Chapter 16
EMMA
By the time I make it out of the library and back to the front of the school, Mallory is gone.
I roam the parking lot, but her car isn’t here. Maybe she thought I’d gone home since she didn’t see me waiting for her.
Either way I start my trek back to the house alone.
My mind is focused on the paper and the look on Mallory’s face when she spoke to Myles.
I’d never seen that look before. Mallory was cold sometimes, and I was used to her disappointment, but that expression sent a shiver down my spine.
Mallory is kind. She took care of me after Mom left without being asked, and I’m not the only person she looks after.
She makes Dad’s meals and runs next door in an instant if our neighbors need help.
Whenever I was sad growing up, she knew exactly what to do or say to make me feel better. From our ice cream trips to the nights she read to me underneath her bedsheets, she was loving.
But that look wasn’t kind. It was almost vicious. Like she was being controlled by emotions she’d never had before.
It doesn’t make sense, but I know there’s an explanation. I start running because I need to see what’s on that paper. It’s the missing piece I need to understand why Myles and Mallory have been acting so strange.
The sun beats down on me as I chance it and run through Mr. Campbell’s field. His dogs bark, but I push harder, sprinting to the other side with sweat on my brow. I don’t stop running until my house is in sight.
Mallory is getting out of her car. Her shoulders slump forward as she turns, and I wonder if it’s from the weight of her backpack or if she has something heavy on her mind.
She turns as I rush to catch up. “I thought you were already home.”
“I got distracted.”
“Ah,” she says, like she isn’t surprised at all. To be fair, I get distracted very easily, so I don’t take it personally. Besides, it’s better than her knowing I’d spied on her. She’d throw a fit over that.
I follow Mallory into the house.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
She slips off her shoes. “What do you mean?”
“What are you going to do now that you’re home?”
A perplexed frown stares back at me, making me second-guess the question. Was it really that odd for me to ask it? But thinking back, I’d never asked her that before. I’d kick off my shoes and keep myself preoccupied while she took care of the house.
“I’m going to grab a snack, and then I’m going to go next door for a little bit to check on Mrs. Meyers.” She looks me up and down. “When I get back, I need to try and get the stains out of your clothes.”
I peer down. “It’s not that bad.”
She lifts the corner of my jacket. “Not that bad?”
I shrug with a smile.
She shakes her head. “You need a shower.”
“But—”
“You can’t look like that when Dad gets home.”
I want to protest more, but I don’t want to argue with her. “Okay.”
“Good.” Her face softens like she has one less thing to worry about. “Just put your clothes in the dirty clothes hamper, and I’ll grab them.”
I’m desperate to show her how I’ve changed. “I’ll put them in the laundry room for you.”
She pauses, hesitating before she says, “Thank you.”
I didn’t realize how badly I needed the shower until the water was over my head. All the tension I’ve felt over the last few days has me tightly wound, but my muscles relax in an instant.
I tear up when I pick up the bottle of shampoo—Mallory’s shampoo. After she died, I used it until it ran out of every drop, but I left the empty bottle on the ledge. Picking it up partly full again is surreal.
This is the reality I want, and I refuse to let it be ruined. Tomorrow is April 5th, the night Mallory is supposed to die, but I won’t let that happen.
I can’t handle living through it again.
But I push that idea out of my mind. She’s in the other room, and if I keep her in view, she won’t be able to leave me. I’ll hang on to her so tight, she’ll have to pry me off.
I finish my shower and step out. After I dry off and change, I twist my hair in my towel to keep it from soaking my clothes.
Then I leave the bathroom and wander down the hallway. Mallory’s door is propped open, and she sits hunched over a pile of books and papers, sprawled out over her bed. Her face is so focused, serious.
There’s an ache in my bones as I live one of my deepest wishes. How I longed to simply watch her study like she’d done every free minute of her life. It’s so familiar and comforting. It’s how the world is supposed to be.
Her eyes flick up, landing on me standing at her door. “What?”
I don’t want to leave. I want to keep staring like she’s one of the precious wonders of the world. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” she asks.
I lean on the doorframe. “Can I use your blow-dryer?” I don’t really need to use hers, but I want an excuse to stay in her room.
“Sure.” She points at the vanity. “It’s in the bottom drawer.”
I smile as I step into her room. It’s impeccably clean without a pile or wrinkle in sight.
There isn’t even a speck of dust on her bookshelf.
Her walls are lavender with white trim, and she has white curtains that reach the floor, making her room feel like a dream.
It’s always reminded me of the way people stage houses to sell, so beautiful no one could possibly be living in them at the time.
I sit at the chair in front of her vanity and watch her through the mirror, waiting to see if she cares that I sat down. She doesn’t seem to mind. She puts her head back down and writes something.
At one point her phone buzzes and she pauses to look at the message. “Dad says he’s working late again.”
“Okay,” I say, still mesmerized by her.
I can’t help but think about all the memories in her room.
All the times I sat in front of this mirror as she did my hair growing up.
Mom never did my hair because she said I couldn’t stay put, but Mallory would gently brush my hair back.
It didn’t matter that I moved around a lot.
She was always patient and did my hair anyway because she didn’t want me to feel left out.
I never blow-dry my hair. I either let it air dry or occasionally put it in braids if I don’t want it to be too wild. Needless to say, I know I’m holding the blow-dryer and brush wrong. I can’t get my hair to wrap around the brush and keep it under the heat at the same time.
I twist the brush, trying to mimic the motion I’ve seen Mallory use, but instead of making the perfect wave, I create a tangled mess. The brush lodges its way into a snarled web of hair, and when I tug on it, my head jerks forward too.
“Ouch.”
Mallory’s eyes fly up and she gasps. In seconds she’s across the room, analyzing the rat’s nest on my head. “I swear I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.”
Then don’t.
And she’s right. I can’t function without her.
I wince, tugging at the brush again. “Do you think you could help me, please?”
Before I could finish my sentence, she had the hair dryer in her hand. She turned it off and set it down. Then she got to work removing strands of hair from the brush. “How did you even do this?”
“Are you impressed?” I tease.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of laughter in them. “More like concerned.”
Slowly, she unravels the hair to the point where she can brush it out. Then she picks up the blow-dryer again and starts to blow my hair dry.
I focus on her face in the mirror as she intently works on each section, making sure it’s as perfect as possible. She’s a good sister. There’s no denying that.
My eyes water, and I want to burst into a sea of tears.
I want to jump up and wrap my arms around her.
I want to kiss her cheek and smother her with my love, all because she’s in arm’s reach.
I want to make up for the last year, but instead I sit as still as possible because I’m afraid if I move, I’ll ruin the moment.
The doorbell rings, and Mallory hands me the blow-dryer. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t want her to leave, but at the same time, I know this is my opportunity to see the paper.
As soon as she steps out of the room, I walk over to her bag. I move the crisp binders, but I don’t see a folded piece of paper anywhere. I take out the binder with the most papers and thumb through them.
I don’t understand why these papers are even in Mallory’s bag because most of these papers aren’t her handwriting. The closer I analyze them, the more I realize they’re assignments from other people. Why does she have these?
Then I see her handwriting. It’s in front of another page, copied word for word.
My head spins, but I put the binder back down. I refuse to let my mind jump to conclusions. This is Mallory. There is an explanation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the open textbook on her bed with her notes lying all around it. On top of it is the folded paper.
My breath gets caught in my throat as I reach for it. I don’t know why, but it feels momentous. Like it’s the missing puzzle piece I’ve been searching for.
I unfold the paper and my heart stops, sinking to my feet.
It’s a test with the answers written underneath each question in red ink. At the top of the page it says in bold red letters: “Answer Key.”
I don’t want to believe it. Mallory wouldn’t cheat, but between the answer key and the assignments in her bag that aren’t hers, I’m finding it hard to explain this any other way.
Still, this is Mallory.
She’s kind. She’s perfect.
Isn’t she?
“What are you doing?” Mallory’s voice cracks as she storms back into the room. She rips the paper out of my hand.
“Why do you have this?”
Her face reddens as her eyes narrow. “Do you have any respect? You can’t just go through my stuff like that.”
“Tell me it’s not what I think,” I whisper.
Mallory is perfect. She wouldn’t do this.
I refuse to believe it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” In one quick motion she shoves everything on the bed into a pile, like she’s trying to cover up the truth.
“You’re cheating.”