Lock and Key

Table of Contents

ALSO BY Sarah Dessen

THAT SUMMER
SOMEONE LIKE YOU
KEEPING THE MOON
DREAMLAND
THIS LULLABY
THE TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER
JUST LISTEN

Viking
Published by Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in 2008 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Sarah Dessen, 2008

All rights reserved
ANGELS FROM MONTGOMERY
Words and Music by JOHN PRINE
© 1971 (Renewed) WALDEN MUSIC, INC. & SOUR GRAPES MUSIC
All rights administered by WB MUSIC CORP.
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Dessen, Sarah.
Lock and key / by Sarah Dessen.
p. cm.
Summary: When she is abandoned by her alcoholic mother, high school senior Ruby
winds up living with her sister Cora, whom she has not seen for ten years, where she
learns about Cora’s new life, what makes a family, how to allow people to help her
when she needs it, and that she has something to offer others as well.

[1. Abandoned children—Fiction. 2. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction.
3. Family—Fiction. 4. Child abuse—Fiction. 5. Emotional problems—Fiction.
6. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.D455Lo 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007025370

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

“And finally,” Jamie said as he pushed the door open, “we come to the main event. Your room.”

I was braced for pink. Ruffles or quilting, or maybe even appliqué. Which was probably kind of unfair, but then again, I didn’t know my sister anymore, much less her decorating style. With total strangers, it had always been my policy to expect the worst. Usually they—and those that you knew best, for that matter—did not disappoint.

Instead, the first thing I saw was green. A large, high window, on the other side of which were tall trees separating the huge backyard from that of the house that backed up to it. Everything was big about where my sister and her husband, Jamie, lived—from the homes to the cars to the stone fence you saw first thing when you pulled into the neighborhood itself, made up of boulders that looked too enormous to ever be moved. It was like Stonehenge, but suburban. So weird.

It was only as I thought this that I realized we were all still standing there in the hallway, backed up like a traffic jam. At some point Jamie, who had been leading this little tour, had stepped aside, leaving me in the doorway. Clearly, they wanted me to step in first. So I did.

The room was, yes, big, with cream-colored walls. There were three other windows beneath the big one I’d first seen, although they each were covered with thin venetian blinds. To the right, I saw a double bed with a yellow comforter and matching pillows, a white blanket folded over the foot. There was a small desk, too, a chair tucked under it. The ceiling slanted on either side, meeting in a flat strip in the middle, where there was a square skylight, also covered with a venetian blind—a little square one, clearly custom made to fit. It was so matchy-matchy and odd that for a moment, I found myself just staring up at it, as if this was actually the weirdest thing about that day.

“So, you’ve got your own bathroom,” Jamie said, stepping around me, his feet making soft thuds on the carpet, which was of course spotless. In fact, the whole room smelled like paint and new carpet, just like the rest of the house. I wondered how long ago they had moved in—a month, six months? “Right through this door. And the closet is in here, too. Weird, right? Ours is the same way. When we were building, Cora claimed it meant she would get ready faster. A theory that has yet to be proved out, I might add.”

Then he smiled at me, and again I tried to force a smile back. Who was this odd creature, my brother-in-law—a term that seemed oddly fitting, considering the circumstances—in his mountain-bike T-shirt, jeans, and funky expensive sneakers, cracking jokes in an obvious effort to ease the tension of an incredibly awkward situation? I had no idea, other than he had to be the very last person I would have expected to end up with my sister, who was so uptight she wasn’t even pretending to smile at his attempts. At least I was trying.

Not Cora. She was just standing in the doorway, barely over the threshold, arms crossed over her chest. She had on a sleeveless sweater—even though it was mid-October, the house was beyond cozy, almost hot—and I could see the definition of her biceps and triceps, every muscle seemingly tensed, the same way they had been when she’d walked into the meeting room at Poplar House two hours earlier. Then, too, it seemed like Jamie had done all the talking, both to Shayna, the head counselor, and to me while Cora remained quiet. Still, every now and again, I could feel her eyes on me, steady, as if she was studying my features, committing me to memory, or maybe just trying to figure out if there was any part of me she recognized at all.

So Cora had a husband, I’d thought, staring at them as we’d sat across from each other, Shayna shuffling papers between us. I wondered if they’d had a fancy wedding, with her in a big white dress, or if they’d just eloped after she’d told him she had no family to speak of. Left to her own devices, this was the story I was sure she preferred—that she’d just sprouted, all on her own, neither connected nor indebted to anyone else at all.

“Thermostat’s out in the hallway if you need to adjust it,” Jamie was saying now. “Personally, I like a bit of a chill to the air, but your sister prefers it to be sweltering. So even if you turn it down, she’ll most likely jack it back up within moments.”

Again he smiled, and I did the same. God, this was exhausting. I felt Cora shift in the doorway, but again she didn’t say anything.

“Oh!” Jamie said, clapping his hands. “Almost forgot. The best part.” He walked over to the window in the center of the wall, reaching down beneath the blind. It wasn’t until he was stepping back and it was opening that I realized it was, in fact, a door. Within moments, I smelled cold air. “Come check this out.”

I fought the urge to look back at Cora again as I took a step, then one more, feeling my feet sink into the carpet, following him over the threshold onto a small balcony. He was standing by the railing, and I joined him, both of us looking down at the backyard. When I’d first seen it from the kitchen, I’d noticed just the basics: grass, a shed, the big patio with a grill at one end. Now, though, I could see there were rocks laid out in the grass in an oval shape, obviously deliberately, and again, I thought of Stonehenge. What was it with these rich people, a druid fixation?

“It’s gonna be a pond,” Jamie told me as if I’d said this out loud.

“A pond?” I said.

“Total ecosystem,” he said. “Thirty-by-twenty and lined, all natural, with a waterfall. And fish. Cool, huh?”

Again, I felt him look at me, expectant. “Yeah,” I said, because I was a guest here. “Sounds great.”

He laughed. “Hear that, Cor?
She
doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

I looked down at the circle again, then back at my sister. She’d come into the room, although not that far, and still had her arms crossed over her chest as she stood there, watching us. For a moment, our eyes met, and I wondered how on earth I’d ended up here, the last place I knew either one of us wanted me to be. Then she opened her mouth to speak for the first time since we’d pulled up in the driveway and all this, whatever it was, began.

“It’s cold,” she said. “You should come inside.”

Before one o’clock that afternoon, when she showed up to claim me, I hadn’t seen my sister in ten years. I didn’t know where she lived, what she was doing, or even who she was. I didn’t care, either. There had been a time when Cora was part of my life, but that time was over, simple as that. Or so I’d thought, until the Honeycutts showed up one random Tuesday and everything changed.

The Honeycutts owned the little yellow farmhouse where my mom and I had been living for about a year. Before that, we’d had an apartment at the Lakeview Chalets, the run-down complex just behind the mall. There, we’d shared a one-bedroom, our only window looking out over the back entrance to the J&K Cafeteria, where there was always at least one employee in a hairnet sitting outside smoking, perched on an overturned milk crate. Running alongside the complex was a stream that you didn’t even notice until there was a big rain and it rose, overflowing its nonexistent banks and flooding everything, which happened at least two or three times a year. Since we were on the top floor, we were spared the water itself, but the smell of the mildew from the lower apartments permeated everything, and God only knew what kind of mold was in the walls. Suffice to say I had a cold for two years straight. That was the first thing I noticed about the yellow house: I could breathe there.

It was different in other ways, too. Like the fact that it was a
house
, and not an apartment in a complex or over someone’s garage. I’d grown used to the sound of neighbors on the other side of a wall, but the yellow house sat in the center of a big field, framed by two oak trees. There was another house off to the left, but it was visible only by flashes of roof you glimpsed through the trees—for all intents and purposes, we were alone. Which was just the way we liked it.

My mom wasn’t much of a people person. In certain situations—say, if you were buying, for instance—she could be very friendly. And if you put her within five hundred feet of a man who would treat her like shit, she’d find him and be making nice before you could stop her, and I knew, because I had tried. But interacting with the majority of the population (cashiers, school administrators, bosses, ex-boyfriends) was not something she engaged in unless absolutely necessary, and then, with great reluctance.

Which was why it was lucky that she had me. For as long as I could remember, I’d been the buffer system. The go-between, my mother’s ambassador to the world. Whenever we pulled up at the store and she needed a Diet Coke but was too hungover to go in herself, or she spied a neighbor coming who wanted to complain about her late-night banging around
again
, or the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door, it was always the same. “Ruby,” she’d say, in her tired voice, pressing either her glass or her hand to her forehead. “Talk to the people, would you?”

And I would. I’d chat with the girl behind the counter as I waited for my change, nod as the neighbor again threatened to call the super, ignored the proffered literature as I firmly shut the door in the Jehovah’s faces. I was the first line of defense, always ready with an explanation or a bit of spin. “She’s at the bank right now,” I’d tell the landlord, even as she snored on the couch on the other side of the half-closed door. “She’s just outside, talking to a delivery,” I’d assure her boss so he’d release her bags for the day to me, while she smoked a much-needed cigarette in the freight area and tried to calm her shaking hands. And finally, the biggest lie of all: “Of course she’s still living here. She’s just working a lot,” which is what I’d told the sheriff that day when I’d been called out of fourth period and found him waiting for me. That time, though, all the spin in the world didn’t work. I talked to the people, just like she’d always asked, but they weren’t listening.

That first day, though, when my mom and I pulled up in front of the yellow house, things were okay. Sure, we’d left our apartment with the usual drama—owing back rent, the super lurking around watching us so carefully that we had to pack the car over a series of days, adding a few things each time we went to the store or to work. I’d gotten used to this, though, the same way I’d adjusted to us rarely if ever having a phone, and if we did, having it listed under another name. Ditto with my school paperwork, which my mom often filled out with a fake address, as she was convinced that creditors and old landlords would track us down that way. For a long time, I thought this was the way everyone lived. When I got old enough to realize otherwise, it was already a habit, and anything else would have felt strange.