by Alyson Noel
“We already agreed,” Riley says, yanking the mic toward her. “I sing all the boy songs, and you sing all the girl songs. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” her friend whines, pulling it even harder. “Is that there’s hardly any girl songs. And you know it.”
But Riley just shrugs. “That’s not my fault. Take it up with Rock Band, not me.”
“I swear, you are so—” Her friend stops when she sees me standing in the doorway, shaking my head.
“You guys need to take turns,” I say, giving Riley a pointed look, glad to be presented with a problem I can handle, even though I wasn’t consulted. “Emily, you get the next song, and Riley, you get the one after that, and then so on. Think you can handle that?”
Riley rolls her eyes as Emily snatches the mic from her hand.
“Is Mom around?” I ask, ignoring Riley’s scowl since I’m pretty much used to it by now.
“She’s in her room. Getting ready,” she says, watching me leave as she whispers to her friend, “Fine. I get to sing ‘Dead on Arrival,’ you can sing ‘Creep.’ ”
I pass by my room, drop my bag on the floor, then make my way into my mom’s room, leaning against the archway that separates the bedroom from the bathroom and watching as she puts on her makeup, remembering how I used to love to do this back when I was little and thought my mom was the most glamorous woman on the planet. But when I look at her now, I mean, look at her objectively, I realize she actually is kind of glamorous, at least in a suburban mom kind of way.
“How was school?” she asks, turning her head from side to side, making sure her foundation is blended and seamless.
“Fine.” I shrug. “We had a test in science, which I probably failed,” I tell her, even though I don’t really believe it went all that bad, but not knowing how to express what I really want to say—that everything feels strange, and uncertain, like it’s off balance, lacking—and hoping for any reaction I can get out of her.
But she just sighs and moves on to her eyes, sweeping her small makeup brush over her lids and across the crease as she says, “I’m sure you didn’t fail.” She glances at me through the mirror. “I’m sure you did just fine.”
I trace my hand over a smudge on the wall, thinking I should leave, go to my room and chill out for a while, listen to some music, read a good book, anything to take my mind off of me.
“Sorry this is so last minute,” she says, pumping her mascara wand in and out of its tube. “I know you probably had plans.”
I shrug, twisting my wrist back and forth, watching the way the crystals in my bracelet flicker and flare, glinting in the fluorescent light and trying to remember where it came from. “That’s all right,” I tell her. “There’ll be plenty of other Friday nights.”
My mom squints, mascara in hand, pausing in midstroke as she says, “Ever? Is that you?” She laughs. “Is something going on that I should know about? Because that hardly sounds like my daughter.”
I take a deep breath and lift my shoulders, wishing I could tell her how something is most definitely going on, something I can’t quite place, something that leaves me feeling so—unlike me.
But I don’t. I mean, I can barely explain it to myself, much less her. All I know is that yesterday I felt fine—and today—pretty much the opposite of fine. Alien even—like I no longer fit—like I’m a round girl in a square world.
“You know I’m okay with you inviting a few friends over,” she says, moving on to her lips, coating them with a swipe of lipstick before enhancing the color with a touch of gloss. “As long as you keep it to a minimum, no more than three, and as long as you don’t ignore your sister.”
“Thanks.” I nod, forcing a smile so she’ll think I’m okay. “But I’m kind of looking forward to having a night off from all that.”
I head to my room and plop down on my bed, fully content to just stare at the ceiling, until I realize how pathetic that is and I reach for the book on my nightstand instead. Immersed in the story of a guy and girl so entwined, so perfectly made for each other, their love transcends time. Wishing I could climb inside those pages and live there forever, preferring their story to mine.
“Hey, Ev.” My dad pokes his head into my room. “I’ve come to say both hello and good-bye. We’re running late, so we gotta leave soon.”
I toss my book aside and race toward him, hugging him so tight he laughs and shakes his head.
“Nice to know you’re not too grown up to hug your old man.” He smiles, as I pull away, horrified to find that there are actual tears in my eyes, and busying myself with some books on a shelf until I’m sure the threat is long past. “Make sure you and your sister are packed and ready to leave. I want to be on the road nice and early tomorrow.”
I nod, disturbed by the strange hollow feeling invading my gut as he leaves. Wondering, not for the first time, just what the heck is going on with me.
forty-six
“Forget it. You’re not the boss of me, Ever!” Riley shouts, arms folded, face scowling, refusing to budge.
I mean, who would’ve guessed that a ninety-pound twelve-year-old could be such a force of nature? But no way am I giving in. Because the second my parents left and Riley was watered and fed, I sent Brandon a text, telling him to come by around ten, which is any minute now so it’s imperative I get her to bed.
I shake my head and sigh, wishing she didn’t have to be so dang stubborn, but fully prepared to do battle. “Um, I hate to break it to you,” I say. “But you’re wrong. I am the boss of you. From the moment Mom and Dad left until the time they return, I am one hundred percent the boss of you. And you can argue all you want, but it won’t change a thing.”
“This is so unfair!” She glares. “I swear, the second I turn thirteen there’s going to be some equality around here.”
But I just shrug, as eager for that moment as she. “Good, then I won’t have to babysit you anymore and I can get my life back,” I say, watching as she rolls her eyes and taps her foot against the carpeted floor.
“Please. You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know Brandon’s coming over?” She shakes her head. “Big deal. Who even cares? All I want to do is watch TV—that’s it. And the only reason you won’t let me is because you want to hog the den with your boyfriend so you can make out on the couch. And that’s exactly what I’m gonna tell Mom and Dad if you don’t let me watch my show.”
“Big deal. Who even cares?” I say, delivering a pitch-perfect imitation of her. “Mom said I could have friends over, so there.” But the moment it’s out, I can’t help but cringe, wondering who’s the child here, her or me?
I shake my head, knowing it’s just another empty threat, but not willing to take any chances, I say, “Dad wants to leave early, which means you need to get some sleep so you’re not all grumpy and cranky in the morning. And for your information, Brandon’s not coming over.” I smirk, hoping it’ll mask the fact that I’m a horrible liar.
“Oh yeah?” She smiles, her eyes lighting up as they focus on mine. “Then why’d his Jeep just pull into the drive?”
I turn, peering out the window, then glancing at her. Sighing under my breath as I say, “Fine. Watch your show. Whatever. See if I care. But if it gives you nightmares again, don’t come crying to me.”
“C’mon, Ever, what’s your deal?” Brandon says, his expression crossing the border from curious to annoyed in a matter of seconds. “I waited over an hour for your little sister to go to bed so we could be together and now you start acting like this. What gives?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, refusing his gaze as I readjust my top. Peering at him from the corner of my eye as he shakes his head and buttons his jeans—jeans that I never asked to be unbuttoned in the first place.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head and fastening his belt. “I drive all the way over here, your parents are gone, and now you’re acting like—”
“Like what?” I whisper, wanting him to say it. Hoping he c
an sum it up in just a few words, define just what it is that I’m going through. Because earlier, when I changed my mind and sent him the text asking him to come over, I thought it would put everything back to normal again. But from the moment I answered the door, my first instinct was to close it again. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t figure out why I’m feeling this way.
I mean, when I look at him, it’s obvious how lucky I am. He’s nice, he’s cute, he plays football, he’s got a cool car, he’s one of the most popular juniors—not to mention that I liked him for so long I could hardly believe it when I learned he liked me. But now everything’s different. And it’s not like I can force myself to feel things that I don’t.
I take a deep breath, fully aware of the weight of his stare as I toy with my bracelet. Turning it around and around, trying to remember just how it got there. Aware of something niggling at the back of my mind, something about—
“Forget it,” he says, getting up to leave. “But I’m serious, Ever. You need to decide what you want pretty soon, because this . . .”
I gaze at him, wondering if he’ll finish the sentence and wondering why I can’t seem to care either way.
But he just looks at me and shakes his head, grabbing his keys as he says, “Whatever. Have fun at the lake.”
I watch as the door closes behind him, then I move to my dad’s recliner, grab the afghan my grandma knit for us not long before she died, and pull it up to my chin and tuck it under my feet. Remembering how just last week I was telling Rachel I was seriously considering going all the way with Brandon, and now—now I can barely stand for him to touch me.
“Ever?”
I open my eyes. Riley’s standing before me, her bottom lip trembling, her blue eyes on mine.
“Is he gone?” She glances around the room.
I nod.
“Will you come sit with me, while I try to fall asleep?” she asks, biting down on her lip, giving me that sad puppy dog look that’s impossible to resist.
“I told you that show was too scary for you,” I say, my hand on her shoulder as we head down the hall, getting her all tucked and settled before arranging myself right around her. Wishing her the sweetest of dreams and smoothing her hair off her face as I whisper, “Don’t worry. Go to sleep. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
forty-seven
“Ever, you ready? We need to leave soon! We don’t want to hit traffic!”
“Coming!” I shout, even though I’m not. I just continue to stand there, right smack in the middle of my room staring at a crumpled piece of paper I’d found in the front pocket of my jeans. And even though it’s written in my hand, I’ve no idea how it got there, much less what it means. Reading:
1. Don’t go back for the sweatshirt!
2. Don’t trust Drina!
3. Don’t go back for the sweatshirt no matter what!
4. Damen
And by the fifth time I read it, I’m still just as confused as the first. I mean, what sweatshirt? And why am I not supposed to go back for it? Not to mention, do I even know a Drina? And who the heck is Damen, and why is there a heart by his name?
I mean, why did I ever write such a thing? When did I ever write such a thing? And what could it possibly mean?
And when my dad calls again, followed by the sound of his footsteps storming up the stairs, I toss the paper aside, watching it land on my dresser before falling to the floor, figuring I’ll sort it all out when we return.
As it turns out, the weekend was good for me. Good to get away from my school, good to get away from my friends (and boyfriend). Good to spend time with my family in a way that we don’t get to do all that often. In fact, I feel so much better now, that as soon as we get back to civilization, back to where my cell can access a signal—I’m going to text Brandon. I don’t want to leave things the way we had. And I really believe that whatever weird thing I was going through is now past.
I grab my backpack and toss it over my shoulder, ready to leave. But as I glance around our campsite one last time, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve left something behind. Even though my bag is packed and everything appears to be clear, I continue to stand there, my mom calling my name over and over, until she finally gives up and sends Riley.
“Hey,” she says, pulling hard on my sleeve. “C’mon, everyone’s waiting.”
“In a minute,” I mumble. “I just have to—”
“Have to what?” She smirks. “You have to stare at the smoldering embers for another hour or two? Seriously, Ever, what’s your deal?”
I shrug, toying with the clasp on my bracelet, having no idea what my deal is, but unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong. Well, maybe not wrong exactly, more like missing or undone. Like there’s something I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not. And I just can’t decide what it is.
“Seriously. Mom wants you to hurry, Dad’s worried about hitting traffic, even Buttercup wants you to get it together so he can stick his head out the window and let his ears flap in the breeze. Oh, and I’d kind of like to get home before all the good shows are over. So, what do you say we move it, okay?”
But when I don’t move it, when I don’t do much of anything, she sighs and says, “You forget something? Is that it?” Eyeballing me carefully before glancing over her shoulder toward our parents.
“Maybe.” I shake my head. “I’m not sure.”
“You got your backpack?”
I nod.
“You got your cell phone?”
I tap my backpack.
“You got your brain?”
I laugh, knowing I’m acting strange and ridiculous and freaky as hell, but then after the last few days you’d think I’d be used to it by now.
“You got your sky-blue Pinecone Lake Cheerleading Camp sweatshirt?” She smiles.
“That’s it!” I say, my heart beating frantically. “I left it by the lake! Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be right back!”
But just as I turn, Riley grabs hold of my sleeve and pulls me right back. “Chillax.” She smiles. “Dad found it and tossed it in the backseat. Seriously. So can we go now?”
I glance around the campsite one last time, then follow Riley to the car. Settling into the back as my dad pulls onto the road and a muffled chime comes from my phone. And I’ve barely dug it out of my bag, barely even had a chance to read it, before Riley’s peering over my shoulder, trying to peek. Forcing me to turn so abruptly, Buttercup shifts, shooting me a look that lets me know she’s not happy. But even after all that, Riley still tries to see. So I roll my eyes and do what I always do, I whine, “Mom!”
Watching as she flips a page in her magazine without missing a beat, automatically saying, “Stop it you two.”
“You didn’t even look!” I say. “I wasn’t doing anything! Riley won’t leave me alone.”
“That’s because she loves you,” my dad says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. “She loves you so much she wants to be around you all of the time—she just can’t get enough of you!”
Words that send Riley clear to the other side of the car, pressing her body against the door as she shouts, “Gag!” Then swinging her legs to her side as far as she can, upsetting poor Buttercup all over again. Shivering dramatically, as though the thought is just way too disgusting to bear, as my dad catches my eye and both of us laugh.
I flip my phone open, reading the message from Brandon that says: Sorry. My bad. Call me 2nite. And I immediately respond with a smiley face, hoping that’ll tide us over until I can work up enough emotion to send something more.
And I’ve just leaned my head against the window and am about to close my eyes when Riley turns to me and says, “You can’t go back, Ever. You can’t change the past. It just is.” I squint, having no idea what she’s talking about. But just as I start to ask, she shakes her head and says, “This is our destiny. Not yours. Did you ever stop and think that maybe you were supposed to survive? That maybe, it wasn’t just Damen who saved you?”
I stare at her, my mouth hanging open, trying to make sense of her words. And when I glance around the car, wondering if my parents heard too, I see that everything is frozen. My dad’s hands are stuck on the steering wheel, his unblinking eyes staring straight ahead, while the page of my mom’s magazine is stuck in midflip, and Buttercup’s tail is caught at half-mast. Even when I gaze out the window, I notice how all the birds are caught in midflight, while the other motorists are paused all around us. And when I look at Riley again, her intense gaze on mine as she leans toward me, it’s clear we’re the only ones moving.
“You have to go back,” she says, her voice confident, firm. “You have to find Damen—before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” I cry, leaning toward her, desperate to understand. “And who the heck is Damen? Why are you saying that name? What does it even mean—”
But before I can finish, she’s already rolling her eyes and pushing me away as though none of it happened.
“Jeez, stalk much?” She shakes her head. “I mean, seriously, Ever. Boundaries! Because regardless of what he thinks,” she points toward our dad, “I have absolutely no interest in you.”
She rolls her eyes and turns away, singing along to her iPod, her voice raspy, warbled, croaking out a Kelly Clarkson song in a way it was never intended. Oblivious to my mom who smiles and chucks her lightly on the knee, oblivious to my dad, gazing at me through the rearview mirror, our smiles meeting at the exact same moment, sharing a joke meant only for us.
Still holding that smile as a huge logging truck pulls out in front of us, slamming into the side of our car, and making the whole world go black.
forty-eight
