by Alyson Noel
But the truth is, I was exhausted from Marc. And the fact that he spent the night last night! Seriously—the whole,
entire, wonderful, glorious, outrageous, world-changing, life-altering night!
Since Echo left for her annual "Cerebral Campers" week or whatever they call that Camp Brainiac thing she
goes to every year, Marc scaled the tree, came in through her room, crept down the hall, and spent the whole night
with me until I heard both my parents making their way down the stairs in the morning.
It was the first time we'd actually slept together, first time we had sex together! And even though we've been
dating for only two weeks—well two weeks ago since the first time he kissed me, then he left me hanging for a while
but still, he's pretty much the one that made us both wait. He said he didn't want to rush it, that we should give it time
to build.
I gotta admit, that worried me at first. I guess because I always figured he'd slept with a lot of girls. I mean he's
so hot, and so cool, and so sexy, and so mega rich, and definitely has that mysterious bad-boy vibe going. So I
figured there were tons of ritzy, ditzy, country-club sluts just lining up to be with him. But he said he was done with all
that, after his last girlfriend a little over a year and a half ago, and now, I swear this is what he actually said—Now all
he wants is ME!
/ wanted to believe that, but I kind of had my doubts. Also, I felt like I had to test him, so I could see if he really
wanted me for me, or for the me that he wanted me to be. So I told him about all the guys I'd done it with, starting with
the blow job I gave Bryan Boxer back when I was thirteen. And even though there really aren't all that many guys (I
mean thirteen was just three years ago), and I was with Stephen for a full year and a half (minus the two times I
cheated) but still, most guys freak out at that kind of information, which is why most girls lie. Isn't it funny how guys
and girls always lie in opposite directions? Guys add, girls subtract.
Anyway, Marc just lay there beside me, listening patiently, and when I was done, he just shrugged and said he
didn't care. "Each step brings you closer to the next," he said. "And that's where we are now, the next step."
So then I asked him about the next step after me.
But he just kissed me on the forehead and said, "Shh. All we ever have is now."
How could I feel good about my life after reading that? Seriously. How could I possibly settle for my super nice, but
ultimately boring (fine, there, i finally said it, okay?) boyfriend, and our low-to-no-passion makeout sessions, when I
now know (albeit secondhand) just what it's like to have the real thing?
I mean, I know I should probably just set the diary down and back away slowly, go cold turkey and never peek at
it again, since all it seems to do is feed my disappointment and make me yearn to be someone and to have
something that was never meant to be mine.
But now that I'm so far in, I can't find my way out. And the truth is, with what I now know, I don't ever want to go
back.
I have to break up with Parker. I mean, it's the right thing to do. Because staying with him, going through the
motions, and pretending to be happy isn't fair to anyone, especially him. But I feel so inept, and inadequate, and
meek, and stupid, that I'm just not sure how to do it.
Not to mention that I'm just not sure if I'm up for all the fallout. You know, all the wheres, whats, whys, and hows
that'll ultimately follow. And what am I supposed to do at lunch? Do we still sit together, acting all amicable, while
pretending it never happened? Or does one of us have to move? And if so, will it be me?
Nineteen
On the night of Teresa's party, Abby was no longer trying to play it cool. And after calling me like a ton of times trying
to decide what to wear, she moved on to e-mailing me photos of her top three choices, all laid out and spread
across her bed, with empty sweater arms waving hello, unfilled pant legs river dancing, vacant shoes pointing in
every direction, while her most beloved childhood dolls and stuffed animals stood in for her head.
She'd decided to go with Jax. Ever since the day Jenay invited him to sit with us at lunch and he turned out to
be not only nice, smart, and funny, but also pretty cute. And since technically this is Abby's first date, there's no way
she's leaving anything to chance. Seriously, she has it all planned out. Even down to the conversations she expects
to have.
I want to help her, really, I do. But my mind is totally stuck on Zoë's diary, as I skim through the pages and
reread certain parts, reluctant to move ahead, not wanting it to end.
"Okay, so which is better?" Abby asks. "Winnie the Pooh wearing the white blouse, blue corduroy vest, and
jeans? Or Lisa Simpson in the flowy blue skirt and sweater?"
"Neither. I'm liking the Bratz doll in the black sweater, black boots, and jeans," I say. "Although her head looks
disproportionately small, and a bit lost inside that turtleneck. And that could make some of those well-scripted
conversations more than a little bit awkward. Not to mention the kiss good night. So maybe you should switch to a
V-necked sweater instead, you know, to even it out." I laugh.
But Abby's way too freaked to have a sense of humor. "Okay, that's it. I'm calling Jenay," she says, hanging up
before I can even apologize.
I stare at the phone and think about Marc. Remembering how his number's still probably stored from that one
time he called. And hating how I've been acting like such a wimp and determined to do something bold, I scroll down
to his name and push talk. And before I can chicken out and hang up, he answers.
I sit on my bed, frozen, unable to speak. "Echo?" he says. "You okay?"
And I remember how the display works both ways.
"Urn, yeah." I clear my throat while my fingers pick at a loose thread on my blanket.
"Where are you?" he asks, sounding calm, if not interested.
"Home," I mumble, wondering what to say next.
"So, how are you?" he asks, the background music growing softer as he turns it down.
"I miss her," I say, before I can stop.
He sighs. Then he says, "Wanna go for a ride?"
I would answer, but there's a speed bump in my throat, and it's stopping all my words.
But he doesn't need an answer. "I'll be right over," he says, before closing the phone.
I grab my purse and run downstairs, stopping by the kitchen just long enough to tell my mom that I'll be right back.
"Where are you going?" she asks, turning away from the sink just long enough to see what I'm wearing. For
someone who was never much interested in fashion, she sure makes it a point to always take the time to check out
my clothes now. But I guess that's just another lesson learned during the whole Zoë thing, and how the cops need
that kind of information so they can fill in the "last seen wearing" box on the police report.
I pause long enough for her to get a good look, then I head for the door, yelling, "I have to run an errand, so HI
see you in a few." And before she can even respond, I'm out the door and sprinting toward the corner, hoping to
meet up with Marc without anyone seeing.
And when he turns onto my street, and I see the shiny midnight blue of his restored Camaro glinting in the hard
winter sun, I feel happier than I can ever possibly explain.
"Hey," he says, as he leans across the seat and props open the door.
I settle onto the black leather, notici
ng how the interior feels deeper and darker than my parents' cars, almost
like a cave. And I remember how Zoë used to call it The Coffin, and how that used to be funny, but not anymore.
"Park okay?" he says, glancing at me before pulling away from the curb.
I just nod and gaze out the window, feeling excited for the first time in days.
We don't really talk along the way, we just listen to music by some band I've never heard. And when we get
there, he parks the car and reaches behind my seat, the sleeve of his brown leather jacket brushing against mine.
Then he tosses me a bag of breadcrumbs and we head for the lake, where the ducks are already gathering, waiting
to be fed.
I settle onto the grass beside him and start tossing crumbs, wondering if the view looked better to Zoë, less
polluted, more serene, like maybe being in love somehow improved it.
Tm reading it," I finally say, knowing I owe him an explanation for pulling him away from his day. But my throat
feels tight, and my eyes start to sting, and it's hard to say more, so I don't.
But he just looks at me. "I know."
I glance at him, wondering how.
"You called. And you're no longer angry." He shrugs.
"I was never angry," I say, pulling my hand away from an overly aggressive beak.
"Just give him the rest, so they'll all go away." He laughs.
I empty the bag and bite down on my lip, feeling this weird sense of comfort sitting so close to him, someone
who I know so much about, and who knows that I know.
"How're your parents?" he asks.
I just shake my head and shrug.
"They still hate me?" He looks at me, eyes neither worried nor hopeful, just curious.
"Probably." I shrug. "You going to the trial?"
"Wouldn't miss it. I need to see that freak, I need to watch him pay. Couple more months though, right?"
"That's what they say." I watch the last duck, still pecking around near my feet, and I pull them in too so I won't
lose a toe. "Thanks for bringing me here," I say, gazing up at him shyly. "I mean, I know this may sound weird and all,
but being around you makes me feel close to her." I bite down on my lip, wondering how he'll take that.
But he just closes his eyes and lifts his face toward the fading sun. "Being here makes me feel close to her.
That's why I come every day."
"Even when it rains?" I ask, trying to sound light and teasing, even though the moment is so clearly wrong for a
joke. But that's what I do when I'm nervous, I make inappropriate, stupid jokes.
But he just sighs. "Every day feels like rain," he says, his eyes still closed, his long, thick lashes seeming
almost fake the way they rest against his skin.
"Is your dad out?" I ask, wanting to change the subject, but suspecting this might not be the right way.
"Not yet." He shrugs.
"Will you live with him when he does get out?"
He shakes his head and looks at me. "I'm in the guest house now, it's like having my own place. So I plan to
stay put until college."
"Where you going?" I ask, suddenly panicked at the thought of him leaving, especially now that I'm just getting
to know him.
"Berkeley's my dream, Columbia would be cool, but my grades kind of suck, so probably right here."
"Don't say that," I tell him, even though part of me wants it to be true.
But he just shrugs. "Wanna grab a bite?" He looks at me.
I do. I really, really, really do. I want to go anywhere he wants to go. I'd follow him wherever, just to be with him.
Only I can't. "I'm supposed to go to this party," I say, lifting my shoulders and rolling my eyes, trying to come off as
grown up, world-weary, and jaded. But when he raises his eyebrows, I look away. Since it's obvious he still sees me
as Zoë's little sister.
I wish he would notice how much I've changed, how the last year has shaped me, transformed me. But he
doesn't. So I grab my purse and stand. "Can you drop me off? I need to go get ready," I say, my voice carrying an
edge that's hard to miss.
He holds up his keys and they jangle together, then he stands and heads for the car.
And I walk alongside him, feeling small, silent, and frustrated. Wondering just what it will take to get his
attention.
He comes around to my side, unlocking the door, and letting me in. And just as I start to move past him, my hip
accidentally rubs against his, and his face is so close, and his eyes so deep, that I can't help but lift my fingers to his
smooth, sculpted cheek. Then without even thinking, I close my eyes, lean in, and kiss him.
He hesitates at first, but only for a moment. Then he wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his
chest, kissing me hard on the mouth, until he finally pulls away and whispers, "Echo, trust me, you don't want—"
But I do want. So I pull him back to me, leaving no room for questions, no room for doubt. Thinking this is
exactly how a kiss should feel—glorious, heady, and intoxicating. Like those first three sips of vodka the night of the
homecoming dance, only a gazillion trillion bazillion times better.
And even though I'm borrowing a moment from Zoë's life, one that will never truly be mine, at this moment I just
don't care. I'm living for now.
"Echo," he whispers, pulling away, calling my name even though I'd rather be Zoë. "Echo, stop."
I open my eyes and smile, at first not noticing the dark cloudy look in his. But the moment I see it, I follow their
trail.
And at the end stands Teresa.
Twenty
"Are you sure this is okay?" Abby whispers, for like the hundredth time since she and Jax arrived.
"Omigod, it's fine," Jenay says, rolling her eyes and laughing. "Seriously, you look amazing."
"Echo?" Abby looks at me. "Hello! Earth to Echo? Any comments on my outfit? Do these jeans make me look
fat? C'mon, you can tell me, I can take it."
I look at her and force myself to smile. "Please, you couldn't look fat if you tried. Really. Now the Bratz doll?
She looked fat. She just couldn't pull it off like you can."
Luckily Abby and Jenay both laugh, which means I'm pulling it off better than I thought. They have no idea how
I'm not really here, that in my head, I'm back in the parking lot with Marc, just seconds after we both saw Teresa.
We didn't speak the whole way home, but when he stopped on my corner he turned to me and said, "Echo, I'm so
sorry. I—"
"Don't." I stared straight ahead, listening to the steady hum of the engine, determined to be brave and say what
I felt for a change, rather than chickening out and running away like usual. "Don't apologize," I said, turning toward
him. "I wanted to see you. And I'm not at all sorry for what happened." I felt stronger after saying that, strong enough
to actually look him in the eye.
"And Teresa?" He looked at me, his eyes filled with worry.
I took a deep breath, remembering the expression on her face, the wide eyes and gaping mouth so easy to
translate, even from all the way across the parking lot. And how it turned into a slow curving smile as she watched us
climb into the car and drive away. "I'll deal with Teresa," I said, having not the slightest idea how I'd actually do that.
But it sounded convincing.
Then I grabbed my purse and crawled out of the car, shutting the door firmly between us. And just as I started
to move toward my house, I turned back, leaned through the open window, and said, "Hey Marc, thanks. Thanks for
today."
He smiled at
me, holding my gaze for a moment. Then he turned up his stereo, shifted into gear, and drove
away.
But now, with the three of us crowded into Teresa's guest bathroom for the sole purpose of talking Abby down from
her self-induced, body-dysmorphic panic attack, I realize I still have no plan for how to handle Teresa.
But then again it's not like she doesn't have her own secrets to hide. And it's not like she was alone either.
"Listen, this is crazy. We've got to get out of here," Jenay says, having reached her limit as she reaches for
the door handle. "We're in here, the guys are out there, and there's something very wrong with this picture. Abby,
you look great, you are great, and I can tell Jax is totally into you. But if you don't get out of this bathroom right this
second and back to your date I'm going to scream."
Abby takes a deep breath and follows Jenay, while I linger behind the two of them, peering into the mirror as
they head out the door, wondering how it's possible to still look like me, when I feel so different inside.
Okay, so normally on a Saturday night, when someone's parents are out of town and they decide to throw a party,
you can pretty much expect to see the usual things—music blaring from somebody's docked iPod, a lamp and/or
vase breaking into a million little pieces, a half-hearted fistfight that breaks up well before they can take it outside,
sporadic alcohol-induced vomiting in the bushes, people sneaking upstairs to hook up—I mean, those are just some
of your basic, all-purpose party ingredients, right? Not that I've been to that many parties, but still, I've watched a lot
of TV and movies and read a lot of books, so I think I know what to expect.
But Teresa's party is nothing like that. Probably because she only invited her friends from school, which means
she's acting more like her lunch table self—you know, cute, flirty, preppy, and fun, as opposed to her off-campus
self—the slutty girl who smokes and drinks, wears low-cut sweaters, and has really bad taste in men. I mean, if "Hot
Jason" and "Asshole Tom" were here, I doubt she'd be blasting the indie girl CD, serving snacks and appetizers
from a carved, bamboo tray, and dispensing cocktails from her parents' sleek, well-stocked, mahogany bar.
