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gonna be all dopey and zoned out, like you
always
are lately. I know

you’re in pain, Soph, I know that. But I also know
you
. You’re hurting

yourself, and either no one else has noticed or they’re not saying it.

So I guess I’m going to say it. You need to stop. Before it becomes a

problem.”

Panic and relief twine inside me. Panic, because she knows, and

relief, because she doesn’t realize how bad it is. She thinks I’m still at

the edge of the hole, ready to throw myself off , instead of in it so deep

that I can barely see her at the top.

There’s still time to fi x this.

To lie my way out.

I don’t even think about taking her seriously, because I’m
fi ne
. I’ve

got it under control, and it’s none of her business.

It’s partly her fault.

“Please, Sophie, I need you to hear me,” she says. Her eyes are wide

and concerned in the glare of the headlights, and I stifl e a wild urge

to tell her, for a second, about how far I’ve gone, what I’ve done, what

I’ve become.

T E S S S H A R P E

159

But then the love she has for me—whatever kind that is—will be

gone. I know it. How could she love me when I’m like this?

“You’re right,” I say. “I’ll talk to my doctors about it, okay?”

“You will?” she asks, and she seems so small. She’s tiny, of course,

but right now she
sounds
it. “Really?”

“Really,” I say, my stomach turning at the lie. I tell myself I will ask

them, that I’ll do it for her.

But deep down, I know I won’t.

That I can’t.

She gallops back to hug me. The scent of vanilla fl oods me, the

smell of damp and green from the forest mingling with it to make the

best perfume. Her hands are warm, looped around my waist, her face

pressed into my neck as she breathes, the relief pouring off her.

She heads off into the night with a fl ashlight and a water bottle,

and I stay obediently in the truck like a good girl.

I wait until she’s out of sight before fi shing out the container of

pills in my bag.

I shake out four and swallow them dry.

35

NOW (JUNE)

I can’t get hold of Rachel. After a half hour of pacing my

bedroom, I toss the phone (six unanswered calls, fi ve texts,

three messages) in my purse and head downstairs. She

must be at her house. I’ll go there.

But when I pull my front door open, Kyle is standing on

my porch.

“What are you doing here?” I want to push past him, get

him out of my way, out of my sight.

What had Rachel found? Why isn’t she calling me back?

“I want to talk to you,” Kyle says.

“Now is really not a good time.” I step outside, lock the

door behind me, and head down the porch stairs.

“You ambush me twice, and now you don’t have fi ve

minutes?” He follows me down the driveway, so close it

makes the back of my neck fl ush with anger.

“You lied to the police, sabotaged a murder investiga-

tion, and got me locked up in rehab—all because you were

jealous. Forgive me if I’m still pissed at you.”

I open the car door and he slams it shut, making me

jump. I look up, and for the fi rst time, I see the circles under

his bloodshot eyes.

T E S S S H A R P E

161

I remember what Adam had said about Kyle crying the

night before Mina died. How thick Kyle’s voice had gotten

when he’d revealed that she’d told him the truth.

He had loved her. It made me queasy, but I didn’t doubt

it. And I understood too well the frustration, the eviscera-

tion, of loving and losing her.

“I have to go. If you want to talk, get in,” I say, against

my better judgment. “If not, get out of my way.”

He glances at my purse. “You’re not gonna spray me in

the face with that bear repellant, right?”

“In or out, Kyle. I don’t care.” I climb in the car, turning

the key. He sprints to the other side and opens the door,

throwing himself in as I hit the gas. “Put on your seat belt.”

It’s an automatic order that’s given to anyone who gets in

my car. Trev does it, too, a tic that neither of us can break.

After a few minutes of silence, Kyle’s leg jiggling up and

down, I roll my eyes and switch the radio on. “You choose,”

I say.

He fl ips through stations as I speed down the street,

heading toward Old 99, east of town.

“So where are we going?” he asks, settling the radio on

the new country station and looking out the window.

“I have to meet someone. You’ll stay in the car.”

Kyle rolls his eyes.

“You gonna tell me what you want?” I pass an old lady

in a Cadillac crawling twenty miles below the speed limit

and press harder on the gas as we turn down Main to get

to the on-ramp. We pass the old brick building City Hall’s

been in since the town was founded back in the gold rush

162

F A R F R O M Y O U

days. Hanging over the entryway there’s a banner advertis-

ing the upcoming Strawberry Festival. Mina used to make

me go, play those stupid rigged carnival games, eat way too

much shortcake.

“I really didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Kyle says.

“If you’re gonna lie to me, you might not want to do it

to my face.”

“Okay, I did want to get you in trouble,” Kyle admits.

“But that was only when I thought you were
already
in trou-

ble. I wouldn’t have done it if knew you were being set up.

I think I screwed up. Because . . . if it wasn’t about drugs,

that means it was something else, right?”

“Duh.”

I turn onto the highway. This time of year, Old 99 is

a gray line cutting through a sea of yellowed grass and

barbed wire fences, speckled with the dark green of scrub

oaks. Cows dot the fi elds, dirt roads branch off the high-

way, tumbledown barns and ranches are set away from

the cars’ searching headlights. It’s peaceful. Time seems to

move slower.

I know how deceptive that can be.

“And it wasn’t a mugging,” Kyle continues. “I know he

took your purses and stuff, but if it was a mugging, why

would he shoot just one of you? Why would he shoot any-

one, if he got what he wanted? Why wouldn’t he take the

car? Why would he leave you alive? Why would he plant

drugs?”

He’s really been thinking about this. I wonder if the cir-

cles under his eyes are a result of staying up too late to page

T E S S S H A R P E

163

through articles about Mina’s death. If he has a copy of the

police report, like I do. If he has it memorized yet.

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “That’s what

I’ve been saying for months. But, weirdly, people haven’t

been listening to me.”

“I told you I screwed up,” Kyle says quietly. “I apolo-

gized. I explained why.”

“It’s not that easy,” I say. “You helped derail the entire

police investigation. You helped lock me up in rehab, where

I got to sit and think about how Mina’s killer was walking

around free and clear, with nobody looking for him. An

apology can’t change any of that. We’re not in fi rst grade

anymore. Admitting you screwed up is not going to fi x it or

catch the killer. So all I can do now is pick up the pieces and

try to put them together myself.”

“I want to help.”

A squirrel dashes out onto the road, and I jerk the wheel

to avoid it, overcorrecting into the next lane. For a horrible

second, I think I’m going lose control of the car and crash.

“Shit, Sophie.” Kyle’s hand is on the wheel, and he’s half

leaning over me, pulling us over onto the shoulder as I

bring the car to a shaky stop.

I whimper, bite at the inside of my mouth, trying to get

my lips to stop trembling as I twist the key and the engine

shuts off. I suck air in through my nose.

“Hey.” Kyle frowns and pats clumsily at my shoulder.

Weirdly, it makes me feel better. “We’re okay. It’s fi ne.”

I’m gripping the wheel so hard, my knuckles are white.

My lungs are tight, my heart hammers inside my chest. I’m

164

F A R F R O M Y O U

not getting enough air. I want to sag against the wheel, press

my face against the cool glass of the window, but I can’t do

that in front of him. I won’t. So I just focus on breathing. In

and out. In and out.

When I’ve fi nally gotten myself back to normal, Kyle

asks quietly, “Should I drive?”

In and out. In and out. Two more deep breaths, and I

release my death grip on the wheel. “I’m fi ne,” I say.

I turn the engine back on and push on the gas, kicking

up dirt clouds as I turn back onto the road.

In and out.

In and out.

36

SEVEN MONTHS AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

All week, I look forward to my call to Mina. I’m only allowed to have

two non parental call a week. It sucks, but I’m following Aunt Macy’s

rules, So when Trev’s number appears on my phone instead of Mina’s,

I feel a fl ash of disappointment.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound cheery. “Aren’t you busy with school?”

“I needed a break. And I wanted to see how you are; it’s been a

while.”

Months, in fact. “Things are good,” I say as I pick at the quilt

spread across my bed. It has hand-tied squares, and I like to twirl the

strands of silky embroidery fl oss between my fi ngers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you know, therapy, admitting my mistakes, my failings,

basically examining all the bad parts of me. It’s been a ball.”

“Sounds like it. What about the pain? Is it . . . are you handling it?”

“It hurts,” I say. “All the time.”

I can hear his intake of breath over the phone, ragged and too

quick, and I wonder if I’ve been too honest with him. If he still blames

himself for all this.

Of course he does. Trev wouldn’t know what to do if loving me

wasn’t wrapped up with some form of guilt.

He and Mina have that in common.

166

F A R F R O M Y O U

“I’ve been worried about you,” he says.

“I know.” I lie back on my bed, sink into the safety of my pillows

as I cradle the phone against my cheek. “I’ll be okay.”

“Mina misses you.”

“I miss her.” Can he hear it? The truth in those three little words?

“Do you know when you’ll be home?”

“Probably not for another few months. It’s hard, adjusting to no

pain meds. I don’t want to . . .” I stop.

“What?” Trev asks.

“I just—I can’t. Not right now.” I know he doesn’t get what I’m

talking about. How much it hurts. How hard it’s been. How I’ve been

forced to look at the worst parts of myself. The ugliness on the surface

is nothing compared to what’s inside me.

I am not the same. I’ve gone hollow, scooped my insides out. The

constant fear that it’s too late, that I’ll mess it up, slip back down into

that hole, no way out, gnaws at me. I understand now how weak I am.

“I’ll get better. I’m getting these cortisone shots in my back that

help, and believe it or not, I’m doing yoga, and I actually like it.”

“Yoga?” he asks. Something eases inside me, hearing the laughter

in his voice. “I’d think that’d be a little slow for you.”

“Things change, I guess.”

“Guess so.”

Another pause. I stare up at my ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark