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Now You See Her

Page 8

by Lisa Leighton


  “He was driving a black truck. We need to call the police. I didn’t get a good look at him, but Amelia, her family, they’re in danger.”

  “Stop.” He barely speaks above a whisper, but somehow the command still registers as yelling. “I have no idea what’s come over you, but we will not be involving the police any further. Do you have any idea how hard my team is working to make sure that this family can’t press charges against you? You’ve almost killed someone, Sophie. The storm doesn’t matter, her car doesn’t matter, whatever you think you saw on that road doesn’t matter.”

  “But . . .”

  It takes him two strides to close the distance between the door and my computer. He snaps the screen shut and rips it off my desk.

  “This conversation is over.” He leaves just as quickly and quietly as he entered, the sound of Mrs. Graham’s voice calling us for dinner punctuating his footsteps down the stairs.

  Twelve

  I SHOOT UP IN BED AS SOON AS HIS FINGERS TOUCH MY CHEEK. HE’S found me. He’s come back. Scrambling back against the headboard, I use the blanket as armor and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim room.

  “Oh lovey, I startled you. I’m sorry.” My heart hammers against every inch of my body as I connect Mrs. Graham’s voice with the touch that tore me out of an already-restless sleep. The last thing I remember was being afraid to lose myself overnight, to fall asleep as Amelia but wake as Sophie. The good news is I’m still me. The bad news is I’m not sure how long the mom who is not my mom has been watching me sleep.

  Also, by the look of her made-up face, it’s time to wake up. I couldn’t have slept more than an hour all night. Her eyes are wide as they flick back and forth, taking in my huddled form.

  She takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the bed. I’m worried she’s going to try to touch me again, so I stay frozen just to be safe. “I know we’ve been pushing you to get back to normal, but if you’re not ready . . .”

  “No.” I bark the word by accident and attempt to peddle back with a smile. “I mean, I’m fine.” Weak. I can do better. I let the blanket drop for good measure. “I’m one hundred percent, truly.” She holds my gaze, still searching. “I just don’t want to get any more behind.” Understanding makes her face go soft. That’s the stuff.

  She considers this for a beat and pats the bed, ready for normal just as much as everyone else. Accidents that leave your daughter all mixed-up inside are very inconvenient. She stands to go but pauses at the door. “I love you, baby.”

  There’s something about the sound of her voice; it’s like when I hear the terrible nineties ballad that Scott Matthews and I slow danced to at my first school dance. The opening chords begin and I automatically bend my legs and hunch over in an effort to shrink myself to the size of an average seventh-grade boy. Only this time, the singsong of Mrs. Graham’s voice rips me back to a trippy memory montage featuring “I love you, baby” on a loop. First I feel the cold metal railing as I walk up the steps of the school bus, her familiar words nudging me forward. And then she’s checking my ears for signs of infection. Next I’m terrified, yielding to make a left on green. And then I’m trying on a new shirt in a dressing room, showing her my report card, lying on the beach. I could go on and on and on. The memories don’t wash over me so much as click back into place.

  And suddenly I can’t remember the sound of my mom’s voice. I can’t remember if she told me she loved me all the time or if she held back. I don’t remember my first day of school or learning how to drive. All those memories are just gone. And it’s becoming clear that I’m running out of time, because the longer I stay, the more goes. Tit for tat.

  The door clicks shut behind her and I notice the time. 5:15. At first I’m disoriented by the possibility that this might be p.m., but realize with horror that I’ve been ripped out of the only sleep I’d managed to get all night long while it’s still dark in the morning. The room is fuzzy and a dull pain is beginning to throb at the base of Sophie’s skull. Now that I’m confident I’ll still be here when I wake, I lie back down and close my eyes. I have to sleep.

  By the time I reawaken, I only have time for one of my patented five-minute showers. I sift through Sophie’s expensive closet to find skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, and camel ballet flats that probably cost more than all the clothes in my closet combined. I also now know that I wasn’t the only one to find the tropical-print dress from the hospital horrendous. The small sliver of closet devoted to the same brand is shoved in the back, tags still on every gaudy piece. They have Mrs. Graham written all over them, and I can feel her pulling them out for picture day after picture day after picture day. I mentally apologize to Sophie for underestimating her fashion sense.

  I can’t help but feel a little pleased with myself when I catch her reflection in the full-length mirror. Five fifteen a.m. my ass. Sophie has never looked better, even if I feel like I’m wearing the world’s most elaborate Halloween costume dressed in Sophie’s expensive jeans and tissue-light T-shirt complete with a different body and a bunch of her unwanted memories high-jacking my brain. More trick than treat.

  When I finally get downstairs, Mrs. Graham is focused on preparing something on the stove and Mr. Graham’s face is buried behind the newspaper. I feel like I’ve waltzed into a cereal ad from the 1950s. Breakfast in my house consists of Pop-Tarts and fights over whose turn it is to use the bathroom.

  Mrs. Graham turns from the stove, takes one look at me, and blinks hard. Twice. “Sophie?” Eggs pop in the pan below her raised spatula and for one amazing moment I wonder if I’ve somehow changed back into Amelia. But one quick glance in the enormous mirror hanging above their table dashes that fantasy. Sophie’s hair does look effortlessly chic all tied up on top of her head though.

  “Is there any coffee left?” I ask. I tried my best to cover up the bags beneath Sophie’s tired eyes, but maybe I should have used more concealer. Coffee couldn’t hurt.

  “Coffee?” Mrs. Graham practically chokes on the word.

  Shit. Wow. “Er . . . tea?” I sputter.

  Mr. Graham lowers his paper, and I follow his eyes to the messy bun sitting atop my head. It’s not my best work. Styling somebody else’s hair is surprisingly challenging, but I never knew dads made it a point to care. Not a selling point, if you ask me. “Trying . . .” Mr. Graham takes a sip of his not coffee and clears his throat. “Trying something new, Sophie?”

  I pat the knot of hair on top of my head self-consciously. “Oh, yeah, I guess so. I’m just so . . .” I try to think of something, anything that will divert their attention away from the fact that their daughter is a victim on Invasion of the Body Snatchers: The Millennial Edition. “I’m just really excited to go back to school. You know, see my friends, er, Zach, whatever.” I try to sound convincing. I just need to get out of here.

  “Of course, but maybe it’s too soon. You just don’t really seem like yourself, Soph. . . .” Mrs. Graham looks desperately to her husband.

  “Hillary!” Mr. Graham’s tone is sharp. “She’s up and ready to go. I think we all just need to get back in our normal routine after . . . well, after everything.” I guess that includes not talking about the fact that he refused to listen to my concerns about a freaking attempted abduction and viciously stole my computer out from under my fingertips last night.

  Mrs. Graham looks like she wants to argue, but she stops herself short. “Honey, I can skip yoga and we can go get mani/pedis. You could even get a blowout? I just don’t want you wearing yourself out.”

  “I’m fine! Really!” I try to sound peppy. Based on my limited interactions with Sophie during tennis, she always seemed to be talking in exclamation points. I just need them to think I’m okay. I need to figure out a way to warn Mae about the man who tried to take me. I need to see her and make sure she’s okay. I need to figure out why the hell I’m stuck here and how to get back into my old life. I have no idea how to make that happen, but I’m pretty sure I won’t get any closer if I’m stuc
k being Mrs. Graham’s prisoner all day.

  A horn honks out front and I wrinkle my forehead. I hadn’t considered how I’d get to school, only how I’d get out the front door.

  “Oh, that must be Janie. She said she’d come get you today since your car . . .” Mrs. Graham stops short, her eyes flicking to her husband’s.

  “Your car is being taken care of,” he finishes smoothly. Dude has an answer for everything. “Now, don’t make your friend late, Sophie.” Mr. Graham smiles broadly and folds up the newspaper. End of discussion.

  Mrs. Graham looks like she wants to say something more and Mr. Graham looks like he just wants everyone to play the role of the perfect family that he’s so carefully crafted for all of us.

  “Okay! Well, see ya!” I cheer the words in an effort to appease Sophie’s poor mother and grab a banana.

  Sophie’s mom practically chases me into the mudroom and I worry that I’ve forgotten to do some sort of secret handshake or, God forbid, hug her. But instead she pulls a drawer open and hands me Sophie’s phone conspiratorially. It reminds me of a trunk stuffed full of bags after a trip to the mall, us sneaking them upstairs as though we’re on some sort of team, and I hate it. The whole exchange makes me feel dirty, but I play along and feign appreciation because it’s easier. At this point I’m actually thankful for Mr. Graham’s potentially destructive insistence that his daughter return to school immediately following a hospital stay.

  Mrs. Graham whispers, “Text me if you aren’t feeling up to a full day, okay?” I nod even though I don’t understand this strange language—their weird nicknames, passive-aggressive fights, and forced optimism. The Monet beauty of Sophie’s life has given way to a Picasso reality. My family is missing so many of the pieces that seemed to make the Grahams the perfect, glossy puzzle, but maybe the Grahams are missing pieces too. Just different ones. Maybe we’re all mismatched and cobbling our lives together with puzzle pieces that never seem to fit quite right. Maybe everyone’s pretending.

  I kiss her cheek because she looks like she needs it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. At least now I have the internet back.

  Unfortunately not even the internet can help me deal with Janie McLaughlin, who is currently laying on the horn in Sophie’s driveway. I know that Janie and Sophie have been best friends since pretty much forever. They walk the hallways through school with linked arms, perpetually sit shotgun in each other’s cars, and pretty much constantly have their heads bowed toward each other, sharing inside jokes that leave the rest of the world firmly on the outside. Janie’s the runner-up to Sophie’s prom queen and she was the second singles to Sophie’s first until I moved to Morristown.

  Honestly, I can’t remember ever having an actual conversation with her. She and Sophie are always huddled together, laughing and whispering during tennis practice. When they miss balls or accidentally hit them into the woods during practice, they wolf whistle and call each other dumb bitches. It’s like they speak an entirely different language that no one bothered to teach me. When I see Janie waiting in the driveway in her sparkling white Range Rover, I suddenly realize I’m supposed to be fluent.

  Shit.

  “It’s about time. I was worried you were gonna make me ring the doorbell.” She looks me up and down slowly, apparently a patented move in this crowd. “Sleep in?”

  When I don’t answer, she backpedals. “I mean, I love you no matter what, thank God you’re feeling better, but we need to go. Like now. I have a calc test first period and Mr. Jones locks the door after second bell.”

  I just nod and climb into the passenger’s seat. I’ve barely shut the door when she starts flying down the driveway, hardly slowing enough to let the gate open all the way or check for traffic. I grip my seat, digging my nails into the soft leather as Janie accelerates from ten to forty in seconds, panic tensing every muscle in my body. While adjusting the volume of the sound system, she glances over when all I really wish she’d do is keep her eyes on the road. “Shit,” she says, yanking the wheel to the right without checking her blind spot and pulling the car over with a jerk.

  “Oh my God, I’m such an ass. You’re freaking out in this car. Are you okay? Sophie, you’re, like, super pale. Everyone knows it wasn’t your fault, so you don’t have to worry about that, okay?” Her fingers graze my forehead as though she’s checking for a fever, a movement so automatic, so intimate and true. The Amelia in me flinches, the Sophie in me remembers.

  I press one of my hands against the wall, but the trick doesn’t work and the world still spins. Vodka sloshes like a pool of fire in my belly. Oh God, I’m going to be sick. Janie’s hand is cool against my forehead as she holds the glass of water to my lips. When she tells me everything is going to be all right, I believe her.

  I try to remember if I’ve ever tasted vodka, if Mae ever had to hold my hair back after a night out. But I can’t remember any drinks or any parties. Was it because I was never invited or has another part of Amelia slipped away?

  It’s impossible to know for sure anymore.

  “I . . .” Jesus, Sophie, Amelia, anyone, say something.

  Her brown eyes flick back and forth between mine. “You’re scaring me, Soph.”

  “No, oh my God, no. I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s just get to school before we’re late.” I look down because I have no idea how not to. She continues staring, her eyes practically burning me, until she finally sighs. Janie pulls back onto the road after checking behind her twice, the speedometer hovering at twenty-five the remainder of the ride. I’m caught off guard by their friendship. I guess it never occurred to me that behind their pretty faces and all that exclusivity and popularity there was a genuine connection between them. God, I miss Mae. I try to pull up a mental image of her, but I can’t quite remember the color of her eyes or the exact pitch of her voice.

  Mae is fading. My sister, my best friend, is slipping from my memories. I have to figure out a way back before I lose her altogether. I have to find her at school. Mae is the missing piece. She has to be.

  Thirteen

  SOPHIE’S NAME IS SHOUTED FROM MULTIPLE DIRECTIONS AS WE walk into the building. The memories trail directly behind the chorus of “welcome back” and “are you okay” and “we’ve missed you.” Mingling colognes bring a sharp memory of crowded bodies in a dark basement, random guys rubbing up against me to the thrum of too-loud music. The mixture of chemical perfume and a history filled with way too many hard ciders leaves me gasping for fresh air, a familiar burn clawing up to the back of my throat before we even enter the building.

  With the gentle squeeze of a girl’s fingers on my waist, I’m playing Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, unseen hands lifting my tiny body practically to the ceiling. Fear hovers along the ragged edges of the memory, fear that I’ll be dropped on purpose because Vivien Novack told everyone that I’d lied about meeting all the members of our favorite boy band. My cheeks blush at the memory, at the fresh pang of embarrassment.

  The sound of a shrill laugh brings a stab of anxiety so sharp it almost takes my breath away. I’m twelve. It’s the first week of seventh grade and the first time everyone’s expected to change for gym class. My uniform is neatly pressed and the scent of detergent brings with it a wave of homesickness. A huddle of the tallest girls in the class snicker and stare as I pull skinny arms into the T-shirt and yank it over my stomach. And that’s when I notice a rainbow of sports bras around the locker room, the safety of summer a distant dream since apparently everyone’s grown up without me.

  The memories roll over me and I’m dizzy with them, terrified that the flood of Sophie is going to drown out what’s left of Amelia. I must have had the same memories, minor flashes of the life I’ve lived, all taken for granted. Remembered and dismissed because they belonged to me. I knew they’d always be there if I needed them.

  But now my memories are systematically being replaced by Sophie’s. And yet, they all somehow feel familiar. Is it possible that perfect Sophie Graham experien
ced some of the same feelings as completely imperfect Amelia? Maybe Sophie isn’t anything like the person she pretends to be. Or maybe it’s that she isn’t anything like the person I assumed she was.

  I can feel Janie looking at me out of the corner of her eye and it makes me uncomfortable. I instinctively grab for my phone, the movement so effortlessly automatic that by the time I’m in, by the time it’s registered my fingerprint, I’ve forgotten it’s not my phone at all. It’s as if my thumb has a mind of its own as I bypass the onslaught of messages to scroll through a seemingly endless feed of perfect, tiny moments. Snapshots of lattes with foam-swirled hearts, group selfies where Sophie’s dimpled smile and easy confidence tugs you closer like a magnet.

  The images give me whiplash. Sophie’s inner monologue butted up against all these perfect moments makes me feel like I’m facing the wrong way in a car, my brain unable to sort out whether I’m going forward or back. I lower my chin and do my best to ignore everyone in hopes that rumors of Sophie’s newfound social awkwardness will spread quickly and the barrage of cracked memories that come with all the smells, sounds, and half hugs will stop.

  I try to imagine myself skirting along the edges of all this. What did I look like? Who did I talk to? Kids from class, Mae if I saw her in the halls, Abby Porter and Caitlin Davis at lunch, Payton Crew in art. With three hundred kids in our class, everyone pretty much knows everyone, even if you’ve only been here for three years. It’s still easy to make yourself invisible. Easy to glide through the halls with my eyes trained above everyone’s heads, pretending to be busy or preoccupied, anything other than lost.

  But it’s like Sophie and I go to different schools, orbit completely different planets. People actually see her. They look at her and expect her to look back. The view from Sophie’s place in the universe is already giving me anxiety and first bell hasn’t even rung.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you at lunch?” Janie’s voice shakes a little bit. I wish I could do a better job because her glassy eyes tug at my heart, Sophie’s or Amelia’s, I have no idea which. I have to get the hell out of this body.

 

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