Her eyes widen fractionally—but she doesn’t answer.
“Why do you think?” Alan says, his voice tired. “After what you did at the wedding, you think we wanted to tell you about a baby?”
I jerk back, yanking my arm away from her. Anger constricts my chest, making it hard to breathe. Some small part of me had hoped that maybe this was as much a surprise to them as it was to me, but Alan’s comment proves that the secrecy was very deliberate.
He moves closer to me, and I realize he’s tracking my movement, like I’m a heartbeat away from shoving her down the stairs.
He thinks I’m a risk to my mother. To the baby. To their new attempt at a family.
Who am I kidding? I am.
“That night you were throwing up,” I say to her. “You knew then.”
She doesn’t say anything, but that’s answer enough.
“Replacing Kerry?” I say.
She flinches like I punched her in the gut. Her eyes glisten with sudden tears.
I hate myself right now.
“Maybe you should keep going,” I say, continuing to move past her, finding no resistance now. “Maybe you’ll get a boy next and you can replace me, too.”
A sob breaks free from her chest.
Alan swears. “We should be so lucky.”
His words are delivered with a viciousness that slices right into me. I move back down the steps as if walking underwater. I want to hit him so badly that my hands ache for the contact, but I keep my temper.
My mother says nothing. If we went at it, she’d cry and wring her hands and beg us to stop—but I have no idea whose side she’d be on.
That’s not true. I know exactly whose side she’d be on. She proved that four years ago, when she let me get behind the wheel. She proved it last May, when she married this guy.
I think of my emails with Juliet, how she made me feel like my life was worthwhile, like I had something to offer. I think of my conversations with Frank and Mrs. Hillard, how, for a few minutes, they made me feel like more than just a loser with a record.
But the reality is here, right here, how two people who should have my back stand here driving me into the ground.
My chest is so tight I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe much longer.
“Give me your keys,” Alan says.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say again.
“You take every chance you get to do something wrong!” he roars. “You don’t think about anyone but yourself, and when someone does something you don’t like, you do everything you can to destroy it! Why the hell do you think we wouldn’t tell you?”
Everything inside me turns to ice.
Mom pushes past me. She puts a hand on his arm. “Stop. Alan. Please. Stop.”
But her voice isn’t strong. It’s weak, full of tears. She’s not looking at me.
Maybe the tears do the trick, though. Alan swears and turns away, storming into the kitchen.
My body has gone numb. I’m frozen in place. I don’t think I can move.
She turns around to look at me. I’m taller than she is, but now, standing two steps above her, she looks tiny. Microscopic.
I would give anything for her to close that distance. For her to talk to me. I want to fling my car keys and my phone at her feet. Take everything, I want to say. I don’t need any of it. I need you.
But I don’t get the chance. She turns around and follows Alan into the kitchen.
My legs don’t want to hold me anymore. “I’m sorry,” I yell, and my voice breaks. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t drive him. I’m sorry I let Kerry go. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t respond.
She doesn’t come back.
They leave me there on the steps, alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
From: The Dark <[email protected]>
To: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> Date: Wednesday, October 9 07:22:04 AM
Subject: Talking
I don’t know if I can keep doing this. You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know the real me. You only know what I’ve shared, but that’s not the whole story. It’s only a snapshot, just like your photographs. You’ve made a judgment of me based on the little you’ve seen, and I think it’s all wrong.
I’m not a good person, Cemetery Girl. I’m not good at cultivating things, only destroying them.
You don’t need me.
You deserve better.
I quickly close the email and go to the chat list. No green dot—his name has disappeared entirely.
WHAT.
I quickly type an email to him and send it.
The immediate response isn’t what I’m expecting.
This user does not have a Freemail account. Please try again.
WHAT.
My chest is collapsing. He can’t do this. He can’t do this.
And I have no way to find him.
Like an idiot, I try to send him an email again.
Like an idiot, I expect a different response.
This user does not have a Freemail account. Please try again.
“Juliet? Are you okay?”
Mr. Gerardi peers down at me. Mom’s canvas bag with her film camera is lying in a pile beside me, but I’m staring at my phone, trying to remember how to make my heart beat.
“Yeah.” I cough. “Yes. I’m—” I choke and swallow and force my words to work. “I don’t know what I am.”
Keys jingle in his hand, and he reaches to unlock his door. “Do you want to come in? Are you here to work on the yearbook photos?”
“No . . . I . . . no.” I need to get it together. I shove the phone into my pocket. “I wanted to see if I could use the darkroom.”
He looks at the clock and grimaces. “I have a student coming to make up an exam in ten minutes.”
“I know how to do it.”
“I know.” He sighs. “But I’m not allowed to leave students alone with the chemicals.” He glances at the shoulder bag. “Do you want to leave it with me? I could run it through the developer, and you could come back later to make the prints.”
I take a step back as if he were about to grab the bag from me. “No. I need to do it.”
“Okay.” He hesitates, and his expression softens. “Is that your mom’s camera?”
“Yes.”