I reach for my phone because this is the kind of thing that I tell Max. He’s great about laughing with me or at least helping me see twenty ways the accident could have been worse—his brain runs on probabilities and statistics—but the little flap covering the pocket of my purse is open. My stomach lurches like I’ve just gone over the handlebars again, and I know without digging through my bag that my phone is gone.
I’m going to have to go back and look for it.
CHAPTER
THREE
IF I HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE SCENE OF THE INCIDENT TO SCOUR the sand, I’m not doing it in this ridiculous dress. I limp-run to my room, throw on a pair of old cutoffs and a plain black tank.
Watford quirks his head as I put on my flip-flops. “I’ll be back soon, you mongrel—”
Wait. What is that noise? I spin around in a circle, tracing the sound. It’s definitely a brrring. I jog into Aunt Emma’s room and there on the bedside table is an old phone. The kind they have in hotels, which makes sense since the Belden-Stratford is technically a hotel.
I hesitate before I pick up the beige, corded thing. “Hello?”
“Maddie!”
“Mom?”
She lets out a big, relieved sigh. “This guy called me from the beach, and he said he had your phone, but he sort of had an accent and I thought he said he had you. And I asked him, ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’ And he said—”
This. This is why I can’t go home. “Mom! Relax. Slow down a little bit. Someone has my phone?”
“Yes! And that proves I was right. Remember when I made you add me as your emergency contact on your lock screen? Well, it worked. And someone found your phone. He said something about needing to play another soccer game on North Avenue Beach, so he’ll be there for a while. I tried to call Emma, but her phone went straight to voice mail. So—”
“Yeah. Emma’s in this crazy meeting, and she asked me to take Watford home.” Not a lie. None of that was a lie. Emma is headed to a meeting and as far as I know it’s crazy. And if I tell my mom that meeting is in another country, she’s going to drive straight to Chicago from our hometown of Normal, Illinois. And the last thing I need right now is for her to remind me how completely incapable I am.
“She’ll be home later.” Much later.
“Okay, well. You should wait for her and then—”
“No!” I choke down the panic rising in my chest and pace a few steps away from the nightstand, only to be pulled back by the curly cord. How did people ever use these things? “Mom, it’s fine. I don’t want to bother her, and the sun is still up, and I’ve got Watford.”
He pokes his head through the bedroom door, ears perked as if I’ve called for him. Devil Dog. None of this would have happened if not for him.
“But if there are a lot of people, then someone could snatch you.”
“Motherrrr. I am seventeen years old.” She forgets this fact constantly.
She sighs again, and this time, I hear resignation in her voice. “Well.” Mom says nothing for a long while, and I can imagine her in our kitchen. Her laptop is probably open on the counter, her newest book on the screen. Although at this stage it’s not actually a book; it’s just an idea. She’s had a lot of ideas over the past ten years but hasn’t sold any of them to publishers.
“Well,” she says again because that’s what she says when she’s trying to figure her way into the winning side of a conversation, which is all the time.
“I’ll be fine.” I drop to the side of Aunt Emma’s bed, and Watford plunges his face directly into my crotch. This. Darn. Dog.
“Just get there and get back.”
I can’t help but smile in relief. There’s still worry brimming her voice, but it isn’t spilling over into an emergency situation. “I’ll call you as soon as I have my phone.”
She gives me his name—Gabe, of course—and his number in case I can’t find him and then says, “I really miss you, Mads.”
The sink turns on in the background. She’s probably washing dishes while we talk. Mom may freak out once in a while, but she never wastes time. There’s probably something in the crockpot and a load of laundry on the couch that I’m not there to fold. I ignore the self-condemnation that rises with that thought. I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants me to feel, anyway.
“I miss watching Star Trek reruns with the only other Trekkie in the house. And I wish you were here to take your little brother to math camp,” she continues, driving the spike of guilt in deeper. I can imagine the pile of worksheets she makes my younger brother do even though school is officially out. “Heaven knows Max doesn’t have time to help me.”
Gotta give Mom credit for staying on brand. This is so completely expected, that even though today sucked I’m still glad I’m in Chicago, breaking out of the box she keeps me in. Normal was a fine place to grow up for the most part, but it’s just small enough and my last name is just uncommon enough to make me the “other” McPherson.
“Are you Max McPherson’s little sister?” every teacher, administrator, and coach would ask, failing to hide the awe in their voice. I can’t count the number of times I considered lying, but there was no point. Max and I have the same shade of brown hair, the same gray eyes, the same gap between our front teeth until orthodontia gave us matching smiles. We are still confused for twins—he’s fourteen months older—but our similarities are only physical.
Max is a certifiable genius. Pretty much everyone in Normal knows his IQ and his GPA, 146 and 4.8, respectively. He’s also a great athlete, good member of the community, and a literal Boy Scout. And as such, I’ve always been a huge disappointment to anyone who knew him first. Max is “gifted.” I’m normal.
I’d probably hate him if he wasn’t also one of the nicest humans in existence.
On bad days, I hate him a little anyways.
There are negative side effects to living your entire life in your older brother’s shadow. People (read: parents) start to believe you belong there.
I hold in a sigh. I know I mean more to Mom than a dishwasher, laundry folder, and a younger sibling chauffeur. She and Dad say they want the “best” for me, but sometimes it just feels like they want what’s safe and easy. With Max, they push him to reach for his dreams, expect him to apply and get premier scholarships, but when I told them about my dream school and program they both responded with something like, “Wouldn’t it be better to pursue something you’re good at?” and “Stick with what you can achieve, Maddie.” That’s why I’ve gotta make it happen on my own.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Call me as soon as you have it.”
“I will. Promise.”
I CLIP WATFORD’S LEASH BACK ON HIS HARNESS—I CAN AT LEAST BE honest in that part—and we rush out of the building. Kevin is singing some gospel song as he waits under the awning, and his voice is a gorgeous, rich baritone. He stops the minute I push through the rotating door, concern showing under his flat-brimmed uniform hat. “Where you headed, Miss Maddie?”
It wouldn’t surprise me if Emma asked him to keep an eye on me. She’s subtler than my mom, but still a worrier underneath. “Just back to the beach. I dropped my phone.”