Authors: Kat Carlton
The town house was built in the 1920s, so it’s old-fashioned and smells . . . well, I’m not sure how to describe the smell, exactly. The scent of old wood and lemon furniture oil mingles with the smoke of almost a hundred years of fires in the hearth. The aromas of thousands of meals are trapped in the walls and ceilings; even fresh paint and wallpaper can’t disguise it.
There’s a musty, dusty odor from the oriental rugs, too—and the old paper and leather bindings of first edition books in Stefan’s collection.
I use my key to unlock the front door. It’s painted deep turquoise, same as the shutters. Nobody’s hanging out in the living room or kitchen, so we troop up the stairs. Charlie keeps going up to the third floor, but I stop on the second to stick my head into Abby’s room. “Hey, Abby-normal!” Charlie calls down the stairs, before I can even open my mouth.
She’s got her earbuds in, and her head is bobbing to the music on her iPhone. She’s painting her nails a pale mint green that looks gorgeous against her dark, olive skin. It would probably make me look yellow and ill.
“Hi, Abby,” I say, loud enough that she hears me.
“Hey!” She finishes painting her pinkie nail, then screws the cap onto the polish and sets it down. She somehow jerks out the earbuds without messing up the polish.
“How was your day?”
“Awesome!”
There’s a feverish glitter in Abby’s eyes, an almost manic excitement. “You won’t believe this . . . that girl LuLu, who hangs out with Cecily after class?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, she actually told me today that she likes my amethyst ring!”
I stare at her. So? The ring used to belong to Rita, and I’m the one who gave it to Abby because she loved it.
Abby gets off her bed and practically dances around
her room. I don’t get it. Why is LuLu’s compliment a cause for celebration?
“Don’t you understand? She was
nice
to me, Kari! Actually nice.”
“Great,” I say cautiously. Alert the press . . . one of Cecily’s sidekicks fell on her head and forgot to be bitchy.
Abby throws up her hands in exasperation. “I think she might want to be friends. With
me
.”
“O-kaaay.” I’m still not sure why this is so great.
“Hel-lo? An end to social Siberia? The dawn of a new age? These girls know hot guys!”
“Wait, I thought we were only talking about one girl?”
“LuLu is, like, Cecily’s best friend. And Cecily—you’re not going to believe this—asked me to grab her history book from school because she forgot it, so she’s going to swing by here later.” Abby is
glowing
. Because Roux used her for an errand.
Blek.
And wait . . . Cecily asked Abby to bring home her gym bag, too, just last week. What kind of game is she playing?
But Abby is oblivious to my disgust.
“And we are all invited to Lisette Brun’s opening at the end of the week,” she continues, without a breath. “The one at her aunt’s gallery, for her fashion illustrations? I did the flyers for her as a freebie, remember, because they’ll look good in my design portfolio.”
I nod and dredge up a smile for Abby, but I’m afraid that Lisette was only being polite, since Abby did the
flyers for her. I hope for her sake that’s not true, but I’m a realist. And I don’t want to see Abby get hurt. “Cool,” I manage. “What are you going to wear?”
I’m sidling toward the door. I just can’t share her enthusiasm for hanging out with Mean Girls.
“I don’t know,” Abby wails in tones of agony. “What do you think I should wear?”
“Uh. Ask Cecily. You know I’m sort of hopeless at girl stuff, Abs. I can’t even put on eyeliner or lipstick without looking like something Picasso painted during a bender.”
But Abby has run to her closet and is flipping through the hangers as if her life depended on it.
“Yeah,” I say. “So. I’ll, um, see you at dinner, okay?”
“Okay . . .” Flip, moan, flip, sigh.
I flee up the stairs to my room, which I haven’t bothered to decorate. The walls are white. No posters on them. There’s a plain navy quilt thrown over the twin bed. Rebecca offered to buy me something more girlie, but I wasn’t interested.
There’s a simple, dark wood dresser that might or might not be an antique. On top are the few pictures I’ve brought with me: one of me and Kale in a karate competition, one of me and Rita, and one of me and Charlie. None of my parents.
It’s been an insanely crappy day, and all I want is to hear a familiar voice from home. I flop on my bed, letting my hands and feet hang off the sides. I hear small footsteps clattering down the wooden stairs—Charlie’s. I close my eyes and deliberately bring Luke’s image to mind.
Luke, who kissed me like he meant it before Charlie and I got on the plane to Paris. Luke, who said he didn’t care how many miles would be between us. Luke, who would never choke me unconscious in front of an entire classroom of people.
I sit up. I’m going to call him. I just need to hear his voice. I grab my phone and walk to the window as I scroll down my contact list. Outside, in the backyard, I see Charlie on his knees in the frost-sprinkled dirt, collecting soil samples for some school science experiment.
I find Luke’s name, highlight it, and hit the call button as I turn away from the window. Miraculously, he answers on the second ring. “Hello?”
This is unheard of—we usually have to make appointments in advance to talk, especially with the six-hour time difference.
“Hi, Luke. It’s me.” I check my watch—it’s about noon in Washington, D.C.
“Kari! Hey . . . how are you?”
“Um. Good,” I lie. “Just busy. You?”
“Same. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. . . .” There’s a long, awkward pause. The thing is, Luke and I never really got a chance to hang out much before I left. We didn’t really go on any dates. So we’re together, but it’s a bit weird.
“How’s Rita? How’s Lacey? Seen Kale at all?”
“Yeah—they’re all good. Nothing really new.”
“Oh.” I stare at the floor and try to pick up a fallen pen with my toes. It doesn’t work.
He clears his throat. “Listen, Kari. I should probably tell you something. . . .”
“What?”
“But I don’t know how. I mean, I don’t want you to get any ideas or get upset or anything—”
“Why?” I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Well . . .”
“Jeez, Luke, just say it already.”
“Okay. Um, do you remember Tessa Wellington?”
“Of course. How could I not?” I ask drily. Tessa Wellington is gorgeous. She’s a stunning brunette with long, natural corkscrew curls that cascade past her shoulder blades. She has huge blue-green eyes and the most perfect lips I’ve ever seen. But the worst thing about Tessa is that you can’t even hate her, because she’s nice. And funny. And . . . oh, God, why is Luke asking me if I remember her?
“Well, she kind of invited me to the winter formal. And since you’re, uh, in Paris and all, I figured you wouldn’t mind. So I said yes.”
“You
what
?”
“I said yes.”
I’m struggling to bend my mind around what he’s telling me. Luke and Tessa? All dressed up, and dancing together, and maybe kissing each other in the heat of the moment? “You didn’t think I’d
mind
?” My voice rises at least an octave.
“Kari, she didn’t have a date, and I felt sorry for her.”
“You felt
sorry
? For
Tessa
?” My voice is now yet another octave higher. “That’s BS, Luke. Give me credit
for some intelligence. Tessa is smoking hot. You may want to
do
her, but you definitely don’t feel sorry for her!”
“Who said anything about doing anybody?” Luke’s tone goes hostile. “We’re just going to a freakin’ dance.”
“Right. You know, Luke,
we’ve
never gone to one together.”
“When would we have? You’re not here.”
“That’s not my fault!”
“Well, it’s not mine, either. It’s not like I asked you to move to Paris, Kari.”
“It’s not like anyone asked
me
if I wanted to move here!”
“Well, why are you there?”
“You know I can’t talk about it.”
Luke blows a raspberry into the phone. “Exactly. Because you’d have to kill me if you did, right? It’s Top Secret. Frankly, Kari, I get enough of that from my dad, and I don’t need it from my girlfriend, too. It gets really old.”
“You’re just going on the attack because you know you’re in the wrong, Luke.”
“I’m not attacking you, and I’m not in the wrong! I was only trying to be nice to the girl.”
“Right. Just how nice are you planning to be?”
“I resent the implications of that.”
“Yeah? Well, I resent the fact that you’re going out with another girl, Luke. I thought you and I were
together
. As in,
exclusive.
As in,
not taking other people to formals
!”
“You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not! How would you feel if I told you I was going to some fancy thing with—with—” I search blindly for a name. “With Evan Kincaid?”
There’s a long pause. When he finally answers, his tone is arctic. “You’ve always liked him. Wanna date him? Then go for it.”
“I have not always liked him! I can’t stand him. I just used his name as an example.”
“Did you, now. Interesting. You know what, Kari, I’m tired of this conversation.”
“Oh, my God. You don’t
get
to be tired of the conversation—you started this fight! It’s your fault.”
“Yeah, whatever. I gotta go.”
“You don’t want to talk to me? Fine. You’re tired of dating someone who lives in Paris? Fine. If you’re so unhappy with me—and since you’re going out with other girls anyway—then maybe we should just end it between us!”
And with that insanely stupid, emotional statement, I hang up on Luke.
Oh. My. God.
I didn’t really mean to do it. It’s like my brain watched in horror as my finger—without permission—punched the end button.
I broke up with Luke Carson.
And right before Christmas.
I am truly the most miserable person on the planet.
After this awful, beyond-sucky, catastrophic day, I can’t even cry. Dry sobs emerge from my throat, but
my tears have already been spent or fought off or . . . I don’t know. I feel only a yawning emptiness.
I roll over on my bed and mash my face into the pillow. What idiot breaks up with Luke Carson?!
Me.
Here’s the thing—I can’t even stay in my room for a big sulk or soul-searching session, because it’s my turn to make dinner tonight. Agent Morrow doesn’t cook, though she can probably kill a man with a pair of salad tongs.
Rebecca Morrow is one of the top dogs—if not THE top dog—at Interpol, so even if she can probably shoot an acorn off a sparrow’s head at 800 yards, she’s not the type to make muffins from scratch. And Stefan, her Greek linguistics professor husband, can translate a recipe from just about any language in the world but is pretty much barred from the kitchen for his own protection. He once injured himself while attempting to make coffee.
This means that Abby, Evan, and I rotate responsibility for grocery shopping, cooking, and laundry. We’re all
supposed to pitch in and clean, not that this happens with any regularity.
Tonight I’m supposed to make pasta with a white sauce and throw together a salad. I start with the salad because I’m in the mood to use a knife. I guillotine a head of lettuce and then rip the rest of it apart with my bare hands. . . .
As I’m rinsing some tomatoes and a cucumber, I glance through the window to the backyard and realize that Charlie’s no longer out there. Maybe he’s gone around to the front. I return to my gloomy thoughts and self-recriminations while I slice up the vegetables and toss everything into a bowl.
Then I wipe my hands on a dish towel and go to find my little brother. I haven’t heard him come back into the house, and it shouldn’t be taking him this long to get a few soil samples, even if the ground is hard and partially frozen. I open the front door and stick my head out, but there’s no sign of him. “Charlie!” I call.
No answer.
“Chaaaarliiiiiie!”
Nothing.
Frowning, I trudge around to the left side of the house, then the right. But Charlie is nowhere in sight. In the backyard an ugly garden gnome strung with tinsel, a stone table, and two benches greet me. I yell for my brother yet again. Where could he have gone?
I circle around to the front yard and look down the street to see if he’s talking with a neighbor or playing with someone’s dog or cat. No Charlie.
At this point, I’m getting a little freaked out. My brother isn’t the type to wander off alone—he’s more likely to lose himself in a book or on an iPad. I cross the street to knock on Madame Pierre’s door and ask in my lousy French if she’s seen Charlie.
“Non,”
she says, shaking her gray-coiffed head. Have I looked around the corner, in the little park? He may be there playing on the swings.
After thanking her I go check, but he’s not there, either.
Back at the town house, I ask Abby if she’s seen Charlie. She hasn’t. I go upstairs to our rooms, and even into Evan’s room, yelling his name and peering under the beds in case he’s playing some silly game—but instinct tells me he’s not.
I pace back and forth in the kitchen. Where could Charlie have gone? A sick tide of fear washes over me. Has something happened to him?
Whom can I call? Agent Morrow is out of town for a few days. Stefan is in Greece. I reach for the house phone to call Evan, the only other person I can think of, but it rings before I can pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Karina Andrews?” The voice is heavily distorted, probably by some kind of machine. I can’t tell if it’s male, female, animal, or vegetable.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“We have your brother.”
My heart stops. Then it turns over. Then it tries to gallop out of my chest.
“Karina?”
“Wh-why?” I whisper hoarsely. “Oh, my God. Don’t hurt him!”
“Whether we hurt him or not,” says the disembodied voice, “depends entirely upon you.”