Scarlett Epstein Hates It Here (21 page)

“Oh.” The girl points to her head. “We have a chip in here with an address, for emergencies. Steve Mullen, VP of Ordinaria Inc., 428 Donovan Lane—”

“Would you like anything to drink?” Sheila asked faintly. “Please help yourself.”

The girl smiled and nodded, then got herself a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Thank you.”

“So—you’re a Miss Ordinaria rental?” asked Sheila.

The girl nodded.

“What’s your name?”

She opened her mouth, then cringed. “I don’t like it.”

“Can’t you just ask for a new one?”

The girl shook her head. “I’m lucky I even have one, even if it’s dumb. Most of us just have a product ID. Hey, d’you have a straw?”

Sheila handed her one from the junk drawer and watched as the girl sipped from the straw just like her daughter had—an odd quirk everybody used to make fun of her for. This girl looked nothing like her daughter, but she just
was
her, somehow, in a way Sheila couldn’t quite grasp.

Sheila took a deep breath. She couldn’t help herself.

“How do you feel about Megan?”

* * *

Once Scarlett and Gideon managed to break into his dad’s records, Ashbot was easy to track down. She had been purchased by Steve Mullen, the VP of Ordinaria Inc., and his wife, Sheila.

“Whoa.” Scarlett made a
yikes
face. “Is that like, ‘rich dude and his wife get a teen sex slave’?”

Gideon suddenly remembered that Steve’s daughter’s funeral had been around this time of year.

“Oh, shit.”

* * *

“So what’d you do today?” Sheila asked through a mouthful of bruschetta. The pasta was still boiling, but they’d already all sat down to eat. Steve was on his computer, as usual.

“Put that away!” Sheila nudged him. His glasses slid down his nose as he reluctantly complied, crunching into his bread in silence. Sheila smiled.

Megan shrugged. “Uhh, I went to class. Soccer practice. We got pizza after.”

“What!?” Sheila spread her arms wide. “But I made all this.”

“And I’ll eat all this. And so will Dad.”

Steve’s head shot up with a split-second expression of extreme distress, but it immediately disappeared. He nodded assent.

“Yup,” he said. “And we can eat the leftovers all week, babe, so don’t sweat it.”

Sheila put her hand on his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Ewww, stop,” said Megan.

The doorbell rang, and Megan jumped up and ran toward the living room, her long hair—now dyed brown—streaming behind her. “Comiiiiiing!”

Megan opened the door and found Scarlett and Gideon standing on the stoop, looking incredibly concerned.

“Hey, can we help you with something?” she asked quizzically.

“We’ve been looking all over for you, Ashbot!” said Scarlett. Megan winced.

“That’s not my name anymore. It’s Megan.” She shifted uncomfortably. “And my family and I are kind of in the middle of having dinner, so . . .”

“You don’t want to do this,” Gideon pleaded. “They don’t really want you—you’re just a replacement. You’re gonna have to live in somebody else’s shadow.”

Megan shook her head, determined.

“I don’t care what the reason is. They’re nice to me. They act like I’m their
actual
daughter. They’re good people, and they were good parents, and what happened to them was unfair. It’s not like when I was a rental, when everybody who hired me was some loser who had no friends because they were making the choice to be a shitty person, even though they wouldn’t admit it.”

Gideon looked at her for a long time, stunned at the level of critical thinking she was able to do. He couldn’t deny it; she did seem happier.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Megan nodded. Gideon paused, not knowing what to do next. So he just hugged her. “Okay,” he mumbled into her hair.

She nodded a farewell to Scarlett and went back inside
the warm, bright house where her parents were waiting. She shut the door.

Scarlett and Gideon began to walk back to his car.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

They smiled at each other.

“I guess . . . whatever we want.”

IMAGINARY DETECTIVES
IS NO
LYCANTHROPE HIGH
, BUT IT’S
pretty damn good: Two rogue P.I.s team up to solve crimes that the real cops don’t care enough about. Davis is a tall, handsome family man who always follows the rules, and Nickerson is an insanely hot brooding guy who drinks too much, and they’re “partners,” like in the detective way but also the “as overtly in love as possible on homophobic network television” way. They’re so different, but they silently understand each other. My Tumblr is full of gifs of them right now.

When I’m not gushing with Loup about them, I’m hanging out IRL with the Girl Geniuses. I used to think they were just mouth breathers, but Leslie is actually kind of awesome and shockingly vulgar once you get to know her better, and Mike is surprisingly sweet and has random hidden hobbies like building crazy things out of Legos and designing kites. I get why Avery
likes him—he’s a really nice guy.

But mostly I sit in Ruth’s garden. Sometimes I work on it, even though real estate agents will probably be by to show the house any day now. It’s looking good. Gardening is a profession, right? Maybe I’ll get into that. I like the harmlessness of it, spending your days growing flowers.

As I yank some weeds out of the ground, I suddenly hear a
baa.
Not a distant
baa.
One that almost literally is in my ear.

“Hey.”

Gideon is standing at the perimeter of the garden, holding a leash. He looks tentative, which is a strange expression to see on a guy who just walked a sheep down the side of a highway. The sheep’s expression is vacant, and I think it’s drooling.

“Is that . . . what the fuck, is that a sheep?”

Even as I say it, I know full well that I am staring at a sheep. On a leash.

“Yeah, get it?” he asks, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “You called me a sheep.”

“Where did you even get it?”

“Around.”

“Oh! Around.” That clears everything up.

“Anyway, so, this is an apology. For being . . . you know.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah, look, I—”

The sheep stares dumbly at me. I start laughing.

“I don’t mean to look a gift sheep in the mouth, but, um . . . why did you think this was a good plan? Four legs good, two legs bad?”

He looks surprised. “You don’t remember? William. The prom episode.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.”

Now you have all of me.
It was much more romantic on TV.

BAA
, the sheep screams. We both wince, and I shake my head.

“I feel like I can’t have a serious conversation right now,” I say. “I’m just going to pretend like it’s not there. Okay. Ready, set . . .” I turn around and face the door, then summon up all my courage. “Gideon?”

“Yeah?”

“You were right about what you said in the library about me. About testing people. That’s why I was so mad. But I was kind of right about you too . . . even though I didn’t mean to yell. I was just sad about Ruth.”

“You totally were. We were both partly right, I think. I was a colossal dick to you. And to Ashley. I apologized to her too.”

Part of me wants to ask if she’s okay, but that feels condescending. And besides, Gideon can’t speak for Ashley. Instead I decide to stop by the Parkers’ tomorrow and say sorry, sans Converse and sans attitude, to see if she wants to hang with me and Ave sometime.

Gideon clears his throat. “I was just wondering how long we’re gonna be partly right and entirely mad at each other, because there’s an open mic at the Uk Machine tonight, and I’m not gonna go unless you come with me.”

I beam stupidly at the door. But I need to give him my bottom line.

“Gideon, the thing is, I . . . really like you.” My voice cracks a little. “I really, really like you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I really, really”—he laughs the small laugh of an embarrassed boy discussing strong feelings—“
really
like you.”

The audible certainty, as clear as a bell, as final as the post-quiz “Pencils down,” gives me chills. I turn back around, sheep be damned.

“Can I also apologize? Or do I need to present a farm animal to you?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry I wrote that stuff,” I say.

“I know. It’s okay.”

BAA
, the sheep says and then poops on Gideon’s shoes.

“Goddamn it!” he yelps, sidestepping. I double over laughing.

“Fuck!” He shakes most of it off his foot.

“Can you take it . . . back to where it came from?” I wheeze, still cracking up.

“I have it for another half an hour.”

“When does the open mic start?”

“Seven.”

“So . . . what do we do?”

And I don’t mean it like I’ve meant it, an encoded way of asking: “Are we both weird?” or “Are we both popular?” or “Are we together?” I just mean literally: What are we doing today?
Workshopping his new material? Seeing what beachgoers would think of bringing a sheep onto the Jersey Shore? Sneaking into a bad movie so we can make out in the back?

His eyes meet mine.

“I guess whatever we want,” he says.

We smile at each other.

BAAAAAAAA.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful to Tina Wexler at ICM, best agent ever, and my editors Jessica Almon and Marissa Grossman for their constant support and excellent instincts. Thanks also to Casey McIntyre, Ben Schrank (whose kind handwritten note still occupies valuable real estate on my fridge), and everyone else at Razorbill/Penguin, plus the trio responsible for the adorable cover: Lindsey Andrews, Michelle Russ, and Chrissy Lau. And to everybody at
Cosmo
, especially Michelle Ruiz, Marina Khidekel, and Joanna Coles.

Thanks to Julie Buntin, Julia Pierpont, Samy Burch, Anna Schumacher, Emily Henry, Elizabeth Minkel and her excellent column on fandom, Hightstown High School for being such an epic piece of shit, Jillian Michaels DVDs,
Buffy,
my dermatologist, Taylor Swift, that shoe over there, laptops, water, doorknobs, and East Village Wines between 9th and St. Marks.

Huge thanks to Greg, my super-supportive and disconcert-ingly attractive boyfriend, and to my scary-smart little sisters and first readers, Beth and Rebecca. And obviously none of this would have been possible otherwise, so a hundred million thank-yous, Mom and Dad! I’d use your first names, but I don’t know
them.

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