Until There Was You(18)

Gretchen also told Posey the reason she’d been adopted—Stacia had a baby girl who had died, and Posey was the replacement.

Henry had confirmed that one. In his factual way, he told her their mom had been pregnant when he was in kindergarten, then went to the hospital, and no baby ever came home. That was all he knew.

But all in all, childhood had been A-okay. Posey had friends, was allowed to run cross-country in middle school, deemed the least dangerous sport by her parents. Being a good six or eight inches shorter than most of the other girls, she never won, but it was fun nonetheless. Her grades were solid, her brother was tolerant and helped her with homework. She was invited to birthday parties and had friends over.

And then came high school.

Somehow, everything changed the summer after eighth grade. Girls she’d been friends with were now obsessed with boys or their own beauty, their long hair, their thrilling boobies. Posey was left out, still skinny as a toothpick, uncurvy, undeveloped, uninterested in whether Brandon really had checked out Emily at recess. The boys who’d once played kickball with Posey now made rude comments about her flat chest. When her freshman class read The Diary of Anne Frank, there were giggles and whispers. Posey found energy bars and candy in front of her locker for weeks. Just before the freshman chorus concert, when all fifty kids were waiting to file onto stage, Kyle Stubbins asked her if she had a tapeworm. It was stunning to her…she’d gone to Kyle’s birthday party in fourth grade, gave him a Magic 8 Ball, which he’d really liked. But high school was a cold, alien world, one where old friendships didn’t seem to matter.

So Posey took the tried and true route of teenage survival: invisibility. She was friends with Kate, but they didn’t have many classes together. Posey didn’t raise her hand too much, didn’t try to talk to the popular kids, just floated along at the fringes, ignored the occasional insult and chose extracurricular activities that were underpopulated: the French Club, woodworking. It worked; if she wasn’t noticed, at least she wasn’t tormented.

Then, in the springtime of her freshman year, he came to town.

Posey was standing in the hall, waiting for the popular kids to get out of the way so she could get her lunch-box out of her locker. This simple act was a painful daily event, as all the cool kids got hot lunch and would die before bringing in homemade lunches. Worse, Posey’s locker was next to the locker of Jessica Blair, a junior and reigning queen of the evil popular crowd. Jessica was going with Rick Balin, tanned, blond, and beautiful, star tight end of the football team, and their minions swarmed around them.

Posey waited, hugging her books to her chest. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to ease past Jamie Highgate. He didn’t move, so she wriggled past. Rick was leaning on her locker door and (of course) didn’t notice her. “Excuse me,” she said again. “Sorry, I need to get in here.” Rick finally moved, though he didn’t look at her. And great. Now Mitchell Oberlin was in the way. Despite having had four cheese blintzes for breakfast, Posey was lightheaded with hunger. “Excuse me,” she said once more, managing to open her locker door an inch, just enough to glimpse her salvation in the form of a giant blue lunch-box. “Excuse me. Sorry. Can I—”

And then…and then he came down the hall, black hair thick and rumpled, flannel shirt open over a T-shirt with mysterious logo, faded blue jeans. Scuffed black leather jacket. He was unshaven (unshaven!), and his motorcycle helmet (motorcycle!) indicated his form of transportation. The principal was with him, lecturing him about behavior and second chances, and from the look in his eye, this guy could care less. The crowd around Jessica and Rick fell silent at the spectacle of this…this god. His eyes cut around the hallway, assessing and unimpressed.

For one second, the clear green gaze landed on Posey, and all other sounds were instantly blanked out except the thudding of her heart. Her cheeks tightened with a blush. Knees tingled, mouth went dry. Who was that?

For the next few weeks, Posey found out all she could about this new deity. Liam Declan Murphy…sigh! He was just out of juvie (juvie!) for stealing cars. Every day, he arrived on a battered Triumph motorcycle, which Posey learned was uber-cool, way more so than a newer, shinier make. According to the rumors that flew thick and fast, he played guitar (guitar!) in a band in some sleazy bar (squee!) across the river in Kittery. He lived with an uncle over by the quarry. Parents were either dead, in jail or witness protection.

Each bit of information was utterly thrilling. Suddenly, the world had more meaning, more layers, more color. He was a junior, she was a frosh, so their paths didn’t exactly cross, but she ogled him from across the parking lot, made a point of going from Latin to Algebra via the second-floor hallway, despite the fact that both her classes were on the first floor. But even the small possibility of glimpsing him—unkempt, beautiful, aloof—was more than enough justification.

And then came that miraculous day when she tore into the kitchen of Guten Tag for her after-school strudel fix, and he was there. Him! Liam Declan Murphy! Was there! In her parents’ kitchen! She could smell him…oil and soap and just the slightest hint of something warm and spicy, like pumpkin pie.

Posey managed to close her mouth, abruptly aware that it was hanging open. Her backpack slipped from her limp fingers, alerting her mother to her arrival.

“Oh, hi, sweetheart! Liam, this is our daughter, Cordelia,” Mom said. “But everyone calls her Posey.”