The Evolution of Mara Dyer

19

AN HOUR LATER, NOAH STILL HADN’T SHOWN. I was restless and didn’t want to be in my tainted room.

Daniel caught me lurking in the living room, pretending to read one of my parents’ books from college I had found in the garage. I was waiting for Noah, but there was no need to be obvious.

“What goes on, little sister?”

“Nothing,” I said, staring at the yellowed page.

Daniel walked over to me and took my book in his hands. Flipped it right side up.

Damn.

“You had one heck of a day,” he said softly.

“I’ve had better,” I said. “And worse.”

“You want to talk about it?”

I did, but I couldn’t. Not to him. I shook my head and clenched my teeth to hold back the ache in my throat.

He sat in the squashy black-and-gold-patterned armchair opposite me. “Don’t worry about the key, by the way,” he said casually.

I looked up from the book. “What key?”

“My house key?” He raised an eyebrow. “The one that was on my key ring you took without permission? The one I asked you about when you were in the . . . while you were away?”

“Your key was missing,” I said slowly.

“That is what I’ve been attempting to communicate, yes. But Dad had it copied today, so no big. Why’d you take it off the ring, though?”

But I wasn’t listening to him anymore. I was thinking about the pictures taken with my camera. The doll on my desk, taken from its box. The writing on my mirror.

The doors locked from the inside.

I didn’t take Daniel’s house key. Jude did. That was how he came and went without breaking in, and he could do it whenever he wanted now. The thought tore at my mind and the horror must have shown on my face because Daniel asked if I was okay.

The way he asked, like all he wanted to do in the world was help me, nearly broke me down. He was my big brother; he helped me with everything, and I so wished I could have his help with this. Daniel was the smartest person I knew—if only I could have his brain on my side.

But then this expression settled over his face. Tentative. Unsure. Like he didn’t know what to say to me. Like I was freaking him out.

It snuffed out whatever spark of hope I might have had. “Yeah,” I said with a tiny smile. “I don’t remember about the key.” I shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”

I hated lying to him, but after I did, Daniel visibly relaxed and that made me want to cry. Daniel cocked his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

No. “Yeah,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” he said lightly, and returned to his notebook. Then he began to write. Loudly.

And started to hum. I snapped my book shut.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked innocently.

Yes. “Nope.”

“Good.” He went back to his scribbling, scratching his pencil furiously against the paper, flipping pages of his book with an unparalleled level of noise.

He was clearly not going to let me stew in solitude. I gave up. “What are you writing?”

“A paper.”

“About?”

“The self-referential passages in Don Quixote.”

“You’re on spring break.”

“It’s due next week,” he said, then looked up. “And it amuses me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Only you would find homework amusing.”

“Cervantes comments on the narrative within the narrative itself. I think it’s funny.”

“Hmm,” I said, and reopened my book. Right side up, this time.

“What are you not-reading?” he asked.

I tossed my book over to him in answer.

“The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner: Written by Himself, by James Hogg? Never heard of it.”

“That’s not something I hear often.” And despite everything, it brought a smile to my lips.

“Indeed,” he said, studying the book. He turned it over, then started reading the summary on the back. “‘Part gothic novel, part psychological mystery, part metafiction, part satire, part case study of totalitarian thought, Memoirs explores early psychological theories of double consciousness, blah blah blah, predestination theory, blah blah blah—James Hogg’s masterpiece is a psychological study of the power of evil, a terrifying picture of the devil’s subtle conquest of a self-righteous man.’” He made a face. “Where’d you find this?”

“In the garage. It looked interesting.”

“Yes, you’re clearly riveted.” He stood up and handed it back to me. “But that’s not what you should be reading.”

“No?”

“No. Don’t move.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a minute later, carrying a book. He handed it to me.

I made a face as I read the title out loud. “One Thousand Obscure Words on the SAT?”

“Better get cracking,” my brother said. “They’re only a couple of months away.”

“Are you serious? I was just pulled out of school.”

“Temporarily. For health reasons. Which, by the way, is how Dad got the principal to change your F in Spanish to an Incomplete, so this Horizons thing is not a total loss. You can start your SAT prep now and take them in June, just in case you want to retake in October.”

I said nothing. Things like grades and SATs seemed utterly alien compared to my current problems. And I hated that we could talk so easily—so normally—about books and school and anything but what was really going on with me. I watched my brother write, the words flowing from his pen without hesitation. Give Daniel an abstract problem, and he can solve it in seconds.

Which gave me an idea.

“You know,” I said slowly, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

He lifted his eyebrows. Put his notebook down.

“Don’t move,” I told him, then bolted to my room. I grabbed a notebook and a pen off of my desk and ran back to the living room. I couldn’t tell my brother about my real problems because my brother didn’t believe they were real.

But if I told him they weren’t real, maybe he could actually help.