B00B9FX0MA EBOK (12 page)

I’m sorry
, she mouthed toward me.

“I saw you. At the hospital. You were there. You heard her scream,” the woman said.

I turned and walked out, my face burning and my ears ringing.

She — my sister, my twin — had been there. And maybe she’d killed Leah. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe Leah’s grandmother was just confused, her brain overpowered by grief.

I drove aimlessly. I kept thinking of a book my mother had read to me over and over again when I was little. It was called
Are You My Mother?
, about a baby bird who hatches while his mother is away from the nest. He hops all over, assuming each person is his mother.

I knew how that bird felt. Except right now, I
didn’t
have a mother I could depend on. Why had she kept my sister a secret? And now, when I needed her more than ever, she was with Geofferson. It wasn’t something I could ask on the phone. I needed her. Here. Now.

But I didn’t have her. I didn’t have anyone.

I had myself.

And somewhere, maybe, a girl who shared my DNA.

I
woke up with a start. Sun streamed through the windows, creating a light-dappling pattern on the linoleum floor. My neck had cramped, and my shoulders felt uneven. I blinked up at the fluorescent lights, trying to figure out where I was. I was in Mrs. Ross’s classroom, curled up on the small orange love seat in the back of the room. The clock above the door read seven a.m.

I’d slept at school.

It was a new low for me. I’d come here after the funeral home, not wanting to go home and desperate to do research on James Thomson-Thurm. Having spent the past three years in and out of school at all hours, I knew that the door behind the auditorium always remained unlocked, so it was easy to sneak in. The Yearbook room felt safe, and unlike my computer at home, I was confident I wasn’t being watched. But I couldn’t find much. All I knew was that he was a scholar of medieval history, an adjunct professor, and had written countless articles on Chaucer. I’d found a faculty home page with a brief bio. He had two children. He lived in Brookline, Massachusetts. I’d found an address. But beyond that, nothing. He didn’t have a listed phone number. And I wasn’t sure whether I should contact him.

I didn’t want to. There had to have been a reason why Mom was so adamant about never communicating with him. Plus,
what would I say? He knew he had a daughter. The fact that he’d never looked me up made it clear he wasn’t interested. And if Mom wouldn’t talk about the fact that she’d had twins, how could I trust some guy I’d never met to tell me my history? It was better to just figure it out on my own.

Feeling exhausted, I managed to shuffle toward the gym locker room. I splashed cold water on my face. I didn’t recognize the girl blinking back at me in the mirror.

I felt outside of myself as the hallway filled with students. I scuffed down the hall, feeling shorter than I ever had before. I was wearing jeans and a hoodie and my hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. I looked like a girl on the run, which was exactly how I felt.

I shuffled to homeroom, staring at my feet.

The intercom crackled.

I glanced up at the speaker, my stomach churning.

“Will Miss Westin please report to the guidance office?”

“Ooooh!”

“You’re in trouble!”

I wasn’t even sure who was saying what. It didn’t matter. It was the same stuff everyone said when someone was called to the office. In a way, I was glad to be called out. It was obvious I’d snapped.
This
was the moment I’d been worried about: when it would become clear that I was mentally falling apart. Except now, I knew I wasn’t. I had the sonogram photo. I had proof.

The white-noise machine whirred inside the guidance suite, and a plate of peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies was sitting on the counter. The room seemed so cheerful and innocent that I wanted to cry.

“Oh, sugar, how are you?” Miss Marsted asked, looking up at me.

“Fine.”
Not fine.
My stomach involuntarily rumbled, and I had to steady myself on the counter. “Why am I here?” I asked, trying to sound as polite as possible.

“Well, we all just wanted to check on you. We heard that you might be a bit stressed out about the Ainsworth. And we want to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Everything’s
fine
,” I repeated. “Who said I was stressed about the Ainsworth?”

“Well, one of your friends popped by. Said you wouldn’t do it on your own, but that he was worried.”

“I don’t have friends,” I said tightly.

“Well, that’s something you can discuss with Miss Keeshan. She’d love to see you and make sure everything’s all right. These types of competitions can do all sorts of funny things to people. I don’t know how you do it,” Miss Marsted said, swooping out from her spot behind the desk and practically pushing me into Miss Keeshan’s office.

“Why not Mr. Klish?” I asked.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry. Just have a good conversation, you hear?” Miss Marsted said, closing the door with an ominous thud.

Miss Keeshan was twenty-six, and had just gotten her social work degree the year before and was psyched to work with teenagers, which we all knew for a fact because she used the word
psyched
in casual conversation. She also wore clip-in feather extensions in her hair, sported skinny jeans and fluorescent tank tops under her blazers, and tweeted Nicki Minaj lyrics. She had no idea what I was going through. I doubted she could pronounce Ainsworth, let alone spell it. But I was desperate.

“Hayley, welcome!” Miss Keeshan said, spreading her hands wide, as if her office were a grand palace and not slightly bigger than a vending machine. The room was made even more claustrophobic by the oversized hot-pink beanbags strewn on the goldfish-orange shag carpeting. A poster with a sloth hanging on a tree dominated the wall behind her desk.
HANG IN THERE!
the poster commanded in oversized letters.

“All right, let’s talk,” Miss Keeshan said. But instead of sitting behind her desk, she collapsed into one of the beanbags, patting the one next to her to motion me to sit.

“You want me to sit down on the floor?” I asked, arching an eyebrow in disbelief.

She nodded. “I feel like it’s more conducive to a conversation than sitting with a desk between us, don’t you think?” she asked in a way that made it clear it wasn’t up for debate.

“All right.” I gingerly perched on the beanbag.

“So, I know that the Ainsworth interviews have been a roller coaster, and we all heard the sad story about Leah.” Miss Keeshan frowned as if she knew her. As if
I’d
known her. “And I just thought it might be nice to talk. Get things off your chest. What do you think?”

I shrugged. I was so sick of being asked what I thought. The truth was, for the first time in my life, I didn’t know. I felt so tired, an aching feeling creeping through my veins. I’d kept everything bottled up for so long, and now, everything seemed so mixed up in my brain. It was as if the Facebook page for the fake Hayley was a purple sock in a load of light-colored laundry. All of a sudden, everything was stained — including my ability to come up with remotely appropriate metaphors.

“Weird things are happening,” I said finally. “So I went to this interview for the Ainsworth scholarship over the weekend and … it wasn’t bad. I think the interview was all right. But there was a program, and every finalist had to submit a bio. I wrote a bio. I bet Mr. Klish has a copy. I sent it in. But … that wasn’t the bio that was printed,” I said in a tumble of words. I knew I should stop myself. But I was too exhausted to hold back.

“What was the bio?” Miss Keeshan pressed.

“It was a joke bio that made fun of me. And it was stuff that no one could have known unless they knew me
really
well. The type of movies I like and … just information most people wouldn’t know,” I said quietly, remembering the phrases from the text:
Acting like she’s better than averyone else.
I shook my head as if to shake the words from my brain.

“Mmmhmmm,” Miss Keeshan murmured as she stood up, crossed the room, and reached into a drawer and pulled out a notebook with a sparkly pink cover. She flipped to a blank page and began taking notes. “Continue,” she said, perching on the edge of her chair, so she was looking down at me. I felt like a kindergarten student, waiting for story time.

“Um …” I asked. “I thought we were sitting down here.”

“You can. Just keep talking,” Miss Keeshan probed.

“Well … I’m worried that someone is … impersonating me. Or, at the very least, trying to sabotage me. And while I’m trying to figure out who it might be, I thought it was necessary that people … be aware.” I glanced down at my hands. My fingernails were bitten to the quick; I’d even begun gnawing on my knuckles. I frowned and glanced at Miss Keeshan.

“So you feel like you don’t know what’s happening,” Miss
Keeshan murmured. “Well, senior year is full of transitions, and it’s normal to feel not quite like yourself.”

“Oh, no!” I said hurriedly, knowing that Miss Keeshan was using her newly minted master’s degree to place any blame on adjustment issues. “I mean, I
am
stressed out this year, but it’s not that. It’s … a personal matter. But I need to make sure that everything related to the Ainsworth isn’t in jeopardy while I figure everything out. I just need you to make sure my chances haven’t been affected. I’ll do the rest myself.”

“You’ll do the rest yourself,” Miss Keeshan repeated. “Sounds like you have a lot on your plate.”

“I do!” I chirped nervously. “But, I mean, I’m fine. I’m
more than fine
. I just need to make sure everything is okay for the scholarship. For my future.”

Miss Keeshan was still scribbling furiously.

“I don’t know why I told you all this. I’m fine, really. I just didn’t sleep well. With the stuff about Leah … and the fake bio … well, I’m just scared. I mean, not scared. Just confused. But I’ll fix it. Somehow,” I said desperately. I’d only revealed a sliver of the stuff I was thinking about, and she already thought I was crazy. I mashed my lips together, trying to keep myself from saying anything else.

Miss Keeshan looked at me, pity evident in her wide, blue, cartoon-Disney-princess eyes. “It sounds like you’re pretty stressed out, huh, Hayley?” she said in the same way a newscaster would ask a murder suspect if it was
really hard to kill your whole family
.

I silently stared down. What could I say? That I somehow had a twin who was most likely impersonating me? Who, even
if she didn’t kill Leah Kirkpatrick, had somehow been at the hospital as Leah died from injuries sustained in a car crash?

Miss Keeshan cleared her throat. “I feel like you’re under a lot of pressure, and when we’re under pressure, things can happen. I heard about your resignation from the yearbook. And I know that’s not like you. So I’m wondering if we’d like to discuss it together?”

“I’m fine,” I said, more firmly this time. I hated when teachers used the word
we
when it was clearly all about me.

Miss Keeshan pursed her lips. “Well, all right. But I don’t think this is about the scholarship competition, Hayley. I think you’re reaching out for help. And I want to help you.”

The bell rang and I sprang up as though I’d been bitten by a snake.

“I have to go!” I stormed out, ignoring Miss Keeshan’s protests behind me. This time, Miss Marsted didn’t offer me a cookie. It was like I had an invisible
C
for crazy affixed to my chest.

Better than
K
for killed.

The thought jolted into my head, as immediate as if it had been one of the creepy texts I’d received. Whether I liked it or not, my sister — or whoever it was — had invaded my thoughts. And she definitely wasn’t going away anytime soon.

I
was halfway across the parking lot when a loud honk caused me to lurch forward in surprise. My satchel tumbled off my shoulder, spewing out the majority of its contents.

I whirled around. Behind me was Matt’s car. He rolled down his window.

“Yo, Westin, what’s up? Skipping out like the secret slacker you are?”

“No.” I leaned down to grab my books, all too aware that Matt’s greeting had given me what Keely always used to term
the tinglies
. Butterflies raced through my stomach, and I couldn’t help but think of the way he’d kissed me across the kitchen table on Saturday night.

“Want to grab coffee? We can call it a study date so it won’t be like we’re really slacking.”

I shook my head firmly. “I
can’t
,” I said, a little too loudly.

“All right. It’s cool. No need to bite my head off. Why are you so freaked out?”

“I’m not. I’m just in a rush.”

“A rush to where?” Matt asked.

“A doctor’s appointment, okay?” I was on edge, and I knew it. “Okay … whoa. It’s cool. I won’t bother you.” Matt rolled up his window and I slid into my own car.

Don’t think.

It was odd the way my mind gave me orders. Usually, it was to think more, dig more. Now, it was the opposite. The only way I could possibly make it to the bookstore was to be incredibly detached.

I inched along the traffic-filled road, crowded with SUVs dropping kids off at the elementary school. Even though it was only the third week of September, Main Street was already decorated for Halloween, with cobwebs twined around the iron lampposts and pumpkins sitting outside the Bainbridge Sandwich Shop, the Laughing Lotus Yoga Center, and the Ugly Mug, all ready to be decorated for the community carving contest.

I burst into the empty bookstore and hurried down the stairs two at a time.

“Mom?” I called, bursting into her office. Cow meowed indignantly, and Mom looked up from her laptop, her glasses pushed haphazardly onto the top of her head.

“Hayley, what are you doing here this morning?” she asked as the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. She stood and crossed toward the coffee-filled French press.

“I’m not here for coffee,” I erupted. “Mom, we need to talk. Now.”

“About what?” she asked, stopping midstep and turning to stare at me. For the first time, I noticed how different her eyes were from mine. They were bright blue with yellow flecks toward the center. Like the eyes that had locked with mine across the auditorium in that second when the lights had come up.

I shifted, causing the wooden beams beneath me to creak. Cow arched his back and nuzzled my arm, desperate to be
petted. The basement felt too haunted-house-creepy for this conversation. We needed people. Sunlight. A place that didn’t feel too dark and foreboding.

“Not here,” I decided. “Somewhere else. It’s important.”

“All right.” Mom followed me, childlike, out the door, where she flicked the cardboard sign in the window. It read:
THERE IS A TIME FOR DEPARTURE, EVEN WHEN THERE’S NO PLACE TO GO. BACK IN A SECOND
; 10%
OFF IF YOU NAME THE QUOTE AUTHOR!
I’d never thought about it before. I don’t know if I’d ever even read the quotation, but today, I could only see hidden meanings behind the words. Mom didn’t even bother locking the door.

“Let’s go to the park,” I decided. Years ago, when I was a child and would be forced to accompany her to a shift at the store because she couldn’t afford a babysitter, Mom would bribe me by promising to bring me there once she was off. Although it had a small play structure with a slide, swings, and monkey bars, I never wanted to climb. Instead, I loved sitting on the park bench, feeding the ducks that crowded the pond.

Wordlessly, we walked up the street and into the park. This morning, the playground was swarming with toddlers, while their mothers were sitting on the benches around the perimeter of the park, drinking lattes and swapping stories about bad babysitters, annoying things their husbands had done, and how to get their child to sleep through the night. As we walked by, I realized that I had no memories of her ever sitting on one of the benches with these parents. Instead, she’d always be sitting next to me, throwing bread into the water and laughing along with me when two ducks began fighting over one crust. She’d been my best friend — my only friend. My heart softened
slightly. Maybe the whole time I felt like I was protecting her, she’d been protecting me in her own way.

I sat on the bench and pulled my knees to my chest. A few ducks waddled over.

“We should have brought food,” Mom said thoughtfully. I wondered if she had the same memory as I did. Her hair blew in the September wind, and, except for the slight lines around her eyes, she looked like she could have been my age.

“Do I have a sister?” I blurted. I pulled out the letter and smoothed it on my knee, followed by the sonogram photo.

She snatched the photo from me, causing a rip down the corner.

“You looked through my things. They’re
private. Private
, Hayley.”

“I need to know. Because she’s here. I’ve seen her. And so have other people. I know she’s around.
She’s
the one who’s been going through your things. She put up a photo on the refrigerator, and she found a letter you wrote to your parents. She’s been spying on me … been spying on us! And I need to know who she is. I need to meet her. Do you think you can find out where she is through James?”

At the name, Mom’s eyes widened. She blinked, looked down. Blinked again. Clenched her fingers so tightly around the paper I thought for sure she was going to crumple it, but she didn’t.

“What else did you find?” Mom said quietly.

“I need to know the truth,” I pressed. “I need to know. Why did he … leave? What happened? And were you really planning on giving me … us … up?” I tried to soften my voice, to try to get my mother to react, to stop clenching and
unclenching her fist. I needed her to take care of me, to let me know the truth.

I reached toward her hand. She snatched it away, then interlaced her fingers together, the oversized silver ring she always wore on her middle finger catching the light and causing rainbow patterns to dapple on the faded denim of her jeans. She closed her eyes and looked as if she were praying. But she wasn’t religious.

“Mommy?” I prompted in a small voice.
Mommy?
It’d been years since I’d called her that.

“Clearly, the adoption didn’t happen.” She puffed out her cheeks and slumped down farther on the bench. “And yes. You did have a twin.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.

“Tell me her name. Tell me something,” I demanded. “Where does she live? With James? With my dad?” The word felt foreign in my mouth, with the
d
’s bumping against each other. I imagined a man with slate-gray eyes and a love of literature, someone who could connect all the unknowns about me until they made sense.

“She’s dead,” Mom said shortly.

“What?” The word
dead
rang in my ears, my stomach twisted in horror. “How can she be dead? She’s not! She can’t be!” My voice rose, more and more hysterical.

“Hayley, please.” Mom put her hand on my hand. It was cold as ice, and I yanked my arm away.

“How did she die?” I asked. “You’re lying. She’s not dead.”
She wasn’t. She couldn’t be. She’s here
. She was at the Ainsworth. She was at the Kennilworth hospital. She was here, in Bainbridge. My brain screamed short, methodical statements, the sentences flashing as urgently as road caution signs on the
side of an icy highway. And then, I thought back to the birth story I loved so much: Mom had hitched a ride from the bookstore to the hospital and had been all by herself in the room as I came into the world. Maybe it really had been like a fairy tale — complete with a horrible and bloody death that had been edited out, just like Mom always used to tell me the story of the little mermaid without telling the truth: that she doesn’t end up with the prince, but turns into sea foam instead. Had
everything
I believed been a lie?

“What happened?” I pressed again. “I need to know.” If my twin was dead, then who was the girl who’d been in the auditorium? Who had been making out with Will?

“We had a couple lined up, ready to adopt a set of twins. It was all planned. You were born first. The doctor hadn’t come yet. There was so much pain, and then a cry. And you were perfect.”

The word, once so comforting, now felt like a slap. I wanted to scream, to jump into the pond or run into the parking lot in front of a car or throw myself on the ground and kick and pummel my feet into the earth. But I sat still, pinching my wrist with my fingernails to keep from moving.

“What happened?” I asked again, my voice thin and strained.

“It was the hospital. They didn’t have the right equipment. And then with the snow, and the roads, and the doctor …”

“What happened?” I screamed, desperate to get to the center of the story.

“Hayley, be quiet!” Mom pleaded. She grabbed my arm, and I resisted the urge to squirm away.

“There were a few moments. It was just the two of us. The room was so quiet, and I couldn’t believe that you were here.
You stopped crying almost immediately, and you just began to look around, as though you were trying to make sense of where you were. And then, you looked at me.”

“Then what?”

“Then she was born.”

“And what?” I asked, feeling a deep sense of dread. I knew what Mom would say. But I needed to hear it. The wind whipped up from the water. The ducks quacked contentedly.

“She was dead. Your umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck.”