“You are,” Maeve insists. I narrow my eyes and she widens hers in fake innocence.
Nate crosses to the large walnut bookcase covering one wall, picking up a picture of Maeve and me with identical gap-toothed smiles in front of Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland. It was taken six months before Maeve was diagnosed, and for a long time it was the only vacation picture we had. He studies it, then glances my way with a small smile. Maeve was right about his mouth—it is sexy. “You should play something.”
Well, it’s easier than talking to him.
I shuffle to the bench and sit, adjusting the sheet music in front of me. It’s “Variations on the Canon,” which I’ve been practicing for months now. I’ve taken lessons since I was eight and I’m pretty competent, technically. But I’ve never made people feel anything. “Variations on the Canon” is the first piece that made me want to try. There’s something about the way it builds, starting soft and sweet but gaining in volume and intensity until it’s almost angry. That’s the hard part, because at a certain point the notes grow harsh, verging on discordant, and I can’t muster the force to pull it off.
I haven’t played it in over a week. The last time I tried I hit so many wrong notes, even Maeve winced. She seems to remember, glancing toward Nate and saying, “This is a really hard song.” As if she suddenly regrets setting me up for embarrassment. But what the hell. This whole situation is too surreal to take seriously. If I woke up tomorrow and Maeve told me I’d dreamed it all, I’d fully accept that.
So I start, and right away it feels different. Looser and less of a reach for the harder parts. For a few minutes I forget anyone’s in the room, and enjoy how notes that usually trip me up flow easily. Even the crescendo—I don’t attack it as hard as I need to, but I’m faster and surer than I normally am, and don’t hit a single wrong note. When I finish I smile triumphantly at Maeve, and it’s only when her eyes drift toward Nate that I remember I have an audience of two.
He’s leaning against our bookcase, arms crossed, and for once he doesn’t look bored or about to make fun of me. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he says.
Addy
Friday, September 28, 7:00 p.m.
God, my mother. She’s actually flirting with Officer Budapest, of the pink freckled face and receding hairline. “Of course Adelaide will do anything to help,” she says in a husky voice, trailing one finger around the rim of her wineglass. Justin’s having dinner with his parents, who hate Mom and never invite her. This is his punishment whether he knows it or not.
Officer Budapest stopped by just as we finished the vegetable pad Thai Mom always orders when my sister, Ashton, comes to visit. Now he doesn’t know where to look, so he’s got his eyes fixed on a dried flower arrangement on the living room wall. My mother redecorates every six months, and her latest theme is shabby chic with a weird beachy edge. Cabbage roses and seashells as far as the eye can see.
“Just a few follow-up points, if you don’t mind, Addy,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. I’m surprised he’s here, since I thought we’d already answered all his questions. But I guess the investigation’s still going strong. Today Mr. Avery’s lab was blocked off with yellow tape, and police officers were in and out of school all day. Cooper said Bayview High’s probably going to get into trouble for having peanut oil in the water or something.
I glance at my mother. Her eyes are fixed on Officer Budapest, but with that distant expression I know well. She’s already mentally checked out, probably planning her wardrobe for the weekend. Ashton comes into the living room and settles herself in an armchair across from me. “Are you talking to all the kids who were in detention that day?” she asks.
Officer Budapest clears his throat. “The investigation is ongoing, but I’m here because I had a particular question for Addy. You were in the nurse’s office the day Simon died, is that right?”
I hesitate and dart a glance toward Ashton, then look back at Officer Budapest. “No.”
“You were,” Officer Budapest says. “It’s in the nurse’s log.”
I’m looking at the fireplace, but I can feel Ashton’s eyes boring into me. I wind a strand of hair around my finger and tug nervously. “I don’t remember that.”
“You don’t remember going to the nurse’s office on Monday?”
“Well, I go a lot,” I say quickly. “For headaches and stuff. It was probably for that.” I scrunch my forehead like I’m thinking hard, and finally meet Officer Budapest’s eyes. “Oh, right. I had my period and I was cramping really bad, so yeah. I needed Tylenol.”
Officer Budapest is a blusher. He turns red as I smile politely and release my hair. “And you got what you needed there? Just the Tylenol?”
“Why do you want to know?” Ashton asks. She rearranges a throw pillow behind her so the starfish pattern, made out of actual seashells, isn’t digging into her back.
“Well, one of the things we’re looking into is why there appeared to be no EpiPens in the nurse’s office during Simon’s allergy attack. The nurse swears she had several pens that morning. But they were gone that afternoon.”
Ashton stiffens and says, “You can’t possibly think Addy took them!” Mom turns to me with a faintly surprised air, but doesn’t speak.
If Officer Budapest notices that my sister has stepped into the parenting role here, he doesn’t mention it. “Nobody’s saying that. But did you happen to see whether the pens were in the office then, Addy? According to the nurse’s log, you were there at one o’clock.”
My heart’s beating uncomfortably fast, but I keep my tone even. “I don’t even know what an EpiPen looks like.”
He makes me tell him everything I remember about detention, again, then asks a bunch of questions about the Tumblr post. Ashton’s all alert and interested, leaning forward and interrupting the whole time, while Mom goes into the kitchen twice to refill her wineglass. I keep looking at the clock, because Jake and I are supposed to be going to the beach soon and I haven’t even started touching up my makeup. My pimple’s not going to cover itself.
When Officer Budapest finally gets ready to leave, he hands me a card. “Call if you remember anything else, Addy,” he says. “You never know what might be important.”
“Okay,” I say, sliding the card into the back pocket of my jeans. Officer Budapest says good-bye to Mom and Ashton as I open the door for him. Ashton leans against the doorframe next to me and we watch Officer Budapest get into his squad wagon and start slowly backing out of our driveway.
I spy Justin’s car waiting to pull in behind Officer Budapest, and that gets me moving again. I don’t want to have to talk to him and I still haven’t fixed my makeup, so I escape upstairs with Ashton following behind me. My bedroom is the biggest one in our house except the master, and used to be Ashton’s until I took it over when she got married. She still makes herself at home there as if she’d never left.
“You didn’t tell me about that Tumblr thing,” she says, sprawling across my white eyelet bedspread and opening the latest issue of Us Weekly. Ashton is even blonder than me, but her hair is cut in chin-length layers that our mother hates. I think it’s cute, though. If Jake didn’t love my hair so much, I’d consider a cut like that.
I sit at my vanity and dab concealer on my hairline pimple. “Somebody’s being a creep, that’s all.”
“Did you really not remember being in the nurse’s office? Or did you just not want to answer?” Ashton asks. I fumble with the concealer cap, but I’m saved from answering when my phone blares its Rihanna “Only Girl” text tone from the bedside table. Ashton picks it up and reports, “Jake’s almost here.”
“God, Ash.” I glare at her in the mirror. “You shouldn’t look at my phone like that. What if it was private?”
“Sorry,” she says in a completely not-sorry tone. “Everything okay with Jake?”