“I’m still here,” he said, pacing alongside her. Curling up on the canopy bed would have been preferable but impolite, considering his bare-bottomed state.
“Oh, good,” Candace said, then continued her story. “So, Ali thinks I should give her my ticket now that she and Vanessa made up, because she claims it was bought for her and only given to me to make her jealous, which, by the way, Danice says is total BS, because she was there when Vanessa was making her Evite list. So now Ali is giving me attitude, when this is really about her and Vanessa… I think. Nate Garrett says she’s just threatened because I’m a three-temperature girl—hot, cool, and warm—and she’s just plain frigid. Which, by the way, I told her. And now she’s really pissed at me. Not that I care. She’s the one who said RADs should have their own school. I told you that, right? I mean, it doesn’t get more un-NUDI than that. So I say see ya later, Ali-hater…”
“Good for you,” Billy said, distracted. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Candace’s latest drama. Or that he didn’t appreciate her mischievous sense of humor, trendsetting style, or blond-haired, blue-eyed magnificence. Because he did. He adored their budding friends-without-benefits relationship; wouldn’t have had it any other way. His mind was just somewhere else. Which made concentrating feel like riding a bucking bronco. After a second or two, he was thrown.
“Your turn,” Candace said, sitting on the edge of her bed, crossing her gray legging-clad legs under her ivory slip dress. “I’m listening,” she said, cocking her head.
“What?” Billy asked defensively.
“Do you seriously think I made up that story about Ali just to hear myself talk?”
“Huh?”
“You’re obviously bummed about something. You haven’t done one funny thing since you got here.” She grinned, pleased with her detective work. Anyone else would have seemed smug. But Candace radiated eighteen-karat charm. “I opened with an emotional crisis; now it’s your turn.”
“No fair! Yours was fake.” He finally smiled.
She sighed, shaking her head like a disappointed guidance counselor. “It’s Frankie, isn’t it?”
The mention of her name turned a winch in Billy’s stomach. “Now that Brett’s out of the picture, I thought maybe I’d have a chance.”
“Yayyyy!” Candace kicked her legs. “Fix-up time!”
“No,” Billy said, knocking his head against the pewter rod of her canopy bed. “That’s the problem. She’s not going to want me, for the same reasons you didn’t want to meet at Whole Latte Love.”
Candace opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself. He was right. Not even she could argue with that.
“I’m not even registered at Merston,” he admitted for the first time. “Ms. J is the only teacher who knows I exist. I just go to hang out with you guys and learn.”
“But Frankie knows you exist,” Candace tried. “You’re one of her closest f—”
“Don’t say it,” he insisted, dreading the F-word. Being her friend was like using a spoon to cut steak. It scratched the surface but would never go deep. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. She deserves more than a guy who can’t wear clothes.”
“Why?” Candace asked.
“Because she’s a respectable girl who—”
“No.” Candace giggled. “Why don’t you wear clothes?”
The question startled Billy. It had been six years since someone asked him that. Even longer since he’d asked himself.
When he first started disappearing, strategically placed garments were enough to conceal his missing parts. A glove on the invisible hand. A Band-Aid over a clear eyebrow. A scarf wrapped around a see-through neck. But the holes eventually spread, expanding and connecting like puddles, until everything was covered. At that point, fading out seemed like the only option.
But that was before his parents introduced him to the alliance. Before he met the others. Before he knew Frankie. Before Candace reminded him that he had options.
“I guess I could wear clothes if I wanted to,” he mused. “But what about my face, my hair, my…”
“My gawd, Billy! This depressing town has one season: overcast! And yet check out my arms.” She held them out. They were the color of peanut butter. “Looks like I just made out with the sun, doesn’t it?”
He nodded.
“It’s called a spray tan. My dad’s hair is black, not gray, because of something called hair dye. And my lashes are visible from the moon because of mascara. Repeat after me, mass-care-ahhh.”
“What’s your point?” He percolated with hope.
“Let’s take the ill out of Billy and put some color on those cheeks… the face ones.”
She launched herself off the bed and stood with renewed purpose. “I suggest a makeover. Then a takeover. Who’s with me?”
Billy considered this. If anything, it would be a fun distraction. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to see what he looked like after all these years. “You’re right. It’s time to show Frankie what she’s been missing.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Candace said, slinging a silver handbag over her shoulder. “Let’s shop!” She made a move toward her bedroom door and fell flat on her fluffy sheepskin rug. Oof!
Billy burst out laughing.
“My laces!” she cackled, discovering the knots.
“I had to,” he said. “One last hurrah, for old times’ sake.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE HEART SPACE
WANTS WHAT THE HEART
SPACE WANTS
The forty-five-minute drive to Bridgeport Village had been worth it. Buying a new phone online couldn’t possibly have compared to the experience of walking into an Apple Store for the first time. Sleek technology eager to be touched. Built by geniuses. Charged by electricity. Brought to life with the swipe of a fingertip. Frankie considered changing her name to iStein and moving in.
Viveka feigned interest in the laptops with a tight-lipped smile and semi-curious nod. “It’s nice to leave Salem every now and then,” she said, keeping her daughter close, just in case.
“I agree,” Frankie said, indulging her mother, even though she knew Viveka’s comment was about more than spending Sunday afternoon phone shopping in Portland. It meant not having to wonder if a shop owner would check their IDs before allowing them into the store. Not mistaking the wind for the sound of someone coming to take them away. Not checking the Internet for slanderous posts. Not dodging suspicious glances from the driver of a passing car. Not questioning their decision to stay and fight what seemed like a losing battle.
“Do you have the gift card?” Viveka asked, her violet eyes void of their usual spark.
Frankie snapped open her quilted black handbag-slash-portable-amp-machine, feeling a sudden sense of superiority over the displayed electronics. Unlike them, she could go for days without a power cord—something they, in their fancy minimalist world, could only dream of.
“Can I browse?” she asked, handing over the envelope from Vlad.
Viveka scanned the perimeter with the side-eyed subtlety of a Secret Service agent. Kids played interactive games at a low circular table, an older couple held a salesman hostage with questions about Macs versus PCs, hipsters grazed, and three bleached blonds in futuristic outfits hovered over the latest iPad. “Fine. But don’t wander off. I won’t be long.”
Normally Frankie would have mocked her mother for being overprotective, but considering the circumstances, she promised to stay close, and then hurried away before she changed her mind.
Intrigued by the blonds’ fascination with whatever they were watching, Frankie inched toward them.
The sound was unmistakable. Fearless. Empowered. Revolutionary. The world premiere of Lady Gaga’s new video! To avoid sparking, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her skinny military cargoes and asked if she could watch it with them.
They didn’t dare turn away from Gaga to respond, but a girl wearing a Bubble Wrap scarf made room. Just as Frank
ie snagged a decent view, the video ended.
“Best one ever!” declared the blond wearing ice-cream-sprinkle-covered sunglasses on top of her head.
“You say that after every one,” said the girl with crime-scene tape tied around her leggings.
“Wait until the concert,” said Bubble Wrap.
Frankie gasped. “You’re going to her concert?”
“Thirteen more days!” Sprinkle Glasses beamed.
“You?” asked Crime Scene, unaware of the red lipstick smudge on her front tooth.
“I wish.” Frankie sighed. “It’s impossible to get tickets without a connection.”
“Not true,” declared Bubble Wrap, putting her arms around Crime Scene and Sprinkle Glasses. “We camped.”
Frankie, feeling an instant bond through their mutual love of Gaga, confessed, “I’ve been a little monster since the day I was born. A few weeks ago, I put white streaks in my hair and…”
Suddenly, Viveka grabbed Frankie by the back of her black-and-pink-striped turtleneck and yanked her out of the store.
“What? Mom, what are you doing? Did you get the phones?”
“No talking until we’re in the car!” Viveka insisted. “Not a single word.”
Something must have happened with the gift card. Something embarrassing.
Viveka slammed the Volvo door, turned up the radio—in case someone is listening?—and seethed. “What were you thinking?”
“Me?” Frankie sparked. “What did I do?”
Viveka jammed the key into the ignition. “Don’t give me that innocent routine. How could you, Frankie? After everything that’s happened? How?”
Frankie giggled nervously. “Mom, what did I do?”
“Telling those strangers you were born a monster?” She turned off the ignition and lowered her head into her hands. “It’s one thing to put yourself in danger—again!—but that term? It’s so derogatory. What has happened to you?”
Frankie burst out laughing.
Viveka turned to her in disbelief. Her sleek black ponytail was unusually disheveled. “So this is funny to you?”
“Mom, if I wanted to come out, I’d start by scrubbing off this pore-clogging makeup.”
“Then what—”
“ ‘Little monster’ is a Lady Gaga thing. It’s what she calls her fans. It has nothing to do with RADs.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I was hardly turning myself in.”
“Really?”
Frankie raised her brows as if to say, Come on, Mom, give me some credit.
A smile, gradual as the rising sun, brightened Viveka’s face. The spark in her violet eyes returned. “What a relief.” She pulled Frankie in for a gardenia-scented hug and then burst into a mix of laughter and tears.
“I’m sure.” Frankie giggled again. “Now, did you get the phones?”
“Got ’em.”
Once they were on the highway, Viveka said, “Looks like you’re coping with this a lot better than I am.” Drops of rain spotted the windshield.
“Not really,” Frankie admitted.
Viveka glanced at her daughter with concern.
“I should be thinking of ways to unite everyone, but every time I try, my mind goes back to Brett.” Frankie sighed. “I still can’t believe he used me like that.” Saying it out loud made her chest tighten.
“I can only imagine how painful that is.” Viveka rested her hand on Frankie’s shoulder.
The truth was, not having Brett in her life anymore hurt more than the betrayal part. But her rational mother would never see the logic in that. How can you possibly miss someone who caused you pain? Viveka would ask. Frankie would respond with a beats me shrug and would end up feeling more pathetic than she already did.
“Maybe there’s a lesson here,” Viveka offered, forever the professor.
Frankie gazed out at the whooshing cars. She didn’t want a lesson. She wanted Brett.
“Maybe, you know, until normies become more tolerant, you could get to know some of the RAD boys a little better. Those Wolf brothers are cute.”
Mom, you sound just as bad as they do! Frankie wanted to shout, but she didn’t. There was some truth in her mother’s advice. Why ask for trouble? It made perfect sense. But perfect sense has nothing to do with feelings.
The heart space wants what the heart space wants.
Unfortunately, Frankie’s heart space wanted Brett.
CHAPTER SIX
MAMA TRAUMA
The Jackson crisis was solved. He was staying. With that out of the way, Melody was free to focus on the other issue—the one she had been trying desperately to avoid.
But that was impossible.
Her conversation with Manu at the Teen Vogue shoot clung to her brain like a felt skirt over tights.
“Is your mother here?” he asked.
“No, I came with my sister.”
“Well.” He sighed, like someone recalling a fond memory. “Tell Marina that Manu says hi. It’s been way too long.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Oh no,” he scoffed. “That voice is unmistakable. Just like your mother’s. Marina could get anyone to do absolutely anything; it was that intoxicating.”
“Sorry, but my mom is Glory. Glory Carver. From California.”
“Are you sure?”
“Manu, of course she’s sure,” Cleo snapped. “I think she knows who her mother is.”
He was staring at Melody’s face in a way that would have royally creeped Cleo out if she didn’t know him. “Manu!”
He shook his head. “You’re right. I am thinking of someone else. I remember hearing that Marina’s daughter had a very unforgettable nose. It almost looked like a camel’s humps,” he chuckled. “And yours is perfect. My mistake. I’m sorry.”
Now old photos of Melody fluttered around her bare feet like leaves in a fall breeze. They settled as the fan rotated left, then fluttered again when it turned right. It was hard to say how long she had been under her sleep loft, mesmerized by flapping pictures and whirring blades. Ten minutes? An hour? All afternoon? It didn’t matter. The flaps and whirs provided a steady rhythm. Something she could count on. Something she could trust.
So she had spent Sunday morning foraging through old scrapbooks, searching for a way to discredit Manu’s assertion, and then passed the afternoon studying each photo. Did her pre-surgery nose really look like camel humps? Maybe she resembled her mother more as a toddler than she did now. Or perhaps there was at least one picture of her in the hospital, wrapped in a pink blanket, nuzzled against Glory’s chest. Because there were, like, thirty thousand photos of baby Candace.
After a thorough analysis, there was no evidence to support Manu’s claim, yet none to the contrary, either. The only real conclusion was that if Melody wanted answers, she’d have to ask questions. And so she sat, in her striped J.Crew pajamas, teeth unbrushed, hair smelling like doughnuts from her visit to Crystal’s Coffee, debating the benefit of knowing the truth.
Of course, if Glory said, “I am without a doubt your real mother,” and offered indisputable proof, everything would be perfect. But any other response would mean one more place she didn’t belong.
“Candace!” Glory called, padding down the hallway. “Please tell me you have my white silk tunic and it’s clean.”
Melody rolled her eyes, grateful for the lock on her door. Must be nice when a missing tunic is your biggest problem.
“I thought Dad was packing for you,” Melody heard Candace say. “Isn’t that part of your anniversary tradition thingy?”
“Technically, yes, but last year he packed a tablecloth instead of a sarong, and I’m not taking another chance. I’m bringing an extra purse full of essentials.” She lowered her voice. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we?”
More secrets. Typical.
“I dunno,” Candace stalled. She had obviously lost the tunic, stained it, or sold it. “Dad’s surprising you with this whole vac
ation, and part of it is packing for you. I think it’s romantic. You should just go with it, Mom. Forget the tunic. Surrender.”
“Candace, this is not the time for games,” her mother insisted. “He’ll be home any minute and—”
“Glo-reee,” called Beau, opening the front door. “Glo-reee!”
“Find it,” she hissed, before calling out, “I’m up here.”
His boots scuffed along the worn wooden steps as he climbed upstairs. “You’re not going to believe it,” he said with a sigh. “The Hideout Inn is closed for some private function!”
“What? Are you sure?” Glory gasped. “The Kramers will be here in less than an hour. What am I supposed to serve?”
Melody’s insides dipped. She’d totally forgotten that the plastic surgeon and his family were coming for dinner.
“I tried Aegean Blue and Russo’s, but they were boarded up. So I got Mandarin Palace.”
“Ew,” Candace grumbled.
“I bet it has to do with that TV show,” Glory stated.
“What? You think the restaurants were owned by RADs?” Beau asked. The word sounded awkward coming from him. Like when he said “awesome” or “text me.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Glory said. “Maybe they left town.”
“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” Beau asked.
A prickly rush of anxiety passed through Melody. Jackson had come so close to leaving. What if I hadn’t been able to stop him?
“A few of the gals at the salon got to talking today, and some elderly woman getting a perm said RADs should be forced to live on a barge in the middle of the Pacific. She’s still haunted by the movie Frankenstein, and she said to this day people with square-shaped heads give her panic attacks. The poor thing can’t even look at Arnold Schwarzenegger without collapsing. Her words.”
“Biddy out,” Candace said.
Melody couldn’t help giggling. Even in the darkest times, her sister could always lighten the mood.
“Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Glory added. “As long as these RADs don’t affect my life, I don’t care what they do—unless they clip their fingernails in public. I can’t stand when anyone does that. It’s vile. Okay, I’d better get that food into some Pyrex before my cover is blown. Candace, tell Melly it’s time to stop studying. Dinner is in a half hour. She needs to shower.”
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