by Stacie Ramey
“Yeah. And a Sophie thing.”
“I like that girl,” Mom says. “And in a weird way, I think the trail was good for you.”
“Who are you writing to now? Sophie?”
“No. Rain Man. Although, I have no idea how to get this note to him.”
“I’m pretty sure we can figure that out.”
“Maybe. And one day you may get a note from me too, Mom.”
“What will the note say?”
“Mostly that I’m sorry.”
Her eyes glisten. She puts her hand on my head. “Me too.”
I keep writing to Rain Man:
I hope you'll think that life is worth living and that you and your family will make up. I'm making up with mine. Person by person. I also wanted to thank you. You taught me to love shrimp and grits and how to love the trail. Oh, and I still have your socks. I hope to hike part of the trail next year. And I hope I get to see you again. Until then, I am really happy we met.
Dylan.
She smiles. “That’s good.” She drinks some more coffee and looks at her puzzle. “Seven-letter word that means—”
“Mom…” I start.
“No, seven-letter word that means—”
I interrupt again. “Mom. I think I should go to that school.”
She looks up and almost knocks over her coffee.
“I mean it. I was wrong. I never should have run away. I’m sorry. And I’ve been thinking that maybe I should try that new school out. This summer, if possible.”
“This summer?”
“Yeah. I want to finish my classes from last semester. I want to graduate this year. Or even early.”
“Early?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking I want to do something next May. If it’s okay with you.”
Mom takes a drink. “The trail changed you.”
“Yeah. It’s about time I grew up, isn’t it?”
Her eyes well up. “Your dad would be so…”
“Don’t say it, Mom. Not until I’ve done everything I plan to this year. Then say it when it’s the perfect last line.”
She nods. “I’ll make some calls to see when you can start.”
As Mom starts working the phones, as Em and I used to say, I stare at my cell and think about the trail. Mom said the trail changed me, and I think that’s true. It’s made me recognize how lucky I am with my family and my home. It reminded me that life is pretty fragile. It brought me Sophie, and I got to spend some time remembering Dad. At times it almost felt like he was with me.
My muscles got used to the regular exercise, and all of a sudden, I have a thought. Mom watches from her perch on one of the kitchen stools. Her lawyer voice is calmly explaining to the school board the nature of my issues and what she and I wanted to do next. I nod to her, thankful that I get to help make these decisions.
In my room I open the bottom drawer of my desk where I’ve stashed Dad’s old running shorts. I put them on, knowing they’ll be too big, I pin them so they’ll stay on me. I put on my running shoes and go downstairs, just in time to get Em’s text.
I forgive you. I guess.
Mom calls to me as I open the door. “Where…”
“Just going for a run. I’ll be home soon.”
“Aunt Mary just called. Everyone wants to come for dinner tonight. Okay with you?”
“Perfect.” I let the door close behind me and plug my music in. Dad’s favorite, Led Zeppelin’s “Moby Dick” starts me off.
And I feel fine.
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Acknowledgments
Every book we write holds an untold story of the people who helped it along the way. Some of the players are always the same, will always be the same, but others insert themselves in special ways as the book is formed, takes hold, and eventually makes its way out into the world.
The same is true for The Secrets We Bury.
This is a very special book for me, as it relates to a lot of kids I’ve loved and cared for over the years. The book was initiated after a discussion with one of my coworkers. So the first person I need to thank is Brandie Horner, who urged me to write about some of "our kids."
Next, I need to thank Linda Rodriguez-Bernfeld, Dorian Cirrone, Rob Sanders and the rest of the Florida SCBWI team who invited my editor to the Mid-Year SCBWI Florida conference in Orlando in 2016. After taking the novel comprehensive with Jonathan Maberry and Lorin Oberweger, my head filled with their wise words and role-played pitch sessions, I pitched this book to my wonderful editor, Annette Pollert-Morgan, at dinner with my agent, Nicole Resciniti. And voilà! Sold! So huge props to the hardworking Florida SCBWI team, of course, and to Jonathan and Lorin specifically for teaching me how to do an emotional query. It worked!
To my fabulous editor, Annette, thank you so much for believing in me (again!) and trusting me to write this big book. Also ginormous thanks to Nicole Resciniti, who always makes me feel like I can do this incredibly difficult writing thing, who always shows up for me when I need her, and for suggesting wine with dinner that night!
Next on the thank-you list is Joyce Sweeney. She was there after that dinner to talk me through all of this, just as she’s always been with me, this entire time.
While thanking my dependable and loyal writing tribe, I want to thank The Tuesdays, of course. They are my longest-lasting critique group and are part of every book I write. Tuesdays: best day of the week! While on the subject of critique groups, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the PGAs, the Palm Springs group, and the Wellington Critique group. I am so lucky to have so many people who help me hone my craft. Thank you all!
Also on the I’m-always-thankful-for-them list are my writing besties, Steven dos Santos, Jonathan Rosen, and Jill Nadler. You guys pick me up when I need it, kick my butt when I need it, and celebrate with me when I’ve earned it. This writing life would not be the same without you!
My family is always supportive and instrumental in my writing. Bonnie, Mark, and Heidi, thanks for cheering me on from New England, with two of my nieces. Mike and Kelly, I appreciate the support from your side of the country with my other niece and two nephews. You all make up the heart of my books.
My mother-in-law, Kathy, has to cheer enough for all of the parents. Luckily she’s not afraid to lend her voice and support at all times, including finding me research help on this difficult-to-write book.
To Vicky and Bill Hassel, you two have always loved my boys (plus one girl!), and anytime I write about boys, I think of you two. Thanks for being in my family’s life. We heart you.
Finally I’d like to thank John (JKR) and my children who have had to do without my undivided attention and participation during some family card games and movie nights. I’d also like to thank my rescue doggies. No book is written without a furry friend by my side. Woof.
Oh, and one more group. Thanks so much to the Sourcebooks Fire team. You all rock.
About the Author
Stacie Ramey learned to read at a very early age to escape the endless tormenting from her older siblings. She attended the University of Florida, where she majored in communication sciences, and Penn State, where she received a master of science degree in speech pathology. When she’s not writing, she engages in Netflix wars with her children or beats her husband in Scrabble. She lives in Wellington, Florida, with her husband, three children, and two rescue dogs.
Who holds your secrets?
Allie trusted her older sister, Leah, with her deepest secrets...and then Leah betrayed her.
Read their story in Stacie Ramey’s
Chapter 1
The last thing we did as a family was bury my sister. That makes this meeting even harder to face.
I don’t have to be a psychic to know what everyone thinks when they look at me.
Why did she do it? Why didn’t I? And the thing is, after all that happened, I’m not sure I know the answer to either.
Mom walks behind me, her hand gently curled around my bicep. Dad motions to show us where to sit, even though the guidance office is new ground for him.
I force myself to look into the faces of my judges and feel immediate relief. The principal, Mrs. Pendrick, smiles, warm and sweet, and the wrinkly skin around her eyes and lips lifts as she does. Mr. Hicks, my guidance counselor, the one the girls think is sort of cute, stands next to her. Where Mrs. Pendrick is all soft creases, he’s wide shoulders, built for dealing with bad kids or bad parents, but he winks at me like he wants me to know he’s on my side.
Mrs. Pendrick places a hand on mine. “It’s nice to see you, Allie. We’re so glad you’re back.”
Her hand is like an island of safe in a sea of danger. I smile at her so she thinks I’m okay. I smile so it looks like I’m not breaking. Like everything that happened was a mistake and I’m ready for a do-over.
Mr. Kispert, my art teacher, comes barreling into the room, carrying his iced coffee and my portfolio. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. He nods at me and I try to nod back, but my body’s kind of frozen. I had no idea he’d be here too.
“We were just getting started.” Mrs. Pendrick opens a file, my name written on the tab. “I pulled Allie’s records. She’s on track for graduation next year, of course.”
I tell myself to pay attention. I try to focus on Mrs. Pendrick, whose Southern accent makes her sound as misplaced as “the wrong Alice” in the new version of Alice in Wonderland, but it’s hard.
“We may want to take a look at the courses she’s chosen for this year.” Mrs. Pendrick adjusts her reading glasses and flips through the pages.
My eyes hurt, the start of a migraine. I blink.
“We want to make certain we’re not asking too much of her.” Mr. Hicks shifts forward, his hands loosely steepled on the fake mahogany table in front of him.
The surface of the table is so shiny, I see my face in it, distorted and strange. I blink again. Caught somewhere between the blink and the reflection, I see her, Leah, in her black leotard and pink tights, like she’s waiting in the wings for her cue.
Even though I realize it’s just a trick of the light, I can’t help staring at not-real-Leah, waiting to see if she’s going to dance. I’m staring so hard, I must have stopped paying attention to what’s going on around me because Dad’s voice is stern. “Sit up, Allie. These people are here for you.”
I square myself in my seat, horrified by the look of pity that crosses Mr. Hicks’s face.
Mrs. Pendrick reaches across the table and takes my hand again, her touch soft as butter. “Are you okay, dear?”
“I’m fine. I just have a headache.”
Dad shoots me a look like he wants me to behave, to make up for Leah. As if I could.
“Mr. Blackmore, we have to be patient with Allie,” Mrs. Pendrick insists.
I should probably warn Mrs. Pendrick that Dad doesn’t believe in being patient. It’s all about domination and war games with him. He’s the general. I’m the soldier he commands, and he will not lose this hill. No matter what. When I look at him, I see dried blood caked on his hands. Mom’s. Leah’s. Mine.
I shake that image out of my head and try to find my Happy. I think about everyone’s colors. Mrs. Pendrick would be creamy yellow, icing pink, powder blue. And Mr. Hicks would be something easy too, like golf-course-turf green. I try to think about how I would paint them if I still painted. And just like that, Happy has left the building. Like Leah did.
“It’s her junior year.” Dad leans forward, his not-giving-an-inch stance making my stomach knot. I already know his colors: muddy brown, gray black, the color of pissed. “We need to get her back on track.”
“We understand that.” Mr. Hicks folds his hands again like a tent. “But this is going to be a very hard year for Allie.”
It is going to be a hard year. And no meeting is going to change that. So instead of listening to them, I close my eyes and call to my mind the sound of Leah’s ballet shoes shuffling against the floor. Eight weeks after, I can still hear them, but who knows for how long? Right now, I’m so grateful for the soft slide, slide, slide that is so real and strong that it fills me with unreasonable hope. Maybe she hasn’t left me. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe she’ll forgive me.
“Maybe we could keep just two of the AP classes?” Mom suggests.
I open my eyes and pray I’m not crazy. It’s hard to know if you are. Nobody really thinks they are. But I can almost hear Leah laughing with me—so like her to laugh when I’m in the hot seat and she’s not.
Mr. Kispert takes out my portfolio and lays it on the table next to a brochure from the Rhode Island School of Design. The requirements are highlighted in crime-scene-tape yellow. “Allie should keep her AP Studio Art class. I’ll supervise her. She’ll do fine, and she needs it to work on her application.”
Reading upside down, I can make out all the things I need to do to make that happen. Last year it all seemed easy. Now each step feels like a mountain I’m not equipped to climb. Mr. Kispert looks at me and winks. I smile back, even though I feel like a complete fake. I can’t do art anymore, and I don’t know how to tell him.
Mom puts her hand out to take the brochure, and it shakes. Please don’t let Dad notice. Please. Dad grunts and takes it instead. “I’m not giving up on my daughter. Even if you guys are.”
“Nobody’s giving up on her,” Mr. Hicks says. “We just want her to be okay.”
“She wants to go to RISD. How do you expect her to get into a top art school if you don’t give her the right classes?” His voice strains, and for a second I think he’s going to cry, which I’ve never seen him do—except when we buried Leah.
“David, please.” Mom says.
He slams the table hard. “Goddammit, Karen, this is what you do, what you always do. You give into the girls.” He clears his throat. “Her. You give into her.”
Mom’s eyes well at Dad’s obvious stumble. They’ve been calling Leah and I them or the girls for so long. It must be hard to adjust, but seeing Dad struggle with the math makes me feel horrible. We did this. We cut his regiment in half. Maybe his heart too. I want to reach out to him. I want to tell him I’m sorry. That I didn’t think she meant it. That I definitely didn’t—until I did. But that’s a cop-out. Truth is, I don’t remember most of that night.
Dad’s voice sounds like he’s surrendering. “What do you want me to do, Karen? Let her fail? That’s not exactly going to fix her, is it?”
Everybody gets quiet. I can feel the silence like a noose around my neck. Dad’s pain radiates off him. Mom’s shame makes her sink into the chair. Mr. Hicks and Mrs. Pendrick sit, waiting for the right thing to say to heal this family. But there isn’t anything to be said after all this. After what Leah did and what I almost did.
I close my eyes and wish Leah were here. I wish so hard, I can almost feel her holding my hand. Sometimes she did that when Mom and Dad fought. Sometimes she held my hand and I’d play with her silver flower ring, the one she always wore. They buried her with that ring. Mom said she wanted to give it to me, but I wanted Leah to have it. I lay my head on the table, the cool feeling enough to calm me for a minute.
“Jesus, Allie, can you try to focus?” I lift my head to see Dad close his eyes, and I know I’ve pushed him too hard. He shakes his head like a bull. He does that when he’s done. He stares at the ceiling. “Is this how it’s going to be now? Are you going to give up?”
And just like that he makes me want to disappear, makes me wish I could be wherever Leah is now, away from him and his shit. Away from everyone’s expectations. Away from his stupid war with Mom.
And more than ever, I wish Leah were here. If she were here, really here, she’d stop Dad from being a jerk. She’d make Mom
sit up straight and actually have an opinion. She’d take over this meeting and make them stop talking about my life as if I’m not even in it. Leah could totally do that. She was epic.
Until she killed herself.
Mrs. Pendrick clears her throat. “I understand your concerns, Mr. Blackmore. Junior year is a very important year. But Allie needs to heal.”
We Blackmores? We don’t heal. We patch up and make do. We Blackmores move on. It’s in some contract that Dad made us sign when we were born. Leah’s in breach. Now I’m the one in the spotlight. Thanks, Sis.
“Allie’s seeing someone.” Dad clears his throat. “A psychiatrist.”
Mom nods quickly to show they’re on the same page, which has been a ridiculously rare occurrence since Mom’s Xanax addiction made the scene. Or since Dad’s girlfriend, Danielle, did. The one that has texted him three times since he picked Mom and me up today. I guess she was mad he didn’t let her come. To my meeting. My head starts pounding. I reach into my backpack and pull out an Excedrin pack and a Gatorade.
“What are you doing?” Mom’s face gets red.
“I have a headache,” I explain.
“You’re supposed to tell me, and I give it to you.” She shuffles around in her purse.
“It’s just Excedrin.” Does she honestly want to become my personal med vending machine? Like a human PEZ dispenser? I rip open the packet and put the pills on my tongue. Everyone gets quiet and looks at me like I just bit the head off a bat.
This is so outrageous. I can’t deal with it alone. Leah should be facing this horrible aftermath with me. Every suicide pact needs a fallback for prisoners of war. Apparently.
Dad’s hand goes on Mom’s. It’s a small gesture but so foreign in their full-scale battle that I can’t pull my eyes from the spectacle. Mom puts her purse back on the arm of her chair. I’m not sure if I’ve imagined it, but I think I hear the sound of the pills rattling in their bottles, and that worries me greatly. Now that Leah’s gone AWOL, I don’t think I’d follow her, but if I’m so solid, why the hell am I wondering how many pills Mom has on her?
