Sarah Dessen Read online

  Freshman year, when such decisions are made, my teachers had me pegged for the state party school, if I was lucky—someplace where I could do an easy major, like psych, with a minor in frat parties and makeup. As if just because I was, okay, blond and somewhat attractive with an active social life (and, okay, not the best of reputations) and didn’t do the student council/debate team/cheerleader thing, I was destined for the sub-par. Grouped with the burnouts and the barely graduating, where just making it down from the parking lot after lunch was far exceeding expectations.

  But I’d proved them wrong. I used my own money to pay for a tutor in physics, the class that almost killed me, as well as a prep class for the SAT, which I took three times. I was the only one of my friends in AP classes except for Lissa, who as the daughter of two Ph.D.’s had always been expected to be brilliant. But I always worked harder when I was up against something, or when someone assumed I couldn’t succeed. That’s what drove me, all those nights studying. The fact that so many figured I couldn’t do it.

  I was the only one from our graduating class going to Stanford. Which meant I could begin my life again, fresh and new, so far from home. All the money I had left from my salon paycheck after my car payment I’d stuck in my savings account, to cover the dorm fees and books and living expenses. The tuition I’d gotten out of my part of the trust left to me and Chris in our father’s estate. It had been set aside, by some lawyer who I wished I could thank personally, until we were twenty-five or for school, which meant that even during the lean times my mother couldn’t touch it. It also meant that no matter how she burned through her own money, my four years in college were safe. And all because each time “This Lullaby” (written by Thomas Custer, all rights reserved) played in the background of a commercial, or on lite radio, or was performed by some lounge singer in Vegas, it bought me another day of my future.

  The chimes over the door sounded and the UPS man came in, carrying a box, which he put down on the desk in front of me. “Package for you, Remy,” he said, whipping out his clipboard.

  I signed on the screen, then took the box. “Thanks, Jacob.”

  “Oh, and this too,” he said, handing me an envelope. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said. The envelope wasn’t stamped—weird—or sealed. I opened the flap and reached in, pulling out a stack of three pictures. They were all of the same couple, both in their seventies, probably, posing in some seaside setting. The man had on a baseball hat and a T-shirt that read WILL GOLF FOR FOOD. The woman had a camera strapped to her belt and was wearing sensible shoes. They had their arms around each other and looked wildly happy: in the first picture they were smiling, the next laughing, the third kissing, sweetly, their lips barely touching. Like any couple you’d see on vacation who would ask you to take a picture, please, of the two of us.

  Which was all fine and dandy, except who the hell were they? And what was this supposed to mean, anyway? I stood up, looking outside for the UPS truck, but it was already gone. Was I supposed to know these people, or something? I glanced back at the pictures, but the couple just grinned back at me, caught in their tropical moment, offering no explanation.

  “Remy, honey, get me some cold water, would you?” Lola yelled from the other room, and I could tell by her voice—cheerful but loud—she meant do it now, stat. “And some of that Neosporin from the cabinet beneath the cash drawer?”

  “Sure thing!” I yelled back just as cheerfully, shoving the pictures into my purse.

  I yanked the Neosporin out of the cabinet, adding some gauze and a few bandages, which from previous experiences, I thought we might need. Hair emergencies happened all the time, and the truth was, you just knew to be prepared.

  Three hours later, when the drama had finally subsided and Lola’s customer had left with a bandaged scalp, a hefty gift certificate, and a written promise of eyebrow waxing for life, I finally got to lock the cash drawer, get my purse, and walk outside.

  It finally felt like summer. Heavy heat, totally humid, and everything just smelled kind of smoky and thick, as if close to boiling. Lola kept the salon ice cold, so walking outside was like leaving an arctic freeze. I always got goose bumps as I walked to my car.

  I got in, cranked the engine, and turned the AC on full blast to get it going. Then I picked up my cell phone and checked my messages. One from Chloe, asking what we were doing tonight. One from Lissa saying she was fine, just fine, but sounding all sniffly, which she knew I was getting sick of by now. And lastly my brother, Chris, reminding me that Jennifer Anne was cooking us dinner tonight, six sharp, don’t be late.

  I deleted this last message with an angry jab of my finger. I was never late. And he knew it. Further evidence of brainwash ing by Jennifer Anne, who, unlike my brother, knew me not at all. I mean, I was the one who got him up each morning when he started for that Jiffy Lube job, otherwise, he would have slept through all three of his alarms, which he had set in various positions around the room, all requiring him to get up out of the bed to hit the snooze button. I made sure he wasn’t late, didn’t get fired, was out the door by 8:35 at the latest, in case he hit traffic down main street, which he always—

  I was interrupted, suddenly, by a thwacking sound as something hit my windshield. Not hard: more like a slap. I looked up, heart jumping, and saw yet another snapshot of the old vacationing couple. Same WILL GOLF FOR FOOD T-shirt, same crinkly smiles. Now staring down at me, pressed against the glass, held there by someone’s hand.

  And I knew. It was ridiculous I hadn’t figured it out earlier.

  I hit the button for my window and it went down. Standing there, right by my side mirror, was Dexter. He took his hand off the windshield and the picture slid down the glass, lodging itself under one of my wipers.

  “Hi there,” he said. He was wearing a white T-shirt under a uniform I recognized: polyester shirt, green with black piping. Right over the front pocket was neatly stitched FLASH CAMERA, the name of the one-hour photo place directly across the street from the salon.

  “You’re stalking me,” I told him.

  “What?” he said. “You didn’t like the pictures?”

  “Will Golf for Food? How stupid is that?” I said, putting my car in reverse. “Is it supposed to mean something?”

  “No musicians, no golfers,” he said, ticking these off on his fingers. “What’s left? Lion tamers? Accountants?”

  I just looked at him, then put my foot on the gas. He had to jump out of the way to avoid my tire flattening his foot.

  “Wait,” he said, putting his hand on my open window, “in all seriousness. Can you give me a ride?” I must have looked skeptical, because he added quickly, “We have a band meeting in fifteen minutes. And we instituted this new policy, so the repercussions for being late are brutal. Seriously.”

  “I’m late too,” I said, which was a lie, but I wasn’t a freaking taxi service.

  “Please.” He squatted down, so we were eye to eye. Then he lifted up his other hand, exposing a grease-stained bag from Double Burger. “I’ll share my fries with you.”

  “No thanks,” I said, hitting the button to put up my window. “Besides, I have a no-food policy in my car. Repercussions are brutal.”

  He smiled at this, stopping the window with his hand. “I’ll behave,” he said. “I promise.” And then, he started around the front of the car, as if I had said yes, grabbing the picture off my windshield and tucking it into his back pocket. The next thing I knew he was sliding in beside me, settling into the seat, the door swinging shut behind him.

  What was it about this guy? Resistance was futile. Or maybe I was just too tired and hot to pursue another argument.

  “One ride,” I told him in my stern voice. “That’s it. And if you get even a speck of food in this car you’re out. And I won’t slow down to do it, either.”

  “Oh, please,” he said, reaching for his seat belt, “you don’t have to coddle me, really. Be blunt. Don’t hold back.”

  I ignored t
his as I pulled out of the shopping center and onto the road. We weren’t half a block when I caught him sneaking a French fry. He thought he was being slick, cupping it in his hand and faking a yawn, but I was a pro at this. Lissa was always testing my limits.

  “What did I say about food?” I said, hitting the brake for a red light.

  “I’m hmphrgy,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “I’m hungry,” he repeated.

  “I don’t care. No food in the car, period. I’m trying to keep it nice.”

  He turned around, glancing at the backseat, then at the dashboard and floor mats. “Nice?” he said. “This thing is like a museum. It still smells new.”

  “Exactly,” I said as the light changed.

  “Take this left here.” He pointed, and I changed lanes, glancing behind me. “I bet you’re a real control freak.”

  “Wrong.”

  “You are, I can tell.” He ran a finger across the dash, then glanced at it. “No dust,” he reported. “And you’ve cleaned this windshield from the inside, haven’t you?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Hah!” he hooted. “I bet it would drive you crazy if something was out of place.”

  “Wrong,” I told him.

  “Let’s see.” He reached into the bag, carefully withdrawing a French fry. It was long and rubbery looking, bending as he held it between two fingers. “In the interest of science,” he said, waving it at me, “a little experiment.”

  “No food in the car,” I repeated, like a mantra. God, how far away was his house? We were back over near the hotel where we’d had the reception, so it had to be close.

  “Left here,” he said, and I hooked us onto the street, scaring a couple of squirrels into the trees. When I next glanced over at him, his hands were empty and the French fry, now straightened, was lying on the gearshift console. “Now, don’t panic,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “Breathe. And just appreciate, for a minute, the freedom in this chaos.”

  I moved my arm out from under his hand. “Which house is yours?”

  “It’s not messy at all, see? It’s beautiful. It’s nature in all its simplicity. . . .”

  Then I saw it: the white van, parked crookedly in the front yard of a little yellow house about a hundred feet up. The porch light was on, even though it was broad daylight, and I could see the redheaded drummer, Ringo, coffee shop employee, sitting on the front steps with a dog beside him. He was reading a newspaper; the dog was just panting, its tongue out.

  “. . . the natural state of things, which is, in fact, utter imperfection,” he finished as we jerked into the driveway, spraying gravel. The French fry slid off the console, leaving a grease trail like a slug, and landed in my lap. “Whoops,” he said, grabbing it. “Now, see? That was a first, good step in conquering—”

  I looked at him, then moved my hand, hitting the automatic lock: click, and the button on his door shot up.

  “—your problem,” he finished. He opened the door and got out, taking his bag o’ grease with him. Then he bent down, poking his head back in quickly, so that we were almost face-to-face. “Thanks for the ride. Really.”

  “Sure,” I said. He didn’t move for a second, which threw me off: just us, there together, eye to eye. Then he blinked and pulled away, ducking out of the car and shutting the door. I watched as the dog on the porch suddenly got up and made its way down the steps, tail wagging wildly, when it saw Dexter coming. Meanwhile, I was noticing that my car now stank of grease, another bonus. I put down the window, hoping the air freshener hanging from my rearview was up to the job.

  “Finally,” the drummer said, folding his newspaper. I put the car in reverse, then made sure Dexter’s back was still turned before brushing my finger over the gearshift console, checking for grease. My dirty little secret.

  “It’s not six yet,” Dexter said, reaching down to pet the dog, who was now circling him, tail thwacking against the back of his legs. He had a white muzzle and moved kind of creakily, in that old-dog way.

  “Yeah, but I don’t have my key,” the drummer said, standing up.

  “Neither do I,” Dexter told him. I started to back out then had to stop to let a bunch of cars pass. “What about the back door?”

  “Locked. Plus you know Ted moved that bookcase in front of it last night.”

  Dexter stuck his hands in his pockets, pulling them out. Nothing. “Well, I guess we just have to break a window.”

  “What?” the drummer said.

  “Don’t panic,” Dexter said in that offhand way I already recognized. “We’ll pick a small one. Then you can wriggle through it.”

  “No way,” the drummer said, crossing his arms over his chest as Dexter started up the stairs, moving to check out the windows on the front side of the house. “Why do I always have to do the stupid shit, anyway?”

  “Because you’re a redhead,” Dexter told him, and the drummer made a face, “plus, you have slim hips.”

  “What?”

  By now I wasn’t even waiting for a gap in traffic anymore. Instead I was watching as Dexter found a rock around the side of the house, then came back and squatted down in front of a small window on the far end of the porch. He studied it, then the rock, readying his technique while the dog sat down beside him, licking his ear. The drummer stood behind, still looking miffed, his hands in his pockets.

  Call it rampant control issues, but I couldn’t stand to watch this. Which was why I found myself pulling back up the driveway, getting out of my car, and walking up the steps just as Dexter was pulling his arm back, rock in hand, to break the window.

  “One,” he was saying, “two . . .”

  “Wait,” I called out, and he stopped, the rock tumbling from his hand and landing on the porch with a thunk. The dog jumped back, startled, with a yelp.

  “I thought you left,” Dexter said. “Couldn’t do it, could you?”

  “Do you have a credit card?” I asked him.

  He and the drummer exchanged looks. Then Dexter said, “Do I look like I have a credit card? And what, exactly, do you need purchased?”

  “It’s to unlock the door, idiot,” I told him, reaching into my own pocket. But my wallet was in the backseat, buried in my purse.

  “I have one,” the drummer said slowly, “but I’m only supposed to use it for emergencies.”

  We looked at him, and then Dexter reached up and smacked him on the back of the head, Three Stooges style. “John Miller, you’re a moron. Just give it to her.”

  John Miller—his real name, although to me he was still somehow Ringo—handed over a Visa. I opened the screen door, then took the card and slid it between the lock and the doorjamb, wiggling it around. I could feel them behind me, watching.

  Every door is different, and the weight of the lock and the thickness of the card are all factors. This skill, like the perfect toss of an Extra Large Diet Zip, was acquired over time, with lots of practice. Never to break and enter, always just to get into my own house, or Jess’s, when keys were lost. My brother, who had used it for evil at times, had taught me this when I was fourteen.

  A few pulls to the left, then the right, and I felt the lock give. Bingo. We were in. I handed John Miller back his card.

  “Impressive,” he said, smiling at me in that way guys do when you surprise them. “What’s your name again?”

  “Remy,” I told him.

  “She’s with me,” Dexter explained, and I just sighed at this and walked off the porch, the dog now trailing along behind me. I bent down and petted him, scratching his ears. He had cloudy white eyes, and horrible breath, but I’d always had a soft spot for dogs. My mother, of course, was a cat person. The only pets I’d ever had were a long line of big, fluffy Himalayans with various health problems and nasty temperaments who loved my mother and left hair everywhere.

  “That’s Monkey,” Dexter called. “Him and me, we’re a package deal.”

  “Too bad for Monkey,” I replied, and stood up, walking to my car.

 
“You’re a bad ass, Miss Remy,” he said. “But you’re intrigued now. You’ll be back.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  He didn’t answer this, instead just stood there, leaning against a porch post as I pulled out of the driveway. Monkey was sitting next to him, and together they watched me drive away.

  Chapter Six

  Chris opened the door to Jennifer Anne’s apartment. He was wearing a tie.

  “Late,” he said flatly.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 6:03, which, according to Chloe and Lissa and everyone else who had always made me wait, meant I was well within the bounds of the official within-five-minutes-doesn’t-count-as-late rule. But something told me maybe I shouldn’t point this out just now.

  “She’s here!” Chris called out over his shoulder, then shot me the stink eye as I walked in, shutting the door behind me.

  “I’ll be right out,” Jennifer Anne replied, her voice light. “Offer her something to drink, would you, Christopher?”

  “This way.” Chris started into the living room. As we walked, our shoes made swishy noises on the carpet. It was the first time I’d been to Jennifer Anne’s, but I wasn’t surprised by the decor. The sofa and the love seat were both a little threadbare and matched the border of the wallpaper. Her diploma from the community college hung on the wall in a thick gold frame. And the coffee table was piled with thick, pretty books about Provence, Paris, and Venice, places I knew she’d never been, arranged with great care to look as though they were stacked casually.

  I sat down on the couch, and Chris brought me a ginger ale, which he knew I hated but thought I deserved. Then we sat down, him on the couch, me on the love seat. Across from us, over the fake fireplace, a clock was ticking.

  “I didn’t realize this was a formal occasion,” I said, nodding at his tie.

  “Obviously,” he replied.

  I glanced down at myself: I had on jeans, a white T-shirt, with a sweater tied around my waist. I looked fine, and he knew it. There was a clang from the kitchen, which sounded like an oven closing, and then the door swung open and Jennifer Anne emerged, smoothing her skirt with her hands.