AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 2
At seven fifteen on the first morning back after break, Dad is shut in his office with a thermos of coffee, doing prework before driving to the firm. And my mother is still in bed. Family meals are a rarity in the Kelly household, breakfast in particular. I have a vague recollection of bright, early-morning chatter over juice and toast in our old house, but like most things that used to make my parents happy, that habit died in Pittsburgh.
I open the fridge, already knowing I’ll find an assortment of boxed hors d’oeuvres from Sunday night and not much else. My mother was too hung over yesterday to do much beyond watch an endless stream of House of Cards reruns in her bathrobe, and I can’t remember the last time Dad did the shopping. I pour some cereal into a bowl and drain the last of the almond milk.
At seven thirty, when there’s still no sound of my mother stirring, I pluck the list from the wicker basket on the counter and head upstairs.
“Mom?” I stand outside my parents’ bedroom door and hold my breath. A minute later, I knock again. “Can I come in?”
A muffled groan that might be yes or go away filters through the door. I grasp the handle and push it open partway. Inside, I’m greeted by pitch dark. The heavy drapes are drawn all the way across the windows, and it may as well be midnight in here.
“What is it, Amanda?” My mother’s voice is sharp and edged with last night’s drinks. My eyes adjust to find her propped up on one elbow in bed. Her sleeping mask is shoved halfway up her forehead, her hair bunched in the elastic. She looks less than happy to see me.
“I saw the list on the counter.” I choose my words carefully. “Should I go to the store after school?” A younger version of me would have whined about there being nothing to eat. Now I know to skip straight to the part where I offer to go shopping myself.
She collapses back on her pillow. “I think you should. I have the Land Trust luncheon at one, and I don’t know when I’ll find the time.”
Because she won’t be out of bed until noon. Because she’ll tell Mrs. Steinway that the car’s not running right, so she can get a ride, so she can make it a three-martini lunch.
I’ve pulled the door almost closed when she adds, “Amanda? Don’t use the family card. There was a fraud alert last week, and they said something about deactivating. Take the Amex from my purse.”
I pause, fingers on the door handle, mouth half open. There are so many things I want to say right now, but all of them would make this worse. Did she forget I used the family Visa at the florist on Sunday, and it was fine? My mother lies like she knocks back top-shelf vodka—liberally. She must think I’m entirely oblivious. There’s nothing wrong with the card except the balance, which is probably near the limit again.
The Amex is my mother’s private card; I don’t think Dad knows she has it. She uses it to pay for spa days and liquor store runs and pays it off from her personal savings, which have been floating all the things we can’t really afford anymore but apparently can’t live without. Based on my mother’s recent spike in stress and alcohol consumption, I’d wager her savings are nearly tapped. My parents have never talked to me about it, not directly. But I’ve seen the statements. I know we’ve been making the minimum monthly payments since middle school and racking up debt of the many-zeros variety. Now that Dad’s a partner again, things will get easier. But getting out of debt this deep won’t happen overnight, especially at the rate my mother keeps spending.
“Okay,” I say softly. I close my mouth, then the door, and fly back down the sleek wooden staircase into the dark gleam of the kitchen—all marble and stainless steel—where my mother’s purse slouches on the unused breakfast table. My fingers close around her wallet, and along with it, a sheet of white printer paper, pristinely folded. Feeling only slightly guilty for snooping—she did send me into her purse, after all—I open it up, expecting a spa pass or agenda for her all-important luncheon, but it’s an email from Carter’s dad.
I can’t stop thinking about Sunday’s tête-à-tête. In truth, my skin tingles nonstop. I fear it’s become a bit of a rueful habit, and yet, I’ve no resolve to effect its end. Have you?
But to the point: You need an answer, N or V. Always V, my dear. In the end, always V.
My eyes skate to the top of the paper. It’s from last night, sent from Winston’s personal account to my mother’s. I tell myself it’s just a few short lines of obscure parental prose, but I drop it back down into the cave of her purse like it has teeth. I need to get the credit card, get to school. Inside her wallet, in slots below the American Express and family Visa, are three new cards I don’t recognize. I slip the Amex into my pocket, shove her wallet back into her purse, and head down to the garage.
• • •
Most people listen to music on the way to school, but I like the silence on the drive to Logansville South. Sometimes it’s the only quiet in my entire day. Once I hit the parking lot, Adele and Trina will be waiting to meet up with me for the walk to the main entrance, and then everyone wants my attention the second we hit the doors. That’s the price of being Amanda Kelly—and 98 percent of the time, I love it.
But the coupé is my sanctuary. For seven minutes every day, I’m not private Amanda: walking on the eggshells that line the floors at home, or proving myself to Carter, again and again. And I’m not public Amanda, either: beautiful, sharp-tongued, admired, feared. Queen of the senior class. For these seven minutes, I don’t have to be any of those girls. I can just be me.
And today, the real me is a ball of nerves. As I drive, I try to shut the anxiety-spiral down, but the thoughts keep coming: How my dad practically lives at the office and we still can’t pay the bills. How deeply my mother has sunk into her well of 80 proof and delusion. And how they’ve pinned all their hopes on my relationship with Carter. What marrying into the Shaws would mean for our family. It’s the last thought that makes my stomach churn and my knuckles whiten against the wheel.
This summer, I’ll turn eighteen. In the fall, Carter and I will join WVU’s incoming class. He’s a legacy there, and of course I’ll join him. I can only imagine what kind of strain a private university would put on our family, and following Carter to WVU is the kind of smart financial choice my mother can get behind.
But first, I have to endure a few more months of her. Hopefully, she won’t last that long. As I wait for the light on Foster to turn green I take in a long, slow breath. Carter may have one glaring flaw, but otherwise, he’s perfect for me. And even more importantly, he’s perfect for my family. A life with Carter means making my parents’ lives good again. I can make that happen.
As soon as Rosalie gets out of my way.
Whenever I want to drive out to Culver Ridge and strangle that home-wrecker-in-training, I repeat my mother’s words like a mantra: Don’t treat other girls like the competition, and they won’t be. My mother may be a lush, but she is the authority on maintaining a powerful relationship.
Once we get to college, Rosalie will be out of the picture, and maybe then, everything will go back to normal for Carter and me. Back to the way it used to be. For a quick moment, my fingers find the onyx heart around my neck. WVU’s French department may not be as highly ranked as the language programs at the other schools where my guidance counselor insisted I apply, but my eye is on the goal. I don’t need the best French degree in the country. Being Mrs. Shaw will open doors and maybe even give my parents back a bit of the happiness that seems to have drained away with their savings.
The light changes, and traffic on Foster starts to move again. I flick on my left turn signal and wait for a break in the line of cars. Recently, my seven-minute drive has been extended to nine because of the addition they’re putting on the school. We’re getting a new science wing and a second gymnasium (because Logansville taxpayers were not about to fund any large-scale expenditure not somehow tied to the varsity athletics program) and so the front entrance to the parking lot is closed off during the construction.
As I wait for the traffic in the opposite lane to clear, I scan the work boots and hard hats for David Gallagher, who’s been working here since November. Ben’s older brother is a freshman at NPCC-L, the Logansville branch of the Northern Panhandle Community College, but he was still a senior here last year. He’s trim and athletic to his little brother’s awkward lank, at once laid back and outgoing. I honestly don’t know how he and Ben are related.
I spot David hauling a wheelbarrow full of something covered in a gray tarp just as the lane finally clears and I’m able to make my left past the site and the little lot where the construction vehicles are parked, and on into the main parking lot. I can see the outlines of his arm and chest muscles through his jacket. I honk my horn as I pass by, and he looks up and waves. Early freshman year, before Carter and I got together, David took me out to the movies a couple times. We were never a couple, but we had fun. Carter doesn’t know—will never know—that David was my first kiss.
There’s some beef with his dad and Carter’s, though, so we pretty much stopped hanging out when Carter and I started dating. Never stopped Ben from hanging around, of course. I always kind of wanted David to hook up with Trina, but his family’s a mess, so it’s probably for the best that it never happened.
As I leave the construction site behind and circle around to the parking lot’s back entrance, I try to dial the anxiety down to a dull roar. It’s time to be public Amanda: game face on. I pull into the lot and whisper under my breath, “You’ve got this.”
I shift into park and close my eyes, allowing myself one more moment of silence. The air inside the car is still vibrating with the echo of my whisper. I feel centered, energized. I’m Amanda Fucking Kelly. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I just need one more minute.
“Bitch, it’s freezing out here.” Adele’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. Her face is pressed against the window, and she’s fogging it up on purpose. She presses her lips together and leaves a smeary kiss right in the center of the glass. “Our asses are turning into icicles.” She reaches over to smack the back of Trina’s puffy coat, somewhere in the neighborhood of where her ass would be if she actually had one. Trina lets out a yelp.
Time to turn it on. Sharp wit. On top. In charge. I throw open the door and a second later I’m standing next to them in the parking lot, shivering and jumping up and down like it’s a lot colder than it actually is.
“If you want to survive the Logansville winter, you’ve gotta shake it, ladies.” I shimmy from my shoulders all the way down to my boots, and we all burst out laughing. Adele lets out a giant snort, and then we’re doubled over, laughing twice as hard, and Trina’s yelling, “I’m peeing! I’m peeing!” even though she’s totally not.
All around us, car doors are slamming and everyone’s staring because we’re the loudest people in the student lot. We play like we don’t give a shit what anyone thinks, and it’s not like they’re judging us, anyway. They want to know what we’re cracking up about. They want in on the joke. It’s the first day back to school after break, and it’s clear that we had the best time. We have the best stories. And this morning, we’re having the most fun.
Game on.
We start walking, arms linked together, puffy sleeve into puffy sleeve. Marshmallow arms. My phone buzzes again as we’re about halfway across the lot, a reminder of the text I ignored. “Please hold,” I say, making all three of us wait so I can dig it out of my bag.
I click on the screen and a selfie of Carter and me raising champagne flutes lights up in the background. My sleek brown hair and pearl-pale skin look stunning against the bright red of my dress. Cutting across the background photo, the new message indicator reads Private Number. I suck in my breath and click on the icon.
You’re so beautiful it hurts.
I stare at the five words on the screen. My heart flutters, just a little. “I don’t know. There’s no caller ID.”
“Let me see.” Adele grabs my phone, not waiting for a response. “Ooh, flirty. Did Carter get a new phone?”
“I think I would know.” I grab my phone back and start typing.
Who is this?
No answer.
Hello? Who’s phone is this?
“Can we do this inside?” Trina is hopping from one foot to the other, her white wool scarf and the pompoms on the ends of her spotless white boots bouncing up and down against her long black coat. “I promise we can still play detective where there’s actual heat on.”
“You look like a penguin,” Adele giggles. She turns out her feet and hands like flippers and proceeds to waddle in a circle around Trina. “I’m Chilly Willy the peeeeenguin!” she trills while Trina swats at her with her scarf.
“Fine.” Something about that text makes me feel jittery. I can’t tell if it’s good-jittery or bad-jittery, but suddenly my heart’s racing. I fix my gaze on the massive brick and sandstone structure that is Logansville South. Time to get my head back in the back-to-school game. I speed-walk across the rest of the parking lot, Trina matching my pace and Adele struggling to keep up in the doubtlessly too-tight dress beneath her metallic silver coat.
Inside, we push through the crush of kids loitering outside the auditorium and head straight to my locker, which sits in a quiet alcove off the main first floor artery. My boots make a steady click-click-click like a heartbeat against the white-and-gold-flecked floors. It smells like it always smells in winter: stale air mixed with melting crayons, the scent our old boilers pump out through the vents when the heat’s up full-blast. I check my phone twice on the way, but there’s still no response.
“It’s probably a wrong number,” Adele suggests. “I bet there’s a great story behind it.” She crosses two spread-open palms through the air in front of her, setting the scene. “Get this: Some girl typed a random number into some dude’s phone at a party over break, and he thinks he’s texting her, but really she’s in Morgantown somewhere. . . .”
I try to tune her animated chatter out. She’s probably right, but I don’t want to believe her. Adele finishes her story, and I dial my combination while she squats down over her bag, rummaging around for something that must be buried deep at the bottom, and Trina leans back against the wall. I didn’t tell either of them about the text on New Year’s. They would have spent the rest of the party trying to crack the case of the mystery texter, and I was not about to give this Private Number person that kind of satisfaction.
But maybe this isn’t the same person. You’re so beautiful it hurts. What if this morning’s text really is from Carter, some mystery he’s cooked up involving burners and a scavenger hunt? It’s definitely not like him. Carter is two dozen roses on Valentine’s Day and tiny onyx hearts on gold chains and the tasting menu at Taviani’s downtown. He’s traditional. He’s not the games and intrigue type, and I’ve never wanted him to be until this moment.
I can’t explain it, but I’m suddenly hooked on the idea of this new Carter. My heart is still jumping just a little as I hang up my coat and grab my books. Adele is still buried deep in her bag, tongue sticking out through her teeth. Whatever she’s doing, she looks possessed. Finally, she gives up and turns to Trina. “Lip gloss?”
Trina hands over a tiny blue canister just as my phone finally buzzes again.
Consider me your secret admirer. You’re way too good for that Carter guy.
My heart sinks. It was silly to think it might be Carter. I want to tell this so-called “secret admirer” to shove it because what is this, fourth grade? But a part of me, just a tiny part, is curious. Someone wants to play my White Knight.
“What’d it say?” Adele asks, standing and trying to read over my shoulder. I click off the screen and toss my phone back in my bag before she or Trina can get a look.
“You were right. Wrong number.”
“Sucks.” Adele makes an exaggerated pouty face, then unzips her coat revealing a burnt orange sweater dress. “God, it’s a million degrees in this place. Can’t it just be a normal temperature?”
“You know they always crank the heat way up after break.” Trina takes Adele by the elbow and starts guiding her toward the stairwell. Their lockers are one floor up.
“See you in Aiden’s,” Adele calls over her shoulder, making a show of fanning herself and faux-stumbling as they walk.
“Bye,” I call back, my words dissolving into a laugh.
In the fall, we discovered our studio art teacher, Mr. Parker, is Mr. Aiden Parker, so now we secretly call him Aiden because it’s the sexiest name ever. We all take art as an elective, even though Trina’s the only one of us who’s any good. Her obsession with that high-end Canon is a bit extreme, but she does have a kind of amazing talent for photography.
I wave and wait for them to disappear into the stairwell. As soon as they’re gone, I shut my locker and turn my phone back on, heart beating fast.
Who IS this?
Are you messing with me?
This time, there’s no delay. I get three texts back, one after the other.
Of course not.
I know you love a good game.
And don’t you dare tell Carter Shaw about me.