hoped for anything in this world that she’d take another breath.
“We have to get out of here,” I managed to croak at Sasha. Suddenly, a scratching sound came from the door. Mittens was clawing to get in. My parents were bound to hear the noise across the hall.
“Come on,” I shout-whispered.
But Sasha only shook her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she in college?” Sasha scanned the walls for any sign of college insignia. Her eyes fell on a pillow on the bed with Maggie’s name embroidered among flowers and leaves—we all had to make one in sixth-grade art class. She mouthed Maggie’s name, her eyes widening in what looked like . . . was that recognition?
