The very last photo is the one of me. It’s colorful and rich. I’m barely smiling, but my eyes are content. My ears still poke through my hair, and my nose still seems too wide for my face, but I don’t see the ugly version of myself I normally do. I see what Jamie wanted to capture. I see what he wanted me to see.
And it’s not terrible.
• • •
I paint a girl confronting the monster under her bed, who really isn’t so scary after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
At work, I text Jamie:
Black or white?
Lasagna or spaghetti?
Day or night?
And he texts back:
Black.
Lasagna.
Day.
I tell him I’d pick the exact opposites, and it doesn’t make me feel like I’m disagreeing or hurting his feelings. It just feels like we are being ourselves.
• • •
I draw a bird and a fish falling in love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Something stirs me while I’m sleeping. I don’t know if it’s the loud breathing or the footsteps, but when I open my eyes I’m as alert as I’d be in the middle of the day. There’s light spilling in from the hallway, washing over me like a harsh spotlight.
I can hear him. I can hear Uncle Max.
Fear replaces my blood. It’s everywhere, all through my body, and it’s taking away my ability to move. I can’t roll over. I’m not sure I want to. Because if I see him, everything will be real.
I wish I could turn to dust and disintegrate into the dark air like I don’t exist at all. It would be easier that way.
If he touches me, I’ll scream. If he comes any closer, I’ll force myself out of the bed. But right now I don’t move an inch.
He’s breathing with his mouth open—they sound like the snores of a drunken man, even though he’s obviously awake.
Awake but definitely not sober.
I think he’s reaching toward me—I can feel the air shift because it feels like someone is pulling off an entire layer of my skin—so I stiffen all my joints and squeeze my face into the pillow.
What do I do? What do I do?
The footsteps pad away, and the door closes silently. Beneath the door, I watch as the light vanishes and the house goes still.
Alone, I sit up, choking on my own fear. I don’t think—I grab my bag, my phone, and my keys and slip through the house, and before I know it, I’m driving down the road with panic in my throat and no idea where I’m going.
• • •
I end up at Jamie’s cousin’s front door because I don’t know where else to go.
Instead of knocking, I call him. Because if I knock, he might think it’s an emergency and get scared. I mean, it’s my emergency, but it’s probably not a real one. Not in comparison to a fire or a burglary. I don’t know what to call what happened tonight. I just know I’m about ten seconds from vomiting all over Jamie’s porch if I don’t sit down and rub the frantic pain drilling through my head.
“Hello?” he croaks sleepily.
“It’s Kiko. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I don’t know where else to go.” Oh my God, I’m crying. I definitely didn’t mean to start crying.
“Are you okay? Where are you?” His voice is loud. I’m pretty sure he’s not in bed anymore.
“I’m at your front door.” Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.
There’s shuffling through the phone and then shuffling behind the door. The lock clicks, and suddenly Jamie is there in his shorts and shirt, and his hair is everywhere—literally everywhere—and his blue eyes look as panicked as my heart feels.
“What happened?” He’s scanning me like he’s searching for wounds. I guess that would be an emergency.
But I don’t have any injuries. I have an anxiety attack. If I tell him that, he’ll probably be irritated I woke him up and whatever illusion he has of “Kiko, his childhood friend” will be replaced with “Kiko, the weird sleep interrupter who doesn’t understand what an actual emergency is.”
“My uncle,” I start, but I stop myself. I’ve never said it out loud—not since I told Mom the truth all those years ago. I don’t want to say it again. Partly because I’m too confused to acknowledge it, but also because I don’t understand what “it” is. My fingers wipe at my cheeks clumsily. “I’m sorry.”
Jamie looks into the street like he’s checking for someone. “Are you alone? Did someone hurt you?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, it’s nothing like that. I . . . didn’t know where to go. I can’t go home.”
“Here, come inside.”
I’m not sure where I get the energy to move my feet, but I follow him into the living room, and suddenly his arms are wrapped around me and he’s squeezing me against his chest like he’s afraid I’ll fly away. I melt into him and the tears keep pouring.
I cry until my chest is sore, and then I breathe and breathe and breathe, and finally I’m not crying anymore. I don’t want to look up and let Jamie see what I mess I am, so I stay buried in his shirt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He keeps holding me.
“I can’t,” I admit.
“Can you call your dad?” he asks.
I pull away, but I don’t look up. “No. It’s . . . complicated.” Because if I stay with Dad, I’ll have to tell him everything. I’m pretty sure he’s still trying to forget what happened the first time. I don’t want to ruin another marriage for him—not when he has two little babies to take care of and he’s so happy with Serena. What I’m feeling seems to hurt everyone else more than myself. I can’t tell Dad. I can’t tell anyone.
My body starts drifting away from Jamie’s, but he doesn’t stop me. He’s looking at me like I’m breakable—like I’m made of thin glass and one nudge too hard will shatter me into a trillion tiny pieces.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came here.” I should’ve gone to a motel. What was I thinking making this Jamie’s problem?
“I do,” he says seriously. “I don’t know what happened, but I know you shouldn’t be alone right now. You can stay here, okay? As long as you need to.”
I wipe my face again. “I don’t think your aunt and uncle would like that.”
“They’re still in Florida for Rick’s graduation trip. I’ve got the house to myself until they get back, so I’m the only one who has to know. Besides, they wouldn’t mind. They’re cool—they’d understand.”
“I need to find an apartment.” I can’t stay here forever—we both know it. This might buy me a night or two, but I can’t permanently live on someone’s couch.
Besides, Jamie will go back to California before the summer is over, and what am I going to do then? I’ll be all alone.
“We’ll figure that out when they come home. Until then, you’re safe here.” He puts his hands against my shoulders. I’m still not looking at him. “It’s going to be okay. Okay?”
I nod. What else am I supposed to do? Mom is going to kill me when she finds out I snuck out of the house. I have no way of proving Uncle Max was in my room, just like I had no way of proving he was stealing my things. But I can’t go back there. It’s not safe. I don’t feel safe. Mom will never understand that. She’ll never choose me over Uncle Max—not when he agrees with everything she says and tells her how wonderful she is all the time. She has friends and enemies and nothing in between.
I don’t fit in Mom’s world.
Jamie makes me a bed on the couch, but I’m not tired, so we sit together and watch a movie.
Except I guess I was really tired, because the next thing I know it’s morning and my head is on the pillow and I’m covered up to my shoulders with a blanket.
Jamie is fast asleep on the floor next to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mom doesn’t call me until after two p.m. I guess that’s when she finally noticed I wasn’t home.
“I’m not staying at the house anymore. Not unless you make Uncle Max
leave.” My voice shakes. I’m in the upstairs bathroom talking to her because I don’t want Jamie to hear. It’s embarrassing enough that he saw me sobbing. There was probably snot all over his shirt and everything.
Strangely enough, she’s not as mad as I thought she’d be. She just sounds irritated. “We can talk about this at the house, Kiko. Come home.”
“Is Uncle Max there?”
“He’s sleeping.” Of course he is.
“Well, I don’t want to be in the same house as him. I’ll talk to you when he’s gone.”
She hangs up the phone.
I find Jamie in the kitchen. His laptop is set up on the breakfast bar with a USB cord plugged into his camera. When he sees me, he straightens his shoulders. “Everything okay?”
“She wants to talk at the house.”
“Is that what you want?”
I shrug. “I doubt she’ll listen to me. But I might go over later.” When Uncle Max goes back out to drink, I think.
Jamie nods and points to the screen. “I’m just transferring some photos off my camera. I was planning on taking some shots at the mall. You interested?”
“Yeah, okay. What’s at the mall?”
“People.” Jamie laughs.
I could never take photographs the way Jamie does. He captures strangers like he’s invisible. And he sees the best possible version of them—it’s the way I imagine things in my head, but the only way I can make it real is to paint it. To me, ideals don’t exist in real life. I have to make them up.
But Jamie sees them everywhere. Imperfection is his ideal, because it’s real and tangible, and he knows how to translate it into a frozen moment in time that will be beautiful forever.
I could watch him take photographs all day. The way his left eyebrow digs lower than the right. The way the sides of his mouth curl down and then up again. The way he doesn’t blink until he takes the photograph, just in case he misses the perfect moment. The way he looks at me with a wide smile after he captures what he wants to, because he doesn’t live in the moments of his photographs—he lives in the moments right here, with me.
I’m so in love with Jamie Merrick I want to run straight into a wall and squash into a flat pancake because loving him feels like a cartoon.
When he’s finished taking pictures, we wander to the food court and get giant cinnamon rolls the size of our faces. Jamie lets me look through the digital copies on his camera.
“These are amazing.” I feel dizzy looking at them. He’s so talented. Way more talented than me. He’d never have been rejected by Prism.
“I want to see your paintings,” he says. “I bet they’re amazing too.”
Laughing, I eat another bite of cinnamon roll. “Your expectations are already way too high. I’m not that good. Not like you.”
“I doubt that.” His blue eyes sparkle. I forget to chew for at least three seconds.
Clearing my throat, I drop my eyes. Somewhere inside my bag, my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Mom.
He went out. Come home so we can talk.
I take a deep breath and glance up at Jamie. With the exception of when he’s looking at his camera, he’s barely taken his eyes off me since last night.
“Will you come with me to my house?” I don’t want to face her alone.
“Of course I will.”
I text Mom back: Okay. I’m bringing Jamie.
We’re already back in the neighborhood when she finally texts back: I bought dinner, so I hope he likes Italian food.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mom’s wearing a cream cable-knit sweater, even though with the humidity it feels like it’s ninety degrees outside. Her makeup is done and her hair is perfect, and she’s wearing the vanilla perfume she always wears when she goes out, but never when she’s inside the house.
There’s something strange about her smile, but I can’t figure out what it is. I try not to pay attention—Mom is always analyzing the way people perceive her. Every time I talk to her it feels like I’m taking a test. Most of the time I fail before I even open my mouth.
I hope Jamie doesn’t notice. I don’t want him to feel as weird as I do.
“Hey, Jamie,” she says enthusiastically. “The last time I saw you was at Taro’s birthday party. Do you remember that? It was years ago.”
Jamie gives a polite smile, but his eyes flicker back and forth like he doesn’t want to look directly at her. I’m not sure why. Maybe her smile is too intense for him, too. “Yeah, I remember.” He looks at me. “It was the day that old guy yelled at us for going in the Jacuzzi because we were too young or something.”
I grin. I remember too. After we got yelled at, we decided to spy on him from up in the nearby trees. In our game, he was an evil space pirate, and we were the half-robot half-human rebels who were trying to save the world.
Except we forgot what game we were playing after a while, and we ended up sitting in the tree for the rest of the pool party playing our “one or the other” game and trying to master the art of whistling. We completely missed the birthday cake, which Mom was really mad about. She said we were supposed to be there for the pictures—for the memories. I guess she didn’t care that we were making our own.
Mom crosses her arms and pushes a hip out. “You and Taro were such good friends. Sometimes I felt like you were my third son.”
My teeth press together. Jamie Merrick was my best friend, not Taro’s. You see? She even tries to take my best friend away from me.
Jamie pulls his lips into his teeth in a tight smirk, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure he notices what I do.
“I hope you two are hungry,” she says, leading us into the dining room.
There are at least four giant containers of pastas and two massive meatball subs on the table, not counting the empty packaging that my brothers already cleared out. It’s way too much food.
“Are you having a party or something?” Jamie asks as she slices the sub in half and passes it to him.
Mom laughs melodically. “I thought you guys would be hungry, that’s all. This place is so good. Make sure you try the eggplant parmesan. Kiko, I got that for you, because you’re a vegetarian.” She’s watching me, and her blue eyes look like they were pulled out of a doll—unmoving, always smiling.
It takes a lot of control not to give away what I’m thinking. She’s probably made an active effort to pretend I’m not a vegetarian hundreds of times over the last two years, but now that there’s company, remembering a personal fact about me makes her look thoughtful. So of course she mentions it.
“Thanks, Mom.” I hesitate when she passes me a plate of food. It feels like I’m making a deal with the devil. Nothing nice Mom does is for free. I just won’t know what it will cost me until it’s too late.
I take the plate. Maybe bringing Jamie here was a bad idea. I just didn’t want to come back here alone.
She asks him about college, and California, and whether he has a girlfriend—it’s so uncomfortable—and eventually she asks how his parents are doing.
Jamie nods through a bite of meatball sub. “Mm-hmm. They’re good.” He keeps chewing. And chewing. I’ve never seen anyone chew for so long just to get out of saying anything else.
Mom watches him carefully for a while, her eyes half closed and the same partial smile stapled to her face as a disguise. “Well, I’m sure your parents must be so proud of you. You seem like you turned out to be a very nice young man.”
I cringe through another mouthful of breaded eggplant. Jamie laughs gently. When she tries to come across normal like this, it’s so weird. And I know weird—I’m probably the very definition of weird—but when people come to the house, it’s like she turns into some suburban housewife cyborg. Everything she says is nice and thoughtful and makes her look like the greatest mom in the world.
Nobody ever sees what I see. Nobody ever knows what I know.
At least, nobody who lasts. Anyone who figures out what’s beneath her pretend skin gets shov
ed straight into enemy territory. It’s why she and Dad never speak. It’s why I’m her least favorite. It’s why the only long-term friends she has are the ones she never sees—the ones that get too close eventually figure my mother out. She doesn’t keep anyone around who could potentially crush the pretty exterior she wears to hide all the ugliness.
They start talking about photography—like Mom knows anything about photography!—and it doesn’t take long before she starts telling him how she used to model.
“It was such an exciting time in my life,” she gushes. “If I hadn’t decided to get married and have kids, I probably would’ve ended up in Milan or Paris.”
“That’s cool.” Jamie pushes his plate farther away, but she keeps scooping more pasta onto it.
Mom’s boiling over with energy, and she’s trying to shove it down our faces like she is with the Italian food. “You know, I sacrificed a lot to have children. Being a mother is truly one of the most selfless jobs you can do.”
Jamie pushes his chair back. He’s probably just trying to get away from the food, but he could also be trying to get away from her desperation for a compliment. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Not at all. It’s right around the corner on the left.” Mom points down the hall.
“Yeah, I remember. Thanks.”
When he disappears, Mom rests her head in her hands and stares at me. “He turned out super handsome, didn’t he? He’s got nice teeth, nice eyes, good skin. And he’s very tall.” I hate her checklists. She does it with every person I’ve ever brought to the house. I feel like she’s letting me know if they pass her approval test because of the way they look and not because of the person they are.
I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until she scoffs.
“What? I’m trying to be nice,” she says defensively. When I don’t say anything, she folds her arms flat against the table. “Are you mad that I’m talking to your friend?”
“What? No.” I’m frowning. She’s already in control of where this conversation is going, but I don’t know how to take it back.
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