Six Months Later (16 page)

She pulls free from my grip. “You’re right.”

“Then I’ll prove it to you. And I’ll start with Julien.”

It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m hiding in my kitchen using the Internet on my dad’s cell phone. It’s not my finest moment. But I’m grounded from everything except going to school and using the bathroom, so I don’t have much of a choice—unless I want to risk the possibility that someone is tracking my phone or laptop and will see what I’m up to, which I seriously don’t. Yeah, I am totally that paranoid now. And determined, thanks to Maggie’s little challenge on the stairwell.

Sadly, Julien’s cyber trail is pure as driven snow. There are dozens of news clips from her life in Ridgeview. Her volunteer work at the senior center and a bunch of stuff on different academic awards she’s won over the years, but, funny enough, not a single thing from San Francisco. It’s like she fell headfirst into the San Andreas Fault.

My own phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it up, surprised to see Maggie’s number and a text message.

You asleep?

Nope. I’m researching.

A second passes, and my cell phone rings. I answer it with a laugh.

“Me too,” Maggie says.

I grin and wait her out. She wouldn’t be calling if she wasn’t helping.

“I found an address for the M-Millers.”

“The PO box, right?”

“No, a real one. And guess what? It’s not in San Francisco. It’s in San Diego. I mean, it could be someone else, b-but with the initials
I
and
Q
?”

Iona and Quentin. Miller is a common enough name, so I never even thought to try. Maggie gives me the address and the name of the nearest high school. I shake my head, amazed.

“I don’t know how you found it, but you’re a genius. I’ve got to call Adam.”

Maggie takes a breath on the other end of the line. I hesitate, frowning. “What’s the sudden silence? You want to say something, don’t you?” I ask.

“No. Yeah. M-maybe.”

I sigh, dropping onto one of the kitchen stools. “So what’s stopping you?”

“Nothing. I j-just think you should be careful.”

“Careful with Adam.”

Her silence confirms it. I roll my eyes. “You know, you’re starting to sound like my mother. The guy isn’t Hannibal Lecter, okay? I mean, maybe he’s had some trouble—”

“It’s pretty big t-trouble,” Maggie says, interrupting me. “Has he ever talked t-to you about it?”

“No. But I’ve never asked. So what if he made some mistakes? Haven’t we all?”

Maggie’s quiet for a moment, and I can tell she’s treading carefully. “Just ask him, all right?”

“Will do.”

“I need to g-get some sleep.”

“Mags, wait,” I say, before she can hang up.

“What?”

“Thank you. It’s been…really good to talk to you.”

She pauses before she hangs up. I know she’s not ready to say the same. But she’s thinking about it, and that’s something.

I put down my phone and stare at the browser on my dad’s phone, wondering about Adam’s so-called crimes. But juvenile records aren’t public record.

He’s been nothing but good to me. Good and honest and there. I don’t have a single reason not to trust him.

Except for Maggie’s advice.

I chew on my bottom lip and think long and hard about calling him. I could just ask. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it?

In the end, I snap my dad’s phone back on the charger on my way up to bed.

***

Adam finds me in the lunch line again. He must actually be hungry today because he grabs an orange and a club sandwich and sets them on my tray. “Exactly how long are you grounded?” he starts.

“Until my thirtieth birthday,” I say. “You gathering more food to dump into a trash can?”

“Not this time. I’ve got a hot date.”

I take a granola bar, feigning disinterest. “In the Ridgeview High cafeteria. You’re secretly a player, aren’t you?”

“I just ooze cool,” he says, handing over another ten-dollar bill to pay for our lunches.

I open my mouth because I don’t need him to do this. I’ve seen where he lives. And somehow I doubt working as a part-time janitor has him rolling in extra cash.

“It should be my treat this time,” I say.

His face pinches a little, but he covers it with a smile. “Don’t judge a book by its shit-hole apartment.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He shrugs it off, but I feel like a schmuck. I nudge him with my elbow, looking up at him. “Am I really in the doghouse already?”

“Nah,” he says. “Unless of course, you’re going to try to get out of our date.”

“No chance.”

“Then your chariot awaits,” he says. He puts the tray in the return area and tucks the sandwich and orange into his coat pockets.

I follow suit, grateful I went with granola and yogurt instead of the massive salad I was eyeing.

Then he slips out of the cafeteria without looking to see if I’ll follow. We’re allowed off campus for lunch, so I don’t get his secrecy. But I follow him anyway, slipping through the parking lot until we’re hunkered down in the front seat of his old Camaro.

We eat lunch with the radio playing as softly as the snow that’s drifting down around the car. After I push my empty granola wrapper into my yogurt cup, Adam pulls my feet into his lap and starts fiddling with the laces on my shoes.

I have no idea how that’s sending goose bumps up my legs, but it is.

“Did you get your pre-calc review back?” I ask, trying to act casual as I lean against the passenger window.

He shrugs. “Yeah. I did all right. You?”

“A minus. And I hate to break it to you, but you don’t really understand the meaning of
all
right
.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope.
All
right
indicates an average score, and you don’t do average
anything
.”

His hands are climbing up to my ankles now. And I don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at me from under those dark lashes or some secret drug coming out of his fingertips, but he’s making me dizzy.

“I’m average at plenty of things.”

“Oh, please,” I say, pulling my feet off his lap with a smirk. “Let me guess. You probably mean you got like a ninety-seven.”

“Ninety-six,” he corrects me.

I gasp, hand at my throat as I scoot closer on my knees. “You
are
slipping.”

“I must be distracted,” he says.

He grabs my legs, right under my knees, and pulls me toward him on the bench seat. And then his lips are trailing along my jaw and I couldn’t spell
distracted
if someone paid me it feels so good. We kiss until we’re running dangerously close to second base during school hours. We ease up with a glance at the clock on his dashboard and the school in the distance.

“We’re awfully good at this for being so new at it,” I say, scooting back to my own seat.

“You’re only surprised because you can’t remember how we looked at each other for the last several months.”

I make a face at my wild reflection in the mirror, trying to finger comb my hair.

“It’s no use,” he says. “You’re going to look hot no matter what.”

“I do rock the kissed-senseless look,” I say. “So there were heated looks between us, huh?”

“Left scorch marks on our flash cards.”

“So tell me already. When did this all start?”

He thumbs his chin, looking pensive. “October. Mrs. Malley’s class.”

I feel my face scrunch in confusion. “Mrs. Malley? She was my fourth-grade teacher.”

“
Our
fourth-grade teacher,” he says.

I shake my head, laughing. I barely remember him being in my class. He was just a dark-haired boy, always carrying a skateboard and lost in a series of faded T-shirts. Adam tucks some of my hair behind my ear and gives me a little smile that promises more to the story.

“You punched Ryan McCort on the playground. Do you remember?”

I nod. I can still practically
feel
that moment; the sharp, shocking pain in my knuckles and the sickening feeling that went through me when Ryan’s nose spurted blood. I can still hear Ryan mocking Maggie.
“M-m-miss m-m-me, M-m-maggie?”
He’d laughed. Mags cried. I punched.

“He had it coming,” I say.

Adam nods. “He did. Hell, Ryan usually has something coming, but that day he picked on the wrong girl.”

“It’s a simple speech disfluency. She’s not stupid,” I say, unable to shake the defensive edge in my voice.

“You don’t have to tell me. Maggie stomped my ass in AP English last year,” he says, smiling wider. “But who knew you’d lay him out next to the swing set. He had six inches and forty pounds on you, easy.”

“I guess I’ve always been a fan of justice.”

“I guess I’ve always been a fan of you,” he says.

And there isn’t a thing I can say to that. Not a single thing. I brace my hands on his shoulders and lean in until our foreheads are together.

“Are you honestly telling me you’ve had a crush on me since the fourth grade?”

“Scout’s honor.”

I laugh. “You were never a Boy Scout.”

He laughs back, and I kiss away any reply he might be tempted to give. And any questions I ever meant to ask.

***

When I arrive home from school, the house is empty. Not surprising. Mom works a lot of overtime for Christmas money and it’s November. She’s got the Thanksgiving grocery list on the fridge and everything.

I’m halfway through a slice of Colby jack when I see Mom’s note on the table. My name flows across the top in her pretty, slanting hand.

Chloe,

I thought you should see this. This isn't a judgment. It's information. I know you'll make the right choice.

Behind the note is a copy of a newspaper clipping. I check the date in the corner. Two years ago. The crime beat.

I feel a rush of rage so strong I’m surprised I don’t crumple the soda can in my hand. But as much as I hate it, it’s not just anger running through me. It’s curiosity too. I want to know.

I scan the copy, spotting a penned circle around one section.

I close my eyes and let out a long sigh. I think about Adam in the car today, his long fingers on my shoelaces, his smile so easy and comfortable I could curl up in it for a nap. I don’t want to give that up.

But I don’t want to be in the dark. Not ever again.

I square my shoulders and start reading.

Youth
injured
while
breaking
into
a
local
pharmacy. The perpetrator escaped on foot but was arrested later. Police confirm that the investigation is still ongoing, but the pharmacy owner states that stolen medications have yet to be recovered.

I set the paper down, placing my note on top. I turn it just as it was turned before, as if I never read it. As if I never even saw it lying here.

But I did see it. And I remember the rumors anyway. The halls were wild with crazy talk about Adam robbing a bank or killing a guy or whatever, but I never thought anything of it. I mean, I knew he got arrested, but he was back in school pretty fast, so how bad could it be? I always figured it was a fistfight. Or maybe street racing. The idea of breaking and entering never crossed my mind.

And he didn’t rob a bank. He robbed a pharmacy. For
drugs
.

I push out mental images of him counting out pills or—God—reeling out of his mind on some nameless high. It doesn’t feel possible.

I back out of the kitchen, wishing I’d never come in here, wishing I could turn back time and somehow unsee what I just read.

But I can’t.

I switch the phone to my other ear, sure I couldn’t have heard what I thought I heard. “Wait a minute, what?”

“I want to plan a reconciliation trip,” Maggie says. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes,” I say, because I am trying to listen. I can’t stop thinking about Adam. “I’m just confused.”

She sighs. “I d-don’t still hate you, okay? B-but I’m not ready to go sing ‘Kumbaya’ or whatever either.”

I drop my chin into my hand, staring blankly out my window. “All right, then why are you proposing I go with you to California?”

“Okay, you
weren’t
listening,” she says. “My mom was invited to be a part of some big d-deal Thanksgiving dinner in L.A.—she’s doing all the breads.”

“Right,” I say.

“And we could go with her t-to reconcile our friendship or whatever.”

“But you said you didn’t—”

“We’d be going to find Julien, Chloe. God, are you sleepwalking?”

I wish. I wish I could go to sleep right this second and not wake up until my entire universe is normal again. Though at this point, what the hell would be normal?

“I’m sorry, I’m listening. Just tell me the plan again.”

“We go with my mom to L.A. We convince her t-to let us take a day trip to San Diego to rekindle our friendship.”

“No way they’ll let us drive around California unsupervised. My parents watch way too many documentaries for that crap.”

“There’s a train. What’s more wholesome and trustworthy than Amtrak?”

I bite my lip, staring at the dust on my windowsill.

“I’ll give it a try,” I say, “but I’m grounded for the rest of my life right now.”

“I think you should let me try. I’ve already g-got my mom convinced.”

It’s not a bad idea. My mom has always loved Mags. “You want to stop by today?”

“We’re going out for lunch. We’ll come b-by after.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll see you then.”

I change my outfit four times and my hair twice while I’m waiting. I have to find the perfect mix of happy, normal teenager and contrite, refocused daughter. Lip gloss? Yes. Mascara? No. I make a succession of similar choices until I’m pretty sure I look right.

Now comes the hard part. I head outside and slip down the hallway, careful not to bump the laundry chute or step on the creaky part of the floor. I hover at the top of the stairs, listening for my parents.

I hear the TV, but it’s down too low to be of any serious interest. I head down the stairs and find them in the kitchen, Dad leaned into the fridge and Mom peeling carrots at the sink.

“Are we eating at home tonight?” I ask.

Mom gives me a passing smile. “I thought I’d do vegetable soup. It feels like a soup kind of day.”

Feels kind of like a plotting and scheming day to me, but I’ll keep that to myself.

I look through the window above the sink where wind is sending fallen leaves skittering against our fence. And of course, the leaves make me think of Adam, which makes my head hurt.

“I could peel potatoes if you want,” I say.

Mom looks up, clearly surprised. Dad closes the fridge and pops the tab off a Samuel Adams. “I think that’s a terrific idea.”

“Of course you do,” Mom says, arching a brow at him. “It was your job until she showed up.”

I’ve got the potatoes peeled and cubed when I hear the doorbell. It takes crazy willpower to stay at the table—to pretend I’m still reading the magazine I’ve been blindly thumbing through.

Mom looks up from the stove with a frown. “Who could that be?”

I just shrug, turning the page without looking up. In the living room, I hear my dad’s jolly greeting. And then I hear Mrs. Campbell. And Maggie.

“Well, that sounds like—”

“Virginia,” Dad says. “Why don’t you and Chloe come out here for a minute?”

I stand up, exchanging a clueless look with my mom that she swallows hook, line, and sinker. She wipes her hands on a dish towel, and I follow her out of the kitchen, praying my knees will stay strong and that I will not start trembling like the nervous wreck I am.

And I shouldn’t be nervous. This is just Maggie.

Maggie here to hatch the biggest plot we’ve ever dreamed up, that is.

Mom gasps, and I force surprise onto my face.

“Mrs. Campbell,” I say, and then, more softly, “Maggie.”

Maggie looks up at me, eyes and nose red. Has she been crying? What happened? She wasn’t crying on the phone. Did her mom figure her out? Oh God, she figured it out, and I am about to be busted. Again.

I’m going to be grounded until I have grandchildren.

Maggie hesitates for a second and then rushes across the room. I feel her arms around me and hear her half sob into my hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I don’t know if it’s part of the plan. I don’t know why she’d go to these lengths to be convincing, but I don’t care. When I hug her back, I don’t have to force my own tears to come. They just do.

***

Maggie and I are side by side at the top of the stairs. She hasn’t said a thing about the crying, and I haven’t asked. I’m not sure I want to know. Her reasons might not be as sweet as the ones I’ve dreamed up.

It’s like we’ve regressed to our twelve-year-old selves, spying on the grown-ups from the top of the stairs. A plate of gingersnaps sits between us, and occasionally one of us will grab one and take a nibble. Mostly, though, we listen.

Without a whole lot of success, because all three parental units are obnoxiously staying put in the kitchen, where it’s only possible to hear every third or fourth word.

“Do you have any idea what they’re saying?” I ask in a whisper.

Maggie holds up a hand to quiet me. She’s always had the better hearing of the two of us. She says it’s a side effect of her crap vision. There’s been no celebration in our history that has yet to live up to The Day Maggie Got Contacts.

I eat another gingersnap and watch her brow furrow as she listens hard. I’m only hearing bits and pieces. “So much pressure” and “terrible seeing them apart” and things like that.

Then she looks at me, clearly shocked. “I think it’s working.”

“You’re kidding.”

Just then, I hear chairs and feet in the kitchen. We scuttle back to my bedroom in record time.

Barely a minute passes before we hear the call.

“Girls, can you come down here for a minute?”

My mother. She sounds happy. Which means…we won. Maggie and I exchange a smirk, waiting just long enough before we open the door to not be completely obvious.

Maggie goes ahead of me, moving down the stairs with a bounce in her step that I try to mirror in my own.

“You know holidays are a special time,” my mother starts. “Under normal circumstances, I’d want you home with us, Chloe.”

My dad huffs and cuts in. “Oh, stop torturing them. You’re going.”

My mother looks irritated briefly, but her anger relents when Dad kisses the top of her head. Maggie leaps up with a squeal, and we hug and dance around in circles like we’re ten years old and we’ve just been given concert tickets to see the biggest boy band around.

It’s almost like we aren’t faking it at all.

“But you’d better not come back here without one of those snow globe things or a keychain or something,” Dad says.

“Thank you, Dad,” I say, kissing his cheek. And then I turn to my mother and hug her tight. “Thank you.”

Mom hugs me back, and I feel the strength in her hands as much as I hear the sniffle in her voice. “Don’t thank me. It’s Mrs. Campbell who agreed to take on the two of you. I hope you’ll make sure she won’t regret her generosity.”

“She’s never been a bit of trouble,” Mrs. Campbell says. She slings an arm around my shoulder, and I smell yeast and cinnamon and of course that makes me think of Adam.

How am I going to explain this to him?

“Chloe?” Mrs. Campbell asks. “Is that okay?”

Crap, I wasn’t paying attention. I shake my head to clear the thoughts and smile widely. “Yeah, it’s great.”

Maggie knows me better and frowns. “So we’ll pick you up tomorrow right after school.”

“That’s what I just said,” her mom says, chuckling.

“Tomorrow’s great. I guess I’d better go start thinking about what to pack.”

We exchange our good-byes and I head upstairs to my room. After ten minutes pulling out a few outfits, I can’t resist any longer.

I have to at least tell him I’m leaving.

Adam answers on the third ring, and I can hear music in the background. “Are you finally not grounded?”

“Sadly, I think that sentence has a couple more years on it,” I say. “But I do have some good news.”

“What’s that?”

“Maggie and I sort of mended the fences or whatever.”

“Hell of a feat when you can’t even leave the house,” he says. I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, Mom is fine with Maggie coming by.”

I wince as the silence on the other end of the line stretches. Damn it. That came out completely wrong.

“I’ll take it your mom disapproves of the company you were keeping as much as the lie.”

I sigh, sinking onto the foot of my bed beside a pile of tank tops. “She’s upset that I lied, but yeah, she’s concerned about you too.”

“But not about Blake,” he guesses, his laugh so low and bitter I feel my stomach clench at the sound. “That’s rich.”

“Look, she doesn’t know you, okay?”

“But she wasn’t exactly ready to give me the benefit of the doubt, was she?”

“It’s not—” I cut myself off and press my free hand to my forehead. “My mom works at the hospital. She was on shift the night you hurt your arm.”

Silence greets me on the other end of the line. It stretches out long enough for me to wonder if the call dropped or if maybe he’s not planning on responding. And then he does.

“So I suppose she gave you the whole story then.”

“She told me what she knows of it. Or what she
thinks
she knows. She’s just worried, Adam. All moms worry.”

He laughs, and it’s so caustic, I’m surprised my ear doesn’t sting. “No, Chloe, not all moms worry. So now you’re worried too, right?”

“I’m not.”

“Then why is this bothering you, because it obviously is?”

“Look, just because I pulled a damn fire alarm and snuck around a construction site doesn’t mean I’m cool with
felony
, okay?”

A beat passes, and I imagine my words spraying at him like bullets.

When he speaks, he’s quieter. “You think I stole drugs. That I was dealing maybe.”

“You broke into a pharmacy. Am I supposed to think you did it for the free measuring spoons?”

“Why I did it doesn’t really matter to you, does it, Chloe?” he says, and I hear him scoff.

The thing is, it does matter, and I want to tell him, but I’m somehow frozen. All I can think of is that newspaper article and sitting my parents down to explain why dating a thief is a smart choice. And I can’t. I just can’t imagine it.

Not any more than I can imagine Adam breaking into a pharmacy.

“I think your silence is a pretty good answer,” he says.

The line goes dead while my mouth is still opening to speak.

My throat is hot and swollen, and my eyes itch like crazy. I swipe at the tears that find their way out with the heel of my palm and tell myself that I will figure this out. I will calm down and call him back and everything will be fine.

Except that deep down inside, there’s a scared part of me that doesn’t think it will.