Six Months Later

by Natalie D. Richards

  Copyright © 2013 by Natalie D. Richards

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Brittany Juravich/Arcangel Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my Dad and David.

  Thank you for believing.

  Chapter One

  I’m sitting next to the fire alarm, and my best friend is going down in flames. Irony or divine intervention? I can practically feel the metal handle under my fingers. It might as well be whispering my name.

  Tempting. One strategic arm stretch and I could send this whole school into an evacuation frenzy.

  I could end Maggie’s nightmare right now.

  At the front of the classroom, she swallows hard. She is as pale and shaky as the paper in her hands.

  “The social p-pressures and isolation encountered b-by male n-n—”

  I can’t let her suffer like this.

  Maggie shakes her head and tries to shrug it off with a sheepish grin. “S-sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Mrs. Corwin says, playing with the cat pendant around her neck. “There’s no reason to be scared.”

  She thinks stuttering is a fear problem? Aren’t teachers supposed to know about speech issues and all that crap? Then again, what can I expect from a woman who has professionally framed pictures of her beloved Siamese, Mr. Whiskers, on her desk?

  Maggie takes a breath. “The p-pressures and isolation encountered by male n-nurses in a predominantly f-female occupation is a compelling argument f-f-f—” She trails off, going crimson.

  Someone snickers from the front.

  “Go on, Maggie,” Mrs. Corwin says. Again.

  I’m going to do it.

  Beside me, Blake Tanner shifts in his chair. I know this partly because I have good peripheral vision, but mostly because I have freakishly sensitive Blake radar. I hesitate, breathing in the clean hint of his cologne, watching him softly drum a thumb on his desktop.

  My face goes hot. I can’t do this with him sitting here. I’m completely invisible to this guy. And now I’m finally going to get his attention by, what? By pulling a fire alarm? Yes, I’m sure that will send a great message. To the guy who’s been on the student council since the eighth grade.

  Maggie tosses her hair back, forging on. “It’s a compelling argument f-for s-s-sexism against men. In most modern contexts, concerns about s-s-s-s—”

  Maggie goes pink and then red. Tyler and Shannon laugh in the back, and my eyes start to well up. Screw it. I can’t sit here for one more second of one more minute.

  I sink down as far as I can in my chair and start sliding my arm back along the wall. I reach up, but I’m grasping blind. It kind of hurts. I touch something cool and metal. Bingo. Two seconds and this misery is over.

  Blake clears his throat and I bite my lip. Is he watching me?

  What’s wrong with me? Of course he’s not watching me. I’m invisible.

  I turn my head because I’m sure I feel someone’s eyes on me. I do.

  Adam Reed. He’s slouched low in his seat, his dark hair in desperate need of the business end of a pair of scissors.

  Adam arches one of his brows at me. The half smile on his lips asks me what I’m waiting for. I don’t really have an answer, so I curl my fingers over the alarm handle and pull hard. And then I kiss my detention-free junior year good-bye.

  ***

  Maggie is waiting outside the principal’s office. She’s got a couple of notebooks clutched in her arms and a pencil securing her strawberry blond waves into a bun.

  The office door is barely closed when she starts in on me. “What were you thinking? You c-could have been expelled.”

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and offer our school secretary, Mrs. Love, a wave. Maggie takes the cue and follows me briskly back into the hallway. Students are slamming locker doors and texting madly in the few minutes between periods.

  Someone whistles, and across the hall, Connor holds two thumbs up. “Let’s hear it for fire safety!”

  The hallway bursts into a smattering of applause and wolf calls. I blush but give a little bow with a flourish of my hand.

  We make our way to the stairs, climbing them two at a time.

  “So what happened, Chloe? How b-bad is it?”

  “I got a week of detention and a lecture about applying my interest in psychology to evaluating my episodes of acting out.”

  Maggie looks away, and I can tell she’s biting her tongue.

  I know that look. It means she’s working hard to say something in a way that won’t offend the hell out of me.

  “Spit it out. You’re obviously dying to insert commentary.”

  She sighs. “Look, I know you w-wanted to help me, but you’ve got to start thinking about yourself, Chloe. Sometimes it’s like you’re running away from everything you want.”

  I try not to look as hurt as I feel. “It’s not like I’m afraid of being good, Mags.”

  She just laughs and takes my arm. “You jumped off the Third Street Bridge on a dare, which proves you’re not afraid of anything. It also proves you’re insane.”

  “Watch it.”

  I take a breath as we pass the drinking fountains, heading close to the last stretch of lockers in the hall. An otherwise unremarkable place in this building except for the fact that it’s the Blake Zone.

  As if on cue, he closes his locker door and appears, the tall, popular king of this lonely hallway. He laughs at a joke I don’t hear. It’s a perfect laugh that matches his perfect teeth and his perfect everything else.

  I sigh. “Did Blake seem…disappointed?”

  She blows out
an impatient breath and rolls her eyes at me. “I didn’t really think to dissect Blake’s expression in the chaos and p-panic of the fire evacuation.”

  Blake laughs again, and I turn away, my cheeks burning. “Right. Sorry.”

  She gives me a sly grin. “Want me to go ask him?”

  I slump back against the wall with a sigh. “How is it that I’m not the one who talks to boys? I’m the bridge jumper, the alarm puller—”

  “The streaker,” Maggie adds.

  “That was one time! And technically, I was in my undies, but yes. How is it that you, High Queen of the Honor Roll, are better at this than me?”

  “The stutter makes me a wild card,” she says, winking. “No one ever sees me coming. And you talk t-to plenty of guys.”

  My gaze lingers on the stretch of Blake’s polo across his shoulders, the ends of his hair curling over his collar. “Yeah, well. Not that one.”

  “I’ve got to g-get to class,” Maggie says. “Speaking of which, did you remember to pick up your GPA at the office this morning?”

  I feign a big, carefree smile. “Gosh, I must have completely forgotten. But I totally signed up for the SAT study group you told me about.”

  “And somehow forgot t-to ask for your GPA?” she asks, clearly unconvinced.

  “Oh, who cares about a GPA anyway?”

  She blinks at me, arms crossed. “Uh, every college you’ll be applying to.”

  “Right. Well, finals aren’t until next week. I can fix it.”

  Her eyes go dark. “Fix it? How bad is it?”

  “Um, I—” The warning bell rings, saving me from another lie. “Gotta dash. Study hall and all. Yep, that’s me. Study, study, study.”

  I slip inside the door and hear her calling after me. “You’re running out of time, Chloe!”

  She’s got a point. I have exactly six days left of my junior year to turn my GPA into something that won’t doom me to serving bad eggs at Trixie’s Diner for the rest of my life. The urgency should inspire me to use every minute of my study hall period. It really should.

  I pick up my biology notes, but it’s all cellular this and genetic that, and my eyelids feel heavy after two lines. Why can’t I get my act together?

  Everyone around me is in full-force cram mode. Of course they are. Even Alexis, who spent the whole year reading Vogue behind her textbooks, is flipping through a stack of note cards. I’m officially the last slacker standing.

  Maybe I could make a waitressing gig awesome. Except I don’t want a waitressing gig. I only want one gig, and it doesn’t involve rushing baskets of fries to hungry truckers.

  It involves a doctorate degree in psychology.

  How am I going to get through twelve years of college if I can’t even stay awake in study hall?

  Too bad I can’t make a career out of sleeping in class undetected. I could tutor people in that. It’s all about the posture. Chin in palm says bored. Chin on knuckles says deeply in thought.

  And that sunbeam drifting through the window next to my desk? It says, Go to sleep, Chloe.

  I tilt my head, watching the late May sunshine stroke my arms with soft, golden fingers. I do have all weekend to study. And I’ve got that stupid study group tonight, so I’m taking steps in the right direction. How much harm could one teeny little catnap do?

  I give into the warmth and let my eyes slip closed. I’ll worry about my lack of self-discipline after the bell rings.

  But the bell doesn’t ring.

  There’s no sound at all to wake me, just a cold sinking feeling in my middle. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and my heart changes rhythm. Skips one beat. Then another.

  And I know something is horribly wrong.

  Chapter Two

  I’m afraid to open my eyes, but I do.

  Darkness closes around me like a fist. Even still half-asleep, I know this isn’t right. I blink blearily, but everything feels off. The room, the air…me.

  Dreaming. I must still be dreaming.

  Outside the window, everything is dark. Wait, that can’t be right. It can’t be that late.

  Can it?

  A slate-gray sky stretches beyond the glass. I see bits of white trailing through it, drifting down like glitter against velvet.

  What is that? Flowers? Dust? No, it’s just snow.

  Snow?

  I bolt out of my seat, the scrape of my chair legs shattering the silence. I’m alone. Goose bumps rise on my arms as I stare at the emptiness.

  The clock above the whiteboards reads 9:34 p.m. Mr. Brindell, who I’ve never seen anywhere but behind his desk, is gone. I look around, realizing that it’s not just the teacher. Everyone is gone. Everything too. Books, papers, backpacks dangling from the corners of chairs. I’m in the belly of a skeleton, the remains of a class long over.

  Panic shoots through me like a shock from a bad plug, white hot and jangling every nerve.

  No.

  No, this can’t be happening. It’s a scary dream. A mistake.

  I lean closer to the window, but the snow refuses to be anything other than what it is. It falls thickly on the brown grass, clinging to the spindly branches of barren trees.

  Where are the leaves? For that matter, where is the freaking sun?

  Please let me wake up. I need to wake up.

  But I won’t. I feel it in my bones. My heart screams, Nightmare! but my mind says otherwise. This is happening.

  I press my hand to the glass then snatch it back in shock. My nails—they’re filthy. I examine the black half-moons of dirt wedged under each nail, black streaks caked into the creases of my fingers.

  Okay, this is too creepy. Like horror-movie creepy and I need to get out of here. Right now.

  I reach for my backpack, but it’s not there. Gone too is the strappy sundress I zipped myself into today. I’m wearing a black sweater and jeans now. The feel of the soft knit beneath my fingers makes my stomach roll. This isn’t right. Nothing is right.

  I find the comforting bulge of my car keys in one pocket and my cell phone in the other. Thank God. I pull it out with shaking fingers and turn it on.

  Light blooms on the screen, and I deflate in relief. Outside the world is still screaming all its wrongness at me, but this little glowing rectangle is my anchor. I hold it tight.

  I inch farther away from the dark window with its impossible snow, my fingers hovering over the keypad on my phone.

  Now what? My parents flash through my mind, but they still think I’m crazy after last fall. I might as well just call the psychiatric ward at Mercy Hospital and save the extra step. No, I can’t call my parents.

  Maggie.

  My speed dial for her doesn’t work. Too impatient to figure out why, I scan through my recent calls. But she’s not on here.

  Impossible. I haven’t gone ten minutes without calling or texting Maggie since we both got phones in the ninth grade. I texted her on my way to the principal’s office like two hours ago.

  One glance at the window reminds me that wasn’t two hours ago.

  I keep paging, stopping only to make sure this isn’t someone else’s phone. Because the list of names in my recent calls cannot belong to me. Finally, on the sixth or seventh page, I find my mom’s cell phone and a couple of calls to my house, but no Maggie.

  I pull up the detail on one of my calls, and fear slithers through me like a living thing. 11/10—6:32 p.m.

  As in November 10? No. I read it once and then again. A bunch of other calls are all from November too. I glance up, panicked, finding a calendar on the wall and a flyer for a winter dance that should still be eight months away.

  The evidence hits me like icy darts, needling me toward the impossible truth. I’ve been asleep for six months. A coma or something. Somehow, I’ve missed six months of my life.

  But that can’t be right either. They wouldn’t leave me unconscious in a classroom. I’d be in a hospital, hooked up to machines and watched by nurses. But if I wasn’t asleep…

  Amn
esia?

  Maybe I’ve also got a terrible case of consumption too. Or malaria. I need to get serious here—no one gets amnesia! But what else could this be? The longest lasting roofie of all time? Alien abduction?

  A sinister possibility whispers to me. One word, two syllables, and an endless river of humiliation.

  Crazy. I could be going crazy.

  I heard it enough last year, whispered behind my back. I saw it on their faces too, expressions that ranged from pity to contempt as they looked at the “troubled girl.” But troubled is way better than insane, and what else could this be?

  Sane people forget what they ate for breakfast. Or maybe the names of their new neighbors. They don’t wake up in a dark classroom without a damned clue where they’ve been or what they’ve done for six months.

  Adrenaline flares through my middle, making my joints tickle and my stomach cramp. I feel my body poising for flight, my lips going numb, my heart pumping faster with each beat.

  It won’t stop there. Not with me. Familiar bands squeeze around my chest in warning, and I clench my fists. I have to calm down before this turns into a full-blown panic attack.

  I close my eyes and do all the things my therapist told me to do. I remind myself that I am okay. That I am not sick or dying. My body is giving me extra energy to figure this out, and it’s good energy. It’s okay. I don’t need to be afraid.

  “Chloe?”

  My head snaps up at the sound of my name and at the person standing in the open doorway of the classroom. Adam Reed. Six feet and a couple of inches of something that scares me half to death.

  I feel the blood drain from my face as he makes his way into the room. The light from the windows seems all too happy to highlight his model-worthy cheekbones and broad shoulders. Adam’s so pretty he looks like he could sprout wings and a halo. But angels don’t usually come with criminal records.

  Is he here because of the fire alarm? He’s looking at me like that again, with a little bit of a smile on his face. And Adam never smiles, so what gives?

  “What do you want?” I ask, my voice small and frightened.

  He chuckles. “You called me, remember?”

  The idea of me calling him is so ridiculous I can’t even respond. We don’t even nod at each other in the halls. Why would I call him?