“Paramount to her success,” Charlotte finishes for her. “Absolutely.” Awkwardly, she pats my shoulder. Not so fast, lady. My instincts kick in, and I pull out of her grasp.
“One more tardy or absence and you’re suspended for a week.” Marsh sadly waves a highlighted printout of my attendance record. “This is your last warning, young lady.” Relieved that she folded it into a sealed envelope out of the scope of Charlotte’s prying eyes, I shakily rise to my feet, depositing it in my backpack.
“What about being ill?” Charlotte looks at my sickly face with concern.
“I can see she’s not feeling well. If she’s not better tomorrow, I need a phone call before first period.” Turning to me, she softens her tone. “Feel better, young lady.” Narrowing her eyes, Marsh opens her mouth to say something to Charlotte, then abruptly shuts it.
Before Charlotte can start babbling, I exit the office, her boots clumping behind me.
“What was that?” she whispers as we walk out into the hall.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Just a typical day of school.”
She touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re sick.”
I cringe at her touch.
“Got a minute?”
I don’t stop until I reach the locker I share with Justin. Spinning around, I hiss, “What are you doing here?”
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“With the receptionist?” I shrug. “I was tardy today. I have a hard time waking up in the morning, and I’m clearly not feeling like roses today.”
“No . . . I didn’t mean that. When I tried to find you before this—”
“Find me?” I’m incredulous. “Find me where?”
“At the house.”
“House?”
“On Larchwood.”
I lower my voice. “Oh yeah, my house. You should’ve called first,” I say, knowing full well she doesn’t have my contact info.
“Yeah, I know.” She stares at me, her eyes unyielding. “But I spoke to the woman who lives at the house, and she doesn’t know you.”
“So?”
“So, I dropped you off and watched you walk in the side door.”
“And?”
“You had me drop you off at a house you don’t live at.”
“It’s a friend’s house.”
“They don’t have kids your age. They have a baby. And a toddler.”
“I babysit them.”
She stares me down. “What’re their names?”
In return, I glare at her.
“This was the third high school I went to this morning. If you hadn’t happened to be standing there, I wouldn’t have found you.”
“Seriously?” I turn crimson. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know you.”
“You knocked on my door!”
“Yeah. I needed help. If I’d have known you were going to start investigating me—” I run a hand through my tangled hair. “I don’t need a crazy stalker.”
Charlotte’s face grimaces when I call her crazy. I must’ve hit a nerve. Gingerly, she holds up a plastic bag. “I washed it.”
“What is . . .”
“Your shirt. Figured you’d want it back.”
Stubbornly, I say, “You could’ve kept it, but thank you.”
“Why don’t you have any Jonas Brothers posters in your locker?”
I give her a strange look. “Because it’s my boyfriend’s locker. We share.”
“Do you always refer to your stepmom by her first name?”
“Just to be clear, it’s none of your business.” I bite my lip. “But thanks for returning my shirt.”
Loudly, she says, “I was worried something happened to you. I watched you walk into that garage, and it was like you disappeared into thin air . . .”
A teacher sticks his bald head out, frowning at the two of us. Noticing the present adult, he grumbles incoherently, then slams his door.
“Lower your voice.”
“It scared me, and,” she whispers, “you’re so young and pretty, and it just . . . I overstepped my boundaries coming here today.” She sighs, “Look, you’re right, it’s none of my business.” The air slowly expels out of her body, like she’s a helium-filled balloon I just popped, and her body goes slack.
“Charlotte . . .”
After thrusting the bag into my hand, she spins on her heel and walks toward the bright-red exit sign. Without glancing over her shoulder, she disappears into the daylight.
CHAPTER 8
Charlotte
I barrel back to the Jeep, an angry tear caught in the corner of my eye. Swiping it in frustration as I’m perched in the driver’s seat, I stare out at the cement parking lot and the remaining puddles filled with leftover rainwater.
As a woman, I understand why you would protect your identity from a stranger, and if anyone can relate, it’s me. But the nagging feeling of giving Elle shelter and then having her make up a pretend life is peculiar.
Why would a seventeen-year-old be scared of providing insignificant facts? Most teens post every detail about their lives on social media, as if being immersed in the moment isn’t enough. They tout almost every waking hour in front of an audience, begging people to comment on the most mundane details of their lives—the pumpkin-spice lattes at Starbucks or the selfie they took in a dangerous locale.
Maybe she doesn’t have a good homelife. She did mention that her father married a nurse he worked with. Maybe it was an affair that ended poorly and uprooted her from her mother?
And I guess to her I am practically a stranger. Yet on some level that I can’t quite describe, I feel an inkling of a motherly instinct toward her and detect a pain behind her blue eyes that’s unvarnished. There’s something familiar about her, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe, just maybe, we have commonalities.
My cell rings, and I swipe it to answer.
“Charlotte, it’s Dr. Everett. I’m checking to see how much longer until you arrive.”
Shoot. I forgot my appointment. I glance at the clock on the dash. “Can you give me twenty minutes?”
“Sure. Camille stepped out, so you can come straight back to my office.”
“Sounds good.” I disconnect, my movements jerky as I head down a side street and make a U-turn. Get it together, Charlotte.
When I arrive at the nondescript building reminiscent of a midcentury bungalow, I stride up the walkway to the office of Dr. Meredith Everett. As she prewarned me, Camille is not at her post, so I rap the half-open door sharply.
“Come in.”
“Hi, Dr. Everett.”
“Hi yourself, Charlotte. Is everything okay?” Her pale-blue eyes greet me with worry. “You seemed rushed on the phone.” Her hair’s prematurely white, a contrast to her leathery tan skin, yet the lines on her face make her appear distinguished instead of old.
Sinking into the soft, buttery leather couch, I nod. “Unforeseen circumstances.”
“I’ll be right there.” She shuts her laptop, then stands to close the blinds to shutter the sunlight. “This okay?”