Part 13 (1/2)

I've covered all my bases. I called school and my parents and even changed back into pajamas. As if I'm actually going to sleep. I'm a million miles from sleep.

I double check my phone for the thousandth time, making sure my text message to Maggie actually sent. I can't imagine her ignoring a message like this, no matter how terrible things between us have gotten.

I look at it again, wondering if maybe I wasn't clear.

I need your help, Mags. I'm really in trouble. Please, please call.

No, I'd say that's pretty freaking clear. But she hasn't called, and I can't sit here waiting around for her to do it. As much as I wish things were different, they obviously aren't. I'm on my own.

I sigh and toss my quilt back over my bed, shuffling into a pair of fuzzy bear-feet slippers before I settle in at my desk. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I look like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for depression medication, all thin lips and dark circles under my eyes.

Okay, enough. I don't care what the h.e.l.l happened in the last six months, I'm not going to turn into one of those girls who writes bad poetry about endless suffering in solitude.

I stick my tongue out at myself in the mirror and cross my eyes. Better. I'll pick goofy over whiny any day of the week. And twice on Sundays.

I clear my throat and open my laptop because I've got the whole Internet at my fingertips. Surely some study group secrets are out there. There were eighteen of us, for G.o.d's sake. Someone had to say something. I just need to find it.

By lunchtime, the most exciting thing I've found is knitting instructions on Cally Baron's blog. I'm not even kidding. I've practically surfed my way into a coma because this is the most pathetic stalking adventure ever.

These people aren't just clean. It's like I type in their names and get routed directly to the definition of Goody Two-shoes. There isn't a single current reference to any study group member that isn't good-grades this and another-success that, and it's all so boring I could just die.

It's also mostly useless for anything other than filling me in on a few gaps about the group itself. The Ridgeview SAT Study Group lasted the entire summer, and it was a crazy success. G.o.d knows exactly what worked, because from what I can tell from everyone's posts and tweets, we basically just hung out a lot.

Once a week, we'd get together officially to do outlines and flash cards and-meditation and tea? I guess it's studying with a side of Zen or yoga or whatever. And somehow we're now all born-again Einsteins? This is ridiculous.

I mean, really. This does not make sense.

Frowning, I flip screens back to the study group website, sure I'm missing something in the fine print. There's a knock at my bedroom door, and my dad appears, looking a little worn out.

”Hey. Aren't you home early?” I say.

”I'm coming down with something too,” he says, sniffling. ”Figured I'd check in on you.”

”Oh, I just had a stomach thing,” I say, which isn't entirely untrue. ”I feel better now, but I figured I was already in my jammies.”

Dad's face tightens briefly, but in the end he relaxes. I don't tend to skip school, and he doesn't tend to play the heavy. Or maybe he's just tired. His nose and eyes are a little red.

”Do you want me to heat up a can of soup for you?” I offer.

He shakes his head and produces a tissue, blowing his nose trumpet-style. Then he nods at my computer. ”Did they ever update that website?”

I glance back at the study group with a frown. ”Uh, I guess not.”

My father crosses his arms, looking a little haughty. ”I figured he'd be all over getting his corporate sponsor stuff front and center. I still can't believe they're planning on charging for that next year.”

”Charging?”

”For the study group,” he says, then he narrows his eyes at me. ”Don't tell me you changed your mind. You were halfway ready to write the school board when I told you about it.”

”Right. Sorry.” I wave my hand over a stack of miscellaneous papers. ”I'm all wrapped up in this history paper.”

”Well, I'll leave you to it. There's some ginger ale in the fridge if you want it.”

”Already had one. You look like you could use some sleep.”

He grunts and turns around, closing my door behind him.

And I stare at it, more confused than ever. The whole thing is turning into a s...o...b..-Doo episode. Who'd be all over this? And what corporate sponsor? Why in the world would I care about any of it?

My phone buzzes, and I glance over, seeing an incoming call. My phone screen goes bright with light, and Maggie's picture dances across the screen. Every cell in my body does a little jump for joy.

I dive for my phone as if I'll blow up if I miss the call. I just might.

”h.e.l.lo?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. And failing miserably.

”Hey.”

The sound of her voice alone is enough to make me feel better.

”I'm so glad you called,” I say, closing my eyes as relief washes over me.

”I'm n-not sure I should have. But you seem pretty freaked out. Though I'm not sure what you think I'm going to d-do about it.”

”I am freaked out. And I'm not expecting-”

I cut myself off, taking a deep breath and leaning back in my chair. The piece of paper I found in the book stares up at me.

Maggie was right.

”You were right,” I tell her.

”It's known to happen.”

I grin at that, wis.h.i.+ng things were still easy between us. Losing Mags feels like losing a sister. Or maybe a limb.

”Maggie, I have to tell you something, and I know it's going to sound crazy.”

”I doubt you can t-top the last four months of c.r.a.p you've spit out.”

”The last four months feel like a blur,” I say softly. ”A really bad blur that I can barely remember. Or remember at all. And I know this is going to sound completely paranoid, but I think there was something really weird about that SAT study group I was in.”

”Gee, you think?” she asks, and there's no missing the sarcasm in her tone. I can even picture her face, pale brows arched in mock surprise. ”How many times did I t-tell you that, Chlo? A d-dozen? A hundred? And every t-time you threw your New Age c.r.a.p back in my face, yammering on about your perfect boyfriend and eating healthy and your meditation horses.h.i.+t-”

”Meditation?”

”Why d-did you call me, Chloe?” she asks, sounding irritable.

”Because I want to know what happened to Julien Miller. And I think you might have an idea.”