Saving Zoë

Nineteen

On the night of Teresa’s party, Abby was no longer trying to play it cool. And after calling me like a ton of times trying to decide what to wear, she moved on to e-mailing me photos of her top three choices, all laid out and spread across her bed, with empty sweater arms waving hello, unfilled pant legs river dancing, vacant shoes pointing in every direction, while her most beloved childhood dolls and stuffed animals stood in for her head.

She’d decided to go with Jax. Ever since the day Jenay invited him to sit with us at lunch and he turned out to be not only nice, smart, and funny, but also pretty cute. And since technically this is Abby’s first date, there’s no way she’s leaving anything to chance. Seriously, she has it all planned out. Even down to the conversations she expects to have.

I want to help her, really, I do. But my mind is totally stuck on Zoë’s diary, as I skim through the pages and reread certain parts, reluctant to move ahead, not wanting it to end.

“Okay, so which is better?” Abby asks. “Winnie the Pooh wearing the white blouse, blue corduroy vest, and jeans? Or Lisa Simpson in the flowy blue skirt and sweater?”

“Neither. I’m liking the Bratz doll in the black sweater, black boots, and jeans,” I say. “Although her head looks disproportionately small, and a bit lost inside that turtleneck. And that could make some of those well-scripted conversations more than a little bit awkward. Not to mention the kiss good night. So maybe you should switch to a V-necked sweater instead, you know, to even it out.” I laugh.

But Abby’s way too freaked to have a sense of humor. “Okay, that’s it. I’m calling Jenay,” she says, hanging up before I can even apologize.

I stare at the phone and think about Marc. Remembering how his number’s still probably stored from that one

time he called. And hating how I’ve been acting like such a wimp and determined to do something bold, I scroll down to his name and push talk. And before I can chicken out and hang up, he answers.

I sit on my bed, frozen, unable to speak. “Echo?” he says. “You okay?”

And I remember how the display works both ways.

“Urn, yeah.” I clear my throat while my fingers pick at a loose thread on my blanket.

“Where are you?” he asks, sounding calm, if not interested.

“Home,” I mumble, wondering what to say next.

“So, how are you?” he asks, the background music growing softer as he turns it down.

“I miss her,” I say, before I can stop.

He sighs. Then he says, “Wanna go for a ride?”

I would answer, but there’s a speed bump in my throat, and it’s stopping all my words.

But he doesn’t need an answer. “I’ll be right over,” he says, before closing the phone.

I grab my purse and run downstairs, stopping by the kitchen just long enough to tell my mom that I’ll be right back.

“Where are you going?” she asks, turning away from the sink just long enough to see what I’m wearing. For someone who was never much interested in fashion, she sure makes it a point to always take the time to check out my clothes now. But I guess that’s just another lesson learned during the whole Zoë thing, and how the cops need that kind of information so they can fill in the “last seen wearing” box on the police report.

I pause long enough for her to get a good look, then I head for the door, yelling, “I have to run an errand, so HI see you in a few.” And before she can even respond, I’m out the door and sprinting toward the corner, hoping to meet up with Marc without anyone seeing.

And when he turns onto my street, and I see the shiny midnight blue of his restored Camaro glinting in the hard winter sun, I feel happier than I can ever possibly explain.

“Hey,” he says, as he leans across the seat and props open the door.

I settle onto the black leather, noticing how the interior feels deeper and darker than my parents’ cars, almost like a cave. And I remember how Zoë used to call it The Coffin, and how that used to be funny, but not anymore.

“Park okay?” he says, glancing at me before pulling away from the curb.

I just nod and gaze out the window, feeling excited for the first time in days.

We don’t really talk along the way, we just listen to music by some band I’ve never heard. And when we get there, he parks the car and reaches behind my seat, the sleeve of his brown leather jacket brushing against mine.

Then he tosses me a bag of breadcrumbs and we head for the lake, where the ducks are already gathering, waiting to be fed.

I settle onto the grass beside him and start tossing crumbs, wondering if the view looked better to Zoë, less polluted, more serene, like maybe being in love somehow improved it.

Tm reading it,” I finally say, knowing I owe him an explanation for pulling him away from his day. But my throat feels tight, and my eyes start to sting, and it’s hard to say more, so I don’t.

But he just looks at me. “I know.”

I glance at him, wondering how.

“You called. And you’re no longer angry.” He shrugs.

“I was never angry,” I say, pulling my hand away from an overly aggressive beak.

“Just give him the rest, so they’ll all go away.” He laughs.

I empty the bag and bite down on my lip, feeling this weird sense of comfort sitting so close to him, someone who I know so much about, and who knows that I know.

“How’re your parents?” he asks.

I just shake my head and shrug.

“They still hate me?” He looks at me, eyes neither worried nor hopeful, just curious.

“Probably.” I shrug. “You going to the trial?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I need to see that freak, I need to watch him pay. Couple more months though, right?”

“That’s what they say.” I watch the last duck, still pecking around near my feet, and I pull them in too so I won’t lose a toe. “Thanks for bringing me here,” I say, gazing up at him shyly. “I mean, I know this may sound weird and all, but being around you makes me feel close to her.” I bite down on my lip, wondering how he’ll take that.

But he just closes his eyes and lifts his face toward the fading sun. “Being here makes me feel close to her. That’s why I come every day.”

“Even when it rains?” I ask, trying to sound light and teasing, even though the moment is so clearly wrong for a joke. But that’s what I do when I’m nervous, I make inappropriate, stupid jokes.

But he just sighs. “Every day feels like rain,” he says, his eyes still closed, his long, thick lashes seeming almost fake the way they rest against his skin.

“Is your dad out?” I ask, wanting to change the subject, but suspecting this might not be the right way.

“Not yet.” He shrugs.

“Will you live with him when he does get out?”

He shakes his head and looks at me. “I’m in the guest house now, it’s like having my own place. So I plan to stay put until college.”

“Where you going?” I ask, suddenly panicked at the thought of him leaving, especially now that I’m just getting to know him.

“Berkeley’s my dream, Columbia would be cool, but my grades kind of suck, so probably right here.”

“Don’t say that,” I tell him, even though part of me wants it to be true.

But he just shrugs. “Wanna grab a bite?” He looks at me.

I do. I really, really, really do. I want to go anywhere he wants to go. I’d follow him wherever, just to be with him. Only I can’t. “I’m supposed to go to this party,” I say, lifting my shoulders and rolling my eyes, trying to come off as grown up, world-weary, and jaded. But when he raises his eyebrows, I look away. Since it’s obvious he still sees me as Zoë’s little sister.

I wish he would notice how much I’ve changed, how the last year has shaped me, transformed me. But he doesn’t. So I grab my purse and stand. “Can you drop me off? I need to go get ready,” I say, my voice carrying an edge that’s hard to miss.

He holds up his keys and they jangle together, then he stands and heads for the car.

And I walk alongside him, feeling small, silent, and frustrated. Wondering just what it will take to get his attention.

He comes around to my side, unlocking the door, and letting me in. And just as I start to move past him, my hip accidentally rubs against his, and his face is so close, and his eyes so deep, that I can’t help but lift my fingers to his smooth, sculpted cheek. Then without even thinking, I close my eyes, lean in, and kiss him.

He hesitates at first, but only for a moment. Then he wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest, kissing me hard on the mouth, until he finally pulls away and whispers, “Echo, trust me, you don’t want—”

But I do want. So I pull him back to me, leaving no room for questions, no room for doubt. Thinking this is exactly how a kiss should feel — glorious, heady, and intoxicating. Like those first three sips of vodka the night of the homecoming dance, only a gazillion trillion bazillion times better.

And even though I’m borrowing a moment from Zoë’s life, one that will never truly be mine, at this moment I just don’t care. I’m living for now.

“Echo,” he whispers, pulling away, calling my name even though I’d rather be Zoë. “Echo, stop.”

I open my eyes and smile, at first not noticing the dark cloudy look in his. But the moment I see it, I follow their trail.

And at the end stands Teresa.