“She could be lying!” she said as she crossed the hallway into their bedroom, bath forgotten. “Did you ever think about that?”
“Come on, Sarah.” Dad sounded weary. “You can’tnothave noticed how much she’s been out.”
Their bedroom door closed behind them, and their voices became muffled. Cold dread pooled in my stomach. All I could do was wait.
I was granted one more day of peace. Marcie didn’t come home that evening, despite several calls to her mobile, and even Mum had to admit that she was out of control. I saw her at school the next day, her mascara smudged under her eyes. She smiled at me again, unaware of what was waiting for her at home, and I couldn’t bring myself to smile back. I averted my eyes and swallowed the nausea.
I dragged my feet all the way home. Marcie walked with me, last night’s hangover seeping from her pores. “Do you know why I got like a million missed calls from Mum and Dad last night? Did something happen?” she asked.
I squeaked a noncommittal reply and ran to our room as soon as we were through the door. The shouting started two minutes later. I buried my head under my pillow, but I still heard a door slam and Marcie’s voice ringing with panic, then anger. Five minutes later, she barged into the room.
“Why did you do it? Are youtryingto ruin my life?” she said. “I’ve been grounded indefinitely.”
I didn’t reply. I closed my eyes and wished I was somewhere else. And then I felt Marcie’s hand tangle in my hair. She wrenched my head backward, so my neck was exposed. “I said”—her teeth were gritted, her jaw jutting forward—“are you trying to ruin my life?”
I think it must have been that question. The injustice of it. The flagrant hypocrisy. The utter obliviousness to how she’d treated me for the last few years. How she’d made my life miserable, and now she had the temerity to askmeif I was trying to ruinherlife. Something inside me snapped. I opened my eyes and forced myself to meet her gaze.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” I said quietly. And there must have been something in my expression. Something that made her release me. Something that caused a flash of fear to cross her face. She tried to hide it. She shrugged, turned away, but I noticed her hand was shaking.
I sat up. For the very first time, I felt a small surge of power. It was intoxicating.
—
Marcie never didtouch me again. She didn’t wear makeup to school the next day. She wore her skirt at a normal length and her shirtbuttoned in all the right places. She walked with her shoulders rounded and her head ducked. People whispered about her in the corridors. They wondered what had happened to the vibrant, fun-loving girl who was out every night. She did her schoolwork diligently. She seemed not to notice the boys who preened in front of her. Before long, they lost interest.
And with the change in her came a change in me. Without her critical gaze from across the room, I walked taller. I met people’s eyes and spoke out in class and sat wherever I wanted at lunch.
My new acquaintances didn’t seem to like this new version of me, or perhaps the change in Marcie’s popularity meant I was no longer useful to them. Whatever it was, they shrank away from me in the corridors. I returned to my solitary existence.
The summer holidays rolled round. My parents were thrilled with the return of their golden child. She was welcomed back into the bosom of the family, and once again I became the outsider.
The days were long and hot and boring. My latest fixation was art. I found I was quite competent with a pencil. I spent hours perfecting my craft and learning about shading, color theory, and perspective.
And then school started again, and I prepared myself for the same old routine. Except it was not the same old routine. A new boy had joined our class. His name was Billy.
I fell in love with him instantly.
Seventeen
It could havegone better. There’s no denying that. Evidently, I crossed a line by suggesting his dead wife was anything less thanperfect, and that bothers me. I should have been smarter, played into the residual feelings that linger, and gushed over how wonderful she sounded, convincing him that I could be saintly and gracious about the woman who was my forebear. Evidently, Alice is still taking up a significant portion of his time and attention. A portion that could—should, even—be transferring to me.
I’m shivering by the time I get home. I needed the walk. Needed to clear my head, try to come up with a plan. I considered going past Jack’s house but thought better of it. We could both do with a few hours to think.
I let myself in and go straight upstairs. Mum’s awake—I saw the light on in her window on my approach—but I don’t say hello, and she doesn’t come out. She’s left another gift on my pillow—an early drawing of mine. A fish. I don’t have the time or the inclination to decipher what she means by it, so I ignore it, lie on my bed, and open my phone. Jack’s online again. I tap out a quick message:Thanks so much fordinner. I think maybe you got the wrong end of the stick re. the Alice thing. I didn’t mean anything by it—she sounds lovely! I’d love to hear more about her. Hope you got home safely.
I don’t have high hopes for the message—a hunch that is confirmed when the ticks go blue before Jack goes offline—but it’s critical to start damage control early. And Iamsorry. Sorry I allowed the mask to slip. It won’t happen again. Not with him.
And then there’s the wife. This paragon of virtue and grace and goodwill and kindness, who pulled him out of the rut he’d found himself in and positioned herself as his savior. His guardian angel. It’s little wonder he’s put her on a pedestal. She burrowed into his life like some—admittedly younger—Mother Teresa. Even in death, she clearly has her claws sunk so deep that Jack cannot—will not—hear a word against her. The good thing about claws, though, is that they must be trimmed eventually.
I cannot let this—her—be the end of something so promising. Something so good and fulfilling and perfect. He thinks—thought—I was special. I must make him think that again.
I google her again. I didn’t really throw my weight behind it the first time, when she was a mere name on his lips, but now she’s become a threat, and I need to find out more about her. Alice Reynolds is an annoyingly common name. There are hundreds of possible candidates, but none that seem to ring true to the woman he described. I don’t know what it is that makes me so sure of this—perhaps it’s that none of them look like what I’ve discovered is Jack’s type (naturally expensive-looking)—but I come away from the search frustrated.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve played this all wrong. It’s the first time in a long while that my carefully constructed persona hasn’t worked for me, and I feel more than a little lost. I haven’t felt this adrift since Freddie died.
All I can hope is that Jack will turn up at the group on Tuesday, take one look at me—with my lovely blond hair that I take such good care of, the slightly overexaggerated makeup—and realize that he’s made a huge mistake. Patience is not a strong suit of mine, but, for him, I’d wait a lifetime.
—
