I see dishes piled beside the sink and papers strewn across the rickety dining room table, and one of the cupboard doors is hanging crooked on its hinge in the kitchen. I can’t remember if it looked this way before the accident. When I walk around to the other window, I get a view of the fireplace, of the dusty candles a previous renter left behind, of the miniature painted house identical to Mrs. Graham’s placed right in the center.
Seeing the strange connection between Sophie and Amelia gives me courage. I know what I have to do. I ring the doorbell first to be absolutely sure that there’s no one home. I can’t get caught. When no one answers after a minute, I walk over to the window in the family room. It never latched properly; a tiny sliver of space exists between the bottom and the frame. I push up just enough to get my fingers in and then lift hard, the heavy frame resisting against years of neglect. The window opens just enough for Sophie to slip through, and for once I’m grateful to be trapped in a body the size of an overgrown doll.
The laundry-detergent scent that follows us from state to state, house to house washes over me and, for a second, I’m fully Amelia. So Amelia that I swear even my reflection in the mirror would prove it. But there’s no time for that. Instead, I break every rule ever created around the folklore of our house angel, and I pick it up from its spot on the mantle where it’s sat for three years since our last move. A tiny house-shaped mark remains on the wood where no dust has settled. With Sophie’s heart thrumming a rhythmic beat through my ears, I press on the back to lift a roof I never knew opened.
Inside, there isn’t a code. There’s a key.
Outside, a car door slams.
Twenty-Four
I’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE. I DUMP THE KEY INTO MY HAND AND press it into my pocket beside the St. Anthony coin from the accident site. Carefully placing the house back on the mantle, I adjust it ever so slightly to the left so it sits in its rightful spot.
I look at the evidence Janie discovered, the printed article, the list of names. I can make notes in my notebook, but I have to leave this for my mom. Somehow I think she’ll know what it means. She kept us hidden for this long, so she must know who we’ve been hiding from. I have to warn her. I place the paper on the floor in front of the door as though it’s been slipped into the old mail slot no one uses anymore. And then I’m out the way I came, with barely enough time to close the window behind me.
Gravel crunches beneath two sets of footsteps as Janie and Landon emerge around the bend in the driveway. “We were getting worried,” Landon calls out. I jump away from the window.
“What did Mrs. Fischer say?” Janie asks.
“She wasn’t home and I couldn’t get the mail slot to open. Finally got it though, so we’re good.” I avoid their eyes and start walking back toward the car.
Once we’ve pulled back onto the empty street, Landon asks, “You think the article will help?”
I lean my head against the glass again and hope because it’s all I’ve got. “I guess we’ll find out.”
As we pull closer to the high school, I start to feel a little panicky at the thought of being trapped in the building with Sophie’s memories bombarding me all day. I want to go back to being Amelia again. I want to get back to my old life so I can figure out what’s really going on. I have to find out what the key is for. After seeing the contents of the Grahams’ safe, I can only imagine what’s hiding behind my mom’s locked door or drawer or whatever it is the key unlocks.
After we pull into the school parking lot, Landon parks his car and shuts off the engine, twisting around in the seat to grab his book bag and the box of scones from Janie. “One for the road?” he asks. His hair is perfectly disheveled, his dimples out in full force, and he’s holding a box of heaven.
Janie stares hard at the box, waging that silent battle between girl and carb. She finally shrugs her shoulders. “I guess I’ve earned it.” I feel a little triumphant when I think of how far we’ve come since yesterday.
Landon shakes his head and laughs, the sound filling me with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. For everything. Before he can open the door, I reach over and touch his arm. This time he doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” I say and mean it with every piece of Sophie and Amelia combined. I look at Janie in the back seat. “Thank you for believing me.” I could go on, explain that their presence beside me brings a level of comfort I’m not sure I’ve experienced before. Ever. I could tell them that they make me feel less alone, that they make me smile, that they make me wonder, and maybe even regret. I could even tell Landon that if things were different I might be kind of falling for him. Instead I look at him and say, “And your scones are to die for.”
“True that,” Janie says with a mouthful.
As we walk toward the school office, Landon says, “Let me handle this.”
Landon raises a finger into the air as we breeze through the glass office door, the box of scones hidden behind his back, approaching the school secretary at her desk. “Pam, Pam, Pam, not a word. We are late and it’s all my fault.”
Mrs. Keller, the secretary, leans back in her chair a little, unable to mask the smile that pulls at her lips. She gives him the evil eye for using her first name because she has to, but it’s clear she appreciates Landon’s antics. “Well, this ought to be good.”
Landon turns around and raises his eyebrows at me this time.
Then he places the box of scones on her desk with a flourish. “Boom.” He’s so pleased with himself that Mrs. Keller can’t stop herself from laughing a little. “Happy Secretaries’ Day.”
“Mr. Crane, I would like to remind you that Secretaries’ Day is in April. It’s September. And Sophie Graham and Janie McLaughlin. How on earth did you two get dragged into all of this?”
“I blame everything on the scones. We’re powerless to resist them.” And him, I think. Mrs. Keller winks at me like she knows, so she’s either psychic or I’m completely transparent. For one horrible moment I’m sure she’s going to tease me about my painfully obvious crush, but instead she grabs a pen and her pass pad. “We’re so happy to have you back, sweetheart. And you, Ms. McLaughlin. Keep an eye on him and take care of your friend,” she says as she writes out the passes with a smile.
“Thank you,” we chorus, accepting the gift.
“Mr. Crane, do not make a habit out of bribing me with baked goods. I will not stand for it.” But it’s pretty much impossible to take her seriously because she’s already taking her first bite of scone, eyes closed with pleasure.
Landon holds open the door as the bell rings, and Janie and I slip under his arm. The hall floods with kids and already I can feel the burn of eyes, can hear murmurs, and then, “Sophie!” from across the way. The safety of our little trio dissipates with the crowd. I’d like to be in the car with them again, puttering through town. I’d like to be anywhere but here.
“I guess I’ll see you guys around,” he says, a little awkward now that we’re in our natural habitat.
“Um, yeah, definitely,” I answer. His eyes flick back and forth between mine for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a second. The army-green T-shirt he’s wearing has turned them green instead of their usual hazel color.
“All right you two, we’ve got to get to class.” Janie tugs on my arm and drags me away from Landon. “And maybe you should think about apologizing to Zach?”
“Not going to happen.”
“But you love him, right? I mean, I totally get that you have a lot going on right now, but are you sure you’re ready to just ditch everything with Zach? He’s all you’ve talked about for the past three years.”
“It wasn’t how it looked, Janie. We weren’t this perfect couple or anything. All that shit I posted, it wasn’t really real. And I’m done pretending.”
She stops in the middle of the hallway and looks at me carefully, almost like she’s seeing me for the first time. Then her face breaks into a smile. “You know what? Good for you.”
&
nbsp; And it feels so good to tell the truth, the real, unvarnished, brutal truth, and to have Janie McLaughlin accept me for exactly who I am. Maybe that’s what this is all about. Maybe it’s about seeing things through someone else’s eyes and for the first time ever, seeing them as they actually are instead of for what you always wanted them to be.
Without another thought, I walk to my locker, twist the combination, and grab my books for AP English.
It’s not until I’m sitting in class ten minutes later that I realize I didn’t even have to think about the code to open Sophie’s locker.
Twenty-Five
I SPEND THE REST OF THE MORNING ADDING PAGES OF NOTES TO MY notebook and figuring out how I’m going to get back to my house to find whatever that key opens. There is absolutely no reason for me to be at school right now unless you count adding fuel to the gossip firestorm swirling around me and Sophie and Zach and Janie and Landon and the whole tangled web I’ve managed to trap us all in. I’m officially the girl who almost killed someone, broke up with her boyfriend, and started worshipping a spiral notebook in less than a week.
By fifth period, I’m about done. If I head through the woods, I can be back at my house in ten minutes. With any luck, the house will still be empty with my mom at the hospital and Mae suffering through sixth period. So I do what any girl stuck in the wrong body would do if she found a key inside the only precious artifact that’s survived seven moves.
I cut school.
It takes me twelve minutes to jog home, and I blame the awkward slap of Sophie’s bag, her short legs, and her impractical shoes for the extra two-minute lag. The house is exactly the same as Landon, Janie, and I left it this morning. The garage is shut tight, the exterior foreboding, the front window slightly cracked. I hoist up the window and climb back inside.
The key is so small that it can’t belong to anything bigger than a diary or a small box or something. Luckily, we don’t have all that much stuff, so if there’s a secret box or diary within these walls, I think I’ll be able to find it. Preferably in the next ten minutes. Something tells me if Sophie Graham is caught breaking and entering, shit would go down. Hard.
I do a cursory glance around the family room and kitchen. If my mom were hiding something from us, I really don’t think she’d hide it in the rooms that Mae and I spend 90 percent of our time in. Basement or bedroom are probably my best bet. I start downstairs because it’s closer. I’m sweating now, tiny beads above Sophie’s lip, delicate like everything else about her. Every minute that I’m here feels like ten; it’s like being trapped in one of those nightmares where you’re being chased but your body feels like it’s running against a tidal wave. But I have to keep searching, keep pushing against the waves of panic because otherwise I’ll drown in the terror of getting caught.
In the last three years we’ve been here I can’t remember anyone ever voluntarily going down to the basement. Even when funnel clouds churned in the sky above Morristown two springs ago, we all hesitated before opening the door and taking cover. Was it because my mom was hiding something down here? Or was it because it feels like a grave? It smells musty, it’s at least twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the house, and the floors are made of packed dirt. In the last hundred or so years that this house has been standing, nothing good could ever have happened down here.
I pull the chain at the bottom of the stairs to shed some weak light on the space. I see a few mousetraps, some stacked plastic patio chairs, an old coal-burning furnace I manage to find the courage to open, and the water heater. The corners are bare, there aren’t any boxes, and nothing is tucked into the cobwebby wooden rafters above me. I’m out.
I take the steps two at a time on my way back up the stairs, the key sweaty in my palm. There has to be something in one of the bedrooms. As I move through the hallway I pause in front of the doorway to my mom’s room. I smell her. I have no idea what the scent is—her shampoo or perfume or maybe some primitive scent shared between mothers and daughters. But it’s her. All the tension slips from my body and for a moment I feel completely at home. And it’s such a relief because it means Amelia is still in here somewhere. Still somehow able to feel whatever it is that makes me me. A car alarm wailing in the distance jerks me out of my spell. There’s no time to waste.
The door creaks. I head for my mom’s closet as though I’m being pulled.
“Mom?”
I hear a sniffle and rustling behind the closet door and wonder if she’s changing. I don’t want to get snapped at, reminded that she needs her privacy, so I close the door again.
I drop Sophie’s book bag in the entry to get down on my hands and knees, running fingers over the warped wood below me. In the corner of the closet there’s a gap where the wood has pulled away from the wall. Scrambling over, I put my fingers in and pull up on the plank and pray that it’s more than just damaged flooring. There, between the joists and the floor above, is a rusty, locked box. I lift it out of the floor with shaky fingers. Now or never. And just like that, the key clicks into its rightful place and turns with satisfying ease.
My fingers shake as I start flipping through old photographs bound together with a rubber band. Gummy smiles, first steps and skinned knees, awkward middle years where we’re all legs and arms, my senior picture. I guess we have family pictures after all, but for some reason we keep our memories locked up and hidden in the darkest reaches of our lives. I could spend hours poring over each one, drinking in pictures I’ve never seen. But I have to pull myself away; there’s no time.
There’s a huge roll of cash and I can’t help but wonder why my mom would have that much cash laying around and how the hell she came by it. When I flip through the bills I notice they’re all hundreds and a hard knot of anger begins to form in my chest. How dare she hold out on us like this? How could she hide money that we could have used for school clothes or groceries, gas, or, I don’t know, rent to get me through my senior year of high school? There aren’t neat folders with our names typed on the tabs, but in the stack of papers are social security cards and birth certificates, proof that I exist. At least on paper.
November 14, 2000. Live birth. Jenna Elizabeth Dowling.
An electric current stabs at my right temple and my fingers jerk to the spot to cradle the pain somehow even though it makes no difference.
Wrong name. Wrong name.
I pull Sophie’s notebook from her bag and scribble Jenna Elizabeth Dowling on the page.
The next certificate says Haylee Morgan Dowling. May 10, 2002.
This time the floor seems to shift under me. It’s like the bottom just dropped out of my life, of my reality, and I’m falling, falling, falling. I whisper the words, focus on each syllable.
I grip the pen between Sophie’s fingers again, feel the weight of it there. I can barely read the shaky script of Haylee’s name after I add it to the list. Breathe, Amelia, breathe through it. I can’t lose time now.
Saint Agnes Hospital, Baltimore City. I whisper out loud, trying the words on because they’re so familiar. We were born in Maryland? Saint Agnes, I scratch on the page. For a second time. I reread the words Mrs. Graham resident at Saint Agnes in Baltimore? that I’d written just hours before. Two girls with Mae’s and my exact birthday were born in the same hospital where Mrs. Graham, the mother of the girl I’m stuck inside, was doing her residency. And the entire mess is locked away between the hundred-year-old floorboards of the farmhouse where I’ve spent the last three years of my life.
Suddenly it feels like the ground beneath me is vibrating, humming with the certainty that what I’m feeling is real. I’m not panicking or imagining or dreaming.
Until I realize it’s not just a strange sense at all. It’s the actual garage door groaning beneath me. I’m no longer alone.
Twenty-Six
FEAR EXPLODES IN MY CHEST. SOMEONE IS HOME, AND I’M SITTING IN my mom’s closet with an unlocked box of our family’s secrets, trapped inside Sophie Graham’s body. They’ll call the po
lice. I’ll be arrested, sent to juvie or back to the hospital. I’ll never find my way home.
I stuff the birth certificate into the notebook and cram the rest of the papers and the money back into the metal box, lock it up, and hide it back between the floorboards. The corner of the closet that is blocked by the open door is the only place to hide.
I make Sophie’s body as small as possible and think of Landon’s scones. I read somewhere that negative energy attracts attention and considered it total bullshit at the time, but I’m not about to take any chances. The footsteps pound in quick succession—someone is running. I’m completely screwed. It’s over.
But instead of following me into the closet, they stop a bedroom short. A door slams and a girl begins to cry. Her sobs have the power to make me lose all remaining hope in an instant. It’s Mae, it has to be, but the heartbroken wails sound like they’re coming from a stranger. Is it because I’ve run out of time? Am I gone? Would I know if I died? Would my soul or spirit or whatever is rattling around inside Sophie’s body die right along with me? More questions. No answers.
Grabbing my book bag, I push to my feet and creep out of the bedroom, hoping the squeaky floorboards beneath my feet don’t give me away. I know this is my only chance to escape and every part of me wants to run, but I force myself to move down the hallway carefully, like a stupidly slow ninja.
But when I approach my sister’s closed door I can’t move past it. No matter what’s happened to me, there’s still time for her. I need to warn her about the kidnapper, but I have no idea how. I want to tell her about what I found in our mom’s closet, but if she sees me she’ll call the police.
Instead I tear out a sheet of notebook paper from Sophie’s notebook and start writing.
Now You See Her Page 15