Part 3 (1/2)

Across from me, the fridge whirs to life and I glance at the clutter strewn across the doors. I watched a Dateline episode once about how criminals could learn everything about you from digging through your trash. They'd have better luck looking at our fridge.

Bills, birthday pictures, concert tickets, notes we leave each other, it's all stuck up there, layered so thickly most days, it's hard to find the handle to get the darned thing open. And today there are some new things to the mix, one in particular that I can't stop staring at.

It's a printout from a website placed front and center on the left door. I remember the logo in the corner from the information they pa.s.sed out in homeroom. It's the SAT website.

Blake's words from last night play through my mind. You're in the top three percent, Chloe.

My scores. My SAT scores are on my fridge.

My heart starts pounding harder and faster. Even from here I can see my name at the top and a series of numbers circled in red in the middle. There are comments from both of my parents, stars and exclamation points all over the place.

I stand up and head over, frowning at the four digits that spell out the impossible.

Two thousand one hundred and fifty-five.

My mouth drops open. No, it can't be right. I'd hoped I'd manage maybe 1650. Anything over 1700 and I would have lost my mind, but this?

I check again. My name, the scores, the dates. It's all there.

It has to be a mistake. What else could it be? This is the kind of score genius kids get. Future rocket scientists and surgeons and...psychologists.

I press my thumb over the four numbers and think of the row of psychology books lined up above my computer desk. I think of that first panic attack when I sat there panting and s.h.i.+vering in the girls' locker room, sure I was dying and desperate to understand how something like this could happen to someone like me.

When I pull my thumb away, the numbers remain.

2155.

Maybe I don't remember that test, but I took it.

This score? It changes everything.

My shower is beyond brief. I spend a minute checking myself over in the mirror. My hair is at my shoulders now, but it's still dark and curly enough to be a ha.s.sle. The rest of me seems unchanged. Green eyes, narrow nose, and dimples I've hated since I first noticed them in the second grade.

My phone rings when I'm finis.h.i.+ng my hair, buzzing on the sink.

”Mags,” I breathe, scrambling as it skates across the vanity. I catch it and search for her name, but it's not Maggie. It's the number I saw over and over in my phone last night. The one I obviously call all the time these days.

I answer it, hoping that Maggie's number has changed-that she'll be yelling at me for not calling and asking me what we're doing for lunch.

”Morning.” It's Blake. My shoulders sag, and he goes on, not waiting for me to respond. ”How are you feeling?”

My eyes search for the mirror. I look tired and pale. Maybe even a little scared.

”I'm okay.”

”You sure? Did you have your mom look at your head?”

I test it with my fingers, but it's barely sore now. Not likely a brain injury.

”She did. It's fine,” I say, because lying is easier than explaining I totally forgot about my head after his good-bye kiss completely squicked me out.

”Good,” he says. ”So you want me to come in? I've got your breakfast.”

My spine goes stiff. ”Come in? Are you here?”

He chuckles at that. ”Your car's at school, babe. Did you think I'd make you walk?”

Babe. Girlfriend. All kinds of impossible words that feel too ridiculous to be believed. They also feel sort of...nauseating.

”No,” I say, forcing the word out through a tight throat.

Blake makes a noise on the other end of the phone, something between a snort and a sigh. ”Are you sure you're all right? I hate to say it, but you're acting like a total head case.”

The word pinches the last nerve I've got, but I'm sure he can't mean anything by it. And he's got a point. If he really thinks I'm his girlfriend, then I am being a head case.

I force a stiff chuckle. ”Sorry, I didn't get enough sleep. I appreciate you stopping by. Can you give me two minutes?”

”I'll be here.”

I don't need two minutes, but I take them to get my nerves settled. I slide in a pair of silver hoops, noticing new pictures tucked into the frame of my dresser mirror. The three new group shots turn my skin cold at one glance.

I don't belong in these pictures. These aren't pictures of my people. I'm not a social leper, but I'm not the girl that belongs in these pictures. They're filled edge to edge with the rich, the beautiful, the brilliant...and me.

Blake stands next to me in every last one, his arm around my shoulder and my head tipped toward him. It's the kind of pose that leaves no question to our status. We're together.

Un-freaking-believable.

My memory decides to have some sort of ma.s.sive file corruption and these are the months I missed? What about my years in braces? Or the summer my dog and grandmother died a month apart? No, I get to miss the six months that turned my life from train wreck into perfection. Lovely.

I glance out my window where Blake's Mustang is idling at my curb. Things definitely could be worse.

I make my way outside to his car. He opens the door for me, a doughnut in his mouth and a paper bag held out for me to take.

”Good morning,” I say, forcing myself to kiss him when he leans in. It's still stiff and awkward, but it will get better. It has to. He's Blake Tanner, for G.o.d's sake.

I bury my nose in the bag and inhale. ”Smells awesome. Thank you.”

”Hop in. We're going to be late.”

I've never been so grateful for a blueberry scone. I savor every bite, chewing slowly so that I don't have to say anything. I need to fill in a few more blanks before I talk myself into a corner. It works like a dream, and before I know it, we're in the parking lot.

Blake drops me near the doors, and I automatically take his trash with mine. I feel like we've done this dance a thousand times. My body knows the steps, even if I can't hear the music.

Salt crunches beneath my feet as I climb the stairs two at a time out of habit. I doubt it matters if I'm late now. With the scores I've got tacked to my fridge, I could probably schlep off a month of school and still pick almost any college I'd like.