“No,” Paige says. “No, he would never do that!”
“Yes, he did. I’m sure of it. He even used the name!”
“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! You’re the reason he’s gone in the first place!”
Polly says she doesn’t know what Paige is talking about.
“Liar! I know you told everyone! You and your big dumb mouth!”
“Paige,” Polly says. “Calm down. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”
Ms. Penn is still holding out the book to Paige. Without thinking, Paige grabs the book from her. Ms. Penn topples backward. Maybe Ms. Penn bangs her head on the chair behind her? Maybe she catches herself? Paige doesn’t know. She doesn’t wait to find out. She runs out, clutching the library’s copy of The Immortals to her breast. She makes it to her car. Luckily, the school parking lot gate is still unlocked for the seniors who leave school at lunch.
She doesn’t go home. She doesn’t know if she’s in trouble or not. She just drives and drives and thinks and thinks.
Is it possible that Polly is right and Aaron borrowed his story from the book? She drives and drives . . .
No, it can’t be.
Eventually, she decides to park in a movie theater parking lot the next town over. But what if . . . ?
She takes the copy of The Immortals from the passenger seat and begins to read.
.
You know this story.
She reads the cover: The Immortals by Annabelle Reve.
She turns to the first page.
“There are two kinds of people in the world: those who believe in love and those who don’t. I believe in love. . . .”
She’s flipping pages so quickly she gets a paper cut.
“. . . lonely being the new kid in school . . .”
“. . . because you’re the most interesting person in the whole damn place . . .”
“They just weren’t looking close enough.”
“As much as it will kill me, I’ll leave, Jane, and I won’t even be able to say goodbye.”
Paige can’t even finish reading the book. What she feels is violated. It’s as if someone has been wiretapping every single conversation she has ever had with Aaron and then transcribed them for all the world to see. To read! Even their most private exchanges. Things that no one in the world could have known. The only real change is Paige’s name. In the book, Paige is called Jane. Reading that name feels like being burned. Or erased. She turns to the back jacket flap. “Annabelle Reve,” she reads, “lives in New York City with her son. The Immortals is her first novel.” There’s a color photograph of her, too. She looks to be in her early thirties. She’s pretty, Paige decides. Like someone from an old painting.
And then, Paige notices Annabelle Reve’s eyes—they’re gray and violet just like . . . Paige rereads the bio. No mention of a husband. Just a son. It doesn’t necessarily add up, but Paige does know one thing: She has to find Annabelle Reve.
Paige calls Information on the off chance that Annabelle Reve is listed; she is. No phone number, but there is an address and it’s not even that far from where Paige lives. Paige calculates that it will only take about forty minutes to get there, if traffic is good.
.
When paige was a little girl, her mother used to let her skip school to see the Wednesday matinees on Broadway. This is to say she has visited New York City many times and she locates Annabelle Reve’s apartment building without any problem. It’s a nice, old building with an impressive lobby and, unfortunately for Paige, a doorman.
“I’m here to see Annabelle Reve,” Paige says as confidently as possible. The doorman informs Paige that Ms. Reve isn’t home.
“Um . . . Maybe I could just wait in her place until she’s back. I’m her niece. She’s my aunt. She’s expecting me,” Paige lies easily. “I’m visiting from out of town.”
“Listen, kid, I’d like to help,” the doorman says not unkindly. “But Ms. Reve didn’t say anything about a niece visiting. You can wait down here, but that’s the best I can do.”
So Paige sits on the green velvet couch in the lobby and waits. It isn’t that long before she falls asleep.
When she wakes, Annabelle Reve is looking at her with those familiar violet-gray eyes.
“They told me my niece was waiting for me in the lobby. I suppose you would be her.”
Annabelle has a half smile on her face. She offers Paige her hand to shake.
“Annabelle.”
“Paige.”
“Would you like to come upstairs for a bit?”
Paige nods and follows Annabelle into the elevator.
In the apartment, Annabelle puts a kettle on the stove.
“I’ve had letters and emails, of course, but you’re the first to show up here,” Annabelle calls from the kitchen.
“The book’s only been out a month, so it’s looking like I’m going to have to become unlisted, I guess.”
Paige doesn’t say anything.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Annabelle asks. “The Immortals.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ve come all this way . . . Where’d you say you were from again?”
“New Jersey,” Paige says. She thinks to herself, I know you know where I’m from. You know everything about me.
Aaron told you everything about me.
“Well, not too far, then, but still a lot of effort. So, what do you want to know?”
Paige has so many questions, but she can only manage one. “Is Aaron here?”
Annabelle emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. “Come again?”
“I want to know if Aaron is here.”
Annabelle nods and pours Paige a cup of tea. “Well, if you mean the character Aaron, I suppose, in a way, he’s here in that he’s inside my head, and I did write the entire book inside this apartment.
“And if you mean, my son, Aaron? I really don’t know why you would want to know about that, but he’s staying with his father this week.”
“I thought Aaron’s father was dead,” Paige says.
“Well, in the story, yes. In real life, we’re just divorced. I guess I thought I was being clever. My ex-husband, probably not so much.”
“But . . . but . . . the rest is all real?” Paige stammers. “I mean, Aaron is a real person. I mean, I know him.”
“Paige . . .” Annabelle looks into Paige’s eyes. Those eyes are so like Aaron’s that Paige nearly wants to cry for missing him. “The Aaron in the book isn’t a real person, but I did name him for a real person. My son. He’s four years old.” Annabelle laughs sweetly.
“He’s probably gonna kill me for doing that when he gets older.”
“You’re lying. You have to be lying.” Paige stands and begins to pace Annabelle Reve’s bookshelf-lined living room. “Because if you’re not lying, how did you find out all that stuff about me, then? How were you able to put my whole life into that book?”
Annabelle walks over to Paige and takes her hand.
“I’m flattered that the characters in my story were so . . . um . . . vivid to you. But I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“LET GO OF ME! JUST TELL ME WHERE AARON
IS!” Paige screams. “I KNOW YOU HAVE HIM SOMEWHERE.
HE TALKED ABOUT YOU. HE TALKED
ABOUT HIS CRAZY MOTHER WHO’S ALWAYS
MAKING HIM MOVE!”
“I . . .”
Paige begins to cry. “I know I screwed up. I know I’m bad. But I love him. And I can’t live without him. Please don’t keep him from me. I love him. I believe in love.”
Paige sits on the floor. She puts her hands around her knees and rocks herself. “I believe in love,” she whimpers.
“I believe in love. I believe in love. . . .”
Annabelle excuses herself. She goes into her bedroom where she calls the doorman first and, then, the police.
.
For the whole first week she’s there, they won’t even let her have a penc
il, and she feels like she might really go crazy. Things that happen to her don’t seem real until she can write them down. And of course, she wants to write Aaron even though she’s not supposed to contact him anymore, even though she’s not exactly sure where he is. The doctor asks if she knows why she’s there, and she replies, “Because my parents don’t like my boyfriend, and they’re trying to keep us apart.”
The doctor nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“They’re cynical,” Paige says. “You know they’re divorced, right?”
“I think you may have mentioned it before.”
“The point is . . . My point is . . . they’re both so bitter it’s disgusting.”
“It sounds sad, actually.”
“It is sad. . . . But I’m not like them. I will never be like them.” She lowers her voice,
“I’m here because you think I’m crazy. But everyone who’s ever loved anyone is crazy, right? So that makes me normal. And do you know what I think is really, really crazy?”
“No.”
“What’s really and truly crazy is not to love at all.”
The doctor nods, but it is unclear if she agrees.
“I want to show you something,” the doctor says. She takes a copy of The Immortals out from her desk.
When Paige sees it, she begins to drum her fingers on the table.
“Does the book make you nervous?”
Paige doesn’t speak.
“You contend,” the doctor continues, “that the author Annabelle Reve stole your story, the details of your relationship with her son, Aaron, and turned it into her novel?”
Paige nods.
“Well, what if I told you that Annabelle Reve had written the whole book before you even met Aaron?
Would that change things for you?”
Paige doesn’t answer.
“And what if I told you that the librarian at your school saw you reading this book?”
“That woman’s a whore,” Paige says. “You should see how she dresses.”
“So she’s lying about having seen you read this book?”
Paige doesn’t answer.
“Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?”
“Yes,” Paige says. “We studied that in science. It’s the theory that the simplest solution is usually the correct one.”
“Good. So you tell me which is more likely: Annabelle Reve stole your story and is now hiding your immortal boyfriend, that no one—not your parents, not your friends—ever saw, or that you read a book by Annabelle Reve and identified with it so closely that you somehow made the story your own?”
“I know what I know,” Paige says. “All anyone knows is what they know. All we know is what we know, doctor.”
Paige walks across the room. She picks up the copy of The Immortals and then she throws it at the doctor as hard as she can. “All I know is that love is crazy,” Paige says. It is several more weeks before they allow Paige a pencil.
“Dear Aaron, There’s . . .” she writes and then she crumples up the piece of paper. She’s not supposed to contact him anymore, and she doesn’t know when she’ll be able to send this, or where. She worries all the time that maybe he’s been trying to contact her. And there’s no privacy here. They search her things all the time. It’s to help with her recovery, they say. It’s to keep her safe.
So she’ll just have to imagine his name at the top of the page and know in her heart, where everything is still true and clear and pure, that she’s writing him. Writing to him, that is.
She takes out a blank piece of paper.
“Dear Aaron,” she whispers to herself, and then she writes, “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who don’t believe in love and those who do. I believe in love.
. . .”
.
.
.
Love Struck
melissa marr
.
Despite it being at the beach, the party was lame. A few people were trying to turn noise into music: if Alana had been high or drunk, it might’ve been tolerable. But she was sober—and tense. Usually, the beach was where she found peace and pleasure; it was one of the only places where she felt like the world wasn’t impossibly out of order. But tonight, she felt anxious.
A guy sat down beside her; he held out a cup. “You look thirsty.”
“I’m not thirsty”—she glanced at him and tore her gaze away as quickly as she could—
“or interested.” Eye candy. She didn’t date eye candy. She’d been watching her mother do that for years. It was so not the path Alana was taking. Ever. Instead, she stared at the singer.
He was normal, not-tempting, not-exciting. He was cute and sweet, but not irresistible. That was the sort of guy Alana chose when she dated—safe, temporary, and easy to leave.
She smiled at the singer. The bad rendition of a Beatles song shifted into a worse attempt at poetry . . . or maybe a cover of something new and emo. It didn’t really matter what it was: Alana was going to listen to it and not pay attention to the hot dreadlocked guy who was sitting too close beside her.
Dreadlocks, however, wasn’t taking the hint.
“Are you cold? Here.” He tossed a long brown leather coat on the sand in front of her. It looked completely out of place for the crowd at the party.
“No, thanks.” Alana scooted a bit away from him, closer to the fire. Burnt embers swirled and lifted like fireflies rising with the smoke.
“You’ll get cold walking home and—”
“Go away. Please.” Alana still didn’t look back at him.
Polite wasn’t working. “I’m not interested, easy, or going to get drunk enough to be either of those. Seriously.”
He laughed, seeming not insulted but genuinely amused. “Are you sure?”
“Leave.”
“It’d be easier this way. . . .”
He moved closer, putting himself between her and the fire, directly in her line of view. And she had to look, not a quick glance, but a real look. Illuminated by the combined glow of firelight and moonlight, he was even more stunning than she’d feared: blond hair clumped in thick dreadlocks that stretched to his waist; a few of those thick strands were kelp-green; his tattered T-shirt had holes that allowed glimpses of the most defined abs she’d ever seen.
He was crouched down, balancing on his feet. “Even if it wouldn’t upset Murrin, it’d be tempting to take you.”
Dreadlocks reached out as if he was going to cup her face in his hand. Alana crab-walked backward, scuttling over the sand until she was just out of his reach. She scrambled to her feet and slipped a hand into the depths of her bag, past her shoes and her jumble of keys. She gripped her pepper spray and flicked the safety switch off, but didn’t pull it out of her bag yet. Logic said she was overreacting: There were other people around; she was safe here. But something about him felt wrong.
“Back off,” she said.
He didn’t move. “Are you sure? Really, it’d be easier for you this way. . . .”
She pulled out the pepper spray.
“It’s your choice, precious. It’ll be worse once he finds you.” Dreadlocks paused as if she’d say something or change her mind.
She’d couldn’t reply to comments that made no sense, though—and she surely wasn’t going to change her mind about getting closer to him.
He sighed. “I’ll be back after he breaks you.”
Then he walked away, heading toward the mostly empty parking lot. She watched until she was sure he was gone. Grappling with drunk or high or whateverhe-was guys wasn’t on her to do list. She’d taken self-defense and street-defense classes, heard countless lectures on safety, and kept her pepper spray handy—her mother was very good about that part of parenting. None of that meant she wanted to have to use those lessons.
She looked around the beach. There were some strangers at the party, but mostly the people there were ones she’d seen around at school or out walking the reef. Right now, none of them was p
aying any attention to her. No one even looked her way. Some had watched when she was backing away from Dreadlocks, but they’d stopped watching when he left.
Alana couldn’t decide if he was just messing with her or if someone there really posed a threat . . . or if he was saying that to spook her into leaving the party so she’d be alone and vulnerable. Usually, when she walked home, she went in the same direction he’d gone, but just in case he was lurking in the parking lot, she decided to go farther down the beach and cut across Coast Highway. It was a couple blocks out of the way, but he’d creeped her out. A lot. He made her feel trapped, like prey. When she’d walked far enough away that the bonfire was a glow in the distance and the roll of waves was all she could hear, the knot of tension in her neck loosened. She had gone the opposite direction of danger, and she stood in one of the spots where she felt safest, most at peace—the exposed reef. The ground under her feet shifted from sandy beach to rocky shelf. Tide pools were spread open to the moon. It was perfect, just her and the sea. She needed that, the peace she found there. She went toward a ledge of the reef where waves crashed and sprayed upward. Mussel shells jutted up like blunt black teeth. Slick sea lettuce and sea grasses hid crabs and unstable ground. She was barefoot, balancing on the edges of the reef, feeling that rush as the waves came ever closer, feeling herself fill up with the peace Dreadlocks had stolen. Then she saw him standing in the surf in front of her, staring at her, oblivious to the waves that broke around him. “How did he get here first?”
She shivered, but then realized that it wasn’t him.
The guy was as defined as Dreadlocks, but he had long, loose, dark hair. Just a surfer. Or Dreadlocks’s friend. The surfer wasn’t wearing a wetsuit. He looked like he might be . . . naked. It was difficult to tell with the waves crashing around him; at the very least, he was topless in the frigid water.
He lifted his hand to beckon her closer, and she thought she heard him say, “I’m safe enough. Come talk to me.”
It was her imagination, though. It had to be. She was just freaked out by Dreadlocks. There was no way this guy could’ve heard her over the breaking of waves, no way she could’ve heard him.
Love is Hell Page 13
