by Cecelia Earl
An Illusion of Control
Cecelia Earl
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
AN ILLUSION OF CONTROL. Copyright © 2020 by Cecelia Earl. All rights reserved.
www.ceceliaearl.com
Cover Design by Christy Hintz
Cover image credit: iStock.com/amoklv
Created with Vellum
Also by Cecelia Earl
Kingdom Come Series
The Legend of Shady Creek:
Before the Ashes
When Ash Rains Down
After the Ashes
When Smoke Rains Down
After the Smoke
When Fire Rains Down
After the Smoke
This may not be a bench
upon which people sit
to trace your name
etched in a metal plaque,
but this is a novel,
parts of which are etched on my heart
and in my memory.
This is not your story,
but in this story there is you.
And a dedication is about honoring,
about loving,
about never forgetting.
You will never be forgotten.
For you, Betty Ashman,
my mom,
A Packer fan
who could touch her tongue to her nose
and who could always
make me laugh.
1
fine is never fine
Everything looks perfect. Strings of red lights drape across the ceiling and dangle from the center of the gymnasium, cloaking all the dancers in crimson.
Everything sounds perfect. The music is upbeat, the bass a perfect volume, not that crass loud overbearing beat that makes everyone's ears bleed and heart hurt. Not like last week's prom at East High—which naturally I crashed to be sure I didn't overlook any details. Nope, my prom is nothing like that. Everyone is laughing and having a good time. I circulate, smiling at my classmates, nodding at their dress and accessory choices. The food table is topped off. The chaperons are keeping their distance.
I approach a girl standing at the foot of the bleachers. I tap her bare, brown shoulder. "Where have you been?"
She's wearing a strapless, short black dress, one electric blue heel and one emerald green heel. Her nails are each painted a different color of the rainbow, and today her eyes are a natural brown. A thick strand of her black hair matches the electric blue shoe.
"Bathroom." She turns toward me. "I sat on the seat and everything."
"Ew." I fumble through my purse.
"What are you looking for?"
"Sanitizer." I hand her a bottle.
She doesn't take it, but asks, "And what, pray tell, shall I do with it?"
I steer her toward the hall. "Spread it on the back of your thighs."
She ducks out from under my hands and moves back toward the dance floor, laughing. "You really are crazy. Remind me again why I love you."
"Why wouldn't you?" I put the sanitizer under her nose for one last try.
She shakes her head, and I return it to my purse with a huff.
"I promise to wear sweats to sleep in later. My germ-covered legs won't touch anything in your house."
"What about our toilet seats?" I watch as a girl in a mermaid dress takes the last water bottle from the refreshment table.
"Man. I'll shower when I get there. Okay?"
"Fine." I gesture to the transformed gymnasium. "It's all fantastic, right?"
"Beyond."
Ms. Fulton, the only teacher not charmed by my straight A+ average and over-abundance of extracurriculars, is staring at me from ten feet away like something's gone amok.
All the other teachers patted my back and congratulated me on successfully orchestrating the prom-week festivities, parade, and dance. Not her. Unfortunately, she's the only AP senior lit instructor. Her cropped white hair and beady, steel eyes creep me out every day from my front row seat.
I sigh. Yet, as a challenge junkie, I'm committed to winning her over. I need her A+. Nothing can go wrong on her watch tonight.
"Okay, mingle. Have fun. Be back in a bit."
I wheel in a dolly with another batch of water and scan the room while also smoothing out my red satin dress. As I reach up to tuck in any loose strands of hair, an arm wraps around my waist and a warm face nuzzles my neck.
"Hey, babe."
"Marc." I turn to kiss his lips, my stomach all aflutter. "You found me."
"A feat worth noting. You are not an easy girl to catch up with."
"I noted it." I kiss him again and then further note how adorable he looks, with his dark eyes and shaggy hair. "But worth catching, right?"
He kisses me in reply. Then he lifts my wrist. "How'd I do picking out your corsage?"
"I like." I glance at the red rose on my wrist and then grab my purse from the refreshment table to pull out his rose boutonniere. "Sorry I couldn't do the whole picture thing ahead of time." I pin it on him without sticking him, even in the low-lit room. "I wanted this to be perfect."
He raises an eyebrow. "You can make it up to me later." He leans in for another kiss, but I stop it with three fingers to his lips.
"About that. May is sleeping over. She didn't have a date, and I didn't want her to feel all left out and awkward . . . ."
"May? Awkward?" He frowns. "Not possible."
I roll my eyes. "She has feelings, you know."
"Yes, but she's the most sure-of-herself person in our class. And we have 500 people in our class, so that's saying a lot."
"Anyway. You guys are welcome to hang out at my house afterward. We can watch movies. I have a gazillion snacks."
He backs away. "Yeah, we'll see." He looks around the room, losing focus.
Last year, after junior prom, Marcus and I set out for High Cliff, the largest state park in the area. We spread out a blanket overlooking the forest and lake. I'd never intended to fall for him. I'd carefully selected him as my date for a dance sophomore year from all the other guys because he'd seemed the safest—and perfect in a vague, shallow way.
Yet, on that blanket with the moonlight glinting off his hair, he'd whispered words that had reached the scared parts inside me—not at all shallow. He didn't say the ordinary things, like "You're beautiful." Or "I love you."
Instead he'd said, "Everything is okay when we're together. I mean, now yeah, it's romantic out here under the stars and whatnot, but even when we're in the Hallway of Lockers at school . . .” He’d fumbled with the blanket at that point, twisting it between his fingers. "I don't know, I like life better when I can turn my head and look at you, when I can hear you breathing, when I can hear your thoughts." He'd swallowed and said, "I feel special because you tell me the things you're thinking." He smiled at me then. "You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would do that with just anyone."
At the time, the scenery definitely affected my sense-making skills, because I'd replied rather breathily, "I can't believe I found someone who'd want to listen to me." And, "I'm sorry there's something in your life that needs to be made better in the first place."
That night we'd connected like the dot-to-dot stars by drawing our fingers between them to create pictures of cats and dolphins and an umbrella. His heart had been broken when his brother crashed their car and ended up in rehab, and my heart faded a
little every day after my brother left for college and my parents became workaholics. I’d found a friend in him I didn’t know I needed. But now, a year later, Marc's so much more demanding of my time. And my emotions. Plus, everything at home has changed now that Dad's sick.
Before I can argue his apathetic response to my invite, a song that was not on the okay-by-me playlist comes on, and I have to rush off. With college looming, my parents' issues, and schoolwork, I don't have much left of myself to give. Why can't Marc understand that? Why can't he understand what I need? Space. Love, with space.
Once the DJ assures me three times that he comprehends my instructions, I'm approached by none other than Lucy Fox, a tiny-waisted, D-cupped, black-haired girl.
I swear she glares at me before spreading her pale, matte lips into a smile that grows cavities in my teeth. "Word is," she gloats, "there's vodka in your punch." She flips her celeb-styled hair over a pale shoulder and walks away on four-inch heels. She doesn't waiver for a second. She looks like she could run a 5K in those babies.
"Thanks for the heads up," I call after her. She's probably the guilty party.
I head back around the crowd and refreshments table to the hallway between the gym and cafeteria kitchen. Before grabbing a few more containers of juice and pitchers to replace the punch bowl, I tap in my parents' number on my cell phone.
"Mom, how's it going?"
"Fine." She sounds tired, and she knows how I hate that word, fine. Fine is never fine. Fine means everything is not at all fine. It's terrible, and we're not going to tell you just how terrible. We're going to pretend it's all just fine.
"Sure it is. Can I talk to Dad?"
"He's asleep." She yawns. "Really, he’s fine."
"Uh-huh. Well, you should sleep, too, then. May and I will be quiet later. If Marc and his friends join us, we'll go straight downstairs and will keep it down."
"You don't have to come home. Isn't there a party or something you want to go to?"
"No." I want to come home.
"Okay. I'm sitting up reading a little more on what to expect when you're expecting a kidney transplant. Required reading from Dad's doctor. Then I'll sleep. We'll both be sound asleep when you get home, so try to have some fun."
"Will do. Love you."
"You too."
I slip my phone into my purse and wheel a cart of pitchers and juice into the blazing, blaring gymnasium.
Everything is perfect.
Then I see Marc. And Lucy Fox.
Kissing.
2
should i be scared
"Everything okay? What smile is that you're wearing?" May comes up behind me and nudges me with her elbow. "Oh," she says once her eyes land where mine have already crashed. "That'd be your pissed-and-hiding-it smile."
I imagine thrusting my hands between them, shoving so they fly apart, Lucy Fox landing in her souped-up punch bowl. Then I spot Ms. Fulton with eyes narrowed into slits and arms folded as she scans the room, waiting, I'm sure, for me to screw up something.
"Excuse me a minute. I have to check on something."
"Should I be scared?" May calls after me as I run off to find some of the other members of the prom committee. Since I handled everything single-handedly, I had to give them all something to do, so they all came armed with a school iPad or digital camera. It's time to put their contribution to good use.
Before I can nab my first classmate, Ms. Fulton steps in front of me, blocking my path. Any closer than first row lit class is too close. She towers over my 5'3" frame. I look up.
"Miss Laine Carroll." The shaking in my limbs freezes as her voice coils around me like tendrils of dry ice. "I know how much stock you put into being successful, but don't think you can get it any other way than straight up honesty and clear-cut wholesomeness. I've been tipped off. You've spiked the punch, and that's a low way to get a popularity vote. I also don't like your lack of team-working collaboration. You try to be a one-girl show. Well, if that means you need to inebriate your peers, then you have failed." She punctuates her final three words with a finger to my heart. "Don't think this won't be taken into consideration for your final grade."
Don't think I won't take that to the board of education!
"I did nothing of the sort, Ms. Fulton, but I—we—will look into your accusations, your suspicions, and be sure that the senior class is only drinking straight punch, no alcohol. Thank you for alerting me—us—the prom committee."
Once she clears the hallway, I shake away her threats and the image of Marc with Lucy Fox. I take a breath, clench my fingers into fists, swallow the anger in my throat and the hurt that's welling up like a balloon full of tears. Confident I'm in control of my emotions, I round everybody up.
They've got some good shots. Pictures that scan every corner of the room, including one of the refreshment table. A little zoom-in here. A little cropping there. I load my choices from each of the cameras onto a zip drive and send the closest member off with it.
Satisfied after that brief meeting in the hallway, I make my way to the DJ's stand, grab the microphone, and the spotlight.
That'll be the last time Lucy Fox passively threatens me while doubting she'll get caught for setting me up. I won't be taking the fall tonight.
Since my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Marc and my used-to-be-rival-turned-enemy Lucy Fox are still going at it, I plaster a smile on my face—and it's only five percent forced.
I motion for the DJ to do a little jingle to get everyone’s attention, and then tell him to play our school fight song. While it beats away and the crowd joins in to sing along, I skim the room with the spotlight, drawing cheers and some show-off moves when the light lands on groups of students loving the brief highlight.
I hesitate a little too uncomfortably long on Marc who pulls away from Lucy Fox's lips to stare up at me. I let off on the light enough so he can see my sassy grin, narrowed eyes, and raised eyebrow. Thankful he can't see the tear he's ripped in my heart. It's not that big of a tear that time won't mend, anyhow. Then the light moseys on. When the fight song finishes, I speak into the silence, while watching my committee scurry around to ready the screen and projector. And of course, to add our finishing touches.
"Welcome to your senior prom," I announce into the microphone, "both a highlight, and a finale to your high school career. Some of you are here with the sweetheart you fell in love with over the past four years, others with someone who recently caught your eye, and still others with friends you'd never have made it through the hours that brought you to this point without. Whether you are celebrating an end, a beginning, or a little of both this evening, I share with you the memories of our senior class." I gesture toward the screen.
Sentimental music flares up as does the projector. Images of students playing basketball, baseball, cheering, running, swimming, on stage in costume, playing instruments, giving speeches, and laughing covers the screen, one after another.
Sentiment flows into an upbeat mix of popular songs from the past four years. The room laughs and cheers and grimaces as pictures replay the growth and events that happened within the building's walls.
Finally, the music echoes the songs from tonight as pictures showcase the couples out on the dance floor. Picture after picture, couples smile and hold a pose. In the end, random shots from around the room flit across the screen: a threesome laughing; a loner sitting on the bleachers, bored; prom committee members floating and taking pictures; the DJ; teachers and chaperones chatting; Lucy Fox filling the punch bowl with something from a bottle; Lucy Fox tucking a bottle into her large Gucci knock-off purse; and more couples dancing and kissing.
I glance at Ms. Fulton out of the corner of my eye. She doesn't disappoint me. Off she goes, in search of one Miss Lucy Fox who is no longer glued to my Marc's body.
"That wraps up our presentation. Let's give an appreciative hand to the prom committee." I wait for the room to clap and cheer before continuing, "Who knew we had an amateur sleuth on our hands? We had l
ittle time to edit the add-on pictures from the dance. Hopefully you had your fill of the punch because we'll be removing it now." I pause for snickers and groans. A few guys make a run for the refreshment table, probably not so much in jest as in hope. "Enjoy the rest of your night, everyone. Congratulations on making it to the end of your senior year. This celebration is much deserved."
I step away from the DJ and walk around clapping classmates, cheering and catcalling after me. Smoothing my dress at my thighs as if wiping off the task of delivering a death sentence, I plan to ignore Marc indefinitely.
Unsuccessfully at that.
He reaches for me, and though I pull my hand away, he snatches it to his chest, pulling me in as if dancing. "Hey," he says, his voice all soft and, what, confused?
I glare at him and he steps back, his face changing, his voice hardening.
"Was that really necessary?" he says. "A low blow, even from you."
No apology, just an accusation. I narrow my eyes. Two years together. How well did I know him, or him me? What did we expect from one another? I don't bother telling him I was protecting myself when I ask, "Lucy Fox?"
I try to imagine that, in the dim lighting, he has the decency to at least blush. But the reality is that he doesn't even flinch, nor does he loosen his hold on my hand. I try not to think of the times I yearned for his fingers to touch mine. Try not to think of the times his skin soothed my always-spinning mind. Try not to think.
"At least I got your attention," he says, his face stony and serious, edged with maybe a tinge of sadness. "You haven't taken notice of me in months."
"Well, now you've lost it for good." I rip my arm away from him. "There are plenty of ways to get my attention, and kissing the one person in this school I loathe was not it."
"So you embarrass her in front of the whole school? Try to get her suspended? It was my fault, not hers."
