Someone Else Page 3

  Chapter 3

  “I don’t think so,” I told Robin, who in response gave me a heartbreaking pout that I’m sure worked like magic on all the boys that flocked around her.

  “Come on.” She relaxed her pout in order to take another drag of her cigarette. “It won’t be as wild as the party last weekend, I promise.”

  “Let’s just have a coffee like we planned, okay?”

  She sighed and stubbed out her cigarette on the wet pavement. We were standing outside Starbucks in the late September drizzle, and I was getting annoyed with both the gross weather and the incessant begging. We could never just talk anymore. Our recent conversations consisted mostly of her trying to talk me into going out with her and her new friends, and me declining as tactfully as I could. In truth, I did want to go out, but not with that crowd. I’d tried it three times, one dance and two parties, and that was enough. Robin had found her niche at Redwood Hills High, all right, but it held no draw for me.

  “Let’s go in,” Robin said, not even trying to hide her disappointment in me. “Maybe some espresso will perk you up.”

  I’d like to see how perky she’d be after working an eight-hour shift on a Saturday. Still, I took her advice and ordered a vanilla latte, the biggest size they had, plus a frosted brownie that looked big enough to lie down on. We gathered our drinks and snacks and found a table next to the floor-to-ceiling fireplace.

  “Did you notice my new boots?” Robin asked with a grin. Her irritation with me had melted quicker than the icing on my warm brownie.

  I glanced under the table at her feet. Her jeans were tucked into a pair of black leather high-heeled boots that came up to just below her knees. She looked like Catwoman, or maybe a dominatrix. “Nice,” I said. Only her tall, stick-skinny frame could get away with boots like those.

  “Thanks,” Robin said, holding out her leg for us—and the man the next table over—to admire. “I’m starting to get used to having money.”

  “Alan gives you money?”

  “Oh, I get a weekly allowance.” She smirked. “Just like my mother.”

  Robin hated living in Redwood Hills, in spite of the gorgeous new bedroom and the brand new furniture and the fat allowance. Her mother ignored her there just like she’d ignored her in the small, run-down bungalow they’d lived in before. Only now—in that huge, pristine house—the silence was even louder.

  “So, spill,” Robin said, running her tongue over her lips to sop up the whipped cream left behind from her mocha. “Is there a reason you wanted to talk to me tonight in a boring coffee shop instead of going to Isabelle’s party?” Isabelle was one of her new friends, a girl who had seen more males naked than a locker room shower.

  “No special reason. I just haven’t seen you much since school started. When was the last time we sat around like this?”

  “A while, I guess. Not since I dyed your hair. Hey…” She reached up to run her fingers through my hair. Out of the corner of my eye I saw our neighbor peek at us over the top of his newspaper, his eyes wide with interest. “The color’s starting to fade already.”

  “Maybe you can dye it again for me tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” She gave me a wicked smile. “If we’re not too hungover, that is.”

  “I don’t want to go to that party, Robin,” I said patiently. “I mean it.”

  “But we had so much fun last weekend.”

  “You had so much fun. I sat there bored out of my skull.”

  She pouted again. “You used to go to Hills parties all the time when Michael was home.”

  “His friends were different.”

  “What’s wrong with my friends?” she said, getting all huffy. “We have fun. We’re not hurting anything.”

  “I know.” I took another sip of latte, enjoying the buzz of caffeine. “It’s just not my thing, that’s all I’m saying.” I’d figured that much out the first time I witnessed a girl whacked out on Ecstasy—it was Isabelle, come to think of it—making out with five different guys in less than an hour. Add that to the drunk assholes who didn’t seem to understand the concept of not interested, and that pretty much summed up my reasons for avoidance.

  “What is your thing, Tay?” Robin said, swatting my knee. “Sitting home alone every weekend, pining away?”

  Her tone was light and playful, but the words stung. “I miss my boyfriend, all right? So sue me.”

  Her face suddenly softened. “Michael was supposed to come home this weekend, wasn’t he? What happened?”

  “He had to study.”

  I didn’t want to get into what I really thought—that maybe he was having far too much fun at Avery to leave it behind even for a weekend. That perhaps I missed him just a little more than he missed me. When he told me he couldn’t make it home, he acted like it was no big deal. So I did too. Instead of expressing my disappointment, I hid it from him…and everyone else. Until now, at Starbucks with Robin. I was getting tired of keeping everything in to show how “fine” I felt.

  “I’m sure he wants to come home.” She tipped her cup, downing the last few drops. “He’s probably really busy, right? College isn’t like high school.”

  “That’s for sure,” I muttered.

  She studied me as I sat there, absently crumbling pieces of brownie between my fingers. “Know what you need?” I looked up at her warily. “Fun,” she said with a single nod. “You are going to that party if I have to tie you up and drag you there myself. Let’s get out of here.”

  I clamped my jaws together. How could I talk to someone who seemed to disregard almost everything I said? Who only heard what she wanted to hear? Especially when a good listener was what I needed the most right now?

  “I’m not going,” I said. “But if you want to go, I’ll drop you off.”

  She sighed as if she’d run out of patience with me. I knew the feeling.

  “Tay,” Robin said outside as we climbed into my car. “You’re never going to get through this year if you don’t get out and have some fun once in a while. You think Michael’s staying in every night?”

  I ignored that and started the engine. She was watching me, about to say something else, when her cell phone rang. Looking away, she reached into her purse and brought out her phone. “Hey, girl,” she chirped. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Redwood Hills as she chattered away. “Yeah, I’m on my way now…I know…Totally…Okay, see ya soon.”

  “What street?” I asked after she’d hung up her phone and returned it to her purse.

  “Meadow Lane. Turn left at the stop sign, then keep going straight.” She turned to me again. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? A few drinks might do you some good. You can crash at Izzie’s, no problem. I always do. Her parents don’t care.”

  “I’m sure.” I swerved onto Meadow Lane. Michael’s house was only a few streets away. Just being in his neighborhood made my chest ache. “What number?”

  “One-oh-eight. There it is, the brick one with the red doors.”

  I glanced out the window at the party house, which was a typical mini-mansion. Even from a few yards away, I could hear laughter and voices coming from the inside. Dark shadows floated across the well-lit windows, and cars spilled from the double driveway onto the street.

  “Last chance,” Robin said, pausing with her hand on the door handle.

  I shook my head, and she leaned over to give me a quick hug before climbing out of the car. “Have fun,” I said.

  “You too.” She winked at me, shut the door, and glided toward the house, her Catwoman boots clicking along the pavement. The second she was out of sight, I gunned it out of there and headed for home.

  Natalie—my sister and stepbrother’s regular babysitter—was there when I arrived. I paid her with the money Dad kept on the hutch in the dining room—the full amount, even though she’d only been here for a couple of hours. After she left, I corralled the kids and sent them upstairs to brush their teeth. They balked, as usual, but as keyed up as I was I knew I
could outlast them this time. My energy level at the moment easily exceeded that of two eleven-year-olds.

  When all was quiet in their rooms, I changed into my pajamas, washed my face, and made my way into my father’s study. I sat down in the plush leather desk chair and flicked on the lamp. Dad’s desk, as usual, was a disaster area. Empty coffee cups, uncorrected papers, and several stacks of Post-it notes were strewn about. The computer was already on, its friendly floating fishies screen saver brightening up the otherwise gloomy room. I jiggled the mouse a little to get rid of the fish and then double-clicked the instant messenger icon. Dad knew I used his computer for email and IMing, but he didn’t quite understand how it all worked. The only time he ever used the computer was to check and send email, and I had to help him with that half the time. So I had no worries about him checking up on my online activities. Not that he would think to do that, even if his computer knowledge did go beyond turning the machine on and off. He trusted me, sometimes too much, according to Mom.

  It wasn’t like I did anything bad on the computer. But there were certain things in my IM history—such as some, uh, rather graphic conversations with Michael—and I would have died if anyone else happened to read them.

  Speaking of Michael, he wasn’t online tonight. No shock there. I wondered where he was and what he was doing. Before my brain could conjure up any distressing images, a cheerful bing told me I had a message. I smiled at the screen. Erin. I hadn’t spoken to her in over a week.

  “Hey you, what are you doing home? Not out partying tonite?”

  I typed in a quick response. “I could ask you the same.”

  “Got me there. So what’s new?”

  “Nothing. You?

  “Not a freaking thing. What’s been going down at OH?”

  OH was our—well, my—high school—Oakfield High. “The usual,” I typed. Then sent a second message right after: “Not the same without you, as you know.”

  She made a frowning smilie, followed by: “I miss you guys so much. My new school is full of snobs and the drama department sucks ass.”

  I told her about Brooke and My Fair Lady, and how Alex had convinced her to take voice lessons to help build her confidence enough to try out for the lead role.

  “She’ll get it,” Erin said. “There are no actresses like Brooke at my shitty school. They’re all so fake…polished. Like pageant queens.”

  “Sounds like you’d fit right in.”

  A raised-eyebrow smilie appeared on the screen. “Yeah, right. I’m a regular Miss Universe around here. They’ll nominate me prom queen, I’m sure.”

  I typed in the code for a grinning smilie. Talking to Erin had cheered me up already.

  “How’s it going with the long-distance thing?” she wrote.

  “Fine,” I tapped out. The cursor hovered indecisively over the send button for a moment, and then I hit the backspace key a few times, erasing the word. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. “Hard. Not sure if I can make it though the year.”

  Another frowny face. “You need to talk?”

  There wasn’t a smilie in existence that could have expressed the gratitude I felt toward her right then. “Yeah,” I answered back. Then the flood gates popped open and I started typing. Erin responded in the exact way that I needed: she read everything, commented little, and let me get it all out. She didn’t tell me to go out and have fun. She didn’t treat me like a mourning widower. She just listened.

  Afterward I felt about fifty pounds lighter, and I told her so.

  “Anytime,” she typed, and then she had to sign off for the night. I could hear Leo, our golden retriever, whimpering in the kitchen, so I decided to shut down too.

  I let Leo out to pee and then headed for my bedroom, counting each creak my footsteps produced as I climbed up the weathered hardwood stairs. Lynn had grown up in this old house, and then inherited it after her parents died. When my father moved in they’d started renovating, adding a huge master bedroom with an en suite and Dad’s study. And they weren’t done yet. In July they’d decided to finish the basement and put in an extra bedroom, another bathroom, and a games room. My father had visions of pool tables, home theater systems, and wine cellars. Lynn was just happy he’d moved on from the idea of a hot tub in the backyard.

  Contractors had been tramping in and out of the house since early summer, but not much had been accomplished so far. Mostly a lot of banging, measuring, and dust. Still, we all had faith that the house makeover would be fully completed by Christmas. I had grown to realize that some things—even strong, solid things—had the ability to change drastically in a very short period of time.

  Chapter 4

  Jessica Foley and I had become friends.

  It all started during the second week of school. We were sitting at our table in French class, waiting for Madame Bedeau to get there, and I’d finally gathered enough nerve to ask her the question I had been wondering since the first day of class: “Why fish?”

  She had looked down at her notebook, which was adorned end to end with fish doodles. Dozens of them. Big ones, small ones, fat ones, long ones, ones with big, bulging eyes, ones with string-like fins...

  “I like them,” she’d said shortly.

  “Oh.” She wasn’t as friendly and easy to get to know as I’d once hoped. In fact, she’d barely spoken three words to me since she’d sat next to me that first day, aside from some perfunctory “Hi”s and the occasional “Can I borrow a pen?”

  Then, she spoke again. “Have you ever gone to the pet store and stood in the aisle with all the aquariums?”

  “Sure.”

  She looked at me, and her heavily-lined eyes seemed almost dreamy. “I can’t think of anything more relaxing. The sound of the bubbles, the light reflecting off the water, the silent little fish swimming around with nowhere to go…and the colors. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  I tapped my pen on the desk, a little wary now. “I’ve never really thought about it before,” I said. I mean, fish were fish. They swam, they died, they got flushed down the toilet.

  “I have a fish tank in my room,” she told me, sliding her long nail over one of her drawings, a round fish with stripes. “A twenty-gallon. I want a bigger one so I can get more fish, but tanks and filters and stuff are so expensive.”

  “What kinds of fish do you have?”

  “Just danios and tetras right now. I’ve considered adding some gourami but they tend to be aggressive.”

  I pretended to sift through my French workbook. “Um…I have a dog.”

  “You think fish are boring, right? Because you can’t pet them and take them for walks?”

  “No,” I lied. “I just don’t know much about them.”

  Her chocolate-brown eyes met mine again, but this time her gaze was appraising, almost challenging. “I can tell you about them, if you’re really interested.”

  The vibe between us felt friendlier now, so I said, “Okay.”

  And in the weeks ahead, we did talk about fish a lot. Well, she talked and I listened. Before long I knew more than I ever wanted to know about ammonia levels and algae and cycling. We talked about other things too, like our families. I told her that my parents were divorced and that I lived with my mom and little sister, Emma, in Oakfield. She told me that her mother had died of cancer eight years ago, and that she had a younger brother named Cameron who was in the ninth grade. Their father was an electrician and had never remarried. The three of them—plus Jessica’s fish—lived in Rocky Lake, one of the several small towns whose junior high populace had bled over into Oakfield High. Rocky Lake was more rural than Oakfield, and the kids who lived there had to bus to school unless they had their own cars.

  We also talked about our boyfriends. Jessica’s boyfriend, Brent, was a junior too, and they had been dating for eight months. I vaguely knew him from a math class we’d had together last year. He played soccer on the school team. This explained why Jessica and I had never crossed paths—she hung out with the j
ocks.

  I told her all about Michael and our increasingly-strained long-distance relationship. Jessica claimed she admired me for sticking to it, that she could never do it. “I’m too jealous,” she said. “Kind of spoiled, too. Brent says I’m high-maintenance.”

  Though I didn’t know Jessica very well yet, I had to agree with Brent there. Jessica spent more time in the washroom than anyone I’d ever met. Every day after class, she’d head straight for the girl’s john, where she’d touch up her makeup, brush her long, gleaming hair, and make sure her clothes hadn’t somehow gotten stained or rumpled during class. She performed this ritual at least five times a day. Her purse must have weighed fifty pounds with all the crap she kept in there. One day she confessed to me that she got up at five-thirty every morning just to give herself enough time to get ready before the bus came at eight. I asked her what she did that took two and a half hours.

  “I have to iron my outfit for the day, shower, straighten my hair, do my makeup, paint my nails if they need it, pack my purse, feed my fish…” She ticked each item off on her fingers while my jaw dropped in disbelief. I woke up every morning at seven-thirty and was out the door by ten after eight. I’d given up on taming my thick, frizzy-in-humidity locks years ago, I rarely ventured beyond eyeliner and lip gloss, my nails were bitten down to the knuckle, and my clothes could benefit from a good ironing more often than not. Sometimes I wondered if my new friend secretly believed that I was a mess of epic proportions.

  She did give that impression a lot. For example: One day during the first week of October, as we were walking together to my locker after class, she told me I could really use some mattifying foundation to even out my skin tone.

  “It gives me zits,” I said as we descended the stairs to basement. There were some chemistry notes in my locker that I’d promised to let her copy. She came late to class at least twice a week, so Mr. McDowell, our mothball-scented teacher, had started sending her to the office every time she waltzed in five minutes past the bell. As a result, there were several chunks of notes missing from her binder. I’d told her she was taking a leap of faith with my notes, considering I only understood about half of what was going on in chemistry.