Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 5:25 P.M.
Chapter Two - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 6:05 P.M.
Chapter Three - SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 11:44 P.M.
Chapter Four - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 11:32 A.M.
Chapter Five - MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 12:24 P.M.
Chapter Six - MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 3:54 P.M.
Chapter Seven - FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2, 2:24 P.M.
Chapter Eight - FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2, 5:23 P.M.
Chapter Nine - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 10:36 A.M.
Chapter Ten - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 11:02 A.M.
Chapter Eleven - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 3, 3:20 P.M.
Chapter Twelve - WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1:15 P.M.
Chapter Thirteen - WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 7:54 P.M.
Chapter Fourteen - WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 9:15 P.M.
Chapter Fifteen - FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9, 2:01 P.M.
Chapter Sixteen - FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9, 3:23 P.M.
Chapter Seventeen - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 5:45 P.M.
Chapter Eighteen - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 11:42 P.M.
Chapter Nineteen - SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11, 12:32 A.M.
Chapter Twenty - SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11, 12:43 A.M.
Chapter Twenty-One - SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1:24 A.M.
Chapter Twenty-Two - SUNDAY, OCTOBER 11, 4:54 P.M.
Chapter Twenty-Three - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 7:10 P.M.
Acknowledgements
The Locket
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
eISBN : 978-1-101-51319-4
Copyright © 2011 Stacey Jay
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To the resilient people of Nashville.
Prologue
It was raining so hard I could barely see my hands as I wrapped my fingers around the tree house step and started to climb. Even the shelter of the leaves still clinging to the branches didn’t offer much relief from the downpour. I was climbing blind, the lack of visual cues making the swaying of the massive trunk and the groans lurching from deep inside the tree even more disturbing.
It was a horrible storm, worse than it had been the first time around. Freezing wind whipped through the valley behind my house, cutting through the tightly woven fabric of my fleece v-neck, plastering it to my skin with another layer of cold and wet.
But still I climbed, shouting his name as I went. I had no choice but to go to him. He hadn’t heard me the first or second or third time I’d called from the ground.
Or maybe he was just ignoring me.
“I’m coming up!” I screamed again, the act of forcing my stiff lips to form words helping keep my mind off the fact that I was six . . . seven . . . ten . . . twelve feet in the air. I shivered, fingers clawing into the damp wood, fear of heights throbbing through my body in new and powerful ways.
I could feel the empty space behind me growling, a hungry void that wanted my slick hands to slip, wanted to watch me fall and gobble up my fear as I dropped. I licked my lips, tasting salt and sticky, and thought for a second I must have bitten myself.
Cramped fingers dared a brush up and down my face, swiping away water and something hotter that rolled down into my mouth. The blood was coming from my nose, from the place where the locket’s chain had scraped away my skin.
The locket . . . . It had drawn blood.
Bringing both hands to cling onto the ladder once more, I turned and brushed my face against my shoulder, leaving a spot of black on the gray fabric.
“Go away,” he yelled above me, his voice slurred and thick.
“I’m not going away. You shouldn’t be drinking up here,” I said, shouting to be heard over a sudden gust of wind. The tree rocked back and forth, moaning, while my pulse raced and my hands gripped the ladder step so tightly my knuckles snapped and cracked.
For the first time since that night in Isaac’s truck, I felt the obscene weight of holding the future in my own hands. I had to get us both out of this tree before something bad happened, before someone was seriously hurt, before anything else was lost or broken . . . .
Chapter One
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 5:25 P.M.
Lavender and rotted peaches and old-lady face cream. Ugh. The smell was enough to make me cringe even if it hadn’t been underscored by VapoRub and the fruit-flavored Tums Gran ate like candy. My bathroom had been hijacked, right when I needed sanctuary more than ever.
Since the day my family moved into my great-grandmother’s old house, my big room with the window seat and private bath had been my safe place. It was where I felt peaceful, in control, no matter what was going on in the outside world.
Unfortunately, my sanctuary had been violated by Gran’s arrival for her first visit in years. She was sleeping in the guest room, but sharing my bath. The counter was covered in pillboxes, the vanity buried in jewelry and face cream, and the entire room reeked of sweet and flowery old person.
I loved Gran to death, but really . . . her nose must have ceased to function or there was no way she’d be able to live with her own odor.
As I rushed through drying my hair and brushed blush on my cheeks, I wondered if the scent would linger on my clothes. Would Isaac smell it and think I’d used that body spray he hated? The one my mom had given me for my sweet sixteen that Rachel Pruitt had said made her nauseous and Isaac had made me promise never to wear again?
My forehead bunched, making the penciling in of my light red brows more challenging than usual. More than anything, I wanted this night to be perfect. I needed it to be perfect. It had only been two weeks, but it felt like I’d been living with this horrible ache in my chest for years. I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be at home in my own skin.
Even before my screwup, there were times when I’d felt out of place. In the lunchroom, at parties, even just hanging out at Ramon’s or Jukebox Java after school, I was just . . . awkward with Isaac’s crowd, the girl who never said the right thing, who never knew when to laugh or toss her hair. Despite the fact that I’d been dating the star of the basketball team my entire
dateable life, I’d never fit in with the perfect people. I was pretty, but not that pretty, smart, but not that smart, and I didn’t possess a single athletic bone in my body, so volleyball or cheerleading—the approved platinum sports—were out of the question.
I wasn’t even a good drama geek. The closest I’d come to landing a starring role was being cast as first understudy in Our Town.
That’s why it had happened. Because I’d felt uncomfortable, and frustrated with Isaac because of it. I had to do better. Be better. I had to make sure nothing like that happened ever again. Our anniversary had to be perfect, romantic, unforgettable.
I didn’t even care that today was also my birthday. Seventeen was a weird number anyway, and celebrating three years with Isaac was what really mattered.
I’d spent the better part of the morning choosing the perfect anniversary outfit—a silver-and-black-striped tissue tee with a clingy black cotton skirt—and for once was happy with the way I looked. I felt sexy, but casual, and my pale skin actually looked dramatic rather than sickly. My red hair had cooperated and dried in smooth waves down to my shoulders and—slightly crooked eyebrows aside—my makeup had turned out better than usual. I looked as pretty as I ever did . . . but something still seemed to be missing.
I was stabbing around in my jewelry drawer, looking for my oversized hoop earrings, when I spotted the locket in the tangle of necklaces on top of the vanity. It was silver, engraved with intricate swirls and a cursive G on one side. It looked old. And expensive. And it was sooo pretty. My inner cat perked up and demanded I bat my paw at the shiny object.
I knew I shouldn’t invade Gran’s privacy, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I reached for the locket, flipping it over, running my fingers over the cursive-scratched silver. There, in delicate scrawl, an inscription read, Some mistakes weren’t meant to last.
My chest tightened and a shiver ran across my skin, raising all the little blond hairs. The message was eerie, disturbing almost.
Lifting the locket from the pile of jewelry, I thumbed open the latch holding it closed. Inside, two faded pictures smiled at each other. The woman I recognized as a very young version of my gran, so I assumed the man with the dimple popping in his left cheek and eyes sparkling with mischief must be my grandfather. I hadn’t seen many pictures of him—he’d died when I was a baby—but I’d heard Gran’s stories. They’d met when they were fifteen, married when they were seventeen, and divorced a few months later under pressure from Gran’s parents.
Grandpa had gone away to war soon after and they hadn’t seen each other for five years, until the day they’d run into each other on the street, gone for coffee, and eloped to Nashville a few hours later, proving that—
“Some mistakes weren’t meant to last.” Now I understood the inscription. Aw. So sweet. It made me smile.
Gran and Grandpa had been together for almost forty years before he’d passed away. Their happiness proved that young love didn’t always have to end. Sometimes young love became old love, forever love. I still believed it would be like that for Isaac and me. We were going to be together until we were old and gray.
I snapped the locket closed, my fingers wrapping around the metal. I loved the feel of it, the comforting weight and warmth. I couldn’t imagine a more romantic piece of jewelry. Almost before I’d made a conscious decision, I had a delicate chain in each hand, lifting them around my neck. The clasp was smaller than most necklaces’, but I finally managed to slip one link into the tiny fastener and slide it closed.
I’d only meant to try it on, but when I looked up at my reflection, I knew the locket had to stay. It was beautiful. It pulled together my silver and black outfit, brought out the green in my eyes, and made me look older, more sophisticated. And the inscription . . . Well, that couldn’t be more perfect. For the first time in weeks, the shame and guilt that had underscored my every waking moment faded to background noise. I felt confident, hopeful.
Everything was going to be all right. Isaac and I were going to have our happily ever after, just like Gran and—
The grandfather clock downstairs began its hourly melody. It was six already. Isaac would be here any minute!
I hurried through my room and down the stairs, grateful that my parents and Gran had already left for their movie. Gran was known for being super-generous, and probably wouldn’t have minded me borrowing her necklace, but it was nice not to have to ask. I really didn’t want to take it off.
This way, I could have the locket back in her pile before morning and no one would know I’d touched it. It would be between me, Isaac, and my new good-luck charm. My fingers smoothed along the cool silver, and a bit of that peace I’d been missing seeped through me, bringing a real smile to my face.
Isaac’s perpetually muddy red truck pulled into the driveway twenty-five minutes late. It wouldn’t have been a big deal—traffic being what it is on Saturday night—but there was no pleading traffic delay when you live five houses down.
Still, I decided not to make a big deal out of it. This wasn’t a night to pick a fight. Besides, his lateness had given me plenty of time to double-check my hair and run through a few sprays of Febreze—ensuring I smelled like laundry freshness instead of flowers and medicine.
I watched through the narrow window by the door as he ambled up the front walk with that lazy stride he always had when he was off the court. I’d recognize that walk from a mile away. Even more than his signature jagged haircut that left strips of dark blond hair hanging down into his blue eyes, his stocky, bulldog build, or his obsession with orange shirts, that walk was Isaac.
I’d learned to adjust my pace to fit his when we first started holding hands in seventh grade. I imagined I’d still be doing the same when we were walking our kids in their strollers years from now.
Isaac and I had talked about kids—how many we wanted, what we might name them, whether they’d have blue eyes or green. We weren’t like the rest of our friends. We didn’t pretend our relationship would end after high school, or college, or . . . ever. We were in this for the long haul.
And we really were going to be together forever. Our lives were going to play out exactly the way we’d planned. I was sure of that now, in spite of my mistake.
The thought made electricity shoot across my skin. I was suddenly hyper-aware of the locket, feeling it seem to grow heavier, hotter, like a curling iron warming its way up to scalding. It was a disturbing sensation and—for a split second—I thought about taking it off and leaving it in the bowl of keys near the door.
But what if Gran saw it when she came home? Maybe I should just slip it into my pocket or run it back to my room or—
Isaac’s footsteps sounded on the brick steps. The locket and everything else was forgotten.
“Hey!” I opened the door before he could knock, throwing my arms around his neck. I aimed a kiss at his mouth, but ended up getting his jaw instead when he turned his head at the last second.
Beneath my lips, I felt the scratch of unshaven whiskers and a tremor snaked through my newfound confidence, leaving fractures in its wake. Why hadn’t he shaved? He knew whisker burn made my skin splotchy, and surely I was going to be at threat-level-orange risk of burn tonight. We hadn’t been together for two and a half weeks. It was a long time, probably the longest we’d gone since we started having sex a year ago.
But I’d been too stressed out and Isaac had been too busy. Basketball practice had started, and I’d become the second love in his life until the season ended in the spring. It was the way it had always been. I was used to it by now.
Still, it was our anniversary. It was a night for being together. Surely he felt the same way?
“Hey, girl. Happy birthday.” His arms closed around me, pulling me in for a tight hug. A breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding rushed from between my lips.
“Happy anniversary.” I nuzzled my face into his neck and kissed him again. He smelled so good. So familiar. I breathed in his scent, not minding t
hat he hadn’t shaved anymore. He’d obviously showered. He smelled of soap and boy. My boy.
“Yeah. You too.” He pulled away and took my hand, not looking me in the eye before he led the way back to his truck.
Hmm . . . something was definitely wrong. I wondered what was bothering him. The Bearcats hadn’t played any games so far this season, so there was no way his dad could be giving him hell about basketball stuff yet. Maybe he was just tired. They’d been practicing hard this week. I’d barely seen him since Tuesday.
“You look nice,” he said as he opened the passenger’s door and helped me into the truck, but for some reason I felt uglier for the compliment.
As he circled around the front, I wished I’d opted for jeans with the T-shirt and locket instead of a skirt. Isaac liked me best in jeans. He always wore jeans. Tonight it was black jeans and an orange and white polo shirt. Nice, but not dressy. I looked too dressed up next to him. For a second, I thought about running in to change, but before I could ask if he’d mind waiting, Isaac had started the truck and pulled down the driveway.
It seemed like he was in a hurry.
“Are we late? Do you have reservations?”
“No. No reservations,” he said, staring straight ahead as he braked at the stop sign. He turned right without another word, steering down Skylar Street, away from the highway, back toward the park and the farm country beyond.
Guess we weren’t going to Nashville, which was . . . surprising. Isaac loved going into the city. He had a fake ID and they let him into all the clubs on Broadway. They let me in too, without an ID, despite the fact that I looked about twelve years old even with major makeup intervention and a padded bra. The bouncers probably would have kicked me out if I’d tried to order a beer, but I never drank anything except Coke.