Pretending to be normal makes you feel like you’re bleeding to death.
—Page 48 of Tessa Waye’s diary
Bren’s singing about how the hills are alive with the sound of music again. In between verses, she explains to me how I can have all the time in the world to think, how we’ll talk about everything during a special seafood dinner in San Francisco, how we’re going to “celebrate our futures together.”
I have no idea what that means, but it involves every suitcase she owns.
I should tell her the Tates celebrate with Ho-Hos and takeout, not fancy restaurants with names I can’t spell, but I don’t say a word. It occurs to me that she’s trying to win me over. I look around her perfect kitchen in her perfect life and think maybe Bren isn’t perfect because she’s perfect. She’s putting on a front like everyone else—including me. I’m not the only one pretending to be something I’m not, and oddly, the idea makes me feel a little less alone. I try to smile at her, but Bren won’t meet my eyes.
I can’t really blame her.
I sit at the breakfast bar, watching Lily and Bren make lists of everything they’ll need until I’m boiling inside my own skin. I go upstairs, and I’m alone for maybe two minutes before Lily arrives.
“You need time to think?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to San Francisco with Bren, and I’ll do it with or without you, Wick,” she warns.
Exactly. That’s what I want. Except I still have to wrap my arms around me to keep from doubling over.
“I know my picture showed up because of you.”
I go still. “Why’s that?”
“Because it’s always you. Just like it was always Dad.”
“Then why didn’t you want me to say anything? Why did you lie?”
“To protect you, to give you the opportunity to say yes. I knew what she was going to ask. I knew what we could have had.” Lily turns for the door. “But you’re right, Wick. Everything really is ruined.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Bren and Todd fight, but Todd says I can stay home, promises he’ll bring me to Bren for the weekend. My foster mom drives away with Lily in tow while I lie on my bed, work my jaw back and forth until I want to scream.
When I finally push myself upright, I see the sketch pinned to my window. I’m ten feet away, but I still recognize Griff’s style. He made the girl look fierce, but drew her eyes sad.
Vaguely, I remember the text: I’m coming over. He really did, and he left me the sketch so I would know.
On the nightstand, my cell phone buzzes. For a crazy second, I think it’s Griff and he knows I’ve seen his picture. He knows I’m thinking of him.
But it’s not Griff. It’s Joe.
Meeting 2day.
Again? I’m not eager for a repeat. I put the phone in my pocket, concentrate on nudging open my window. I carefully pull Griff’s drawing free.
It isn’t some random girl. He drew me.
He’s sketched me in blue and green ink. My hair is loose, and I’m pushing it away from my face with both hands. I look like it’s all one big joke, like I’m amused and nothing scares me.
And yeah, the eyes are sad, but they’re also . . . knowing. There aren’t any tears in them even though, right now, I can feel tears pressing against my lashes. Is this how he sees me?
He made me look like I could take on the world.
He made me look beautiful.
Another text:
1 hr
I grimace. Something’s up. That barely gives me enough time to sneak away. I grab my bag, shove the window open a little farther, and tuck the sketch as far under my bed as I can reach. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever been given.
I scramble out the window and down part of the tree. I fall the rest of the way and end up in the bushes.
I pop back up, scan for any neighbors. Thank God. No one. I set off for the bike paths.
Almost forty-five minutes later, I reach my old subdivision, making the familiar right off the path, and stop dead. From this angle, I can see straight down the street, straight to Joe’s . . . straight to the cars parked outside his house.
Cops.
Oh my God. The cops.