It takes every ounce of energy I have—which, let’s be honest, isn’t much lately—to close the book after the second entry. I’ll read more tomorrow.
I bring the book to my face. It smells like her house, like Glade PlugIns and chocolate-cake-scented candles and carpet shampoo. That scent used to work its way into her hair. Whenever I had my arm around her—walking with her in the halls or around the neighborhood in the snow after she got too weak to go to school—I would lean down, kiss her head, and breathe it in. When that delicious, familiar smell hit me, I would have to stop, wherever we were, and kiss her. And every single time, she snuggled closer into me.
I lie down, place the book right next to me on my pillow, and let its lingering scent waft over me.
? ? ?
I jolt upright.
Shit. It’s Sunday night. 7:36 p.m. Soccer starts tomorrow morning, and I haven’t figured out what to do about Hope. I’m screwed.
Still half asleep, I reach out for my phone, and before I really know what I’m doing, I call Alan.
He picks up on the second ring. “Yo.”
“Hey. It’s Ryden.”
“I know. It was your ringtone.”
Okay, I have to ask. “What’s my ringtone?”
“‘99 Problems’ by Jay-Z.”
I think about that for a second. Weird, but whatever. Alan’s weird. Plus, he’s off by about a thousand problems. “What was hers?”
“Meg’s?”
Punch to the gut. “Yeah.”
“‘Stronger’ by Kanye West.”
“Oh.”
“What’s up? Everything okay?”
No. “Yeah. Listen, I have a question. Soccer practice starts back up tomorrow, and I haven’t exactly figured out what to do with Hope during that time. Any chance you want to watch her?” I clear my throat and spit out the rest before he can say anything. “It’s kind of all day, Monday through Friday, up until school starts. I know it’s a lot, and I know this is really random, but—”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I have anything else going on. And I’d really like to get to know Hope. Just let me know what I need to do. I’ve never really babysat before.”
Well, that was easy. Wonder why I didn’t think to ask him earlier.
I hang up with Alan and fall back onto my pillow. But it’s not as soft as it should be. The journal. Guess I turned around a lot in my sleep, because the book is now half on my pillow, half off, and it’s fallen open.
I go to flip it closed but stop. There’s something written on the inside back cover. The writing is small, but the letters are clear. It’s a checklist of some sort.
Mabel Alan Ryden My heartbeat picks up slightly. Mabel, Alan, Ryden. What does that mean?
I grab the other journal off my desk, the green one from the first day we met, and flip to the back cover. Nothing. I turn to the front cover. Also blank.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial a number I’ve never called before. Mabel picks up immediately.
“Are there any more?” I ask.
“Any more what?”
“Journals. Meg’s journals.”
“No, that’s all I have. I told you, my parents put all her stuff in storage.”
“Yeah, but you had time to take this one from her room before that happened. Did you take any others?”
“I didn’t take that one from her room,” Mabel says. “It was in my room. I found it stuck in a stack of books on my nightstand a couple of days after she died. By that time, all her stuff was already in boxes and being loaded onto a truck.”
I think about that for a minute. “You didn’t take it,” I repeat.
“No.”
“It was already in your room.”
“Yes.”
“And you had never seen it before?”
“Nope. Or at least not long enough to distinguish it from any of the other books Meg was always writing in.”
“So Meg must have put it there. She wanted you to find it,” I murmur, almost to myself.
“I guess so, yeah.” There’s a short pause and then Mabel says, “But why?”
“I have no idea.” But my mind is revolving with possibilities.
What if this checklist, this journal, means something? What if she left one for each of us, and there are two other journals out there, for me and Alan?
What if there’s something Meg wanted us to know?
Chapter 7
In the morning, I’m actually feeling all right—which is crazy, considering how dead tired I am.