“Me, too,” Eli added.
“Arguing isn’t solving anything,” I pointed out.
“Okay.” Dustin studied my face. “Tell us what you want.”
“Yeah,” Eli said. “Where do you want to go?”
They both watched me, waiting. But I didn’t know … I had no idea what to do. It was like being trapped in a pitch-dark room with no windows or doors. No way out.
Eli couldn’t hide me in his house — not with Chad living there. And Dustin couldn’t exactly offer to share his couch. Where did that leave me?
Homeless in a borrowed body.
So I said, take me back.
To Leah’s life.
28
I stopped by the kitchen and raided the fridge. Leftover chicken, tangy vegetable salad, and a big slice of blueberry pie. Yummm …
When I returned to my room — surprise! The flat-screen TV, computer, and phone were back. Was Leah forgiven for her past bad behavior, or being rewarded for future favors?
The phone blinked with the number “2,” so I pushed on the “collect messages” button and crossed my fingers, hoping the calls were from Eli or Dustin. No such luck.
“Leah, you there?” came Jessica’s voice. “I tried your cell phone but it’s still not picking up. What happened to you? Why did you go off with Chad’s brother? Chad was so pissed he hardly said a word during dinner. Call me.”
The second message was also from Jessica.
“Leah, it’s late and I’m worried about you. If you don’t call soon I’ll try your parents.”
Oh, crap. Just what I didn’t need tonight!
Then I panicked because I didn’t know Jessica’s number. And twenty-three minutes had already passed since she’d left the message. If I didn’t contact her soon, she might call Leah’s parents and say that I’d left her party. Fortunately, the phone had a call-back feature. With heavy relief, I dialed Jessica’s number.
She answered on one ring, peppering me with questions.
Where were you? Are you in love with Chad’s brother? Why didn’t you come back for dinner? Are we still best friends? Is Chad’s brother a good kisser?
I assured her we were still best friend and denied kissing Eli. To avoid answering the other questions, I asked her about the fundraiser — but I didn’t like her answer.
She really was going to have a canned-food-drive memorial service for “that poor Amber Borden.” How was I supposed to respond to that? I considered telling her the truth — that no one would attend, not even Dustin and Alyce. Alyce would be insulted about the whole canned-food thing, and Dustin shunned school events.
If I wasn’t already presumed dead, I’d die of humiliation.
While I was reeling with all of this, Jessica asked me the most outrageous question ever spoken in all of human existence. A bad situation squared by a worse situation:
“Will you come to Amber’s memorial?” she asked.
Forget. It.
I invented an excuse about a doctor appointment on Friday. Jessica begged me to postpone it, but I refused.
Then I called Dustin and clued him in.
“You’re joking,” he said.
“I wish I was.”
“I can just imagine Jessica announcing over the loudspeaker, ‘May she rest in peace and please be sure to drop off your canned food.’ That’s sick.”
“Jessica thinks it’s brilliant. And she’s sure the whole school will come to say good-bye to me. I’m sure only a few teachers will show up. You and Alyce are my best friends, and you won’t be there.”
“What makes you think that? I can’t speak for Alyce — especially since she isn’t speaking to anyone lately — but I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Don’t you dare go!”
“How can I resist?” He chuckled. “Should I bring a can of soup, chili, or fruit cocktail?”
“Not funny. I can’t even guess how my parents will react when they find out about the memorial.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” His tone changed instantly. “Yeah, that would be rough on them, especially when they’re planning their own … well anyway, I see your point. Sorry for being an insensitive jerk.”
“You’re not a jerk, and only marginally insensitive.”
“It’s hard to mourn you when I’m talking to you. But I know this sucks for your family. I don’t know how to stop them from finding out about the memorial. Damn, you really have to tell them the truth.”
“When I’m free of Leah’s family, I’ll make my parents listen and prove who I am.” I sighed. “But I don’t know how long that will take. Leah’s father may not let her go even when she turns eighteen — whenever that is. Isn’t that sad? I don’t even know her birthday.”
“July fourteenth.”
“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.
“From surfing online about the Montgomerys. I’ve found interesting stuff. Rumors about a shifty connection to a congressman named Donatello. Ever hear of him?”
I didn’t answer right away, ashamed to admit about the dance. “I’ve heard a little.”
“Nothing good, I bet. He acts like he’s a respectable family man, but he was accused of beating up a hooker. He denies everything of course. If he shows up, stay away.”
I nodded silently.
Then I changed the subject, asking Dustin about his latest campaigns. He launched into the political buzz about who-did-what, etc. I admired his zeal for justice, even if I wasn’t sure about his methods — like the “fake official” website he was creating to expose the use of illegal chemicals by a supposedly organic nursery.
Even though we were talking about flowers, the word “nursery” reminded me of the weekend I helped paint the triplets’ nursery canary yellow. Mom was on bed rest by then, so Dad and I tackled the walls, splattering yellow paint all over ourselves. When Mom saw us, she laughed so hard we were afraid she’d go into early labor.
That evening, as I changed into Leah’s nightgown, I was still thinking of the family I missed and wondered if they were thinking of me, too. I crawled under Leah’s silky sheets and drifted into a sleep … dreaming of yellow paint and laughter.
* * *
Another day, another daily schedule.
Only this time when Angie handed me the printed sheet, she didn’t scowl. And when I thanked her, she even said, “You’re welcome.” No feet stomping or door slamming. Not exactly the road to BFF status but hey it was a start.
I stared helplessly in the mirror at my tragic case of bed head. Without Jessica’s help, I didn’t know how to style my hair. So I twisted the blonde tangles into a braid and flipped it out of the way. Then I tossed on the most comfortable jeans and shirt I could find and headed for breakfast.
Mrs. Montgomery sat alone in the dining room by a large picture window with the shades closed. She wore a lavender robe and stared at nothing. She was turned away from the table, with one arm leaning on the glass-top table and her fingers curling around a wine glass.
I stared down at the ruby liquid shimmering in the glass, disappointed.
She must have heard my footsteps, because she turned her head toward me. A myriad of emotions played across her face: surprise, worry, shame.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said, pushing the glass away.
“You don’t owe me any explanations.” I really didn’t know what else to say. I hardly knew her and was likely to say something completely wrong. Retreat was the safest option. “I’ll just get some cereal and go back to my room.”
“Don’t go.” Her hand shot out to gently touch my wrist. “We should talk … about many things. We don’t do enough talking.”
“Because you do too much of that.” I gestured to the wine glass. Immediately I covered my mouth, shocked at my rudeness. “I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have—”