AMANDA
FRIDAY, JANUARY 19
At school, Adele and Trina are all over me about a girls’ night out at this lounge where Trina knows the DJ. I play the boyfriend-in-the-hospital card, tell them I need a long soak in the tub and a Netflix binge, and by eighth they let it drop. I would love to go out with my friends, forget about everything, or spend the night pruning away with bubbles and streaming, but Friday has other plans in store. Rosalie’s coming over at six, and Trina and Adele can’t be anywhere in the vicinity when she rolls up. In the last week, everything has spun out of control. The pictures, the track, the hit-and-run, CVS, the police, my parents. The more that’s happened, the less I’ve wanted to share with my friends. It’s not that I don’t trust them; it’s more like I don’t trust anyone. Or the fact that any opening up I have done—to my mother, to Officer Lu—has blown up in my face. I never in a million years thought I’d say this, but the only person I can really trust right now is Rosalie Bell.
On my drive home from school, all I can see is Carter’s bandaged face in the hospital, how far away he felt when I finally broke down and drove to Mercy yesterday. The visit was strained, at best. First, he said he didn’t want company, then he snapped at me for not visiting since Monday. Adele, apparently, has been visiting faithfully every day with care packages and flowers. She even snuck in Five Guys on Wednesday after school. It’s all I can do to not roll my eyes at the mountain of magazines, snacks, and DVDs she’s stockpiled in his room.
After half an hour of sparse conversation, Carter admitted how bummed he is about lacrosse, about spending senior year on the bench. When he apologized for taking things out on me, he sounded really sincere. He sounded like himself. For a moment, things felt almost normal between us. Before I left, I found a nurse who told me they’re still monitoring Carter’s concussion, taking extra precautions at the Shaws’ request, and they expect he’ll be released early next week.
And then what? I can’t go back to the way things were. But when I think about life without Carter, there’s a big blank space where the future used to be.
The thought makes me panicky, but not as panicky as the thought of Private forcing me into a messy, public breakup. I touch my necklace and swallow. There are five days until Carter’s birthday, and Private does not get to dictate how this goes down. After what happened between my mother and Officer Lu, he is tripping if he thinks I’d do anything to embarrass myself, Carter, and both our families.
In a weird way, this isn’t even about Carter anymore. This is about taking Private down.
When I pull into the garage and head upstairs, the house is empty. The benefit is on Monday, and the last-minute arrangements require my mother’s full attention. She’ll be at the museum until seven, and then Dad will join her and the other board members and their spouses at Taviani’s. While they finalize plans for Monday, Rosalie and I will have the house to ourselves.
I grab some brie and grapes from the fridge while I wait. The new voice mail light is blinking yellow on the kitchen phone. I dial in and grab the notepad from its basket on the counter, prepared to take down yet another message from an arts patron needing to reach Linda Kelly stat.
But the message isn’t for my mother.
“This message is for Amanda Kelly. Amanda, this is Officer Cynthia Lu from the Logansville Police. I need you to come back into the station as soon as possible. Please bring one of your parents with you. I’m sure your mother told you that we spoke on the phone on Wednesday after you left. I need you to give a written statement to clarify what you told me. This is extremely important, Amanda. False reporting is a serious offense, not to mention a waste of police time.
Your mother mentioned treatment, and I want to assure you that we have your best interests in mind. If you come back in, no one will pursue charges, okay? No one is trying to threaten you, but we need you to work with us to clarify the facts in Mr. Shaw’s case. Please call me back as soon as possible, and we’ll schedule a time for you and your parents to come in.”
I listen to the message twice, then press delete. I can’t deal with this right now. Everything I told Officer Lu on Wednesday was true. If I give a statement saying that I lied, that would be false reporting. I am not coming out of this with a police record. Rosalie will be here in less than an hour. I just need to get her phone, get it to the PI, and let him work his magic. I just need a little time.
The message reminds me, also, that I need a new phone. I run upstairs to grab my computer, then sink onto the living room couch and log into my family’s wireless account. With a twinge of guilt about the additional expense, I click the option to add a new line to our family plan. I think about canceling my old number, but new texts from Private could still come in. Those texts might help the police, and if I ever get my old phone back, I might need it for the PI. I pick out the same model I had before, type in our area code, and presto, new phone, new number. I select the option for expedited shipping, and I’m done. By tomorrow, I’ll have rejoined the modern era, and Private is not getting his hands on this number.
Mission accomplished, I switch on the TV and click through the guide until I find the local news. A segment on the benefit is just ending, and then the coverage switches to the day’s top story: two toddlers hurt in a playground accident at a Logansville public park. My eyes stay glued to the screen until the doorbell rings at three minutes after six, but there’s not a single mention of Carter or new leads in the police’s ongoing search for the hit-and-run driver. Four days after the accident, the story has dropped off the news cycle entirely. Officer Lu’s message and the complete lack of coverage confirms it: My mother’s ploy worked. My parents think I’m overreacting, the police think I’m lying, and I have five days to get to the bottom of this.
The doorbell rings a second time. I run my fingers through my hair, smoothing the strands, then check my mascara in the hall mirror before opening the door. Rosalie is standing on my doorstep looking flushed and out of breath. She’s practically swimming in her winter coat, which is at least a size too big. Her glasses are fogged-up, and the tips of her hair stick out in all directions from beneath a fuzzy snow hat. She looks ridiculous and a little scared. Then, she sticks out a gloved hand and flashes her teeth.
“Rosalie Bell. This is weird, but I guess it’s nice to meet you.”