Here With You (4 page)

But the apartment was gone. Sold
. Her mom
—also gone. Forever, because of a truck driver who hadn't had enough sleep.

Her nose prickled with tears. She rubbed the tip hard. Don't cry. Don't cry.
Don't cry.
As if they needed more reason to stare at her
, especially Madison and Addison
.
They took great pleasure in making her feel as uncomfortable as possible.

It was her fault she was here
,
too. Part of her couldn't blame
her dad
for making them move. Getting drunk at that party had been dumb. Rachel hadn't even
wanted to go, but she couldn't stand being at home
alone
, and she
'd
met that girl who
'd
seemed cool...

She wasn't sure how she'd ended up home. The last thing she remembered was this mod
boy with severe acne pawing her until she finally locked herself in someone's bedroom.
When she woke up, she was on the porch with
her dad leaning over her
.

And then she'd puked. A lot.

Her stomach revolted just thinking about it all. She was never touching alcohol ever
again. Back in Manhattan, she knew kids who got trashed every weekend. Why would anyone
do that to herself? She didn't get it.

Her dad had, of course, freaked out. According to her grief counselor, at sixteen
getting drunk wasn't an "appropriate expression of her loneliness and sorrow."

The teacher paused in his lecture and glanced her way. Rachel sank in her seat and
ducked her head. Hopefully he wouldn't call on her—she had no idea what he was talking
about.

When she was sure the coast was clear, she pulled out her
journal
. It was reddish orange and gold, with a magnetic flap that closed to keep the pages
from getting mangled.

As she opened it, a
piece of paper slipped out and onto her desk. She didn't need to unfold the paper
to know what it was: the poem she'd written for her mom right after her funeral.

Every line of it was written on her heart.

She hadn't written anything since.

After t
ucking the poem
into her bag, she flipped to the very beginning of the journal,
uncapped her favorite writing pen
,
and stared at the
blank page
.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there before she realized the other kids were shifting.
Then the bell rang to signal the end of class.

The end of one torture, the start of another
. She grimaced, thinking about going back to
the huge
house
her dad had rented for them
.
It was ten times bigger than their apartment in Manhattan, and they were one person
less. How did that make sense?

She packed slowly, waiting to leave after most of the class had filtered out. Slinging
her bag across her body, she stood up and hurried to the door.

"Rachel. Can I see you a second?"

Sighing heavily, she turned around and walked back to her teacher. "Yes, Mr. Baker?"

"You can call me Michael, you know."

"Yes, Mr. Baker." In
San Francisco
, apparently the teachers liked to pretend they were your friends. And they dressed
casually. If one of her teachers in New York had come to class wearing a tie-dye T-shirt
and flip-flops like
Michael,
he'd be run out of town.

"Fine. Have it your way, Ms. Rosenbaum." He rolled his eyes. "I noticed you didn't
turn in the letter I'd assigned yesterday."

Her turn to roll her eyes. They were reading
Pride and Prejudice,
so of course they had to write an old-fashioned letter. Typical. She'd read the book
last year and they'd had the same assignment.

"I know you only
transferred to Laurel Heights recently
, but an assignment is an assignment." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "What's your
excuse?"

"No excuse, Mr. Baker."
Just let me go.

"Hmm." He stared at her, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Then he said,
"Turn it in tomorrow, but you'll only get half credit."

"Thank you, Mr. Baker." She scurried out of the room before he could ask her anything
else.

The good thing about having to talk to him was that the hallways were pretty cleared
out
.
With any luck, her locker would be all clear, too.

But as she rounded the corner she deflated. No such luck. Madison and Addison were
hanging out there—or the
–sons of anarchy
, as she liked to call them. Privately, of course.

Great. Just what she needed to cap her day. She hurried toward her locker, because
based on her experience over the past few weeks, it was better to just get it over
with, like ripping a Band-Aid off.

They began to snicker the moment they saw her. Lowering her head, Rachel
fumbled as she opened her locker, her fingers clumsy.

Their snickering got louder.

She gritted her teeth and focused on the padlock. She should be used to their subtle
ridicule after so many weeks. She should just ignore it. It didn't matter.

But it did.

Her lock clicked open and she exhaled in the small victory.
She started to switch her books out, but one fell on the floor with a loud
bang
.

Rachel huffed, frustrated, bending over to pick it up.

Behind her,
one of the
girls
—she couldn't tell if it was Madison or Addison—said, "
I guess they wear white briefs in New York
."

"At nursery school," the other one said dryly.

Hating herself for blushing, she stood and pulled her pants up as surreptitiously
as she could. Her mom loved underwear and had drawers of it, in all sorts of colors.
She'd made a big deal about taking Rachel on a big lingerie shopping expedition, but
then she'd been killed, and updating underwear hadn't been a priority for Rachel.
She had no idea how to buy underwear anyway, and there was no way she was going to
ask her dad.

There was nothing wrong with her panties. They
were white and simple.
She wouldn't have even thought about it
if she hadn't seen the colorful g-strings Madison and Addison wore.

"Rachel, haven't you graduated from nursery school yet?" Madison said with fake sweetness
before they began laughing again.

She knew the tips of her ears were burning, but she focused on putting her things
away so she could leave. As she zipped up the last book in her bag, she closed her
locker and turned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Griffin Chase poster
Madison had taped in her locker.

Seeing it always made her crazy. Neither of the
–sons of anarchy
deserved to listen to the genius of Griffin Chase. Griffin Chase understood sadness
and loneliness in a way most people didn't. He understood love. He'd kept her company
when her mom had just died, and still now when her dad worked all night and left her
to roam the scary big house alone.

Her mom had been crazy for his music. When Rachel listened to his songs, she could
almost hear her mom singing along.

Hiking her bag onto her shoulder, she shot Madison a glare, walked down the hall,
and left the building.

She walked toward their house but she knew no one would be there. Her dad had been
coming home from work really late. What was the point of going there?

Instead, she headed to the shopping area in the middle of Laurel Heights. She'd seen
a lingerie shop there called Romantic Notions. Totally cheesy, but she had to start
somewhere.

Rachel hovered outside the door. What size was she? What if her boobs were too small
for a bra? How embarrassing would that be? She could already hear the
–sons
cackling at her lack of endowment.

What would she buy anyway? She had no clue.

If only her mom were here.

Ducking her head, she moved on before someone from school saw her lurking outside
the shop. She went across the street, drawn by the Wi-Fi sign in the window of the
coffee shop called Grounds for Thought.

She glanced in the window
, wondering if she should enter
. No classmates
at least
.

T
he blond woman at the counter looked up and waved
her in
.

Now she was going to look like a spaz if she didn't go in. Well, she wanted to check
her email anyway.
This was she could do it and still be around people, even if they were strangers.
Someone was better than no one.

Sighing, she pushed open the door.

The aroma of coffee hit her as soon as she stepped inside. Just like her mom's office.
She closed her eyes and breathed it in. She pictured playing on the floor between
the reams of manuscripts while her mom sipped from her "Best Mom in the World" cup
and edited one of her author's works. When she opened her eyes again, she almost expected
to be transported back.

The blonde smiled. "I
t smells delicious in here, doesn't it?
Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Um, no." She checked out the
glass case of pastries
and pulled out her wallet. "Maybe just a hot chocolate
and a Madeleine
."

"Got it." After the quick transaction, the woman smiled again. "Want to sit down?
I'll bring it over to you."

"Okay. Thank you." Rachel picked a table in the back corner and dragged her laptop
out of her bag. While she waited for it to boot up, she flipped open her phone and
checked for texts.

Nothing. She frowned at her cell. She'd only been gone
a
month but it was like her friends had forgotten her already. She couldn't remember
the last time they'd texted.

"Nice," she muttered darkly. "Well
,
screw them."

She closed her phone and shoved it back in her bag's pouch. She glared at the pouch.
If she let them go, she wouldn't have
anyone
left. So she took the phone back out, sent a quick text to her closest friend, Diana,
and tucked it away again.

"Here you go, honey." The woman from the counter set a large cup topped with fluffy
mounds of cream. "I hope you like whipped cream."

"I do. Thank you," she added politely.

The woman looked like she wanted to say something, but Rachel looked down and willed
her to go.

It worked. She felt a shift of air as the woman went back to work. Rachel waited another
minute to make sure and then opened her Gmail account.

No emails except for spam. Not shocking—her old friends always preferred texting.
She liked email more. Texting was such an imprecise method of communication. Her mom
and dad used to email her—all the time, even if they were in the other room and wanted
her get ready for bed.

Rachel hit "Compose Mail" and began typing.

———————————————————

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: New School

Hi Mom.

I have this stupid homework assignment where I have to write a letter to someone.
You're it.

Okay—it's not stupid. I know you're thinking how much I love writing letters. Remember
when you helped me find that penpal in Switzerland when I was nine? I picked her because
her name was Rachel too. She loved to ski, and her handwriting was as foreign as the
way she wrote.

I'm at another new school.
In San Francisco, but it might as well be Timbuktu
.
It was Dad's
brilliant idea.
I've been wondering if
he's in league with Satan.

I hate it here.
I hate this new school. I hate the people who giggle and run around like the world
is perfect and sunny
when it's dark and lonely and sad
.

I hate that you won't be answering this email.

———————————————————

"Hey."

Rachel slammed the laptop shut, her head jerking up.

A boy stood over her. He was in a couple of her classes—she'd noticed him
the first day,
when he walked in
to English
, surrounded by a bunch of his friends—so she guessed he was a sophomore too, even
though he was so tall. His brown hair dipped into his blue eyes, and he pushed it
back before sticking his hand in a jean pocket.

His mouth quirked. "Are you plotting some kind of crime? Going to rob this café of
its croissants?"

She wanted to say something clever, something like what she'd write, but her tongue
went all paralyzed in her mouth and it was all she could do just to mumble "No."

He stared at her, probably waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he said,
"I'm Aaron Hawke, and you're Rachel Rosenbaum."

"How—"

"I asked Michael, our English teacher." He smiled.

Her tongue twisted even more.

"Welcome to
Laurel Heights
High, Rachel Rosenbaum." He shifted his weight, and his hair flopped back onto his
forehead. "See you tomorrow in class."

"Uh—I..." She watched him stop at the counter and chat with the blond woman before
walking out.

Why had he come in here? She wanted to think he came in just to say hi to her—
he'd asked the teacher her name
—but she wasn't stupid enough to think she rated. He was probably just acting on a
dare or something.

Without thinking, Rachel pulled out her reddish-orange notebook and a pen. She opened
it and almost started writing. Habit. She couldn't remember ever
not
having a journal.