Be the Girl(16)

Of course, this also means I’m stuck watching Holly twirl his hair and paw his thigh every morning, too. She can’t seem to keep her hands off him. It’s annoying. But if I had free rein to paw Emmett Hartford, I’d be just as bad.

And, again, full honesty here, right? No judgment? I’m insanely jealous of her. Like, prays-she-says-something-dumb-hopes-she-bombs-a-test-crosses-my-fingers-that-she-accidentally-farts-in-front-of-everyone jealous. Something—anything—to make her a touch less perfect.

I know it’s wrong to wish that kind of stuff upon someone. But it’s how I feel. Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone besides you.

At least she’s nice. She says hi to me and Jen every morning (though she keeps calling her Jennifer, emphasizing the FER, even after I made a point of saying JEN, emphasizing the JEN, within Holly’s earshot). Still, it would suck a hundred times over if she was a bitch.

Still … it sucks.

Talk later,

~AJ (Emmett’s been calling me that all week. I love it. I think I love him. Whoa! WAY too soon, right?)





“I like to eat early and in a quiet environment. That way I have time to digest before bed.” Uncle Merv hobbles up the path ahead of us, his usual green khaki pants swapped for black ones. Mom says he only has two pairs of pants that fit his waist, so she bought a few more and sent them to a seamstress to be tailored.

“Heather promised dinner for six.” Mom juggles the wine bottles in her grasp to free up a hand so she can fix the foil cover of the apple pie I’m holding, still warm from the oven. “Emmett had hockey this afternoon so they couldn’t do it earlier. And apparently, it’s rare to have a Saturday night without a game, so they wanted to take advantage while he’s available.”

“That kid and hockey,” he grumbles. “I guess it’s going to pay for his college, so there’s that. You reminded Heather that I can’t eat cauliflower, right? It gives me terrible gas.”

“I mentioned it.” Mom shares a look with me before turning away, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.

Mark Hartford answers the door with a grin and dimples that match Emmett’s. There’s no doubt Emmett took after his father; they have the same brown eyes, olive skin, and chestnut brown hair—though Mark’s is peppered with gray and beginning to thin on top.

“Wine for the hosts. One red, one white.” Mom practically thrusts the bottles into his hands before collecting the dish from mine. “And a homemade apple pie that I hope isn’t too runny, for dessert.”

“Never met a pie I didn’t like.” He chuckles softly. “Thank you. And welcome. Come in, come in.” He backs up, giving us room to enter. He grins at me. “It’s nice to finally meet you, officially, Aria.”

The Hartford house isn’t much bigger than Uncle Merv’s and it’s similar in layout, but every room I see so far has been renovated. Rich, warm planks of wood run the length of the hall, all the way to the kitchen in the back, where new white cupboards hang. The walls throughout are painted a dove gray and covered in framed photographs. Everywhere I look are pictures of Emmett and Cassie at different ages.

“We’re having schnitzel, Uncle Merv!” Cassie declares as I inhale the aroma permeating the air. “It’s your favorite. That’s why we’re having it.”

He frowns. “How do you know it’s my favorite?”

“Aunt Connie told me. I came to your house because of the snowstorm, remember?”

“Snowstorm …” His frown grows deeper. “That was years ago, wasn’t it? You were tiny.”

She shrugs. “That’s when she told me.”

“Good God, kid. What I’d give to have your memory.”

“Yeah.” She giggles. “You want to come see my room, Aria? I mean AJ?” She draws AJ out like she’s in on a secret.

I do a quick glance around. Emmett’s nowhere in sight, but I already knew that—his Santa Fe isn’t in the driveway. “Sure.”

We climb the stairs, my eyes on the collection of pictures hanging on the wall. I stall on the one with a much younger Emmett and Cassie—under ten, I’d guess—posing in front of a snowman, toques on their heads, their cheeks rosy from the cold. Emmett’s face is thin, his form gangly. Cassie is wearing the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on a kid. The two of them are almost the same height.

“Cassie, did you clean up your room like I asked?” Heather calls from the kitchen.

“I did! It’s clean!” She adds an “Ugh … mothers” under her breath as she stomps the rest of the way up the stairs.

I press my lips together to stifle my laugh at the petulant streak that flares every once in a while and follow her into her room.

Into the bubblegum-pink cave of disaster—dresser drawers sitting open, dirty clothes scattered across the floor, an unmade bed heaped with piles of stuffed animals and more clothes, a box overflowing with naked dolls of various sizes and styles, dog and cat posters and a calendar that sits on January. It’s not the room you’d expect of a girl turning sixteen in February, but the moment I see it, I’m not at all surprised that it’s Cassie’s.

She grins and then says, in that slightly stilted way of hers, “It’s not that messy.”