TMI
Authors: Patty Blount
Copyright © 2013 by Patty Blount
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover images © Thinkstock/Getty Images, Marie-Reine Mattera/Getty Images
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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For my boys, Chris, Rob, and Fred,
who inspire me as much as they confound me,
who tease, support, sustain, and love me,
always.
Chapter 1Meg
The eyes had no soul.
Megan Farrell flung down her brush with a curse. The eyes refused to shine for her. No matter how she sketched them, no matter what colors she used to fill them, they sat on her canvas, dull. Dead. She couldn't even get the color right and probably never would, not unless she asked Chase Gallagher to sit for her, and she could never do that.
Chase Gallagher wasn't part of her plan.
She stretched, cracking her neck, and stared out her window into the backyard that butted against hers. He was out there now, running around with his little brothers, trying to fix the snowman they'd built during a late-season snowstorm that hit Long Island three days earlier. Temperatures had risen to the fifties since then, but Chase would never tell the boys Frosty couldn't be saved. The Gallagher brothers scooped up every inch of snow that hadn't melted and brought it to Chase, who had an unlimited supply of patience from what Meg could see. Even through the closed window, she could hear the boys' belly laughs and screeches of pure glee. “My turn, Chase! My turn!” And Chase would pick up another brother and lift him high enough to pat handfuls of snow into place. Suddenly, he lifted his head and stared right at her.
She jumped back, her face on fire. Not smart, letting him catch her with her face pressed to her window.
She turned back to her canvas, and with a charcoal pencil, she crossed out the color mix she'd noted. It was too dark out to fix it now. The master bedroom was already striped in shadows. After her father died, her mother had refused to sleep here, so Meg moved in, loving that she didn't need to “Clean up that mess!” when she was done painting. The room was large enough for art supplies
and
her stuff, not that she had much. Just a twin bed shoved against one wall, a garage sale bookcase and desk for homework, an ancient laptop whose E button had long since disappeared, and a meager wardrobe that hardly filled one rod in the walk-in closet otherwise devoted to art supplies.
The way the light shining through the huge palladium window illuminated the paintings on her easel, and the paint splatters on the wood floor made her feel like a real artist in a studio.
Usually.
Today, it only emphasized her failures.
On stiff legs, she took her brushes and palette knife to the bathroom that adjoined the bedroom to wash them. A drop of crimson paint hit the tile floor and spread, seeping into the grout.
Her throat tightened. Her breaths got shallow. Her stomach pitched and rolled, and when her legs buckled, she slid to the floor in a boneless heap, whimpering the way she had all those years ago when it had been blood on the floor instead of paint. He'd been gone for ten years now, but she could still hear his voice.
“The future, Megan!” he'd always said. “Focus on the future. Set goals and don't let anything or anyone ever make you lose focus.” Her father's plan. But he'd failed. So now it was hersâa promise she had to keep.
Minutes passed, or maybe they were hours. She sat on the hard floor until she was able to pull herself together. How long it had taken this time, she wasn't sure. She grabbed a towel and rubbed furiously at the spot on the floor until it squeaked. Then she pulled out the tie that held her hair back in a messy knot, wincing when a few rooted strands came away with it. She dragged herself to her feet and ran the shower.
Piece by piece, she shed her paint-spattered clothes. She stood under the stream of water as hot as she could take it. She really wished hot water could melt away all the anxiety that seemed to cover her like a thick coat of ice. The panic attack, the SAT scores that still hadn't arrived, the job she was about to lose when the movie theater closed its doors in a few weeks, and the billsâthe endless pile of bills her mom cried over when she thought Meg was asleep. When the water went cold, she stepped out, wrapped herself in a towel, and stood in front of the mirror, scowling at the look in her eyes.
Bailey would notice.
She always did, and Megan didn't want to talk about it. It was old news.
She tugged on jeans and a T-shirt, detangled her hair, and coiled it in another elastic. Downstairs, she foraged for dinner but found only a brown banana and the heels of a loaf of bread. Mom still hadn't been grocery shopping. She slammed the refrigerator door, hoping there was enough money in her wallet to spring for a fast-food meal, and grabbed her cell to tap out a message to her best friend.
Meg:
Outta food again. Going to Main St. Wanna go?
Bailey would say sure. They never discussed it, but Bailey knew there wasn't always enough money for groceries, so she often came over with leftovers that she'd put on the top shelf in Meg's empty refrigerator without a word. That was one of the things Meg loved about Baileyâshe knew when it was time to talk and when it wasn't.
Meg grabbed her keys and the art show flyer she wanted to show Bailey. Outside in the cold March air, she drew her hood up over her wet hair and rubbed her knees together to keep warm.
After about five minutes, her cell buzzed.
Bailey:
Not hungry. CU tom. XOXO
Megan's forehead puckered. Bailey always walked with her to Main Streetâ¦or sometimes drove since Bailey was the proud owner of a driver's license, even when she wasn't hungry. Said it was a great excuse to escape her mother. Meg thought for a minute and typed back.
Meg:
What's wrong?
There was no reply, which was even stranger than the first message. Bailey always had to have the last word. It was a thing with her. Meg started the half-mile walk north, trying not to obsess. She had her learner's permit, but she had never been behind the wheel of car.
Pauline Farrell didn't have the time or money for lessons. Meg had started a driver's license fund, setting aside change from her part-time job for lessons or maybe the driver's education class her school offered. She'd need a license to find jobs, and she'd need jobs to be independent. But first, she needed money to earn the license.
At a table in the corner, she sighed and picked at her meal. French fries and chicken nuggets kind of sucked when you didn't have anyone to share them with. She unfolded the flyer that had shown up in today's mail and studied it again. Bailey hated museums, and Meg knew convincing her to go to Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art wasn't going to be easy. She'd go. Of course she'd go. But first, Meg would have to agree to a day of shoppingâone of Bailey's favorite sportsâand maybe do some extra character sketches for the video game Bailey was trying to develop. But Bailey's radio silence had her considering even higher stakes.
Maybe makeovers.
She ate her last fry and shuddered. For Bailey, she'd do it.
She checked her phone. Still no reply from Bailey. Maybe she'd had another fight with her mom. Meg emptied her tray and started the long walk home. Or maybe it was Simon, Bailey's latest boyfriend. Meg rolled her eyes. What a jerk.
By the time Meg got home and still hadn't heard from Bailey, panic had set in. She logged onto her computer, fired off a quick email, but it too was ignored. The next morning at the bus stop, Meg took one look at Bailey's flat curls, bare-naked face, and sparkless demeanor, and her panic jolted straight to redline levels. Bailey Grant did not leave the house without her makeup coordinated to her outfit and her hair perfectly coiffed.
“What's-wrong-did-somebody-die-oh-God-are-your-grandparents-okay?”
Bailey glanced up, her blue eyes dull, and shrugged. “Everyone's fine. Nobody died. Nothing's wrong.” Her eyes narrowed when she got a look at Meg. “What's wrong with you? You look terrible.”
Knew
it.
Megan pressed her lips into a line and shook her head. “The usual.”
Bailey nodded, understanding. “Anxiety attack again?”
“Anxiety attack?”
The deep voice had them both spinning around. Chase Gallagher frowned down at Meg, worry filling brilliant eyes that defied her every attempt to render on canvas. Greens, golds, flecks of browns and grays, his eyes were a source of endless fascinationâand frustrationâfor her. Before she could stop it, her face split into the stupid smile her lips somehow reserved just for Chase.
Damn
it.
She needed a reason, an excuse, an explanation, something that could explain the grin, something likeâ
A book accidentally-on-purpose falling on Chase's foot. “Oh! Sorry, Chase,” Bailey sang.
That
might
work
, Meg sighed in relief. While Chase bent down to pick up the book, Meg gave Bailey a barely perceptible nod of thanks, which Bailey answered with a barely perceptible nod of her own. Chase frowned at Bailey and then at Meg. She knew he wasn't going to let it go. Luckily, so did Bailey. She quickly handed Meg something wrapped in a napkin just as Chase opened his mouth. “Here you go, Meg. Strawberry.” Bailey handed her a Pop-Tart. She shoved half of it in her mouth before Chase could interrogate her.
Meg's eyes slipped closed. It was still warm.
“So, Chase, why are you riding the bus with the rest of the terminally uncool?” Bailey asked while Meg chewed.
“Lacrosse practice today. My mother needs the car. My brothers have a birthday party, music lesson, and a doctor's appointment after school today. Blah, blah, blah.” He rolled his eyes as he ticked the events off his fingers, and Meg's heart gave a little pang. She thought it would be cool to have a big family like Chase's.
The bus arrived and everyone piled inside. Bailey slid toward a window seat, and Meg took the aisle seat beside her, leaving Chase on his own. He grinned and held up a hand. “Later.”
Meg shut her eyes and sent up a prayer of gratitude. Sitting beside Chase Gallagher all the way to school would have killed her. It would have set her on fire, she was sure of it.
The bus continued its route, but Bailey remained quiet. Meg dug out her sketch pad and handed it to Bailey. “I did some character sketches I forgot to show you. Can you use these for your game?”
Bailey flipped through the pages of pencil sketches, stopping at one. “Who's this?”
“Pope Sixtus. Not a particularly
nice
guy, but he liked art, so I figured you could use him for the Renaissance level.”
Bailey nodded and gave the book back to Meg without a word. Something was seriously up. Bailey was always bugging her to work on her video game, and Pope Sixtus rendered in charcoal didn't even earn a grunt? Curiosity tinged with worry twisted Meg inside out, but she would give her friend some privacy.
This vow lasted until lunchtime.
“Did your mom start in on you again?” Meg asked.
Bailey blinked. “What? Oh. No. She went away for the weekend. I'll see her tonight.” She waved a hand and went back to picking apart a chicken strip.
Right. Meg had forgotten Bailey's mother, Nicole, had gone on another hot date. So if it wasn't her mother and it wasn't Simon, it had to be something serious. Meg tried again. “Is it your SAT scores? Mine didn't come yet, but I heard a few people got theirs andâ”
“God, Meg! Please stop. I don't care about SAT scores. I only took the test early because you did.”
Meg stared at Bailey for a moment and then quietly put her sandwich down on her cafeteria tray. She knew Bailey didn't care about school much, but the SATs? Their entire futures rode on those scores! Meg hoped for a scholarship. Actually, her entire plan depended on getting a scholarship to a good college, where she'd study business or maybe medicine. She hadn't figured that part out yet. Or maybe she'd wait tables while she attended community college just like her mother. Pauline Farrell had just a few courses left to finish the accounting degree she was earning at night school. Meg couldn't wait. Maybe then they'd have enough money so that her mother wouldn't cry at night.
She sneaked another glance at Bailey and finally faced facts. Bailey wasn't going to talk until she was damn well good and ready. Meg cleaned up what was left of her lunch, piling the plastic containers back onto her tray, and hoped Bailey wasn't pregnant or dying or something. Her head whipped up when Bailey suddenly shot to her feet with a muffled scream.
Gatorade rolled down Bailey's jeans, leaving behind angry red scars. Her boyfriend held the now-empty bottle, and from the sneer on his face, Meg knew it was no accident. An instant hush interrupted the usual cafeteria racket while Bailey frantically blotted the mess with a stack of recycled napkins. Meg leaped to her feet. “What the hell is wrong with you, Simon?”
Simon Kane tossed the bottle onto the table and took a threatening step closer. “Shut up, Meg. This is all your fault. What did you tell her? What lies did you spread?”
So Simon
was
the cause of Bailey's mood. Why didn't Bailey tell her they'd had a fight? They'd known Simon since second grade, and Meg never understood what Bailey saw in himâexcept for his computer programming ability. Sure, Simon was cute. But ever since his parents had won the lottery, he'd become conceited and spoiled, teased Bailey often, and questioned everything she said. Worse, Bailey allowed it. Actually thought it was cute.