Cross My Heart, Hope To Die
Page 12

Girl Finds Mother’s Old Journal, Contents Change Everything, she hoped, looking at the book’s cover. Then she flipped the journal open.
The handwriting was painfully familiar, the same untidy scrawl Emma remembered from childhood birthday cards and from the note Becky had left for her at the diner just a few weeks earlier.
At first, the journal’s entries were neat and tidy, dated even down to the time of day:
Today I woke up at five and could not sleep any more so I climbed out the window and went to Denny’s. Mom and Dad panicked and thought I had run away when I did not come down to the table and when they saw my shoes were missing. Can’t a person enjoy her Grand Slam breakfast in peace around here?
A few days later:
I got $200 for the cheesy diamond studs Mom got me for “sweet sixteen” last year. Part of me thinks I should feel bad for selling them but I’m not sweet at all and she should know that. Between that & the $150 I’ve saved babysitting for the Gandins, I almost have enough to get out of here.
Emma looked up from the book, a strange ache piercing her chest. She felt as if she was spying on her mother, never mind that almost twenty years had passed. But spying or not, this was her only lead. She turned another page.
The entries went on and on, one every few days. Sketches filled some pages, mostly elaborate abstract designs or flowering vines. An Emily Dickinson poem filled a sheet, with colored-pencil illustrations all around the text. Becky complained about school and her parents. She broke up with one boyfriend and hooked up with another one. She cheated on a third. She was always lonely, even when she was surrounded by people. She sounded surprisingly, almost disappointingly normal—creative and sullen and rebellious, but not crazy.
But about halfway through the composition book the entries started to change. The language became disjointed, the thoughts scattered. Dog next door keeps barking and if he doesn’t stop soon I may snap, she’d written one day. This town is poison. Even the clothes on my back hurt my skin. And then, one day, just the words Mama, I’m so sorry. The writing ran sideways in some places or curled around in weird spirals of text.
Emma turned another page. Her breath caught in her throat. Printed across two facing pages, in enormous block letters, was Emma.
On the next page it was repeated in long lines across the paper—Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma—in different sizes and scripts, ornate calligraphy and cartoon block letters and colorful sketches sprinkled with stars. She flipped through the pages, faster and faster. The rest of the book was filled with nothing but that one word, EMMA, scrawled wilder and wilder, in Sharpie, in pencil, sometimes written so hard the letters tore through the paper.
The book fell out of her trembling hands and hit the floor in a cloud of dust. The attic spun around her like a strange, shadowy carousel. She knew Becky was sick, but this … this was obsession.
I was afraid, too. What was going through our mother’s mind? Had she written this before or after we were born?
The garage door rattled open, and Emma jumped. She quickly slid the journal into her pocket and stood up. As quietly as she could, she went down the ladder, closing the hatch door after her.
The house was silent again when she reached the hall. She frowned and padded down the stairs to the entryway. “Hello?” she called. No one answered. She opened the front door and looked out on the lawn.
She had to blink her eyes several times to clear her vision. For a moment it looked as if an enormous agave plant was wobbling around the Mercers’ yard on uncertain human legs. After the quiet, dim attic, her eyes had to be playing tricks on her.
A moment later the walking plant was replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered boy carrying a giant succulent. She peeked around the plant’s prickly leaves. Thayer.
I swooned. What’s hotter than watching a gorgeous boy carry heavy things? At that moment I would have given anything for hands, just so I could run them over his shoulders and up into his damp, tousled hair.
“What’re you doing here?” Emma asked.
Thayer stopped and grinned at her, balancing on his good leg. “Laurel said your dad’s bummed out that he got hurt in the middle of landscaping the yard,” he explained. “I figured that since it’s partly my fault he got hurt, I should come and help him finish. Besides, I know all about knee injuries,” he said, nodding down at his own bad leg.
A flush of pleasure swept over Emma’s cheeks. She understood what Sutton saw in Thayer. He had so much more depth, and warmth, than she’d realized at first. “Here, let me help you,” she said, grabbing one side of the heavy plant. Together they wrestled it out of the plastic and into the hole Mr. Mercer had dug.
“Careful with the spines, they can hurt pretty bad,” Thayer warned.
“I’m used to cactus spines,” Emma answered. She laughed when they stood up in a shower of dirt. Their arms, even their faces, were covered with it. “It’s really nice of you to help my dad out,” she added, walking toward the willow tree to get out of the hot sun.
Thayer shrugged. “I’m just trying to put things right. As much as I can, anyway.” He glanced at Emma, then blinked, as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Is everything okay? You look kind of pale.”
Emma looked down, thinking about what she’d just found in the attic. “I saw my mom again two nights ago,” she admitted.
Thayer’s long-lashed hazel eyes opened wide with concern. “Where?”
Suddenly the whole story was pouring out of her—the hospital visit, the discovery that her mother had a history of mental illness. The fact that she’d pulled a knife on someone. Emma left out the part about Becky calling her by her real name, but as she told him the rest, she felt the compression around her heart relax ever so slightly. She breathed deeply.
Thayer let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“I know,” she said. Talking to Thayer was so easy—she already felt calmer, more focused. “The worst thing is that I can’t really tell anyone. Mom—I mean, my adopted mom—doesn’t know, and my dad won’t let me tell her. He says it’d destroy her. I can’t tell Laurel either, and I can’t tell any of the other girls because they’d tell Laurel. The whole thing is awkward and stupid.”
“Keeping secrets for your parents sucks,” Thayer agreed, his expression darkening. He leaned back against the tree, and frowned. Emma watched him from the corner of her eye. Thayer knew all about family secrets. He rarely talked about it, but part of the reason he’d run away from home was to escape his father’s violent temper.
When he spoke, his voice was low. “I never told you this, but I caught my dad having an affair last year.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?” She imagined hotheaded, strict Mr. Vega. His brow was always furrowed, his spine stiff and straight, and he seemed to disapprove of everything. Who would even want to have an affair with him?
Thayer nodded. “Yeah. I caught his girlfriend or whatever leaving our house when my mom was away visiting my aunt. I tried to talk to him about it, but he just blasted me for messing with his business. Acted like he could do no wrong.” Thayer gritted his teeth. “My mom didn’t factor into the equation at all.”
“That sucks,” Emma said softly. She reached over and squeezed his hand. When their skin touched, an electric hum started at the point of contact. Realizing what she’d done, she pulled her hand away, blushing. Thayer looked away, too.
They sat together in silence for a moment. Emma’s hand still tingled from touching his. She felt a little guilty confiding so much in Thayer, as if she were sneaking around behind Ethan’s back. But it wasn’t like that at all. She and Thayer were just friends, and friends were allowed to confide in each other when something was on their minds. Besides, the only reason Thayer was even interested in her was that he thought she was Sutton—his ex-girlfriend.
I hoped she was right about Thayer still being in love with me. Of all the things my death had taken away from me, Thayer had been the hardest to lose.
He stood up carefully, testing his weight on his bad knee. “I should go. I’ve got physical therapy in thirty minutes.”
“How’s that going?”
“Better,” he said. “If I keep working on it, I might even get to play soccer next year.”
Emma beamed. “That’s great!”
“Yeah.” When Thayer smiled, a dimple appeared in his left cheek. “Anyway, tell your dad … well, whatever.”
“I’ll tell him you said hi,” Emma said.
Thayer saluted her, then turned and headed unstably to his car. For a moment, Emma wanted to run to him and hug him good-bye … but something told her that wasn’t a great idea.
Maybe that something was me. I hovered next to her, and together we watched as he started his car and drove away.
13
NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF A LITTLE RETAIL THERAPY
Emma was still standing on the porch when she heard something creak behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. What if it was Becky, escaped from the hospital? The journal pages covered with Emma swirled in her mind. But when she spun around, she came face-to-face with Laurel.
“You scared me,” Emma accused, her hand over her heart.
“Geez, you never used to scare so easy.” Laurel laughed, looping her arm in Emma’s elbow. “Dating a nice boy is making you soft. Now come on, we need to go.” She checked her lipstick in a Chanel compact, then pulled Emma toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked, grabbing her purse.
Laurel gave her an incredulous look. “Duh, space cadet. Only the biggest Saks sample sale of the year?”
Emma blinked. “Right,” she said. She had no idea what Laurel was talking about, but no doubt Sutton would have had this marked on her virtual calendar for months. She mock-slapped herself on the forehead. “It’s that time again?”
“Uh, it’s the same time every year.” Laurel rolled her eyes. “I think all that time at the hospital the other night must have affected your memory.”
She opened the door to her Jetta, and Emma climbed in. They drove past an emerald green golf course, vivid against Tucson’s tawny fall colors. Usher crooned softly on the stereo. Emma tipped her head up and felt the wind on her cheeks.
Laurel chattered happily as she drove. “I want something really special for Char’s party next weekend. I’m so tired of everything in my closet.”
“Tell me about it,” Emma lied. Sutton’s closet was, in a word, amazing. She had a zillion pairs of jeans. A bag for every pair of shoes. Racks of party dresses, some of them with tags still attached. A whole drawer of belts and scarves. A single outfit of Sutton’s cost more than Emma’s entire wardrobe from her former life. In a strange way, though, she kind of missed thrift stores—digging through the bins for buried treasure, laughing at the hideous pairs of shoes no one in their right mind should have bought the first time around, let alone the second, and picking up a knickknack from the housewares department just because. Not that she’d ever tell Laurel that.