“He’s coppin’ out on Eliot Ness, isn’t he?” said a chipper voice from behind us.
We both swiveled and stared at a grinning Courtney. “No big deal,” she assured us. “If I don’t find a date, I’ll go alone and on the prowl.” She winked and shifted her attention to the taco menu, not seeming the least put out.
At this point I think the guy behind the counter was fed up with all of us, so we ordered quickly. Ever the gentleman, Ethan bought the drinks and the tacos, and the three of us crunched over the gravel, slipping under the fairy-lit canopy of oaks to park ourselves at picnic tables and eat.
“Why don’t you spend Halloween at the Driskill, Cate? Storm the place with a fake Tommy gun as the female half of Bonnie and Clyde,” Ethan suggested before biting into a green chile taco.
I’d been just about to take a bite of my own barbacoa taco—Torchy’s Democrat—when the question was posed, so I lowered my arms, carefully holding the overflowing taco together. “I could totally pull that off, but I too have plans,” I told him sweetly.
“Are they for public consumption?” He tipped back his beer and then waited for my answer.
“Why not? I don’t have any secrets.” Poker face, don’t fail me now. Normally I couldn’t really claim any secrets, but recent developments had me daydreaming of secret identities, obsessing over alter egos, even lapsing into awkward thoughts of Ethan. . . . I prayed Courtney wouldn’t give me away.
“Well, that needs to be remedied, my friend,” Courtney teased, sipping the dregs of her lime-doused Corona. “Every girl should have at least one really good secret.” Her cheekbones rounded in teasing amusement.
“How many do you have?” I said, remembering our little chat in Mirror, Mirror.
“Not enough,” she assured me. “And it’s not for lack of trying.” Her grin widened into a Texas-sized smile. “Just means I need to try harder. Or in different places,” she said, letting her eyes slide over and hook mine.
“What about you, Ethan?” she said, inviting him into our little girls’ club. “Got any secrets?” I looked up from my taco, wondering and curious.
For one unhurried moment, he seemed to consider while Courtney and I waited him out. Then again, he could have just been stalling, messing with the pair of us.
“None that would interest the two of you,” he finally answered.
I stared at him, considering, concocting potential Ethan-worthy secrets. Piggybacking on his neighbor’s cable signal? Occasional Internet porn? Bootlegging the Glee soundtrack?
The corners of my lips edged up, and I bit back a smile. Let the poor guy keep his secrets. Mine would probably shock the pants off him.
“Cagey . . . I like that,” Courtney said, flirting effortlessly. She was a natural-born charmer.
My eyes shifted back to Ethan to gauge his reaction to her. He seemed immune. It occurred to me that they probably knew each other too well, by virtue of being friends with me. I talked to one about the other, and gradually, curiosities were quenched and mysteries disappeared. They were probably beyond any possibility of future romance, and I had to admit to being just a little relieved. Also weird.
“Now that that’s taken care of, tell us about Halloween,” Ethan insisted, fiddling with his empty beer bottle.
“I’m going to one of Syd’s events—a Hitchcock-themed party—I couldn’t pass it up.”
“I notice you didn’t ask me to go with you,” Ethan accused, smirking good-naturedly. “Got a date?”
“I would never intrude on your private life, Chavez. I’m going alone.”
Ethan laughed out loud at that blatant untruth, and Courtney narrowly avoided spraying her final swallow of beer.
“By my count, that’s two chicks going solo. What about you, Chavez . . . you got a date?”
Courtney’s timely arrival thirty minutes ago had distracted me from that very question. I popped the rest of my taco into my mouth and waited to hear the answer.
He glanced over at me. “Afraid not,” he admitted. “No secrets, and no date.” This was hardly surprising.
Courtney offered up a “poor baby” smile. “Well, if your plans fall through . . . or you feel a little Eliot Ness coming on . . . swing by the Driskill,” she offered, climbing off the picnic bench. Taco basket in hand, she said her good-byes.
“I need to go check that a quinceañera is positively perfect in every way.” She batted her eyelashes and smiled angelically. “Thanks, guys—Gate, for your help with a dress, and Ethan, for dinner. Catch you later.” She waved and was gone.
Ethan and I focused on finishing our tacos and studiously avoided any further mention of Halloween plans. I was desperate to know his, but didn’t want him probing further into mine.
Our awkward silence was broken by three guys in polos and jeans, still sporting their company name badges, wanting to share our table amid the after-work crowd. Ethan and I shifted down a couple of feet. My knee bumped the table’s leg bracket and nudged something loose.
I leaned down to peek under the table and noticed a dark shape lying in the shadows. I reached for it, careful not to bump my head on the edge of the table and curious to examine it in the fading light.
It was old, or made to look old—vintage was king these days. And it was charming, from its worn leather cover to its pretty brass hardware. It looked like a secret door.
“What’s that?” Ethan asked, eyeing my find.
My eyes, I’m sure, lit up with excitement, but almost instantly my shoulders slumped and the twinkle died. With my luck, this would be someone’s Weight Watchers journal.
“Looks like some sort of journal,” I said, nudging it onto the table in front of me, preferring the mystery to the reality, at least for the moment. I figured my curiosity would hold out maybe until I finished my tacos.
Some excited murmurings filled the trailer park, and glancing up, I caught a glimpse of a few renegade bats, likely having just emerged, right on cue, from beneath the Congress Avenue Bridge and winged back in our direction. Twilight lit the sky with sherbet colors and gave the little mammals a lovely backdrop for their nightly appearance. Luckily, we were well out of range of the rest of the little buggers and the great guano drop. Ethan had taken advantage of the distraction to bogart the first look at the journal. Evidently, his own curiosity was a bit of a lightweight.
“What happened to ladies first, Chavez? I hope you at least used a napkin.”
He lifted both hands, displaying them palms out, then flipping them to expose the backs.
“Anything up your sleeves?” I inquired sourly. He ignored me, running curious fingers over the little key placket and knob, flipping the book onto its back for further perusal before cracking it open. I concentrated on my taco.
I glanced up when I heard the familiar “Huh.” That one noncommittal syllable expressed Ethan’s grudging curiosity.
I swirled a tortilla chip through my little cup of queso. “What?”
“Strange. There’s a flowery dedication in here that can’t have been written recently, but the rest of the book is blank.” He riffled through the pages all over again and then raised his eyebrows at me. “What’s it doing under a trailer park picnic table?” he asked, nearly swiping the leather volume through a salsa spill on the table as he moved to hand it back to me. I snatched it away from him.
“Maybe someone had just bought it, needed a taco fix, and stashed it under the table to keep it away from a sticky-fingered companion.” I speared him with a look, curling my lip ever so slightly.
Carefully wiping my hands on my napkin, I gently touched the tarnished hardware and brushed my fingers over the worn leather. It felt significant . . . substantial. As if secrets revealed inside would be held dear. I turned back the cover and read the flowery script with my bottom lip caught between my teeth.
“. . . I dedicate to You the following Miscellanious
Morsels, convinced that if you seriously attend to them,
You will derive from them ver
y important Instructions,
with regard to your conduct in Life.”
“It looks like someone intended this as an instructional manual, but then never followed through with it.” I glanced up at Ethan, who was back to concentrating on his own taco. He shrugged in response.
But I could. I could write in this diary from the perspective of my impending alter ego, recording thrilling adventures and dispensing exciting life advice to inspire the English teacher side of me. It sounded like the perfect outlet—judging by Courtney’s reaction, my friends weren’t ready to hear about my fantasy of “going rogue.” It could be my little secret, kept safe in this little book.
“Do you think anyone’s coming back for it?”
I scrunched my nose a little and ever so slightly shook my head, going for subliminal.
Ethan’s lips twitched in amusement. “No way to tell. Why?” I frowned at him as he took a sip of beer.
“Can’t you, for once, just be my partner in crime, Chavez?” I asked, thoroughly exasperated.
The amusement disappeared, and I couldn’t interpret his long, steady gaze. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “Possession is nine-tenths,” he reminded me. “You’re in possession.”
I looked down at the book, wondering if I’d glossed too quickly over the possibility that anyone would come looking for it, feeling vaguely guilty that I didn’t plan on leaving it for them to find, and a little bit thrilled with my decision. I’m sure I was grinning like an idiot when I looked up again.
“So . . . do you want me to smuggle it out in my pants, or ask the taco guy for some foil so you can wrap it up to go? Because I’m all in, baby.”
My laugh sounded suspiciously like a guffaw. It was the “baby” that did it . . . and the gangster voice. I stared across the table at Ethan, his face now mostly in shadow under the string of lightbulbs hung up over the lot. Imagining myself with a secret life was one thing; imagining Ethan as anything other than a clean-cut, hardworking geek was completely laughable.
“Perhaps Eliot Ness was a miscasting. You could hit the Driskill as Al Capone . . . or Pretty Boy Chavez.” I grinned.
“I could . . . except, as I mentioned, I already have plans.”
“Right. What did you say those were again?”
“I didn’t,” he reminded me. “You ready to bust that book outta here?”
Chapter 4
Thrilled with my luck in convincing Mom to let me “borrow” the entire rack of her latest finds, and exhilarated by my under-the-table score at Torchy’s, I’d hurried back home with a smile on my lips. Now I was sprawled on the couch in my little Doris Day— inspired garage apartment with a butterscotch Dum-Dum tucked into the corner of my mouth. I’d changed out of my teacher clothes and couldn’t decide what to do first. I was twitchy with excitement and eager to try on those dresses that oozed vintage sex appeal, but just as impatient to christen my new journal.
But I needed to get into character first. More than that, I needed a definitive alter ego—a secret identity—a Hyde to my Jekyll. My life was quite suddenly—and thrillingly—turning into a good story, and I needed to flush out a name and personality for a very important character.
I was Cate Kendall, and that name spoke volumes about me. Sensible, reliable rule follower. I wanted to be mysterious, flirtatious, and sexy. A bit of a minx . . . Cat. I smiled to myself. If I were an author, it would be the smile of the cat that got the cream, but I wasn’t, and that was a little clichéd. I liked it anyway.
Now for a last name. I could pick something completely deviant from my real name, but I felt like I’d have a better connection if the new identify was a shade of myself.
Kent . . . Kettering . . . Kimball . . . Kennedy! The second I hit on it, I knew it was the one. Cat Kennedy hinted at a sophisticated, independent woman with an undercurrent of sex. Perfect.
I climbed off the couch, pulled the midnight blue dress down off the corner of the armoire, and stepped behind the door—as a sexy little boudoir or a phone booth, it was the best I could do.
I emerged feeling very sexy indeed—I couldn’t keep my hands off me. The line of the bodice, sliding smoothly down into the trim fit of the skirt, and the crisp lustrousness of the fabric was irresistible. Then there was the transparent little shrug, tied above the waist, teasing and hinting at the curves beneath—I was in lust! I slipped into some dark heels and posed in front of the mirror. My legs looked like they were a mile long. What can I say? Clichés were clichés for good reason.
Something would need to be done about my tousled blond bob and fresh-faced makeup, but for now, this would definitely do. The Dum-Dum lollipop wasn’t exactly anachronistic, but it was definitely out of character. Shooting myself a smoldering gaze in the mirror, I trapped the stick between my fingers and pulled it out of my mouth, cigarette style, casually puffing out imaginary smoke like a ten-year-old.
Definitely glamorous, but not worth the risks. I flipped the stick into the trash and waved my hand in the air in front of me like a moron, dispersing the imaginary smoke I’d conjured. Cat Kennedy was definitely not a smoker. And she only experimented with lollipop sticks.
I kicked off the heels and dropped onto the couch, reaching for the purloined book. I shook my head faintly. No, not purloined, found, without identification. I sat with it in my lap and tucked my feet up under me. This was the beginning . . . of something. It could be anything. I just had to decide. And I wanted it to be good. Novel-worthy. No, take that back . . . banned-book material.
Paging past the dedication, I stared at the first clean page, took a deep breath, and began to write.
Hello, I’m Cat Kennedy
I lifted my pen off the paper and stared at those words, tipping my head back and forth, feeling them out. They felt good.
and I’m about to inject a little moxie into your life. I don’t plan on making an appearance just yet. The great reveal will happen at Pop-up Culture’s homage to Hitchcock this Halloween. I’ll be the chick channeling Eve Kendall, exuding an air of mystery in a killer dress and heels. I’ll likely have made an appearance a few times before then, but only in the mirror. Call them practice runs—I want to be ready. But I’m not telling—not after Courtney’s reaction—and certainly not Ethan. He definitely wouldn’t approve. But I don’t answer to him, and this isn’t exactly his choice. I’m perfectly happy to hint at a hidden agenda and let him try to puzzle it out.
Fair warning. . . you may have second thoughts, although I doubt it, and either way I fully intend to railroad you into submission. You need to take on your twenties with more than a pair of reading glasses and a copy of Emma. You need to do this. Say good-bye to your plain-Jane life and set your sights on a little style!
Tipping the book closed, I stayed in character, keeping a mysterious smile on my face until I’d emerged from the makeshift phone booth in my jammies. Then a huge grin split my face. This was totally going to happen, and it was going to be awesome!
I spent a solid minute reveling in the possibilities before I slipped on my teacher glasses and propped myself up on the couch with a stack of term papers and a red pen. I still needed the day job to pay for the glamorous dual life I planned on leading.
By Sunday afternoon I was a wreck . . . in a good way, but still a wreck. Saturday I’d been good, grading papers and finalizing lesson plans. Mom had spent the day working the kinks out of her computer with the Geek Freaks—their boxy little green Scion had been parked in the driveway for at least three hours. I didn’t even want to imagine what was wrong with it—I always just called Ethan. I suspected he’d be happy to deal with her wonky computer if I asked him, but I dreaded the matchmaking fallout. Saturday night I’d spent rewatching North by Northwest, swooning over Cary Grant, awed by Eva Marie Saint’s portrayal of an undercover spy, my head spinning with intrigue. Now I was jazzed to step back into the phone booth and suit up for the evening ahead, but I couldn’t. I needed to focus on being Cate Kendall for a few more hours yet because Ethan
would be here any minute for our weekly Scrabble match. I was prepared for a thorough trouncing and actually a little relieved to finally have an excuse for one. Not as thrilled to have to keep it to myself, but those were the breaks.
Pacing the tight quarters of my little apartment, a piña colada Dum-Dum lodged between my teeth, my gaze bounced from the armoire and away, over and over again, finally touching down on the journal I’d laid on the coffee table. Perfect. I’d while away the minutes with my alter ego and give myself a little pep talk.
A glance at the clock indicated I had about ten minutes before Ethan was due to show up, so I kicked back in my at-home jeans and propped my feet on the coffee table, wiggling my pale-polished toes in excitement.
Settling the charming little book on my lap, I traced my fingers over the detailing, once again marveling that someone had left this treasure behind. Guilt nudged at my conscience, but I tamped it down quickly. Finders, keepers. Besides, I’d already written in the book, and nobody wanted a used diary. I flipped to the one and only entry, my proof of ownership . . . and found it not quite the same as I’d left it.
Weird. How could it have all disappeared? Well, all of it hadn’t disappeared, just most of it. A few words hadn’t budged, and that was every bit as weird as the rest of them skedaddling. I stared at the page, my eyes scanning over each word in turn. It almost seemed . . . but that was impossible! And yet, I was staring at the proof. There was a message here. Oh. My. God. My world had gone Gothic!
I quickly rallied. It absolutely had not. I, unlike Courtney, did not believe in ghosts even one little bit. And the possibility of one haunting a journal stashed under a picnic table in a trailer park was ludicrous. I flipped back to the cover and tumbled the volume over on itself, looking for any clues, and found nothing I hadn’t noticed before. Hmm.
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