AMANDA
MONDAY, JANUARY 15
We’re off school for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, which means a full day of preseason training camp for Carter and no French class for me. When my mother catches me moping, she puts me to work on the benefit. The board members are supercompetitive; it’s about the arts, but mostly it’s about Logansville prowess. Linda always comes out on top. Always.
And this afternoon, she is not happy. By the one-week mark pre-event, my mother should be fully in the black. The Logansville elite must be feeling stingy this year. She’s been camped out in Dad’s office since noon trying the big-ticket donors she hasn’t yet reached while I’m on my phone at the kitchen table working my way down the new member list, thoughts running wild between calls.
It’s been two days since someone locked me in at the track, and Private’s been totally silent. Alexander thinks I was at school getting a book and the locker room door latched behind me. The lie doesn’t even make sense, but fortunately he didn’t ask questions.
When I’m not thinking about Private, I’m thinking about Carter, replaying his promises at Verde about new beginnings and always and forever. But photos tell their own kind of truth. In that Rosalie picture, Carter looked happy in a way I haven’t seen in ages. That kind of happiness doesn’t just vanish in a snap. He barely seemed to notice me avoiding him at Bronson’s party. Then yesterday, he canceled our dinner plans, and his Mercedes was gone from the driveway by midafternoon. I’m not naive. I know he went back to Culver Ridge.
I pick at my nail polish and stare outside. The snow flurries that have been swirling all afternoon are starting to come down fat and thick. The absolute worst thing about Private—worse even than fake blood or headless teddy bears or horrible pictures or the stunt on the field—is that I think he or she might be right. I do deserve better than Carter Shaw.
The problem is, I don’t know who I am without him.
For years, he’s been my everything. Ever since we were kids, our parents and their friends loved to say how adorable we were together, how we were going to get married someday. When you hear it enough times, you start to believe it. I’ve known I’d be Mrs. Amanda Shaw for as long as I can remember. It’s who I am.
Tears prick my eyes, and I punch another number from the donor list into my phone and reach yet another answering machine. When my mother emerges from the office at a few minutes after six, she’s scowling.
“I can’t reach the Beaufords.”
“Maybe they’re out?” I suggest.
“They’re screening. Give me your phone.”
“What?” I grab for it protectively.
“I’m going to try them from your number, Amanda.”
There’s no use arguing. I hand it over. “Fine. I’m starving.”
My mother looks at the microwave clock as if she’s just realized we didn’t break for lunch, and it’s already been pitch dark for an hour.
“Put in an order at Taro, please, darling? The spa bento; I need something light. Your father will want those tempura rolls he gets.”
I don’t bother to point out that they’ll be cold and disgusting by the time he gets home. Instead, I say, “You have my phone.” For a moment, it looks like she’s going to give it back. She actually looks physically pained by the prospect of not outsmarting the Beaufords as soon as humanly possible. I sigh. “Never mind. I’ll use my computer.”
My mother smiles and disappears into the dining room to make her victory call.
Upstairs, I click through the menu options and punch in the numbers on the family Visa, which is now back in commission. My stomach is literally growling. Estimated delivery time forty to sixty minutes, with delays due to weather. I glance out my bedroom window into the swirl of white, then I wander back down into the kitchen to grab a fruit smoothie from the fridge. My blood sugar is crashing.
“Now, Jacques, that is not what I was expecting from you this year.” My mother’s voice carries from the dining room. She sounds determined in that dripping-with-honey way she has when she’s trying to angle more money out of donors. “Well, based on prior giving history, of course.” There’s a pause. “No, Winston has nothing to do with this. Jacques, you know the donor lists are confidential.”
Last year, Linda did a lot of her fund-raising across the street when our downstairs bathroom was being redone. She claimed it was too loud in our house to concentrate. Knowing my mother, she tried to reach Jacques Beauford from the Shaws’ phone during last year’s fund-raising blitz. By next year, they’re going to be on to her little telephone game.
I drain my smoothie in a few large gulps and rinse out the bottle in the sink. There’s another pause from the dining room. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but—hold on . . . No, there’s a beep. No, it’s Amanda’s phone, I’m not sure . . . Jacques, I’m going to have to call you back.”
I toss the bottle in the recycling and head toward the dining room. Whoever’s calling, they’re calling me. But when I get to the doorway, my mother’s already picked up.
“No, this is Linda. I was— What? Winston, slow down.”
I walk over and extend my hand for my phone, but she jerks her head away.
“The benefit has been tying up the landline . . . Yes, I’m glad you had Amanda’s number too. Now, where are you?”
I drop my hand, but don’t walk away. Linda’s silky fund-raising voice has been replaced with parent voice. Something is wrong. Something with Carter. I can feel the smoothie I just inhaled sloshing around in my stomach.
“I’ll go across the street. I’m sure Krystal just has her ringer off. . . . Winston, I’m happy to do it.” Pause. “Yes, we’ll be there shortly.”
My mother places my phone down on the dining room table.
“What happened? Where’s Carter?” I grasp for the chain around my throat, and my fingers find the little onyx heart.
My mother reaches for my other hand, but I yank it away. I don’t want to be comforted right now. I want to know what the hell is going on.
“Just tell me.”
“Sweetie, there’s been an accident. The roads are very icy in the storm. Carter’s in the hospital, but he’s going to be fine.”
Oh my god, oh my god. All my doubts, all my pent-up bad feelings about Carter . . . It’s like I somehow willed this to happen. I spin around toward the kitchen. I need my bag, my car keys, I need to go.
“Sweetie, wait! He’s going into surgery. You won’t be able to see him yet.”
“I don’t care.” I grab my coat from the closet and shove my arms into the sleeves. “Mercy or Presbyterian?”
“Mercy. Winston can’t reach Krystal, but he thinks she’s home. I’m going to call your father, and then I’m going across the street.”
“Fine.”
“If you wait, we can all go—”
“I’ll see you there.” I’m already halfway down the basement stairs. Going across the street to find Krystal sounds like a one-woman mission. I have to get in my car. I have to get to the hospital.
“Amanda, drive slow. It’s very slick,” my mother calls after me.
I wave at her from the bottom of the stairs, okay okay. Then, I slip into the garage.
• • •
The drive to Mercy takes forever. My mother is right, the roads are slick, and snow smacks the windshield in fat globs. Even at full speed, the wipers barely help. I switch on my brights, illuminating a blinding tapestry of white, then switch them back off. When I finally pull into the ER parking lot at a quarter to seven, I’m shaking.
“I’m looking for Carter Shaw,” I tell the woman at the desk inside. “He was admitted here tonight.”
She types, stares at her screen, then squints up at me.
“You family?”
“I’m his fiancée,” I lie. I shove my hands into my coat pockets in case she thinks to check for a ring.
Her lips twist to the side. “He won’t have a room until after surgery,” she says after a minute. “He’s in the OR.” She glances across the room. “Your . . . father-in-law is here, if you want to wait with him.”
I follow the woman’s eyes to Winston, who’s standing before the large bank of windows facing the parking lot, staring out into the storm. A minute later, I’m standing next to him.
“Winston.” I place my hand gently on his elbow.
He turns to me, and for a second, it’s like he doesn’t remember where he is or who I am. His eyes are blank, wet discs. Then, he folds me into a tight hug. “Amanda. Thank god you’re here.” I feel stifled against the crush of his jacket, but I let myself be held. With Carter in surgery and Krystal not here yet, I’m the closest thing to family Winston has. I shove my complicated jumble of feelings toward Carter down deep and resolve to be strong. His family needs me.
Fifteen minutes later, my mother arrives with Krystal, looking frazzled. Carter’s mom makes a beeline for the restroom, and my mother and Winston lock eyes. I dig in my bag and realize I must have left my phone on the dining room table. Adele’s is the only number I know by heart, so I borrow my mother’s phone and ask Adele to text everyone else.
By seven thirty, Krystal is settled at Winston’s side and Adele, Graham, Bronson, and Alexander are clustered with us on the waiting room’s dirty beige chairs. I burrow into my coat, even though it’s hot in here. I feel better with it wrapped around me tight.
Graham says that Coach ended practice when the storm really kicked up around five. “Carter needed deodorant or something. He was walking down to CVS. Said he’d meet up with us at the diner.” There’s a CVS two blocks down on Foster. The parking lot is tiny and always full, so people usually walk from school.
Winston nods. “They told us Carter was walking back when a car drove up onto the sidewalk. It was dark . . . the storm . . . They think the driver lost control. But that fucker drove off, didn’t even wait to see if our son was alive or dead.” He slams the palm of his hand against the chair’s metal arm. It makes a dull thwack.
“Winston,” Krystal admonishes, grabbing his hand. Then, she bursts into tears, and my mother searches her purse for tissues.
Tiny, cold pricks rise along the back of my neck. “Did anyone see the car?” Something about this doesn’t feel right. My hand moves to my throat. Sure, the driving conditions are terrible, but the stretch of road between Logansville South and CVS is all school zone. Twenty-five mph, streetlamps, wide sidewalks. You’d have to be driving like an asshole to lose control and swerve onto the sidewalk there.
“Not that we know of,” Winston says. “A woman who lives across the street heard the crash and came outside. She found Carter and called 911, but the car was already gone. The police are reviewing footage, but the traffic camera outside the school faces up the hill, and if the driver’s from around here, it’s likely he turned around, went back the other way. It isn’t promising.”
“You didn’t see anything?” I ask the guys.
“Graham and I left for the diner straight from practice,” Bronson says. “Ben was running some errand for his dad, but he met up with us at like five thirty or maybe a little later. So yeah, we were all gone by then.”
I glance over at Alexander.
“I was home, helping with dinner. Bronson picked me up when we got Adele’s text.”
“Where is Ben?” I ask. “And Trina?”
“Dunno about Trina. Ben left the diner before we did. He had to get home.” Bronson turns to Adele. “You text them?”
“Yeah,” Adele says. “Trina’s skiing with her parents, remember? They were supposed to come back tonight, but they’re taking an extra day because of the weather. She sends her love, or like, three heart emojis and that smiley face with a bandage.” She pulls out her phone. “Still haven’t heard back from Ben.”
I press my lips between my teeth. I’m still pissed at Trina for being so careless with those photos, and while I’ve made a serious effort to be nicer to Ben since my lightbulb moment at Verde, it’s for the best he’s not here. I’d rather not have my resolve tested.
Finally, someone comes to tell us that Carter is out of surgery. He has three cracked ribs, a broken arm, and a concussion, but he’s awake. He’s going to be okay. She tells everyone except for immediate family to come back in the morning. I glance over at Winston and Krystal, and they nod. I go with them.
• • •
Carter attempts a watery grin when we walk in. His hair is a wispy, blond mess; one side of his face is bandaged; and he’s clearly woozy from the anesthesia. I think I’m going to burst into tears, but then nothing comes.
The nurse tells us not to touch him, but Krystal ignores her and clasps his uninjured hand in hers.
“My baby.”
“Hey, Mom.”
Soon, a doctor stops by to update us on the surgery’s success. Carter sustained a dislocated fracture to his left radius, which had to be operated on so the bone would heal correctly. He tells us that Carter will need rest and PT once his cast is off, but that he should be able to be released in a few days. The injuries, fortunately, are not severe.
After a few minutes with Carter, his parents slip out to review insurance information with a hospital employee, and Carter and I are alone. I pull up a chair.
“You’re here.” His tone is flat.
“Of course I’m here. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
Carter turns his head on the pillow and stares toward the window. Someone’s drawn the curtain shut, so it’s just a wall of fluttering beige and blue. He doesn’t answer. After a moment, he turns back to look at me, as if he’s surprised I haven’t disappeared.
“Aren’t you hot?” he finally asks.
I’m still stuffed into my puffy coat. I shake my head and wrap my arms around my stomach. Everything about tonight feels unsafe. Carter’s arm is in a cast, and the concussion is serious. He’s looking at me like he’s not sure I’m real. Or like he’s not sure he wants me to be.
“Thank god you’re okay,” I whisper. I try to look somewhere neutral, but my eyes keep landing on his injuries. This feels like a punishment—for doubting Carter, for believing Private, for flirting with David, even if it was all in my head. Only Carter’s the one being punished.
“Out for the season, but I’ll live.” His voice is tight. It hits me that he’s talking about lacrosse. Did you get back together with Rosalie? I want to ask. Do you love her? Do you love me?
“Do you remember the car?” I say out loud. “Anything about it?”
Carter shakes his head gingerly. “Not really. It came from behind, so I didn’t get a look. I remember headlights, low to the ground. So it probably wasn’t a truck or SUV. It knocked me into a snowbank. The doctors said I’m lucky ’cause it cushioned the impact when my head hit. But I don’t remember that. I remember the lights, and then I was here.”
I swallow and take a deep breath. Even if he has been lying to me, it’s impossible to be mad at him right now. “I was so scared when your dad called.”
“I’m gonna be fine.” Carter grins, too wide. “Ouch.”
I reach out and slip my hand into his. He squeezes it quickly, then lets his hand drop back limply on the bed. “Carter, something’s not right. Who drives like that by school?”
“It was really snowing, though. Probably just bad luck.”
I stare at my boyfriend in that hospital bed, and I just know. Nothing about this was luck. Someone knew Carter was out there walking. Someone hit him on purpose.
It’s not because of my doubts or guilty conscience, but it’s suddenly perfectly clear that this is happening because of me. Because I refused to do Private’s bidding. Scraps of the texts flash across my vision. Things are going to get real ugly if you don’t start listening to me. And that typewritten note that came with the flowers: Before January 24, you will break Carter Shaw’s heart. . . . End it—or I’ll end things my way.
Something cold and sharp twists deep in my gut. No matter how bad Carter messed up, he doesn’t deserve this. No one does. This has to end. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but before I can figure out what, a technician comes into the room. I stand up to get out of her way.
“Just checking vitals,” she says. “You’re fine.”
I lean back against the wall, and she turns to Carter. “How you feeling, honey?”
“Okay. Kind of like I got hit by a car.”
She smiles. “A comedian.”
“Do you know if they returned my stuff?” Carter asks.
The tech looks at him blankly.
“I had a backpack. Before I went into surgery, an officer said they’d give it back since there was nothing to enter into evidence.”
I scan the room. There’s a wheelie cart near the door; I can see Carter’s backpack stuffed into the bottom shelf. “Found it.”
While she finishes whatever she’s doing and makes a note on Carter’s chart, I walk over and grab the backpack. It’s unzipped all the way; the police obviously pawed through it thoroughly. Carter’s books and a white CVS bag are inside. The technician says she’ll be back in a couple hours, and I bring it over to the foot of Carter’s bed.
“What did you get at CVS?”
Carter draws his lower lip between his teeth. “I don’t remember. Gum? Everything right before the car hit me is a little foggy. Doctor said that’s normal with head trauma.”
I turn the bag upside down and the contents spill onto the bed. Two sticks of deodorant and a pack of cinnamon gum. I’m about to put it all back when something catches my eye. At the bottom of the backpack, half crushed beneath his history text, is a small teddy bear. I gasp.
“What?” Carter asks, straining to look.
“This bear. It’s the same one from my locker. Did this come from CVS?”
Carter frowns. “I don’t remember. Why would I buy that?”
“I don’t know!” I fish around for the receipt, but there isn’t one.
“Let me see your wallet.”
“Huh?”
“The receipt. It’s not here. Let me see your wallet.”
Carter motions with his chin toward the little bedside table. On it are a pitcher of ice water, a cup, his phone, and his wallet. I snatch it and rifle through. Just his usual cards, ID, some cash. Carter’s wallet is immaculate.
“Amanda, I don’t think I bought that bear.”
I turn it over, looking for a message from Private, something tucked into the ribbon around its neck. There’s nothing. But on the merchandise tag, there’s an orange price sticker from CVS. Clearance $5.00.
“I don’t think you did either.” I think about how some serial killers mark their victims or leave a token at the crime scene, and suddenly I’m freezing, despite my coat. Someone knew Carter was going to CVS. They put it in his bag, left it for me to find. Private wants me to know he was responsible for the hit-and-run.
I smile and take Carter’s hand in mine. This time I hold it firm, don’t let him pull away. A million dollars says there will be a message from Private waiting for me at home. I look up, and Carter’s parents are back, waiting in the doorway for us to finish up. I shove the bear into my bag and lean over to kiss the top of his head.
“I should go.”
“Can you hand me my phone?” he asks. “I’ll be bored here without you.”
I grab it from the side table and hand it over. “I’ll see you soon,” I promise.
• • •
At home, our delivery from Taro sits in a soggy bag on the porch. I pull into the garage, then walk outside to retrieve it. Inside, I shove it into the trash and grab my phone from the dining room table. It’s almost completely dead, but I have a bunch of new messages. When I have it plugged into the charger in my room, I open them. Most of the texts are from Trina, but I have two new messages from Private. My hand trembles as I open the conversation.
It’s a group text, to both me and Rosalie, from 8:31.
You shouldn’t have ignored me. Now look what you made me do.
The second message is from 9:42.
You have 9 days until your boyfriend turns 18. You both have instructions, and they still stand. Ignore me again, and it will be much, much worse next time.
I close out of the conversation. In a few minutes, a new message comes through. This time, it’s from Rosalie.