“I just keep thinking about something Patrice said. How no one understood the power Carly had over Juliana.” Ginny lifts her thumb to her mouth, ready to gnaw at her cuticle. When she catches me eyeing her, she drops her hand to her lap. “What if Carly got Juliana mixed up in something really bad? Maybe Juliana was in over her head and confided in Allie. We should talk to her,” she says. “If we can find a way to contact her.”
“We can.” I look out my window, my stomach suddenly feeling very tight. “The first person in my sister’s contacts is named Allie.”
* * *
—
I head straight for my closet when I get home and open my jewelry box. Jen’s phone rests on top, where I left it.
I sit back on my heels and open her contacts. At the very top of the list is the name Allie Lewandowski.
Mango wanders into my closet, nose in the air, trying to sniff out food. He sees me on the floor, empty-handed except for Jen’s phone, and turns to leave, bored.
Stealing Allie Lewandowski’s phone number from my dead sister is wrong. Obviously I know that. But Ginny and I got this far, and I’m not going to stop because of some false sense of decency. Decency went out the window long ago.
I copy Allie’s number into my phone and tap out a text message.
I stay up until past midnight, watching my phone, waiting for her to reply. But my text inbox stays empty until I fall asleep, and it’s empty when I wake up.
* * *
—
It’s Monday evening, after practice, and I’m unlacing my shoes in the locker room. Alexa and Rach are refilling their water bottles at the fountain outside Coach’s office, voices echoing through the locker room. Their conversation bounces from the male kickline routine they’re planning for Spirit Night to regionals in two weeks, and hearing it makes me feel so lonely I could puke.
Ginny pokes her head around the corner. She sits on the bench next to me. “Anything from Allie?”
I shake my head. I swing my feet off the bench and wiggle my toes, finally free of the restrictive dance shoes. “Texting her was probably a bad idea. I probably freaked her out like I freaked Carly out.”
I wait for Ginny to disagree, but she shrugs. “That number is five years old. She may have gotten a new one.”
We walk into the hall together. The cross-country guys are spilling out of their locker room, bringing the cocktail of body odor and Axe spray with them. My body tenses up. Cross-country practice letting out means Brandon is nearby.
Next to me, Ginny’s voice is quiet. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just exhausted.”
She studies me, wearing that curious look that says she doesn’t believe me but she won’t push it. “I’ve got to catch the bus. Let me know if you hear from her.”
“I will.”
As I’m watching Ginny head down the hall, toward the parking lot, a guy says, “Hey, Monica.”
Jimmy Varney is walking toward me, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. Over his shoulder, I spot Brandon emerging from the locker room, talking with a boy half his height. He looks up; his eyes connect with mine as he gives the kid a pat on the shoulder. Brandon is still watching me as the kid takes off down the hall. I swallow and turn to face Jimmy.
“Hey.”
“How are you?” Jimmy asks.
“Sweaty and disgusting.” It sounds a lot like Go away, so I slide my voice up to a friendlier octave. “How was your practice?”
I uncap my water bottle and start chugging. Jimmy grabs one of his biceps and rolls his shoulder back until it gives a small pop. “State qualifiers are next week. Coach is riding us pretty hard.”
I think of Brandon, mere feet away from us, and I choke on the water sliding down my throat. Cough until my eyes water and concern knits up Jimmy’s forehead. “You okay?”
“I’m good. Sorry.” I force out another cough and wipe my lips. Steal a look at Brandon; he’s in the doorway to the athletic office, using a sneakered foot to scratch the back of his opposite calf.
Jimmy’s voice draws me back. “What are you doing after the dance Saturday? Kelsey G’s house?”
I remember what Alexa said the other day. Varney wants to ask you to homecoming. The parade, the dance, the party—they’re the furthest things from my mind this year. “I don’t know. Are you going to Kelsey’s?”
“I am,” Jimmy says. “I think Kelsey hopes you’ll come.”
I’m pretty sure that Kelsey Gabriel doesn’t think about me much at all, but the nervous blush in Jimmy’s cheeks makes a smile tug the corner of my mouth. The urge to flirt with him takes me by surprise. “Is that your way of indirectly saying you hope I’ll come to Kelsey’s?”
“Yes.” Jimmy grins. “Yes, it is.”
More cross-country guys pour out of the locker room, and Jimmy is swept up into a group of them asking him for a ride home. He meets my eyes over their heads—he towers over most of them—and smiles again.
My giddiness evaporates when I spot Brandon watching us. He looks away, palming the door frame to the men’s athletic office, talking to someone inside. He’s trying hard to angle away from me, suggesting he heard everything Jimmy and I said to each other.
My stomach does that suction-cup thing it does whenever Brandon is around. I think about last Tuesday in his Jeep, the tug of his fingers through my hair. Tamp down the image, because the thought of Jimmy knowing what we did makes me feel ill.
I don’t feel like setting my life on fire anymore. I want to fast-forward to the part where I look at Brandon and don’t feel anything at all.
Alexa’s voice echoes from the locker room into the hall; she and Rachel wander out, fanning their armpits. Like a hawk, Alexa zeroes in on me. “Why are you blushing?”
“Because we just finished a ridiculous practice,” I say.
“No, that’s a flirting blush.” Alexa looks down the hallway, past Brandon, whose back is turned to me. When she spots Jimmy Varney and his friends, she pokes me in the shoulder.
“Stop,” I say, “seriously.”
Rachel slides the elastic from her ponytail, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. “Monica, he’s been in love with you for, like, ever.”
I’m about to tell them both to shut the hell up when my tote bag buzzes at my hip. I dig out my phone. There’s a text from a number that’s not in my contacts.
Allie Lewandowski replied to my message.
It’s a little after five now; I fire off a response to Allie.
I chew a fingernail absently, keeping my eyes on my phone as Rach, Alexa, and I head outside the gym doors.
I look up at Rachel. “Hey, do you think you could drop me off in town on the way home?”
* * *
—
Earth Lily Café is two blocks away. I step into the library vestibule for show, keeping an eye on the window overlooking the street. When Rach’s car disappears from view, I zip my North Face up to my chin and head for the café.
Earth Lily opened a year ago, but I’ve never been. Tom once called the food hippie shit during one of his rants about how Sunnybrook will eventually be taken over by young, crunchy types like in Millerton.
I don’t want to take up a table without buying anything, so I order the only thing on the menu I recognize—a cappuccino. I order it decaf and when it’s ready I grab an open seat in the corner of the room, in a velvet armchair. It’s twenty after six, and Allie isn’t here.
“Monica?”
Allie Lewandowski is wearing a black off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Her hair is twisted in an elegant bun at the top of her head. “I’m so sorry. Parking is awful around here.”
“It’s okay.” I wedge my hands between my knees, realizing they’re trembling. “Thanks for coming. I know you probably have better things to do.”
“No, don’t be silly. I’m going to grab a drink and then we can chat?”
I nod. I keep my fingers wrapped around my mug to warm them, trying not to stare at Allie as she orders at the counter. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. When she returns, she plops in the armchair across from me. Shoots me a warm smile.
“What do you teach?” I ask.
“Pilates at Barre-ing It All.” Allie gives a small smile. “It’s not a dream job, but I’m getting my master’s degree full-time. What do you want to major in?”