Thorn Abbey (12 page)

“That is
not
what I—and that’s
not
what he—”

“You’d better watch out for Franklin, though. I don’t think he’s gotten any in a really long time. Maybe ever.”

“Devon!”

She grins. “You’re so touchy! Seriously, I was kidding. So things are going well with Max?”

“I thought you didn’t want me hanging out with him,” I say suspiciously.

She shrugs. “Yeah, well, I still think you’re making a mistake. But if you insist on falling in love with Mr. Rich, Gorgeous, and Emotionally Unavailable . . . well, I’m here for you. You need all
the help you can get. You’re such a virgin, and I don’t just mean sexually.”

“
Excuse
me?” What is up with her tonight?

“God, it’s not even fun to tease you anymore. You’re too easy.”

“Whatever.” I slip off my shoes and lean back against the pillows. I read Max’s other texts:

Did you get my message?

I told Franklin to find you. I’ll call you tomorrow.

I exhale with relief. Max wasn’t trying to weasel out of our date. Not that I was actually worried. It’ll be so nice to spend some time with him tomorrow, even if it is just on the phone. Or if he’s feeling better, maybe I can convince him to meet up for coffee.

“Hey. Speaking of upgrades?” Devon says.

“What?”

“I notice you don’t have a laptop.”

“Yeah, my old one broke, and I haven’t had a chance to get a new one.”

Which is a lie. The only computer I’ve ever owned is an ancient Dell desktop that’s sitting in my room back home. It was a hand-me-down from Mom’s brother Bud and has faded Yankees and NASCAR stickers all over it. There was a porno on the hard drive when I first got it, and Mom yelled at him for about six months for that.

“I have an extra, if you want to borrow it,” Devon offers.

“You have an extra laptop?”

“Yeah. It’s buried in my closet somewhere. I can dig it out and charge it for you tonight.”

“Wow, thanks!” Maybe Devon likes me again.

“It was Becca’s, actually.”

I tense. “Oh.”

“Her parents didn’t want it. You might as well use it.”

I’m not sure I want Becca’s computer. That seems kind of creepy. “I don’t know. Maybe it has sentimental value for you,” I hedge.

“Don’t be an idiot. It’s just a piece of machinery. I only kept it as a backup in case mine was ever on the fritz.” Devon sighs and opens her Spanish textbook. “You are so clueless sometimes.”

“Sorry.” I flush. I seem to be saying that a lot tonight. How is it that
she’s
the bitchy one and I end up apologizing?

Still, Devon’s right. I shouldn’t make a big deal about Becca’s computer. There’s probably nothing personal stored on it, anyway. I’m sure her parents erased or transferred Becca’s files after she died.

My phone beeps.

“Popular girl,” Devon says sarcastically.

“Ha-ha.”

It’s a new text from an unfamiliar sender:

Lunch Thursday? K.

Killian?
How did he get my number?

“Hey, Devon?”

“Hmmm?”

“You know that guy Killian? The one who threw the party? What’s his story, anyway?”

“Why?”

“I met him tonight.”

Devon looks up from her textbook. “And what did you think?”

“He’s, um . . . nice. And cute, I guess.”

“If by ‘cute’ you mean Abercrombie model, then, yeah. It runs in the family.”

“Why? Who’s he related to?”

“Killian didn’t tell you?” she says, surprised. “He’s Becca’s cousin.”

O
N
T
UESDAY MORNING BEFORE BREAKFAST
, I
HEAD TO THE
third-floor Kerrith lounge to try out my new computer. Okay, so it’s not mine, exactly, but having a sleek pink laptop, even a borrowed one, makes me feel more like a legitimate Thorn Abbey student. Plus now I can cyber-stalk people in private. For one thing, I want to Google Killian, now that I know he’s Becca’s cousin. Maybe I can figure out what’s up between him and Max. And between him and Franklin, too, for that matter. It’s the only way I’ll get any information since I’m not allowed to talk to these people about each other.

The lounge is empty at this early hour. Devon and the girls have really spruced up the place. Before, it was a couple of old couches, a scratched-up coffee table, a small, boxy television
set, and a metal bookshelf full of board games. The couches have been replaced with cushy new ones, and there’s a small flat-screen TV.

A bunch of framed posters are propped up against the wall waiting to be hung. The top one is that famous painting of Shakespeare’s Ophelia, clutching a red poppy in her hand as she drowns. Which is a pretty weird choice, considering.

I lean back on one of the couches and boot up the laptop.

I flinch when the screen flashes to life.

The wallpaper is a photo of Max and Becca kissing on a dock. Behind them is a white sailboat. Its name is painted on the hull in shiny black letters:
Je reviens
.

I gnaw on my thumbnail furiously. I
so
don’t want to see this.

I start to change the wallpaper. But before I can go into the System Preferences section, I notice a single folder icon at the edge of the screen. RRW FILES.

RRW.
Rebecca Rose Winters. Her parents didn’t clean her computer after all. I start to click on the folder, then stop. Becca’s files are none of my business. Instead, I click on the Safari icon and Google
“Je reviens.”
It means “I return” in French.

Was that the boat Becca was sailing when she had her accident?
I wonder. I Google her name along with the name of the boat, but nothing comes up.

I take a deep breath. Time to move on. Dwelling on Becca and Max’s tragic love story will only put me in a foul mood.

Killian. Back to Killian.

I quickly pull up an article about Killian’s mother, Jean Montgomery, and her sister Jane Winters, Becca’s mother, co-chairing a fund-raiser for international adoption. There is another article about the two sisters that mentions how the Montgomery family splits their time between Philadelphia and London. That explains Killian’s British accent.

I continue clicking. I come across an article about a party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. There’s a photo of Killian and Becca.
God, her again.
They are standing arm in arm in front of a massive bouquet of white roses. She is in a pale blue evening gown; he is in a black tux; they look like something out of a
Vogue
photo shoot. They are hanging out with half a dozen other teens—also dressed up, also magazine beautiful.

I linger on the image of Becca. Why does she have to be so insanely attractive?

The familiar fog of jealousy has started to seep into my brain. I go back to the desktop, to the folder labeled RRW FILES. Taking a deep breath, I click on it. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.

It’s empty.

I gnaw at my thumbnail until it bleeds. The clock on the screen says that it’s 8:50 a.m. I need to stop what I’m doing if I’m going to make it to Philosophy on time.

But I can’t. Stop, that is.

I start jabbing random keys, as though I could actually make Becca’s files materialize out of thin air. Still nothing. This is nuts. What is wrong with me?

A drop of blood trickles from my thumb and smears on the touch pad. Enough. I slam the laptop shut and rise to my feet.

As I’m leaving the lounge, I hear the TV power on behind me. There is clapping and cheering, then static.

My heart pounding, I turn and scan the room slowly.

It’s empty. Of course it’s empty. I’m the only one here.

The static grows fainter as my ears start ringing with panic. I stride to the coffee table and reach for the remote as the room goes silent. The TV’s dark. It’s off.

A girl stares back at me from the screen, smirking.

It’s not me. It’s not my reflection.

I run.

“W
HAT’S WRONG?”
M
AX ASKS
. H
E REACHES ACROSS THE TABLE
and laces his fingers with mine.

“Nothing.” I force myself to smile and busy myself with my Coke. It’s Friday night, and Max and I are having dinner together in a cozy restaurant in town called Le Canard Danse. I think it has something to do with a dancing duck, based on the sign outside, not my nonexistent knowledge of French.

“Is it the food? I can get you something else.”

“No, this is great. I love beef
à la bour . . . bourgi
 . . . this dish.” I fork a chunk of meat and pop it into my mouth. It’s actually pretty delicious, even though it’s unpronounceable. Fortunately, Max ordered for both of us.

I’ve been looking forward to having some quiet time with
Max, especially with all the strange stuff that’s been happening lately. But I can’t shake this stupid, insecure mood I’m in. Ever since we walked into the restaurant, it was obvious that Max has been here before. With Becca? The maitre d’ welcomed him with a “nice to see you again, sir,” and he gave me this funny look, as though he expected to see someone else on Max’s arm: someone prettier, more glamorous, better dressed. Max knew what he wanted to order without even looking at the menu—steak and skinny little french fries, which he called “frits” or something—like he always orders the same thing.

But I can’t ask Max if he used to come here with Becca because he’d think I was one of those needy, clingy girls.

And
I can’t tell him that I had a brief psychotic breakdown, searching for Becca’s invisible files on her old laptop.

And I can’t tell him that I met Becca’s cousin Killian on Monday. Or that he invited me to lunch and that I had to make up an excuse to get out of it. Even though part of me was kind of tempted to go, if for no other reason than to get gossip about Max and Becca. And Franklin, too.

What are Max and I supposed to talk about when there are so many things I can’t tell him?

“So are your mom and dad coming next weekend?” Max asks me.

“What? What’s next weekend?”

“It’s Parents’ Weekend. You didn’t get the five million e-mails from Dean Sanchez?”

“Oh. Yeah, that.” I twist my napkin in my lap. How do I explain to a US senator’s grandson that my mom just started a second job, at Applebee’s, to make ends meet? Or that my dad isn’t exactly around? Great, more things I can’t tell him. “I don’t think they can make it. They have, uh, other commitments they can’t get out of. What about your parents?”

Max takes a sip of his water. “Yeah, they always show up for this stuff. They want to meet you.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

“I mentioned you to my mom when we were Skyping the other day. She said she and Dad want to have dinner with us. Franklin, too,” Max adds. “They like taking my friends out. I hope it’s okay.”

Maybe Devon was exaggerating. Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers don’t sound “intimidating.” They sound like nice, generous people. “Sure. That would be fun.”

“Great.” Max squeezes my hand. He seems sincerely happy that I’m meeting his parents. Which makes me happy. It’s like we’re a real couple.

“So what should I wear?” I ask him.

Max laughs. “What you always wear?”

“It’s your parents. I want to make a good first impression.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know.” I’ve never met a boy’s parents before, at least not the parents of a boy I was dating. Maybe Devon can give me some advice. Or better yet, let me borrow one of her outfits, as long as it’s not the Las Vegas call girl dress.

“Seriously, just wear that.” Max nods at my red sweater and denim skirt. “So did you finish your paper for Bags yet?”

Good.
New topic. Talking about my wardrobe is stressful. “Almost. I’m having total writer’s block with the ending.”

“Me too. With the beginning, middle,
and
ending. I’m going to have to spend most of this weekend working on it to finish for Monday.”

I guess that means I won’t see him again till then. I bite back my disappointment. “Oh.”

“I’ll get it done. And if I don’t . . . well, Bags is pretty cool about extensions.”

“My friend Kayleigh swears she has this cure for writer’s block,” I say, trying to be helpful. “An hour on a treadmill, followed by a peanut butter and pickle sandwich, followed by a really strong cup of coffee. I’ve tried it, but it just gives me a stomachache.”

Max smiles. “That would give me a stomachache, too.”

The waiter comes by to fill our water glasses. A few tables
over, this girl I recognize from Kerrith—Taylor, Tabor?—is having dinner with a boy from my bio class. She laughs at something he says and touches his arm. He grins with pleasure, like a happy, well-fed cat. How does she know how to do that? Is flirting a learnable skill? I have no idea how to talk to boys provocatively or make those small but meaningful gestures. Other girls make it look so easy, but it’s like a foreign language to me. I’m much more comfortable babbling about dumb stuff like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches or sitting in a contented mutual silence. It’s funny, but Max seems to appreciate that.

Or does he? Maybe he’s wondering why I’m not giggling and touching his arm. Why I’m not more charming and chatty, like Becca undoubtedly was, given that she was so popular and the president of everything. What did the two of them talk about? Probably smart, sophisticated things like politics and art and music. Or fabulous places they’d both been to.

Or maybe they just stared into each other’s eyes, whispering about what they would do later in bed . . . in my bed.

“Tess? Do you want to order some dessert?” Max asks me. The waiter hovers nearby with a couple of menus.

“Dessert? Sure.”

Maybe more calories will help me get over my crazy jealousy.