Six Months Later (5 page)

This time I listen. I inhale, long and deep. And something smells…familiar.

“I smell something,” I say. Something sweet and spicy that prickles at the back of my mind. I can almost remember it.

Adam laughs. “All right.”

Just like that, I get it. This clean mix of soap and leather and cinnamon—it’s him. This is
Adam’s
smell. And it’s curling in my mind like a memory.

“Just wait,” I say, and for some crazy reason, I take his hand.

His skin is warm and rough, though it can’t be thirty degrees out here. But he’s not cold. His strong fingers wrap around mine without a bit of hesitation. This time, I don’t think about how insane it is to touch him. All I can think about is that image I saw today. The one that sent me running to Maggie’s house in the first place.

I close my eyes and grip Adam’s hand tighter, trying to focus.

The picture forms in my mind again, and I exhale slowly, willing it to move.

Nothing.

“Chloe—”

“Please,” I whisper. “Just give me a second.”

He doesn’t owe me a second, or anything else, and I feel my cheeks going hot. I know I’m being weird, but he sighs and stays still. His fingers go soft, sliding until they interlace with mine. Our palms close together, and I shiver though I don’t feel cold at all.

And then I remember.

A
classroom. Study hall from last year, but it’s nighttime. And the posters are different, so it’s not last year. It’s this year.

Adam’s bent over a book. I can hear myself talking about something. Science, maybe. But Adam’s ignoring me, his eyes scanning the pages.

“Ugh, I can’t focus,” I hear myself say. “I feel all jittery and distracted.”

Adam
doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Why’s that?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

He
looks
up
like
he
doesn’t trust me. Like maybe he’s heard me wrong. But then he lets himself smile, just a little. I feel warm and bright to the point of bursting, like the sun is rising somewhere deep inside my chest.

“One of these days we’re going to have to do something about that,” he says.

I’m sure he’s right.

It’s over as soon as it starts. Back in the present, I’m cold and panting, standing on the sidewalk. Every part of me is shaking. I blink up at Adam, our hands still locked.

“I remember something,” I say. “Something about you.”

Adam’s expression is so intense, I swear it could power small cities. I feel his gaze crackle through every cell in my body. I don’t know if he’s mad or happy, or maybe both of those things mixed up, but when he steps closer, I forget where I am. Hell, even
who
I am.

“I can’t figure you out, Chloe,” he says softly, shaking his head. He reaches up, fingering the tips of my hair. “I can’t figure you out at all.”

I feel the delicious weight of his hand on my face for one soul-blistering second. He lets me go and turns toward the sidewalk, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t.

“You coming?” he asks.

“What?”

“C’mon,” he says, sounding half-distracted. As if he didn’t just have his hand on my face and the promise of more in his eyes. “I’ll walk you home.”

My parents look up from the news when I come in. Mom’s been crying. Again. It’s getting seriously melodramatic in this house. I’m half expecting a mournful instrumental score to play every time I leave a room.

Mom pushes on a bright smile, but this isn’t my first rodeo. She cried every night for a week after I was diagnosed with panic attacks and anxiety. Now they don’t even have a
name
for what I’ve got. Come to think of it, it’s probably a miracle she’s not in a padded cell rocking back and forth.

“Hey, you,” she says, trying for brightness. She’s a terrible actress. “Was Maggie ready to talk?”

“We talked for a minute.”

“Well, baby steps are best,” she says. “So how are…”

“How’s the brain pan?” Dad asks, filling in her silence.

Mom kicks him under the coffee table. It’s like I’m still six years old and won’t notice. Maybe they’ll start spelling the words they don’t want to say in front of me.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m feeling better.”

“Really?” Mom asks.

“Really,” I say, which was true until I got here. It’s easier not to think about your looming mental health issues when you’re busy obsessing on the number of times a guy’s hand brushes your sleeve. Adam didn’t say much else, but just having him near me was plenty distracting.

“You look flushed,” Mom says. “You should have taken the car.”

“Cold air is still fresh air.” I shrug. “I should go up. I have homework, and I’m getting a late start.”

“Do you want some dinner?” Mom asks, practically turning herself inside out to keep her eyes on me as I walk behind the couch. “There’s pad thai on the counter.”

“I’ll grab some later,” I say, taking the stairs two at a time.

I don’t want to eat.

I want to figure this out. Julien disappearing, my bizarre Blake repulsion and inappropriate Adam obsession, this whole hot mess with Mags—all of it.

My bedroom door clicks softly shut behind me. I flip on the radio on my alarm clock. I learned that trick through a
Psychology
Today
article. Music buys privacy. Many people (read: parents) are less likely to pop in on you if you’ve got a radio on.

Helpful tip for when you don’t want to be checked on.

I flip open my laptop and cringe at the new background picture. Blake and I, arms linked around shoulders and waists.

It’s disturbing. I used to spend
hours
daydreaming about our wedding, doodling his name in my notebooks. Now everything about the guy makes my skin crawl.

Add it to the list of everything else that makes absolutely no sense right now.

I open a spreadsheet and my Internet browser and then check Facebook and Twitter and a couple of other random sites. It’s a little surreal seeing all the crap I’ve blathered on about. I don’t even read it at first. Not really. It’s like getting into a cold pool. I inch my way around it, dipping my toe into profile pictures and dates.

From the looks of things, I was a busy Internet beaver all summer. Until somewhere in the middle of September. After that…total radio silence.

It’s creepy, really, looking through posts and status updates. Almost like I’m stalking myself. Though, I’ve got to admit, this is not quite the James Bond experience I was hoping for. And if all of my posts are as boring as these, I really need to get a life. Or make one up, at least.

I scroll through my last month of activity again, looking for anything scary. Or hell, even interesting.

08/02: Stalking my mailbox. Where are my scores?

08/06: Sixty days without coffee. I should get a spiffy coin.

08/17: Really? Still no scores! Gah.

08/20: New jeans + new boots = me actually looking forward to colder weather.

08/24: Blake bought me daisies. Just because. How sweet is that?

08/24: Okay, not that sweet. Blake got his SAT scores (ridiculously good). Flowers = preemptive apology for my potentially bad scores. If they ever show up.

08/25: They’re here! They’re here! They’re here! And…I’m afraid to open them.

08/25: 2155 *dies*

09/09: Second week of senior year and still no coffee. Take that, doubters!

09/13: Wrapping up extra credit project number four. So far, so good. Let’s hope university big shots agree.

09/18: I’m so excited about the party this weekend. I’ll talk Blake into it, for sure!

I scroll over the list, feeling my face curdle like day-old milk. It’s like I’ve been possessed by an academic pep rally. The last entry is the worst. When the hell did I start saying crap like “for sure”?

My cursor hovers over the two words, and I frown hard at it. I wouldn’t say this. I don’t care what’s happened to me in the last six months. I can imagine myself saying some seriously stupid crap but not that. Not in any universe I can think of.

It’s just…wrong. It’s like someone I don’t know at all—a stranger. The same stranger who smiles out at me from dozens of pictures I don’t remember taking? Maybe.

But why nothing since September? I’m not a junkie about these social things, but it’s not like me to go more than a few days. A week, tops. Now I’m going off grid?

If there’s an answer, I have no clue what it is or where to find it. I rub my hands over my face and glance at the clock on my laptop. I’ve been at this two hours, and all I’ve seen is forty new Facebook friends and a crap-load of extra credit assignments I’ve turned in. And by a lot, I mean an insane
crap-ton
of assignments. I stopped counting after twenty-six.

I flip to my school website and find a little more there. I’m officially hot shit, academically speaking. I’m on the honor roll and in the peer tutoring club and blah, blah, blah. None of this tells me why I can’t remember the last several months of my life. Or why I’m so convinced I have something to do with Julien Miller’s disappearance. Other than the glaringly obvious fact that I need professional help.

God, I really need to let this go. I blow out a sigh and start shutting my programs down. I move to save one of my documents when something catches my attention. Another file—a text file—in my list of recently accessed items.

Julien.

I rub my eyes and lean forward in my chair, but I didn’t read it wrong.

My skin goes ice-cold, my palm growing damp on the mouse as I hover over the six letters.

Maybe it’s about someone else. A new friend. Someone I’m tutoring. Maybe it was something I did for her before she left. The excuses pour out of me so fast I can barely keep track of them, but it doesn’t matter.

This file scares me, and it wouldn’t scare me if there wasn’t a reason. I knew something about Julien, and I’m about to find out exactly what that something is.

I double click and receive an error message informing me that the path is invalid. I try it again because it’s got to be there. Everything I’ve touched since we bought this computer is still there.

No go. The file is gone.

Heart pounding, I click to my deleted items folder.

Empty.

The blank white box rattles me to the core. I rarely delete and never purge my deleted items folder. Maggie used to tease me mercilessly about it. She’d say if I didn’t get this under control, I was going to be one of those creepy moms that kept my baby’s teeth and their hair and every sock they ever wore,
just
in
case
.

No, this wasn’t me. Which means, someone else has been cleaning up. Crazy, yeah. But less crazy than me suddenly deleting things out of my computer.

I drag my hands through my hair and take a shaky breath.

It’s a start. Now I know what I’m looking for.

Things that are no longer there.

***

Someone taps on my door, and I jerk my head off my desk, blinking blearily. Three soda cans and an empty bag of spicy tortilla chips are lined up by my keyboard. The chips are probably responsible for the god-awful taste in my mouth.

Mom knocks again, and I see the pale promise of sunlight drifting around my curtains. Is it morning? Really?

“Chloe?” she asks.

“Yeah?” I click to bring up a half-finished paper on electromagnetism. I figured it’d be a good cover last night, but I didn’t need it until now.

“Honey,” she says, looking alarmed. “Did you sleep?”

“I napped on the QWERTY row I think.” I manage a groggy grin, rubbing my forehead. “But not much. I’m probably going to crash for a couple of hours.”

“Today? But it’s Saturday, honey.”

I blink at her. It’s
way
too early for this. “Right. Ergo me not needing to rush off to school.”

Mom laughs, shaking her head and wagging her finger at me. “Very funny. Blake’s going to be here in ten minutes. I can put your tea in a travel mug if you want.”

“Blake?”

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but I’m pretty sure if anyone’s crazy, it’s her. It is oh-dark-thirty on a Saturday morning. I’m generally not even conscious on Saturdays for several more hours, so why in God’s name would Blake be on his way?

“You’re a regular comedian,” she says. “You’re lucky he isn’t running early like he usually does.”

“What time is it?” I search around my desk for my phone, shifting papers and knocking over an empty soda can.

“Seven fifteen. What are you looking for?”

“My phone. I need to text Blake. I can’t go out right now. I’ve barely slept.”

Mom crosses her arms and looks severe. “Chloe, your Saturday mornings with Blake aren’t dates.”

Wait a minute—I do this every Saturday? Voluntarily? I blink up at her, hoping she’ll fill me in. I can tell by her face there’s a full-force lecture on standby, so I try to look attentive.

“Those kids depend on you,” she says, and then she waits, clearly expecting me to get with the program.

Which isn’t going to happen since I don’t even know the program. Instead, I revert to my current default mode. Faking it as pleasantly as possible.

“You’re right. I’ll get dressed. Ten minutes?”

She glances at her watch. “Seven. I’ll get your tea.”

I shuck off yesterday’s clothes and tear through my closet, finding jeans and a baby-blue sweatshirt that’s buttery soft against my skin. I’ve barely tossed my hair into a ponytail and brushed my teeth when I hear the doorbell ring, the sounds of cheerful morning-people greetings floating up the stairs.

When I get downstairs, Blake’s standing with my mom, holding my tea. “Where’s your binder?”

Binder? What binder? I don’t even know where I’m going and now I have to bring props?

Mom sighs. “Honestly, Chloe. It’s in the dining room. I put it on the hutch.”

I find it easily enough, along with a helpful label that reads:
Eisenhower Elementary Tutor Program
. So that explains the kids counting on me. Wait a minute, can I
fake
tutoring? I mean, what if all this brainiac stuff didn’t take?

It took.

An hour later, the boy across from me grins a gap-toothed smile, chin smudged with pencil marks. “How did you figure that out so fast?”

I shrug. “Trade secret.”

Though, truthfully, I just have no idea. Last time I checked, I still counted on my fingers. I mean, I skated by without needing summer school or anything, but I wasn’t exactly a human calculator. Now? Now, I can do triple-digit arithmetic in my head. Like the problem Tyler and I just finished.

“You must be a super genius or something,” he says, squirming around on his chair.

“Not even close. But I have done a lot of extra homework this year.”

“I hate homework,” he says.

“Yeah, me too,” I say, and then I wink. “But I like being a smarty-pants. How about number ten?”

“Do I have to?”

I tilt my head, playing at thinking this over. “Well, we could do a makeover instead. I could paint your nails. Braid your hair.”

Tyler laughs, and it’s that awesome no-holds-barred kind that everybody seems to lose when they hit puberty. I grin as he simmers down to a chuckle and then looks at me with resignation.

“I still hate math. Even if you’re cool.” He hunkers back down over his homework, and I scan the community center while he works.

I’d heard that they hold tutoring here, but I’d never really seen it. It’s actually pretty cool. The parents can leave or wait in the lobby, though God knows why they’d want to stay. There’s nothing out there but a coffee machine and enough old newspapers to papier-mâché a small city.

In this room, the gray walls offer signs for everything from AA meetings to senior yoga exercises. Six tables have been set up, but there are only three of us working. Blake, me, and Tina Stubbs—a girl I barely knew last year. Today she hugged me and blabbered on about some guy she desperately wants until Tyler arrived to save me.

Blake is sitting two tables away from me. He’s supposedly reading Dr. Seuss with the kid in front of him. Too bad he’s not looking at the book or at the poor second-grader who’s stumbling his way over each word. He’s staring at something under the table, I think. Something in his lap, maybe?

Ah, cell phone.

He’s texting someone.

“Is that right?” Tyler asks.

I glance down at his work. 327 + 456 = 773. “Super close, Tyler. One number is off. Do you think you can find it?”

Damn, I’m good.

I look up again, and Blake’s student is reading even slower, his voice growing small as he tries to labor through a word that’s obviously stumping him. And my sweet-as-sugar boyfriend is apparently too busy texting the Gettysburg Address to care? Something’s very wrong with this picture. He’s the tutoring
coordinator
.

“I got it wrong again?” Tyler asks, sounding worried.

I realize I’m making a seriously ugly face, one that isn’t aimed at Tyler at all. Too bad Blake is way too absorbed in his cell phone to notice I’m shooting it in his direction.

I check Tyler’s work and shake my head.

“It’s perfect. I knew you could do it,” I say, forcing a wide smile. “You’ve just got to remember right to left. Opposite of reading, okay?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got it.”

“You’re going to do awesome. Consider that test aced,” I say, and then I snag him an extra pencil out of the treasure box at the back of the room as I walk him out.