Part 2 (2/2)
I linger on that last one longer than I should, my mind forming a picture of him. ”It's kind of a blur.”
He sighs in a way that borders on theatrical. ”I just wish you'd tell me why you're so tense. Is it still about your SAT scores?”
”My SAT scores?”
He turns to me, half rolling his eyes. ”Mine aren't that much better, you know.”
”I haven't taken-”
I cut myself off, realizing that I probably did take the test. Like everything else, I might just not remember it.
”I'm just stressed,” I say weakly, half expecting that awful itchy anxiety to return. Instead, I feel numb. Heavy and slow, like I'm half-asleep.
Huh. I must be going into shock. Fine by me. It's infinitely preferable to the flailing and panicking.
Blake pulls to a stop in front of my house. I look up at the dormer windows and black shutters. Mom's Thanksgiving wreath hangs on the door, and the windows give off a warm, yellow glow. In my whole life, home has never looked so sweet.
”Want me to walk you in?”
”It's all right,” I say. ”I'm really tired.”
He nods and then tilts his head. ”Hey, stop worrying about your scores. You're in the top three percent, Chloe. You're one of the elite.”
I open my mouth because I have no idea what he's talking about, but before I can say anything, he's kissing me good-bye. And I can't remember what I wanted to ask him about now because this is Blake. Blake Tanner. Kissing me.
I've imagined him doing this for as long as I can remember. I never dreamed it would feel so horribly wrong.
Chapter Four.
Insistent electric beeping wakes me. It can't be seven o'clock yet. I'm too tired. Too snug and content here in the coc.o.o.n of my blankets.
The clock blares on, unmoved by my silent protest. I roll over and mash the snooze b.u.t.ton and then burrow back into the blissful warmth of my quilt. Two more minutes and I'll get up. I mentally catalog my sandal options. Is my blue tank top clean? Maybe. Or I could- My thoughts cut off as I remember. The snow. The darkness. Blake. Adam.
I sit up, scanning my room as I kick the covers off my legs. It's cold and dark. Too cold and dark for seven o'clock in May. I s.h.i.+ver as I rise from my bed, padding across my wood floor. My curtains are tightly shut, not a sliver of daylight showing around the edges.
I pull the drapes open quickly, like I'm ripping off a bandage. Outside, it's still winter. Inside, I die a little.
I press my palm to the cold windowpane with a sigh. The street looks magical, every house and mailbox dipped in a snow so white it looks like sugar. It's like a Christmas card.
But I'm not ready for Christmas. I'm ready for jean shorts and sweet tea and long, sticky nights with cicadas singing in the gra.s.s.
I return to my bed, curling into a ball. It wasn't a nightmare. I'd known that, of course, but nothing else seemed possible when I'd stumbled in here last night.
Now, the newness of the day hits me like teeth, gnawing at the unwelcome truth. I'm missing time. A lot of it.
”Chloe?”
My mom's voice drifts up the stairs, familiar and just a little scratchy so she probably hasn't had much coffee.
”You want breakfast, honey?”
No, I really don't. I want my six months back.
I try dialing Mags again before giving up and heading downstairs. Mom is peering into the fridge, her hair in a towel and her s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned wrong. Nothing newsworthy there. Until she turns at me and breaks into a grin.
”Morning, Superstar. Need some oatmeal to keep that brain churning?”
Uh, what? I blink several times, and she just laughs, pulling out a carton of blueberries and a couple tubs of yogurt. Which is...weird. We don't do breakfast. Not together, anyway.
”Too early, I guess.” She nods at a cup and saucer on the counter. ”Your tea's ready.”
Tea? We have tea in this house?
I don't know what she's talking about, and I'm too tired to care. The coffeepot is sputtering, so I head over to get myself a cup. One whiff and a wave of queasiness rolls through me. I push the pot back onto the burner.
”What's wrong with the coffee?” I ask.
My mom sighs and takes another sip while my stomach cramps in protest. ”Don't start again, Chloe.”
My hands are shaking now. I can't handle this. It's just too scary.
”Mom, I need to talk to you.”
”Is it about Va.s.sar? Honey, I know it sounds hoity-toity, but with these scores, you've got to consider-”
”It's not about Va.s.sar, Mom. It's about me. I'm having some trouble.”
She looks up, her gray eyes clouding with worry. ”What kind of trouble? School trouble? The kids in the SAT group?”
I can't blame her for asking. If I go down in the yearbooks for anything it'll be Most Likely to Not Live Up to My Potential. ”No. I'm just...I'm forgetting some things.”
Her relief is palpable, bringing pink back to her cheeks. ”Of course you're forgetting things. You're exhausted, honey. You've been studying day and night, putting in extra credit.”
”I think it's more than that,” I say, though the idea of me investing in extra credit is just insane. I'm a Play Now, Work Later girl, and she knows it better than anyone.
She takes a breath, hands moving absently to her throat. ”You don't think it's those panic attacks again, do you?”
She says it like a dirty secret, almost whispering it. I feel like she's poised on the edge of a knife. One wrong word from me now and she will return to the mother I remember. Quiet. Distant. Disappointed.
”Maybe I just need some sleep,” I say with a sigh.
Mom nods so quickly it's like she spoon-fed me the answer. She clears the table, though I've barely touched my yogurt. Typical. I get a smile and a pat that's supposed to be rea.s.suring. And then she's up the stairs and I'm left on my own.
<script>