chapter ten

As it turns out, there isn’t anything interesting in Madeline’s file. The entire process of breaking into my parents’ house was for nothing.

“We’ll keep trying,” Renee tells me, as we’re sitting in the back of the library together, both of us staring in disappointment at the open folder. All it contains is a simple demographic sheet, a copy of Madeline’s transcripts, and a receipt showing that her tuition was paid in full for the previous year. Considering the risk we took by breaking into my parents’ house, the payoff is awfully disappointing. If anything, some more information about what happened to her would have been a welcome distraction from the misery of reality.

The night before everyone leaves for winter break, there’s a big holiday party at my parents’ house. It happens every year. We’re all supposed to get dressed up, and we sing Christmas carols, and everyone eats appetizers and finger sandwiches from trays the cafeteria staff and the Diggers carry around throughout the evening. It’s a very idyllic, Christmas-in-Connecticut kind of thing, and I used to love it.

But not this year. This year, the dynamic is awkward at best. I have known that I’m pregnant for almost a month. Aside from Renee, nobody else knows. I’m still getting used to the idea myself, waking up from my nightmares every morning to the brief possibility that it has all been part of a bad dream. But it hasn’t; instead, my entire life has become a bad dream.

It’s my last night to see Del before he leaves for break, and even though I know he’s at the party, I can’t talk to him because my father always seems to be around, watching me, keeping an eye out to make sure Del isn’t bothering me. If he only knew.

So while everyone else is mingling, I head upstairs to my bedroom to get away from things. It’s my house, after all; I should be able to go wherever I want.

I haven’t been in my room more than thirty seconds when there’s a light tap on the door. I hold completely still, willing whoever it is to go away. Anyone, I think to myself, but Stephanie … or Del … or my parents. But then the door opens and Renee walks in, and I feel a strange sense of relief that it’s her. Renee is the only person I feel truly comfortable around right now.

“Did you follow me up here?” I ask, lying down on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Wow,” she says, ignoring the question, “this is like stepping into a time warp.”

She’s right. My bedroom hasn’t changed since I was a little girl. The carpet is a light pink shag whose color matches the billowy curtains that are held back with ornate hooks, revealing the snowstorm outside. We’re supposed to have at least six inches on the ground by morning.

On one wall of my room, there’s a desk and dresser with hutches that still hold all of my favorite childhood books: the Boxcar Children series, the American Girl books, and even some old Nancy Drews. The walls of my room are decorated with shelves holding my old doll collections; above my bed, there are hand-painted letters on the wall (courtesy of my mother) that spell out EMILY.

And then there’s my bed itself. It’s a twin mattress, complete with a pink-and-purple-striped bed skirt, a thick pink comforter, and a canopy. At sixteen, I almost don’t fit in it anymore.

It’s funny—my parents’ whole house has been given the once-over by a personal decorator. Every other room has the latest furniture and accessories, to the point where the place looks like something out of a magazine. Every room, that is, except mine. Mine looks like it belongs to a ten-year-old. And I’ve never heard my parents discussing any plans to change it, almost like they still think I’m a little girl. It’s not like I’ve ever asked them, though. Since seventh grade, I’ve always felt that my real room was my dorm room. But now that I’m thinking about it, the whole setup seems a little bit creepy.

Renee seems to feel the same way. She takes a long look around, shudders, but doesn’t say anything more. She sits down beside me on the bed. She’s wearing a red velvet Christmas dress that looks like it came from the Goodwill. Her hair is messy—it almost doesn’t look brushed—and I notice that her fingernails are bare and raw looking, like she’s been chewing on her cuticles.

Somehow she still looks beautiful. “These parties are great, Emily,” she says. “They’re so innocent, you know? I love eating those little Christmas cookies and singing ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ and pretending that we’re all just kids with no problems.” She pauses. “Just for one night. Everyone deserves that, don’t they?” Before I can answer, she nudges me and says, “You deserve it. Besides, everyone wants to hear you sing.”

Since I was a kid, way before I was even a student at Stonybrook, I’ve been expected to sing a song at the Christmas party. It’s always something light and easy, like “Here Comes Santa Claus” or “Jingle Bells.” Even though I’m shy about singing in public, singing at the party has always felt comfortable and intimate, like I’m singing for my family. This year, though, it’s the last thing I want to do. It’s impossible for me to pretend that everything is normal. All I want is to hide.

“I don’t want to sing,” I tell her. “I want this night to be over. I want everyone to go home.”

“People are wondering where you are.” Renee pulls a hand through her hair, tugging at a knot. “It will look weird if you stay up here.”

I pretend not to hear her. I don’t want to go anywhere. “You’re leaving for New York tomorrow?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.” She continues to tug.

“Will you see your mom?”

“Probably not. But it’s okay.”

There is a long silence. I realize that I’m trying not to cry. It’s not that I feel sorry for Renee—she certainly doesn’t seem upset by her situation—or even sorry for myself. It’s that everything is changing so quickly, and there’s nothing I can do about it. If someone had told me at the beginning of the school year, just four months ago, that I’d be sitting in my bedroom with Renee the night before winter break, trying to escape the holiday party, I wouldn’t have believed it for a second. Four months ago, life was so manageable and easy, so predictable. Then everything changed so suddenly. I am going to have a baby. I can’t even say the words out loud.

“Things are not okay,” I tell her. “My life is falling apart. I don’t know who my friends are anymore, I don’t know who I can trust. I don’t know how Del is going to react when I tell him. And I can’t stand Stephanie half the time.”

Renee giggles. “That’s shocking. She’s so likable.”

I can’t help but smile. “She has good qualities.”

“Like what?” Renee seems genuinely curious.

“She’s beautiful.”

“That’s not a personality trait.”

“We’ve been best friends since seventh grade.”

“Things change. People grow apart.”

“I know that. But I don’t want everything to change.”

Renee studies me. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“You don’t need to be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. I’m still sorry.” She pauses. “I just came up to get you, you know. We have to go back downstairs. Your presence is being demanded.”

I close my eyes, feeling sick to my stomach. “I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad,” she says. She takes me by the hand and gently tugs me off the bed. “Come on, sweetie. You don’t have a choice.”

When I reach the foot of the stairs, I practically run into Ethan. He’s wearing a pair of plush reindeer antlers on his head, and a big grin.

“Emily!” he says, a shade too enthusiastic. “There you are!”

“Here I am,” I say, forcing myself to smile.

He looks around the room, his eyes wide and glassy. “Isn’t this a freaking fantastic party?”

I catch a whiff of something on his breath. It smells like liquor.

“Ethan?” I squint at him. “Is something wrong?”

“What could possibly be wrong?” he asks. “Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for Colorado, where I will officially spend my first Christmas as a child of divorce. Just me, my mom, and Stephanie. My father isn’t even going to see his kids. He’s got a new family.” His cheeks are flushed. “Hey,” he says brightly, “you never gave me an answer about our band. Are you going to sing for us?” Before I can answer, he continues. “Because we’ve been practicing without you. Kelly Reulens has been singing for us.”

“She has?” I get an achy sense of jealousy. Kelly Reulens is a soprano. She’s a senior. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He hiccups. “Because I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’m not allowed. Del told me to stay away from you.” He pauses. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He brings his voice to a loud whisper. “Let’s keep that information between the two of us, okay?” And he gives me an exaggerated wink. His eyelashes are long and thick. His face gleams with sweat. He is, I think, the sweetest person I know.

And even though it’s obvious that he’s really drunk, Ethan is still boyish and kind of adorable and absolutely exuding charm. He’ll probably be incredibly embarrassed later on, but there’s really no need.

He nods his head, grinning at the sound of the bells jingling on his antlers. A stray piece of hair slips across his forehead and into his eyes. Without thinking about it, I reach to brush it away.

Ethan flinches as my hand touches his face. I pull quickly away. What am I doing? Del, I realize, could be anywhere. He’s probably watching me right now.

I look past Ethan to see Stephanie—who’s wearing an identical set of reindeer antlers—staring us down. Her pouty lips are pursed in agitation. She’s practically glaring at me, and I’m not sure why. Lately, it seems as if she’s much happier being miserable.

“Ethan,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, even as I’m feeling nauseous and sweaty, “I’m sorry I can’t be in your band. You can talk to me, though. Don’t listen to Del.” I lower my voice. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Why are you so drunk? You hardly ever drink like this.”

“Why shouldn’t I drink?” he asks. “Everybody else does it.”

I don’t have an answer for him, but Ethan’s never been the type to bend to peer pressure before. And I’d certainly prefer it if he were sober right now. What is going on? Why is the entire world crumbling? Things are definitely going askew if Ethan Prince is drunk at the headmaster’s house.

“Why won’t you be in my band?” he demands, his voice a shade too loud. “You think I’m boring, don’t you?”

“Ethan, no, it isn’t that.” I feel like I have to get him out of here, and fast, before someone else—someone like my father—notices him.

“Why isn’t it enough for someone to be a nice guy?” he asks. He gives me a curious look. “Why doesn’t that get me anywhere?”

His antlers have slipped from his head a little bit, and are resting at an awkward angle. He looks sad.

The whole room seems to slip away as I take in what he’s saying, the way he’s looking at me. My body goes a little numb as I really look at him, into his big eyes, as he stares at me. Oh, Ethan.

“I really am sorry I can’t be in your band,” I tell him. “But it’s impossible right now.” I pause. “Everything is very complicated.”

He lifts a hand to scratch his head. The antlers slip a little farther. He looks disheveled, defeated, much more like a little kid than I’ve ever noticed before. I want to hug him, but I know I shouldn’t.

“I want you to know,” he says, “that I’m not as boring as you think.”

“I know that,” I say, breaking out in a cold sweat as I look around the room. “I know you aren’t.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Stephanie approaching. “You need to get out of here,” I tell him.

“Why?” He frowns.

Before I can answer, Steph is standing beside us. “What’s going on?” she asks.

I step away from Ethan. “He’s drunk,” I whisper. “You should take him back to Winchester.”

She nods. Her antlers, which also have tiny bells attached to their ends, jingle in agreement. “Okay.” She takes him by the arm. “Come on.”

As they’re leaving, she turns to look at me. “Thanks, Emily.”

And then they’re gone. If I don’t go back to the dorm tonight, I realize, I won’t see her until after the New Year. She didn’t even say good-bye.

Del seems to have disappeared, and the party drags on as I try to stay by myself as much as possible, while simultaneously keeping an eye out for him. But he doesn’t show, not until well after midnight, once the party is over and I’ve been forced to sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” to a room full of people who have no idea what a mess my life is.

It’s still snowing outside, a few inches accumulated since the beginning of the evening, and I’m watching as the flakes drift toward the ground in the moonlight, when a snowball hits my window.

Immediately, I know it’s him. I hurry downstairs to let him in. My parents have been in bed for over an hour, but I’m still nervous they’ll wake up.

“Where have you been?” I ask, pulling him inside. “Hurry up, before someone sees you.”

He’s not wearing a coat. His head is covered in snowflakes; his cheeks are bright red. He looks so alive and gorgeous that I can hardly stand it.

We sneak upstairs to my room. I lock the door, and we sit cross-legged on top of the covers on my tiny bed, our knees touching.

Del reaches out to touch my hair. He’s always doing that. “How was your night?” he asks.

“It was fine. Where were you?”

“I was around.” There’s a pause. Then he says, “Ethan Prince is back at my dorm, sick as hell. He’s passed out on the bathroom floor.”

“Oh, really?”

Del nods. “Uh-huh. I saw you talking to him tonight.”

The idea that he was sneaking around, watching me, is slightly annoying. “What does that matter? We were only talking.”

“He’d steal you in a second if he could.” I see the slightest flicker of insecurity in Del’s expression. “Could he?” he asks.

I almost laugh. After all, I’m pregnant. But Del doesn’t know that.

Instead I ask, “Did you tell him he couldn’t talk to me?”

He gives me an innocent look. “I don’t remember saying that.”

He’s lying, which annoys me even more. “Ethan remembers.”

“Maybe I did. It’s possible.”

“Who are you to say who I can and can’t talk to?” My voice is light, but only because I’m nervous. I don’t want to get into a fight. But I find myself imagining Ethan over in Winchester, on the bathroom floor, sick and lonely. He doesn’t deserve to feel that way.

He stares at me. “I’m your boyfriend, Emily.”

It’s so quiet in my room, I can almost hear the snow falling onto the ground outside. The whole world seems muffled.

“Emily,” Del asks, “what’s the matter?”

I could tell him now. The words are on the tip of my tongue.

But then I realize he’s not going to know how to help me. Maybe he’ll only make things worse. I need to figure out a solution first, on my own.

Tears are stinging the corners of my eyes, though; I have to tell him something. “I had my precalc final today,” I say.

“Oh, right. How did it go?”

I shake my head. “Not good. I’m pretty sure I failed.”

“Emily,” he says, “but it’s so easy. Didn’t you study?”

“Yes! I studied and studied.” I’m openly crying now, wiping tears from my eyes. “But when I look at the test, it’s like I’ve never even seen the material before.”

“I’ll help you,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

I sniffle. “I can barely do basic algebra. I don’t know how I’m supposed to make it through precalc, let alone calculus next year.”

“So you take statistics instead. It’s no big deal.” He frowns. “Why are you freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Yes, you are. Emily, are you sure there isn’t anything else going on?” He blinks. “Did Ethan say something to you? Did he do anything?”

“Would you stop talking about Ethan? I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then stop fighting.”

“ …”

“ …”

“Listen, precalc will be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Uh-uh.” I stare at my comforter. “I’m too stupid. I can’t do it.”

“You can. I’m telling you, it’s easy.” He pauses, like he’s thinking about something. “Math is just a matter of manipulation. There’s nothing to it.”

I sniffle. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s just a matter of manipulating the variables. Once you figure out how to do that”—he spreads his hands, giving me a bright smile—“everything else is easy.”

His words, for some reason, make me break out in a sweat.

“What did you say?”

“I said it’s just a matter of manipulation.”

“Uh-huh.” He thinks everything is so easy. He always finds a way to manipulate things to get exactly what he wants.

An awkwardness begins to spread in the space between us. We stare at each other.

He glances at the clock on my nightstand. “I hate to say this, but I should go soon. I have to pack. My parents will be here in the morning.”

“Okay.” I feel almost relieved that he’s leaving. I just want to be alone.

I give him a kiss. “You should go, then.” I force a smile, even though I’m sick to my stomach, and the kerosene smell that’s always clinging to Del is making it more intense. “I’ll see you next year.”

Since I’m pregnant, I obviously can’t take Dr. Miller’s pills anymore. As a result, the nightmares come fast and intense, making sleep almost impossible. With campus all but deserted, my nights are spent alone. More than once, way after she’s supposedly gone to sleep, I see my mother through my window, sneaking outside to smoke. Each time it happens, I consider confronting her. But what would be the point? I’ve got secrets bigger than hers.

Our house phone rings a few days before Christmas. I recognize the area code as a Colorado exchange. Stephanie.

I pick up the phone and say, “What’s up, sweetie?”

There’s a long pause.

“Emily? Is that you?”

It’s Ethan.

I can feel the blood rising to my cheeks. “Ethan. Yes, it’s me. Is everything okay? Why are you—”

“Why am I calling you? I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” I ask, pretending to be oblivious.

“For the Christmas party. You know I was drunk. Steph is so pissed about it, she’s barely been talking to me. She said I made a total fool of myself.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad.”

I can hear the tension in his voice. I imagine him at home in Colorado, with his mom and Steph, spending their first Christmas without their dad. I feel sorry for him—and for Stephanie—and so selfish, in a way, for how distant I’ve been toward all my friends. Unlike them, at least I can say I’ve got my family.

“So I bet you’re missing Del,” he says.

“Yes,” I admit. “I am.” I imagine how furious Del would be if he knew I was talking to Ethan. And I can’t quite explain it, but somehow the fact makes me feel almost satisfied. Why should Del get to tell me who I can and can’t talk to? Beyond that, I’m excited to be talking to Ethan. He might have gotten drunk and acted stupid, but he’s still Ethan Prince.

“Your dad still doesn’t want you two together?”

“Nope.”

“That must be hard.” He swallows. “I mean, to not be able to really be with the one person you want more than anyone else.”

I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never had a telephone conversation with Ethan before. He’s been so strange in the past few months; is it really possible that he likes me? It seems that way. Not that it matters—it isn’t like anything could ever come of it now. Ethan might not know it yet, but I am trouble.

“So … ,” I say, trying to move the conversation along, “is Steph there? Can I talk to her?”

“Oh,” he says, his tone almost surprised, “no. She’s not here.”

“She isn’t?” The awkwardness takes a leap. “Um. Does she know that you’re calling me?”

“Well, no. Should she?”

“ …”

“ …”

“Ethan … look, I should probably go. Don’t worry about the Christmas party, okay?”

“Thanks, Emily. There’s just one other thing.”

Oh, God. “What is it?”

“I missed hearing you sing. After I left, what song did you sing?” I can hear him smiling. “I remember last year you sang ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ It was great. And the year before that, you sang ‘Jingle Bells.’ ”

I can’t believe he remembers all of this. “Thank you,” I tell him. “This year, I sang ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.’ ”

“Emily?”

“Yes?”

There’s another long pause. “I just wanted to say merry Christmas. That’s all.”

“Oh. Well, merry Christmas to you, too.”

We hang up. I stand in the hallway for a few long moments, staring at the phone, thinking, what was that all about? But then I realize that I’m smiling.

When I go back up to my room, there’s an e-mail waiting for me from Del.

Emily,

How’s your lonely life on campus so far? I miss you terribly. My parents are going out of their way to make our first Christmas as a “real” family a superspecial one. I was trying to figure out what to get you as a present, and then it occurred to me. Attached is everything you need to ace precalc for the rest of the year. Don’t ask me how I got it; if I told you, then I’d have to kill you …

I’ll be in touch sooner than later. Merry Christmas.

All my love.

I open the attachment. I put a hand to my mouth. It’s a huge PDF document, and from what I can tell it’s every quiz and test for precalc for the rest of the year. With all the answers filled in.

I’d like to believe that it’s the pregnancy making me feel a little sick to my stomach as I stare at the document on my computer screen. But it’s not.

I am the headmaster’s daughter. I might not be a great student, and I might be seeing Del behind my father’s back—and, of course, there’s the whole illegitimate baby thing—but I am sixteen years old and I’ve never cheated on a test in my life. I know it sounds absurd, but if I did cheat, and I got caught, I couldn’t stand how it would humiliate my dad. I have already let him down so much, and he doesn’t even know it.

How could Del think I would ever use those answers? What is the matter with him? I delete the file. Then I lie on my bed, the door to my room locked, and stare up at my canopy. Without thinking about it, I start to sing quietly.

Dashing through the snow …

I remember that night at the party, although it seems like it was much more than two years ago. I remember the way my friends and I all wore Santa hats and the way my father tugged me under the mistletoe to plant a kiss on my cheek. I remember drinking nonalcoholic eggnog with Steph, Franny, and Grace until our stomachs hurt so much that we could barely move.

There is my life before Del, and there is my life with Del. The thought begs the question: what will life be like after Del? Eventually, something has to give. Something will break. Someone will learn my secret.

For now, I take comfort in the fact that my door is locked, that campus is deserted, and that my parents are both downstairs, with no idea of what’s truly going on in my life.

I open my eyes and look around at my room, which has not changed for as long as I can remember. I try to ignore the fact that my legs have grown almost too long for the bed.

From downstairs, my mother begins to play the piano. I can hear her just well enough to make out the song: it’s “Junk,” by Paul McCartney.

I join in with my voice. It’s the strangest feeling, there in my bedroom: she probably can’t hear me, and I can barely hear her, but for the moment we are in harmony. Just for the moment.