For the first time, I don’t try to guess what Morgan would’ve said. “It’s better if I at least try to go. Get back into a normal routine. That’s supposed to help, right?”
Mr. Frost smiles. “I agree. But don’t push yourself. You’ll be excused from PE for the next month, obviously. I’ve arranged to get you into study hall that period.”
Most people opt out of PE as soon as they can, but Morgan likes it. She says it’s her easiest grade and she gets a workout during the day, guaranteed. I’m the reason Morgan doesn’t go to a pricey private school twenty miles away. When she finished sixth grade, she begged her dad not to make her attend Glen Forrest on her own. Since our school system is decent, he agreed. Otherwise, I’d be headed off to an academy where I don’t know anyone.
Nathan. Tomorrow I get to see Nathan.
My old life is over, I get that. At least until I figure out how to prove I’m not crazy. But God, I miss him, almost as much as my family.
Almost as much as Morgan.
I haven’t let myself think too much about how she’d feel about this. She could be hard to read, so it’s possible she’d think the whole mess is hilarious and would make popcorn to watch me struggle. But she was also possessive, so she might be furious, too. And it’s that side of her that I imagine watching me, judging, condemning.
Mr. Frost drops me off at the mansion before heading back to work. I let myself in; with gates like these, they leave the front doors unlocked during the day. Mrs. Rhodes comes out of the kitchen to greet me with an uncertain smile. She’s wearing black pants and a white shirt with a patterned apron over the top, not quite a uniform, but a nod at one.
“Can I get you anything?” There’s a subtle tension here, some history I’m not privy to.
The older woman stands quiet, eyes down, like she’s expecting … something. Maybe she was temperamental with the housekeeper? But if Morgan used to throw fits in private over the wrong brand of rice cracker, I can’t because I have no clue what the right one is.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
A little breath slips out of her as I turn for the stairs. Relief?
I go down the back stairs to the patio. There’s a pool out here that I can’t swim in right now, but I can sleep in the sun until I feel better. Before I can settle in, Mrs. Rhodes is beside me, wearing an alarmed look.
“Are you feeling all right?” She peers at me.
“Uh. Well. I thought I’d take a nap.”
“Did you put on sunblock?”
Right. Shit. Morgan was paranoid about skin cancer, so she’d never bask in direct sunlight. I wasn’t thinking about Morgan, only that I was so freaking cold. But now that it’s on my mind, I can recall countless afternoons where I’d be in a bikini and tanning oil while Morgan hid under an umbrella with a sun hat, huge glasses, and SPF 75. I always thought that quirk was adorable and slightly glamorous, but it’s kind of a pain in the ass now that I’m not allowed to act like my sleepy, sun-worshiping lizard self.
“I forgot. Could you get it please? My hat and sunglasses, too.”
She gives me a look, like she thinks it’s more likely that I’m possessed than I forgot my sun aversion. But then she does as I ask, leaving me to drop my head against the back of the lounger with an exhausted sigh. At least it’s warm out here. Damn, it’s not easy being someone else, even if she’s your best friend.
I finish out the day with a cozy, if overly protected nap, then I go upstairs and destroy a helpless laptop. Since Frost Tech makes good gear, I drop it four times before it looks good and broken. An hour later I’m having a late dinner with Mr. Frost. Since I’m going to school in the morning, I can’t really keep pleading that I need to eat in my room. Got to keep my story straight. So I ask questions that I hope don’t set off any alarm bells.
“Developing anything new and exciting?”
Mr. Frosts grins. “You never get tired of trying to work me, do you?”
“You don’t trust me?” I pretend to be hurt.
“I’m not exempt from the NDA.”
What’s an NDA? But I imagine Morgan would know, so I keep quiet and eat. During the next conversational lull I say, “I’m sorry, but … I broke my laptop earlier today.”
He shows the first sign of impatience I’ve seen since leaving the hospital. “Dammit, did you get it wet again? No matter how good a product is, it will never be Snapple proof.”
I know exactly how Morgan would reply to this. Leaning in, I give him a cajoling smile. “Can’t you consider this part of quality control testing?”
He sighs. But I can tell he’s not seriously mad. “What happened this time?”
Huh. I guess Morgan wasn’t good at making her electronics last. That’s something I didn’t know, and it makes me feel closer to her, even though she’s gone. It’s so strange that I could miss her this much when I see her face every time I look in the mirror.
“I tried to take it downstairs but I guess I’m not as steady as I thought. I dropped it.” That should explain the four times I threw it, right? I have no idea what a tech can tell from a broken computer but TV detective shows have taught me to be cautious.
“Down the stairs? Well, that’s a new one.” He sets his jaw like he’s sucking back a spate of chastening words. “Okay. I’m just glad you didn’t fall. I’ll have one of the techs look at it and if it can’t be fixed, I’ll bring you a new one tomorrow night.”
“Thanks.”
“Try to make this one last a little longer, okay? It’s only been three months since you Snappled the last one.”
“I feel like you need to put that on Urban Dictionary. I’ll invent a definition for Snappling, don’t worry.” When I smile, his face softens.
“I’m glad to see you’re … coping,” he says quietly. “I thought it would be months before I saw anything like that again.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t be joking. Morgan wouldn’t if I were dead; I’m the worst person in the world. I can’t be happy when she’s gone, and I don’t know where she went, if she’s all right—and all this while my family is mourning me. My face crumples. I tuck my lips in, and I can see Mr. Frost realize he shouldn’t have said that—because he’s reminded me that I’m a selfish asshole for not grieving every minute of the day. But he doesn’t understand; this isn’t survivor’s guilt.
Or maybe it is, just not in the form he expects. I get up from the table and retreat upstairs.
As I head down the hall toward Morgan’s bedroom, her cell pings with a message. Since I expect it to be Clay, I try to ignore it. Not surprisingly, I can’t.
Finally I take the phone out of my pocket, but Clay’s picture hasn’t popped up. Instead it’s the baseline icon, the default for when you don’t have the person in your contacts. Curious, I tap it open to find:
You look pretty today, sweetheart. But time’s running out. $10K or I tell your dad.
8
To say I don’t sleep much after the creepy text comes in? Massive understatement.
The phone gives me no clue about who sent the message or why they’re trying to shake Morgan down. I scroll through her message history, but she seems to run a cleaner app that purges her messages regularly. That’s … weird, right? It’s not like I never delete anything; when Nathan sends me his sweaty abs pics, I ogle for a while and then remove. That’s just sensible preventive measures in case of parental intrusion.
This is next level caution, possibly veering toward paranoia. Part of me wants to answer the text, but that might just make things worse. Eventually, I power the cell down, but I’m conscious of it, a heavy metallic weight on the table next to me. I swear, I watch the thing like it’s a bomb about to go off.
Must’ve dozed at some point, and I wake up as it’s getting light outside. Worry camps out in my head—so many problems for me to deal with, and I don’t even know where to start.
There’s a little voice in my head whining, It’s not fair. I want to say, Screw this and go tell my parents everything
.
I’m not Morgan. I can’t do this. Those desperate thoughts haunt me as I walk to the bathroom. On Morgan’s legs. I get in her shower and try not to cry.
Mrs. Rhodes brings breakfast while I’m in the bathroom, in and out like a ghost. Jesus, it’s so quiet in this house. At home my parents would be yelling down the hall at us to hurry up, as my mom cooks and my dad sneaks the bacon while accusing random family members of stealing essays he was supposed to grade a week ago. We live close enough that I can walk to school, though Morgan sometimes picks me up. Nathan and I always said it was unfair that we had no wheels unless we doubled with Clay and Morgan.
Nathan.
My heart aches as I stand in front of her walk-in closet. Choosing an outfit seems bigger than what it is, somehow. Then I realize why. For the last three years, I’ve watched her the night before, planning the perfect look. Sometimes she asks my opinion but not always, as I’m not a fashion icon. Whatever I pick, the next day twenty girls will be scouring stores to find something close but not identical. For the first time I realize how daunting that is.
Trying to match Morgan’s impeccable taste is impossible, and I only have ten minutes to get ready. Normally I’d just wear jeans and a cute top, nothing extravagant. But Morgan’s wardrobe doesn’t run to simplicity. Whatever, I’ll do my best to be fashion forward.
Hair is easy, thankfully. It’s her best feature, long and straight, easy to style. I pull off the long ponytail with the hair wrapped around it and then do light makeup, Morgan-style, not mine. She wears more eyeliner whereas I did lips. But Liv’s mouth was better, I think.
Liv. Me.
My mouth was better.
“Are you almost ready?” Mr. Frost calls.
Grabbing phone and backpack, I head downstairs carefully. My incision still hurts, so I have pain meds in my bag, just in case. He’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs in helicopter mode, not that I blame him. With a faint frown he eyes the shoes.
“Is that wise?”
The heel doesn’t bother me right now, but maybe it’s a bad idea. My side will probably hurt like hell if I wear these all day. But there’s no way Morgan would yield on fashion without a fight. I try to cut a deal.
“Ask Wanda to get me a pair of flats from upstairs. I’ll wear them to walk around later. Just please let me arrive in these.”
Mr. Frost wavers. “Okay. But only because you said please.”
He calls out the request and the housekeeper hurries upstairs to find some ballet slippers that should be easier on my various injuries. Five minutes later, he’s driving me to school, despite my protests I’m well enough to take my own car. Morgan drives an adorable blue Beetle, the model that looks like a Barbie car. Here, he stands firm; as a dad he knows to pick his battles. Shoes? No big deal. Daughter who barely survived a fatal car accident? Yeah, let’s put a pin in driving, honey, at least until you’re fully recovered. Since that reasoning makes sense, I don’t argue, and it’s no hardship going to school in his town car.
On the way I get a message from Clay. Good luck. I’ll be thinking about you.
Because he’s a decent guy and I don’t want to hurt him more than I have to, I send back, Thanks ☺. Which is less than I’d want to get in his shoes … but better than silence. Right?
Mr. Frost pulls right up to the front doors and I slip out with a wave. Already the eyes are on me. Maybe it would’ve been better if I could’ve come to my own funeral because people would’ve already seen my reaction then. But because it’s Morgan, this moment is … intensified. Everything about her drives gossip at this school, but she’s so cool about it that I never wondered how it feels.
Answer? It sucks.
These shoes do too. My side already hurts by the time I get to Morgan’s locker. Thank God I’ve seen her spin the combination a thousand times. Otherwise I’d have to plead amnesia in the main office or go after the padlock with bolt cutters. Popping it open and seeing it empty excavates my stomach like a fresh grave. The school makes us clean them at the end of the year, though they give us the same one when we come back in the fall. I can understand why they wouldn’t want food moldering for three months in this heat, but what harm could it do to let us keep plushies and pictures? As a result of their totalitarian sanitation regime, there’s nothing here that was hers, only my memory of what was.
Sure, I can redecorate. I know more or less what she’d pin up. But it’ll be a facsimile of Morgan, just like me. Quietly I lean my head against the inside of the locker door.
“You look like I feel,” Nathan says.
Closing my eyes, I steel myself for a few seconds before turning. And it’s worse than I expected. His face is thinner and he’s growing an I don’t care beard. He doesn’t seem to be sleeping either, as his green-cast hazel eyes are deeply ringed, which gives him a tortured-artist vibe. Even his haphazard style goes with the theme, torn jeans and paint-stained hoodie.
“Did you sleep in those clothes?”
“Maybe,” he mutters.
The irrational part of me can’t stand that he doesn’t recognize me. All that charming star-crossed bullshit, my soul will find yours? I want to burn all those romantic movies down. Because I’m right here and he can’t see me; the eyes aren’t mirrors to anything.
At this moment, I want to hold him. But Morgan isn’t touchy-feely, and Nathan will likely shove me away so fast my head will spin. Yet maybe under these circumstances … I mean, we’re both grieving. It’s bad, I’m awful, but … I have to try. Just look at him.
“So … do you want a hug or something?” I ask with enough edge that I can claim I was joking if he reacts like it’s weird.
Nathan huffs out a laugh. “From you? Not really.”
That hurts more than I expected. “Screw trying to be nice, I guess. So you know, I’m not exactly okay, either.”
As I shove past him, I stumble in these cute, stupid shoes and a shooting pain tears through my side. Nathan catches me, holds me; it’s strange being on eye level with him, but it doesn’t distract me from how good, how sweet and familiar it is when he touches me. And I swear, for a crazy second, he feels it. His gaze locks on mine, and I try to tell him silently.
It’s me, I’m here. I didn’t leave you.
9
Nathan lets go instead of pulling me in. I’m Morgan, his brother’s girlfriend. I must’ve imagined that moment.
“Sorry. I know she was your best friend for way longer than I dated her.”
“Yeah,” I say huskily. Then I cut away from this conversation because it’s like chewing glass. Somehow I manage to get to Morgan’s first class.
After the encounter with Nathan, my hands are cold and shaky. As I settle at my desk, I remember the text from last night, and suddenly, the phone feels like it’s burning a hole in my bag, but I don’t take it out. I can’t afford to let the teacher confiscate my electronics. It appears that Morgan had problems she didn’t share with me … or anyone, maybe. As soon as I get back, I’m searching her room for clues.
The school is small enough that there’s only one lunch, four classes before, and three after. We start at eight; lessons run for fifty minutes with a five-minute passing period between them. Morgan’s schedule is way different from mine. Since I’m interested in genetic engineering, I’ve been taking hardcore science and math since freshman year. But now I have American Literature, Graphic Design 2, Visual Arts, Sociology, a break for lunch, then afterward French, World Government, and study hall, which will eventually turn into PE.
I’m so screwed. While I can memorize for Government and Sociology, Morgan is in her third year of French, and I don’t know more than three phrases: s’il vous plaît, omelet du fromage, and merci beaucoup. So in France, I can politely order a cheese omelet, then thank the waiter afterward. That won’t cut it in French 3. American Lit will be okay; that was the one class we would’ve had together. I’ll probably crash and burn in Graphic Design and Visual Arts, too.
As predicted, I’
m every bit as lost as I guessed in second and third period. First and fourth are okay, then I’m cut loose for lunch. Belatedly I recall that I can’t eat anything here and that Morgan usually packed a lunch. I hover outside because I’m not sure where to sit, plus the prospect of watching people eat when I’m starving doesn’t thrill me. Morgan and I ate together, but I never wondered what she did on my rare sick days. As Liv, I’d go sit with the science types, but that won’t work now.
“Forgot your lunch?” Nathan’s standing behind me, brow cocked.
I’m too conscious of him and that makes it hard to think. “Yeah.”
“Did you bring your car? I’ll go with you to the store, if you want.”
Ruefully, I shake my head. “I’m on lockdown for a while. M-my dad is being overprotective.” That was a close one; I almost said Mr. Frost.
“Then I guess you’ll have to hold out until you get home.” But he’s making no move to go join his buddies.
Nathan hangs with the young GQ set, normally. By which I mean well-dressed, smart, academic overachievers who prefer clubs to athletics; they also masquerade as clean cut when in fact, they’re the ones who throw the best parties. Nathan’s on the swim team, too, but they don’t have the same mentality as the football players. Confession: I’ve had his activity schedule memorized for way longer than we’ve been dating. Morgan used to tease me about how I’d position myself throughout the day, dropping into his line of sight until he started talking to me. Over the course of sophomore year, we progressed from casual greetings to banter, and eventually, as I was hoping, he asked me out.
Standing here with Nathan is keeping me from obsessing over that ominous text message, but he won’t stay forever. Yet he tilts his head toward the side doors. “Want to go sit in the courtyard? I’m not hungry anyway.”
“Sure.” As we walk, I’m wondering if this is prudent.
I suspect he feels sorry for Morgan and that he regrets his attitude this morning. But it’s not like there are tons of people clamoring to hang out. While people idolize Morgan, they don’t feel comfortable offering sympathy or support. So while I’ve gotten a lot of concerned looks, nobody’s approached. Morgan didn’t go out of her way to dispel that mystique, either.