“Doubt it.”
“He seemed like it,” I say.
Audrey sips her latte. “You mean when he said, ‘Thanks a lot’?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, he was just messing around. At least I think he was. Sometimes, lately, I can’t tell.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, realizing my question probably counts as number three.
“Oh, nothing,” Audrey says, disappointing me with her answer. “He’s just got some stuff on his mind.”
Audrey is quiet then, clearly done talking about her brother. Kicking myself for using all my questions about Matt, I look out the window to the mall patrons cruising by with strollers and shopping bags. Movement near a planter catches my eye: A man in a blue button-down and jeans is standing there, waiting for someone. The funny thing is that he looks right at me when I look at him. He watches me for a second like a curious stranger might, then looks away, taking out his phone and typing on the keyboard. I imagine him texting his wife or girlfriend to hurry up, except something about him bugs me. He’s got the same robotic look that Cassie has, that the agents in the cleanup crews have.
Unexpectedly, my cell rings. It’s Mason.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes, why?” I ask back.
“No reason. Do you have your card?”
“Yes,” I say; he’s asking about the debit card that’s linked to my allowance account.
“That’s good,” Mason says. “Have fun.”
Click.
nine
For exactly five days, my life is so normal that I almost forget I might be faking it. On Monday, Matt waves at me at the beginning of English. On Tuesday, he asks how it’s going—from across the room before class—making at least three girls seated between us breathe jealousy. Every day except Wednesday, when she has an appointment at noon, Audrey and I eat lunch together, either in the cafeteria or off-campus. Despite the fact that others say “hello” in the halls, I seem to be Audrey’s only friend. She and I text every night, and she even starts reading my blog.
Thursday night, she texts:
Audrey: I love your post about the anatomy of mall crowds.
Daisy: Thanks!
Audrey: Sure. And your friend Fabulous is hilarious.
Daisy: That’s Megan. You’d love her.
My life starts to feel like a prime-time sitcom.
Then, on Friday, the cracks start to show.
The morning is fine, but things begin to unravel at lunch. Audrey and I go to the taco place down the street from school for the Friday special: two hard-shell tacos, chips and salsa, and a drink. Right after we finish eating, Audrey runs to the bathroom and throws up (I hear it because we’re at a table close to the restrooms). But when she comes out, she lies about it.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” I ask when she sits down. Her brown eyes are watery and her face is so pale she’s practically translucent.
“Totally fine,” she says, taking a sip of her soda. “I thought I was going to pee my pants.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because I thought I heard you—”
“Throw up?” she interrupts. Then she leans closer and whispers, “There was another girl in there hurling her brains out. Maybe she’s bulimic or something.”
I glance at the door, wanting to believe my new friend, hoping some super-skinny girl with the telltale round face will walk out looking guilty. Except that I don’t believe Audrey, not at all. The story was fine—good, even—but when she leaned in to whisper, her breath gave her away.