I remove a stack of CDs. Smashing Pumpkins. Nine Inch Nails. Radiohead! I flip through them with increasing enthusiasm.
“Don’t you have a shirt like that?” Jude asks, pointing to the Smashing Pumpkins CD.
“Siamese Dream,” I reply. “It’s only the most powerful listening experience of all time.”
It also happens to be my mother’s favorite. These bands are from her era. Which is probably why I got into them, too.
My attention returns to the hiding spot, where two more items are hidden, and I experience a jolt of excitement. Because one is a disposable camera. With undeveloped film. Pictures Simon would have taken.
The question is, why would he hide them?
The cigarettes and the liquor bottle make sense. The CDs, too, if his parents were against alternative rock. But a camera? What would compel him to hide a camera? There must be something about the pictures he didn’t wantanyone to see. And suddenly, my thoughts are racing. My blood, humming.
“We could get this developed,” I say.
It could be evidence.
Newly uncovered evidence.
Jude reaches inside the narrow compartment and removes the last item—a small, hardcover book made of burgundy leather with scuffed corners, held shut by a brass clasp. He opens it. Someone wrote with black ink on the inside cover in handwriting so compact it’s intense. There’s a quote and postscript.
“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end,” I read. “Sylvia Plath.”
And underneath:
Property of Simon Vandenberg.
We just found his private journal.
26
THE RIFT
January 3, 1995
I couldn’t stay in the house yesterday. Lily and Father were at it again, fighting like always. I wasn’t sure where to go. The diner and the cafe downtown are always so crowded. I decided to slip into the library.
There was a girl there I’ve never seen before, tucked in the back corner with her head buried in The Great Gatsby. An assignment fromher school, most likely. And yet, she was reading that book like she meant it, like she might fall head first into the pages. I wanted to say something. I wanted to introduce myself. But I left like a coward.
Today, I went back and there she was again. Same corner, same book. Still, I said nothing.
January 7, 1995
I did it. I introduced myself, and she was better than my wildest imagination. A true original. She saw my book, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and teased me for it. Then she said, “It sure took you long enough to introduce yourself.”
For once, I didn’t trip over my words. I looked at her book and I asked if I should call her Daisy. I kid you not, her whole face lit up. She stuck out her hand and she said, “HiDorian, I’m Daisy Buchanan. It’s lovely to meet you.” I think I might have met the girl of my dreams.
Ilook up from Simon’s journal, lost for a moment. Stuck on something but unable to pinpoint it. Like a strand of hair tickling the back of my arm, only it’s so thin I can’t find it.
Dorian Gray.
Daisy Buchanan.
DG.
DB.
“The initials!” I exclaim, excitement coursing through my veins. “I found a set of initials, carved into an old carriage in the stables. Inside a heart. DG + DB.”
