Be the Girl(47)

Dear Julia,

I think Emmett was going to kiss me tonight. Scratch that, I KNOW Emmett was going to kiss me tonight. Damn that Pennywise. Couldn’t he have waited another five seconds?

And now Emmett is somewhere with HER. Sitting in her car, listening to her convince him that they need to get back together. She’s persistent, I’ll give her that.

Oh, God.

What if Emmett forgives her? Do I have the right to be upset?



I toss my journal to the floor, not bothering to sign off, my stomach in knots. It’s after eleven and I have yet to see Holly’s car roll into the Hartford driveway. They’ve been “talking” for an hour.

What does that mean?

My chest tightens with dread as I pick up a novel from my pile of library books and curl up in my window seat with a blanket.

Knowing I’ll only stare at the pages.





My mom has been using a distinctive knock lately—one firm rap, followed by two shorter, softer sounds in quick succession.

When I hear it against my bedroom door on Saturday morning, I pull my covers over my head and groan.

The door creaks open. “Nice try. It’s almost nine.”

“It’s the weekend!”

“Murphy doesn’t care.”

“Can’t you take him? Please?”

“Two walks a day. That was the deal for keeping him and you happily committed.” The curtain rings slide over the metal rod. “Come on, up you go. Unless you want to take him back to the shelter.”

“I’ll be down in five minutes,” I say from beneath my dark duvet, sensing the kink I earned in my neck after drifting off in the window cubby last night, my forehead pressed against the cold windowpane. I woke up at three to a quiet street and no evidence that Emmett had returned. Not that there’d be a flag mounted or anything, but I was hoping for a text, at least. After dragging myself to bed, I tossed and turned for hours, and now I just want to sleep all day.

“I’m glad to see that you’re taking Dr. Covey’s advice.”

My diary.

I bolt upright so fast, my head spins. My mom is holding the teal-blue book, the one where I’ve divulged all my inner thoughts, including exactly how hard I’m crushing on our neighbor. “Mom!”

“What!” She jumps, startled.

I reach for it, waggling my fingers with impatience.

She sighs with exasperation as she tosses it onto my bed. “If I were going to read your diary, do you think I’d do it in front of you?”

My mouth drops open. Has she found my hiding spot?

“Relax. You haven’t given me any reason to invade your privacy. Besides, I haven’t learned how to pick a lock.” Her eyes rove over my sweatshirt. “I’d say get dressed but I see you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Good! You can take Murphy out now, before Uncle Merv feels compelled to.”

“He could use the exercise,” I say under my breath, digging out my discarded socks from the tangle of sheets.





“… works with teenagers.” Uncle Merv’s gruff voice carries up the stairwell, along with the delicious waft of something.

“You told Iris!” my mother hisses.

I freeze, my ears perking to listen, knowing instantly that this has to do with me.

“No! Of course not. She was prattling on about her granddaughter and mentioned that she had some emotional issues—”

“Aria worked with a therapist at home. I don’t want to keep pushing her to talk about it when she clearly wants to move on. And now that we’re far away from those people and all the reminders, and I’m here and present in her life, I really believe she’s going to be fine.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Debra. If anything, I blame that lousy father of hers.”

“Oh, come on, Merv. Of course it was my fault.” The kitchen chair legs drag along the linoleum floor. “I’m to blame for at least part of it. Between the divorce and my career, I was never around. I assumed too much; I didn’t know what was really going on with her until it was too late. That wasn’t my Aria. But she’s back, and trust me, she never wants to go through something like that again.”

“All I’m saying is these teenagers get good at hiding things. I know Connie and I didn’t have any of our own, but I’ve seen and heard a lot in my years.”

“I know, believe me. But I’m watching her carefully and we’re talking now and—”

The floorboard creaks under my foot, cutting off whatever my mother was going to say. Not that it’s a mystery to me.

Murphy is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, his tail wagging off-tempo, as if he’s hoping for a walk but isn’t sure he’s going to get one. When I grab the leash off the hook, he heads for the door. I could probably get away with not leashing him, if he’d stop going straight for Merv’s struggling rosebush.

“No, Murphy!” I hiss, steering him toward the line of hedges so he can relieve himself. He has a slight spring in his hobbled step that wasn’t there on Thursday, I note. A more confident tail wag to replace the tentative one, multiple swipes of his wet nose against my hand that feel like signs of affection.

I smile despite my bad mood, knowing I did the right thing for Murphy, even if meant risking the wrath of Uncle Merv.