NORAH JONES AND TAPERED SWEATS
ARE THE FIRST SIGNS OF TROUBLE

Friday, 9:32 P.M.

We left without telling Stevie or Molly and the girls. After getting off the El, Paige and I trudged toward my house in silence, Clark Street’s pavement glistening with the thin sheen of an evening rain. Friday night was just getting started. Everything and everyone reminded me of Zander. The giggling college girls in skinny jeans and heels (Zander looks way better in skinnies), the couples walking hand in hand down the sidewalk (If I weren’t such a scheming, lying loser, that could be us right now).

When we made it to my front door, Paige jiggled the handle. Oddly, the door was open.

“Ella?” I kicked my heels and my purse into a pile on the floor under the walnut console table in the hall. All the lights inside were on. “Are you here?” Norah Jones crooned from somewhere at the back of the house. Uh-oh. Norah Jones was never a good sign.

“In here.” Ella’s tiny, pained voice leaked from the kitchen.

“El? Are you here by yourself?” I rushed after her voice, and Paige trailed behind me. When we got to the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks.

At the table, Mom was cradling Ella in her lap while Ella stroked Mom’s ponytail. There was a half-full glass of red wine on the table, and Mom was wearing her sad-divorcée sweats, the tapered ones with the elastic at the ankles. I’d only seen her in those sweats in the months after Dad left. Hadn’t she pinky-sworn to burn them? Hadn’t we decided no one deserved the tapered leg?

“What’re you doing here? What about your date?” A good daughter would have taken her place at the table, next to her sweet sister and her clearly devastated mother. But I couldn’t stand to get any closer to Mom than I already was. I didn’t want to see the mascara streaks that would confirm she’d been crying.

“My date. Oof.” Mom groaned, shifting Ella on her lap. “My date is nonexistent. Hi, Paige.” She twirled one of Ella’s ringlets around her index finger and gave us a tired smile.

“Hey, Sterling.” Paige slumped over the island in the kitchen. “So, you were out with Stevie’s dad?”

“What about the hot-air balloon?” I asked. “And dinner? Did he stand you up?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I missed the balloon ride. And Gabe thought—well, we decided to take a rain check on dinner.”

“But—”

“Gabe said Mom needs to figure out her sororities.” Ella’s bottom lip stuck out three inches from her face, and her little fists clenched in her lap.

“Priorities, lovebug,” Mom corrected her gently. “And he’s right. I just don’t have time for a relationship right now. Maybe in fifteen years or so, when you guys are in college and they drag me off the air.”

“But you—he—he dumped you?” My whole body felt tight, like I couldn’t fit inside my own skin anymore. “No way! He can’t do that! What a jacka—”

“KACEY!” Mom said firmly. “Watch the language.” She kept her eyes on me as she kissed the top of Ella’s head. “Why don’t you get your jammies on. Then you can come back down, and we’ll have dessert.”

“Only the new jammies,” Ella said angrily. Her face was pinched like she was about to cry but had no idea why. “With the bunnies.”

“Bunnies it is. Now scoot.” Mom nudged Ella off her lap.

“Fine.” Ella stalked past me, then whirled around in the doorway. “But Gabe is a jacka, Mom. So there.” She stuck out her tongue and ran upstairs.

“Thanks for that, Kacey,” Mom said dryly. Sitting at the kitchen table in sad sweats and full TV makeup, she looked like one of those depressed people on the commercials. Are you experiencing depressed moods more than a few times per week? Do you have a monster of a daughter who just sabotaged your only chance at happiness for her own personal gain?

“Sorry, Mom.” My eyes welled up, and I twisted the dimmer switch by the door.

“Ooh. Better. Thank you.” Mom lifted her wineglass and patted the seat next to her. “Not to worry. My great guy-repelling powers aren’t contagious, girls.”

I hated it when Mom talked like that, like we were friends hanging out in my room or something. Moms were supposed to say Mom things, like Clean your room or Because I said so, that’s why. Moms weren’t supposed to spend Friday nights moping around the kitchen because they’d just been dumped.

I dimmed the lights a little more and loitered at the fridge to grab a soda and a few extra seconds. The faint sounds of my phone ringing in the hall drifted into the kitchen. After a few seconds, the ringing stopped. Then it started again.

“What are you girls doing home so early? I thought you’d want to stick around and watch Jankowitz do the interview.” Mom took a long sip of her wine.

“Nah. I’m not really a big fan of Levi Stone’s anyway.” I sat down next to her and popped the tab on my soda, even though I wasn’t thirsty.

“But wasn’t bringing him in your idea?” Paige wriggled next to me, shoving me halfway off the seat.

“Whatever. He’s not that great.”

“So I’m guessing you weren’t in a dancing mood, either?” Mom asked Paige.

“Didn’t Kacey tell you about the election?”

“I thought the results won’t be in until Monday.”

“They won’t. But Quinn Wilder’s running now, which means I’ll probably lose.”

“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” Mom reached over and squeezed Paige’s wrist. “That’s tough.”

“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to tell me I’m being ridiculous? That I’ve worked too hard to lose, and I’m so the better candidate? That’s what my mom said!” Suddenly, Paige looked panicked and confused.

“You’re absolutely the better candidate,” Mom assured her. “And we’ll all be rooting for you. But if it doesn’t work out, that doesn’t mean that—”

“Mom.” I glared across the table, in case drawing her name out to four syllables wasn’t getting the point across. Wasn’t I supposed to be the recovering honesty addict?

“No, Kacey. She’s right.” Paige slapped on her best brave-soldier face and straightened up in her chair. “Rejection is a part of politics.”

“And life.” Mom sighed.

“MOM. Stop, already!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, girls.” Mom’s chair creaked as she leaned back. “Paige, you’ve run a fantastic campaign. And I can’t wait to call you Ms. President.”

“Don’t mind her,” I told Paige. “She’s having a bad night.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Paige slumped in her seat.

I shrugged. “Me three. And four.”

“E! Nuff!”

We all jumped at Ella’s unexpected cry. She stood in her doorway in her bunny pajamas. “Stop it! Be! Happy!”

“Come here, sweet one.” Mom opened her arms, but Ella stood firm.

“No! You have to feel better.” Ella’s face was pink with frustration. “We need chocolate sauce. And marshmallows and bananas and strawberries. Now, Mom!” She ran across the kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door.

“Actually, I could go for some fondue,” I said slowly.

“Me, too.” Paige’s lips curled into a crooked smile. “I mean, if it’s gonna make you guys feel better.”

“I’m convinced.” Mom pushed up her sleeves and joined Ella in front of the pantry. “Heads up, Kace,” she said, whipping a bag of marshmallow chicks from at least six Easters ago in my direction. Paige turned on the tiny black-and-white TV on the counter and twisted the dial through several static-filled stations.

“Hey, Mom.” I palmed the bag and popped it open. It wheezed a welcome breath of expired sugar. “Maybe fondue’ll give you the energy to get rid of that sad sack you call an outfit.”

Paige’s hand shot into my bag. “I like those sweats.”

“You would.”

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen smelled like the holidays. The sweet, gooey essence of melting chocolate mingled with the tart scent of fresh fruit and the warmth of cinnamon buns baking in the oven. The garbled hum of the television dipped and fell in the background.

Paige bent over the steaming fondue pot in the center of the kitchen table and closed her eyes. A blissful smile spread over her face. She looked like she was giving herself a chocolate steam facial.

“Get your face out of there! I don’t want the contents of your pores in my fondue, thankyouverymuch.”

“Kacey,” Mom warned, balancing plates of fruit, cinnamon buns, and marshmallows along the length of her slender arms. She whisked them to the table and spread the plates out evenly. Sometimes I forgot that Mom had a life before she was Mom. She’d worked as a waitress in Streeterville forever ago to put herself through journalism school at Medill.

“It’s unsanitary!” I protested, taking my seat next to Paige. Ella climbed me and started bouncing in my lap.

“Whatever.” Paige rolled her eyes. “Do you know how much dirt we eat in a year? It’s like sixteen pounds or something.”

Ella screamed.

“INSIDE VOICE. And Paige was just joking.”

“Okay, so I think that’s everything.” Mom blew a few wisps of reddish-gold hair away from her face. They fluttered down again and rested against her high cheekbone. “Dig in, girls.” She slid a bowl of toothpicks to the center of the table, and we descended on them. Soon, the muffled sound of chewing filled the kitchen. I started to relax.

“Coming up at the top of our newscast tonight, a rising rock star strikes a charitable chord at a local middle school,” the TV on the counter blurted. “I’m Lisa Winchester, and you’re watching Chicago’s own Channel Five. We’re back in thirty seconds, so don’t go away.”

“Ohmygosh!” Paige lurched for the TV and started adjusting the dial. “Marquette’s gonna be on TV!”

“No! Wait!” Reflexively, I bumped Paige out of the way. “Turn it off!”

“Kacey! Come on! I wanna see!” Paige reached to turn up the volume. On the screen, an elderly couple was riding their bikes down a tree-lined path, apparently unhindered by their adult diapers.

“But. No!” I strained for the OFF button, but Paige blocked me, so I yanked the cord until it came out of the wall and the screen went black.

“Kacey!” Mom shoved her chair back. “What in the world has gotten into you?”

Would you believe a green flesh-eating fungus? Chest heaving, I tried to think of an acceptable reason for my psychotic break. But my mind was more staticky than the television. If I could just stall for the next minute or so, I’d be in the clear. At least temporarily. I was so desperate, I actually wished Stevie were here to create some kind of diversion.

“Have you lost your mind? What is up with you?” Paige jammed the metal prongs back into the wall and turned up the volume on the TV, blocking my access to the plug.

“As promised, we’ve got a fun story for you tonight!” chirped Mom’s tiny colleague. “Singer-songwriter Levi Stone, in town for a concert at our own Goodman Theatre, stopped by Lincoln Park’s Marquette Middle School to play a charity concert for one brave fan.” Lisa’s face scrunched up, like she couldn’t decide whether the piece called for a cheery smile or a somber nod. Amateur. “Channel Five’s Bob Jankowitz has the heartwarming story.”

This was not happening. The picture on the screen wavered. Or maybe I was just about to pass out. Why had my stupid mother insisted on a TV in the kitchen? Didn’t she know THE FAMILY WHO ATE TOGETHER WITH MINIMAL DISTRACTIONS STAYED TOGETHER?

“Look! They’re in Hemingway!” Paige slapped the counter as Levi’s face came on the screen. He was standing in front of a row of lockers. Jankowitz stood out of the frame, extending a mic to Levi’s chin. “SHHH!”

“Thanks for taking the time to talk with us tonight, Levi.” Jankowitz’s gravelly voice was like sandpaper on my aching brain.

“I’m stoked to be here, Bob. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my awesome fans, and it always feels good to give something back.”

“Which brings us to the reason you’re here tonight. You got a letter about your biggest fan here in Chicago, is that right?”

“That’s right, Bob. A super-brave fan who’s suffering from a rare disease called Verticopolus. She wanted to hear me play, and I was, like, totally honored to help her out and raise awareness about this silent killer.”

I tasted chocolate. Don’tsayhernamedon’tsayhernamedon’tsayhername.

“Wait. Verti-what?” Paige turned up the volume.

“Is there a sick girl in your grade?” Mom looked confused.

I blinked at the screen, telepathically begging the segment to end, or a natural disaster to strike, or for one of those annoying telethons that raised money for the station to cut the newscast short. I silently swore to buy fifty tote bags if a telethon would magically appear RIGHT. NOW.

“Now, I’m not familiar with Verti—”

“Verticopolus, Bob.” Levi nodded somberly at the camera. I couldn’t decide which was harder to believe: what a moron Levi Stone was, or that I was still standing here, watching. My brain was screaming, Run! Do something! but my body wouldn’t listen. “It’s a rare, green, flesh-eating fungus. And sadly, it’s fatal.”

“I believe your manager gave us a picture to show the effects of Verticopolus? Can we put that up, guys?”

Noooooo! But it was too late. Paige’s seaweed mask picture, the one I’d e-mailed to Levi to convince him to come to Marquette, was officially on television. All over Chicago. Our grainy TV made the cracks and crags in Paige’s face look even more gross than they had in real life.

The kitchen went silent for a full five seconds.

“Wait.” Paige’s mouth flopped open and she squinted at the screen. “Is that—”

“It’s tragic,” Levi’s voice said over Paige’s picture. “But Paige Greene is an inspiration to, like, all her classmates. I just feel really grateful that she likes my tunes, you know?”

This time, it was Paige who jerked the cord out of the wall. The screen went dark, twenty seconds too late. She turned to face me.

“Paige.” I backed away slowly. “I can explain. I swear.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She did this three times before she finally forced actual words out of her mouth.

“KACEY! YOU DID THIS?” Paige was shaking so hard, her glasses were bouncing on her nose. “But why—I don’t—I can’t even—”

“Oh, Paige. Sit down, sweetie.” Mom slipped her arm around Paige’s shoulder and tried to nudge her toward the table, but Paige wouldn’t budge. So Mom refocused her attention. On me. “I truly hope this was some sort of horrible misunderstanding.” Her voice was like concrete. Cold, enraged concrete. “I want to hear an explanation this very second, or so help me, Kacey—”

“I didn’t mean to! It just—I don’t knoooow!” I backed into the island, the sharp edge of the marble slab stabbing me in the back.

“ ‘I don’t know’ is most definitely not an option. You have one more chance. And I’ll know if you’re not telling the truth.”

I knew she was right. A woman didn’t spend twenty years as a reporter in a major market without learning how to tell when someone was lying. “I just—I—it wasn’t just me. It was Stevie, too.” My breath was shallow in my chest. “We didn’t want you dating Gabe, so we thought if you had to go to work—”

“You what?” my mom said.

The color had drained completely from Paige’s face. “You humiliated me in front of the whole CITY just so your mom wouldn’t go on a DATE?”

“He’s not good for her!” I choked. “He’s not good for you, Mom! I did it for your own good! Remember how sad you were when Dad left?” I didn’t know where to look: at Paige’s shock-stricken face, or in Mom’s horrified eyes. So I stared at the floor.

“Kacey. Elisabeth. Simon.” Mom stared blankly past me, her eyes unfocused. “I cannot believe…” Her voice trailed off.

“You are, without a doubt, the most selfish person I have ever met,” Paige said softly. I wished she had yelled, or even shoved me. It would have hurt less than the stabbing pain in what little remained of my conscience. “I’m so outta here.” She turned to look at me one last time. “Don’t ever speak to me again. We’re through.”