Pretend She's Here(34)

“I’ve already told you, that day at the cider mill, don’t you listen? Pay attention. You’ve been in Europe, staying with your grandmother, attending school as an exchange student. We’ve laid the groundwork. There are rules, of course. We don’t talk about the past, and we don’t try to return to Black Hall.”

“I know that.” I spoke quickly. I didn’t want to hear the words again; I didn’t want her to touch the knife pocket.

“Then we’re clear, sweetie,” she said, hugging me to her. She wore floral perfume, but beneath the scent, I smelled something dead and swampy, as if she was rotting inside.

“When can I start?” I asked.

“A week from Monday,” she said. “After Thanksgiving break. That will give you a little more time to reflect on what you must do, how you must behave when out of the house. On your own.”

I stared at her.

“What do you say?” she asked.

“Thank you,” I said. I’d gotten a birthday present after all. In nine more days, I’d be going to school again. I’d be out of the prison.

“Go outside now,” she said. “Casey is on his porch. He’ll be in your class, and you have to be convincing as Lizzie. You’re going to have to explain why you haven’t started school since first meeting him.”

“What will I tell him?”

“That you picked up a virus while traveling. That it was contagious and very serious.” She paused. “He’ll accept that. His vision problem was caused by a virus his mother caught and could very well have prevented. Of course, the reason you got sick was that you were far away from me. I couldn’t do anything from here.”

I nodded.

“Remember: Be convincing. That is the only way this will work. In time, I won’t have to give you these little tests.”

“Okay.”

She patted my head.

I walked slowly downstairs to change from my nightgown into Lizzie’s skinny jeans, black T-shirt, and fawn suede jacket. I pulled on her black ankle boots. They had silver chains, motorcycle-style, across the front. Checking the mirror, I still, as always, felt shocked to see myself. I felt weird in her clothes. I picked up the kohl pencil, darkened my reddish eyebrows to look Lizzie-black, made sure the beauty mark was drawn clearly in the exact right spot. I adjusted the anchor necklace around my throat. I made my way back upstairs. Mrs. Porter was loading the dishwasher. She pointed at the kitchen door, and I walked through.

Casey sat on the top step of his house, playing his mandolin. The notes were from the song I’d heard in the clearing. I slowed my approach, to listen a little longer, but he turned toward my footsteps.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s …” I wanted so badly to say “Emily.”

“Lizzie,” he said. “I know.”

“I don’t want to interrupt you playing.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “C’mon, have a seat.”

I sat beside him. He was so tall and lanky, his legs went on for a mile. In spite of the cold air, the sleeves of his faded blue corduroy shirt were rolled up, his forearms taut with lean muscles. His face was narrow, with sharp cheekbones and a long nose. He watched me with those turquoise eyes.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “Your mom said you were sick; that’s why you haven’t been to school yet.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “It was … nothing really serious. What’s that song?”

“It’s called ‘Take Me Back,’” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t tell him I’d been singing it to myself since I’d heard it, that it had helped me survive the trip to Black Hall. “Who wrote it?”

“I did,” he said. “You’ve heard it before, right? When my band played it?”

“How did you know I was there?” Chloe and I had been hiding, and even if we hadn’t been, how could he see us? Then I felt embarrassed—it seemed impolite to assume anything about his vision, even though Mrs. Porter never failed to mention it.

“I heard you,” he said. “You and Chloe, behind the trees.”

“What were we saying?” I asked, trying to remember, sliding a glance toward the Porters’ house, half hoping he’d heard the truth.

“I couldn’t make out the words,” he said. “You were too far away. But I recognized the tone of your voice. From talking to you at the cider mill.”

I held my real thoughts inside, knowing Mrs. Porter was watching.

“Well, your music is beautiful. You write amazing songs,” I said at last, meaning it.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I wish I could write.” I held back the part about how there was nothing like being kidnapped to give you writer’s block.

“My mom said everyone has a talent. It’s just a matter of finding yours.”

“I agree with her,” I said. “She must be proud of your music.”

“She’s not here anymore,” he said. His face turned red, the blush starting in his neck, spreading into his cheeks and forehead. His mouth tightened into a straight line. “She passed away,” he said.