AMANDA
THURSDAY, JANUARY 4
Two days later, I haven’t heard another word from my “secret admirer,” but I can’t get the texts off my mind. The words keep popping up at the most inconvenient times, throwing me off my game. You’re so beautiful it hurts. Instead of worrying about my family on the drive to school, my brain is a skittery mess. You’re way too good for that Carter guy. Is this person into me? What does he know about my boyfriend? Don’t you dare tell Carter Shaw about me. Who is sending those texts?
The whole week is just kind of off. By Thursday night, which feels like Wednesday night because we started back to school on a Tuesday, I’m going stir crazy in my bedroom, texting with Adele and Trina and not doing my homework. I sprawl out on my bed, which my parents upgraded to a king for my sixteenth birthday last year, even though they probably shouldn’t have, and tuck my feet into the folds of the silky duvet. I can’t focus. Carter’s working for his dad tonight, which really means he’s out with Rosalie. Which means my thoughts are running wild.
I click over to Facebook to stalk her one more time, but the girl either maintains zero internet presence, or she really knows her security settings. She’s only posted one new picture since the holidays, a stiff, posed shot of her standing with a girl who looks about six, probably her kid sister, in front of a sad-looking artificial Christmas tree. She’s pretty enough, I guess, if you’re into short girls with hipster frames and ugly, angular hair styles. I bet she thinks she’s “indie,” but she’s obviously a poser. I do not get what he sees in her.
I shove off my bed and walk over to my desk, which is piled with the homework assignments I should be doing. I ignore my books and pick up a framed photo instead, the one that’s been keeping me company since freshman year. It’s a picture of Carter and me at our ninth-grade spring formal, almost exactly three years ago. He’s standing behind me, arms wrapped around me tight, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. His eyes are closed, and my face is split wide in a giant grin. Fourteen-year-old Amanda is all teeth and giggles. I’m wearing a silky purple gown with little spaghetti straps that are embarrassingly freshman year. Carter’s hair is a bit longer and even wavier than he wears it now, and the deep dimples in his cheeks are still baby-smooth. We look more sophisticated now, like we’ve grown into ourselves. Into the people we’re meant to be. But still, this is my favorite picture of us. It’s the one that reminds me I’m living in a fairy tale. For a moment, I close my eyes, and I remember how lucky I’ve been, how lucky I still am.
For the first couple years we were together, I was deliriously happy. When it became obvious my parents saw Carter as more than just my boyfriend, it didn’t feel like pressure because we were in love. Carter’s successful family was just icing on an already perfect cake.
The summer after sophomore year was the first time he cheated on me. I think. Three kids came down with mono at camp, and they sent us all home a few days early. When I got back to Logansville, Winston said Carter was at the pool; I walked in on him making out with Brie McLain in the shady area behind the locker rooms. While Brie ran away shrieking, literally, her blue bikini straps sliding down her shoulders, Carter told me it was a huge mistake. He’d missed me so much. He swore it would never, ever happen again.
I’m not naive. I was raised by Linda Kelly; I know how to sniff out a lie. But I wanted to believe him. I didn’t want to break up. When I finally told my mother, she took both my hands in hers. You’re a compassionate person, Amanda, she said. Carter’s very lucky to have you. Her words sounded like the truth.
I look at the picture again, at fairy-tale us, and my stomach doesn’t fill with the usual butterflies. Changing course now isn’t really an option; there are too many wheels already in motion. Winston and Krystal practically treat me like their daughter-in-law already. Last year, Carter and I were photographed as the state’s most promising young couple for a “Twenty Under Twenty” feature documenting rising influencers. And the truth is, I still love Carter. I just don’t know if he’s still in love with me.
I turn the picture face-down on my desk and wander out into the hallway. It’s dark and quiet, so I switch on the hall light. I can hear Dad shuffling around in his office, performing his evening ritual of letting college basketball play on mute while he reads financial blogs and unloads his work stress into his assistant’s inbox. I didn’t hear him come in. I don’t think I’ve actually seen my father since dinner Tuesday night, the last time he was home early enough for us all to sit down together. But his presence in the house is unmistakable, a tense knot of anxiety and determination.
From the top of the stairs, I can see my mother in the kitchen, pouring a vodka soda. My mother is best avoided after drink number three, but it’s only a quarter after nine. I do some quick calculations. She had drink number one with dinner and number two right after. So this could be either her third or fourth. I decide to risk it and start down toward the kitchen.
“Hi, honey,” she purrs, patting the stool across from her at the marble-topped island. She looks surprised but pleased to find me in her nocturnal domain. Tonight, the sleek surfaces and rich, dark paneling in here suit my somber mood just fine. “Come join me.” Her voice is toasty and smooth, but she’s not slurring yet.
This is about as motherly as Linda Kelly gets. It would never have occurred to her to come upstairs to check on me, but now that I’m in her sight, she’s remembered that face time is key to a healthy mother-daughter relationship.
I grab a Vitamin Water from the fridge and sit down across from where she’s standing at the island, her hands resting against the cool marble. She reaches over and runs four gel-tipped fingernails through my hair.
“Such a beautiful girl,” she murmurs.
I scowl and untwist the cap on my drink.
“Amanda Kelly, what is that face?”
I take a long gulp and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Now it’s my mother’s turn to scowl.
“Use a napkin.” She motions with her eyes toward the cloth squares neatly folded in a basket on the neglected breakfast table. I push myself up and walk over to grab one.
“What is with you tonight?” she asks when I’m perched back on the stool, napkin in hand.
I’m being a pain, and I remind myself that Linda is the reason I found my way into the kitchen in the first place. As hard as my mother’s advice is to take, it usually calms me down. Those texts have gotten to my head. I need her reassurance.
“Carter’s out with that skank from Culver Thrift again.”
“Amanda, language.”
“Sorry, I meant Carter’s out with that boyfriend-thief from a socioeconomically depressed suburb.” The thing is, I don’t know Rosalie. Maybe she doesn’t know that Carter is off the market. Maybe she’s actually nice. But until either of those things are confirmed, it’s easy to hate her.
“And you’re feeling self-conscious.” My mother’s voice is flat. She sighs and sits down across from me. Before she speaks again, she takes a long drink. The ice cubes clink merrily against the glass.
“Amanda, you know your father and I support you and Carter completely.” This is an understatement. Linda and Jack don’t just support Carter—they’re invested in him. Sometimes, I think they’re too focused on the power and stature behind the Shaw name. But I get it. Logansville runs on old money, old customs, old ideals. For ten years, we’ve been faking it. With my future linked up with Carter’s, we’ll have finally made it.
“So do Krystal and Winston,” my mother is saying. “We’re all behind you one hundred percent.”
I nod. She’s right—Carter’s parents do genuinely love me. If they suspect the Kellys are living minimum payment to minimum payment, they’ve never let on. They either don’t care or, more likely, my parents have done an impeccable job of convincing them we’re worth every penny our house and cars suggest.
“But, Amanda,” she continues, “boys will be boys. And people—men, especially—make mistakes. Relationships are a long game. There are going to be other women—”
“Mom—”
“Listen, Amanda. I know you don’t like me saying this, that you think it’s not feminist, but, honey, you have to make some allowances. Do you think I haven’t done the same with your father? That Krystal hasn’t with Winston? You can’t hold on too tight, Amanda. A tight leash snaps. You have to play strategically, let Carter get those other girls out of his system. They can’t compete with you, honey. Not in the end.”
I let my mother’s words sink in, but the usual rhetoric isn’t having its desired effect. I don’t know what I want her to say. Something better. Something more satisfying. “It’s not other girls plural, Mom. It’s just Rosalie.”
“And you need to understand that she may not be the last girl Carter experiments with. But she won’t last long, honey. You and Carter have such a bright future ahead, and he will always come back to you. This girl is nothing you need to worry about.”
She drains the last of her drink and lifts the bottle of Ketel One. Drink number whatever is my cue to go.
“You’re right,” I say, even though the tightness in my chest says otherwise. I need to forget about those texts, get my head back in the game. “I have AP Euro to finish. I’d better get back upstairs.”
“Of course,” my mother nods, glancing at the clock. It’s 9:40. I wonder if it occurs to her that she should be the one asking me if I’ve finished my homework. She squints at the numbers, then brings her glass back to her lips.
I turn toward the stairs.
“Everyone has your back, Amanda. You and Carter are meant to be together. The Kellys and Shaws are not going to let you fail.”
I don’t feel very comforted as I walk back toward my room. My mother’s pep talks are never really pep talks. They’re reminders that failure isn’t an option. That my future lies with Carter, and I’d better figure out how to make it work.
I walk back into my bedroom and let the niceness of it all sink in. The polished wood floors and soft area rug. The photo collage of me and the girls above my bed. The gorgeous oak bureau and rose glass lamp. I want my parents to be able to relax, to stop worrying that we’re on the verge of losing all this. And I want Carter, and everything a life with him promises to be. But I want more than that. I want love and trust and forever and ever.
I know my mother has my best interests at heart, that I should trust her, but lately, I’ve felt less and less sure her way of handling things is going to lead to my happily ever after. Her voice is still ringing in my ears as I close the door behind me. Do you think I haven’t done the same with your father? That Krystal hasn’t with Winston? I grab my phone from the top of my duvet and sit down at my desk. I want more than compromises and willful ignorance. I want everything our parents have—but better. And I want it to work with Carter. So everyone gets to be happy. My fingers gravitate toward the onyx heart, and I slide it back and forth along the chain.
My AP European history book sits in front of me unopened. I thumb through to somewhere near the middle and stare at the chapter I’m supposed to be reading. The words swim across the page, so I close it again and pick up my phone, flipping it over to stare at the screen. There are a few new texts from Trina and Adele, and two unread messages from Private, from 9:23 and 9:36. My breath catches in my throat.
Have you been thinking about me? I’ve been thinking about you.
Your boyfriend’s not thinking about you at all tonight, but I’m not like him.
WHO IS THIS?
I’m furious, but I can’t stop my heart from leaping into my throat. I wait three long minutes. No reply.
Why are you blocking your number?
Don’t you want me to know who I’m talking to?
This Private person is definitely messing with me, but maybe it’s because he really cares. . . . Part of me wants to nip this little distraction in the bud, but another part of me is dying for a glimpse behind the mask, to figure out who’s been spending so much time with me on their mind.
And then it hits me. This person isn’t showering me with attention because they care. If Private were really a “secret admirer,” he’d be sending me a lot more compliments and a lot fewer digs about Carter. I’ve been looking at this all wrong. These texts aren’t from someone who likes me. They’re from someone who wants to play on my insecurities, rub Carter’s cheating in my face, and break us up. Something inky dark swirls at the edges of my vision, causing me to pitch forward and clutch at the edge of my desk. The pads of my fingers go white against the wood.
Because she must know about me.
Rosalie.