Keeping Secrets

by Alyson Noel

  I haven’t been in here for over a year. Not since the day the cops showed up with empty hands and hopeless faces. But everything looks exactly the same as it did back then—her blue duvet is still haphazard, having been tossed aside in her usual, early morning rush, and there’s a lone white sock still lying on the floor, right next to the rug, where she’d dropped it over a year before.

  My mom’s the only one who comes in here now, the only one who brushes away cobwebs and handpicks lint from the yellowing sheets. I guess because she couldn’t save her daughter in the most important way, she’s decided to save her like this. With this freeze-dried room, undisturbed, suspended in time. The perfect contrast to our lives now, which are so completely and irreversibly changed.

  I go over to Zoë’s dresser and lift her brush, my fingers gliding along the tangle of long dark hairs wrapped tightly around the bristles. Then I reach for her perfume, its cap long ago lost, and bring it to my nose, surprised to find still the faintest hint of scent.

  This is where I’d waited while the cops sat downstairs. On the floor, in the middle of her room, right in the center of her creme-colored flokati rug. My eyes shut tight, my body rocking back and forth as my mind sped in reverse, remembering our lives before, refusing to believe how they were about to become.

  But when my parents came home, and I heard my mother’s long, painful cry, I picked myself up and headed downstairs, knowing it was time to stop pretending.

  I move toward Zoë’s bed, sit gently on her mattress, and run my hand along her soft, worn sheets, Then I spread my body across the top of her crumpled duvet, molding her soft abandoned pillow against my cheek as I close my eyes, yearning to tell her how much I miss her, wanting to explain about Marc and me. How living her life and sharing her experiences makes me feel closer, like she never really left.

  I lay like this for a while, my eyes shut tight, calling her to me.

  But when she doesn’t come, I turn off the light and creep back to my room. Knowing I’ve stolen enough for one day.

  Twenty-five

  July 19

  Okay, I’m totally short on time, but I just really need to write about how completely psyched I am that I’m going to Marc’s tonight!! Yay! It’s finally happening! In fact he’s picking me up any second, and I really hope my outfit’s okay. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of his mom and she always looks so polished and expensive. And I just really really want her to like me.

  Anyway, it almost didn’t happen since my parents were insisting that I stay home to watch Echo—which is so freaking ridiculous I can’t even tell you. I mean, hello? Has anyone noticed she’s 13 now? I mean, jeez, enough with the overprotective BS, she’s a teenager now for G’s sake!

  But luckily Echo was pretty pissed too, so she told them they were making her feel like a needy little baby. Then after proving she knew how to dial 911 and perform the Heimlich maneuver on herself in case she choked on an Oreo or something, they finally, reluctantly, gave in.

  Okay, Marc’s here—gotta go!

  Oh, never mind. It’s just Abby and Jenay. Guess they’re having a sleepover or something. Anyway, I’m wearing my favorite cobalt blue dress because I think it looks dressy—but not too dressy. You know, cuz I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Because according to Vogue magazine, trying too hard (or at least looking like you’re trying too hard) is like fashion sin numero uno. And since his mom can actually afford to buy the clothes they show in Vogue, I figure she could spot a striver over a mile away.

  Okay, this time it really is Marc, so I’m outta here! But first, let me just say—

  No matter how bad Marc thinks tonight is going to be—I’m totally psyched to be going!!!!

  Yay!

  July 19

  Should have known better. I always get way too excited for my own good. Too tired and sad to write, though, so more later.

  July 21

  Yesterday was the first time Marc and I went an entire day without speaking to each other. And what made it even worse is the fact that it was a Sunday, which is always our day to hang in the park and feed our adopted pet ducks, or whatever.

  But I did try calling him. Only he didn’t answer. And for once, I didn’t leave a message. I mean, why should I? All he had to do is check the display to know that it was me. Besides, I really didn’t know what to say.

  He did warn me, though. I’ll give him that.

  But I guess I just got so excited about seeing the house and meeting his mom that I ignored all the rest. You’d think I would’ve known better, though. I mean, seriously.

  Anyway, when we first got there his mom wasn’t home, which made him happy and me disappointed. Not that I wanted to have a whole big thing with her, but still, I’d purposely sat all stiff and careful in the car so I wouldn’t get all smudged up or wrinkled and so I’d look great when we got there. Since for the whole entire day I’d imagined the moment when she’d greet us at the door, welcoming me into her home with a big smile and a hug. Okay, so maybe I did kind of want a big thing. But it’s not like it matters, since that’s not how it turned out.

  So Marc gave me a tour of the house and property, and it’s so freaking big, I don’t know how he finds his way around. Seriously, it’s like one of those mansions you see in a magazine or on TV or something. Then afterward, he led me out to the guesthouse (which believe me, is pretty much the size of a normal house) and when I asked, “Who lives here?” he said, “No one. But senior year, it’s mine. That’s our deal.”

  “Seriously?” I asked, looking all around, trying to imagine having a sweet setup like that. To just be able to come and go as you please, without having to climb down a tree or creep down the hall, or something.

  But he just shrugged like it was no big deal. But I guess rich, privileged people are just used to having sweet deals like that.

  Anyway, so then of course he got all handsy and tried to get me to have sex. But no way was I going to get all messed up before I even had a chance to make a good impression on his mom. So after pushing him off like a gazillion times, we just sat on the couch, side by side, watching some dumb show on TV, while he kept groping at me, trying to get me to change my mind. Which I gotta admit, totally got on my nerves.

  Then finally, after like the sixth time I thought I heard a car on the drive, there really was a car on the drive, and he looked at me and said, “Cruella’s home.”

  And I go, “You call your mom Cruella?”

  But he just laughed and led me back to the house.

  “Mother,” he said, leaning in for the air cheek kiss just like you see rich people do in movies. “This is Zoë.”

  She looked at me, her eyes starting at my shoes and working their way up to my forehead.

  She’s tally thin, and blond, just like she appears in all those society-page pictures. Only in person, she’s really blond. Like Texas blond, almost stripper blond. And when her eyes met mine they narrowed, and suddenly her face went from faded beauty to mean. And believe me, the artist who painted her portrait that hangs in the stairwell failed to capture that.

  “Well aren’t you a beauty,” she said.

  And even though that might sound like a compliment to those who weren’t around to witness it, trust me, it wasn’t. Her voice was hard, her eyes were slits, and her lips were pursed, which are pretty much all the signs for hate at first sight.

  “Where d you find this one?” she asked, glancing at Marc as her heavily ringed fingers sorted through the stack of mail.

  I just stood there feeling small and stupid and wishing I’d just listened to Marc when he warned me, wishing I hadn’t pushed him so much.

  “We go to school together,” he said.

  “Is that right?” She looked at me again, up once, down once. Then her eyes flicked away, and I knew I’d just been discarded. “Has William returned?” she asked.

  Marc said no.

  “Well start without him then. I’m going upstairs to change. Tell Celia to bring me my drink.
”

  Dinner was a nightmare, Going from bad to worse with each passing drink. Things improved slightly when William (stepdad #3) came home, but only because that gave her a new target.

  I feel sorry for Marc. I mean, before his mom got home, it all looked so amazing and glamorous. I mean, with the grand staircase, the marble floors, the guesthouse, and the infinity pool. I was actually feeling a little bit jealous, and also kind of judging him for not appreciating it more. But the second she came home, the whole picture changed. And by the time it was over, I just wanted to go home.

  But the worst part is, it doesn’t make me feel closer to Marc, like I want to help him get through it or anything.

  It actually makes me want to run away.

  July 29

  Marc and I just went almost ten days without seeing each other, and I can still hardly believe it. I mean, it’s not like we actually broke up or anything, since we talked on the phone and stuff. I guess it’s more like things got so intense so fast that we both feel we need a little cool down. Or at least I do. I’m not really sure how he feels about it, since it’s not like anything was ever actually said.

  I mean, after that awful dinner, well, I guess I just started thinking about how I’ve ditched all my friends, and it made me feel bad. It’s like, just because Marc likes being a loner doesn’t mean I do too. So basically I just spent the last ten days working during the day and hanging with Carly and Paula at night.

  At first they gave me a bunch of shit for ditching them like that. But then after, it was like we’d been hanging out the whole entire summer and I’d never really left. I didn’t say anything about meeting Marc’s mom though. I mean, of course they asked if I’d been to the house and stuff, cuz pretty much everyone always wants to know about that. And since I didn’t want to lie I said yes. But then I pretty much left it at that, and any details I did give were totally vague.

  Anyway, hanging with them just made me realize how much I missed them. It also made me realize how I’m way too young to keep getting so tied down all the time. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still totally and completely love Marc. But sometimes I just need to hang out and have a little fun with my friends.

  August 5

  All day yesterday I was at Carly’s, setting up my very own page on this Web site where you post pictures of yourself, list all of your favorite things like bands, movies, etc., and try to collect as many friends as possible so you can feel all popular and famous or whatever. And since Carly’s been on there for practically ever, she’s been bugging me this whole entire time to get on there too, so I finally gave in.

  At first it seemed kind of dumb since I can just call her on her cell if I need to leave a message or even send a picture. But then she goes, “What if my ringer’s off?”

  So I said, “Then I’ll text you.”

  And she went, “Forget it. You have no idea how much better this is, because then everyone can see what you write and what you’re doing and saying and stuff.”

  Which, to be honest, also sounded pretty lame. I mean, I know it’s probably old fashioned to even write in a journal when the rest of the world is blogging. But maybe I don’t want all these strangers to know what I’m thinking, saying, and doing, you know?

  But then she said, “Uh, hello? What do you think it’s gonna be like when you’re famous? I mean, you think Jessica Simpson gets any privacy?”

  She had a point.

  Then she goes, “You always talk about how you want to be a model, or actress, or whatever, but if you’re that attached to your privacy then maybe you should find a new dream.”

  So, long story short, I signed on, decorated my space, uploaded some photos, and even though it practically took all day, now I totally get it. Now I totally get what she’s been talking about because it’s so completely addicting! It’s like, within seconds of uploading my first few photos I had like a hundred people asking to be my friend! Okay, maybe most of them were guys, but whatever. And the thing is, all I used are these three stupid little cell phone photos that Paula snapped of me one day when I was laying by her pool.

  In one, I’m in my white bikini and I’m laying on the lounger, drinking a beer. In another I’m pretty much doing the same thing, only smiling. And in the third I’m standing up and smiling with my top off. (But only because I didn’t want strap marks, and my hands are strategically placed so it’s not like you can see anything.)

  And I’m thinking, Jeez, if I get all this attention just from these cheesy little cell phone photos, who knows what could happen if I posted some really good, like really professional photos there. You know something sophisticated and classy but a little bit sexy, and yet still kind of innocent too. Since Carly says that all the big New York and L.A. agents are always trolling around on there, scoping for fresh, new faces.

  I’m not sure how she actually knows all that, but still, it sounds very, very likely.

  But then she also said that I probably shouldn’t tell Marc because he’ll definitely totally freak.

  And even though I just rolled my eyes and refused to comment, I’m actually thinking she’s right.

  When I close Zoë’s diary I feel a little sick. Though I know I have no one to blame but myself. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t already lived through all this. So I shouldn’t be surprised where it leads.

  I shove it back under my mattress, finished with it for now, not willing to claim it in any way.

  But at least I know that Marc didn’t lie. Not to my parents, and not to the police. He’d stuck by his story the entire time, never once wavering, even though his alibi has always been shaky.

  He said he was waiting at the park, down by the lake, where they always used to sit. That he just hung out, doing his homework, and waiting ‘til well after dark. But when she didn’t come back, he tried calling her cell a bunch of times, only she never answered. And since her phone was never recovered, it took a few days for the cops to confirm that.

  “Still,” they said. “You could’ve stood right there, over the body, making those calls. You know, to cover. Because you panicked. Because you saw what you’d done to her, saw her lying there like that, and you freaked. Come on, you can tell us. We’re here to help you. So the sooner you confess, the better.”

  Marc refused a lawyer, refused to change his story. He just handed over her backpack and said the only reason he even had it was because she’d left it with him as proof she’d return.

  It’s weird how the police uncovered her life a lot quicker than her body. How within just a few days they knew most all of her secrets—about the Web page, the photo shoot, and her increasingly volatile relationship with Marc. They even interviewed her friends—Carly, Paula, practically everyone she knew. And believe me, they were all too eager to spill the beans on some things, while completely clamming up on others. But the one thing they all had in common is that every one of them pointed the finger at Marc. Saying how they were always suspicious of his loner ways and his completely messed up family.

  “He isolated Zoë.”

  “He kept her all to himself and totally freaked when she tried to pull away.”

  But none of it’s true. None of it matches anything I’ve read.

  And you’d think that Carly, of all people, would’ve been above that. Especially since she was Zoë’s best friend. But the truth is, it took her awhile to finally give them the more important details, and I always wondered who she was trying to protect—Zoë or herself?

  I mean, she’s the one who pushed it. She’s the one who encouraged her to go. Not that I think it’s her fault or anything, because clearly it was Zoë’s choice in the end. Though I guess it explains why she tries so hard to avoid me at school, and how she can barely manage to look me in the eye when we pass in the halls.

  And yeah, so maybe Marc is kind of a loner. I mean, so what? That doesn’t prove anything. That doesn’t make him guilty of anything other than having the rare ability to be comfortable just being by himself. Not to mentio
n that it’s that exact quality, aside from his sexy good looks, that attracted Zoë to him in the first place. It’s what made her want him even more.

  Though I do know that he hated all of that modeling stuff, and Zoë’s celebrity ambitions. He thought that whole world was sleazy and shallow and awful. That it took naïve hungry people and built them way up before spitting them right out again. So it’s probably true that he would’ve freaked if he’d known about those pictures. But that’s why Zoë kept it hidden. And by the time he found out, it was already too late.

  It took six long months to catch the guy who did it. But only because he tried to do it again. He lured the victim to the exact same location using the exact same M.O. And just like with Zoë, instead of packing a camera, he brought a knife.

  He left a six-inch scar across that poor girl’s neck. But hey, at least she got to keep her head. My sister wasn’t so lucky.

  And it was that, they said, that finally took her.

  And even though they caught him red-handed (trust me, no pun intended), not one thing changed for Marc. And those six months he spent as a suspect may as well have been a conviction. I mean, maybe he didn’t go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. But then again, he didn’t have to.

  Our town became his jailer.

  Twenty-six

  At first I was worried how Parker would act. Would he be angry, dismissive, sad, happy, euphoric, grateful?

  But then I decided not to care.

  And it’s not because I was the least bit proud of the way I’d handled things. To be honest, I wasn’t proud of much of anything I’d done. It was more like now that it was over, I was over it too.

  Though I was determined to deal with Teresa. I mean, I still had no idea what her motive might be, not to mention why she insisted on even hanging with me in the first place. And I needed her to know, once and for all, that she was wrong about me, that no matter what she thought, she and I were totally different, we had nothing in common, we were nothing alike. And that any secrets I may have had, I was now more than willing to blow right open.