Текст книги "From What I Remember"
Автор книги: Valerie Thomas
Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
Copyright © 2012 by Stacy Kramer and Valerie Thomas
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
ISBN 978-1-4231-5948-3
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Acknowledgments
To David and Henry... for everything
am jolted awake by sunlight flooding the room.
What time is it? Where am I?
Disoriented, I attempt to open my eyes. The light is stabbing. My head is throbbing, my throat is raw, and my stomach is roiling. Is this what a hangover feels like?
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had one. Until now.
I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and lie still, trying to get my bearings. Last night was one of the greatest nights of my life. I think. But then again, it could have turned into one of the worst. I don’t remember much past a certain point.
I can hear kids’ voices a few rooms away. The smell of bacon wafts into the room, a distinct reminder that I’m not home, in my bed, where I should be. My mother grew up in a kosher, Jewish home. Even though she’s more agnostic than Jewish these days, old habits die hard; she’d never cook bacon.
I give it another go, allowing my eyes another peek at the world. Slowly, gradually, without making any sudden moves, I glance around, taking in my surroundings. A partial view of an unfamiliar bedroom comes into focus. There’s a dresser in the corner, where a mess of snow globes, stuffed animals, and Barbie dolls fight for space. A poster of a fuzzy white kitten with a huge purple bow around its neck is taped to the wall, between two windows. One window has a shade pulled halfway down, the other has no shade at all. Light pours in mercilessly. Is it always this sunny in the morning?
I turn my head to avert my eyes, and that’s when I see him. The gorgeous, half-naked boy lying next to me. Asleep.
Oh. My. God. Max.
I am now wide awake, and it’s all rushing back at me.
I’m in Ensenada. Mexico. With Max Langston. At Manuel’s house.
I’m not at all sure how I got here last night. And I’m not at all where I should be, at home, in my bed, preparing for my valedictorian speech, this afternoon. This is so not the ideal scenario for the morning of graduation.
The final throes of last night appear in spiky flashes. Glimpses of scenes flicker in and out, staccato and in no particular order. It’s like watching a movie trailer, except, instead of Kate Hudson or Kristen Stewart, I’m the star. Swimming in the ocean with Max. Drinking (lots of drinking) on the dock.
And kissing (lots of kissing). Then…the screen goes black.
I try to sit up, but the effort makes me woozy, and I lie back down. Why on earth would anyone drink if this is what it feels like the morning after? Maybe because the night before felt pretty damn great. That much I remember.
To say I’m not the kind of girl who normally finds herself in a situation like this is an enormous understatement. I play by the rules even when there aren’t any. I listen. I do as I’m told. In four years of high school, I haven’t dated, drank, or partied—though I seem to have done all three with wild abandon last night. To prove the point, I’m lying here, next to a boy I barely know, in a strange house, in a foreign city. I’m pretty sure this kind of thing doesn’t end well. At least not for girls like me.
Oh God, what was I thinking? I suppose I wasn’t. For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to unplug. Utterly and totally. I went way off the rails. It was exhilarating. Addictive. But not the best idea on the day before graduation.
I look at my watch. It’s nearly seven o’clock. Graduation is in five hours, in La Jolla, California, which is a good two hours away. And that’s without border traffic. Think, I tell myself. But my brain isn’t cooperating. I’m getting very little except the low, dull sounds of static. Much of the blame for this mess falls squarely on my shoulders. If only I hadn’t chased after the guy on the bike, or climbed into that truck, or lost Will, or drank so damn much tequila…
I am interrupted from my free fall by Max’s firm, bronzed arm reaching across my waist. My breath catches in my throat. Beautiful, sexy Max Langston—whose green eyes are lethal weapons, whose lopsided smile is impossible to resist, whose charm is legendary, and whom I’ve barely spoken to in six years of school until three days ago—is lying next to me. If I knew anything about statistics, I’d say the chances of this actually happening are improbably low, and yet here we are, against all odds, our bodies grazing each other, my face flushing with heat.
Max is wearing only boxers, sliding down so low on his hips I can see his V-line. He moves closer. All my senses are on high alert as our limbs intertwine, finding their comfort zone. His body fits perfectly into mine. His fingers inch their way under my T-shirt and gently stroke my stomach. He makes circles around my belly button. His touch is tender and yet totally electrifying. It’s almost too much to bear. His soft, full lips brush my neck. He doesn’t even have morning breath, as I’m sure I do.
“Hey, you,” Max says, smiling lazily. “We got pretty messed up last night.”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping he’ll offer more, giving me a better picture of what exactly happened toward the end of the evening, when my disk got erased.
“I hope we didn’t do anything stupid,” I say, fishing for information.
“Yeah, pretty sure we did.” Max laughs softly, and then his eyes close again.
That’s all I get?
It’s hard to know if he remembers much. Although I can’t help taking pleasure in the fact that he doesn’t seem at all upset to be waking up next to me. I gaze at him, wondering how someone can look that good first thing in the morning. I am in way over my head. I haven’t a clue what happens next.
Max takes my hand in his, which is when I see them—two identical gold bands. One on his hand. One on mine. The rings catch the sun; light shoots off the gold and bounces around the room.
What exactly happened last night? I am ablaze with an unsettling mix of passion and panic. I’m sweating now, which can’t possibly be appealing. What have I done? I’ve got high school graduation, a summer internship at the San Diego Arts Council, New York University in the fall, and parents who are going to freak. I’ve been MIA for the past twenty-four hours. I’m in Mexico with Max. And we’re wearing rings that look suspiciously like wedding bands. This is bad. Very, very bad.
I’ve never even been on a date.
Or had sex.
Or have I?
I rack my brain, but the things I can’t remember skirt the dark edges like storm clouds. I turn back toward Max, and for a fleeting second the dread dissipates. He looks so lovely and content as he drifts back to sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. It’s heart-stopping.
I turn away, and the panic sets back in, full-throttle.
I sit up, intent on hatching a plan, and that’s when I see Lily Wentworth standing in the doorway, staring at me.
s. Murphy drones on, partnering up our English class: “Brendon and Julie, Nadia and Sam, Kylie and Max…”
Wait, what? Kylie and Max? Terrible idea. I’ve managed to escape all interaction with Max Langston in six years at Freiburg, since I got here in seventh grade. We’re at opposite ends of the social spectrum, which is probably why Ms.
Murphy put us together. She’s spiteful like that.
“An assignment? No way,” Lily Wentworth blurts out. Lily has her head buried in a huge leather bag that probably cost hundreds of dollars. She never looks directly at anyone. She always looks past people, her eyes flitting around, searching for something or someone better.
“But tomorrow’s the last day of school.…” Lily whines. While I hate Lily, bitch extraordinaire, she makes an excellent point. Right now, in classrooms all over the country, teachers are handing out candy and patting self-important seniors on the back for a job well done. Not Mistress Murphy, as Will and I call her. (We’re pretty sure she works nights as a dominatrix.) She has found new and inventive ways to torture her students year after year.
“We’re not supposed to get any more homework,” Charlie Peters adds.
All bets are off. No one seems to care that they’re talking back to Mistress Murphy. Something no one would have dared last semester, when grades mattered a whole lot more.
“And that is precisely why I am giving you this assignment, Mr. Peters. I’m tired of seniors riding out spring semester like school is over. If you stop exercising your mind, it atrophies. And next thing you know, you’ll be on the street begging people like me for spare change. And I won’t give you any,” Murphy says.
Harsh.
A flicker of a smile crosses Murphy’s face, which is all sharp angles and pinched features. She’s enjoying this. She definitely dabbles in S&M. I can see her now, clad in leather, holding a studded riding crop as some poor guy pleads for mercy. There are sighs all around. But unlike everyone else in class, I don’t mind one last writing assignment. If I’m going to be an Oscar-winning screenwriter, I might as well hone my craft. What I do mind is working with Max. It’s clear he’s not into it.
“Crap, not Kylie Flores. She’ll actually want to do it,” Max says, loud enough for everyone around him to hear, including me. What an asshole.
A bunch of people laugh. Ha-ha. So witty. He may be perfect on the outside, but inside it’s a different story. If he had a thought in his head, it would perish from loneliness. Max, as always, basks in the attention. He tips back in his chair and tosses his shaggy, sandy locks, like a preening bird.
Like everyone at Freiburg, Max is a spoiled rich kid, floating in a vapid sea of privilege, completely and blissfully ignorant of how the rest of the world lives. Everyone, that is, except for Will. Thank God for Will. God knows, I wouldn’t have survived without him.
Luckily, two more days and Freiburg Academy is in my rearview mirror. I will fly off to New York University knowing the worst is behind me and the best is yet to come. The world will embrace what Freiburg didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t—my biting sarcasm (which, unfortunately, is often on the fritz at Freiburg), my fiery temper (which I consider a sign of a passionate soul rather than a lack of self-control), and my offbeat looks (I’m half Mexican, half Jewish, which looks great on paper, less so in the harsh white light of La Jolla). I will shed this coat I’ve been forced to wear that reads Token Scholarship Student. I will reinvent myself and become someone fabulous, fascinating, and ecstatically happy. I will be unrecognizable to all who knew me, including myself. The Freiburg class of 2012 can kiss my ass. I will finally be free of the social chains that bind me.
Okay, that’s a little over the top. Not my best prose. It sounds more like a bumper sticker or a fortune cookie than actual insight. But it’s all I’ve got right now, and it paints the picture. Life at Freiburg sucks. Plain and simple.
“You will interview your partner and write a thousand-word essay about the two books that made the biggest impression on them during their years at Freiburg. The paper is due tomorrow, the last day of school. If you choose to abstain, I will fail you on the paper, which will count toward your final grade in English this semester and could impact your total GPA. Let’s see how your college of choice feels about that,” Mistress Murphy announces.
Surely the administration wouldn’t condone this move, but Murphy is a renegade. She’s been teaching in these hallowed halls for so long, her outrageous behavior goes unchecked at this point. While everyone else can slack off, Murphy’s threats tap right into my own particular brand of crazy. I will have to do this paper. I’m currently number one in my class with my GPA, a long-held goal of mine, but an F could throw things wildly out of whack, dropping me to number two. The top is a precarious place at a competitive private school like Freiburg, and it requires constant vigilance.
“Does Playboy count?” Luca Sonneban shouts out. Jesus, he’s dim. How did he get into Freiburg, anyway? Aren’t there some basic requirements for one of “the nation’s premier learning institutions,” which is what is etched into the massive granite arch at the entrance of the school? I guess when your dad owns the country’s largest chain of grocery stores, admission standards tend to be waived. A bunch of guys high-five Luca, like he’s just said the most scintillating thing ever.
Mistress Murphy sucks in her breath and glares at Luca. “Go directly to the headmaster’s office, Mr. Sonneban, and do not bother to return to class. Ever. You will receive an F on the paper.”
Luca saunters out of class, all confidence and swagger. He couldn’t care less about the F. The rest of his life is taken care of, and he knows it. I wonder if I would be cavalier and cocky like that if my parents had more money than God? I hope not. But who knows? If I didn’t have to prove myself every damn minute, maybe I’d be dancing on a desk with a lampshade on my head. Students cheer Luca on as he exits. He lifts his fist in the air in salute. Really, people? Do we want to encourage this guy?
I’m sure Max’s favorite book is something so glaringly obvious it’ll feel like a blunt object to the back of my head. The Catcher in the Rye or, worse, The Guinness Book of World Records.
After class, I walk straight to Max’s locker, where he’s standing with Lily (über-girlfriend) and Charlie Peters (sidekick). Max and Lily have been dating since the beginning of senior year. It was only a matter of time before the most beautiful boy and the most beautiful girl coupled up. If they hadn’t gotten together, the world would have spun off its axis or something. Everyone treats them like royalty. It’s so predictable and irritating, it makes me want to scratch out my eyes. As I approach, I can hear them discussing this weekend’s postgraduation party at Charlie’s house, to which I am not invited. The DJ, the songs, the food. You’d think they were planning a moon landing, they’re so intense about it.
Of course I’m invited to the official Freiburg Graduation Fiesta, as are all graduating seniors, but in keeping with the fascistic social code that is life at Freiburg, you only go to the Graduation Fiesta if you’re not invited to the nonofficial, thereby cool, graduation party, which is being hosted by Charlie. Hence, losers only at the Fiesta. No, thank you very much.
Will and I have decided to make our own party. A John Woo movie marathon preceded by an In-N-Out Burger run. It’s an end-of-the-year tradition for us. I get teary at the thought of it. The end of an era. I am so going to miss Will next year. Could there be another Will for me at NYU? Probably not. I don’t make friends that easily.
“Seriously, no Lady Gaga. I’m so over her. I’m all about the Gorillaz and the Dirty Projectors,” Lily insists, fiddling with her gold door-knocker earring that has no business on her moneyed, white ear. The fact that these rich kids like to slum it by dressing faux ghetto bruises me to the core. The ghetto is not particularly cool. I know. I’ve been there most of my life.
“You are just so ahead of the curve, Lil. No one can keep up,” Charlie jokes.
“I know. It’s sick. I’m, like, setting trends all over the place,” Lily says.
I’m standing right next to them, but they’ve yet to acknowledge me. So typical. I don’t want to deal with them as much as they don’t want to deal with me, but what choice do I have?
“Just make sure you get some old-school mash-up in there. Like Prince and Parliament,” Max adds.
“Prince? Seriously?” Lily whines. “Maxie, c’mon, your music taste reminds me of my dad.”
“We can’t all be as hip as you,” Max says with a smile, though I think I sense a hint of annoyance in his voice, which surprises me. Max and Lily are so sickeningly enamored with each other all the time. I’m probably just projecting.
“No, baby, we can’t,” Lily snaps back, with bite. And then she takes Max’s face in her hands and kisses him, long and hard. Charlie just stands by, the lonely job of the loyal third wheel. I guess this is part of Max and Lily’s very public game of romance. I have to look away. I’m afraid I might gag.
I clear my throat. I need to say my piece and get the hell out of here.
Max, Charlie, and Lily turn to me, bemused.
“Let me guess: you want to talk about Murphy’s assignment,” Max says, laughing in my face.
“Uh, yeah. I do,” I say, holding my ground.
“Dude, you called it,” Max tells Charlie.
“Give it up, Kylie. Grades don’t matter anymore,” Charlie tells me.
“They do to me. I don’t want an F in English. I’m doing the assignment, and since it requires a partner,” I say, turning to Max, “you’re going to have to do it with me.”
What I don’t say is that because I’m not sporty or arty or a theater geek, the one thing that distinguishes me at Freiburg is my valedictorian position, and I’m not about to lose it. I happen to know that Sheldon Roth is a mere .02 points behind me, nipping at my heels, and Patrick Bains is on Sheldon, and Lily is right behind Patrick. (As much as I’d like to write her off as an idiot, I can’t. She hit the jackpot: rich, beautiful, and smart.) My name may be printed on the graduation ceremony program as valedictorian speaker, but the numbers can change at any time. With one bad paper in English, Sheldon could pull ahead. This is a war and I intend to win it.
“You’re kidding, right?” Max says. “Murphy can go to hell.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve got an academic scholarship to NYU and I really need to keep my grades up.…” I wish I didn’t feel the need to apologize. I wish I could drum up a genius comeback that would shut them up. Tragically, I’ve got nothing. My wit goes into hiding with these people. It’s not like I care about their approval; it’s more like we’re different species and I’m not sure how to communicate with them. Popular people are from Mars. The rest of us are from a distant galaxy that no one has ever heard of.
The great irony here is that I can write a brilliant character. I just can’t play one in real life. In the world of my screenplay, the one that earned me a full scholarship to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, I created the most kick-ass female protagonist ever, one who nails the perfect line every time. One who never finds herself in situations like this, flush with humiliation, begging Max Langston to find a shred of decency somewhere inside the cavernous, empty space that is his soul. You’d think I would have picked up a few tips from her. Sadly, that’s not the case.
Lily rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. You are such a geek, Kylie. Just blow it off. One stupid paper from Murphy doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. She’s just trying to freak us out because she knows it’s her last chance to mess with us.”
Lily’s right. Mistress Murphy’s threat is empty and baseless. My scholarship won’t be affected; I’ll still be valedictorian. But I can’t ignore an assignment. I didn’t achieve an Ivy trifecta (Brown, U Penn, and Princeton, all of which I rejected for NYU and their star-making film department, much to my parents’ chagrin) by blowing anything off. Ever. I’m not going to start now.
“Seriously, Kylie. No one’s doing it,” Max adds, flashing his pearly whites. I stare at the floor, afraid I’ll lose my courage if I have to look at him for a second longer. He’s too hot. It hurts the eyes.
“I have time after sixth period. We can meet then. It shouldn’t take long. I, uh…can write yours, if you want.” I am getting this done. No matter how low I have to go. And frankly, with the offer to do Max’s assignment, I’ve hit the floor. Hopefully, NYU will be more of a meritocracy. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need and I can write both papers at home tonight,” I say.
“Okay. Cool. Write my paper,” Max says.
Whatever. I’m never going to be friends with these people. I’m here to graduate first in my class and get the hell out of Dodge.
“Later,” Max says. And then he throws his arm around Lily, pulls her close, and they kiss again. This time with tongue. Thanks so much. Once just wasn’t enough.
Forty-eight hours and counting…
