Six Months Later Part 3

Across from me, the fridge whirs to life and I glance at the clutter strewn across the doors. I watched a Dateline episode once about how criminals could learn everything about you from digging through your trash. They'd have better luck looking at our fridge.

Bills, birthday pictures, concert tickets, notes we leave each other, it's all stuck up there, layered so thickly most days, it's hard to find the handle to get the darned thing open. And today there are some new things to the mix, one in particular that I can't stop staring at.

It's a printout from a website placed front and center on the left door. I remember the logo in the corner from the information they pa.s.sed out in homeroom. It's the SAT website.

Blake's words from last night play through my mind. You're in the top three percent, Chloe.

My scores. My SAT scores are on my fridge.

My heart starts pounding harder and faster. Even from here I can see my name at the top and a series of numbers circled in red in the middle. There are comments from both of my parents, stars and exclamation points all over the place.

I stand up and head over, frowning at the four digits that spell out the impossible.

Two thousand one hundred and fifty-five.

My mouth drops open. No, it can't be right. I'd hoped I'd manage maybe 1650. Anything over 1700 and I would have lost my mind, but this?

I check again. My name, the scores, the dates. It's all there.

It has to be a mistake. What else could it be? This is the kind of score genius kids get. Future rocket scientists and surgeons and...psychologists.

I press my thumb over the four numbers and think of the row of psychology books lined up above my computer desk. I think of that first panic attack when I sat there panting and s.h.i.+vering in the girls' locker room, sure I was dying and desperate to understand how something like this could happen to someone like me.

When I pull my thumb away, the numbers remain.

2155.

Maybe I don't remember that test, but I took it.

This score? It changes everything.

My shower is beyond brief. I spend a minute checking myself over in the mirror. My hair is at my shoulders now, but it's still dark and curly enough to be a ha.s.sle. The rest of me seems unchanged. Green eyes, narrow nose, and dimples I've hated since I first noticed them in the second grade.

My phone rings when I'm finis.h.i.+ng my hair, buzzing on the sink.

"Mags," I breathe, scrambling as it skates across the vanity. I catch it and search for her name, but it's not Maggie. It's the number I saw over and over in my phone last night. The one I obviously call all the time these days.

I answer it, hoping that Maggie's number has changed-that she'll be yelling at me for not calling and asking me what we're doing for lunch.

"Morning." It's Blake. My shoulders sag, and he goes on, not waiting for me to respond. "How are you feeling?"

My eyes search for the mirror. I look tired and pale. Maybe even a little scared.

"I'm okay."

"You sure? Did you have your mom look at your head?"

I test it with my fingers, but it's barely sore now. Not likely a brain injury.

"She did. It's fine," I say, because lying is easier than explaining I totally forgot about my head after his good-bye kiss completely squicked me out.

"Good," he says. "So you want me to come in? I've got your breakfast."

My spine goes stiff. "Come in? Are you here?"

He chuckles at that. "Your car's at school, babe. Did you think I'd make you walk?"

Babe. Girlfriend. All kinds of impossible words that feel too ridiculous to be believed. They also feel sort of...nauseating.

"No," I say, forcing the word out through a tight throat.

Blake makes a noise on the other end of the phone, something between a snort and a sigh. "Are you sure you're all right? I hate to say it, but you're acting like a total head case."

The word pinches the last nerve I've got, but I'm sure he can't mean anything by it. And he's got a point. If he really thinks I'm his girlfriend, then I am being a head case.

I force a stiff chuckle. "Sorry, I didn't get enough sleep. I appreciate you stopping by. Can you give me two minutes?"

"I'll be here."

I don't need two minutes, but I take them to get my nerves settled. I slide in a pair of silver hoops, noticing new pictures tucked into the frame of my dresser mirror. The three new group shots turn my skin cold at one glance.

I don't belong in these pictures. These aren't pictures of my people. I'm not a social leper, but I'm not the girl that belongs in these pictures. They're filled edge to edge with the rich, the beautiful, the brilliant...and me.

Blake stands next to me in every last one, his arm around my shoulder and my head tipped toward him. It's the kind of pose that leaves no question to our status. We're together.

Un-freaking-believable.

My memory decides to have some sort of ma.s.sive file corruption and these are the months I missed? What about my years in braces? Or the summer my dog and grandmother died a month apart? No, I get to miss the six months that turned my life from train wreck into perfection. Lovely.

I glance out my window where Blake's Mustang is idling at my curb. Things definitely could be worse.

I make my way outside to his car. He opens the door for me, a doughnut in his mouth and a paper bag held out for me to take.

"Good morning," I say, forcing myself to kiss him when he leans in. It's still stiff and awkward, but it will get better. It has to. He's Blake Tanner, for G.o.d's sake.

I bury my nose in the bag and inhale. "Smells awesome. Thank you."

"Hop in. We're going to be late."

I've never been so grateful for a blueberry scone. I savor every bite, chewing slowly so that I don't have to say anything. I need to fill in a few more blanks before I talk myself into a corner. It works like a dream, and before I know it, we're in the parking lot.

Blake drops me near the doors, and I automatically take his trash with mine. I feel like we've done this dance a thousand times. My body knows the steps, even if I can't hear the music.

Salt crunches beneath my feet as I climb the stairs two at a time out of habit. I doubt it matters if I'm late now. With the scores I've got tacked to my fridge, I could probably schlep off a month of school and still pick almost any college I'd like.

And apparently those pictures on my dresser weren't a joke. I'm popular. Not just, Oh, hey, there's Chloe, but, like, squealing and waving and air kisses from girls who barely nodded at me before. Even Alexis gives me a shoulder squeeze and a "Hey, girl!" as I pa.s.s her.

By the time I get to my locker, I feel dizzy with all the greetings that have been aimed my way. I'm getting so much in-crowd attention, I feel like I should have pom-poms and a pleated skirt.

I approach the locker that's been mine since freshmen year and grin when the combination hasn't changed. Okay, I can do this. I can figure this out.

And then, when I didn't think things could get any better, I see Maggie across the hall. Her strawberry blond hair is six inches shorter, curling just above her shoulders. But I'd never mistake the set of her shoulders or the half smile that always seems present on her lips.

"Maggie!" I shout.

She looks up at me, and for one second, the world is right. Maggie will drag me to the bathroom and borrow my lip gloss or ask me if she should go a shade darker with her hair. Then I will tell her about my stupid amnesia, and she will help me diagram every major event I've missed. My secret will be safe. Everything will be perfect.

I think all of those things in the nanosecond before our gazes lock. And then Maggie's eyes go cold and flat. Her mouth purses into a frown I've rarely seen, and she looks away.

I'm standing in the hallway, staring at the empty s.p.a.ce where Maggie once stood, when the bell rings. Lockers slam, cla.s.sroom doors close, and then I hear the soft drone of more than one teacher addressing their students.

My feet feel glued to the ground. I could force them to move, but where would I go? I don't know which cla.s.s I belong to. I don't know what to do, and I can't ask for help, not without giving myself away.

Stupid! What was I thinking coming here? Thinking I could get away with this?

Tears are stinging the backs of my eyes, choking my throat. I need to get out of here. I need to get help because I am not okay.

A cla.s.sroom door opens in front of me. A hall check. And here I am, in the hall when I should be at a desk in one of these rooms. I can see it all-the princ.i.p.al's office, the questions. The end of this perfect life before I have one second to enjoy it.

I hear someone rus.h.i.+ng up behind me and then a strong hand sliding between my arm and waist, poking at the books I have clamped to my side. I fumble, watching everything fall to the floor. Mr. Fibbs pokes his balding head out of his cla.s.sroom, a look of wariness in his eyes.

"Hallway collision," someone says behind me. "My fault. We're just getting her books."

Adam. Relief rushes over me at the sound of his voice. Wait, not relief. It has to be something else. It kind of feels like relief though.

His arm brushes my calf as he crouches down, carefully collecting the notebooks and folders he just forced me to drop. I stare, mute and dazed as he gathers my things into a neat pile.

"Move fast," Mr. Fibbs says, and this time he leaves his door cracked as he returns to cla.s.s.

I hear nothing but my own breath and the soft hiss of paper against paper, his long fingers pulling them together.

I've never been this close to Adam. He's kind of famous around here, our resident criminal and all. I've never thought much about it, or him for that matter. But when he tilts his head and looks up at me, I wonder how in the world I haven't thought about him.

Because I can barely imagine going an hour without thinking about him now.

He smirks then. "You're never going to convert him."

"What do you mean?" I ask, staring a little too directly into his unbelievably blue eyes.

Adam stands up, and I have to tilt back my head to hold his gaze.

He hands my books back. "Mr. Fibbs. He still doesn't buy the new, improved you."

He says the last bit with a wink, almost as if it's a little joke between us. Of course we don't have jokes, and even if we do, I don't remember the punch lines. I don't laugh. But when he starts down the hallway, I automatically start walking too.

He stops at a corner, arm brus.h.i.+ng my shoulder before he turns to face me. "So when are you going to tell me why you called me last night?"

"Last night," I echo, feeling confused.

"Did something happen at Blake's place?"

"At Blake's place?"

Oh my G.o.d, I'm like a freaking parrot. Words, Chloe. Find some and spit them the h.e.l.l out!

Adam's face goes hard. "Look, you called me. If you changed your mind, just say so."

"That's not it," I say, because I hate his expression. But what am I going to say? I don't know why I called. Heck, I'm still having a hard time figuring out how I ended up with Adam Reed's phone number in the first place.

"It's not a big deal. Blake's fine," I say, hoping maybe that's the missing connection. Maybe he's friends with my boyfriend. Maybe he's upset about Blake?

But no, he wasn't upset. I know that because now he's upset. His eyes narrow to dangerous slits. When he steps closer, I feel the distinct need to hold on to something. Since he's the only thing within reach, I refrain. Instead, I squeeze my books so hard that the sharp edges press into my arms.

"Blake's fine? You're going to go with that, Chloe?" he asks, voice too soft for the hardness in his eyes. "You're going to stand here and pretend like nothing's happening?"

It's like all the air is sucked out of the room. I want to explain, and he's obviously waiting for me to respond. But even if I can manage to make my mouth work again, what am I going to say? I don't remember whatever happening he's talking about. And I wish to G.o.d I did because whatever's happening right now is making it hard for me to breathe.

"Just talk to me," he says, and he reaches out like he's going to touch me. I want him to. So much that my skin aches for it. When he pulls away, it's all I can do not to grab his arm to yank him back.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Blake's voice startles me. He's suddenly right behind me, his hand pressing into my lower back possessively. It feels as hot and unwelcome as a branding iron. It takes every ounce of strength I've got not to lurch away from him and closer to Adam.

"Am I interrupting, Reed?" Blake asks again, a cold edge to his voice.

"No," Adam says, but his eyes are on me. "Apparently not."

His long stride takes him down the hall. I watch the distance stretch between us and feel like I should call after him. Or run to him. It makes absolutely no sense.

"We're late for English," Blake says, pointing me toward a door at the end of the hallway.

So now I know where to go. I guess that's one mystery solved. Only eight billion or so to go.

Chapter Five.

There are serious advantages to being popular. Having people magically appear after every bell, happy to chitchat all the way to my next cla.s.s, is really handy when you have no clue where to go.