Part 10 (1/2)

One deep breath later, I spread them out on the table. Picnics and parties and a steak dinner that I'm pretty sure commemorates my seventeenth birthday. I remember none of it. I don't remember having fried chicken and pink lemonade at a park. I don't remember watching fireworks with half of the varsity lacrosse team, Blake's arm curved around my waist like we were glued that way. I don't remember playing softball ever, and certainly not with this group of girls, girls who I would never-wait a minute- Is that Julien?

My finger traces over her image. s.h.i.+ny blond hair, almond-shaped eyes in a plain but pretty face.

I still can't imagine her gone. She was probably going to be princ.i.p.al someday. h.e.l.l, maybe the mayor. Even when we were little girls on the playground monkey bars, she used to talk about buying a house on Belmont, living right across the street from her mom and dad. She knew her future, and her future was Ridgeview.

Goose b.u.mps rise on my arms, but no matter how hard I stare, the picture doesn't reveal any more secrets. I s.h.i.+ft it away, refocusing on the one of Blake and me. I know I should focus on the details, but the basics are eerie enough. The way our heads are mashed together, his golden hair starkly pale against mine. I stare hard at the picture, trying to imagine feeling comfortable like this. Trying to imagine a world where Blake's arm around me would be easy and normal.

”You're like a couple from a movie,” Mom says, announcing her entry into the kitchen. ”Almost too beautiful to look at.”

”You're delusional,” I tell her, but really she's not. Not about Blake, at any rate. He does belong on a movie set. Blond hair, nice biceps, killer smile. And I'm...well, I'm me. I've got a great smile, but I'm not the kind of girl who makes homecoming queen. And I'm not the kind of girl who dates Blake.

”I just call it like I see it,” Mom says, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

I watch the steam rise from her cup and frown. I'd managed about a third of my mocha from Rowdy's this morning, but it still tasted terrible to me.

”Mom?”

”Hmm?”

”Did you ever think it was weird that I had so many new friends?”

When she turns to look at me, I see the wariness in her eyes, like maybe she thinks this is the start of an I'm-too-depressed-and-damaged-for-friends speech.

”What do you mean?”

I bite my lip, thinking. ”I mean, I'm practically a different person. The grades, the friends-everything, really. I just wondered if it surprised you.”

”Of course not.” She leans forward, putting her hand on mine. ”Chloe, you have such a good head on your shoulders. Deep down, I always knew you'd do something with it. Once you joined the study group, you were surrounded by successful kids. It makes sense that you'd want to join in with that crowd.”

”When have I ever been a crowd joiner? Don't you remember the fourth grade, when I refused to wear pink because all the girls in school said it was the thing to do?”

”But you're not in the fourth grade anymore, are you? And you're with Blake now. I guess I figured...”

She trails off with a shrug, and I feel a rush of irritation flood me. ”You figured what? That I did this to become someone worthy of Blake?”

The shock registers on her face like a slap. ”That's not what I meant.”

”Isn't it? I know this is going to come as a surprise, Mom, but I didn't do any of this so I could be with Blake or so I could sit at the cool kids table in the cafeteria.”

”Okay, fine. Then why did you do it, Chloe?”

That stops me cold because I don't have an answer. I was happy on the fringe. I wasn't some school pariah with no social life and no prospects for the big dances. But I wasn't popular either. And I was always fine with that.

I think of Maggie's face in the hallway, her eyes so flinty.

G.o.d, what did I do? Is she right? Am I suddenly desperate to be cool? Was my entire summer some sort of late-onset in-crowd fever?

Mom rinses her coffee down the sink and shakes her head. ”Please don't misunderstand me. It's been a surprise, Chloe. The tutoring, the grades, all of it. But no one's happier about your recent choices than I am.”

I laugh weakly. ”Yeah, I'm finally becoming the daughter you've always hoped for.”

”You're finally living up to your potential,” she corrects without flinching. She checks the clock on the microwave and sighs. ”I'd better go. I'm meeting your dad at the garden center.”

I nod because G.o.d knows this is going nowhere. Mom stops on her way out, glancing at the picture on top of the stack.

Stacey Moss, Abbey Binns, Kayla Parkerson, me...and Julien Miller.

”You must miss her,” Mom says.

I startle a little, surprised she hadn't already left.

”What do you mean?”

”Julien. You two were pretty close before she left. I was really worried about you when she moved. You were...torn up about it.”

I shrug and hide my hands under the table. I don't want her to see me shaking.

Mom seems a little lost in her own memories. ”You never told me what you were working on that night.”

”What do you mean?”

”The night she left. I tried not to pry. I know Julien had some...issues. You didn't ever want to talk about it. But I was scared that night.”

”Scared?”

”Yes, Chloe, scared. You locked yourself in your room and worked on your computer all night long.”

My blood runs cold in my veins. This was all news to me. I clear my throat to make sure my voice doesn't shake like my hands.

”I just needed to work through some things,” I say. ”I'm better now.”

She kisses my forehead and leaves, happy to believe me. Happy to accept anything that will convince her I am still the new, perfect girl wants me to be.

Chapter Ten.

I hate the bench outside the princ.i.p.al's office. Nothing good ever comes from sitting here. The first time I perched my f.a.n.n.y on this slab of wood, I was waiting for my mom to pick me up when my granddad died. The second time was when Maggie and I got nailed at Starbucks during school hours and had to wait for detention slips. Today, I'm waiting so I can lie to the secretary.

Mrs. Love is a thin blond who was the prom queen, the head cheerleader, and the girl everyone thought would end up in Hollywood twenty years ago. Now, she's the school secretary. I'm never quite sure whether or not I should feel sorry for her for that.

”Chloe? Chloe Spinnaker?” she calls, as if the office is swarming with Chloes and she has to be sure she has the right one.

I approach the tall desk, tipping my head. ”I'm so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Love, but I had something special I thought you might be able to help with.”

”Well, things are pretty busy. Thanksgiving's coming.”

Mrs. Love has a serious commitment to things like pasting paper turkeys and pilgrim hats and other seasonal stuff around the school. ”I know,” I say, feigning empathy. ”But it's my senior year and you know my summer study group?”