I rub my eyes and lean forward in my chair, but I didn’t read it wrong.
My skin goes ice-cold, my palm growing damp on the mouse as I hover over the six letters.
Maybe it’s about someone else. A new friend. Someone I’m tutoring. Maybe it was something I did for her before she left. The excuses pour out of me so fast I can barely keep track of them, but it doesn’t matter.
This file scares me, and it wouldn’t scare me if there wasn’t a reason. I knew something about Julien, and I’m about to find out exactly what that something is.
I double click and receive an error message informing me that the path is invalid. I try it again because it’s got to be there. Everything I’ve touched since we bought this computer is still there.
No go. The file is gone.
Heart pounding, I click to my deleted items folder.
Empty.
The blank white box rattles me to the core. I rarely delete and never purge my deleted items folder. Maggie used to tease me mercilessly about it. She’d say if I didn’t get this under control, I was going to be one of those creepy moms that kept my baby’s teeth and their hair and every sock they ever wore, just in case.
No, this wasn’t me. Which means, someone else has been cleaning up. Crazy, yeah. But less crazy than me suddenly deleting things out of my computer.
I drag my hands through my hair and take a shaky breath.
It’s a start. Now I know what I’m looking for.
Things that are no longer there.
***
Someone taps on my door, and I jerk my head off my desk, blinking blearily. Three soda cans and an empty bag of spicy tortilla chips are lined up by my keyboard. The chips are probably responsible for the god-awful taste in my mouth.
Mom knocks again, and I see the pale promise of sunlight drifting around my curtains. Is it morning? Really?
“Chloe?” she asks.
“Yeah?” I click to bring up a half-finished paper on electromagnetism. I figured it’d be a good cover last night, but I didn’t need it until now.
“Honey,” she says, looking alarmed. “Did you sleep?”
“I napped on the QWERTY row I think.” I manage a groggy grin, rubbing my forehead. “But not much. I’m probably going to crash for a couple of hours.”
“Today? But it’s Saturday, honey.”
I blink at her. It’s way too early for this. “Right. Ergo me not needing to rush off to school.”
Mom laughs, shaking her head and wagging her finger at me. “Very funny. Blake’s going to be here in ten minutes. I can put your tea in a travel mug if you want.”
“Blake?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but I’m pretty sure if anyone’s crazy, it’s her. It is oh-dark-thirty on a Saturday morning. I’m generally not even conscious on Saturdays for several more hours, so why in God’s name would Blake be on his way?
“You’re a regular comedian,” she says. “You’re lucky he isn’t running early like he usually does.”
“What time is it?” I search around my desk for my phone, shifting papers and knocking over an empty soda can.
“Seven fifteen. What are you looking for?”
“My phone. I need to text Blake. I can’t go out right now. I’ve barely slept.”
Mom crosses her arms and looks severe. “Chloe, your Saturday mornings with Blake aren’t dates.”
Wait a minute—I do this every Saturday? Voluntarily? I blink up at her, hoping she’ll fill me in. I can tell by her face there’s a full-force lecture on standby, so I try to look attentive.
“Those kids depend on you,” she says, and then she waits, clearly expecting me to get with the program.
Which isn’t going to happen since I don’t even know the program. Instead, I revert to my current default mode. Faking it as pleasantly as possible.
“You’re right. I’ll get dressed. Ten minutes?”
She glances at her watch. “Seven. I’ll get your tea.”
I shuck off yesterday’s clothes and tear through my closet, finding jeans and a baby-blue sweatshirt that’s buttery soft against my skin. I’ve barely tossed my hair into a ponytail and brushed my teeth when I hear the doorbell ring, the sounds of cheerful morning-people greetings floating up the stairs.
When I get downstairs, Blake’s standing with my mom, holding my tea. “Where’s your binder?”
Binder? What binder? I don’t even know where I’m going and now I have to bring props?
Mom sighs. “Honestly, Chloe. It’s in the dining room. I put it on the hutch.”
I find it easily enough, along with a helpful label that reads: Eisenhower Elementary Tutor Program. So that explains the kids counting on me. Wait a minute, can I fake tutoring? I mean, what if all this brainiac stuff didn’t take?
It took.
An hour later, the boy across from me grins a gap-toothed smile, chin smudged with pencil marks. “How did you figure that out so fast?”
I shrug. “Trade secret.”
Though, truthfully, I just have no idea. Last time I checked, I still counted on my fingers. I mean, I skated by without needing summer school or anything, but I wasn’t exactly a human calculator. Now? Now, I can do triple-digit arithmetic in my head. Like the problem Tyler and I just finished.
“You must be a super genius or something,” he says, squirming around on his chair.
“Not even close. But I have done a lot of extra homework this year.”
“I hate homework,” he says.
“Yeah, me too,” I say, and then I wink. “But I like being a smarty-pants. How about number ten?”
“Do I have to?”
I tilt my head, playing at thinking this over. “Well, we could do a makeover instead. I could paint your nails. Braid your hair.”
Tyler laughs, and it’s that awesome no-holds-barred kind that everybody seems to lose when they hit puberty. I grin as he simmers down to a chuckle and then looks at me with resignation.
“I still hate math. Even if you’re cool.” He hunkers back down over his homework, and I scan the community center while he works.
I’d heard that they hold tutoring here, but I’d never really seen it. It’s actually pretty cool. The parents can leave or wait in the lobby, though God knows why they’d want to stay. There’s nothing out there but a coffee machine and enough old newspapers to papier-maché a small city.
In this room, the gray walls offer signs for everything from AA meetings to senior yoga exercises. Six tables have been set up, but there are only three of us working. Blake, me, and Tina Stubbs—a girl I barely knew last year. Today she hugged me and blabbered on about some guy she desperately wants until Tyler arrived to save me.
Blake is sitting two tables away from me. He’s supposedly reading Dr. Seuss with the kid in front of him. Too bad he’s not looking at the book or at the poor second-grader who’s stumbling his way over each word. He’s staring at something under the table, I think. Something in his lap, maybe?
Ah, cell phone.
He’s texting someone.
“Is that right?” Tyler asks.
I glance down at his work. 327 + 456 = 773. “Super close, Tyler. One number is off. Do you think you can find it?”
Damn, I’m good.
I look up again, and Blake’s student is reading even slower, his voice growing small as he tries to labor through a word that’s obviously stumping him. And my sweet-as-sugar boyfriend is apparently too busy texting the Gettysburg Address to care? Something’s very wrong with this picture. He’s the tutoring coordinator.
“I got it wrong again?” Tyler asks, sounding worried.
I realize I’m making a seriously ugly face, one that isn’t aimed at Tyler at all. Too bad Blake is way too absorbed in his cell phone to notice I’m shooting it in his direction.
I check Tyler’s work and shake my head.
“It’s perfect. I knew you could do it,” I say, forcing a wide smile. “You’ve just got to remember right to left. Opposite of reading, okay?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve got it.”