Point Horror: Identity Theft Part 9

I didn't say anything. I was so tired of talking, of saying things that didn't make sense. I just wanted someone to tell me what to do.

Matt set down his drink. "My car's just up the road."

I expected Matt to poke his head into the barn to say good-bye to everyone, but instead, he began walking, taking the gravel path that led around the house. This was happening, Matt and I were going home together. Two weeks ago, this would have only happened in a too-much-coffee dream. Unless this was a dream. I stopped midstep and held my hand in front of my face. I'd once read that hands never looked right in dreams. They'd either have extra fingers or be oddly shaped. I blinked, noticing my pale fingers and the thin ribbon of dirt crusted under my nails from when I'd fallen during my run over here. Definitely mine.

All of a sudden, Matt stopped and turned around.

I dropped my hands to my sides.

"What are you doing?"

Just making sure I'm not sleepwalking.

"Just ... doing that thing. You know, how if you hold your thumb out, the moon looks like it's the size of half your thumbnail? It's a perspective thing," I invented.

"Really?" Matt held his own large hockey-player hand over his eye and squinted. "That's so weird. I knew you were smart, but that's, like, freaky smart. Did you learn that in, like, Physics for Geniuses?"

I shook my head. It had been a scene in some movie, but I couldn't remember which one. I was sure that after the characters discussed the phenomenon, they kissed.

In the distance, a dog barked. The streetlights cast an amber glow onto the dry, dead leaves beneath our feet. I could see my breath and s.h.i.+vered.

Matt looped his arm around my shoulders and began walking. It had begun to rain, so lightly I barely noticed until I looked at Matt and saw his damp s.h.i.+rt clinging to his arms.

"You're funny, Westin."

"Thanks." I wanted him to pull me into his arms, tilt my chin toward his face, lean down and ... Instead, I fell back and allowed him to take the lead toward his car. He unlocked the doors and I slid in, directing him toward my house.

"Very ... country," Matt said as he stepped out of the driver's side, taking in the sagging porch, the unfinished woodshed, and the random rockers and wheelbarrows and oversized farm tools that were randomly scattered around the lawn. Mom collected them because, in her words, she felt sorry for them. But in the darkness, they looked hulking and ominous.

"You were expecting a high-rise?" I asked, hurrying to unlock the back door. Immediately, Sadie emitted a low growl that changed into joyful yelps as I opened the door. As she jumped on me, I was accosted by the scent of gardenias and jasmine, a vaguely floral scent that was out of place in the cold fall night.

"No, it's cool. I just didn't know what type of place you lived in. It's hard to picture you anywhere but school." Matt blinked in the semidarkness before settling at the kitchen table.

"It smells nice," he noted. Sadie sniffed him disinterestedly before turning back toward me and barking again.

"Sadie, girl, over here!" I called just as a crack of thunder sounded. The rain then started in earnest, drops. .h.i.tting the porch and creating a steady beat against the roof.

Sadie barked again, then bounded toward me. The scent was cloying, and I wondered whether she'd somehow managed to tip over one of the perfumes in Mom's room. That had to be it. Intruders didn't wear perfume. Intruders didn't rearrange pictures and leave everything else in place. And intruders certainly didn't come into a house without the dog realizing something was up.

I reached down and scratched Sadie's ears. She whined happily, her tail thumping loudly on the floor. Everything was fine.

"Have anything to drink?" Matt asked finally.

"Oh yeah. Sure. Sorry!" I headed toward the fridge, then stopped.

The photo was gone.

I blinked. The metal surface held the same collection of photos as always: Mom and me in New York City for my sixteenth birthday; me onstage at school, holding up an Academic Excellence in the Sciences trophy; a picture of me, age five, wearing a kangaroo costume, the headband ears perched atop a short, blunt haircut.

"Drinks!" I announced loudly, hoping Matt didn't see my skin turning red and blotchy. "Coming right up!" I added, pus.h.i.+ng past the carton of eggs and the container of soy milk until I found an ancient bottle of soda Mom had brought home from some Sound and the Story party. I grabbed two jam jars - what we always used instead of regular gla.s.sware - and poured for both of us.

"So, what's it like?" Matt asked, draining his gla.s.s and gazing at me expectantly.

"What is what like?" I took a sip of the soda. It was flat and tasteless. I pushed it toward him.

"Being Hayley Westin. Being the brilliant scholar in the making? Being perfect?" He took a sip from my gla.s.s.

"I'm not perfect," I scoffed. He had no idea. I was a nervous-breakdown-suffering weirdo with enough enemies - not to mention personalities - to fill a volleyball team. "Remember, I resigned from Yearbook?"

"That's not exactly a criminal offense, you know. I've quit a lot of stuff. Piano lessons, lifeguard training, Spanish, Halo 3, spelling bees ..."

Spelling bees? Matt could barely put together five words. Was he a secret genius? And did everyone have hidden personalities?

"You're kidding, right?"

Matt shook his head. "Nope. First in the state, nationals, everything."

"So what happened?"

Matt smiled. "I turned eight. And we moved here. I wanted to be someone different. I didn't want to be stressed about whether obsequious had an i in it or whatever. I just wanted to chill, you know?"

"Wow. All that potential, wasted."

Matt's mouth became a tight line. "That's what my parents always say, too."

"I didn't mean to ..."

"No, it's cool. But what I mean, is ... quitting is awesome. Quitting is the best. Without quitting, you never really know what you want to do. You just get stuck with a schedule full of stuff."

"But what's the alternative?" Even though this was my house, and my kitchen, I felt like Matt was running the show. Like we were two actors playing high school students, only he knew the script and I didn't, so it was in my best interest to follow his lead.

"I mean, we're young. We're supposed to be driving fast cars and playing Never Have I Ever in barns and stumbling around on weekends, making stupid decisions. And then, you're all like little Ms. Serious. Why, Westin?"

A full-body s.h.i.+ver started in my scalp and ran down my back when he said my last name. It was so weird. I always called myself Westin when I was doing my stupid debate-mandated self pep talks. But hearing the name come from Matt's lips, especially when it was just the two of us in my kitchen, felt really, really good - like he might even have the potential to know me as well as I knew myself.

"I don't really have a choice," I said finally.

"Can I ask another question?" he asked.

"Fine." I was disappointed. I wanted him to dig farther, so I could talk about the pressure, the endless expectation to always be the best, everything I'd been keeping inside for so long.

"So, if you're all serious and stuff, then what's the deal with Will?"

"There is no deal," I said angrily. Clearly, he didn't know me very well after all. "I don't even know ... I mean, there's nothing."

"Good. Because I'm only saying, as a friend ... Will's not right for you. He's not going to make you happy."

"Like Erin makes you happy?" I asked before I even knew what I was saying. It wasn't something I'd have ever said if I weren't desperate to change the subject.

"A lot of people could make me happy," he said noncommittally. "Erin's a nice girl. But all I meant was that you don't need to date a random guy just because Keely says you should. Or whatever." His eyes flicked from me to the refrigerator. "Do you have any food?"

"Um ..." The conversation was jumping around too quickly, and I couldn't latch on. Did Keely spread the Will rumor? Did Keely tell sleepwalking me to make out with Will and did I do it because of some weird subconscious thing? Did Matt like Erin? I didn't even know which question to focus on, so I decided to start with the easiest: food. "I think there's, like, eggs and stuff. But, seriously, the Will thing is just ... it's nothing." At least nothing I can explain.

Without prompting, Matt opened the fridge. "I need pancakes," he announced.

"Um, okay ..." Pancakes? What was that teen code for?

But Matt had already reached toward the cabinet with the broken hinge and pulled out sugar, flour, and the carob chips Mom insisted tasted just the same as chocolate.

"This is fine," he murmured as he spread the ingredients along the cracked laminate counter. "Just a warning. I make shapes, but I don't take requests. Just respect my vision."

"Wait, you're making pancakes? Like, for real?"

Matt turned and gave me a crooked smile. "Isn't that what I said I was going to do?"

"Yeah ... it's just ... Nothing. Cool." All right. So this was how normal teens spent normal Sat.u.r.day nights. Or, at least, how a secret child spelling champ and a valedictorian wannabe spent a Sat.u.r.day night. I kind of wished I'd known that earlier. As Matt got to work, I pulled open my laptop. I went to my e-mail inbox. There was one lone e-mail.

Important Announcement from the Ainsworth Committee I eagerly clicked on the message.

To: All Ainsworth semifinalists (New Hamps.h.i.+re) From: Ainsworth Committee, Northeast Chapter Re: Sad news It is with deep sadness that we inform you of the death of Leah Kirkpatrick. Leah, 18, from Grand Falls, was a senior at Grand Falls Regional High School. A National Merit Finalist who was, at the time of her death, ranked #1 in her cla.s.s, Leah's academic ambition was matched only by her personal pa.s.sions. An accomplished swimmer and equestrian, Leah also founded a club to raise money for the pediatric unit of the Grand Falls Children's Hospital. Her family and friends will remain in all of our thoughts. For those who would like to pay their respects, a memorial viewing will be held tomorrow, Sunday the 18th, at Bradley Family Funeral Home in Kennilworth, New Hamps.h.i.+re, from 2 p.m. to 8 p.m.

Please note that in light of this tragedy, the committee will not be releasing rankings from the Ainsworth interviews, but will be privately contacting the schools of those winners who've moved on to the next level.

A picture of a smiling girl leaning against a tree was attached to the e-mail. I instantly knew who it was. It was the blonde from the parking lot who'd wanted us to have lunch together.

The image swam to my memory. Her hair blowing around her face, the way she'd caught her lip with her front teeth. I quickly Googled her, recoiling when the autofill added car crash after her name.

Car crash. I thought of the way she'd asked me to lunch and I'd brushed her off. If I'd agreed, would she still be alive? Or would we both be dead?

Plane crash theory. The term floated into my head. It was the idea that, for something horrible to go wrong, a million tiny things - the exact amount of rainfall, the time you left the house - had to click into place. I wondered if I'd been one of the links in the chain that had led to Leah's death - if I hadn't looked upset, she wouldn't have talked to me, and would have made her way to her car two minutes earlier. And those two minutes could have meant the difference between life and death for her.

A s.h.i.+ver crept up my spine, causing my entire body to shake uncontrollably.

"You okay?" Matt turned away from the stove and faced me, spatula in hand.

"Yeah." I sat heavily down at the wooden table, cradling my head in my hands. "I'm fine. It's just ... this girl. I met her at the scholars.h.i.+p compet.i.tion. And she died."

"No way." Matt walked behind me and draped his arms around my shoulders.

I quickly shrugged off his arms and turned the computer to face him, so he could read the e-mail. He read quickly, his eyes darting across the screen.

"How did it happen?" Matt asked.

I shrugged. "It didn't say. It's fine. It was a car accident, I guess. Those things happen. I didn't know her at all. It's just sad." I slammed the laptop shut and sc.r.a.ped my chair back under the pretense of examining the pancakes. "How's it going over there?"

"Don't look!" Matt raced me toward the stove, outstretching his arms to barricade my view.

"Hey!" I squealed a little too loudly. But the noise seemed to break the mood, and Matt turned to me with a wide grin on his face.

"What did I tell you about my vision? You can't peek!" Matt poked me in the center of the chest with the spatula, the touch feeling like lightning running up my spine. For the second time in fewer than five minutes, I gave in to a full-body s.h.i.+ver.

"Now, sit back down and let me do my work."

I perched on the counter, swinging my legs back and forth, trying to push any thoughts of Leah out of my mind. Outside, the wind was howling, and condensation on the windows made the gla.s.s steam up, but the stove was warm, and for the first time in a while, despite everything, I felt safe. I wanted to stay here, with him, forever. I picked up his iPod from the counter, clicking through until I found his Bob Marley playlist. I plugged it into the dock on the counter and reggae music filled the air.

"Nice." He bopped his head to the beat, but didn't look back at me. I watched him work, ultra-aware of the sinewy muscles moving between the thin fabric of his still-damp Bainbridge Soccer T-s.h.i.+rt.

"Thanks for doing this," I said.

"It's cool. I like getting my Anthony Bourdain on." Matt walked to the table, holding the still-steaming pan in front of him. "All right, dinner is served."

"I'll get plates." Hastily, I grabbed two chipped red dinner plates and put them down on the table.

"Cool." Matt put three misshapen pancakes on my plate, then four on his. After dumping the pan in the sink, he sat opposite me. He wordlessly picked up a pancake and held it up in a mock toast.

"Here's to ... carpe diem. Or whatever we should toast to. The girl who died. Your scholars.h.i.+p. The fact that we're finally hanging out. Whatever you want."

"Nice. You know, I do have forks. If you want one." I hastily went to the silverware drawer and grabbed two.

"Unnecessary." He took a large bite of his pancake.

"Gross." I wrinkled my nose.

"Sorry." Matt grinned. "So, what are you thinking?"

"That I'm going to use a fork," I shot back, avoiding the question.

"What else?" he prompted. "You know what I'm thinking?" Matt asked, not waiting for an answer. "What it'd be like if I died today. You know? Like, that Leah chick had no idea what was coming."

"None of us do, really," I said. "Anyway, isn't this kind of heavy stuff to talk about over breakfast? Or ... whatever this is?" I asked when I realized the time blinking above the stove read two a.m.

Matt picked up another pancake and ripped it apart with his fingers. "Nah, you need to talk about heavy stuff over breakfast. Carbs make everything go down easier. And it's heady stuff. I feel like if I died, I'd be all right. I mean, I'd be dead, but I'd have lived a pretty sweet life. No complaints. Listened to some good tunes, had some fun, made friends. I don't think I'd regret anything."

"Then you're lucky," I murmured. Would I be happy with myself or proud of my life if I'd died today? No. No one would remember me, not really. I'd be an almost. She almost won the Ainsworth. She almost was valedictorian. She almost was starting to have friends. She almost learned to lighten up. Almost wasn't enough. Ever. Almost was a sign I was slipping. Once I was valedictorian, once I was an Ainsworth scholar ... that was when I'd let myself be happy.

"Anyway ..." I trailed off, unsure how to change the subject from life and death to something even a tiny bit more typical. "So, have you started your college apps yet?" Ugh.

"Not really." Matt shrugged. "I mean, I guess I'll just go to the U, if I get in. Does it really matter?"

"Does it really matter?" I repeated. "Um, yeah it does."

"Why? It's still college. Harvard or wherever doesn't own knowledge. You get whatever you put into it. And I feel like they'll be plenty of good people and good times at the U. And in the end, isn't that all that really matters?"

"Not really. College isn't like high school. It's not about good times. It's about ... finding yourself." I sounded like a lame college brochure and I knew it. "I mean, it's about challenging yourself and pus.h.i.+ng yourself and becoming better."

"Becoming better?" Matt raised an eyebrow skeptically. "What does that mean? The way I see it, I'm me no matter what, and as long as I'm chilling and having a good time and not hurting anyone, then what's the big deal? I don't think getting, like, an A makes me a better person. Do you really think that it does?"

I shrugged. "It's not a bad thing, either."