This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Copyright © 2015 by Linda Budzinski
EM AND EM by Linda Budzinski
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by Swoon Romance
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To Mom and Dad, who taught me to always be myself.
CHAPTER ONE
Ember pulled the photo from her portfolio and held it beneath the lamp on her nightstand. Though it was by far her best shot, she knew she couldn’t bring it to the interview that afternoon.
She’d taken it in the spring, early in the day, with the sun hanging low over the water. Her sister’s face beamed as she raced through the sea foam toward the camera, her bright pink-and-purple kite soaring high above.
They’d fought on the way to the shore that morning. Tricia complained she was too old for kites, and Ember snapped at her. “Just fly it.” She needed an action shot for her photography class.
“Fine,” Tricia said. “But I won’t smile.”
But she had smiled. A genuine, glowing, thirteen-year-old-who-still-secretly-loved-kites smile.
The shot earned an A in class and even took first place in PhotoPro Magazine’s annual teen contest. They’d featured it on their July cover, to be admired by a million subscribers, which was precisely why Ember had to hide it now. Too much exposure. She sighed and placed it aside. She’d need to rely on the rest of her portfolio.
Ember’s mom appeared in the doorway. “Ready, sweetheart? Your sister’s already in the car.”
She and her mother exchanged bewildered glances. Tricia had always hated school, had raised a fuss every morning as her mom struggled to get her out the door. Who would have thought that within a week of moving to Podunk, she’d become so well adjusted?
Perhaps there was a cute boy in her class. The thought made Ember uneasy. Tricia would be going to high school next year. Guy stuff got real in high school. She didn’t want her sister to make the same mistakes she had.
As Ember slid into the rear seat, Tricia turned and stuck out her tongue. “Enjoy the view from the back, suckah!”
Ember mussed her hair, but only a little. It was nice to see her sister happy. Someone should be. Tricia looked nothing like the photo now. For one thing, in the six months since it was taken, she’d grown two inches and sprouted boobs. For another, she’d had her hair cut short and darkened. Maybe now, after all they’d been through, she really was too old for kites.
Ember had dyed her own hair red—Spicy Cinnamon—to go with her new name. She was Ember O’Malley now, born and raised in Philadelphia, a transfer student with a 3.6 GPA from West Catholic High School on Chestnut Street.
Mark Twain once said that if you tell the truth, you never have to remember anything. Smart guy, that Twain. Of course, he’d never been in Witness Protection. That tended to complicate things.
The GPA was true. As for the rest? Well, she wasn’t Irish, not even a little bit. She was Polish, mostly, with a little German and Norwegian thrown in on her mom’s side. And she’d never even set foot in the City of Brotherly Love.
The ride to school took a half hour despite the fact that there was zero traffic. All week long, Ember had ridden with her eyes closed, listening to her iPod, trying to block everything out. Especially that night. The roar of the surf, the harsh taste of tequila, the stench of vomit, and most of all, the sickly blue tinge of the dead girl’s lips. She rarely succeeded. No music was loud enough to make all that go away.
Today, though, Ember left her iPod in her backpack. She needed to prepare for her interview with the Bruins Bulletin. She was sure it would be the lamest school newspaper in the world, but she was still nervous. She didn’t merely want this photography position, she needed it. She needed something to hold onto. Something familiar to keep her grounded.
She unzipped the inside pocket of her backpack. There, beneath the lining, hid a secret compartment with her cheat sheet. She took out the sheet and unfolded it. She’d been over it a hundred times, but sometimes, especially when she was nervous, she’d forget the details. And she’d ramble. Forgetting and rambling were a bad combination.
“You’ll do fine, Em.” Her mom eyed her in the rearview mirror. She tried to sound casual, but Ember could tell she was worried too.
“They’re going to ask a lot of questions. What if I screw up?”
“Your photos are beautiful. That’s all they need to know. They don’t need to ask questions.”
“Mom, it’s an interview. They’ll ask questions.”
The straight A’s in her digital photo classes, the top photography position on her school’s yearbook staff, the first-place prize in the annual district-wide art show—that was all true. It was when, where, and with whom that tripped her up.
“Oh, crap.”
Her mom and Tricia both looked back at her. “What’s wrong?” her mom asked.
“The yearbook. What if they ask to see it?”
“Tell them you forgot it,” Tricia said.
“What if they ask me to bring it in tomorrow?”
Her sister shrugged. “Tell them it was destroyed in a massive fire.”
“A fire.” Ember sighed. She almost wished it were that simple. She’d have to leave it off her application. Too risky. She crammed the cheat sheet back into its compartment. Her mom was right. Her best bet was to let her portfolio do the talking. Keep her answers short, sweet, and as devoid of details as possible.
She rested her head back and tried to distract herself for the rest of the ride by counting silos. She’d hoped that moving to the Midwest would be like dropping onto the set of Downton Abbey, minus the abbey. Quaint cottages, rolling green pastures, an occasional sheep. But Boyd County was nothing like the English countryside. It consisted of one endless field after another—corn and wheat and alfalfa, whatever that was—huge expanses of brown punctuated by the occasional red barn. More cows lived here than people, and it smelled like it too. It had a pungent, earthy smell that was nothing at all like the salt air she was used to.
What would Zach think if he were here? Ember’s insides ached at the thought. It had only been a week since she’d left, but she missed him so much—his loose dark curls, the way his broad shoulders strained against his favorite Mets jersey, the way he stroked her hair when they kissed. If only Ember could call him or text him. If only she’d had a chance to say goodbye, to explain what she was doing and why.
She blinked back tears as they pulled up to the high school. She had to keep herself together, especially today.
“Good luck,” her mom said. “With the interview and … everything.”
“Yeah, good luck.” Her sister smirked. “Don’t say anything that’ll get us all killed.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ember snatched a copy of the Bruins Bulletin off the rack by the front door. It came out on Fridays, so this was the first edition she’d ever actually seen. The front page featured a story on school repairs, with a photo of a janitor high atop a ladder changing a light bulb. The tilted angle gave the illus
ion that the janitor might fall, adding a brilliant sense of tension to what could have been a boring shot.
She checked the photo credit. M.L. Martin. Whoever M.L. Martin was, he knew what he was doing. Crap.
Ember hugged her portfolio to her chest and headed to her first class, AP History. Slipping into a seat in the back row, she opened the paper. A bunch of 4-H Club awards, five pages of football coverage, a profile of one of the shop teachers—lame, lame, lame—though Ember had to admit, the writing was good. And the photos were even better.
“What was it like?”
Ember looked up to find a blond, blue-eyed, corn-fed girl in a red-and-white cheerleading uniform sitting next to her. She glanced around to see whether the girl might be talking to someone else, but it was six minutes before the first bell and they were alone. “What was what like?”
“Living in the city. In Philadelphia.” The girl’s eyes were as wide around as the silos Ember had been counting.
Ember shrugged. “I don’t know. It was … a big place, with lots of people.” She turned back to the paper, hoping the girl would go away.
No such luck.
“I’m Claire.” She leaned into the aisle and dropped her voice. “You must have been so pissed at your parents for moving here.”
“Actually, it’s just my mom. She and my dad split up a long time ago.” Ember left it at that. The less said the better, and anyway, no one had been able to dream up a decent story for why they were here. They had no friends or relatives for a thousand miles—that was kind of the point—and the job market in this part of the country wasn’t exactly booming.
“I can’t wait to get out of this place,” Claire said. “I want to go to NYU. For theater.”
“Theater?” Ember never would have pegged her as a drama geek.
“Yep. I’m counting the days. It’s …” Claire paused, her lips moving as she did a quick calculation. “It’s 697 days from now.”
Ember smiled. Maybe she was a geek. A fresh-faced, rah-rah, “Give Me a B” type of geek, but a geek nonetheless.
“What about you?” Claire asked. “You probably want to get back to the East Coast, like, yesterday, right? Where do you think you’ll go to school?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Long Island U.” The photography program there was one of the best.
“Long Island?” Claire clasped her perfectly manicured hands together. “That sounds awesome. And it’s probably not too far from NYU, right? So I’ll know somebody out there.”
“I guess.” Ember turned back to her paper. “But 697 days is a long time. Who knows what’ll happen between now and then?” She shifted in her seat, making it clear the conversation was over.
This time Claire took the hint and stood. “Guess I’ll see you around …” Her voice trailed off as she drifted away, toward her seat at the front of the room.
Ember kept her head down, eyes on the paper. She had no girlfriends back home, and she didn’t need one here. Keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. That was the plan, and if everything worked out, she’d be back in Jersey in a few months. She’d go home and testify, justice would be served, and she and Zach could go on as though none of this had ever happened.
Deputy Steuben and her mom had warned her not to get her hopes up. They said things didn’t always work out that way. They said she could end up spending her last two years of high school in Witness Protection, maybe longer, maybe even forever. But they were wrong. They had to be.
The morning dragged by. Ember was already behind, since they started school two weeks earlier here than back in Jersey. She tried to concentrate in her classes, but all she could think about was her interview. At lunch, she grabbed a grilled cheese sandwich and searched for an empty table. Lunch was the worst part of her day. She could feel the other kids staring as she ate. It wasn’t that they were being mean or threatening, but she had a feeling they didn’t get too many new kids here. Avoiding eye contact, she made a beeline toward the back of the room, until a shout stopped her.
“Ember!” It was Claire, waving and walking toward her. “Come sit with us.”
Ember muttered an excuse about needing to study for a quiz, but it was no use. Claire steered her toward a table of six girls. All cheerleaders. Fantastic.
“Everyone, this is Ember. Ember, this is … everyone.”
“Everyone who matters,” one girl said.
Ember could swear she saw Claire roll her eyes. “Nice meeting you.” She stood awkwardly, balancing her tray, backpack, and portfolio.
“Sit.” One of the girls swiped a backpack off the chair next to her and pointed.
“Thanks.” As she sat down, she could feel them watching, sizing her up. She was glad she’d let her mom talk her into toning things down here. She’d penciled on a little less eyeliner than she wore back home, sported a cami under her shirt to cover up her cleavage, and lost her ever-present silver mermaid ear cuff. If anyone looked closely enough, they might have wondered why she had three tiny tan lines circling the cartilage of her right ear.
“Ember’s from Philadelphia,” Claire said. “And she’s going to college at Long Island.”
The Everyone-Who-Matters girl offered up a smile that hinted at a sneer. “Claire’s obsessed with New York. Bright lights, big city, and all that. Thinks she’s too cool for country.” She added an exaggerated twang to that last part.
This time Claire’s eye roll was unmistakable. “Give me a break, Marissa. Where else is a theater major supposed to go?” She looked around at her friends. “Who remembers the last time a Broadway show came to Boyd County? Anyone? Anyone? No? Oh, right, because that was … never.”
Ember couldn’t help but laugh.
Marissa arched a meticulously plucked eyebrow. “We’re not a bunch of hicks, you know. We may not have skyscrapers and traffic and … ” She waved a hand in the air, trying to think of one other thing a major metropolis might have that her cow-infested county did not.
“A decent coffee shop?” Ember offered. It was one of the things she missed most since she’d arrived. Besides the shore. And Zach.
“We have a Starbucks inside the grocery,” Marissa muttered, but it was obvious the way she and the other girls shifted in their seats that they all knew how lame that sounded.
Claire spoke up. “So. Big game tonight!” Her voice was a little too bright, but the change of subject worked. Ember gave her a grateful smile as the girls’ conversation took off into a barrage of plans for pre-game warm ups and post-game parties. Ember nibbled at her sandwich and studied them. Their hair, their makeup, the way they dressed, and the stuff they talked about—they were different from the girls back home, but also the same. She tried to imagine what would have happened if she’d tried to sit down at a table full of cheerleaders at her old high school. Impossible.
When the bell rang, Ember grabbed her stuff to take off. She suspected she wouldn’t have to worry about Claire ever talking to her again, but she was mistaken. Claire appeared at her side. “Tonight should be fun. Ewing High is our biggest rival. You’re coming, right?”
Ember stared at her. The girl was persistent, she had to give her that. And she seemed sincere, like she honestly wanted to be friends. Of course, she didn’t know a thing about who Ember really was—the things she’d seen, the things she’d done.
Something Ember’s mom had said on the plane ride here whispered to her, tempted her: This could be a new beginning, a fresh start for all of us.
Ember pushed the thought away. This was nothing of the sort. It was a temporary escape, a safe haven until she did what she had to do. Besides, people couldn’t run away from their true selves.
“Please say you’re coming,” Claire repeated.
Ember shook her head. “I can’t make it. I need to finish unpacking.”
It was a lie. She, her mom, and her sister had brought only a few suitcases. They hadn’t had time to grab more than that. Truth was, she planned to spend the evening doing what she’d done every nigh
t since they’d arrived: obsessively checking Zach’s Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts. It was pathetic, yes, but it would be better than standing in the freezing cold cheering on some stupid team she didn’t care about. She despised high school football. Or, to be more precise, high school football players.
CHAPTER THREE
One year earlier
Jimmy: Hey, Slutkowski, nice video. I’m impressed.
Emily read the cryptic message three times before closing her phone. What was Jimmy d’Angelo talking about? What video? She lifted her throbbing head and tried to focus. The last thing she remembered was jumping into the hot tub with Jimmy and his friend, Brad.
“Hey, Moll.” She shook her friend, who was passed out next to her. “Moll, wake up.”
Molly rolled over and groaned. “Go away.”
Emily shook her again. “Come on. This is important. I need to know what happened last night.”
Molly pulled her comforter over her head. “I had a party. It was epic.”
“Yes. It was. But do you remember anything about a video?”
Molly peeked out. “Video?”
“Yeah. Look.” Emily held her phone up. “A text from Jimmy.”
“Idiot.” Molly said Jimmy put the “offensive” in offensive line. She said he was a loser and an egomaniac and half his family was made up of Mafia thugs. “If the video is from last night, it’s probably not pretty.”
Somewhere in the back of Emily’s mind, a small alarm began to ring. Between that dip in the hot tub and waking up on Molly’s bed, what had happened? She wasn’t sure. Her head fell back onto the pillow. She thought she’d cut herself off after her second Jell-O shot, but she must have had more. Why was her mind such a fog? “Did I sing? Please don’t tell me I sang. Or danced.”
But Molly had already fallen back asleep.
Emily tapped her phone. Maybe the video was on Facebook or Twitter or YouTube. She searched with no luck. Maybe Jimmy was just messing with her. She closed her eyes and replayed the night—or as much as she could remember of it—in her head.
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