Now You See Her

by Lisa Leighton

  Dedication

  To all the girls reading by night-light . . .

  Just one more chapter.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  ALL EYES ARE ON OUR COURT NOW. IT’S LIKE SOMEONE’S PRESSED the mute button. Teammates stop talking. Phones are silenced. Random dog walkers linger and little brothers stop banging on the bleachers. Sophie Graham bobs in ready position behind the baseline on the opposite side of the net, spinning her racquet between graceful fingers, waiting for the serve that could finally end this game.

  She looks good out there. Always does. Crisp tennis whites in stark contrast to the black braid swinging slightly as she rocks. She’s hard not to watch. If I hadn’t beaten a million other Sophies over the years, I might feel intimidated in my crappy tennis shoes and secondhand skirt.

  I bounce the ball twice.

  All the random pickup games on public courts, all the thousands of forehands and backhands hit off dented garage doors in tiny town after tiny town, all the broken strings on shitty racquets—they’ve all led me to this moment, on this court, against this girl, with this serve.

  Bounce, bounce, toss, swing, hit. The ball catches the line and Sophie drives it back with equal force. A perfect return. I only manage to clip the ball with the head of my racquet. Ad out.

  I wish I didn’t care. I shouldn’t care because it doesn’t even matter who gets to play first singles for Morristown when varsity season officially starts. By this time next week, I’ll be gone. Again.

  You girls knew I’d be transferred eventually. Old people move south. There’s a bigger demand for home healthcare down there. It will be another adventure. We’re a family. We have one another no matter where we go. My mom could have talked all night. But my sister, Mae, and I didn’t need to hear much beyond: we’re moving again.

  It won’t take long. Never does. Mom could be planning to leave tonight for all I know. It will be our eighth move in fifteen years.

  We’ve lived in Morristown the last three—our longest stretch ever. Morristown with its tree-canopied streets and Main Street shops is the kind of town reserved for movie sets. Where you can walk root-cracked sidewalks at night and see historic homes lit up like little dollhouses. Where beyond those manicured lawns and prized gardens, real life is actually happening inside those Easter egg–colored homes. There are happy parents laughing with their kids at the dinner table, new dads pacing across creaky wooden floors with swaddled babies. Sometimes it seems too good to be true. If I didn’t know better, I might think everyone was pretending.

  But I don’t love Morristown for those nightly exhibits and the stories I’ve made up in my head to go along with them—Dad just got a promotion. Mom burned the lamb chops. Sarah made varsity soccer as a freshman and Garrett is student of the month. Mexico or the Bahamas for spring break? I don’t even love Morristown for its nationally ranked schools or clay tennis courts. I love Morristown because I thought it was the one place where we might actually stay. I love it because I thought it was home.

  But I can’t think about any of that now. If I ever want anything to change, it’s got to start with me. Isn’t that what every counselor at every new school in every new town always says? I need to focus all the frustration, all the confusion and loneliness and anger. I need to channel it. Control it. But mostly, I need to win.

  Because I’ve spent all of high school playing second singles and maybe if I finally make it to first I can change my mom’s mind; maybe then we can stay. And I’m fully aware of how stupid that sounds, how unlikely it is that me taking Sophie Graham’s first-singles spot might actually convince my mom to stay, but it’s all I’ve got. My last attempt to control an uncontrollable life.

  I serve again. Ace her. Back to deuce.

  Angry steel-blue clouds are gathering over the trees behind the courts, and thunder grumbles in the distance like a time bomb. I’m exhausted. My T-shirt is soaked. It’s starting to get dark. They’ll turn the lights on soon.

  My first serve is weaker this time, my muscles screaming. We rally but I’m tired and sweating. Sophie charges the net, drives a volley to a corner of the baseline. Too good.

  I take a deep breath. Will myself to focus. I have to win. Winning means playing first singles. First singles means more attention from college recruiters, more opportunities for scholarships, the possibility of a life after high school. A life that I could build myself. A life with roots instead of wheels. A life my mom won’t be able to rip me away from.

  My guidance counselor, Mrs. Veta, likes to call these options—and according to her, options are good for girls with thick school files and single moms whose job security depends on people who are slowly dying.

  But right now this match has become about more than my future, more than my chances at staying in Morristown another year. More than the back and forth, the points and games and sets. Right now, this match is about someone like me, Amelia Fischer, beating someone like her, Sophie Graham. This match isn’t about tennis at all. I wonder if they ever are.

  “Ad out,” I call. I bounce the ball twice. If I win this point, I’ll take the game back to deuce. If I take the game back to deuce, there’s no reason why I can’t win another, take the advantage, come back. It’s not over yet. This doesn’t have to be over.

  But just as I pull my racquet back to serve, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move, a shadowed form in the thick trees beyond Sophie. My arm stiffens in response and I know as soon as the ball strikes the strings that it’ll hit the net. Sure enough, it catches the top of the tape and bounces back.

  I just wasted my first serve of match point on some kid messing around in the woods. I dig my fingernails into the gummy grip of my racquet because I want to scream.

  “Second serve.” My voice echoes across the courts, thinner after my first fault. I glance to the stands to see my mom and Mae there watching me. Mae must have told my mom I had challenged Sophie for her spot on the ladder, but I never expected them to come. I can’t help but wonder if maybe this match might mean something to them too. Maybe if I win, we really will stay.

  My stomach twists, my hands shake. I can feel the nerves start to take over, but I can’t let them. Breathe, Amelia, breathe. I pull the racquet over my head and stretch my arm. I have to win this point. Two bounces. Another toss.

  This time, I manage to send the ball over the net
. It bounces sharply in front of Sophie, whose glossy braid swings over her shoulder as she pulls her racquet back. But instead of slamming a return, she stops midstroke and raises one delicate, petal-painted finger into the air.

  “Out!” Her voice sings with triumph because that’s it. Match point.

  The rest of the team gathered on the bleachers lets out a collective sigh. It’s impossible to tell if it’s relief or disappointment.

  It takes a second for the word to register, to understand what that single syllable means. I’ve heard it on and off for ten years. I can’t be hearing it now. But when I see Sophie bouncing up to the net to shake my hand, it finally sinks in. My serve is out. I just double-faulted my way through another town.

  I just lost everything.

  Two

  I FOCUS ON SOPHIE TO STOP THE LUMP IN MY THROAT FROM TURNING into a sob. Thanks to some extensive cyber stalking, I know Sophie Graham from just about every angle. I know how she looks when she wakes up in the morning. (Perfect.) I know what she eats for breakfast on a daily basis. (Avocado toast. Gluten-free bread. Duh.) I know her signature nail polish color. (Vanity Fairest. Subtle. Classic.) And I remember the exact expression on her face after Zach Bateman organized a flash mob to invite her to homecoming last year and she snapped a selfie. (It’s the same look she has on her face right now. Triumph.)

  “Nice match!” Sophie sings. She practically glimmers—dewy, porcelain skin, teeth so white and straight they hurt to look at. She probably never needed braces—or if she did, her parents definitely invested in Invisalign so she wouldn’t have to suffer through awkward orthodontia.

  I’m not sure why I started hating Sophie Graham. Maybe because there’s always been a version of her wherever we live. Or maybe it’s the way she alternates between looking right through me and examining me with a judgy intensity like she somehow knows I’m wearing dingy granny panties underneath secondhand jeans. Or maybe it’s the countless times I’ve witnessed her post some ridiculous selfie only to watch the likes climb to the hundreds seconds after it’s live. Or maybe it’s just everything. Her flawless skin, those unnerving eyes—one clear blue, one swirled green. Her quarterback boyfriend. The model-pretty mom and suit-clad dad. Three smiling faces in the Morristown Gazette advertising their law practice, the only one in our small town. Their perfect house. Their perfect life.

  I really shouldn’t be surprised. Sophie Graham isn’t exactly a special snowflake. Wherever there’s a tennis court, you’ll almost always find a Sophie.

  I was seven the first time I held a tennis racquet. We had moved into another unremarkable rented house in another unremarkable rented town. There was a sad-looking park practically in our backyard that had a tennis court with a sagging net and cracked asphalt next to a dilapidated playground. Mae and I begged my mom to let us go play there alone, like big kids, and she eventually agreed, but insisted on sitting on a patio chair in our backyard watching us the whole time.

  One day there was an older woman on the court with a bucket of balls, just firing serve after serve over the net. I sat outside the chain-link fence that separated the playground from the tennis court and stared, riveted. There was something about the sound of the ball bouncing off the strings of her racquet—to me it sounded better than Mozart, better than whatever ridiculous boy band the girls on the bus would listen to every day. It sounded like winning.

  Eventually the woman introduced herself as Mrs. Spring and asked me if I’d like to try to hit a few balls. I hesitated before taking the sweaty grip of the racquet from her hands, but I felt something vibrate through my arm the second my fingers wrapped around it—power. Turned out Mrs. Spring was a retired teacher, and for the next eight months she was my first tennis coach. She taught me everything I know about tennis, the most important thing being that it isn’t just for rich kids. Mrs. Spring taught me that you don’t need fancy lessons or a country club membership to win. All you need is a can of balls, a racquet, and a wall.

  The thing is, I can’t compete with the Sophie Grahams of the world at school. I’ll never win homecoming queen. I’ll never be elected class president. I’ll never have a schedule full of AP classes. I’ll never have the right hair, the right car, the right boyfriend, or the right family.

  The only place I can really compete with the Sophie Grahams of the world is on the court. And I almost always win. Almost.

  As I reach across the net to shake Sophie’s hand and our fingers touch, the first strike of lightning explodes in the sky, bathing us in white light and sending a strange shock up my arm. Before I even have time to wonder if she felt it too, Sophie jerks her hand away from mine and runs back to the rest of our waiting team.

  One of the doubles players calls out, “Looking good, first singles!” and Sophie does a little twirl. A camera flashes and I notice that the kid from the school paper is snapping shots of Sophie. Did they really think it was necessary to cover our challenge match or did Sophie hire him to follow her around to capture moments for future posts? I’m honestly not sure which would be more depressing, but I have to admit Sophie kills it on film. She has the confidence to move her body into all the right poses—hand on hip, head tilted ever so slightly, chin lowered just so. Sophie would never get caught hunched over in the front row in a group shot. She’s in back. Angled. Shoulders back. Striking.

  Coach Harvey tries to throw her arm around my shoulder, but I pull away, so it falls to her side instead. “You should be proud, Amelia. It was anyone’s game out there and second court is just as important as first.” A fat raindrop falls, and she glances to the sky. “Now get home before this really starts to come down, and we’ll talk more at practice tomorrow.”

  Racquet bags are gathered and squeals follow another low rumble of thunder. My mom avoids the eyes of other parents as she makes her way over, but there’s no ignoring the familiar good-byes and weekend planning that never include her. She joins Mae under a tree instead.

  “You looked really great out there, sweetie.” She tries to touch my arm, but I stiffen. All of my anger and frustration at losing suddenly has a new target, a new focus—the woman who’s uprooting us from our lives once again.

  If she notices, she doesn’t let on, only says, “All set?” as though we’ll walk out like all the other families, parents hugging kids, towels waiting in cars, some nasty stew simmering in slow cookers at home.

  But I’m not all set. I feel angry tears prick my eyes and I’m praying the skies will just open up already to help me pretend. “Well, I hope you’re happy. Might as well go home and start packing.” This gets Mae’s attention. She widens her eyes a bit at my tone. The truth is I know my mom feels awful about having to leave again. It’s not her fault there aren’t enough old people who need their blood pressure taken and their medicine doled out in Morristown. They send her away and we have to follow. She needs this job. We need this job. I know she hates everything that makes us different. I know it kills her to pack up our lives at the start of my senior year. To leave the first place that’s ever felt like home. I know all of it. But right now, I want her to feel it. I want her to hurt.

  “Oh,” my mom begins. The pity in her eyes and the defensive note in her voice make me hate her. “We don’t have to start tonight. . . .”

  “Actually, you’re right,” I say, cutting her off. “I don’t have to start packing.” Hot anger fuels my words, and they come easily now. Whip fast with sharp edges. “Because I’m not leaving.” The mix of panic and disappointment and fear and sadness manipulating my pretty mother’s features only presses me onward. “I’m almost eighteen. I have options now.”

  Out of my peripheral vision, I see Sophie’s mom hug her close, beaming with pride. Sophie Graham with her perfect life, never moving, always winning. I want my mom to shoot back with words just as sharp and permanent as mine. I want her to yell and punish me. I need her disappointment. I need a fight.

  “Let’s go home and get cleaned up and we’ll have pizza and eat ice cream out of the
carton and watch a movie like we used to. Just us girls.” There are bags under her eyes, and I’ve never noticed how the skin below her cheeks sags a little, like it’s given up or something. She left for work when it was dark this morning, but still managed to show up to a challenge match I didn’t even realize she knew I was playing. My mom’s exhausted face fills me with the strangest mixture of hate and . . . hope. Maybe there’s still time to convince her to stay. She can put in a request for another family in the area. She could work at a nursing home, find a new job where people aren’t always dying, stop having to transfer so much. Mae and I can talk to her, maybe we can figure something else out. It’d be easy to agree to pizza and ice cream, to apologize and have an actual conversation about our future. But I’m not in the mood for easy.

  “I’m not hungry. I’ll probably catch up with the team and let them know this was my last match.” Truthfully, we’ve left too many towns for me to bother with good-byes. There’s no one who will really care that I’m leaving, anyway. Also, I’m starving, but I’d rather chew on my own arm than continue this conversation.

  “I’ll go with Amelia,” Mae says absently, and I realize she’s punishing our mom too.

  My mom nods because she’s not in the mood for hard. “Okay then,” she finally manages. “Wear your seat belts.” She lingers for a second and I know she’s waiting for me to change my mind. She’s worried, maybe considering putting her foot down the way she used to. But it’s not going to happen. Not tonight. Another few drops of rain begin to fall, and after a quick glance at the sky, she gives up and jogs to the car.

  “I’m not ready yet,” I say to Mae just to be difficult.

  She wrinkles her forehead and looks up at the churning clouds, just to be sure we’re living on the same planet. “Amelia,” she groans, dragging out each syllable the way she’s done since she learned how to talk. She turns toward the woods where a dirt path cuts through the low brush and leads to an almost-empty parking lot. Lightning streaks in the distance, and her shoulders jerk at the boom that follows. “Ugh. I’ll try to catch Mom. If not, I’ll just wait for you in the car. Don’t take forever, okay?”