by Lisa Roecker
In spite of the fact that I’d slept through most of Latin, I was able to make out the word “punishment” in there. Crap. Two demerits equaled a phone call from the headmaster to my absentee parents. I mentally added the impending parental contact to my list of worries, right underneath global warming.
Grace was, of course, number one on my list.
After class, my name rang through the hallway. I turned, expecting Seth or maybe even Liam, but instead met Alistair Reynolds’s eyes. Two Reynolds brothers in one day? Someone must have spritzed me with eau de old money or something.
“Oh, hey, Alistair,” I said, trying not to sound too disappointed. As I looked up at him, I flushed again after thinking about my outburst the night before.
“I want to apologize,” he said, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “It was a stupid idea, and I’m really sorry you got so upset.”
“It’s not a big deal. I was just super-tired,” I mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
“Can I make it up to you?” He wore a sly smile as he leaned casually against the bay of lockers. It was impossible to tell if he was being serious or not. I kept looking around the hallway expecting Bradley Farrow to pop out and scream, “Gotcha!”
Alistair sensed my hesitation. “Well, I mean, unless your boyfriend will get mad.”
Students rushed by us trying to make it to their ninth-period classes in time. I couldn’t deny the feel of their eyes on us as they passed. Surely each one was wondering why a boy like Alistair would ever talk to a crazy girl like me. As I considered this question, I thought of Maddie and her infamous crush on him. I thought about how hurt she would be if I accepted. For a second, I even thought about how good that would feel.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “But thanks for offering. It’s really…um…sweet of you.”
He pulled his hands to his chest, covering his heart and feigning heartbreak.
“Ah, denied!” he joked. As he walked backward, he slammed right into someone. Well, not just someone—Liam Gilmour.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, dude,” Liam said with a quick glance at Alistair and a long look at me.
“Sorry, man. Just trying to stay on my game.” Alistair raised his hands at Liam and winked at me. Suddenly his whole playboy shtick seemed very tired.
“Interesting.” Liam rolled his eyes.
“Always,” he responded to Liam, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Anyway, call me, Kate. I’ll be waiting.” Alistair winked again and walked off in the direction of his next class.
“Didn’t realize trust-fund d-bags were your type.” Liam shook his head. “Too bad. These guys gave me some tickets to a show tonight in exchange for designing posters for their band. I thought it might be your thing, but maybe I was wrong.”
Holy shit. Did Liam Gilmour just ask me out on a date? “I…um…I have a tennis match…and bands aren’t exactly my thing, unless you count the Beatles…” I trailed off.
“Whatever. I get it. It’s cool.” He looked down at his feet and then back up at me. “Just be careful with those guys, okay? They’re not who they pretend to be. Or maybe they are.” He shook his head. “Just, I don’t know…watch out. Oh, and the Beatles? They totally count.” He ducked into a classroom and vanished just as quickly as he’d appeared.
Awesome. I’d somehow managed to make the cheesiest guy in school think I was going to call him while simultaneously blowing off the one guy I might actually be interested in.
Universe: 1. Kate: 0.
• • •
Directly after school, Naomi and I were paired to warm up before our tennis match. As soon as I heard Naomi’s name, my face flushed. She probably thought I was insane after the previous night. But I couldn’t exactly ask my coach for a different partner. I jogged onto the grass court, thankful that Naomi waited along the baseline instead of meeting me at the net.
Over the summer Naomi had grown her hair out and had some serious work done on her eyebrows, transforming from an ugly duckling to a full-on supermodel. The best part was that Naomi seemed totally oblivious to her mini-transformation. She adjusted her sports bra, smoothed her perfect hair, and gave a little wave to one of the football players practicing nearby.
Well, maybe not totally oblivious.
“Hey, Kate!” she called, hitting a couple balls in my direction. She looked obnoxiously well rested despite having participated in a secret ceremony the night before. “You can serve first.”
Okay, so we weren’t going to discuss what had happened the night before. I was actually a little relieved to focus on warming up my serve instead of obsessing over Candela. Soon Naomi and I were hitting back and forth and laughing between shots. I’d forgotten how much I missed laughing with a friend.
But before I could get too comfortable, I spotted a bus pulling into the parking lot and, out of my peripheral vision, caught a glimpse of somebody hiding behind one of the huge oak trees surrounding the courts. Naomi hit a killer backhand that whizzed so close to my head that it moved tiny wisps of hair near my ear.
“Oh! Sorry!” she yelled. “I thought you were ready.”
With my eyes glued to the tree, I approached the net and walked onto Naomi’s side of the court.
“Kate?” Naomi laughed uncomfortably.
I narrowed my eyes and zeroed in on the navy-blue-and-hunter-green plaid of a uniform skirt.
“Who’s there?” I called, dropping my racquet and gripping the fence with my fingers.
The girl took off into the woods, so I ran the length of the fence and out the door after her.
“Kate?” Coach Schafer screamed after me. “Kate!”
I tried to keep up with the girl, her dark hair splashing against her back as she ran, but she had too much of a head start.
“Grace!” I yelled into the woods, even though I hadn’t yet seen her face. “Wait!”
My feet slowed, but my chest only heaved harder when I stopped next to a white birch tree.
“Now what?” I asked absolutely no one.
I had my answer when I heard the soft sound of sobbing and followed the noise. The crying grew louder as I exited the woods and ended up underneath Farrow’s Arches. And there right in front of me sat a huddled form sobbing on Grace’s bench.
The girl had her legs pulled to her chest and her forehead on her knees. Her hair was light brown. Not the girl I’d chased into the woods. Not Grace. I considered turning around, but she lifted her head and caught my eye before I could disappear.
Maddie.
“Kate?” she whispered. “What’re you doing here?” She wiped at her cheeks and lowered her legs to the ground, adjusting her athletic shorts.
“Nothing,” I said, but I remembered my tennis dress. “I mean, just taking a walk before my match.”
Maddie’s phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her book bag to read the message. Panic washed over her face, making her look way older than fifteen and not in a good way. Part of me still couldn’t believe that this shadow of a person was my old best friend—the pudgy, happy girl who concocted schemes to get us a seat at the best lunch table or to score us an invite to an upperclassman’s party. Guess she didn’t have to worry about stuff like that now that she was Taylor’s bestie-in-waiting.
“I have to go,” she said hurriedly, shoving a pile of books back into her bag. Sadness stabbed me when I noticed her place the bright pink journal I’d given as a gift for her thirteenth birthday into the bag. Well, at least she hadn’t burned it.
“Bill and Jude?” I managed. I knew joking with Maddie about her not-so-protective parents was a stretch, but I thought maybe it would clear the air a little.
“No, it’s…Taylor. We were supposed to meet at three-thirty, and I’m late,” she said, bending to grab her bag.
“Wait…Maddie?” I asked. “Have you seen…I mean…did you see a girl running through here before I came?”
Maddie’s entire demeanor changed. She was fuming, which s
eemed a little extreme based on the question. I mean, it’s not like I asked her when she last ate something white.
“Kate, people always run through the gardens. Hello? Cross-country,” she snipped and scratched at her leg, clearly agitated by my question.
“Oh…right,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Her nails left angry red scratches down her legs. She was such a bad liar.
I brushed my fingers over an oil-rubbed bronze plaque that dedicated part of the Memorial Garden to Abigail Moore, 1956–1971. Legend said that her sister had planted the peonies, Abigail’s favorite flower, after she died.
Throughout the years, the story surrounding her death changed depending on who was doing the telling. Some kids said she was killed in a drunk-driving accident. Others said she was the one hanging from the clock tower. And still others said she had turned up in the lake. Like so many PB legends, the truth had gotten lost somewhere in time.
I glanced over at Maddie, surprised she was still standing there.
“Remember the pee-on-mes?” I gestured to the plaque.
Our first year at the lower school, right after we became insta-friends, Grace, Maddie, and I used to crack up over our inside joke about the beautiful flowers.
“God, Kate, are you ever going to grow up?”
I looked up at her, eyes flashing. How dare she? Who was she to judge the person I’d become after she refused to talk to me for a year? The sad truth was that I would have given anything not to grow up if that meant having Grace here with me now.
But when I examined Maddie’s face, she didn’t look angry anymore, just sad. In that moment, I wanted us to be friends again. I didn’t care about Taylor or Beefany or how cruel Maddie had been to me in the weeks after Grace’s death—or even how cruel she was being right now. I just wanted to talk to one of the girls who used to know me better than anyone else on this planet. I wanted at least one of my best friends back.
“I miss you.”
For a second, Maddie looked into my eyes and transformed back into the chubby girl who had shared countless secret-filled sleepovers with me. But then something changed in her face.
“You don’t seem all that lonely. I saw you talking to Alistair today in the hall.” She raised her thin eyebrows and shook her head at me in disgust. “I have to go,” she said. And just like that, she turned and walked away from me.
As usual, she didn’t look back.
Chapter 16
After Maddie left, I decided to head home. I couldn’t go back to the courts. By now the matches would have already begun, and all the girls, plus my coach, were probably planning an intervention to save my crazy ass. Besides, I was itching to do a little research on Station 2 after my discovery in the grass the night before. I hoped that the clock tower would lead me to the meaning behind the crest and its connection to Grace.
I took the long way back to the locker room to avoid the tennis courts, hopped on a late bus, and ten minutes later was home. As soon as I walked through the door, I headed straight for the answering machine and hit Play. Coach Schafer’s frantic voice filled the kitchen, and when I heard someone walk into the kitchen behind me, I hastily hit Erase and turned around.
“Deleting incriminating messages?” my dad asked, the lines around his mouth and near his eyes deeper than ever.
“Uh…no. That was an accident. You scared me,” I said, searching for an excuse.
“Don’t bother, Kate. I’ve already spoken to your coach. She called me on my cell. You ran off before a match? Two demerits? What the hell is going on?” He grabbed a drink out of the fridge and sat down.
The thing is, I would have loved to sit down next to him and tell him the whole unbelievable story, but I couldn’t. Telling my dad would only confirm my parents’ suspicions that I was completely insane. Instead of seeing Dr. Prozac, I’d probably be stuck in the freaking psych ward.
Dr. Prozac’s big theory was that I avoided getting close to people for fear of losing them. But the truth was that I felt safer when I kept everyone at a distance. It was more efficient. Hurt less, too.
So instead of pulling up a chair and telling my dad everything, I settled for a quick, “I’m fine,” and hoped he’d leave it at that.
He didn’t.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Kate.” He stopped, unable to finish. “I can’t…I just can’t go back to the way things were last year. Your hair is bad enough. We thought we were going to lose you…”
He trailed off, looking confused and more than a little scared. I felt awful. Of course he didn’t understand. How could he? I hadn’t given him the chance. But what was I supposed to tell him? If I started blubbering about emails from dead best friends, my parents would accuse me of obsessing again.
Just this past summer, I had been deemed well enough to stop taking the cocktail of drugs that were supposed to help me move on. All they really did was make me forget what being alive felt like. I couldn’t risk telling him and going back to that place. Not when I was supposed to be helping Grace.
“I’m at a loss here, Kate. But your coach seems to think a different after-school activity might help. She suggested you join the Concilium. She said this girl, Taylor something, is in charge of the meetings and that she’s a great role model. I’m hoping she’s right.”
“I’m not joining some stupid club.” I gripped the table and dug what nails I had into the wood. “I have tennis to worry about.”
“You know, you’re not the only one who lost someone, Kate. You think I don’t wish I had my daughter back?” His face was old and sad. “If your coach thinks a new club will help, we’ll try a new club. Your first meeting’s tomorrow. And detention starts Tuesday.”
“Fine.” I swallowed the egg-sized lump in my throat.
“Fix this, Kate,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Come back to us. We miss you.”
I laid my head down on the kitchen table and watched my dad walk back into his office. I wished everything could be as easy as finding the girl I used to be and forcing her to come home.
Unfortunately she seemed just as lost as Grace.
Chapter 17
I used bubble letters to draw the words Audi, Vide, Tace in the margin of my notebook when I should have been taking notes during a PowerPoint presentation on Dostoevsky. The previous night, I had Googled just about every combination of the three Latin words, adding “symbol” and “Pemberly Brown” and “crest” into the mix. The only semi-helpful result had been an Ohio Historical Society web page featuring an article referencing the history of Pemberly Brown.
Apparently Brown, the boys school, had closed in 1950 to merge with the local girls school, Pemberly. The decision was a controversial one at the time, but Brown was low on funding and faced competition from other private schools in the area, so it was either merge with Pemberly or cease to exist. A picture of Brown’s old crest showed that it had featured a lion holding an ornate-looking key. I was sketching what I remembered of the crest when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Kate?” My English Lit teacher, Ms. Cole, tapped my desk and raised a curious brow when she saw my bubble letters in the margin. “Careful with that,” she whispered as she placed a note on top of my notebook and walked back to the front of the room to continue her presentation.
Before I could even begin to wonder about her last comment, I realized that the note was an early-dismissal slip from the office. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I gathered my books and stuffed them into my bag.
On my way to the office, I made a mental list of the potential reasons for an unplanned dismissal. It definitely couldn’t be a good thing. As far as I knew, no parents in the history of the world had ever left work early to yank their kids out of school for a surprise vacation to the Bahamas.
With each step, I imagined more dire circumstances. What if my mom had been in an accident, or one of my aunts or cousins was dead or…Cameron? Had they found him? Was he alive?
When I pushed through the
office doors, my dad was waiting for me.
“You’re already signed out.” The expression on his face didn’t look like one he’d have after someone died, but he wasn’t wearing his vacation clothes either. “All set?”
“Yeah. But where are we going?” I asked as I followed him out.
“Dr. Lowen had an eleven o’clock opening, so I made an appointment.”
“I thought I didn’t have to go every week anymore. Why are you doing this to me?” I couldn’t say the words without whining. I sounded like a three-year-old.
“Since you won’t talk to your mom and me, you need to talk to someone. Maybe this week you can tell Dr. Lowen about what you were doing when you should have been in first period or playing tennis.”
I glared at my dad and shook my head. It was probably safer not to talk. There was no telling what might come out. During the entire drive to the doctor’s office, the elevator ride to the seventh floor, and the forty-five-minute wait in the office, my dad and I said exactly four words to one another.
“Which floor again?”
“Seven.”
When the woman behind the desk with a five-o’clock shadow (a walking, talking cautionary tale against women using razors to shave facial hair) finally called my name, I jumped out of my seat at the opportunity to escape the waiting-room game.
The guy next to me covertly examined me in his peripheral vision; the woman under the cheesy painting of a little girl at the beach snuck glances behind magazine pages; and the boy with the black-painted fingernails looked out from beneath heavily lined eyes, all of them trying to determine what particular brand of crazy had landed their fellow patients in the waiting room. I wondered what they came up with when they looked at me. Did I have the classic “I see dead people” look in my eyes?
I wound around to the back of the office and opened the familiar door. Dr. Prozac was sitting behind his huge mahogany desk. And, no, I didn’t lie down on some couch. I sat in an uncomfortable chair with wooden arms that matched the desk. I forgot how much that chair sucked.
