“My mom makes me do that.” It hits me as I say it, like a bull charging straight into my stomach. “Wait. Am I even supposed to call her Mom?” I push to my feet and pace in front of Indigo, reaching full-on crazy panic mode. “Or am I supposed to call her Lynn. Oh, my God, I just realized that my sister’s middle name is after my mom’s first name, yet I’m named after no one. It has to be true.” I crouch down again as my legs turn into Jell-O. “I don’t even know who my mom is.”
“Hey, chill out.” She scoots toward me to catch my gaze. “My theory is just a theory. And I should probably tell you that I had a theory that Grandpa was reincarnated into Beastie.” She smiles as I blink at her.
Wow. She sounds as crazy as … well, me.
“What? They have the same eyes, okay? And you have to admit it’d be pretty cool if reincarnation existed.”
“That mean, old cat isn’t Grandpa,” I say. “But I get what you’re saying. I need to get some answers before I have a meltdown.”
“Or, you could just skip the meltdown and use this as an opportunity,” she suggests with a smile.
“An opportunity for what?”
“To take a self-discovering journey.”
“I already know who I am.”
She inspects my outfit with her brows raised. “I’m not sure I agree with you.”
I tug on the bottom of my hoodie. “Just because I dress a little different doesn’t mean I don’t know who I am.”
Her head slants to the side as she studies me. “Okay, answer this for me: what’s the most exciting thing you’ve ever done?”
“I don’t know.” I try to think of something, and it’s pretty dang sad how hard it is to come up with anything. “I entered a comic book contest once. That was really cool.”
“I’m not talking about doing stuff that’s cool. I’m talking about stuff that’s exciting. Like, screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs-at-a-concert exciting. Dancing-in-a-room-full-of-people-like-no-one’s-watching exciting. Or sporadically taking a trip to nowhere with no plans other than to drive. Or having wild, crazy, hot, sweaty sex.” She smiles as she gets a faraway look in her eyes while my cheeks go fiery hot. “Or, like being kissed in the rain by a total stranger you have no plans of calling again.” She looks at me, grinning. “That one I plan on doing while we’re on this little trip.”
“How do you know it’s exciting if you haven’t done it yet?” I ask, tucking my feet under me.
“Oh, Isa, the fact that you ask that means you haven’t nearly experienced enough in your life. Life is all about the experiences, the good ones and the bad ones. You’re eighteen years old for crying out loud and you’ve hardly done anything.” She stands to her feet, yanking me with her. “But stick with me, and I promise that’ll change.”
I almost open my mouth to tell her I don’t want to change, but then I remember her theory, and my grandma and dad’s argument rings loudly in my head.
What if Indigo is right? What if my entire life has been a lie? What if the reason my mother—Lynn—has always liked Hannah more is because Hannah’s her daughter and I’m not?
“Okay, I can try to do more things that are exciting, but what about the theory?” I ask as we cross the parking lot.
“What about it?”
“How do we find out if it’s true?”
She links arms with me. “We’re going to do a little research. And if all else fails, we’ll wait until Grandma Stephy gets good and drunk, and then get her to spill the beans.” She grins deviously. “You know she’s a talker when she gets too tipsy. Plus, people tend to get a little crazy when they’re on vacation, especially out of the country.”
“Grandma Stephy is already a little crazy,” I say with a small laugh, but it hurts to smile. Hurts to think.
She chuckles. “Yeah, so just think how crazy she’s going to get while we’re chilling in London or Paris. After a few glasses of wine and a little pushing on our part, we should be able to get the truth out of her.” She pats my arm. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. And we’re going to teach you what excitement is.”
I nod, silently vowing to go along with the plan. Inside, however, I’m terrified. What if it’s true? What if I don’t even know who my own mother is?
Chapter 4
A week later, I’m chilling out on the balcony of a very nice hotel room, staring out at the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower. I’m half-listening to Indigo plot out our plan to weasel the truth out of Grandma Stephy, who’s downstairs at the bar having drinks.
Ever since I discovered I might not know who my real mom is, my head’s been stuck between reality and daydream land, where my mind creates all kinds of scenarios on where this is all going to go, where I’m going to end up if I find out I’ve been living a lie. I keep replaying all the times my parents acted strangely around me, including when my dad didn’t even hug me good-bye before he left Grandma Stephy’s.
“Have fun, okay?” he said as he walked toward the front door to leave. “And take care of yourself.”
I forced a stiff smile. “Okay.”
He gave me an awkward pat on the arm before rushing out of the apartment without even saying good-bye to Grandma or Indigo.
“It’s going to be okay,” my grandma said with a tense smile. Then she clapped her hands together and made herself smile for real. “All right, you two. Let’s finish packing. We leave really early Monday morning.”
And that was that.
The last seven days have been filled with packing, driving to the airport with a bus full of older people, taking the twelve-hour flight to Paris, and getting to the hotel. We’ve been here for over a day, spending a lot of time catching up on sleep. After sleeping for most of the day, I now feel super awake and night has just fallen.
“I was thinking tonight might be the best night to put our plan in motion.” Indigo balances an ashtray on her belly then kicks her feet up on the railing and takes a drag of her what looks like a cigarette, but the smoke is much more pungent, so I’m wondering if perhaps it’s something else. “I know we just got here and everything, but I don’t think we should waste any time. You’re already stressing out way too much as it is.”
“I’m not stressed … I’ve just been thinking.” I try to focus on her and the conversation. “And which plan are we talking about? The excitement one, or getting Grandma drunk?”
In Sunnyvale, June temperatures usually hover in the seventies, maybe the eighties, on a super intense day, and the night’s bottom to forty. Right now, it’s eight o’clock and feels like it’s ninety degrees outside.
“We aren’t going to get her drunk. We’re going to wait until she gets herself drunk. And we might not have to wait that long.” She taps the cigarette in question against the ashtray. “Dude, did you see all the mini bottles she drank on the plane?”
I giggle. “Yeah, I know. I can’t believe she was playing a drinking game with her friends.”
“I think it’s so cool. I hope I’m that cool when I’m old. But, I was talking about your self-discovering journey.” She lowers her feet to the ground, leans forward in the chair, and offers me the cigarette. “Here, try this.”
I hesitate. “Yeah, the last time I did that, I ended up coughing up a lung.”
“I promise this will be worth it.” She urges the cigarette at me. “And this will help you relax for what we’re going to do tonight.”
Sighing, I grab the cigarette and take a drag. The smoke burns my lungs and I cough. “Why does it taste different?” I ask through fits of coughing.
She gives me a devious smile. “Because it’s not a cigarette.”
Slowly, I catch on. “You’re getting me high?”
She chuckles, patting my head. “I’m getting you to relax.”
Wavering, I take another inhale from the cigarette and cough as I hand it back to her. Strangely, I do feel a bit more chilled than I have in the last week or so.
Sitting back in the chair, she kicks up her feet on the railing. “I
think we should probably take it easy tonight, though. You know, ease you into this whole fun thing.”
“I know I’m not the most exciting person ever,” I say, resting back in the chair, “but I’ve done some exciting things. You don’t have to go easy on me.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “Careful, Isa. Giving me free reign like that can end up being dangerous.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just partying. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m not just talking about partying; I’m talking about completely letting go. Of everything.” She stares me down, like she’s trying to get me to take back what I said. I don’t crack. Won’t. I’ve spent way too much of my life doing that, something I’ve painfully become aware of over the last week.
Although, maybe that’s haze in my mind talking. But whatever. I’m feeling too chilled to really care.
A slow smile curls her lips. “All right, let’s do this, then.” She jumps to her feet, wanders back into the room, and begins rummaging around in her suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I walk into the room.
“Making you club-worthy,” she says as she sorts through her dresses, shirts, and shorts.
I grow a drop nervous as she holds up a tight red dress that looks like it will barely cover my ass.
“I don’t know if I should wear that?” I shake my head. “I’d look ridiculous.”
She frowns. “You’ll look hot.”
“No, I won’t.” I rack my brain for a reason other than saying I’ll feel like an idiot. “And I haven’t shaved my legs.”
She flicks her wrist, motioning me to get a move on. “Well, hurry up and do it, then.”
I nervously pick at my fingernails. “I, um, didn’t bring a razor.”
She looks at me with confusion then suddenly relaxes. “Oh, I get it. You’ve never done any of this before, have you?”
I cross my arms, feeling absurdly self-conscious. “Done what, exactly?”
“Shave. Put on makeup.” She shoves the red dress at me. “Dress up.”
“I’ve never really cared about my looks, and I’ve never really been into girlie stuff.” I pause. “And it’s kind of hard, you know, to ask my mom—Lynn—to show me how to put on makeup and all that fun stuff when I know she’ll probably just laugh at me and tell me how ridiculous I am to think that’ll help my looks.”
Like she did the one and only time I asked her to buy me a dress. I was twelve, and it was for the seventh grade dance. I thought I’d dress up, since I heard most of the girls were.
Lynn laughed at me when I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’d look hideous in a dress,” she said.
I fought back tears. “I think I should try to dress up. I mean, everyone else in my grade is.”
She turned to me with a dead serious expression on her face. “Isabella, I’m going to tell you something that you’re not going to like hearing.” She hesitated, almost as if she were backing out. “You’re too gangling and homely to be dressing up. You should just stick to the baggy jeans and hoodies. It suits your body type better.”
As I recollect the memory, I wonder if that was the starting point of my baggy jeans and hoodie obsession. Sure, I wore them before, but not because I felt like I had to. I just didn’t know how to put together an outfit.
After Lynn told me that, I felt as if I had to dress in baggy clothes, like I wasn’t good enough to dress nicely.
What if that’s the real reason I do a lot of things? What if my general weirdo-ness was created around things my mom—Lynn—said to me? Like, when she told me no one wanted to be friends with me because I was too strange. What if I stopped trying to make friends because I believed no one would want to get to know the weirdo, freak I was led to believe I was?
Pity briefly flashes in Indigo’s eyes. Then the look swiftly vanishes as determination fills her expression. She strides across the room, opens the mini-fridge, and grabs a bottle of wine. Using an opener, she removes the cork then takes a swig straight out of the bottle.
God, if Lynn were here, she’d have a fit with the lack of class Indigo is showing right now.
Indigo hands it to me, and when I hesitate, she says, “No one’s around. We don’t need to be classy.”
“That’s not why I’m hesitating.” Sighing, I grab the bottle, take a drink, and then give the wine back to her.
She sets the bottle aside then grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bathroom door.
“What are we doing?” I ask as I hurry after her.
“I’m giving you a little lesson. Take notes, because I’m only going to do this once. You can’t figure out who you are if I’m doing it for you.”
Two hours later, I’m walking down an overly packed sidewalk with smooth legs and tweezed eyebrows, wearing a red dress I can barely breathe in.
“Come on, Isa,” Indigo says, motioning me to move quicker as she walks ahead of me. “If you keep walking this slow, the clubs are gonna be closed by the time we get there.”
“I’m trying.” I shuffle after her, trying not to roll my ankles. “These heels suck, though.”
She slows to a stop at a street corner and sighs as she leans down to untie her boot. “Come on, take them off. I’ll trade shoes with you.”
I stop beside her and grab the street post to get my balance. “I thought you said heels weren’t your thing.” Which really confused me, since she packed six pairs.
“I said most of the time they aren’t my thing.” She slips her foot out of the boot then unties the other one. “It doesn’t mean I never wear them.”
We exchange shoes, and I feel ten times better in the clunky boots. “I think I’m a boots kind of girl, for sure.”
“I agree.” After Indigo slips the heels on, she does a little spin in her dress. “How do I look?”
“Amazing,” I say as I finish tying the boots. “I like how the flowers on the shoes match your hair.”
“Me, too.” She studies me with her head cocked to the side. “God, you look so great. It’s amazing what a little eyeliner and lip gloss can do. Well, that, and my ever-so-awesome talent.”
I stand up, self-consciously tugging at the hem of the dress. “I honestly feel kinda silly. Like I’m trying to play dress up or something.” My gaze sweeps over the crowd of people walking around us. “I feel like everyone thinks I’m an impostor.”
She shakes her head with a smile on her face. “Trust me, Isa; no one thinks you’re an imposter.” She grabs my hand and pulls me with her as she moves with the crowd again.
We walk for what feels like hours, taking in all the closed stores, the bars, the Arc de Triomphe, and the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower.
“Let’s go up there,” she says as we gawk up at the tower that stretches toward the night sky.
“I thought we were going to a club?” I ask as I rush to keep up with her.
“We can go to a club anytime!” she shouts over the music playing from a street band. “Going up there”—she tips her head up toward the sky—“now that’s a once-in-a-lifetime excitement.”
When we reach the ridiculously long line, I head toward the end, but Indigo has other ideas and starts searching the line for cute guys who will let us cut in front of them. It takes her three tries to find a couple of guys who even speak English. They let us get in line in front of them then Indigo spends the next half-hour flirting with one of them while I stand there awkwardly. If I wasn’t a bit buzzed, I’d probably have bailed by now.
“You look nervous,” one of the guys whispers in my ear, causing me to jump. “Are you afraid of heights?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” I pretend that’s the reason I have goose bumps sprouting across my skin, when really it’s the guys, the social interaction, the dress—everything, really.
He slings an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry; I’ll protect you.” He flashes me a dimpled grin. “I’m Jay, by the way, but you can call me your protector.”
I resist
an eye roll. Seriously, dude, those lines can’t possibly work. Then I pause, realizing, Holy shit, this guy is hitting on me.
While I’m flattered, I have absolutely no interest in Protector Jay By The Way, who kind of smells like cheese. I can’t help thinking of Kyler and how he smells so good all the time; never like rancid cheese. I wish he was the one with his arm around me, but no, he’s probably back home, making out with my sister.
My mood nosedives and smacks against the ground like a squashed bug. Yuck. Why the hell did I have to think that?
Between the mental image and Jay By the Way’s cheesy smell, I feel like I’m going to hurl. I want to slide out from under Jay’s arm and get some fresh air, but I can’t think of an excuse that won’t make me look completely deranged, so he ends up keeping his arm there until we go through security.
While Jay’s emptying out his pockets, I bolt for the stairs.
“Hey, Isa, wait up,” Indigo says as she chases after me.
I pause at the bottom of the stairway and wait for her to catch up. When she reaches me, out of breath, I give her an are you kidding me look.
“What’s that look for?” she asks innocently as she fans her face with her hand.
“Those guys were gross and smelled like bad cheese. Seriously, if that’s your definition of excitement, then count me out.”
“That’s not even close to what I meant by excitement.” She kicks off her shoes and tips her head up to take in all the stairs.
“We could take the elevator,” I say, eyeballing her bare feet.
“No way. That’s like cheating the excitement.” She steps back with her heels in her hands then sprints forward, laughing as she charges up the first flight of stairs. “Race you to the top!”
Laughing, I barrel after her and up the stairway. People skitter out of our way as we jog side-by-side up each flight of stairs. With each step, I feel closer to soaring, closer to flying away from reality, like I’m outrunning my problems.
By the time we arrive on the second floor, though, we slow down to a sluggish walk, because, holy crap, there are a lot of stairs.
Isabella Anders (Sunnyvale NA Book 1) Page 5
