EMILY DICKINSON
Mom calls the Crystal Cove Police Department while I change into sweats and wash my face. But they won’t tell her what’s going on with the Blackstones. As she refills Hitch’s water bowl, I boot up her old laptop and search for information online. Our Wi-Fi creeps like some sort of prehistoric slug. After several minutes, aggravation gets the best of me, and I give up. Mom and I agree the media isn’t likely to report on Crystal Cove anyway.
“We can go to the police station in person tomorrow,” she says as she heads down the hall to the linen closet.
I prop myself in the corner of the couch, motioning for Hitch to join me. “I just hope Cindy’s okay.”
Mom walks toward me with our favorite blankets. “They weren’t physically harmed, from what I could see. But the police were there a long time, like they were looking for something.”
She pops Freaky Friday in the DVD player, then piles onto the couch with me and Hitch. We nibble Twizzlers. Neither of us laughs at our favorite scenes. Even the “fun-sucker” exchange between the mom and daughter fails to earn a chuckle. We take that as a sign to admit defeat and head to bed.
In the morning, I brush my teeth and throw my hair into a messy ponytail. Twenty minutes later, we swing by the police department on our way to the library. The lady at the front desk refuses to give us any information other than to say, “Mrs. Blackstone and her daughter are safe.”
Mom and I ride to the library in silence.
“The whole thing is just weird,” I say as we let ourselves in through the employee entrance. The hush of the library and the familiar smell of books does little to calm my nerves.
“It is, but we’re just going to have to accept that it’s none of our business.” Mom heads toward the back room and the book drop. She’s assumed her no-nonsense librarian persona, and I’ve been dismissed.
I open my mouth to argue, but my vibrating phone distracts me. Pulling it from my pocket, I head across the lobby to log in to a computer. My cheeks warm when I read Chatham’s text.
Busy with fam last night. Hope you
survived the Wrath of Mom.
I did.
Good. Want to see you again this
decade.
I smile. Heat prickles my neck and cheeks when I think of his hands on my waist . . . and my lips on his. Me too.
I close my eyes, trying to forget my promise to Ayla about being honest with Chatham.
Another reply comes in. Today or tomorrow?
Tuesday, actually. Out of
school for appointment
tomorrow. With Mom today.
Okay. Can’t wait. Peace out.
My chuckle sounds out of place in the empty library, but I can’t stop myself. I picture Chatham tapping his chest with his fist and flashing the peace sign like Kip in Napoleon Dynamite. Chatham knows his movies, that’s for sure. And I know what our next date should be: a classic-movie marathon.
Typing my library code into the computer with one hand, I press my phone against my chest with the other and consider the seriousness of this observation. I’m kind of amazed at myself for contemplating a next date with Chatham—that sounds more like a glass-half-full girl than the Emilie Day I know.
It sounds like a girl with plans. It sounds like a girl with a future.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been daydreaming—long enough to need a second to compose myself when my phone vibrates against my chest. Somehow, I manage to avoid falling out of the library rolly chair when I nearly jump out of my skin.
It’s Ayla, which makes me both immensely happy and immensely sick to my stomach. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. I can’t wait to tell her all about last night, but I dread telling her I wimped out on telling Chatham about my seizures.
I swipe my phone to accept her call.
“What’re you doing?” she asks when I say hello.
“I’m at the library with Mom.” I lean back in the chair, studying my smooth cuticles.
“That’s crazy about your neighbors. Are you sure everyone’s okay?” she says. She texted me last night when I was looking for information about the Blackstones on the Internet. I told her I’d have to talk to her today.
“I think so, but just the thought of that creep and I feel sick,” I say.
“Me too. Hey, I don’t have long to talk. Dad and I are headed to Virginia Beach to meet a woman about displaying some of my stuff in her gallery.”
“Oh, Ayla! That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, but I want to hear about the date. How was it?”
“Amazing.” I tilt my head back and spin in the rolly chair.
“Did he kiss you?”
“Um, yeah.” I spend the next several minutes describing how perfect it was. When I share the poetry analogy—the Emily Dickinson thing about the top of my head lifting off—Ayla laughs.
Her dad says something in the background, and she pauses. “What did he say about the epilepsy?”
I take a deep breath before responding.
“Emilie?”
I don’t know what to say.
“You didn’t tell him. Did you?”
“No.”
“It’s going to get harder the longer you wait.”
“I know.”
She’s right, of course. But she doesn’t know how hard it is. She could have pretty much any guy she wants if she ever decided she wanted a relationship. I haven’t had that luxury. And Chatham is so nice. I don’t want to scare him away. I want to enjoy what we have. Is that so awful?
“He deserves better.” Her voice drops, like Mom’s when I’ve disappointed her.
“I know.” My voice cracks. I do know. I feel terrible and deceitful, and now she’s adding guilt on top of that.
Her dad says something else.
“I have to go. Can we talk tomorrow at school?” she asks.
“I’ll see you Tuesday. I have appointments with Mom tomorrow.”
I know her dad’s waiting for her, and she has to leave. But it still feels like I’m being brushed off. A few minutes ago, I felt so normal texting Chatham and answering Ayla’s call. Now I feel fake, like I’m pretending, like I’m watching an alternate version of my life play out on screen. But this isn’t a fantasy like The Lord of the Rings or The Princess Bride.
This is real life.
My life.
And Ayla’s right. If I’m going to have a relationship with Chatham, I’m going to have to quit pretending to be someone else.