by Amanda Grace
Woodbury, Minnesota
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No One Needs to Know © 2014 by Amanda Grace.
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First e-book edition © 2014
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Acknowledgments
Firstly, this book wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz, who suggested I write outside my normal box. Thank you for believing I could pull it off, and for pushing me when the first draft didn’t quite work.
Secondly, thank you to Sandy Sullivan, who always manages to catch the trouble spots. I appreciate your keen eye!
Thirdly, thank you to my kind, amazing agent, Bob Diforio, who must operate on 2.5 hours of sleep. I don’t know how you do it.
And finally, thank you to B and D, who never complain when I disappear into my office for a few hours to write. At the risk of sounding like Kelly Clarkson—life would suck without you. Love you both.
Olivia
Before I even open my eyes, I know something’s off. My bed’s too stiff, my pillow is too thick … and I can hear my twin brother, Liam, snoring.
I want to roll over and cover my head with my blanket, but judging by the light trying to pry its way through my eyelids, it’s morning. And a school day. Ugh. I still haven’t quite adjusted to September.
I groan and sit up, glaring in the direction of the sound. My brother’s sitting on the other sofa, an arm slung over his eyes, his mouth open as he snores. The TV screen is overtaken by a screensaver; random portraits of wild animals glide across the screen, one after another.
We’d been chain-watching The Walking Dead on Netflix when I zonked out.
I reach over to the coffee table, scoop up a handful of popcorn, and hurl it at Liam. Only one kernel lands in his mouth, but it’s enough. He snorts and coughs and then abruptly sits up, spitting the popcorn onto the ground. His sandy-blond hair is sticking up at odd angles, making me giggle.
“Thanks, dude,” he says, glaring at me through slitted eyes.
“De nada, señor,” I say, swinging my feet to the floor and then heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. While it fills from the dispenser, I study the flier stuck to the fridge. “I get to choose our Friday night movie.”
“I know, I know.”
I don’t miss that it’s more of a grumble than an agreement.
“You can’t complain if it has subtitles,” I add, tracing the name of one of the movies with my finger. It’s French.
My glass full, I walk to the windows and peer out at Puget Sound. In the distance, a ferry steams toward our shoreline, carrying people from Vashon Island. We’ve lived in the penthouse at Point Ruston for two years and I’m still getting used to it. I mean, the elevator, the parking garage, the Brazilian-cherry floors, sure. The view? It’s just as awe-inspiring every time I peer out the windows. Our old place, a beautifully restored Victorian mansion, was farther up the hill. The water view wasn’t quite as in your face.
“Pretty much everything at the Grand Cinema has subtitles,” Liam mutters, finally getting off the couch and walking up next to me, still rubbing at his eyes.
I ignore his whining. “We should go kayaking on Saturday. It’s supposed to be hot.”
“I’m busy,” he replies. “Maybe next weekend.”
I want to ask him what he’s busy with this time, but I resist.
“Maybe by next weekend the weather will suck.” My eyes roam the skyline, taking in the high, fluffy clouds. It’s been hot all week. Well, hot for Washington State anyway—mid 80s, blue skies, the feeling of the days stretching on and on. “Summer’s pretty much over.”
“So?”
I frown. “So, if we miss the good weather, it’ll be months before we get out again. Come on, please? You never want to hang out anymore.”
Liam rolls his eyes, then looks down his nose at me like I’m being childish. “We’re going to the movies tonight, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. Okay.” I hate the needy tone of my voice, but I can’t help it. There’s just something … off about our friendship lately, but he won’t acknowledge it.
“You nail down the quarterback position yet?” I ask, walking back toward the kitchen.
“Coach will pick on Monday.” His reply is surprisingly half-hearted.
I study his face. “You still want it, right?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
I chew on my lip. I’m not buying it, but my brother is obviously not in the mood to talk. “Okay, well, good luck.” I set my cup on the counter. “Meet me at the theater at six?”
“Sure,” he says. “See ya then.”
I leave him in the kitchen, walking to my room for a quick shower before heading off to another mind-numbing day of school.
“Marriage of convenience,” my best friend Ava announces as she arrives at our lunch table. She sets down a Diet Coke and drops onto the creaky bench.
“Uh, you mean like an arranged marriage?” I ask, popping a baby carrot in my mouth.
“Exactly.” She dumps her food out of a brown paper sack, and I just barely manage to catch an apple that rolls across the table. I toss it her way and she catches it without a blink. “Wouldn’t that be nice, if some level-headed person could just pair you with the right guy and you didn’t have to put up with all this dating garbage?”
I laugh. “Yeah, because I’m never going to find a boyfriend in an all-girls school. I’d take an arranged date at this point.”
Ava grins. “Right?”
“Why is arranged marriage on your mind? Is Ayden being a jerk again?” I ask.
“No. It was last night’s article,” she says, yanking open a bag of potato chips. “It was about how arranged marriages aren’t just in India or whatever, but that a lot of indust
rialized countries still have them.”
“Ohhhh.” Every day, Ava’s dad makes her read one long-form article from a major magazine or newspaper—we’re talking Time, not Seventeen—and then discuss it at the dinner table.
I reach for another carrot. “I don’t know. If it was up to your dad, you could end up married to a total creep who looks really great in pictures. You know, for the campaign trail or whatever.”
“But at least the creep would attend the charity brunch my mom is coordinating this Saturday, unlike Ayden, who’s trying to ditch it.” Ava sits up straighter, fingering the strand of pearls on her neck. “I mean, they’re not that bad. I got to meet the president last year.”
“Yeah, no, they’re really that bad,” I say.
“Whatever.” Ava grins because she knows I’m right.
“Do you want to work on our reading list this weekend? I’m completely overwhelmed and we’re, like, only two weeks into the semester. I’m so screwed.”
Her nose scrunches up. “Ugh, no. CliffsNotes. They invented them for a reason.”
“There’s still the essay assignment, and the million calc problems, and the chemistry lab—”
“Whoa, take a deep breath and quit worrying about it, will you? You sound like you’re about to break out in hives,” she says.
I sigh. “It wouldn’t kill you to work with me on homework. I mean, one of these days Mrs. Emery is going to realize you’ve never read any of the assigned reading, and this is your third year with her.”
Ava smiles, wide and triumphant. “I look forward to that day. Then I can remind her that my dad pretty much paid for the library that houses said books, and she’ll have to shut up.”
I toss a carrot at her. “You’re terrible.”
“Terribly awesome,” she says, flinging the carrot off her green plaid skirt—which is standard issue for all girls at Annie Wright School. “You’re just jealous I’m so cool and collected. Unflappable … unflustered … composed … ”
“Oh come on, Ava,” I say. “You’ve gotta worry about school at some point.”
“Please. If I’m going into politics like my dad, I can’t get worked up over freaking homework.”
I prop an elbow on our lunch table and rest my chin in my hand. “Have you done any of it?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m totally done with the mock campaign posters for leadership.”
I snort. “Naturally.”
“I’m so gonna ace that class. I’ve been waiting years for it.”
I pop another carrot in my mouth, wondering how many I can eat before I turn orange, and let Ava’s words go in one ear and out the other. She can blather forever when it comes to leadership class, and before I know it, the bell rings. She disappears almost immediately, waving goodbye to me over her shoulder.
My stomach growls as I stand, shoving most of my lunch back into my bag. It’s not that I’m trying to lose a ton of weight, but a pound or two would help my gymnastics performance. It’s a small price to pay, really.
I try not to look at the stack of homework in my backpack, or the three textbooks I need to bring home, but it’s impossible to ignore the tightness in my chest as I remember how behind I am already. I don’t remember school being this overwhelming this fast before.
I zip my backpack shut, wishing I could push away the stress as easily as I can bury books in my bag, and then head across the cafeteria, striding straight toward the restroom.
Halfway there, a small group of sophomores blocks the path, completely oblivious. I pause, waiting for them to see me, but they’re too busy talking. I only have a few minutes to duck into the bathroom and get what I need from my bag, out of the view of the student body.
“Excuse me,” I announce, annoyance lacing my tone. “Maybe you could take your little conversation out of the pathway?”
The girl nearest me, a redhead, grabs her backpack. “Oh, uh, sorry.” She moves just far enough that I can squeeze past them and make my way to the door of the restroom.
I’m relieved to find it empty. I set my backpack on the countertop, then fish out a little purple pill box.
Just as I’m about to open it, a girl from my history class, Zoey, waltzes through the door, her torn-up sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. The shoes look ridiculous with the schoolgirl outfit, like some lame attempt to make our standard uniform look punk rock.
I freeze, standing there like a deer in headlights, my fist clenched around the pillbox.
Zoey pauses, her gaze flicking to my hand and then to my face and back again. I must look like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
After a few heartbeats of nothing but staring back at her, I let out a jagged breath of air.
One side of her mouth curls up in a mocking smile as she glances down at my fist again. “Diet pills, maybe? I mean, you don’t really seem like the type to go for the harder stuff … ”
My face flushes and I shove my hand back into the pocket of my backpack, dropping the box inside. I zip it shut, panic tightening in my chest. “I don’t do drugs, you idiot. I’m a gymnast. I can’t poison my body like that.”
They’re prescription, so it’s not like they’re drugs drugs. Not the kind of thing girls like Zoey probably do.
“Hmmm … ” She tips her head to the side, tapping one black-lacquered finger on her chin in an annoyingly exaggerated gesture. “And yet I’ve caught you red-handed doing something … ” She brightens and claps her hands together. “Oooh, pregnancy test?”
I let out a snort of ugly laughter. “I’m a freaking virgin. I don’t even have a boyfriend. And I swear to god if you start spreading rumors … ”
She screws her crimson-painted lips up to the side and ignores my words. “But then a pregnancy test is too big to fit in your fist like that, so—”
“Just shut up, okay?” I grab a paper towel and dry off my hands. It’s just my luck that our school’s resident pariah was the one to find me in here. She’d probably love to hand the title off to me and dust her hands of the whispers that follow her around like smoke trails a fire.
Then Zoey turns around, reaching for the bathroom door. I scramble over to her and grab the strap of her messenger bag, yanking her toward me just as her fingertips brush the door handle.
“Whoa,” she says, stumbling back and turning to face me.
“Just forget about it,” I snap.
Her expression morphs from triumph to something else. Sympathy? Ugh. The last thing I want is Zoey Thomasson’s sympathy.
“Huh,” she says. “So the girl who has everything has something to hide.”
I do nothing but stare into her eyes, willing her to forget it. She saw nothing. She knows nothing. But I can’t get my heart to stop spasming painfully against my ribs.
“All right, all right,” she says, breathing it out on a reluctant sigh. “Your secret’s safe with me, princess.” And then she pats my cheek, smiles, and pushes past me, disappearing into a bathroom stall.
I don’t trust her—no one trusts her—and I stand there for a long moment, uncertainty swirling in my stomach. I don’t think she actually saw what was in my hand, so there’s nothing for her to tell. But I screwed it all up with that panicked, frozen reaction. Now she knows I’m hiding something, and that’s enough to freak me out. I leave the bathroom without another word, simply because I’m not sure what else to say.
The late bell rings before I’m halfway to Chem, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Zoey
Olivia Reynolds has a secret.
Those five words have been rolling around in my head for the last hour and a half, and part of me regrets that I didn’t just knock her out and dig into that ugly Coach backpack of hers to find out what it is. One decent punch to the nose and I bet she would’ve keeled right over.
It was that wild, cornered-animal look that stoppe
d me. The building panic gleaming in her eyes.
The girl who beams from every yearbook photo, who has single-handedly filled one of the trophy cases in the hallway, has a whole lot more going on in her head than I’d ever expected. And it’s almost … almost enough to make me like her. You know, if she weren’t such a self-entitled bitch.
I push my way through the crowd, heading toward the only class I share with Olivia—history. I make it through the door with only seconds to spare and sink into my chair, glad I’m several rows behind Olivia. She currently has her back to me and is chatting with Ava, her BFF, the one I would like to strangle with my bare hands.
Mr. Nelson walks to the front of the room, a stack of paper in his hand. “All right guys, settle down. I’m returning your quizzes today. Some of you have some ground to make up, but I’ve got good news for you: we’re getting into our first big project of the new semester. It represents twenty percent of your grade for this term, so you’re going to want to spend some serious time on it. Especially those of you who didn’t fare so well on our first quiz.”
He’s walking around the room now, setting quizzes face-down on desks as he goes by. When he reaches my desk, my breath hitches in my throat. I need a solid grade in this class, in every class, or I lose my scholarship.
This place—Annie Wright School—is the only good school I’ve ever gone to. Inside these walls, I forget about the hellhole I call home. But if I get even one C, I’m out. And even though I’m pretty damn smart, even though I work hard, the pressure constantly makes me second guess.
I hold my breath, flip the quiz over, and instantly grin. A-. I can handle an A-.
“Okay then,” Mr. Nelson continues. “The project will be done in pairs. You’ll be choosing one time period in American history. You’ll then report on a historic event from two different perspectives. Choose two people involved and showcase their viewpoints. Be creative. For example, you could show the Civil War through the eyes of the president and a slave, or show a battle from both sides. You can write a compare-and-contrast essay or two fictional letters or create a skit, anything along those lines. Basically, I want to see how two people with wildly dissimilar perspectives view the same event.”
