“I don’t—” Audrey met Olivia’s eyes in the mirror. Fuck. How did she know? “Wow. Is it that obvious?”
“No.” Olivia shook her hands off and turned to Audrey. “I’ve seen it a ton of times with my aunts and my cousins; I know the signs, that’s all. Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Audrey took a deep breath and drew her hands, now burning hot, out of the water. “Don’t tell Rose.” She looked at Olivia intently, pleading. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” Olivia said immediately. “I promise.”
In the mirror Audrey could see how awful she looked: purply black circles peeked out from under her eyes, visible even with the layers of concealer she’d smeared on that morning. She hadn’t had the energy to do anything with her hair except pile it on top of her head and snap three hair elastics around it (enough to keep her curls constrained). The gloss on her lips had all but disappeared after her upchuck session, and the shimmer on her cheeks looked out of place with her all-black sweater-jeans-boots combo. At least she’d tried.
“So . . . ,” Olivia said. “Really, how far along are you?”
“I have no idea,” Audrey said. What a great mom she would make—so in tune with the details. “I kind of haven’t gotten around to that yet. I wasn’t exactly prepared for this, y’know?”
“I get it,” Olivia said. “Sorry for being a nosy bitch.”
That made Audrey laugh, unbelievably, and she wiped her hands dry on her jeans. “That’s all right. Hey, do you have any gum?”
“In my bag,” Olivia said. “Come on.”
When they got back into the classroom, Ms. Fitz was nowhere to be seen, and someone had turned the radio to some whiny indie station. Audrey slipped into her seat and leaned on her elbows, surveying the mess of pictures in front of her. Every year in the last week before Christmas they turned the classroom into a pseudogallery, smuggling in doughnuts and pizza while they looked at each other’s work, and Audrey was already worrying about what she was going to present. For the past two years, alongside the reminders about depth of field and distortion, Audrey had gotten the same feedback from Ms. Fitz. “A theme will make everything stronger. Find a common thread and you’ll see the narrative your pictures form,” she’d said. “Think of each image as a sentence. Right now you have a bunch of sentences from several different stories. You need to give us that beginning-to-end version.”
Olivia tossed Audrey a stick of gum as she took the seat opposite, which had quickly become her official space in the classroom. Audrey liked having Olivia at her table—she just straight-up liked Olivia. She was funny and talked art to Audrey, and had this easy, chill vibe about her that had allowed her to slip into their group as easy as pie, almost like she was meant to be there. And in the studio she worked quietly and intently, focusing on what she was drawing and not filling the hour with gossip. It made Audrey work harder—usually.
Now she kept sifting through her photographs and sighing so hard and so often that Olivia looked up from her charcoal-covered page. “Tortured, artist?”
“Very.” Audrey squinted at a picture of her mom and Adam, taken when they were in the middle of an intense discussion about Adam’s older sister, the one who wasn’t quite cool with their relationship. Adam had this look on his face like he was about to shut down completely, while her mom laid a hand on his shoulder with frustration in her eyes. Not this one—too personal.
Then again, wasn’t that the whole point?
She set it to one side, the beginning of her “yes” pile. “I’m trying to find a theme. It’s harder than you’d think.”
Olivia got up and came around to Audrey’s side. “Do you mind?”
“Nuh-uh,” Audrey said. “Maybe you’ll be able to make something out of it.”
Olivia began flicking through Audrey’s glossy photographs, and Audrey watched her face carefully to see any reactions. But Olivia kept the same neutral expression on her face at every picture she saw.
“How come there aren’t any of you?” she asked after a while.
Audrey shrugged one shoulder. “I’m always behind the camera, I guess. Besides, I don’t need pictures of myself. I know what I look like.”
Olivia brandished a picture of Julian lying on Audrey’s bed. “You don’t take pictures to remember what people look like. Don’t try that on me.”
“Honestly, I don’t like having pictures taken of myself,” Audrey said. “It’s weird.”
She plucked the picture Olivia was holding out of her fingers. She remembered that afternoon with Julian perfectly: the day after his sixteenth birthday, when she’d given him the limited-edition vinyl J Dilla album that had cost her almost four months’ allowance. Worth it, to see the delight on Julian’s face.
“Self-portraits aren’t interesting anyway,” she said as she slid the photo into her “yes” pile. “When I take a picture of someone else, I get to capture them off guard. In a moment when I think they look some particular way, without them posing for me or anything. That’s when all the interesting parts come out of hiding.” She paused, her cheeks heating—did that sound way too pretentious? She carried on, hoping there wasn’t a flashing Poser Art Nerd sign above her. “Taking a picture of myself, how could I not pose? So, it’s boring.”
“Hmm.” Olivia moved back around to her side of the table, flipping to a clean page in her sketchbook. “If you say so.”
Audrey rolled her eyes but smiled. Clearly Olivia thought she was talking out of her ass, but that was fine, because Audrey knew better. She wasn’t art. She was just herself.
SIXTEEN
The noise of the Kitsch house hit Audrey even before the door opened, but then it did, and Ezra—the youngest Kitsch sibling—was standing there with half an Oreo in his hand. “What up?” he asked, already walking away and leaving the door open for Audrey to follow. “He’s not here, you know.”
Audrey kicked off her shoes and added them to the pile by the side table. “I know,” she said, combing her fingers through her hair. “I’ll wait.”
“Cool. There’s food in the kitchen if you want.”
“I’m good.” She slipped into the living room after Ezra. Nate—the eldest—sat on the couch in his fancy intern outfit, the tie loosened. “Hey, Audrey,” he said. “Julian’s not here.”
“I know,” Audrey said.
Ezra punched his brother’s arm. “Yeah, she knows, asswipe.”
Nate used his foot to knock over the stack of Oreos next to a Coke. “Eat a dick, bro.”
Ezra scrunched up his face. “You’re such an asshole, Nate.”
“I know.” Nate grinned. He held out an Xbox controller to Audrey. “Want to play? We’re defeating the locust horde.”
“Always.” Audrey took the controller and sat in her usual spot, cross-legged on the floor next to the old corduroy ottoman. “But Ezra, if you blow me up with that stupid bow again, I’ll kill you in real life.”
Ezra saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
The Kitsch boys were undeniable, and Audrey liked hanging out with them even when Julian wasn’t around. They were like Xerox copies that faded a little more each time: Nate with his pure-black hair and olive skin, then to Julian’s darkest-brown mess of curls, and Ezra with the hints of ash in his shoulder-length hair and freckles dotting his face. They all had the exact same mannerisms, too, and the petulance of little kids if you caught them at the wrong moment.
They played until Nate got annoyed at Ezra, and then Audrey made them watch an episode of her favorite show, about two girls trying not to fuck up everything in their lives. (She could relate.) The front door slammed, and Julian appeared in the doorway, his hat and jacket drenched from the rain. “Hey,” he said, sounding surprised. He pulled off his headphones and looked at Audrey. “Did we have plans?”
Audrey shook her head as she got to her feet. “I was just bored.”
His face relaxed, and he swung his guitar off his shoulder. “Cool. E, is Mom home?”
&nb
sp; “Nah, parent-teacher thing,” Ezra said.
“Dad?”
“Tutoring,” Nate said. “He’s bringing home pizza. Oh, and he wants you to get the boxes out of the garage.”
“He specifically wants me to do it? Right.” Julian rolled his eyes.
“It’s called delegating,” Nate said. “When you’re a grown-up like me, maybe you’ll learn something about it.”
“Good one,” Julian said. “Real clever.”
“Nerd.”
“Douche.”
“Okay,” Audrey said. “Good talk, everyone.”
They went upstairs, ignoring the jeers that followed them, and into the bedroom that Julian shared with Ezra. As the eldest, Nate got the privilege of having his own room, and that meant Julian had to put up with Ezra’s sloppy housekeeping: his side of the floor was covered in dirty clothes and shoes without pairs, empty chip bags and battered textbooks. Julian’s side was spotless, his bed neatly made and one of Audrey’s guitar-string mobiles hanging from the ceiling.
Audrey lay down under it, staring up at the spirals of metal. “I missed you,” she said.
Julian tucked himself next to Audrey. “We just saw each other,” he said, and his breath blew warm onto her face. “At school?”
“That was, like, five hours ago,” Audrey said. “That’s a lifetime.”
“Okay, drama queen,” Julian said. “Whatever you say.”
His hand brushed the curls out of her eyes. “It’s getting long,” she said. “I need to do something with it.”
“Don’t cut it,” Julian said immediately. “I love your hair. Especially this way.”
“There’s too much of it.” Audrey pulled at one particularly kinky strand, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe I’ll get it braided.”
“I’ve never seen you with braids,” he said. “I bet you’d look hot.”
Audrey smiled. “Oh my God,” she said. “Sometimes I think you only like me because I’m black and not because I’m me.”
Julian widened his eyes. “Wait, you’re black?”
“Stop!” Audrey laughed, watching the way Julian’s eyes crinkled at the corners. In moments like these it was so easy to pretend that everything was fine; they were hanging out, and in a little while they might watch a movie, make out, maybe go and get something to eat. Like normal.
But things weren’t normal. Tomorrow wouldn’t be just another day. It would be another day she was pregnant.
Audrey touched her hand to Julian’s face, smoothing her thumb over the corner of his mouth. She had to tell him. “Olivia knows.”
Julian stilled. “Olivia knows what?”
“What do you think?” Audrey shifted, the mattress creaking underneath her. “I didn’t tell her. I was throwing up in the middle of art and she was there. She guessed. But now she knows, so . . . I thought I should tell you.”
Julian rolled onto his back, folded his arms behind his head. “Okay. So . . . I guess now would be a good time to tell you that Coop knows, too.” He paused for barely any time, like he was second-guessing himself but deciding to go on. “And I did tell him.”
“What?” Audrey snatched her hand away and sat up, her face heating. Cooper? Out of all the people he could have possibly told, he picked Cooper? The boy was basically the Gossip Girl of Kennedy High. Julian must have lost his mind. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Calm down—”
“Did you just tell me to calm down?” Audrey bit out the words. “Cooper, Julian? Out of everybody you could have picked! I haven’t even told Rose.”
Julian winced at her raised voice. “I know.” He groaned, closing his eyes. “Jesus, why am I such an asshole?”
Audrey bristled. “I don’t know, Julian. You tell me.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “How come it’s worse if I tell my friends than if you tell yours? That’s not fair.”
“Oh, you want to talk about fair? I’m the one who’s pregnant. I’m the one throwing up all the time and lying to my parents, and I’m the one who’s going to have to go through—” She stopped, struggling for the words. “I don’t know. Whatever it is we decide to do!”
Julian pushed himself as far away from her as was possible in his small bed. “Fine, it’s worse for you. I wasn’t aware that this was a competition, but okay, you’re winning. Or losing, whatever,” he said, his voice rising to match hers. “But this is my life, too. Or am I not allowed to be involved anymore? You just want me to shut up and wait until you’ve figured it out and you can tell me what to do?”
Audrey’s mouth dropped open. “I never said that. Why would you think that?”
“That’s what you’re acting like! We haven’t talked about anything, and it’s starting to feel like this is all just something you can use to throw at me when you’re pissed.”
“Yes, right, that’s exactly what it is. I got pregnant on purpose so I could use it to punish you,” Audrey yelled. “Of course!”
“Stop yelling,” Julian said, low. “They’ll hear.”
Audrey’s instinct was to yell even louder—he didn’t ever tell her what to do. But then she remembered where they were—Ezra and Nate so close, his parents coming home any minute—and she forced herself to stop, counting her ragged breaths until they evened out. “Julian,” she said now, quietly. “I’m sorry that I’m such a terrible person.”
“Don’t be like that,” Julian said, his face flickering between annoyance and shame. “Come on.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Audrey rubbed at her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You could ask me what I want to do.”
She looked at him. “What?”
“I want to talk,” he said. “Not fight. Talk, like rational human beings. Remember how we used to do that?”
Audrey was silent for a moment, then said, “Okay.”
“I’m sorry I told Cooper,” he said. “But I had to talk to someone. And he might be Coop, but he’s not going to tell anyone.”
“I know,” Audrey said. “It’s just—Cooper knows. Olivia knows. Rose knows something is up. How long before it’s not a secret anymore?”
Shit. Two weeks. It had been two whole weeks now, and in that time what had they done? Nothing, except drive themselves crazy thinking in circles. So—what now?
She—they—couldn’t put off dealing with it any longer.
Julian held out his hand to her. “Are you mad at me?”
Audrey pulled on her bottom lip before answering. “Yes,” she said. “Are you mad at me?”
“Yeah.”
She took his hand anyway, holding it in both of her own. “Finally, we’re on the same page.” They both laughed, the sound reassuring to Audrey. She shook her head. “Since we’re talking, you want to hear something wild?”
“Sure,” Julian said. “What else could there be?”
Audrey dug her feet into his flannel sheets. “I got a letter the other day. From my birth mother.”
“Wait, what?” Julian’s eyes widened. “That can happen?”
Audrey shrugged. “Evidently.”
“Shit,” he said. “Have you read it?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know.” Audrey counted the beats of Julian’s pulse under her fingers. “I can’t think about it right now.”
He twined their fingers together, and Audrey looked at their hands, linked. She hadn’t decided yet. It was too much, on top of all this pregnancy stuff, and school, and whatever was going on with her and Rose right now. “I feel stuck,” she said finally. “Like I can’t do anything yet, because it doesn’t feel real to me yet. I can’t decide what to do.”
“I don’t think it’ll feel real until we tell our parents.”
“I know,” she said. “But when? I keep trying to find the right time—”
“Forget right time,” Julian said. “There’ll never be a ‘right time.’ It’s making me all twitchy, lying to my parents. I
am not a good liar.”
“Oh, I know,” Audrey said. “Which is why I don’t even entertain the idea of worrying about you cheating on me.”
Julian pulled his hand from hers and raked it through his hair, looking at her so seriously. “We should just . . . do it.”
Audrey rolled her eyes. “Okay.”
“No,” he said, insistent. “Soon. Like . . . this weekend.”
“What?” Audrey sat up, too, tucking her feet beneath herself. “No. I can’t.”
“We have to do it at some point,” he said, catching her face between his hands. “No more putting it off.”
“Seriously?” The idea sent Audrey’s heart into sprint mode and started a tingling in her fingertips. The idea of telling her mom, saying the words I’m pregnant out loud and seeing the sure disappointment on her face—it made Audrey more nauseated than the morning sickness.
But it had to be done, before her body told the truth for her.
“My parents are going to kill me,” Julian said with a laugh that Audrey didn’t quite believe.
“My parents are going to kill you,” she said, and she meant it as a joke but . . . who knew what Adam was capable of?
Kidding.
“Okay,” she said after a minute, locking her eyes onto his. “Let’s do it.”
SEVENTEEN
I feel sick.”
“Drink some ginger ale.”
Audrey exhaled, putting her hand down on the stair she sat on. “Not”—she lowered her voice—“pregnant sick. Nervous sick. I don’t think ginger ale helps with that.”
Julian’s laugh sounded anxious on the other end of the phone. “I don’t think anything helps with that. Although I bet there’s a pill in some lab somewhere that could do something—or if there isn’t, they should make one. Maybe I could make one, and sell it before the SATs and to seniors the week of college acceptance letters. I’d make a killing.”
“Hmm,” Audrey murmured, tuning out his babble. College. It kept popping into her head recently, especially since Ms. Fitz had begun talking about portfolios and scholarships. Next year they’d be the ones popping Ritalin and chugging Red Bulls while they waited for the acceptances, or rejections, to come. “Hey,” she said, interrupting Julian’s no doubt genius plan. “We should take a trip. Over spring break, maybe, or in the summer. We could go to California and look at the schools you want to go to.”
You Don’t Know Me but I Know You Page 9