抜粋
1
Misha
Dear Misha,
So, have I ever told you my secret shame?
And no, it's not watching Teen Mom like you. Go ahead and try to deny it. I know you don't have to sit there with your sister, man. She's old enough to watch TV by herself.
No, actually, it's far worse, and I'm a little embarrassed to tell you. But I think negative feelings should be released. Just once, right?
You see, there's a girl at school. You know the kind. Cheerleader, popular, gets everything she wants . . . I hate to admit this, especially to you, but a long time ago I wanted to be her.
Part of me still does.
You would absolutely hate her. She's everything we can't stand. Mean, cavalier, superficial . . . The kind who doesn't have a thought stay in her head too long or else she needs a nap, right? I've always been fascinated with her, though.
And don't roll your eyes at me. I can feel it.
It's just that . . . given all of her detestable attributes, she's never alone. You know?
I kind of envy that. Okay, I really envy that.
It feels like shit to be alone. To be in a place full of people and feel like they don't want you there. To feel like you're at a party you weren't invited to. No one even knows your name. No one wants to. No one cares.
Are they laughing at you? Talking about you? Are they sneering at you like their perfect world would be so much better if you weren't there, messing up their view?
Are they just wishing you'd get the hint already and leave?
I feel like that a lot.
I know it's pathetic to want a place among other people, and I know you'll say it's better to stand alone and be right than stand in a crowd and be wrong, but . . . I still feel that need all the time. Do you ever feel it?
I wonder if the cheerleader feels it. When the music stops and everyone goes home? When the day is gone and she doesn't have anyone to entertain herself with? When she removes her makeup, taking off her brave face for the day, do the demons she keeps buried start playing with her when there's no one else to play with?
I guess not. Narcissists don't have insecurities, right?
Must be nice.
My phone buzzes from the center console of my truck, and I look away from Ryen's letter to see another text roll in.
Dammit. I'm so late.
The guys are no doubt wondering where the hell I am, and it's still a twenty-minute drive to the warehouse. Why can't I be the invisible bass player no one cares about?
I stare at her words again, running over the sentence in my head. When she removes her makeup, taking off her brave face for the day . . .
That line really hit me the first time I read this letter a couple years ago. And the hundred times since then. How can she say so little and yet so much?
I go back and finish the last part, already knowing how the letter ends but loving her attitude and the way she makes me smile.
Okay, sorry. I just had a social media break, so I feel better now. Not sure when I turned into such an idiot, but I'm glad you put up with it.
Moving on.
So just to set the record straight from our last argument, Kylo Ren is NOT a baby. You understand? He's young, impulsive, and he's related to Anakin and Luke Skywalker. Of course he whines! How is this a surprise? And he'll redeem himself. I'll bet you on it. Name your price.
All right, I gotta go. But yes, to answer your question, that lyric you sent me last time sounds great. Go with it, and I can't wait to read the whole song.
Good night. Good work. Sleep well.
I'll most likely stop writing you in the morning,
Ryen
I laugh at her Princess Bride movie reference. She's been saying that for seven years. The first year, we were required to write each other as part of a fifth-grade project, pairing students in her class with students in mine.
But after the school year ended, we didn't stop. Even though we live less than thirty miles away from each other and have social media now, we continue to communicate this way because it keeps it special.
And I do not watch Teen Mom. My seventeen-year-old sister watches it, and I got sucked in. Once. I'm not sure why I told Ryen. I know better than to give her ammo to tease me, dammit.
I fold the letter back up, the worn creases of the black paper threatening to tear if I unfold and read it even one more time. A lot has changed in our letters over the years. The things we talk about, the subjects we bicker over, her handwriting . . . writing that has gone from the big, unpolished penmanship of a girl who has just learned cursive to the sure, confident strokes of a woman who knows who she is.
But the paper never changes. Not even the silver ink she uses. Seeing her black envelopes in the pile of mail on the kitchen counter always gives me a nice shot of adrenaline.
Slipping the paper into my glove box, among a few other of my favorites of Ryen's letters, I take my pen, hovering it over the notepad that sits on my lap.
"Spread on your bravery, line the eyes and the lips," I say under my breath as I write on the paper, "glue up the cracks and paint over the rips."
I stop and think as I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth, grazing the piercing there. "A little here," I mumble, the lyrics turning in my head, "to cover the bags under your eyes, and some pink on your cheeks to spread the lies."
I quickly jot down the words, my chicken scratch barely visible inside the dark car.
I hear my phone beep again, and I falter. "All right," I growl, willing the damn texts to stop. Can't my bandmates host a party without me for five minutes?
I put the pen to paper again, trying to finish my thought, but I stop, searching my brain. What the hell was next? A little here to cover the bags under your eyes . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut, repeating the line over and over again, trying to remember the rest.
I let out a breath. Shit, it's gone.
Dammit.
I cap the pen, tossing that and the notepad onto the passenger seat of my Raptor.
I think about her last sentence. Name my price, huh?
Well, how about a phone call, then, Ryen? Let me hear your voice for the first time?
But no. Ryen likes to keep our friendship status quo. It works, after all. Why risk losing it by changing it?
And she's right, I guess. What if I hear her voice and her letters become less special? I get to imagine her personality through her words. That would change if I heard her tone.
But what if I hear her voice and I like it? What if her laughter in my ear or her breathing into the phone haunts me as much as her words, and I want more?
I'm already obsessed enough with her letters. Which is why I'm sitting in my truck in an empty parking lot, rereading one of her old ones, because they inspire my music.
She's my muse, and she has to know it by now. I've been using her as a sounding board for years, sending her lyrics to read.
My phone rings, and I look down to see Dane's name.
I let out a hard sigh and snatch it up. "What?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm on my way." I start the truck and put it in drive.
"No, you're sitting in some parking lot writing lyrics again, aren't you?"
I roll my eyes and end the call, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat.
So driving helps me think. He doesn't need to bust my ass just because I can't help it when ideas hit me.
Pulling onto the street, I lay on the gas and head to the old warehouse outside of town. Our band is hosting a scavenger hunt to raise money for our summer tour in a few months, and even though I thought we should just set up some gigs-maybe team up with a few other local bands-Dane thought something different would draw in a bigger crowd.
I guess we'll see if he's right.
The bitter February chill cuts through my hoodie, and I turn on the heater and flip on my brights; the wide light casts a glow deep into the darkness ahead.
This is the road to Falcon's Well, where Ryen lives. If I keep going, I'll pass the warehouse, the turnoff for the Cove-an abandoned amusement park-and eventually, I'll arrive in her town. Many times since I got my license I've been tempted to drive there, my curiosity overwhelming, but I never did. Like I said, it's not worth the risk of losing what we have. Unless she agrees to it, too.
I lean over to the passenger seat and shove the notepad and other papers away, searching for my watch. I left it in here yesterday when I washed the outside of the truck, and it's one of the only things I'm responsible with. It's a family heirloom.
Kind of.
I find it and hold the steering wheel, fastening the black suede cuff around my wrist with a timepiece inserted between two brackets. It was my grandfather's before he passed it down to my dad at my parents' wedding, to be given to their firstborn son. My father finally gave it up last year, only for me to realize he'd lost the original timepiece in it. An antique Jaeger-LeCoultre watch that's been in the family for eighty years.
And I will find it. But until then, I'm stuck with a piece of crap sitting in its place on my grandfather's cuff.
I finish securing the strap and look up, seeing something on the road ahead.
As I get closer, I make out a form moving along the side of the road, the blond ponytail, the black jacket, and the neon-blue running shoes unmistakable.
You gotta be kidding me. Son of a bitch.
My headlights fall across my sister's back, lighting her up in the dark night. I turn down my music as she jerks her head over her shoulder, finally noticing someone is there.
Her face relaxes when she sees it's me, and she smiles, continuing jogging.
And she has her fucking earbuds in, too. Awesome safety precautions, Annie.
I slow the truck, roll down the passenger-side window, and pull up beside her. "You know what you look like?" I bellow, anger curling my fist around the steering wheel. "Serial killer candy!"
Letting out a silent laugh, she shakes her head and speeds up, forcing me to, as well. "And do you know where we are?" she argues. "On the road between Thunder Bay and Falcon's Well. No one's ever on this road. I'm fine." She arches an eyebrow at me. "And you sound like Dad."
I frown in disgust. "A," I say. "I'm on this road, so no, it's not empty. And B. Don't shake your head at me just because you're the only one dumb enough to jog in the middle of nowhere at night, and I don't want you to be raped and murdered. And C. That was uncalled-for. I don't sound like Dad, so don't kick me in the nuts like that again. It's not nice." And then I bark, "Now, get in the damn truck."
She shakes her head again. Just like Ryen, she loves to tease me.
Annie is my only sibling, and despite my less-than-stellar relationship with our dad, she and I get along really well.
She continues jogging, breathing hard, and I notice the bags under her eyes and the sunken look of her cheeks. An urge to scold her nips at me, but I hold it back. She works too hard, and she's barely sleeping.
"Come on," I tell her, growing impatient. "Seriously, I don't have time for this."
"Then what are you doing out here?"
I look out to the empty road to make sure I'm not swerving. "It's that scavenger hunt thing tonight. I'm putting in an appearance. Why aren't you on the well-lit track at the park with the safety of the two dozen other joggers around? Huh?"
"Stop babysitting me."
"Stop doing stupid shit," I retort.
I mean, what the hell is she thinking? It's bad enough being out here alone during the day, but at night?
I'm a year older, graduating this May, but normally she's the responsible one.
And that reminds me. "Hey," I grumble. "Did you take sixty dollars out of my wallet this morning?"
I noticed it missing, and I'd just taken out money yesterday. I didn't spend it, and this is the third time my cash has gone missing.
She puts on the ten-year-old sad face she knows works on me. "I was going shopping for some science project supplies, and you never spend your money. It shouldn't go to waste."
I roll my eyes.
She knows she can just ask our dad for more cash. Annie's his angel, so he'll give her anything she wants.
But how can I be mad at her? She's going places, and she's a happy kid. Anything I can do to make her happier, I guess.
She grins, probably seeing me relent, and lurches over, grabbing onto the window frame and hopping up onto the cab step under the door. "Hey, can you pick me up a root beer?" she asks. "An ice-cold root beer on your way home from the warehouse? Because we both know you're only going to stay there for five minutes unless you find a hot girl who entices you to be sociable, right?"
I laugh to myself. Twerp.
"Fine." I nod. "Get in the truck, and you can go to the gas station with me. How about that?"
"And some caramels," she adds, ignoring my request. "Or anything chewy." She then hops off the step, taking off at a faster pace down the street away from me.
"Annie!" I lay on the gas, catching up to her. "Now."
She looks over at me and snickers. "Misha, my car is right there!" She points ahead. "Look."
I shoot my glare farther up the road and see that she's right. Her blue Mini Cooper sits on the right shoulder, waiting for her.
著者について
Penelope Douglas is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author. Their books have been translated into twenty languages and include The Fall Away Series, The Hellbent Series, The Devil’s Night Series, and the stand-alones, Misconduct, Punk 57, Birthday Girl, Credence, and Tryst Six Venom. They live in New England with their husband and daughter.
