TMI

by Patty Blount

  Copyright © 2013 by Patty Blount

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover images © Thinkstock/Getty Images, Marie-Reine Mattera/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  teenfire.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  TMI Discussion Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my boys, Chris, Rob, and Fred,

  who inspire me as much as they confound me,

  who tease, support, sustain, and love me,

  always.

  Chapter 1

  Meg

  The eyes had no soul.

  Megan Farrell flung down her brush with a curse. The eyes refused to shine for her. No matter how she sketched them, no matter what colors she used to fill them, they sat on her canvas, dull. Dead. She couldn’t even get the color right and probably never would, not unless she asked Chase Gallagher to sit for her, and she could never do that.

  Chase Gallagher wasn’t part of her plan.

  She stretched, cracking her neck, and stared out her window into the backyard that butted against hers. He was out there now, running around with his little brothers, trying to fix the snowman they’d built during a late-season snowstorm that hit Long Island three days earlier. Temperatures had risen to the fifties since then, but Chase would never tell the boys Frosty couldn’t be saved. The Gallagher brothers scooped up every inch of snow that hadn’t melted and brought it to Chase, who had an unlimited supply of patience from what Meg could see. Even through the closed window, she could hear the boys’ belly laughs and screeches of pure glee. “My turn, Chase! My turn!” And Chase would pick up another brother and lift him high enough to pat handfuls of snow into place. Suddenly, he lifted his head and stared right at her.

  She jumped back, her face on fire. Not smart, letting him catch her with her face pressed to her window.

  She turned back to her canvas, and with a charcoal pencil, she crossed out the color mix she’d noted. It was too dark out to fix it now. The master bedroom was already striped in shadows. After her father died, her mother had refused to sleep here, so Meg moved in, loving that she didn’t need to “Clean up that mess!” when she was done painting. The room was large enough for art supplies and her stuff, not that she had much. Just a twin bed shoved against one wall, a garage sale bookcase and desk for homework, an ancient laptop whose E button had long since disappeared, and a meager wardrobe that hardly filled one rod in the walk-in closet otherwise devoted to art supplies.

  The way the light shining through the huge palladium window illuminated the paintings on her easel, and the paint splatters on the wood floor made her feel like a real artist in a studio.

  Usually.

  Today, it only emphasized her failures.

  On stiff legs, she took her brushes and palette knife to the bathroom that adjoined the bedroom to wash them. A drop of crimson paint hit the tile floor and spread, seeping into the grout.

  Her throat tightened. Her breaths got shallow. Her stomach pitched and rolled, and when her legs buckled, she slid to the floor in a boneless heap, whimpering the way she had all those years ago when it had been blood on the floor instead of paint. He’d been gone for ten years now, but she could still hear his voice.

  “The future, Megan!” he’d always said. “Focus on the future. Set goals and don’t let anything or anyone ever make you lose focus.” Her father’s plan. But he’d failed. So now it was hers—a promise she had to keep.

  Minutes passed, or maybe they were hours. She sat on the hard floor until she was able to pull herself together. How long it had taken this time, she wasn’t sure. She grabbed a towel and rubbed furiously at the spot on the floor until it squeaked. Then she pulled out the tie that held her hair back in a messy knot, wincing when a few rooted strands came away with it. She dragged herself to her feet and ran the shower.

  Piece by piece, she shed her paint-spattered clothes. She stood under the stream of water as hot as she could take it. She really wished hot water could melt away all the anxiety that seemed to cover her like a thick coat of ice. The panic attack, the SAT scores that still hadn’t arrived, the job she was about to lose when the movie theater closed its doors in a few weeks, and the bills—the endless pile of bills her mom cried over when she thought Meg was asleep. When the water went cold, she stepped out, wrapped herself in a towel, and stood in front of the mirror, scowling at the look in her eyes.

  Bailey would notice.

  She always did, and Megan didn’t want to talk about it. It was old news.

  She tugged on jeans and a T-shirt, detangled her hair, and coiled it in another elastic. Downstairs, she foraged for dinner but found only a brown banana and the heels of a loaf of bread. Mom still hadn’t been grocery shopping. She slammed the refrigerator door, hoping there was enough money in her wallet to spring for a fast-food meal, and grabbed her cell to tap out a message to her best friend.

  Meg: Outta food again. Going to Main St. Wanna go?

  Bailey would say sure. They never discussed it, but Bailey knew there wasn’t always enough money for groceries, so she often came over with leftovers that she’d put on the top shelf in Meg’s empty refrigerator without a word. That was one of the things Meg loved about Bailey—she knew when it was time to talk and when it wasn’t
.

  Meg grabbed her keys and the art show flyer she wanted to show Bailey. Outside in the cold March air, she drew her hood up over her wet hair and rubbed her knees together to keep warm.

  After about five minutes, her cell buzzed.

  Bailey: Not hungry. CU tom. XOXO

  Megan’s forehead puckered. Bailey always walked with her to Main Street…or sometimes drove since Bailey was the proud owner of a driver’s license, even when she wasn’t hungry. Said it was a great excuse to escape her mother. Meg thought for a minute and typed back.

  Meg: What’s wrong?

  There was no reply, which was even stranger than the first message. Bailey always had to have the last word. It was a thing with her. Meg started the half-mile walk north, trying not to obsess. She had her learner’s permit, but she had never been behind the wheel of car.

  Pauline Farrell didn’t have the time or money for lessons. Meg had started a driver’s license fund, setting aside change from her part-time job for lessons or maybe the driver’s education class her school offered. She’d need a license to find jobs, and she’d need jobs to be independent. But first, she needed money to earn the license.

  At a table in the corner, she sighed and picked at her meal. French fries and chicken nuggets kind of sucked when you didn’t have anyone to share them with. She unfolded the flyer that had shown up in today’s mail and studied it again. Bailey hated museums, and Meg knew convincing her to go to Manhattan’s Museum of Modern Art wasn’t going to be easy. She’d go. Of course she’d go. But first, Meg would have to agree to a day of shopping—one of Bailey’s favorite sports—and maybe do some extra character sketches for the video game Bailey was trying to develop. But Bailey’s radio silence had her considering even higher stakes.

  Maybe makeovers.

  She ate her last fry and shuddered. For Bailey, she’d do it.

  She checked her phone. Still no reply from Bailey. Maybe she’d had another fight with her mom. Meg emptied her tray and started the long walk home. Or maybe it was Simon, Bailey’s latest boyfriend. Meg rolled her eyes. What a jerk.

  By the time Meg got home and still hadn’t heard from Bailey, panic had set in. She logged onto her computer, fired off a quick email, but it too was ignored. The next morning at the bus stop, Meg took one look at Bailey’s flat curls, bare-naked face, and sparkless demeanor, and her panic jolted straight to redline levels. Bailey Grant did not leave the house without her makeup coordinated to her outfit and her hair perfectly coiffed.

  “What’s-wrong-did-somebody-die-oh-God-are-your-grandparents-okay?”

  Bailey glanced up, her blue eyes dull, and shrugged. “Everyone’s fine. Nobody died. Nothing’s wrong.” Her eyes narrowed when she got a look at Meg. “What’s wrong with you? You look terrible.”

  Knew it. Megan pressed her lips into a line and shook her head. “The usual.”

  Bailey nodded, understanding. “Anxiety attack again?”

  “Anxiety attack?”

  The deep voice had them both spinning around. Chase Gallagher frowned down at Meg, worry filling brilliant eyes that defied her every attempt to render on canvas. Greens, golds, flecks of browns and grays, his eyes were a source of endless fascination—and frustration—for her. Before she could stop it, her face split into the stupid smile her lips somehow reserved just for Chase.

  Damn it. She needed a reason, an excuse, an explanation, something that could explain the grin, something like—

  A book accidentally-on-purpose falling on Chase’s foot. “Oh! Sorry, Chase,” Bailey sang.

  That might work, Meg sighed in relief. While Chase bent down to pick up the book, Meg gave Bailey a barely perceptible nod of thanks, which Bailey answered with a barely perceptible nod of her own. Chase frowned at Bailey and then at Meg. She knew he wasn’t going to let it go. Luckily, so did Bailey. She quickly handed Meg something wrapped in a napkin just as Chase opened his mouth. “Here you go, Meg. Strawberry.” Bailey handed her a Pop-Tart. She shoved half of it in her mouth before Chase could interrogate her.

  Meg’s eyes slipped closed. It was still warm.

  “So, Chase, why are you riding the bus with the rest of the terminally uncool?” Bailey asked while Meg chewed.

  “Lacrosse practice today. My mother needs the car. My brothers have a birthday party, music lesson, and a doctor’s appointment after school today. Blah, blah, blah.” He rolled his eyes as he ticked the events off his fingers, and Meg’s heart gave a little pang. She thought it would be cool to have a big family like Chase’s.

  The bus arrived and everyone piled inside. Bailey slid toward a window seat, and Meg took the aisle seat beside her, leaving Chase on his own. He grinned and held up a hand. “Later.”

  Meg shut her eyes and sent up a prayer of gratitude. Sitting beside Chase Gallagher all the way to school would have killed her. It would have set her on fire, she was sure of it.

  The bus continued its route, but Bailey remained quiet. Meg dug out her sketch pad and handed it to Bailey. “I did some character sketches I forgot to show you. Can you use these for your game?”

  Bailey flipped through the pages of pencil sketches, stopping at one. “Who’s this?”

  “Pope Sixtus. Not a particularly nice guy, but he liked art, so I figured you could use him for the Renaissance level.”

  Bailey nodded and gave the book back to Meg without a word. Something was seriously up. Bailey was always bugging her to work on her video game, and Pope Sixtus rendered in charcoal didn’t even earn a grunt? Curiosity tinged with worry twisted Meg inside out, but she would give her friend some privacy.

  This vow lasted until lunchtime.

  “Did your mom start in on you again?” Meg asked.

  Bailey blinked. “What? Oh. No. She went away for the weekend. I’ll see her tonight.” She waved a hand and went back to picking apart a chicken strip.

  Right. Meg had forgotten Bailey’s mother, Nicole, had gone on another hot date. So if it wasn’t her mother and it wasn’t Simon, it had to be something serious. Meg tried again. “Is it your SAT scores? Mine didn’t come yet, but I heard a few people got theirs and—”

  “God, Meg! Please stop. I don’t care about SAT scores. I only took the test early because you did.”

  Meg stared at Bailey for a moment and then quietly put her sandwich down on her cafeteria tray. She knew Bailey didn’t care about school much, but the SATs? Their entire futures rode on those scores! Meg hoped for a scholarship. Actually, her entire plan depended on getting a scholarship to a good college, where she’d study business or maybe medicine. She hadn’t figured that part out yet. Or maybe she’d wait tables while she attended community college just like her mother. Pauline Farrell had just a few courses left to finish the accounting degree she was earning at night school. Meg couldn’t wait. Maybe then they’d have enough money so that her mother wouldn’t cry at night.

  She sneaked another glance at Bailey and finally faced facts. Bailey wasn’t going to talk until she was damn well good and ready. Meg cleaned up what was left of her lunch, piling the plastic containers back onto her tray, and hoped Bailey wasn’t pregnant or dying or something. Her head whipped up when Bailey suddenly shot to her feet with a muffled scream.

  Gatorade rolled down Bailey’s jeans, leaving behind angry red scars. Her boyfriend held the now-empty bottle, and from the sneer on his face, Meg knew it was no accident. An instant hush interrupted the usual cafeteria racket while Bailey frantically blotted the mess with a stack of recycled napkins. Meg leaped to her feet. “What the hell is wrong with you, Simon?”

  Simon Kane tossed the bottle onto the table and took a threatening step closer. “Shut up, Meg. This is all your fault. What did you tell her? What lies did you spread?”

  So Simon was the cause of Bailey’s mood. Why didn’t Bailey tell her they’d had a fight? They’d known Simon since second grade, and Meg never un
derstood what Bailey saw in him—except for his computer programming ability. Sure, Simon was cute. But ever since his parents had won the lottery, he’d become conceited and spoiled, teased Bailey often, and questioned everything she said. Worse, Bailey allowed it. Actually thought it was cute.

  Gag.

  Meg tossed more napkins at her best friend, who now sat in shocked silence. “I’m not the one hitting on cheerleaders when I’m supposed to be with someone else.”

  “I wasn’t cheating!”

  Meg laughed. “Sure.”

  Simon ignored her and turned to Bailey. “Do you believe her or me?”

  Meg wondered about the answer to that herself. Last week, after she’d caught Simon hitting on Caitlyn, the head cheerleader, there had been no apology, no explanation. Bailey swore—she promised—she was through, but Meg never expected Bailey to actually keep that promise.…or worse, keep it from her. Whatever. She and Bailey would discuss that later. Right now, she had more important things to do.

  “Bailey, can I make him cry now?”

  Simon’s blue eyes went dark as he stared Meg down. “Just mind your own business. You did enough.”

  “Meg. It’s okay. Sit down.” Bailey murmured, tugging Meg’s arm.

  “No, it is not okay.” Meg glared at both of them. “Those are fifty-dollar jeans, and Gatorade never washes out. You should buy her a new pair, Simon.”

  “Megan, stop,” Bailey said.

  “Oh, I should, huh?” Simon laughed once and his blue eyes narrowed. “I’d have bought her tons of jeans. I’d have bought her anything she wanted. If she were nice to me, I’d have been nice to her.” He shot Bailey a wounded look.

  Bailey looked at him like he was diseased. “I’m done, Simon. Get over it.”

  A muscle in Simon’s jaw clenched. “You know what, Bailey? I am over it. I can get any girl I want. You’re not even that hot.” He high-fived one of his friends with a loud laugh.

  Meg was about to defend Bailey when she saw the hurt in Simon’s eyes. Well, jeez, she’d never expected that. She looked at Bailey. Had she caught Simon’s expression too? But Bailey’s face was frozen, her eyes just as hurt, and Meg knew Simon’s insult had hit home. Bailey was curvy with long blond curls, huge blue eyes, and a smile bright enough to power a city block. She was the definition of hot, no matter what Simon Kane had to say about it. But Bailey never believed the compliments. Simon would know all about Bailey’s insecurities, and Meg’s eyes narrowed. It was a low blow, an arrow aimed straight at Bailey’s Achilles’ heel.