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When Sandy looked up, there was a kid about her age with messy blond hair, some freckles across his nose, and perfect teeth. He wasn’t Sandy’s type—too pretty. But he was cute, there was no getting around it. He knew it, too, which, a
He was holding a cigarette out toward Sandy, a lit one in his other hand. “You look like you could use one.”
Sandy looked around before she reached over and took it. What could they do, kick her out? Technically, she wasn’t even in school. She leaned forward and lit it on the Zippo he’d flipped open, the kerosene bringing back unwanted memories of one of Je
“I’m Aidan,” the kid had said. She could feel him staring at the side of her face. Boys like him were always drawn to her: the slutty bad-news girl. The one who pissed off their moms. Sometimes that was fine. And sometimes it was a
Sandy took another drag. She should go, get away from this kid. Get home to Je
The kid had smiled, a troublemaker’s gleam in his eye as he stepped closer to her. Close enough for Sandy to smell his shampoo or his cologne—something spicy and clean. Expensive. “You going to tell me your name?” he’d asked.
“Not yet,” Sandy had said, pushing herself up. Because she needed to get home before Je
Now Sandy looked around Je
But the text wasn’t from Je
Are you okay? Ha
Yeah. I’m good. You don’t have to keep asking.
I’m just worried about you.
Nothing Sandy wrote back would make a difference. They’d been up and down this road a bunch of times. No matter what Sandy said, Ha
???? Sandy wrote to Je
Sandy looked around the filthy apartment. Their best option would be to walk out the door. Leave all their shit behind like the garbage it was. Except if they didn’t have the money for rent, they sure as hell wouldn’t have the money for new just-as-shitty shit. Wherever they went, they’d have to find new jobs, and that could take time.
That would be Je
Where are you? Sandy typed to Je
She waited a minute more. Still nothing. Then she tried to call. An actual phone call was the official “911 I need you to save my ass now.” Je
“Where the hell are you? I’ve sent a million texts,” Sandy said, trying to sound more worried than pissed off. “I need to talk to you. It’s kind of— No, it is. It’s an emergency. Call me back as soon as you can. Okay, Mom?”
The word “mom” felt swollen in Sandy’s mouth and made of something hard. Her lips had to stretch to fit around it. It had been so long since she’d called Je
But what if it didn’t? Sandy shook her head, tried to push away the thought. In her world, what-ifs were never fucking helpful. She had to focus. She had to get her stash of money and get the hell out of there and try to find Je
Sandy knelt on the couch and reached around the back, sliding her hand into the gap where she kept the thin box. She stretched farther when she didn’t feel it. Her heart sped up as she kept rooting around. It had been a few days since she’d checked, but it had to be back there. Where else would it be?
Finally, Sandy’s nails scratched against the cardboard. The box had gotten wedged farther away, that was all. But as soon as she yanked it out and reached in she could tell something was wrong. The envelope inside was too thin. Sandy’s hands were trembling as she pulled out a short stack of one-dollar bills. She fa
Nine hundred and seventy-four dollars less than there was supposed to be.
MOLLY
MARCH 5, 2013
Dr. Zomer. Sounds like a cross between a serial killer and an antidepressant. I’m glad she waited to bring up journaling, because I was barely on board with therapy to begin with. But that’s not because of her. I like Dr. Zomer, with her huge brown eyes and warm, wrinkly face. She’s nice and I can tell she wants to help.
But wait. I’m not supposed to be writing about Dr. Zomer in here. I’m supposed to be writing about me.
I think it makes Justin happy that I’m seeing Dr. Zomer. Just this morning he said that I seem more like myself. But sometimes I wonder if that person exists anymore.
Look, now I’m writing about Justin. Me. Me. Me.
Oh yeah, I didn’t cry today! I never let myself cry in front of Ella—wait, that’s such a lie. Why am I bothering to lie HERE? No one’s going to read this.
For WEEKS after I lost the baby, I cried my face off right in front of Ella. Cried so much, I’m surprised she didn’t wash away in a river of my selfish tears. But after Justin went back to work, I did keep my crying contained to when Ella was in day care, from nine to five. And then today, not a single tear.
Until right now. Because now I’m getting teary because I feel guilty that I didn’t cry. God, sometimes I really do hate myself.
Well, look at that, Dr. Zomer. A whole page filled that you’ll never read—no one will, so I don’t understand the point. But it’s filled all the same. Because that’s what you asked me to do. And I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying as hard as I can.
Molly
After fifteen minutes of erratic driving and careful square breathing, I reached the outskirts of Ridgedale and the lovely stretch of shops that included the Ridgedale Reader offices. The parking lot was nearly empty as I pulled in, the stores—the Knit Wit knitting shop, Ridgedale Antiques, and the Peter Naftali Gallery—starting to open for the day. I was parking when my phone buzzed with a text.