Keeping Secrets Page 27

  Still, I’m going through the motions, moving my lips against his and running my hands through his hair, even though all the while I can’t help wishing it was just a little bit better, just a smidge more romantic than it actually is.

  But maybe it will never be like that for me. Maybe I’m not the kind of girl who inspires guys to spontaneous midnight visits and secret-message gift giving. Maybe I’m just like all the other girls who pretend they’re content with this, when really they’re longing for something more.

  So far Parker hasn’t tried to do anything more than just kiss, which mostly makes me glad. And the only reason I say mostly is because I’m hoping he’s just trying to be cautious and respectful, and not because he’s turned off by my dowdy sweatpants and tee.

  I know I should’ve brushed my hair. Or at the very least, smeared on some lip gloss. I mean, we’ve been dating for less than a month, and I’ve already let myself go.

  I move in closer, kissing him harder, and shifting my body so I’m lying on top of his. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and dream of another place, one where he’s not really him, and I’m no longer me.

  I run my fingertips down the side of his face, imagining his long dark lashes resting against his high, chiseled cheekbones. And when I reach up to brush my hair out of the way, I pretend that it’s smooth, wavy, and rich, not limp, lank, and dull.

  “Echo,” he says, rolling me off ‘til we’re facing each other, lying again on our sides.

  “Hmmm,” I mumble, my eyes still closed, feeling happy and dreamy and free.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispers.

  So I do. Slowly lifting my lids, until I’m startled by the sight of his golden blond hair and blue eyes, so different from the familiar, dark stranger I held in my mind.

  “Should I go?” he asks, gazing at me, before leaning in to kiss the side of my cheek.

  I squint at him, wondering why he’s asking.

  “Your parents. They’ll be back soon, and I don’t want you to get in trouble. I was just joking about scaling down your tree, you know that, right?”

  But of course you were, I think, feeling disappointed that we’re back to being us, so different from who I really want to be. And just as I roll over, and start to get up, Zoë’s diary slips from its hiding space, and lands hard at my feet.

  “What’s that?” he says, reaching down to retrieve it.

  But luckily I’m closer, which makes me quicker as well. So I swoop it up and hold it tight to my chest, then I look at him and say, “I think you should leave.”

  Seventeen

  All day at school I went through the motions—nodding, smiling, taking notes, acing pop quizzes, waving to friends, eating lunch, acting cute with Parker by sharing my brownie and laughing at all of his jokes. Yet the whole entire time, my eyes were searching for Marc. And I found myself lingering in the hall where he smokes, leaning against the wall where he eats, and stopping to tie my shoe in the area just outside the girl’s bathroom where I ran into him that very first day.

  And it’s not like I was planning to actually talk to him or anything. I mean, I didn’t even know what to say. It’s more like I just wanted to see him, be near him, and share the same space with this person who I know so much about, but in such a strange, remote way.

  And all the while, for the whole entire day, I was just waiting for the bell to ring, knowing that’s when I could finally go home, lie on my bed, pick up Zoë’s diary, and take up from where I left off.

  Even last night after walking Parker to the door, I had every intention of bolting back up to my room and reading the diary. But then my parents drove up, and my dad, his face all flushed and happy from an evening of intellectual conversation and one too many glasses of wine, insisted we hang out in the den, watch a little TV, and get reacquainted during the three-minute commercial breaks.

  And by the time I finally snuck out of there, it was late, I was tired, so I decided to call it a night.

  “Are you guys going?” Jenay asks, shifting her books and stopping, having just reached the corner where we say good-bye and head our separate ways. “You know, to Teresa’s party?” she adds, removing a piece of windblown blond hair from her lip gloss and tucking it back behind her ear.

  I just shrug and look at Abby. I mean, it’s not like Teresa actually invited me or anything. But then I guess it’s not really that kind of a party. It’s more the haphazard, last-minute kind. The kind that gets planned the moment someone’s parents unexpectedly head out of town.

  “I heard it’s going to be couples only. So count me out,” Abby says, staring off toward our street.

  “Are you serious? Just couples? That’s so elitist,” I say, shaking my head and laughing, trying hard to appear like my normal, slightly sarcastic self, so my friends won’t see just how much I’m changing, and how I no longer care about any of this, especially now that I prefer Zoë’s world to my own.

  “I think that’s only to keep the head count in check, so it doesn’t get all crazy and out of control. So no excuses, Ab. I mean, it’s not like there’s gonna be a velvet rope and a bouncer, so it’s not like you’ll get turned away at the door. At least think about it before you say no,” Jenay says, nodding encouragingly. “Please? Besides, if you want a date, I have the perfect guy all lined up and ready to go. All you have to do is say the word.”

  “Forget it,” Abby says, blushing furiously but standing her ground. “I don’t accept donations, hand-me-downs, charity dates, or mercy hookups.”

  “But you haven’t even met him! At least think it over, before you go all negative on me,” Jenay says, rolling her eyes but still laughing. “Listen, this guy is perfect for you, and this isn’t some crazy, random pairing because I’ve actually been thinking a lot about this. He’s super nice, really funny, and he’s incredibly smart too. And I mean like, majorly smart. He’s in my history class and he’s never once stumbled when he gets called on. Seriously, even when he’s messing around, he still knows all the answers.”

  Abby puts her hand on her hip and shakes her head. “Did you even listen to your list? Nice, funny, smart, super smart even! Oh lucky day for me! But did you say hot? No. Gorgeous? Niente. Cute? Not so much. That’s a really bad sign, Jenay. A really bad sign.” She narrows her eyes.

  But no way is Jenay giving up. “But that’s the thing, he is cute. Seriously, I swear. And the only reason I didn’t mention it first is because I know you’re not at all shallow or superficial. I know for a fact that you would never, ever base your opinion on looks alone.” She looks at each of us, smiling triumphantly, knowing there’s no way for Abby to argue with that.

  Abby just stands there, squinting at Jenay as she mulls it over. “What’s his name?” she asks, as though that will somehow reveal which way to go.

  “Jax. Jax Brannigan.”

  “Jacks? Like plural? Like there’s two of him?” Abby says, her eyes going wide, as her head moves back and forth, indicating an immediate, “no way in hell” decision. “Jacks the nice, funny, super incredibly smart, two-headed history buff?”

  “Jax with an x. And you can’t hold his name against him since it’s not like he named himself,” Jenay says, rolling her eyes, clearly frustrated with all of the obstacles Abby insists on throwing onto the otherwise well-marked path of love.

  “What would you name yourself?” I ask, suddenly interested in this conversation, but probably only because as far as weird names go, I’m the undisputed queen. “I mean, if you could have any name, what would you pick?”

  Abby laughs. “Well, when I was seven I wanted to be named Candy. So my dad started calling me Junior Mint, and my mom started calling me Abba Zabba and Aaron started calling me Twizzler, until I begged them all to please just stop and call me Abby again.”

  Jenay smiles. “I always wanted a cute name. You know, one that ended in an I or E sound.” She shrugs. “But as it turns out, Jenay’s a family name. So I’ll probably be expected to pass it down someday too. You?”


  Abby and Jenay both look at me, obviously curious how you could possibly ever top a name like Echo. And even though the years from kindergarten through fifth grade were the worst, with all the boys chasing me around, going, “Echooooo! Echoooo!” I guess I never really thought about changing it, never once thought about being anyone else—until now. I look at Abby and Jenay and just shrug.

  “Well, I gotta get home and babysit. Call me if you guys get bored and want to come over. And Abby, think about it. Please, I’m begging you. I promise you will not be disappointed,” Jenay says, turning down her street as Abby and I head for ours.

  “Are you and Parker going?” she asks, gazing at me briefly, then down at the ground.

  “Where? The party?” I look at her. “I don’t know, I guess.”

  “Do you think I should go?” She gazes at me, her face set and serious, like she wants me to be serious too.

  “Sure, if that’s what you want.” I shrug.

  “I mean with Jax?”

  “Again, up to you,” I say, not feeling nearly as gung ho on the possibility of love like the ever optimistic and happy Jenay.

  “Listen,” Abby says, stopping in front of my driveway and gazing at me. “I don’t mean to sound strange or anything, so I hope you don’t take it that way, but . . . what’s it like having a boyfriend? I mean, is it weird?” She scrunches up her nose and looks at me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, gazing down at the hole in the toe of my black Converse sneaker, thinking how I need to either get a new pair or find a new look.

  “Well, Jenay acts like it’s so great, I mean, she even wrote ‘Ms. Jenay Williams’ on her notebook the other day. Seriously. And when she saw that I saw she turned bright red and scribbled over it. But like, while she always acts so love happy, you . . . well you’re like the exact opposite. You’re like some big-time reluctant girlfriend, who can’t quite figure out how you got there.” She laughs at the end of that, but only to soften the blow.

  I take a deep breath and stare at the crack in my driveway, surprised to learn I wasn’t putting on near as good a show as I thought. Though I guess it’s hard to fool Abby. I mean, she knows me too well. “Truth?” I finally say, looking right at her. “Just between us?”

  She nods, waiting.

  “It is weird. And to be honest, I really don’t know how I got here. It just kind of happened, and before I knew it, I was in.” I shrug.

  “But weird how?” she asks, narrowing her eyes, obviously wanting to follow and understand. “I mean, what’s it like? Do you talk on the phone all night? Are you going to have sex?”

  I think about Parker, how cute he is, how nice he is, and I shrug. Honestly, I have no idea what he sees in me, no idea what he’s even doing with me. But one thing’s for sure, he’s not the one who makes it so weird. That blame lies entirely with me.

  I look back at Abby, then quickly glance away. Then I take a deep breath and say, “Honestly? Sometimes when he calls I purposely let it go into voice mail, because I feel so awkward, and nervous, and stupid, and guilty. And up until now we’ve only kissed or made out or whatever. But nothing more. I’m just not ready for more, and it’s not like he pushes it, either. And it’s like, even though I’m fully aware of how practically everything about him is really amazing and great, and even though I keep reminding myself of how lucky I am that he likes me, it’s almost as though my heart refuses to cooperate with my head, like it’s blocked out all of that chatter and refuses to listen. Does that make any sense?” I ask, wondering if she thinks I’m a total freak now that I’ve confided all that.

  But she just looks at me and shakes her head. “You know what the sad thing is?” she says, still looking at me. “I think I can relate to your version a whole lot better than Jenay’s.” She laughs.

  I laugh too. Then I head up the driveway, following along the thin, jagged crack ‘til I reach the front porch.

  “You wanna study later?” Abby calls out.

  I reach for my keys and unlock the door. “Sounds good,” I say, before closing it firmly behind me.

  The moment I’m inside I bolt for my room, drop to my knees, and shove my hand under the mattress, wanting nothing more than to lie on my bed and get between the pages of Zoë’s diary.

  Only it’s not there.

  So I push my hand farther, delving deeper into the tight space where my mattress meets my box spring. And when it’s still not there, I dive headfirst into full-blown panic attack.

  Grabbing the pillows, sheets, blanket, and duvet, and throwing them all to the ground, I lift the mattress all the way up ‘til the side is pointing at the ceiling, the top is resting haphazardly against my nightstand, and the entire left side wobbles like it’s gonna crash through the french doors or something, as my eyes scan the space quickly, but not finding a thing. So then I drag it off completely, pulling it to the floor and flipping it over, thinking maybe the cobalt book got stuck to the stitching, but again, nothing.

  I sink to the ground, a sweaty, panting, heart-racing mess. And as I unravel the sheet from my leg, my mind is in turmoil, wondering where the hell it could be, and even worse, who could’ve found it.

  And when I finally gaze down, I notice how the sheet wrapped around my leg is not the same one I woke up with this morning. Since I know for a fact that when I left for school, I left behind an unmade bed with pink striped sheets. And these are cream with blue stars.

  And then I remember Mariska. Our cleaning lady. The one who comes on the fifteenth of every the month. The fifteenth, just like today.

  So I pick myself up and head for my dresser, Mariska’s drop spot for orphaned items. And wouldn’t you know, right there, smack dab in the middle, is Zoë’s diary, cover shiny and blue, pages seemingly undisturbed.

  Then I fix my bed, change my clothes, and begin where I left off.

  . . . Seriously, he even told me about how he had to deal with his mom when his dad got shipped off to federal prison, how needy and weak she was, and how at just ten years old he was practically forced to grow up overnight.

  I’d always heard his family was mega, filthy rich, and supposedly had several more houses even bigger than the one he lives in now. And of course I’d heard all the crazy stories about his dad, but there were always so many rumors, so many insane legends—he killed a man, he robbed a bank, he embezzled a bunch of money, he was in the mob—that I just didn’t know what to believe. So I didn’t believe anything.

  But I guess in the end, those stories were like a gazillion times more exciting than the true and boring fact of how his dad is just another greedy, rich bastard who wanted to be even richer.

  Anyway, his mom ditched his dad, actually served him divorce papers during his first month in jail. Said there was no way she was living single for ten years minus time off for good behavior. So whenever Marc wanted to go see him, he had to get a ride with his uncle Mike (his dad’s brother). And they’d both have to endure a full-body cavity search before they were allowed inside.

  Only Marc didn’t really say that part about the cavity search. He says that’s how it is for hard-core criminals, not wealthy nonviolent types like his dad. Apparently all they had to do was sign in and go look for his dad—who, by the way, was allowed to wear clean pressed khakis instead of an orange jumpsuit. And then they all sat around at these plastic tables and chairs, eating vending-machine snacks and talking face to face (as opposed to being separated by a sheet of bulletproof glass and having to use a phone).

  Whatever. My version’s way better, way more dramatic. And I even told him he could show me a picture and I’d still choose to believe my story over his.

  So he goes, “Oh yeah, and you’re not allowed to take pictures either.”

  So I go, “See? In my version, they let you do that.”

  Anyway, I guess his mom became a major pill-popping heavy drinker, although she may have been one even before all that. I mean, it’s kind of unclear but it really sounds like it. And oh yeah, now she’s apparently
married to husband number three, and each one has been even more rich (and more messed up) than the one before.

  So I went, “Is that why you drive that old Camaro, cuz you hate money?”

  But he just laughed and said, “I drive an old Camaro cuz I like old cars. What, would you like me better if I drove a Porsche?”

  And then I—damn, I can’t believe I said this (!) but then I go, “I can’t imagine liking you any more than I already do”!!!! Seriously! I could die! And I thought I would! I mean it just slipped out before I could stop it.

  But he just looked at me all serious and said, “I liked you from the very first moment I saw you.”

  Which is kind of like “you had me at hello” but better, because it’s real, and spontaneous, and not from a movie. So then I laughed, because, please, the first time he saw me goes all the way back to fifth grade. Right before his mom started sending him away to all of those private schools.

  But when I reminded him of that, he just said, “I know.”

  Sometimes when I’m reading Zoë’s diary I need to take little breaks. I mean, part of me is anxious to move forward, and just burn through the pages as fast as I can. But the other part feels a little overwhelmed, like all of my senses are completely filled up, and I just really need to set it down, close my eyes, and try to regroup.

  Though I guess I regrouped for too long, because the next thing I know, the sun is set, my room is dark, and Zoë’s diary is gone.

  “Who’s there?” I sit up frantically, rubbing my eyes. “What are you doing?” I ask, making an unsuccessful swipe for the book.

  “What’s this?” Abby asks, flipping through the pages, her eyes on the lookout for something good. “Are you holding out on me? Is this some kind of love journal, where you write down all of your heartfelt feelings for Parker?” She laughs, playing her version of keep-away.

  I just look at her, forcing myself to take slow deep breaths, forcing myself to stay calm. “Abby, please. I’m serious. I really need that back,” I say, struggling for patience as she scans the pages, though luckily without really reading. “Come on, Abby, please,” I beg. “It used to be Zoë’s.”