And without even thinking, I grab his sleeve, pull him close, and kiss him. Softly at first, then harder, more urgent, trying to seal this moment in time, determined to leave an impression.

And after awhile, when he pulls away, he looks into my eyes, cradles my face between the palms of his hands, and says, “Promise me.”

I nod, holding my breath, waiting. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Jason.”

After dinner, and well after my parents have gone to sleep, I climb out of bed, creep down the hall, and sneak into Zoë’s room.

I haven’t been in here for over a year. Not since the day the cops showed up with empty hands and hopeless faces. But everything looks exactly the same as it did back then — her blue duvet is still haphazard, having been tossed aside in her usual, early morning rush, and there’s a lone white sock still lying on the floor, right next to the rug, where she’d dropped it over a year before.

My mom’s the only one who comes in here now, the only one who brushes away cobwebs and handpicks lint from the yellowing sheets. I guess because she couldn’t save her daughter in the most important way, she’s decided to save her like this. With this freeze-dried room, undisturbed, suspended in time. The perfect contrast to our lives now, which are so completely and irreversibly changed.

I go over to Zoë’s dresser and lift her brush, my fingers gliding along the tangle of long dark hairs wrapped tightly around the bristles. Then I reach for her perfume, its cap long ago lost, and bring it to my nose, surprised to find still the faintest hint of scent.

This is where I’d waited while the cops sat downstairs. On the floor, in the middle of her room, right in the center of her creme-colored flokati rug. My eyes shut tight, my body rocking back and forth as my mind sped in reverse, remembering our lives before, refusing to believe how they were about to become.

But when my parents came home, and I heard my mother’s long, painful cry, I picked myself up and headed downstairs, knowing it was time to stop pretending.

I move toward Zoë’s bed, sit gently on her mattress, and run my hand along her soft, worn sheets. Then I spread my body across the top of her crumpled duvet, molding her soft abandoned pillow against my cheek as I close my eyes, yearning to tell her how much I miss her, wanting to explain about Marc and me. How living her life and sharing her experiences makes me feel closer, like she never really left.

I lay like this for a while, my eyes shut tight, calling her to me.

But when she doesn’t come, I turn off the light and creep back to my room. Knowing I’ve stolen enough for one day.

Twenty-five

July 19

Okay, I’m totally short on time, but I just really need to write about how completely psyched I am that I’m going to Marc’s tonight!! Yay! It’s finally happening! In fact he’s picking me up any second, and I really hope my outfit’s okay. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of his mom and she always looks so polished and expensive. And I just really really want her to like me.

Anyway, it almost didn’t happen since my parents were insisting that I stay home to watch Echo — which is so freaking ridiculous I can’t even tell you. I mean, hello? Has anyone noticed she’s 13 now? I mean, jeez, enough with the overprotective BS, she’s a teenager now for G’s sake!

But luckily Echo was pretty pissed too, so she told them they were making her feel like a needy little baby. Then after proving she knew how to dial 911 and perform the Heimlich maneuver on herself in case she choked on an Oreo or something, they finally, reluctantly, gave in.

Okay, Marc’s here — gotta go!

Oh, never mind. It’s just Abby and Jenay. Guess they’re having a sleepoveror something. Anyway, I’m wearing my favorite cobalt blue dress because I think it looks dressy — but not too dressy. You know, cuz I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Because according to Vogue magazine, trying too hard (or at least looking like you’re trying too hard) is like fashion sin numero uno. And since his mom can actually afford to buy the clothes they show in Vogue, I figure she could spot a striver over a mile away.

Okay, this time it really is Marc, so I’m outta here! But first let me just say—

No matter how bad Marc thinks tonight is going to be — I’m totally psyched to be going!!!!

Yay!

July 19

Should have known better. I always get way too excited for my own good. Too tired and sad to write, though, so more later.

July 21

Yesterday was the first time Marc and I went an entire day without speaking to each other. And what made it even worse is the fact that it was a Sunday, which is always our day to hang in the park and feed our adopted pet ducks, or whatever.

But I did try calling him. Only he didn’t answer. And for once, I didn’t leave a message. I mean, why should I? All he had to do is check the display to know that it was me. Besides, I really didn’t know what to say.

He did warn me, though. I’ll give him that.

But I guess I just got so excited about seeing the house and meeting his mom that I ignored all the rest. You’d think I would’ve known better, though. I mean, seriously.

Anyway, when we first got there his mom wasn’t home, which made him happy and me disappointed. Not that I wanted to have a whole big thing with her, but still, I’d purposely sat all stiff and careful in the car so I wouldn’t get all smudged up or wrinkled and so I’d look great when we got there. Since for the whole entire day I’d imagined the moment when she’d greet us at the door, welcoming me into her home with a big smile and a hug. Okay, so maybe I did kind of want a big thing. But it’s not like it matters, since that’s not how it turned out.

So Marc gave me a tour of the house and property, and it’s so freaking big, I don’t know how he finds his way around. Seriously, it’s like one of those mansions you see in a magazine or on TV or something. Then afterward, he led me out to the guesthouse (which believe me, is pretty much the size of a normal house) and when I asked, “Who lives here?” he said, “No one. But senior year, it’s mine. That’s our deal.”

“Seriously?” I asked, looking all around, trying to imagine having a sweet setup like that. To just be able to come and go as you please, without having to climb down a tree or creep down the hall, or something.

But he just shrugged like it was no big deal. But I guess rich, privileged people are just used to having sweet deals like that.

Anyway, so then of course he got all handsy and tried to get me to have sex. But no way was I going to get all messed up before I even had a chance to make a good impression on his mom. So after pushing him off like a gazillion times, we just sat on the couch, side by side, watching some dumb show on TV, while he kept groping at me, trying to get me to change my mind. Which I gotta admit, totally got on my nerves.

Then finally, after like the sixth time I thought I heard a car on the drive, there really was a car on the drive, and he looked at me and said, “Cruella’s home.”

And I go, “You call your mom Cruella?”

But he just laughed and led me back to the house.

“Mother,” he said, leaning in for the air cheek kiss just like you see rich people do in movies. “This is Zoë.”

She looked at me, her eyes starting at my shoes and working their way up to my forehead.

She’s tall, thin, and blond, just like she appears in all those society-page pictures. Only in person, she’s really blond. Like Texas blond, almost stripper blond. And when her eyes met mine they narrowed, and suddenly her face went from faded beauty to mean. And believe me, the artist who painted her portrait that hangs in the stairwell failed to capture that.

“Well aren’t you a beauty,” she said.

And even though that might sound like a compliment to those who weren’t around to witness it, trust me, it wasn’t. Her voice was hard, her eyes were slits, and her lips were pursed, which are pretty much all the signs for hate at first sight.

“Where’d you find this one?” she asked, glancing at Marc as her heavily ringed fingers sorted through the stack of mail.

I just stood there feeling small and stupid and wishing I’d just listened to Marc when he warned me, wishing I hadn’t pushed him so much.

“We go to school together,” he said.

“Is that right?” She looked at me again, up once, down once. Then her eyes flicked away, and I knew I’d just been discarded. “Has William returned?” she asked.

Marc said no.

“We’ll start without him then. I’m going upstairs to change. Tell Celia to bring me my drink.”

Dinner was a nightmare. Going from bad to worse with each passing drink. Things improved slightly when William (stepdad #3) came home, but only because that gave her a new target.

I feel sorry for Marc. I mean, before his mom got home, it all looked so amazing and glamorous. I mean, with

the grand staircase, the marble floors, the guesthouse, and the infinity pool. I was actually feeling a little bit jealous, and also kind of judging him for not appreciating it more. But the second she came home, the whole picture changed. And by the time it was over, I just wanted to go home.

But the worst part is, it doesn’t make me feel closer to Marc, like I want to help him get through it or anything.

It actually makes me want to run away.