I leaned my bike against the mailbox post, marched across the immense lawn, and pounded on the front door. An agitated "I'm coming!" came from inside. The door swung open. Nora, combing her fingers through disheveled hair, glared at me.
"Why did you tell Justin I wanted to snoop into his past?" I demanded.
"Dammit, Ariana, it's Sunday morning," she complained. "Couldn't you have waited a few more hours?"
I folded my arms across my chest. She groaned, treading back through the massive foyer.
"I thought this Jenny Carson thing was between us," I said, following her down the hallway. "Why'd you bring Justin into it?"
Nora fell onto the couch, curling her legs under her. My new-and-improved assertive side was making her nervous.
"Look, Ariana, Justin backed me into a corner. He sensed things had changed between you guys, and he wanted to know why. He forced me to tell him what Zoe said in the library. Come on, you know Justin. He doesn't miss anything."
She was right about that: Justin was a human emotion detector. He'd unearthed feelings in me that I hadn't known existed.
"Why did you tell him I wanted to call Jenny Carson?"
"I didn't," she said. "He must've made up that part to get you to talk. Of course, you fell for it. You always do."
I didn't know whom to believe. She swung her feet to the floor and stomped to the door. "Justin didn't do it, Ariana. Maybe you have your doubts, but I don't. He told me why Jenny lied and how badly she treated him. He was crying when he told me, Ariana, crying. That bitch made the whole thing up."
I thought about Justin's eyes welling up. How he'd looked down so I wouldn't see it. And he'd cried in front of Nora, too?
She leaned against the doorjamb, moving a hand to her hip. "Because I'm your friend, I'm going to tell you something. Your boyfriend made a move on me last night."
"What?" The word came out like a cough.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them away. As much as I didn't want to believe her, the performance—if that's what it was—was compelling. But I also knew that if I went to see Justin right now, he'd have me convinced that Nora was making it all up before I could get my coat off.
"Just tell me the truth," I said.
"We went to the harbor and climbed on board this empty boat. I think it was called the Majestic Seas."
"You're making this up. Justin wouldn't do that."
"He's only with you because he has to keep an eye on the weakest link. That's what he said. He told me that when you called Jenny, she said he'd assaulted her, and now you didn't trust him."
I shook my head, not because I didn't believe her but because I did, and the truth of it was too horrible to imagine. I'd only just told Justin what Jenny had said. Nora knew because Justin had told her some time between yesterday evening and this morning.
Like late at night, on the Majestic Seas.
Nora started to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose, but then realized she didn't have them anymore. "He kissed me, Ariana."
Without warning, she shoved me out the door. I tripped over the chaise lounge, but recovered. "I'm the one he really wants," she added, swinging the door shut with her foot.
....
Moving through the hallways felt like wading through knee-deep mud. Everywhere I went, people talked about the prom on Friday: who was wearing what, where they were going for dinner, how they were getting there, and whose parents were out of town. It made me sick, mostly because I knew I wasn't going to be there. Instead, I was supposed to celebrate in a graveyard and pretend that I didn't have a care in the world.
Or would I? The last thing I was in the mood for was a party with the League. Maybe I could pretend to get sick a day or so before the Prom with the Dead. I could get so ill that the whole world would want to leave me alone, and I wouldn't have to deal with Justin.
At lunch on Thursday, I showed up at the nurse's office. She left me alone with the thermometer long enough for me to hold it near the heat vent. An hour later, Mom picked me up.
I slept through the rest of the day, then on and off through the night. The next morning at ten, Mom leaned over me to check the digital reading.
"Ninety-seven point eight," she said. "That's terrific."
"You have to stay home for twenty-four hours after a fever," I told her. "School policy."
Later in the day, Mom decided I was well enough to go to my private lesson, and since I didn't want her calling Mr. Watson and discovering that I'd quit, I agreed. In a few hours, I planned to have a relapse. The kind that required another day of rest.
Sorry about the prom party, I'd tell Justin, but I've been really sick, and there's no way my mother's going to let me out of the house tonight.
At a quarter to four, I announced I was leaving for my lesson. I abandoned my viola in a blooming rhododendron bush and walked out of the yard, down the street, past Mr. Watson's house, and into the woods behind the elementary school. I sat down on a tree stump and dropped my head on my arm.
At least the year was almost over. I could make it through one last plan if I had to. But I didn't really want to punish Wanda. What she'd done to Zoe was unthinkable, but revenge couldn't rewrite history, and hurting Wanda wouldn't make Zoe's pain go away—all it would do was put us deeper into debt with Justin.
Tears gushed to the surface, along with more unanswered questions. Was Jenny Carson on a mission to destroy Justin, or was Justin on a mission to destroy the world? And what had really happened at the boat harbor between him and Nora?
Nothing happened, I told myself. Nothing.
The word filled the space in my head, blocking out unwanted thoughts. I repeated it until my body relaxed under a blanket of humid air.
A cymbal of thunder shook me from a semiconscious state. I looked up at the ink-stained clouds churning overhead.
All I could think about was my viola: defenseless and unprotected in the bush. I ran as fast as I could, chased by the rain, until I reached my yard. Dropping onto my knees, I crawled through the puddles, under the kitchen window where Mom was chopping vegetables, to rescue my instrument.
Up in my room, I grabbed a towel and dried off my viola case first, then myself. As I peeled the wet denim from my legs, the ring in my pocket tumbled out, rolling across the floor like a wayward tire. I fell to my knees, flattening the glint of gold beneath my hand before it reached the heat register. Then I threaded the chain through the ring and hid it under an overdue math graph.
I felt completely alone. Uncertain of anything. I picked up my instrument, tucked it into the crook of my neck, and began to play.
I hadn't memorized the concerto by Seitz, not consciously, but the bow seemed to draw the notes out. I remembered how Mr. Watson had played it for me a while ago, demonstrating how a wider vibrato would make the tone more beautiful. He was right. I didn't know why I'd never tried it before. As I played, I felt the joy of the piece for the first time. Like cliff-diving into a deep lake and thrusting to the surface again.
The tempo picked up speed as my emotions drowned out my thoughts, driving away the fears that seemed to tether me to the everyday world. The cold ugliness inside me melted, leaving a happiness that surged through my fingers. Somehow, my bow kept up as the music swelled inside me, filling the emptiness and making me solid.
That's when the realization hit: I did like playing. I hadn't known how much I'd missed it.
But do you love it? I asked myself. Not every minute, I realized. I detested the endless scales, the exercises, the measures that needed to be repeated until my fingers went numb, but I loved the music. The creation of something so beautiful, so perfect. And even more important, I loved how it made me feel to play it.
Justin hadn't known one thing about me—because I hadn't known it myself until now. Music was a part of who I was, and I couldn't be whole without it. He'd tried to take away what mattered to me most so he could step into its place and control my life without distraction.
The letter from Barrymore flashed through my head. I laid my instrument down on my pillow and rushed to my desk, yanking the drawer open and rifling through so many songs practiced, accomplished, and filed away. There it was, still in the envelope with a clean tear across the top. I slipped it out and read it, this time in full.
My heart came crashing down. I'd missed the deadline. How could that be? There had to be something I could do, something that would make it all better. I glanced at the clock. Barrymore was closed. It would have to wait. Later, I would try to beg my way into my rightful spot.
I returned to the concerto, my last source of comfort. My heart became the metronome, ticking an unrelenting beat, accompanied by the distant chime of a telephone: One, two, three, ring. One, two, three, ring.
A knock on the door. My finger stalled on a B-flat.
"Ariana, are you in there? How did you get inside the house?" Mom opened the door, poking her head inside. "Your hair! It's wet."
"Mr. Watson wasn't feeling well. He let me out early." I couldn't hide the depression in my voice.
"Why didn't you call me? You've been sick. You shouldn't walk in the rain!"
"I'm feeling better, and it didn't start to pour until I was almost home."
Tiny lines darted from her mouth. "What's wrong with Mr. Watson?"
Why was it that every lie required six more? My brain, the remarkable fabricator, had short-circuited in the rain. I shrugged.
Mom shook her head, frustrated. "Anyway, Ariana, someone's calling."
I waited until she was gone, then lifted the receiver. Terrified, but with a tinge of hopefulness, perhaps out of habit, I said, "Hello?"
"Hey, Ariana. It's Richie."
"Oh."
"Hi to you, too. Are you okay? I didn't see you in school."
"I've been sick."
"Listen, I was thinking about the Prom with the Dead tonight when I got this great idea ..."
I glanced at the clock. In two hours I was supposed to show up at Lowell's Cemetery with my party face on.
"We could pretend it's like a real prom," Richie was saying. "You in a dress. Me in a suit. Justin will love that."
I winced at the word "love."
"Wearing a gown in a torrential downpour doesn't sound very appealing," I said.
"The weather's fine now. You can see the stars and everything. Come on, Ariana."
"I still feel lousy"—I started to lie, but changed direction—"about a lot of things. I don't think I can come tonight."
Richie paused. "Ariana, it's our chance to have fun. Maybe we can have a mindless night for once. Just enjoy ourselves."
I didn't say anything.
"Please, Ariana. Be my date." Then he added, "Justin will be really upset if you don't show up."
I glanced away, thinking. How upset would Justin be?
"Please," Richie said. "Do it for me and Zoe."
"Okay, fine," I said, defeated. From where I sat, I could see into my closet. The red bridesmaid dress I'd worn to my uncle Jay and aunt Lin's wedding was still there. I'd missed it somehow in my Salvation Army purge.
"I'll pick you up in my dad's behemoth Chevy at seven thirty," he said.
I hung up the phone. How was I going to pull this off? I hadn't even mentioned the prom to my parents.
I dragged myself to the banister. "Mom!"
"What?" she called back from the bottom of the stairs.
"Sorry," I said. "Didn't see you there. I'm going to the prom tonight, okay?"
"You're going to the what?"
"My friend's prom date has the flu. Richie asked me to go in her place."
"Who's Richie?"
"Just a boy. From math class."
"Oh, just a boy." She laughed. "I can't believe you didn't mention the prom before! It's a huge deal. Or at least it used to be when I was in high school."
My insides fluttered with anticipation. For a moment, it felt like we were talking about the real prom.
Mom studied me, her face softening. The wrinkle on her forehead went back into hiding. "Are you sure you're feeling well enough? Well, never mind. You shouldn't let a cough get in your way. I'm so happy you're going! Do you need help getting ready?"
The relentless fingers of guilt reached out, pinching my heart. I hated lying to her. "Oh, sure. That would be great."
She smiled. "How about that red dress you wore to Jay and Lin's wedding? You looked beautiful in it."
I'd looked like a stick of licorice. But tonight, it would have to do.
"Great minds think alike," I said.
A/N:
Justin makes me wanna eat my sock
Nora be making some confessions........ hmm is she telling the truth? let me know!
hope you enjoyed this chapter.
love ya <3