Chapter 2
EMMA
Present Day
The sun doesn’t shine anymore, or if it does, I’ve missed it somehow.
It’s almost been an entire year since Mallory died and every morning is the same.
I wake up to my alarm, drag myself out of bed and put on my uniform.
I slip on a navy plaid skirt, a white button-down shirt, the iconic Cardale red tie, and my blazer.
Then I saunter down the hallway to the stairs.
I pause, staring up at the faded spot on the wall where my mother’s picture used to hang.
It hung right next to the window, letting sunlight kiss my mom’s gorgeous face.
In that picture, her smile stretched from one side to the other, so big anyone could see how authentic it was.
She had just won her first beauty pageant, and she was so young and happy.
So full of life. She had no money or family, but no one would know it from the expression on her face.
As far as anyone knew, with the winning sash across her chest, she had the world.
I’d often wondered what made her so happy because I thought if I could find that secret ingredient, I could make her smile like that again.
“I could’ve been famous,” she’d say, looking up at her portrait. Her longing eyes glazed over as if the thought physically hurt her.
Whenever she stalled above the staircase, Mallory would pull me back, hiding us away in another room as if watching was wrong. Like the moment was a secret we shouldn’t know about.
“Why does she do that?” I asked Mallory one day.
“Because she’s sad.”
I didn’t understand why we had to hide, but Mallory insisted that we couldn’t help her.
I still remember the moment when she whispered in my ear, “We’re what makes her sad.”
We’re what makes her sad.
She never wanted to be a mother. She was destined for greatness but forced to fall into a role she didn’t want.
No matter how much we begged, we couldn't make her stay.
The day my mother packed her bags her face was cold and lifeless. It didn’t matter that I was crying in front of her or that I tugged on her arm as she walked to the car.
“Please don’t go.”
She shook me off. “I can’t do this anymore!”
“Please. I’ll be better. I won’t ever upset you again,” I pleaded.
She rolled her eyes. “Stop!”
I let go, startled by how abrupt she was. “Don’t you love me?”
I was scared of her answer because it was the lifelong question I’d pushed to the side. It’s an understood truth that a mother should love their child, but mine only seemed to notice me when I acted out.
She didn’t reply for a moment, then she looked directly at me. “If you wanted me to love you, then you should’ve made it easier.”
That was it.
The last thing she said to me before she left.
I walk into the dining room, greeted by the empty table that’s far too big for one person.
On the table is a muffin and banana Dad set out for me before he left.
I know he’s trying, but I want him, not this.
I want the dad who would come into my room right after work, no matter how late it was, to read me a bedtime story.
The dad who put me on his shoulders as we walked down the street despite working over sixty hours that week just because my legs were tired.
Everyone called my sister and me “cookie-cutter kids” growing up because I looked so much like Mallory.
We had the same dark brown hair and eyes.
Mallory’s lips were a little fuller and my feet were a size larger, but side by side we almost looked like twins, and sometimes I wonder if that’s why Dad refuses to look at me now.
I’m a constant reminder Mallory is gone, and I can’t fill her shoes. Despite how similar we looked, our similarities stopped there. I’m a senior now, but I’m wading—drowning a little, if I’m being honest—through school while this time last year she was on track to be valedictorian.
She knew what she wanted to do in life. She had to because she had a plan for everything from the time she woke up to the time she went to sleep.
She kept a strict schedule, every second called for, and she hated interruptions.
I was a walking interruption, so I left her alone most of the time, but I can’t help but wonder: if I had paid more attention to her, would I have been able to save her?
Would I have been able to stop Myles?
I bring my glass of water to my lips, taking a sip to clear the lump in my throat.
Dad’s spot at the table sticks out like a sore thumb.
I’ve tried to do better. To be calmer. Smarter.
I try not to cause trouble anymore, and I tell myself I’m doing it for him, but the truth is I don’t want to explore the world anymore.
It isn’t as wonderful as young Emma once thought.
It’s full of darkness—pain and heartache—and once that darkness catches you, there’s no point in running after the light.
Darkness always wins. Every happy memory gets clouded over by a film of reality, becoming sad.
It’s hard and lonely.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to being the girl who was excited by the endless possibilities of a sunny day.
The young me. She’d run through the yard till her side hurt from breathing in too much.
She’d catch the spiders in her house before someone stomped on them with a shoe and she’d release them into the yard.
She’d sneak out in the middle of school to buy an ice cream bar at the nearest gas station.
Everything was an adventure. She lived each day to the fullest.
Now I just survive.
A hammering sound pulls me out of my thoughts. At first it sounds like a knock on our door, but it’s too consistent. Tap, tap, tap, tap. It’s clearly coming from our front yard though.
I wrap the muffin in a napkin and stuff it into my bag. Then I head for the door, swinging it open.
There’s a man in a white shirt and navy pants at the end of our yard putting a for sale sign at the edge of our property.
“Hey!” I yell, charging forward. “What are you doing?”
He glances up at me and offers his hand and a smile. “I’m Rodger Smith.”
My lip turns up and I place my hands on my hips. “Well, Rodger Smith, what do you think you’re doing?”
He takes his hand back and rubs the back of his neck. “The listing goes live today, so I wanted to make sure I—”
“The listing? What are you talking about?” My heart sinks to my shoes and my mouth goes dry, staring at the sign with Rodger’s annoying face on it next to large red “FOR SALE” letters.
This has to be a mistake. This is my home, but it’s so much more than that. It was Mallory’s home. My mother’s home.
Rodger grimaces, looking past me to the house. “Is your father here?”
“What?” My heart speeds up so much I’m afraid it’ll jump out of my chest.
“Jon? I know he said he would be busy today, but is he still here?” He continues rambling, but I block him out. He’s background noise in the horror I feel.
It’s not true. Dad would’ve told me about this. You don’t just sell a house without talking to the other people who live in it with you. There’s no way this man is telling the truth. My dad wouldn’t do this to me.
“No!” I scream and wrap my hands around the sign post, ripping it out of the ground.
“Hey,” he says, trying to grab it. “I’m just doing my job.”
I throw the sign to the ground and stomp on it, kicking it until it cracks. “We aren’t selling our house!” I thought abusing the sign would make me feel better, but it doesn’t lessen the burning confusion in my heart. Did Dad really choose to sell my home?
Mrs. Meyers, who had been watering her flowers, comes running into our yard. “Emma, it’s okay!”
It’s not okay.
She grabs my hand, pulling me back and I let her. I can’t fight an elderly woman.
Rodger takes the sign and staggers back. He brushes off his scuffed face printed on the sign. “I’ll come when Mr. Adler is home.”
My hands are in fists and I swing even though I’m nowhere near him. “Don’t bother!”
He scurries back to his car and starts it merely seconds after he jumps in, but Mrs. Meyers doesn’t let me go until Rodger has made it a safe distance down the road. Too far for me to chase after his car and do any more damage.
“Breaking the sign isn’t going to stop your dad from selling the house.”
I stare at her with anger-filled tears in my eyes. My nostrils flare as my lip wobbles. “Did you know?”
She sighs, rubbing her forehead.
Mrs. Meyers and her husband live next door. It’s the Meyers, us, and the house that used to belong to Myles’s family.
“I figured it was only a matter of time,” she says.
Why did she say it like it was only natural to sell the house? Was everyone expecting it except for me?
“What do you mean?”
She looks up at the sky. Maybe it’s easier than looking at me. “How is he supposed to pay for it now?”
I grit my teeth to stop myself from yelling.
She’s right, but I don’t want to admit it.
I don’t want to acknowledge how different my life is now.
Time stopped after Mallory died. My dad went from searching the river banks for hours to barely getting out of bed in the mornings when they said she was “presumed dead.”
After Mom left, Mallory was the one who took care of us, and neither one of us knew what to do without her.
We still don’t.
Dad goes through the motions of being a father, but it’s not the same. There’s no spark left in him. It’s almost like he’s a shell of the person he used to be, and it’s lonely.
Mrs. Meyers clears her throat. “Why don’t you come inside for some breakfast?”
I sniffle and shake my head. “No. I have to get to school.” The last thing I want is to sit at her kitchen table and be forced to talk about my feelings.
She has no idea what I’m going through. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have her life combust into oblivion with no hope for it to ever be the same.
That’s all I want. I want my old life back.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than this.
“Okay.” Her worried eyes look me over. “Just try and stay out of trouble.”
I nod, reluctantly, before walking away.
It isn’t right. The house is all I have left of Mallory. Of my mom. I don’t want it stripped away from me. Haven’t I lost enough?
We live about a fifteen-minute walk away from Cardale, or ten if I cut through Mr. Campbell’s alfalfa field, but I don’t have the energy to race him if he catches sight of me.
I keep my eyes on my feet, forcing one foot in front of the other down the sidewalk. A drop falls from the sky, landing on my head. I peer up at the clouds, and I dare it to rain. I dare the universe to make my life even more miserable than it already is.
Maybe I scared it off because I make it to the school without another hint of rain, but the simple triumph isn’t enough to lighten my mood.
The school’s yard is manicured with well-groomed shrubs and trees that stand out against the tall brick building. It’s three stories tall, with white-trimmed windows that are so large they almost take up more room than the brick.
To so many people this is a place of opportunity and a reflection of their high status in the community. Parents brag about their children attending Cardale Academy. It’s known for being a stepping stone to Yale and Harvard.
But to me this is just another place where I don’t belong.
Since Mallory died, everyone treats me like I have the plague, pretending I don’t exist. So many people don’t want to believe what Myles did. And those who do believe blame me and my family.
Trying him as an adult was too severe, they said. Some students even protested outside the courthouse with signs. Rumors ran rampant about the case because Myles refused to fight the allegations. He pleaded guilty despite his lawyer’s recommendation.
At this point I’m too tired and numb to care. Besides, I’m used to being on my own.
As I walk in, I expect to be met with the usual response of my classmates turning their backs and darting their eyes, but instead the girls and boys whisper to each other, watching me move down the hallway.
The hallway is filled with students like they’ve been waiting for me, and heat rises on the back of my neck. What do they want?
I continue on toward my locker, passing glares and hushed voices.
I skid to a stop, clutching the straps of my backpack tighter, and swallow.
In thick red paint strokes that are so fresh they’re dripping down the metal door is one word.
Liar.
Below it hangs a folded piece of paper taped to the locker.
I rip it off, and open it to see a traffic ticket with a photo in the corner. Myles is in the driver’s seat, and next to him is a girl. The picture is blurry and pixelated, but someone drew, in big letters, my name with an arrow pointing to it.
It’s dated for April 5th at four thirty-six.
Right before Mallory died.