I did a double take as I read the next entry.
When Leah had been busy at one of her father’s events, Chad had hooked up with Jessica. Jessica Bradley? Leah’s best friend!
Did Jessica know Leah knew? And what about Chad? Had Leah confronted him?
Probably not, since Leah still hung out with Jessica and dated Chad. But why did Leah put up with the betrayal? Instead, she’d tucked away all her discoveries in her journal. Leah knew enough secrets to ruin everyone at Halsey High.
Did she keep these secret to herself or use them as blackmail? Did knowing things about other people make her feel powerful? Give her a sense of control when her life was tumbling into chaos?
I was still puzzling over this when I found one last poem tucked in the back of the journal.
Beginning …
Hands moving,
Mouth open,
Eyes closed,
Mind drifting …
Thinking of …
Shopping for shoes.
Pink, black, or gold?
An Essay Due in English Lit.
Rocky road ice cream in the fridge,
Can’t decide which outfit for tomorrow.
Where C and I will go after school
Gift ideas for Jess’ b-party
Pink nail polish out.
Blue-frost polish in.
Ending …
Standing
Smiling
Lying
Crying.
Done.
Chills prickled through me. I wasn’t sure what this was about, except it left me with a bad feeling. If Leah was being forced to do something awful, why didn’t she just say no? Walk away. Leave. Ask someone for help.
Oh, Leah — what kind of hell were you going through? I closed the book with a sigh.
That was one secret I’d probably never know.
* * *
Hours later I woke abruptly — startled because I hadn’t expected to fall back asleep.
Someone was tapping at my door. The journal! I had to hide it. Shoving it under my pillow, I called out, “Who’s there?”
“Who else?” Angie said impatiently as she strode in waving a sheet of paper. “I brought your schedule. It’s almost time for your morning swim.”
Schedule?
Alarm raced through me as I realized what would be on that printed sheet after the routine things like swimming, exercise, and lunch. There would be a notation about tonight’s society reception — where I had promised to dance with Congressman Donatello.
But I couldn’t go. In my dream conversation with Grammy, she’d said I had to be close to my real body, in the hospital, at six o’clock. Not at some fancy event. Or Leah would never get her second chance, and I’d be stuck in her body forever.
“I’m not feeling well today,” I faked to Angie.
“You don’t look sick.” Angie regarded me skeptically.
I nodded, sinking into my pillow. “I ache all over,” I said with a dramatic groan. “Could you tell my father that I won’t be able to go out tonight?”
Angie frowned. “I’ll tell him — but he won’t like it.”
“I know … sorry.” I coughed for effect. “But I can’t help being sick.”
“Jessica shouldn’t have pushed you into helping her yesterday.” She switched her suspicion to concern. “You needed more time to recuperate. I’ll have Luis fix you up some hot chicken broth.”
While I waited for her to return, I watched old reruns of The Brady Bunch and Family Ties. The happy families reminded me of my real family. It would be so wonderful to go home and leave the Montgomerys forever. If the switch worked, I felt sorry for Leah having to come back here.
Thinking about this gave me an idea, so I pulled out the journal again and wrote on a blank page in the back.
Leah,
In case you forget, you need to know some things.
1. Your little brother looks up to you. Be kind to him.
2. Your mother is incredibly brave. Cheer on all her successes.
3. Angie can be rude, but deep down she cares about you. Smile at her.
4. Luis rocks! Watch soaps with him and enjoy his cheese popcorn.
5. If you respect your friends, they will respect you. Talk honestly to Chad and Jessica.
6. Do not let your father tell you what to do with your body. It’s just wrong. You do not have to dance or do anything else with his friends.
7. Read self-help books. Contact Amber Borden for suggestions.
I skimmed the list again, smiling as I imagined Leah reading my words and (hopefully) taking them to heart. Grammy said that Leah had already spent some “heavenly” time reflecting on her life. I hoped she’d figured stuff out and would treat her friends, family, and herself better.
As I shut the journal, another paper fell out. Not one paper, but several stapled together. The cover sheet had business letterhead from Congressman Donatello. I expected it to be a letter to Leah, but it was to Mr. Montgomery. Nothing exciting. Only a blah-blah boring “thank you for your generous donations” letter. The attached papers looked like the ledger I made in accounting class. I’d always liked how the debits and credits made tidy rows and balanced out figures. But these figures were confusing: rows of percentages, amounts and long number sequences connected by dashes.
The numbers triggered a memory, but I couldn’t place it. The oddest thing was that on the top of the second page was the name “Leah Ashland,” followed by a series of numbers. I knew from Leah’s driver’s license that her middle name was Ashland, but something about this bothered me.
There was a sound at my door.
Quickly, I tossed the papers back into the journal and hid the journal under a pillow — just as Mr. Montgomery strode into the room.
His scowl was my first clue that he wasn’t happy.
“I heard you’re sick?” he asked suspiciously.
I nodded, coughing and trying to look ill.
“Rather convenient timing, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know—” cough, “—what you—” cough, cough, “—mean.”
“Nasty cough.” He bent over the bed, studying me. “You don’t look sick to me. You look lovely … positively glowing with health.”
“But I feel awful.” I added more coughs and rolled my eyes as if I might pass out.
“Sounds serious. So serious I think we should bring in a doctor.”
Doctor? Oops … not part of my plan.
“I–I just need to—” small cough, “—rest a while. But I’m sorry about the dance. I don’t think I’ll have the energy to go.”
He reached out to touch my chin so that I had to look in his eyes. “Oh, I think you will.”
Afraid and dizzy, I stared at my white knuckles clutching the blankets. My chin throbbed where he had touched me, and when I rubbed the sore spot, my fingers came away with a sticky cream-colored smear. Makeup.
“Ohmygod!” I gasped at his hand’s shadowy aura. “You really are a—”
“A what?” He sounded amused.
“A … a Dark Lifer. You’re wearing makeup to hide your hands.”
I expected him to lie, but he merely shrugged. “So what? It’s your fault, you know. Your glow brought me here. I was enjoying the lecherous body of a security guard at the hospital when I sensed your delicious energy. I became your father to get close to you.”