Love Will Keep Us Together (Miracle Girls Book 4)

by Anne Dayton

  “You know how Michael’s in my trig class?” Ashley plays with the zipper of her cheerleading jacket. “Have I ever told you how humiliating it is to be in a class with your baby brother, by the way?”

  “Math is kind of his specialty.” The thing is, Ashley’s not dumb. She always got good grades in middle school, but once we hit high school she adopted this ditzy cheer-girl persona and sort of stopped trying.

  “So, anyway, today Mr. Ragonisi was finished with, like, the most boring lecture known to man.” Ashley rolls her eyes. “Seriously. I mean, cosine curves? What in the world?” She shakes her head.

  I try to wait patiently. She must have a point. She’ll get there eventually. “Anyway, we had time left before the bell rang, and so a few of us were talking about our weekends, and out of nowhere Michael jumps in with how he chopped off a bunch of people’s heads this weekend.”

  I suck in a breath.

  Ashley nods, her face grim. “He was going on about shields and how the heads went flying across the grass and how everyone cheered when he rode past them. And I remembered how he used to sometimes mix up what he saw on TV and what’s real, and I thought—”

  “We were watching Braveheart this weekend. . . .”

  “I mean, I changed the subject right away, and I tried to talk to the guys afterward to explain, but I . . .” Words seem to fail her. “I just . . . wanted to let you know.”

  “Yeah.” I swallow and try to string my thoughts together. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “No biggie.” Someone calls to her across the quad, and she turns her head. “I’ve got to run, but I knew you’d know what to do about it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles, and for a second I see her in pigtails again, missing her two front teeth, just like second grade.

  “I’m glad you told me. It means a lot.”

  “See you at practice tomorrow?” she calls as she turns toward the quad. I nod, and she runs off to join a group of football players.

  I press my shoulders down to release the tension.

  Michael knows he didn’t actually behead anyone this weekend, but when he gets excited about things and tries to talk about them, sometimes they come out wrong. But the other kids don’t know that, they’ll think he’s . . .

  And what if they tell people what he said? What if the whole school knows?

  I turn and head for my meeting, but my heart sinks when I think about who’ll be there. Ms. Moore couldn’t have heard about this, could she? But what if she did? What if she tells my parents?

  I shake my head and take off down the breezeway. I’ll have to make sure she doesn’t find out.

  ***

  “Last order of business.” Ana is so professional at the podium—it’s no wonder the freshmen are all huddled together in the corner. She’s been president of Earth First four years running, ever since Ms. Moore started the club when we were freshmen. Well, technically, the club didn’t meet last year because our advisor had been suspended by the school board, but Ana was still in charge. “The Half Moon Bay Arts and Pumpkin Festival. We’ll be selling organic pumpkin bars this year, in addition to the face painting booth Christie will run.” The club has grown now that everything green is all the rage, and there are a couple juniors in addition to the cluster of freshmen. “She’s crunching on a deadline today and couldn’t be here, but if you want to help her with the painting, please put your name on the sign-up sheet. And find Zoe after the meeting if you want to help bake. Any questions?”

  We don’t dare open our mouths. Ms. Moore sits at her desk at the front of the room and pretends to grade papers, but she keeps sneaking glances at us, so I know she’s paying attention. I try to ignore her.

  “In that case, I move we call this meeting to end. Does anyone second that motion?”

  “I—” Zoe opens her mouth, and one of the freshmen begins to pack up her stuff, but I cut her off.

  “Wait!” As much as I want to escape, there’s something I need to do.

  Everyone freezes.

  “Riley, you’re supposed to bring up any new business before I motion to close.” Ana puts her hands on her hips.

  “I didn’t realize you were going to move so fast.” Things have been tense with the girls lately. I have this creeping feeling that . . . Well, obviously they’ve never been Tom’s biggest fans, but I’d never sell them out for a guy. They have to know that. “I have something to say. Actually, to vote on. We need to nominate a member to the homecoming court, and I want to nominate Ana Dominguez.”

  Ana’s eyes widen. I didn’t check with the other girls, but Ana should obviously be our Earth First representative. Marcus Farcus, Zoe’s ex-boyfriend, nominated Zoe for the band, and Christine easily clinched the Art Club nomination.

  “I second that,” Zoe says, grinning. Ana’s cheeks turn red, but a smile traces her lips.

  “All in favor?” I twist around in my seat and smile at the freshmen in the corner. I’ll probably get nominated by the cheerleaders because Ashley already accepted the nod from Student Council. Well, I hope I will anyway. The Miracle Girls should do homecoming together.

  “Aye,” they say in unison, and others scattered around the room echo the sentiment. I turn back, and out of the corner of my eye I see Ms. Moore watching me, but I pretend I don’t.

  “All opposed?” No one answers.

  “Good then. Ana will be our homecoming representative. I think we’re ready to close the meeting for real, Prez.”

  Ana stares at me for a minute, her mouth open, but she’s beaming. At least I did one thing right today. Ana runs through the formalities of closing the meeting one more time, and as soon as it’s over, I hike my bag over my shoulder and head toward the door.

  “Gotta run,” I say quietly, and Zoe nods. She’ll pass on the message to Ana, who’s still gathering her papers at the front of the room. I can feel Ms. Moore following me with her eyes. I’ve almost made it all the way to the door when she calls out to me.

  “Riley! Hold on for a second.”

  I pause, my hand on the doorknob.

  She walks quickly across the classroom and puts a hand on my back, nudging me into the hallway.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m running really behind for something.” I point toward the end of the hallway.

  Ms. Moore nods quickly. “I’ll be quick. Your mom and I were chatting, and she said that Harvard is your top choice.”

  “She did?” Is that what Mom thinks? That I’m Harvard-bound and it’s all settled? It was my parents who fell in love with Harvard, or rather the prestige of Harvard.

  “I think she only told me because she knew I could help.” Ms. Moore studies me, concern etched all over her face. “My friend is a professor there and is in good with the Dean of Admissions. Are you doing the Common Application or the Universal College Application? I can have her take a look at your Harvard Supplement and make sure you’ve done everything you can.”

  I clear my throat. “Thank you. That would be great.” I slide away from her slowly. A few more steps and I’ll be free. “I’ll . . . let you know if I could use the help.”

  “Riley—” Ms. Moore drops her head to the side and looks up at me. When did I grow taller than her? “How are the applications going, really?”

  “Really well.”

  Her eyes pierce into me, like she knows that I’m lying through my teeth.

  “Ha ha. Just some application humor for you.”

  She doesn’t stop with the piercing look.

  “The truth is that they’re going. That’s all I can hope for at this point, right?” There, that was at least kind of true. I have filled out a few information blanks on the Johns Hopkins Supplement.

  “I’d be happy to write recommendation letters for you. I have a lot to say that I think your prospective colleges would love to hear.”

  I cringe. How did I forget about those stupid letters? You have to get your teachers to say nice things about you so the colleges will want you. It’
s so—

  “For whatever school you want.”

  “I . . .” The last thing I need right now is Ms. Moore telling Harvard what she really thinks of me. “Thanks. I’ve got it under control.”

  “Oh.” She takes a small step back. “That’s good then.” She presses her lips together. “Still, if there’s anything I can—”

  “Gotta run.” She keeps talking as I scramble away. I smile and nod like I don’t hear her.

  13

  I keep moving until I reach the relative safety of the courtyard. I’ve been able to convince Mom and Dad I’ve got things under control, but Ms. Moore isn’t going to buy it much longer.

  I dig my phone out of my purse and punch the button for Tom’s name. He’s always so good at calming me down. But after four rings it goes to his voice mail. I’m sure he’s out looking for a job. He’s hoping to get an apartment in the city and move out of his parents’ place.

  The early October air is brisk, and a quick breeze whips through the courtyard and howls in my ear. It sounds like a woman screaming, and chill bumps rise on my arms.

  I grab my phone and try Tom again, but it goes to voice mail again. “Hey, it’s me. Please call me the moment you get this. I need you.” I click the call off and fight the urge to throw the phone across the courtyard with all my might. I pinch my eyes tight and focus on getting my breathing under control.

  Christine, my brain offers, and a smile spreads across my face. Even if she is on board with Zoe’s USC plan, she won’t judge me for having doubts. She’s been through some hard stuff over the years, and she’s really close to Ms. Moore. I’m sure she finds Ms. Moore’s relentless prying kind of annoying too.

  I push off from the courtyard wall and pick a roundabout way to Mr. Dumas’s art classroom. I wonder if Christine even has an art deadline today. Maybe she can only handle Ms. Moore in small doses and made up an excuse to miss the Earth First meeting. I would totally understand that.

  I reach the J-wing quickly and knock on Mr. Dumas’s open door. “Is Christine around?” There are a couple of other students at easels and scattered around the long tables, but I don’t see her long black hair.

  “You just missed her,” Mr. Dumas mumbles, looking up from an oversized, colorful art book.

  My shoulders slump. Mom picked up Michael from school today. Maybe I can catch Christine at home if I go right now.

  “Miss me already?” A familiar voice makes me turn. Ben smiles and walks over to the doorway.

  “Oh, hey,” I say but edge closer to the door.

  “You know, I’m beginning to think you’re stalking me, Supergirl.” He raises an eyebrow.

  “I was looking for Christine.” I toss Dumas a wave and head out the door, Ben following on my heels. “I’m having an insane day, and I . . .” Should I open up to Ben? He’s been a pretty good listener in the past and he’s, well, he’s here at least. That counts for something.

  “Come on.” He starts walking down the hall. “I’ve got some shots I’m developing in the darkroom, and I could use your help.”

  I guess I knew you could take photography at Marina Vista, but somehow it never really interested me. “I should go. I’m going to try to catch Christine at home.”

  Ben stops halfway down the hall and shakes his head. “Just come. Why not? You seem to be having a rough day, and everyone knows that when a cheerleader cries, a unicorn dies.”

  “You’re kind of a weird guy. You know that, right?” He doesn’t answer, and I give in to my curiosity and follow him down the hall. When we stop, I’m greeted by an empty, utterly normal classroom—well, normal except for one detail.

  “Right this way.” Ben motions to a big black tube on the right. He slides the door open, slips inside, and waits. I join him in the booth, and he slides the door until we can see nothing but utter blackness. He keeps sliding the tube until it opens up behind us, and a weird red glow stings my eyes.

  Ben grabs my arm, carefully avoiding my hand, and pulls me farther into the small room. “It takes a second for your eyes to adjust.”

  “Wow.” I follow him through another door. Inside the inner room, there’s a warm reddish light hanging from the ceiling and a chemical smell that burns my nose. My eyes adjust after the pitch-black darkness, and I stumble forward to look at pictures hanging on a line on the far side of the room. “Did you do all of these?”

  He motions at a picture of two wrestlers locked in a knot in the middle of the ring. “Not all of them. Everyone in the class uses the photo lab.” Ben walks farther down the line and motions at a few pictures. “These are mine.”

  The shots are of the Nayar family doing ordinary things—his dad watering a flower bed with a hose, his mom frowning at a spreadsheet with her glasses on her nose, Asha lying upside down on the couch, watching TV. And yet something about the photos is gripping.

  “Things have been . . .weird at home lately, and I guess I wondered if I could capture that on film.”

  Ben pulls a piece of shiny paper out of a thick black bag and slides it under a lens. He adjusts the height of the lens, presses a button, and suddenly an image of a face appears on the paper. I make out that it’s Asha before Ben snaps the light off and the image goes away. Ben grasps the paper with a pair of tongs and sets it in a shallow tub of liquid.

  “What’s this?” I edge closer, and I feel the heat from his arm through my thin sweater. Faintly I can hear Ben breathe.

  “This is the best part.” He moves the paper around in the little tub. “I’m developing a batch of negatives from my cousin’s wedding.”

  There’s something wonderfully comforting about the old-fashioned print photo lab. For once, Marina Vista’s lack of funding has worked in its favor. By not updating to the latest and greatest digital photography methods and instant color printers, students like Ben get to learn how people developed film the old-fashioned way.

  I lean in closer, and in the soft red light, I can see the first hints of something start to develop on the paper. At first it’s just shadows of light and dark, but Ben continues to jiggle the paper around, and slowly different shades start to emerge and some gray areas begin to develop. As the image comes into focus, the soft outlines of his sister’s face begin to form.

  “She looks beautiful.” She’s wearing a traditional sari, and her arms are painted in ornate henna patterns. She’s wearing what looks like hundreds of bangles on her arms and throwing her head back in laughter. But something about the way Ben has shot the picture—maybe it’s the angle or the lighting—gives it a melancholy feel.

  “Look,” he whispers, and his voice catches. He points at something in the photo, and I notice a slight bulge in her belly in the gap between the pieces of her sari.

  Ben lifts the paper out of the tray and dunks it into another tray right next to it. He swishes it around for a bit, then dunks it into the final tray. He takes a deep breath. “It’s almost done.” I lean in closer, and he lifts the photo up gently, holding it with the tongs, letting the liquid drip off the edge and back into the tray below.

  “That’s amazing.” I sound like an idiot, but I don’t care. His photo developed from a blank piece of paper into something beautiful before my eyes. I start to grasp what it is that drives Christine to spend hours and hours painting and drawing. Ben has turned an idea into a tangible expression. He’s taken a shot of his sister and somehow used it to communicate his own complicated feelings in a way words never could. I turn to him, his body is inches away from mine, and I swallow.

  We lock eyes, and my breath catches. His face makes me want to tell him every secret I have, to pour out all my worries about Michael and my doubts about the future. He reaches out and traces a finger down my cheek. I shut my eyes for a moment and allow myself to enjoy the careful way he touches me, as if I might disappear.

  “I should go.” I force my eyes open and shake my head. Stepping back and zipping up my sweater, I take a few steps toward the tube. I’ll swing by Christine’s house. It’s wha
t I should have done all along.

  14

  “What kind of cracked school makes you take PE all four years?” I squint into the sun and fit my arrow again.

  “This is what tipped you off that Marina Vista is insane?” Dean raises an eyebrow at me, and I laugh. The only good thing about PE is that Dean and Zoe are in my class, and they’re as bored as I am by the whole thing.

  “How is this preparing us for college, I ask you.” I let an arrow fly toward the target, and the tip sinks deep into the blue ring.

  “Come on. Archery is going to come in really handy in our future careers.” Zoe takes a shot, and her arrow sticks into the wet earth a few feet shy of the target. She hasn’t actually hit the haystack all morning.

  “I don’t know.” Dean trains his eye on the target, staring down the shaft of his arrow. “After I wrap the ninja movie, I’m going to work on an adventure film.” His arrow lands squarely in the middle of the red circle. “This could be the most useful class I take all day.”

  “Ooh.” Zoe claps her hands and walks over to Dean’s spot, frowning at his target. “It could be about a mythical medieval city. You could call it Zoeville.” She launches another arrow through the air, and we watch it wobble before falling short.

  “Maybe I will.” Dean walks over and puts his arms around Zoe to show her what she’s doing wrong. I turn away and search for Michael’s class across the blacktop, but I can’t pick him out. I’ve been keeping a closer eye on him lately, and things seemed to have quieted down. He was just having trouble adjusting to the new school year, his new schedule and teachers. That’s all.

  “Speaking of, have you taken a look at the USC application yet, Riley? Ana said it was the easiest one she’d seen.” Zoe lets go of the bow’s string, and Dean steps back. Her arrow sinks into the white outer rim. “Yes!”

  “Wait, you’re applying to USC?” Dean whips around to me and misses Zoe’s small victory.