Made You Up (9 page)

“Everything,” he said, but before I could ask what the hell that meant, he added, “Who was the fourteenth president of the US?”

“Franklin Pierce. The only president from New Hampshire.”

“What was his second child’s name and what did that child die from?”

“Ben—no, Frank—Robert Pierce. Frank Robert Pierce. Died of . . . typhus.”

“At what age?”

“Uh . . . four? Five? I can’t remember. Why are you so interested in an obscure president’s second child?”

Miles shook his head and looked away. But he also smiled. Weird, lopsided, more of a smirk than a smile, really, but it got the point across. How smart was he? A genius, but in what? It seemed like he was good at everything— he helped Theo with calculus, he could destroy chemistry without blinking, he slept through his A+ in English, and everything else seemed to bore him. He knew the name Huitzilihuitl. (And, more importantly, how to pronounce it.) He knew
everything
.

Except the truth about me. And I needed to keep it that way.

I locked my eyes on the fire, but was quickly distracted by the Jaws of Life couple; clothes were being removed, and if Miles’s expression was anything to go by, they were going to get skewered if it went any further.

A second later it didn’t matter. The noise from the deck swelled toward us, and before I could consider running, Celia Hendricks slid onto the bench beside me and someone
else slid in on Miles’s other side, and the five inches between us disappeared. We were smashed together, my shoulder in his armpit, his arm braced behind us, my legs nearly on top of his. Seemingly everyone from the back deck made a ring around the fire.

I froze. I’d never been this close to so much of a person. Except Charlie. I didn’t even let my mother get this close to me.

Miles’s neck and ears had gone red. This must have been torture for him, too. Because of the people crowding us, I probably looked like I’d thrown myself at Miles, and he probably looked like he wanted it.

“Well. This is awkward,” said Miles.

The triplets laughed somewhere behind us. Miles and I twisted to find them at the same time. His jaw smacked my forehead.

He groaned. “God, is your head made of steel?”

“Why, too hard to bite through, Jaws?” I sniped back, rubbing my forehead. The triplets were already on their way, blond blurs in the crowd.

A hand dug into my ribs.

“Hey guys!” Celia flashed two rows of white teeth. “How d’you like the party?”

“It’s . . . um . . . great,” I said as Miles grabbed my leg and pulled it over his, shifting my weight off his rib cage. I lost my balance, and he grabbed my leg again to steady me.
The leg in question had turned to jelly.

Kids crowded all along the back of the bench, barricading any escape. I barely kept myself from punching Celia. I didn’t realize I was squeezing myself closer to Miles until he coughed and tilted his chin up to avoid my head.

The scent of tobacco and wood shavings filled my nose. His jacket. It was the kind of smell I’d only previously caught off my parents’ pipe-smoking, dirt-digging history colleagues. I was close enough to him to get a clear whiff of something else . . . pastries. And one more. Mint soap. It was like someone had mixed together all the best-smelling things in the world and made Miles bathe in them.

“Get me out of here,” he muttered. The arm he’d been holding out behind me dropped, and his hand brushed down along my side. Hairs shot up all over my body. Miles’s face went red. “Sorry . . . arm was getting tired . . .”

We were nose to nose. Straight nose. Square jaw. Clear eyes.
Yes,
I thought,
yes, very cute. Cuteness confirmed.

“I’m going to try to find a way out,” I said breathlessly, twisting around. My task was made much harder by Celia, still trying to get Miles’s attention.

And also by the flicker of light behind Celia, the pungent smell of burning hair, and someone yelling, “YOU’RE ON FIRE!”

T
he two seconds between the realizations that I wasn’t on fire and Celia was were a very blissful two seconds.

Celia screamed and batted at herself, making it hard to see if the fire had caught her hair or her clothes or both. Someone ran up behind her and dumped a bucket of water over her head, dousing her. She stood motionless for a moment, the ends of her hair curled and black, her makeup running in streaks down her face.

“WHO DID IT?”

Everyone stared at her. She’d been sitting too far from the fire for it to reach her, hadn’t she? The back of her sweatshirt was as singed as her hair. She didn’t seem hurt, though. She seethed, eyes roving through the crowd, until she zeroed in on me.

I had my camera pointed at her. I’d gotten it out before I realized that her burning hair was not a delusion.

“You were right next to me!” she screeched.

I shoved my camera into my pocket and tried to retreat, but the bench hit the backs of my knees. “You think
I
did it?”

“You were RIGHT. NEXT. TO. ME. Who else?”

I don’t know. Only the ten or so people behind you.

I stood there looking stupid, because that’s what I do when I’m accused of something I didn’t do. Forget making a case or, you know,
denying
that I’d done it.

Denying hadn’t helped me in the past.

“Oh my God, you
did
do it! What the hell is wrong with you?” Celia grabbed at the burnt tips of her hair, her face contorting in rage. She looked between Miles and me, then cranked her bitch level up to eleven. “You’re
jealous
!”

I stared at Miles. Miles stared at me. We both stared at Celia.

“The fuck?” Miles said.

Then Celia lunged at me, and everything fell to pandemonium. Someone pulled me over the bench and through the sea of bodies as everyone converged, ready for a fight. People were going every direction, yelling, screaming, the music suddenly louder than ever.

As soon as we broke free, I saw it was Art dragging me
along, his mammoth muscles straining against his shirt. I would have been thankful if it wasn’t for the fact that he usually showed up when Miles was pulling a job. If Art had been there waiting to yank me out of harm’s way, then Miles must have been involved with the fire, right?

I set my jaw; as soon as we were back on the driveway, I yanked my arm out of Art’s grip, grabbed his huge shoulder, and spun him to face me. “Did Miles do that?”

“No,” he said immediately. He scrubbed at his short hair.

The brush of invisible fingers crawled up the back of my neck. I jabbed a finger at him. “You had better be telling me the truth, Art Babrow. Not just what Miles tells you to say.”

“Scout’s honor,” Art said, holding up his hand.

I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. It felt like I had cotton packed down my throat. I was suffocating. I tugged on my hair with both hands, turned in a full circle to make sure there were no cameras on the houses or the lampposts, and set off down the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?” Art called. “I know you didn’t drive here yourself.”

“I’m going home!” I yelled.

Home. Home was good.

“Isn’t your house a few miles away?”

“Probably.”

“The
fuck
,” someone said. The privacy fence gate clacked closed. “Where are you going? I told you to keep her here.”

I looked behind me; Miles had caught up to Art. I marched back, planting a finger in the middle of Miles’s chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You torch someone’s hair and let her blame me? Because apparently I’m jealous? What kind of retribution is that? The books were one thing, and the desk, and all that other stuff—but this is ridiculous.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Would you shut up and stop assuming you know everything?”

“Would you stop being such a jackass?”

It came out of my mouth too quickly, a reflex reaction to the guilt flooding my stomach. I had no proof, but I wanted him to stop talking. It worked—his mouth snapped shut, his hands balled into fists. A muscle worked in his jaw. I glared at him as he floundered, but I floundered, too; I couldn’t think of what to do next.

Home. Had to get home.

I kept picturing a Celia-led mob chasing me down the street, screaming about my devilish crime like Puritans at a witch trial. I hadn’t done anything wrong—I
never
did anything wrong—it wasn’t my fault. . . .

“Alex, I can take you home,” Art said.

Always be polite.
“No, thank you.”

I turned and started walking again. I didn’t care where. Anywhere other than here. Art said something else. The words hit me and bounced off. I kept my eyes forward. The street went very quiet.

Ahead of me, Miles stepped out from behind a tree.

How had he gotten there so hellishly fast? He’d been standing behind me not ten seconds ago, and now he emerged at least three houses down the street. He ambled toward me with his clothes in tatters, like he’d gotten mauled by a bear. When he got close, the smell of alcohol and pond scum invaded the air.

Where his freckles had been, a hundred little holes pulsed blood down his pale cheeks.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” I tried to walk past him, but he loped backward, keeping his eyes on mine. His hands hung limp at his sides. His fingers looked longer than usual, like he had too many knuckles. My stomach knotted. I didn’t know what he’d done to his freckles, but I couldn’t let him see how much they creeped me out.

He wouldn’t leave.

I wanted him to leave.

“Go away!” I yelled at him. He didn’t blink. His eyes were bluer than ever, bluer than they should have been in the darkness. The sun glowed behind them, melting them
from inside like candle wax. The color seeped from his skin.

“Alex!”

Someone grabbed my arm. Spun me around.

Miles was there, too. Except not bleeding. And his clothes weren’t torn. And his eyes were the right shade of blue. I pulled my arm away and backed up. And ran into Miles.

“Who are you talking to?” Miles—regular Miles— asked. Art was right behind him.

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

Oh no. There were two of him. I knew it was wrong, I knew there shouldn’t be, but he reached up for my face, and I felt the cold roiling off his skin.

The roots of my hair screamed as I tugged on them.

“Both of you stay away from me.” I pointed to both Mileses, backing up onto the nearest lawn. One Miles was bad enough. Two was unbearable.

Regular Miles frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Keep your mouth shut, idiot!
the little voice in the back of my head screamed. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad.

He’s not real.

He is.

He’s not he’s not.

A cold finger brushed down my cheek.

Then how can he touch you?

Bloody Miles stared at me, his mouth curving into a wide grin. The blood stained his teeth, too. Miles never smiled. Not like that.

I dropped to the ground as Bloody Miles lunged at me. The world went dark. I heard footsteps. Art yelled something I couldn’t understand.

Fingers grabbed my shoulders and tried to pull me up. I balled my hand into a fist and lashed out, connecting with something fleshy.

A groan.

The fingers released me.

“Damn. She clocked you, Boss.”

“No shit. Can you carry her?”

“I can try.”

I squirmed away, but Art’s spicy aftershave drowned out the smell of alcohol and pond scum. One big arm snaked around my shoulders, the other behind my knees. He lifted me up. “She’s shaking so bad—I can hardly hold on to her.”

“This way. I’ll take her home.”

Warm air moved past my face. I didn’t open my eyes, because he would be there.

The truck door creaked open. I cracked my eyes open to see Art buckling me into the passenger seat.

“Go back to the party.” Miles climbed in the driver’s side. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

No, Art! Don’t leave me alone with him!

But Art nodded and turned away. Miles started the truck.

“Alex.”

I stared out the window. Where was he?

“Alex,
please
look at me.”

I didn’t.

“What’s going on?” His voice rose and cracked. “What are you afraid of? Just look at me!”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I could smell pastries and mint soap, crisp and sharp in the cold air. Miles let out a quick breath, but didn’t relax. His glasses slipped down his nose. A bruise already bloomed across his right cheekbone. His eyes flickered back to the road.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again. “What did you see? There was no one out there besides you and me and Art.”

I shook my head.

I couldn’t tell him.

He could never know.

M
y mother opened the door.

“She just . . .” was all Miles got out before she yanked me from his arms.

“What happened?” She pushed me into the house. “What did you do?”

“He didn’t do anything, Mom.” She pushed me onto the bench in the hall. The room spun, threatened to disappear. I realized she’d been talking to me, not Miles.

“We were at the bonfire, and she said . . . she started talking to someone else,” said Miles. “She fell down screaming, and we got her up and I brought her here.”

My mother stared at him. “What’s that mark? Did she hit you?”

“Yes, but . . .”

She rounded on me, eyes flashing. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder to Miles. “I’m very sorry for your trouble. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

“But wait—is she okay?”

My mother closed the door in his face.

“Mom!”

“Alexandra Victoria Ridgemont. You haven’t been taking your medicine, have you?”

“Mom, I—I thought I was—”

She stormed into the bathroom and returned with my prescription bottle, thrusting it into my hands. “Take them. Now.” She bent down and pulled my shoes off like I was four. “I
trusted
you to take those on time. I thought, after years of this, I could count on you to do it yourself.” One of her nails scratched my heel. “I can’t believe you hit him. What if his parents decide to press assault charges? I can’t believe you were so irresponsible. Are you still seeing things?”

“How am I supposed to know, Mom?” I had to force the words through the knot in my throat. I wiped tears from my eyes. I clawed open the pill bottle and choked down the medicine.

“Go into the living room. I’m calling Leann.”

Leann Graves, my therapist. The Gravedigger.

My stomach convulsed.

“I’m fine, Mom, really,” I said, voice wavering. “I’m okay now. It snuck up on me.”

But she already had the phone in her hand, her thumbs flying over the buttons. How did she not have the Gravedigger on speed dial? She smashed the phone against her ear.

“I’m calling your father after this,” she said in her most severe, threatening tone.

“Good!” The strength of my voice surprised me. “He listens better than you do!”

She pressed her lips into a thin white line and disappeared into the kitchen.

I stood, hurled the pill bottle on the floor, and ran to my room. The pictures floated from the walls when I threw the door open. I tossed my camera onto the bed and ripped the nearest picture off. In it was a tree with bright red and orange leaves. The problem was, the other trees were all green. Because I’d taken the picture at the end of spring. I tore another snapshot down. This one was my first sighting of the Hannibal’s Rest phoenix. It perched on top of Red Witch Bridge, staring straight into the camera. I took another picture down, and another.

All of them still had their subjects. Nothing had changed.

I sunk down on the rug. Pictures spilled across the
floor, leaving new gaps in my photograph-covered walls. The tears came on full force, wet and messy and stupid. I should have known. I should have paid better attention. Now Miles would know, and everyone would—

I stopped myself. That wasn’t why I was upset.

I was upset because I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tell that Bloody Miles wasn’t real. I’d gotten—I
thought
I’d gotten so good at telling the difference. These pictures meant nothing. They told me nothing.

The door creaked open and a tiny body wedged its way inside my room. I opened my arms and Charlie climbed into my lap without hesitation. I buried my face in her hair. She was the only one I let myself cry in front of, because she was the only one who never asked what was wrong, or if I needed anything, or if she could help.

She was just there.