“Your old friend. Remember?” He laughs meanly. “Wow, does shenotlike you.”
“Did you—did Annie tell you where I live? Did you go to my house in Brooklyn, looking for me?” Now it’s my turn to step toward him. “Did you see my mom?”
If Geoff came looking for me in this strung-out state, my mom would have guessed right away that it had something to do with Kyle. I can only imagine the things she would have said. She might have even threatened to go to the police.
“Sure, Cleo, your mom and I were hanging out. What the fuck are you talking about?” he says. “Listen, I’ll try Kyle again on my own. But if I can’t get to him, I’m coming back.”
When Geoff takes a step back, I slam and lock the door.
I hesitate a moment before texting Will. The situation with my mom has me up in my head, seeing him through her insanely critical eyes. But I need Will right now. And that says something.You awake?
Will replies before my second thoughts have time to take hold.Any word on your mom?
I’m about to say some version ofEverything’s fine.But everything is so far from fine. I’m afraid of what’s happened to my mom. I’m freaked out that Geoff showed up at my door. I’m scared that the two things are connected. I’m scared even if they’re not.
I’m not great, to be honest. No word on my mom.
You want me to come over?
Yes. Come. But we both know it’s more complicated than that.
That’s okay. Tomorrow night maybe?
Yes. Definitely. And if you change your mind …
I add a little heart to his last message. So relieved I kept it together. Nothing reads more desperate than clingy late-night texts.
I reach over and close my mom’s laptop. But as my head hits the pillow, I notice her journal sitting on the nightstand alongside my bed. I grab it and flip to a spot after that last awful entry I read earlier.
They’re introducing clubs at Haven House!
Clubs. See, like at any other school. There were bound to be some less-than-ideal conditions at a place like Haven House—it wasn’t a cushy boarding school. My mom had never hidden that part from me. But there was also no way it was all as terrifying as that one entry. Otherwise, my mom could never be the insane overachiever she is.
Director Daitch introduced the clubs as part of this new “improvement project” he’s doing. So Haven House can be less like Rikers Island. There’s a rumor that the state has been sniffing around, that somebody who got adopted out made complaints. I hope about Silas. Word is that Director Daitch is also trying to get some fancy new job at a regular school. He wants to show that he can treat us like regular kids. So … after-school clubs.
Of course, we’ll never be regular kids. No matter how many books we read or how hard we smile. Some damage can’t be undone.
I flip ahead to a dog-eared page. It’s written in careful script.
She loved him in that way young girls do, utterly senseless and deeply brave.
It takes me a minute to realize it’s the opening of a short story my mom wrote. Where did that version of her go? I feel like she and I would have gotten along.
Okay, so fine—I do like the writing club. I like the kid who runs it, even if he has that Ivy League way about him. All the tutors do—I mean, they go to Yale. But this one tutor guy, Reed (?),at least doesn’t look at us like we’re pathetic animals. He sees us as we are. Just kids.
It’s just after six in the morning when Lauren opens her apartment door. I’m gripping my mom’s laptop against my chest like a flotation device. I’m running out of time before I’ll have to hand it over. I know that. I’ll let go of it as soon as I’m a little closer to shore.
Lauren wraps her arms tight around me, pressing the computer between us. She’s got her glasses on, hair back in a headband, wearing adorable but stained Alo Yoga pants and a threadbare Columbia Law sweatshirt. Lauren is gorgeous, with amber-flecked eyes and flawless skin. Always so pulled together, too. There’s something comforting about her being a little disheveled right now. Like she’s as upset as I am.
“Oh my God, sweetheart,” she whispers into my hair.
Lauren lives in an apartment in Tribeca with her husband and their twin girls, who are ten or eleven—or at least way younger than I am.Kidkids. Behind Lauren, I see her husband, Jake, appear sleepily in the hall.
“Everything okay?” he calls out in a whisper.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly. “I should have called. Your kids must be asleep.”
She waves her husband off. “Don’t be silly. I’m so glad you’re here. Come in, come in.”
