Em and Em

by Budzinski, Linda

  Right. She was Ember now. And she was from Philadelphia. And … that was all she could remember. She tried to picture her cheat sheet, but it was a blur.

  “What high school do you go to?” The coach continued his interrogation.

  “What kind of a question is that?” her mom asked. “She goes here. To Boyd County High.”

  He sighed. “Ma’am, I know you’re upset. But in fifteen years of coaching football, I’ve dealt with a lot of knockouts. Please. Allow her to answer for herself.”

  Her mom shook her head. “Enough questions. She needs medical attention. I’m taking her to the emergency room to have her checked out.” She tried to help Ember sit up.

  The coach grabbed her arm. “Ma’am, I would prefer to let her lie still for a few more minutes. She took a pretty serious blow.”

  “Fine. But no more questions.”

  “But, ma’am, she—”

  Ember’s mom leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “You may have coached football for fifteen years, but I’ve been her mom for sixteen. I win.”

  Ember wiggled her fingers and toes and tested her jaw. Every part of her ached, but it all seemed to be working. She touched her forehead again. More blood. “How bad is it?”

  “Just a scrape.” The worry in her mom’s eyes told her otherwise.

  “What happened? How did I—”

  “Shh. Relax. Not another word until we get into the car.”

  Ember nodded. Her mom was right. They couldn’t afford to take chances. One slip from her foggy brain and everything they’d done this week could be for nothing. They’d have to do it all over again, in another part of Nowheresville. This was all her fault to begin with. She couldn’t put her mom and Tricia through it again.

  What about that night? Did she remember it? Much as she hated to go there, she needed to be able to recall exactly what happened. Without her testimony, the truth would never come out.

  Ember closed her eyes and allowed herself to go back, to feel the warmth of the bonfire and the tequila and hear the strum of the guitar as some guy in dreadlocks sang “One Love.” To remember the panic she felt when she heard the shouts and the word “ambulance,” and the helplessness that overcame her when she reached the water’s edge and watched as Zach and Jimmy tried in vain to jump-start the girl’s heart and force air into her lungs. There’d been no sudden gasp, no spurt of water, no convulsing, or coughing, or any sign of life at all. Just a limp body with stony eyes and lips the color of denim. Ember had raced back to the bonfire. She’d picked up the girl’s beer and—

  “Come on, Ember.” The coach tapped her cheek. “Stay with us, sweetheart.”

  Ember’s stomach churned as she opened her eyes and looked around. Oh, God, please don’t let me puke. Not here. Not with all these people staring. She unzipped her coat. She was so hot. Was it the memory of the bonfire? The stadium lights? The fact that she’d almost blown her cover? Or maybe it was the fact that eighty-some boys in full football gear circled her, a pack of wolves eyeing a rabbit caught in the brambles. “I don’t feel so good. Can we please leave?”

  The coach nodded. He stood and signaled someone across the field, and within seconds, a beat-up mini golf cart trundled up beside them. Ember’s stomach lurched as she stood, but she didn’t throw up. As her mom and the coach helped her climb into the cart, Ember spotted Charles talking to her sister in the end zone. He was handing her something. The camera.

  She grasped the empty spot in front of her chest where the camera should have been. She’d forgotten all about it. How could she? And how had Charles ended up with it?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Deputy Steuben met them with a wheelchair in the emergency room lobby. Ember sank into it without protest. She didn’t trust herself, or her stomach, to walk very far.

  Deputy Steuben worked for the U.S. Marshal Service and was basically assigned to babysit her. He was short and stocky, and Ember guessed he was probably in his late twenties. He wore plain clothes—jeans, work boots, and a University of Iowa baseball cap. “Dr. Martinez will be the attending physician,” he told her mom. “I’ve briefed him on …” He paused and glanced around. “Her situation.”

  The nurse eyed Ember curiously as she wheeled her down the hallway. It probably wasn’t every day a U.S. Marshal demanded to speak to the doctors about a patient. Had she guessed this was a Witness Protection case? Surely she couldn’t think Ember was a criminal. Though her forehead had stopped bleeding, Ember held a cloth against it to cover her face.

  Dr. Martinez treated her cut with something that stung like crazy and asked a bunch of questions. She was able to remember everything about her real past except for her old cell phone number, which wasn’t that weird because she never called herself anyway. Her made-up past, though, was a different story. Ember O’Malley from Philadelphia. That was all she had. Not the name of her supposed high school, not her fake former address, not her mom’s made-up old job, none of it.

  Her mother pleaded with the doctor. “She has to be able to remember. It’s important.”

  “We’re going to run an MRI on her. If there’s no severe trauma—which I don’t think there is—it should come back to her, though it may take a day or two. If not, she’ll have to relearn it.” He dabbed Ember’s forehead with more of the stinging stuff. “We should probably give her a couple of stitches on this cut, too.”

  Great. So now she’d be the new girl at school who’d made a spectacle of herself at the big game, couldn’t remember even the simplest facts about her past, and looked like Frankenstein. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Tricia had stayed in the lobby with Deputy Steuben, but the nurse brought her in to sit with them while they waited for the MRI results.

  Ember held out her hand. “The camera. Hand it over.” Was it damaged? She looked through the viewfinder at her mom and snapped a photo. It worked. Ember let out a long breath. She cringed as she scrolled through the shots from the game. Too dark. Too blurry. Too many butts and not enough faces. The halftime shots of the cheer squad were better, and then came the second half shots. She didn’t remember taking any of them, but they were better, much better.

  Finally, she reached the photos of the receiver charging toward her. They were brilliant. In the last one, she could see the whites of his eyes through his helmet slats. That explained a lot. The guy had to be six feet tall and a hundred seventy pounds of muscle. “Holy crap. That’s what caused my ‘spill’?”

  Her sister laughed. “It was awesome. I mean, except for the part about you getting hurt, of course. But I wish I had a video of it.”

  Ember glared. “So then what happened?”

  “Everyone sort of stopped and held their breath,” Tricia said. “Except for Charles. He was the first one to reach you. He’s super fast.”

  “Really?” Maybe Charles was a football superhero.

  “Yep. Coach followed right behind him. He yelled at Charles not to move you, so he backed off. He did get the camera, though.”

  Of course. The camera. Charles was worried about saving the photos for next week’s paper, not about her health and well-being. Maybe that could be a sidebar to the game coverage: Football Superhero Makes Daring Camera Rescue.

  The nurse poked her head in. “Excuse me, Ember? You have a visitor.”

  A visitor? Ember, Tricia, and her mom all looked at each other. Who could it be? Ember’s mind flashed to all the movies and TV shows she’d seen where the bad guys tracked down their victims as they lay helpless in the hospital. Was Deputy Steuben still around? Maybe he was lying out in the parking lot, his neck slit.

  “Hey, girl!” Claire bounced into the room holding a teddy bear and a “Get Well Soon” balloon. “How do you feel?”

  Ember breathed a sigh of relief, and her mom and sister exchanged nervous giggles. “Um. I’m okay, thanks. What … what are you doing here? Wasn’t there a party?”

  “Yeah. I went for a little while, but I left early so I could come by and see you.�
��

  “Oh. Well, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Psshh. It was boring anyway.” Claire turned toward Ember’s mom and sister. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ember said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just … never mind.” It was just that she wasn’t used to having friends. People who cared about how she was doing.

  “Nice meeting you,” her mother said. “Very sweet of you to come by, but I’m afraid Ember needs to get some rest.”

  Ember rolled her eyes. Normally her mom would have fawned all over Claire and insisted she stay as long as she wanted. The only reason she was trying to get rid of her was because she was afraid Ember might screw things up.

  “Oh, of course.” Claire headed toward the door but then turned back around. “I know cell service in here is terrible. Do you want me to text or email anyone back in Philly to let them know what’s going on?”

  Her mom’s face registered alarm. Ember widened her eyes in a silent plea for her to chill out. What did she think she was going to do, spill everything? “No, thanks.” Ember said. “That’s really nice, but … my mom can go outside and make some calls once we get the test results.”

  The doctor swept into the room, clipboard in hand. “Speaking of test results …” He paused and gave Claire a pointed stare.

  “Guess that’s my second cue to leave,” she said. “Good luck, and call or text if you need anything. My cell number’s on the back of the card.” She pointed to a small get-well note tucked into the teddy bear’s paws.

  “Thanks.” Ember smiled. Her first cell number here.

  The tests all came back fine, so the doctor released Ember with a prescription for some mild painkillers and lots of rest. Deputy Steuben warned she should stay home from school Monday if her memory hadn’t returned to normal. “And no more visitors,” he advised.

  ***

  Being stuck in bed gave Ember plenty of time for her online stalking routine. All week, Zach had been posting about how much he missed her, how he hoped she was safe, how he wanted to see her again.

  Saturday morning, though, was different. He posted two photos from the night before: one of him toasting the camera with a shot glass and one of him sitting on some couch Ember didn’t recognize with a way-too-cute girl leaning over his shoulder and smiling.

  They didn’t look like they were together. At least, not like that. Did they?

  Ember stared at the shot for a long time. Zach couldn’t be moving on already, could he? It had only been a week. Of course, he had no idea where she was or whether she was ever coming back. Everything had happened so quickly the day she left. She hadn’t even had time to say goodbye. Her eyes filled with tears. She missed his easy laugh and the way his thick curls covered his eyes when they got too long. She missed the way he would trace his finger along the edge of her ear cuff, gently tickling her until she’d squeal and make him stop. If he had been there last night, he would have held her and kissed her just above her injured forehead and whispered to her that everything would be fine. And she would have let herself believe him.

  For the millionth time in a week, she thought about doing what Deputy Steuben and her mom had said she must never do. What could it hurt? One quick message to tell him how much she missed him. A “like” on his page so he’d know she was out here somewhere, thinking about him.

  But Deputy Steuben had insisted. There could be no contact with anyone back home. None. Zero. Zip. “Even the slightest slip could compromise the entire program and put you all in danger,” he’d said.

  But what if she contacted him through a fake account? If she was careful, if she kept her personal details out and remembered to log off every time, no one but Zach would ever need to know. She even had the perfect username picked out, something only he would recognize. She went onto Twitter and clicked “Create Account.” Username: @LilEmmieOakley.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seven months earlier

  The Shoot ’Em Up Studio’s door alarm buzzed. Bzz. BZZZZZ. Bzz.

  Emily sighed. Why would someone come in now, five minutes before closing time?

  “Be with you in a minute,” she called from behind the costume rack. She hung the baby-blue girl’s pioneer hat on its peg and placed the Colt 45 in its holster. “Welcome to the wild, wild—” She swallowed her words at the sight of Jimmy d’Angelo and Brad Wahl leaning against the counter. “What do you want?”

  “We want our picture taken.” Jimmy eyed her from head to toe and back up again.

  She tugged at her saloon-girl bustier. “Seriously. Why are you here?”

  “Seriously,” Brad said. “He’s going to be Butch Cassidy, and I’ll be the Sundance Kid.”

  Emily eyed them. She and her mom had rented that movie a few months ago. Things didn’t end too well for Butch and Sundance. A smile tugged at her lips. “No problem.”

  While Jimmy and Brad changed into their costumes, Emily arranged the set. She’d started working at Shoot ’Em Up the previous summer. At first, Mr. Ellerby had relegated her to cleaning the shop and ringing up the customers, but now he finally trusted her to stage and take the photos. Of course, they didn’t get much business in February, even on a Saturday, but at her wages they only needed two or three sales a day to make a profit. Not that she cared. She loved Shoot ’Em Up and would have worked for free. Her favorite part was helping people pick out props and accessories to fit their characters. Whether it was a fluffy boa for a cute little girl or a fedora for a sweet old man, she had a talent for finding the perfect pieces.

  “What do you think?” Jimmy emerged from the dressing room wearing jeans with chaps and nothing else. He puffed out his bare chest like one of her sister’s kites.

  Emily stifled a gag. “I think Paul Newman is rolling over in his grave. Butch Cassidy wore a shirt, and no chaps.” She pointed toward the derby sitting on top of the costume rack. “At least get the hat right.”

  Jimmy grabbed the hat and sauntered toward her, his gaze again wandering up and down. She turned and pretended to adjust the spacing of the bar stools on the set.

  Jimmy’s stupid video was pretty much ruining her sophomore year of high school. The now infamous “Slutkowski Striptease” had made the rounds until everyone at school saw it. Molly, her only “friend”—Emily couldn’t help but think of the word in quotation marks now—stopped hanging out with her, and everywhere she went, girls whispered and guys stared. The handful of dates she’d had all ended the same way, with her allowing some slimy jellyfish of a guy to go too far and wondering how she could have been so stupid as to think this date might have been different.

  Jimmy and his minions on the football team, meanwhile, made constant jokes about her, pressed up against her in the hallways, and generally acted like they owned her. She never said a word. In fact, she usually laughed and went along with it. What else could she do?

  “You make a convincing whore.” Jimmy grabbed her waist and pulled her toward him.

  Emily slipped out of his grasp and swiveled one of the stools around, placing it between them. “I’m not a whore. I’m a bar maid.”

  Jimmy sneered and pushed away the stool. “I wasn’t talking about the costume.”

  She took two steps backward and slammed into Brad. Where had he come from? “Come on, Slutkowski,” he said. “With a costume like that, you know you want it.”

  Emily looked back and forth between them. She was used to their teasing, but this felt different. Her heart pounded, and she felt a drop of sweat trickling down beneath the laces of her bustier. They wouldn’t pull anything here, would they? In the studio, in the middle of the boardwalk? She realized with a sinking feeling that the few shops that were open in February had probably just closed up for the night. She wished she hadn’t covered the front windows with all those sample photos. Anything could happen in here, and no one would see. Part of her also wished the .38 Special in her garter wasn’t a fake.

  Brad gripped her arm, and J
immy pushed her up against the bar. She knew she should scream, but she didn’t.

  She’d brought this on herself. Not just because of the video. Because of how she’d handled Jimmy and his friends and all those boys who’d treated her like their own personal plaything ever since. Would anyone believe she was the victim here? Or would they assume she’d led them on?

  Bzz. BZZZZZ. Bzz.

  The door. Emily had never been so happy to hear that sound. Jimmy and Brad backed away, and there in the doorway, silhouetted against the dark of night, stood Zach Reagan. Zach freaking Reagan. It was like something out of a Western, except instead of the hero wearing a holster and cowboy boots, he had on a surf parka and flip-flops.

  “Hey. What’s up?” he asked.

  “Hey, Zach. These guys were …” Emily paused. Should she tell him? She wanted to. Zach was one of the few guys at school who didn’t torment her, who actually called her “Emily.” She could tell from the look in his eyes he suspected something was wrong.

  “We were getting ready to have our picture taken.” Jimmy spoke up. “I’m Butch Cassidy and he’s …”

  “Sundance.” Brad gave Zach a salute.

  Zach looked back at Emily. She could tell he didn’t believe them. She should say something. This was her chance. Instead, she forced a smile. “Yeah. I was showing them how I wanted them to pose, here against the bar.”

  Zach’s gaze moved from Emily to Brad to Jimmy and back again to Emily. “That’s it?”

  Emily shrugged, silently pleading for him to get it, to stand up for her, to play the Lone Ranger and stop the bad guys once and for all.

  At last, Zach turned toward Jimmy, his eyes narrow slits. “Are you for real?” Emily could feel the tension crackling through the air.

  Jimmy shrugged. “You heard her. She was showing us how to pose. That’s all it was.”