AMANDA
SATURDAY, JANUARY 13
The bed lurches below me. I smash my face into my pillow and breathe in, trying to grasp hold of last night. We were at Bronson’s. Adele was pouring shots, some mixture of vodka and Frangelico that went down like chocolate cake. I must have had five. More. The bed lurches again, and I pull my knees into my chest.
When I drink at all, I am the two-drink queen. One to get the party started, a second halfway through the night, and done. When you live with my mother, you pay attention to your alcohol consumption. But last night, I was drinking to forget. The pinging against my windows. The avalanche of photos in the rock garden. The texts. You think it’s over between Rosalie and Carter, but they’re both lying to you.
I cornered Trina at the party, between shots two and three. She swore up and down she’d never sent the photos to anyone, that they’d all been deleted. “A few days after I showed them to you, promise.”
I glared at her. A few days? That was a lot of time.
She also swore she never loaned out her camera, and I believe her on that. The thing cost as much as last season’s Birkin bag, and it’s pretty much never out of her sight. But someone could have taken the memory card.
“What about in Aiden’s?” We usually left our bags piled in a corner in studio art. “Or at the diner that Friday?”
Trina considered. “I guess someone could have swiped the card, then replaced it later? It really could have happened anywhere.”
I groaned and looked around for Adele. I needed another one of those shots.
Trina chewed on her lower lip. “Fuck, Amanda, I’m sorry. It was two months ago. I just don’t remember.”
Trina was officially on my shit list, but what else could I say? I couldn’t expect her to remember something she’d never seen in the first place.
Unless she was straight up lying.
I swore Trina to secrecy about the rock garden incident, then found Adele. After chocolate cake shots three, four, and five, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
As the night wore on, I found myself wandering aimlessly through Bronson’s parents’ massive basement, avoiding Trina, avoiding Carter, weaving in and out of conversations at the pool table, the vintage jukebox, the restaurant-style bar. By two, I was ready to go home, but Trina was DD and I wasn’t in the mood to ask her for a favor. Instead, I slipped through the sliding glass doors onto the pool deck and plopped down in one of the loungers. The plastic cushion was ice against my legs, and I curled them into my chest, tilting my head back to watch a massive American flag whip from the balcony. Snap, snap, chilly ribbons of red, white, and blue in the night. My thoughts flickered to Bronson’s dad, an air force general with a lot of glistening stars on the shoulder strap of his uniform, away overseeing something classified in the Arizona desert. Nights there were probably freezing too.
“Hey.”
I spun around to face the dim figure sprawled across a lounger by the deep end. The blocky pool house cast a dark slice of shadow from his face down to his chest.
“Alexander?”
“It’s warmer over here. Trust me, you want to be by the heat.”
I made my way over, scooting another lounger beside him. Up close, I could see that he had the door to the pool house propped open. Heat poured out against our backs.
“It’s fine. Bronson does it all the time in the winter.” He sounded entirely sober, and the lounger’s built-in cup holder was empty.
“You’re not drinking?” I asked.
“I never drink.”
“Huh.” My mind reeled back across all the Friday nights, the house parties and fetes, the endless social functions where Alexander had been present since he and Bronson got together in June. Half a year’s worth of parties, and I’d never noticed.
“I don’t either.” I could taste the thickness of my words, how they wanted to stick to my tongue. “Not much, anyway. Not usually.”
“What changed tonight?” he asked. Not pushing, just curious.
For a moment, I was silent. It hit me that I’d never had a real conversation with Alexander before, barely even knew Bronson in a below-the-surface way. Bronson was lacrosse and skydiving and daredevil stuff—stuff Carter liked. I’d only learned this year that he’d lived in nine different states and had two little half sisters—twin redheads—who lived with his mom. And I liked Alexander, a lot actually. But he’d always just been Bronson’s boyfriend. That he went to a different school put him somewhat on the outside, maybe in a good way. He probably didn’t even know about the vandalism at my locker.
“Do you ever wonder if you see yourself one way, but everyone else, they see something different?” I asked. “And you’re the only one who can’t see the real you?”
Alexander smiled, lopsided and toothy. “All the damn time.”
“And maybe,” I went on, “if people really cared, they’d tell you the truth. About yourself. About how they really feel. But no one likes to tell the truth.”
Alexander tilted his head to one side and looked at me closely, as if for the first time. “Is someone lying to you, Amanda?”
“I don’t know.”
• • •
I force my eyes open, letting in the harsh morning light, and drag myself out of bed. My phone says 11:53. By the time I’m showered and dressed, I feel slightly more human. I take a long sip of coffee as my browser opens to its usual tabs: Gmail, Facebook, Atlantic-Pacific, and Weather.com, ’cause a girl’s got to be prepared. I spend some time scrolling through Blair Eadie’s latest posts, a winter-in-the-Cape-themed series complete with a gorgeous cashmere shawl and snow parasol, and then click over to my Gmail. Rosalie again. The email is from last night, probably thanking me for Thursday’s act of goodwill. Not that she deserved it, apparently.
Subject: Re: Just thought you should know
From: Rosalie Bell
To: me
Hey. So, thanks for not sending my dad those photos. Will you delete them please? I think your anonymous texter was pissed because they got in touch. No caller ID, serious dirtbag?
Something tells me I’m not the only one who got an ultimatum for Carter’s birthday. I know I’m not your favorite person, but we need to meet up. Promise I’ll explain everything.
Here’s my number: 723-958-6593.
Rosalie
No way. When I stare at the email, the photos from Thursday night are all I can see. Her body pressed against Carter’s. I jam my fists into my eyes, but the image is burned there. I take a deep breath, then hit reply.
Subject: Re: Re: Just thought you should know
From: me
To: Rosalie Bell
I know you’re lying. We are not about to form some two-woman detective agency.
Figure it out on your own.
—AK
I add her number to my phone, just in case, then toss it in my bag.
I need to get out of the house. I need to drive. My stomach is still in knots, and my head is throbbing. I can’t face an encounter with Linda or Jack right now, if he’s even home. If she’s even up.
When I slip into the hall and down the stairs, the house is mercifully quiet.
As soon as I hit the road, I feel a little better. My brain is still banging against my temples, but the knots in my stomach start to release. Despite the freezing weather, I crack the window to let in some fresh air. I don’t really think about where I’m going, and when I find myself at the high school, I make my usual left at the construction site.
I drive past the crew, putting in a Saturday shift. In the time since we got back from winter break, the gymnasium has gone from a framework and scaffolding to something that almost resembles a real building. I pull into the parking lot and turn off the ignition, but leave the heat running. A minute passes, then ten. I don’t know what to believe, who I can talk to. At Verde on Wednesday, I swear Carter was telling the truth. But on Thursday, someone wanted me to know he was lying. I picture Carter and Rosalie, still together, maybe together right now. Was his car in the driveway when I left the house? I can’t remember. I didn’t look. Maybe I didn’t want to know.
I’m entirely absorbed in my dark fantasy of the two of them in Culver Ridge, doing whatever they do there together—drive around? hang out at CVS? make out in the backseat of the Mercedes?—when there’s a tap on the passenger’s side window. My eyes fly open. A tall, broad-shouldered man is standing next to my car, arms on the hood, face pressed close to the window. I shriek.
“Hey, it’s just me!” He backs two steps away from the car, hands up in front of his chest.
“Jesus Christ on the cross, David Gallagher. Don’t do that to me.”
I wait for my breathing to even out, then press the unlock button. David grins and swings open the passenger’s side door.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Get in, Gallagher. You didn’t have to sneak up on me like that.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you, honest.” David sits down and slides the seat all the way back, stretches out his legs.
“How’d you know I was up here?” I ask.
“Saw you pull in a while ago. Didn’t see you leave, so I thought I’d come find you on my break.”
I can’t remember the last time David and I really talked. The other night at the diner barely counts. Ever since he graduated last year, I’ve barely seen him except around the construction site.
“Mind if I smoke?”
I’m about to tell him yes, I do mind, no cigarettes in the coupé, but then I notice that David’s holding up a joint. I never smoke pot—Carter doesn’t approve. I can feel him sitting between us, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Only if you plan to share that.”
David grins and pulls out a lighter. Imaginary Carter narrows his eyes at me, sad frown lines tugging at his lips. David takes a long pull, then passes the joint my way. I hesitate, but just for a second. What Carter doesn’t know won’t hurt us. I suck the smoke deep into my lungs and immediately explode into a fit of hacking and choking.
“Easy there, cowgirl.” David is laughing at me. “Hit it again, just take it slow.”
I get the coughing under control, then do as instructed. This time, I manage to get the smoke in and out of my lungs without incident.
“First time?” David asks.
“Almost. Clearly I need more practice.”
“Come round the school on Saturdays anytime. I’ll smoke you up. You should bring Trina.”
So David is into Trina. A smile flickers across my lips, then just as quickly dies when I remember Trina’s on my shit list.
“Thanks, I might take you up on that.” I glance down at the construction site. “How’s the project going, anyway?”
“Scheduled for completion in June. Too bad you’ll graduate before you get to use it.”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Seriously, Amanda? You should see the sad excuse for a track and field they’ve got out at NPCC-L.” David used to play lacrosse for South, but he was never as good as his little brother.
“No team at community college?”
“Not exactly. But I’m getting out of there anyway.”
I raise my eyebrows. He passes the joint back to me, and I take another hit.
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m applying to WVU, sophomore transfer. I’m pretty sure I’ll get in. I just have to put together enough cash.”
“You’ll be there with Carter and me!” My voice is almost a squeal. For a moment, I forget that no part of my future with Carter is certain. And then I remember. If I lose Carter, I lose WVU too. Because how could I face four years on the same campus if we’re not together? Which leaves me with the three other, significantly more expensive schools where I’ve applied, if I even get in. Which leaves my family where exactly?
“That’s amazing.” I try and fail to sound cheerful. “I really hope it works out, David.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not a done deal yet. WVU’s state, but it’s not exactly free.”
Right. However bad we’re struggling, David’s family’s struggling even more. I’m sure going to Carl for a loan isn’t an option. I lean back into the headrest and close my eyes. After three hits, I’m definitely feeling something. Warm and almost weightless. But something else too. I turn until I’m facing David head-on. We used to have fun freshman year. We never did anything fancy—the movies, the mall—but he always made me feel like the prettiest girl in the room. The only girl worth his time.
“Listen, I’ve gotta get back.” David retrieves what’s left of the joint and opens the car door. I wrap my arms tight around my waist, as if he might have seen inside me just now, as if I can stop him from looking.
“Just don’t get on the road for a while, okay? Get some air, take a walk around the track.”
“I’m not that stoned,” I protest. But I know this was a mistake. David, the pot. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, Carter’s disappointment mingling with my mother’s, my father’s. Somehow, I’m letting everybody down.
“Just looking out for you, kid,” he says, a flicker of something I don’t recognize flashing across his face, then gone.
“Don’t worry about me.” My voice is tight. David hesitates for a moment.
“Give Trina my regards?”
“Of course.” But I know I won’t say anything to Trina. It’s selfish, but so what? Being with David isn’t an option for me. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. I should be nice, set them up, but I feel bitter, mean.
He waves, then heads back down to the site. I sit in the car for a few more minutes, trying to enjoy the soft fabric and blasting heat. My headache’s almost gone, but I’m not ready to go home.
I decide to take David’s advice and step out of the car into the cold, crisp air. I head down toward the track. I’ve spent countless hours on the bleachers, watching Carter’s games. Today, it’s totally deserted. I leave the gate swinging behind me and start walking across the field. For a moment, I have this feeling like I’ve already graduated and I’m back in Logansville, walking out here like old times. The grass is cold and crunchy beneath my feet. That’s the sound of high school, I think. The sounds of memories. I’m swaddled like a baby in my puffy coat; the cold can’t catch me. I lie down in the middle of the field and close my eyes. Everything melts away—David, Carter, college, my parents. I’m floating.
Suddenly, there’s the sharp bang of metal against metal. I sit up, heart pounding.
“Hello?” I must have fallen asleep; I’m groggy and freezing.
No one answers.
“David?”
I jump to my feet, then turn slowly in a circle. There’s no one here. My heart is still pounding fast, too fast. The field, once familiar and welcoming, is menacing and cold. I have to get out of here. Now.
I start running, but when I get to the gate, it’s closed, latch wrapped in a bike lock and fastened. I weave my fingers into the mesh of metal diamonds and shake, tears stinging my eyes. The field is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence on three sides. On the fourth are doors to the locker rooms, but they’ll be locked up for the weekend. I make a half-hearted attempt to climb, but the mesh is far too fine. My boots scrape futilely against the metal. I’m trapped.
I sink to the grass, back sliding down the fence. This gate never gets locked. Someone saw me here. Someone did this to me on purpose.
I take out my phone, hands shaking, knowing full well there’s going to be a message waiting for me. Sure enough, two brand-new texts from Private.
You think you’re smart, but you’re just an animal in a cage. The sooner you learn that, the better this will end for you, Princess.
You have 11 more days to pull off a public breakup. I know you can bring the hurt, Amanda—don’t let me down.
I’ve been worrying about all the wrong things. While I was sweating over David and the pot, I should have been thinking about the person who is watching my every move. Not Carter, not my parents. Private. This is payback for Thursday night, for sending the photos to Rosalie instead of her dad.
I bang my head against the locked gate and scream, but there’s no one around to hear.
I can’t call Trina, or Adele for that matter. This is too embarrassing. I open up a new conversation and text Alexander.
Hey, you around?
Yeah.
I need you to come to South. Bring wire cutters, I’m locked in at the track.
Just get here. Please?
On my way.
And Alexander? Don’t tell anyone.