The Conspiracy of Us (2 page)

I
was so lost in my thoughts, I almost blew through the one red light in Lakehaven on the drive home from school. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop in front of Frannie's Frozen Yogurt as pedestrians poured into the crosswalk.

I let my head flop back against the headrest. It was fine. I'd be fine.

Saying no was the right thing to do, even though nobody had ever asked me to a dance before. Even though it was
Jack Bishop
asking me. But it was fine.

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. I wished the light would hurry up and turn so I could get home and this day could be over.

The crosswalk finally cleared, but as I sat up with a sigh and eased my foot onto the gas, one more person stepped out.

I stomped on the brake again, but the guy kept walking, like he didn't care that I'd almost hit him. He was tall, with straight dirty-blond hair a few weeks past a haircut, and so slim I would have called him skinny if not for the tightly muscled arms peeking out from under his T-shirt. He wasn't from here—that much I was sure of. His gray skinny jeans tucked into half-tied boots, and the bag slung across his chest—that was hard for a guy to pull off unironically unless he was a big-city hipster, and Lakehaven didn't have any of those. And even though I might not know everyone's names yet, I knew every face at school. I was sure I'd recognize one that looked like this.

The guy's eyes swept from side to side, unhurried. They lit on three freshmen coming out of the frozen yogurt place, on a group of cheerleaders holding dry-cleaning bags, on a girl on a bike—and then, on me.

He stopped.

He stood there, right in the middle of the street, a smile stretched across his face. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a smile like a lion about to pounce on prey, like blood, and hunger, and it tingled low in my stomach and made me push the lock button.

The car behind me honked.

The guy adjusted his bag and strolled the rest of the way across the street, turning to watch me drive away.

•   •   •

When I got home, I pushed the front door closed and snapped the deadbolt shut. The sound echoed in the quiet house.

I wished I
had
gone to Lara's. She had three sisters, and her aunt and uncle and cousins lived next door. Between the shrieks and giggles of the little kids and the adults in the kitchen drinking wine and teasing us about school and boys and college, her house exploded with life.

“Mom?” I called. The only answer was the washing machine's irregular clunk and a low murmur of voices from the TV.

I tossed my bag on the kitchen table and shrugged out of my denim jacket. The story that had broken the night before was still on the news: a car bomb in Dubai had killed nine people, including a Saudi prince.

I clicked the TV off. The news was depressing. My mom was obsessed, which seemed like a waste of time since we couldn't do anything to change what happened.

I wandered the kitchen, opening cabinets, the fridge, and finally pulling pistachio ice cream and frozen Thin Mints from the freezer.

The guy in the crosswalk could have been another transfer student, but I'd think I would have heard about him. Maybe he was somebody's out-of-town cousin. Or prom date.

I set my ice cream on the table and flipped through the pile of mail. I dropped it all when I got to a postcard. Istanbul—a picture of a mosque with soaring turrets. That was new.

I flipped it over and smiled at the familiar precise cursive.

Avery,

Hope this finds you and your mother well. Istanbul is beautiful. You'd love all the color in the markets, the textiles, the lights on the river. Remember the gyro stand you liked near Copley Square in Boston? There's one on every street corner here. The whole city smells delicious.

Charlie says hello.

Much love,

Fitzpatrick Emerson

Mr. Emerson had been our next-door neighbor in Boston when I was eight. It was right after our first move, and the longest we'd stayed in one place since. Mr. Emerson was all gray hair and round glasses, with a big booming laugh and a bowl of jelly beans—the classic grandpa I never had.

I'd always thought life would be easier if we had
some
family. Brothers and sisters as built-in friends, or cousins to write e-mails to, or an aunt to spend summers with—somebody besides my mom and me. Mr. Emerson wasn't actually related to us, but he was the closest thing we had.

I ran a finger over the Turkish postcard stamp and read the message again. Charlie was Mr. Emerson's grandson, and I swear, Mr. Emerson had been trying to set us up since I was a kid. I'd never seen so much as a picture of Charlie Emerson, but every time he wrote, Mr. Emerson told me about his adventures, and said he talked to Charlie about me.

I flipped the postcard over and looked at the picture. The Hagia Sophia. I remembered Mr. Emerson teaching me about it when I was little. About how “Hagia” was actually pronounced “Aya,” and its name meant “Holy Wisdom.”

I was glad he got to travel now that he was retired from teaching. And I was glad he still cared enough to send postcards. He was the only person over twelve moves who had stayed in touch for more than a couple months.

The laundry room door squeaked open and my mom poked her head out, a frown on her face. “Hi, Junebug. Have you seen my green pen? I swear, I was just holding it.”

I pointed to the top of her head, where the pen stuck out of a messy bun. She felt around, sighed, and pulled it out, letting smooth blond waves fall around her shoulders. “You'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you?”

“You'd think.” I dipped a cookie in my ice cream and took a bite. My mom wasn't actually the flighty, flustered type. It was more like keeping our lives together crowded out unimportant stuff like keeping track of writing implements. “Oh, you were out of fizzy water,” I said. “I got you a case. On the counter.”

My mom came over and kissed me on top of my head. “What would I do without you, daughter?”

“Be thirsty and unable to take notes,” I replied. I hugged her hard around the waist.

“Hey,” she said, a note of concern creeping into her voice when I didn't let go immediately. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn't realized just how much I needed a hug. “Fine.”

I let go, but she slid down and nudged me to the side so she could sit on half my chair. She glanced at Mr. Emerson's postcard but didn't pick it up, and I wondered if she thought that was what was bothering me. Not that she'd ever ask about it directly. We used to talk about the moves, about how lonely I was, but it got to where it made it worse. Now we talked about everything else, but with undertones so clear, they may as well have been subtitles.

“Was play rehearsal okay?” She looped her arm through mine.
I push you into these things so maybe we can both feel better,
the subtitles said.

I put my head on her shoulder. “It was as bad as I told you it would be. Maybe worse.”
I know you didn't actually think I'd stick it out.

“Sweetie, everyone has a hard time with new things.” My mom pushed back the hair that had fallen in my face. “Is something specific bothering you?”

“Um, yes.
Falling.
” I shivered, thinking of the swaying catwalk. “Falling to my death.” That one was actually kind of true.

“Oh, Junebug.” She sat up and took my face between her hands like she used to when I was little.

Everyone said we looked alike. We had the same thick hair, with just a little wave—though hers was blond—same small frame, same little, round nose. But my eyes were wider, darker—especially with my brown contacts—and my very dark eyes in my very pale face made me look young. Her eyes belonged to someone older than the rest of her, especially with the deep worry lines between them.

“I know you're afraid of falling, but sometimes, you've got to let go.”
And I'm not just talking about your fear of heights,
the subtitle read.

I know, and I don't want to talk about it,
I sighed.

My mom got up. “Tea?”

I nodded. She filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The burner clicked a few times and burst to life.

She took two tea bags from the cabinet and rubbed her forehead with a sigh that echoed in the quiet room.

I stopped scraping the bottom of my ice cream bowl. “Everything okay?”

“Did you see the mysterious new boy again today?” she asked. “Jack, right?”

I winced. She wasn't the only one who could change the subject. “Mr. Emerson's in Istanbul. Cool, right?”

The two mugs my mom was holding clattered to the counter. “Yes,” she said, straightening them. “I saw the postcard. Sounds like a fascinating city.”

“Mom. What's going on?” There was obviously something bothering her, and it wasn't the postcard.

“Nothing.” Her fake smile was back. “It's been a long day. And . . . well, Junebug . . .” She looked longingly at the teakettle, like it might save her, then sighed heavily and sat across from me at the table. “We need to talk.”

I knew what she was going to say before she pulled the manila envelope out of her laptop bag.

“A new mandate,” I said flatly. I should have known.

I remembered the first time I'd heard the word. My mom was a military contractor—not
in
the military, like she didn't wear a uniform or anything, but she worked for them, doing administrative stuff in cities all over the country. Sometimes she had to scout a location for new offices and the job lasted a few months, and sometimes it would be more of a desk job she'd do from home, and we'd stay longer.

That day, I was nine years old, and we lived in Arizona. I'd cut my hand. When I came inside for a Band-Aid, my mom was on the phone.

“It's not that I want to leave. I hate doing that to her,” she was saying, and I stopped to listen. “Of course because of the mandate. Why else?”

When she heard the door slam behind me, she hung up the phone.

“What's a mandate?” I'd asked, and she'd reached in her purse and pulled out a large envelope, exactly like the one she was holding right now. It was her new set of orders, sending us to a new town, a new life. The word
mandate
had hung over our heads ever since.

I should have been relieved to see the envelope now. Especially in the last week, I'd let myself come dangerously close to liking Lakehaven.

The teakettle sputtered, then whistled, and my mom poured water into two mugs. She set the one with the Eiffel Tower on it in front of me and I wrapped my hands around it, even though it was too hot. “Where?”

“Maine. Our new house will be right by the water, and the summers are supposed to be beautiful!” she said, too brightly.

I dunked the tea bag. “When?”

My mom leaned on the counter. “I reserved the moving truck for Sunday.”

“Sunday?” I let the bag fall, and tea splashed over the side of the mug. Two days? “Mom! I'm not eight years old anymore. There are things I can't leave that fast. Like . . . getting the records for my AP classes transferred. There's no way a new school will let me into AP at the end of the year without paperwork. And checking the weather in Maine so I can put the right stuff in the right boxes. And—” I couldn't stop thinking about that picture in my bag. Jack. “There are
things.
”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Next time I'll try to give you more warning, but right now, it is what it is.”

I pushed my mug across the table. If we
were
leaving in two days, maybe seeing Jack wouldn't be violating The Plan. One night wasn't getting involved; it was just letting myself live a tiny bit. “I think I'll go to prom tonight, then.”

“No!”

I looked up sharply. The only time my mom ever raised her voice was when she burned dinner. Now she was frozen at the counter, eyes wide like I'd suggested skydiving.

“I have to go out of town for a couple of days, starting tonight,” she said quickly. “I'd rather you stayed home.”

She sometimes had to take care of things at the home office before the moves, but she never acted this weird about it. “A month ago you were forcing me to go dress shopping,” I said.

She picked up a sponge and swiped at the counter. “And you didn't get one, because
you
said you didn't want to go, remember?”

A month ago, I wasn't about to move. A month ago, Jack didn't live here. “I have that old lace dress. The purple one. I'll wear that.”

My mom pursed her lips. “I don't want to worry about you while I'm gone. There'll be drunk teenagers on the road. And what if you lock yourself out?”

“I have literally never locked myself out in my life.” I ran both hands through my hair. “And prom's at school. I can walk there in twenty minutes if you don't want me to drive.”

She tossed the sponge into the sink. “Avery June West,
promise
me you'll stay in tonight.”

I must have looked alarmed, because she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Pack. Relax. You can go to prom in Maine!” My mom only spoke in exclamation points when there wasn't actually anything to be excited about. “You'll be a senior then. Senior prom's more fun anyway!”

I gathered up my stuff, ignoring her pleading eyes. “Fine.”

“Avery, I'm sorry—”

“No, seriously, it's fine,” I said through gritted teeth. This was why I never let myself care. It always got ruined, one way or another. I stalked to my bedroom without another word.

I
threw myself onto my ruffled comforter. I
wouldn't
go to prom in Maine. By next spring, we'd be in the next place. Always in the next place, in the future—that's when I'd have a life. I rooted around in my bag and found the picture again, and next to it, the crumpled drawing of Jack's tattoo. I smoothed out the crinkles.

The compass was vaguely familiar, like I'd seen it in a movie or something. Now I'd never know. I finished sketching the south and east points, pushing so hard with the pen, I tore a hole in the paper.

My phone dinged.

If you change your mind, I'm still going to prom. Hope to see you there.

Jack.

I stared at the message. He wasn't upset. He cared enough to try again. One night. It was
one
night. Why was my mom being so unreasonable?

I want to say yes so much it hurts,
I typed in, then erased it.
I'm going to try not to picture EmmaBeth Porter's tongue down your throat all night,
I typed, then wrinkled my nose. Eww. Already unsuccessful.
Kill me now,
I typed, then tossed the phone at my headboard and watched it slither down between two pillows.

I flopped onto my back and stared at the mustard-yellow ceiling. The first couple of moves, redecorating is fun. Changing paint colors, unpacking all your knickknacks. By the twelfth, all the breakable stuff is left wrapped, and the puke color stays on the walls.

Who knows. Maybe my mom vetoing prom was a sign. Jack
seemed
nice, but carrying a vaguely stalkerish photo was weird. And that phone call was weird. The more I thought about it, the more it hadn't sounded like he was talking to a sick relative at all.

But maybe if I had a family of my own, I'd understand not wanting to tell a virtual stranger all about them.

Maybe if my mom didn't move us so much, I wouldn't be such a reclusive weirdo who forced herself to think the worst about everybody.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe none of it mattered, since we'd be leaving the day after tomorrow anyway.

I listened to make sure my mom wasn't coming down the hall, then leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled out a shoe box that I'd hidden behind some winter clothes. I opened it and tossed my sketch of Jack's tattoo and the photo of me on top.

I was about to slam the box shut, but stopped. I pulled out the top few mementos—invitations to parties I never went to, a picture of me with a neighbor's family. Rattling around in the bottom of the box was the infinity-sign pinky ring from eighth grade, when I broke The Plan for Missy and Alina and Katy. We called ourselves the Fab Four, and promised to text every single day when I moved. That lasted for about six weeks.

Halfway down the stack, a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper listing everyone I'd ever found on Google named Alexander Mason who could maybe, possibly, be my dad.

He and my mom had dated in college, and when she got pregnant with me, he left. When I was younger, I wondered if one day he would realize he'd made a mistake. That he wanted us after all, and we'd have a normal life, full of smiles and holiday dinners and cheesy, feel-good, cell-phone-commercial family moments. My dad's parents were dead, and he didn't have any other family, but I used to think about how there was a possibility of brothers and sisters if he came back into the picture.

I got over that wish a long time ago. I ran a finger over my locket. I'd taken the one picture I had of him out, and now there was only a photo of me and my mom, protected by the worn gold filigree. The picture of my dad stared up at me from the box. It was small, and blurry, but you could tell my dark hair and pale skin came from him, and I knew I had his eyes. You could almost call my natural eye color deep blue, but that wasn't quite right. Really, my eyes were purple.

When I was younger, kids had teased me that I was wearing contacts to be cool. That normally wouldn't have been a huge deal, but as weird and friendless as I was already, it killed me. But it did give me and my mom an idea. Since I had horrible vision anyway—and, though she'd never admit it, probably because they reminded her so much of my dad—my mom suggested colored contacts. I'd had dark brown eyes ever since.

I jammed everything in the box and shoved it back under the bed—and then opened it once more and snatched out the compass drawing.

Even if The Plan was the right thing to do in the long run, what was one night? One dance. One date with one guy. Tonight could be one tiny memory that wasn't a what-if.

I could hear my mom in the kitchen, opening the cabinets over the sink. I knew the sound of her bundling the silverware, wrapping it in a dish towel, and putting it in the bowl of the blender, the same way she'd always done it. Next she'd pack up the baking stuff and the cleaning supplies, and I'd pack my room and the bathroom and the laundry room. And then we'd pile those boxes alongside the ones we'd never gotten around to unpacking from last time.

I made a decision.

I fished my phone out from between the pillows, typed out a quick text, then jumped off my bed and went to the kitchen. I grabbed some of the broken-down boxes my mom had brought up from the basement. “You're probably right,” I said, and her thin shoulders relaxed. “I'll start folding clothes.”

The rest of the afternoon, I was a model daughter. I packed my room, vacuumed, and even heated up frozen lasagna for dinner. Then I waited until my mom was safely on her way to the airport, slipped my dress on, threw my hair up with bobby pins, and walked out the front door.