Tell Me a Secret Read online

  Holly Cupala

  Tell Me a Secret

  For

  Ezri, my help

  Lyra, my song

  and Shiraz, my love

  Contents

  One

  It’s tough, living in the shadow of a dead girl.

  Two

  Coming home after almost three months was like walking into…

  Three

  Things could have been different if Delaney had chosen Brielle…

  Four

  When Delaney picked me up to go to Chop Suey,…

  Five

  Two days later, summer officially ended and I started life…

  Six

  My mother couldn’t control the weather in Seattle, but she…

  Seven

  “Miranda, what’s the holdup?”

  Eight

  Milo’s party got off the ground now that Delaney was…

  Nine

  Essence didn’t come to school today, but her legend lived…

  Ten

  When I came home, the house was eerily quiet. Usually…

  Eleven

  After dinner there was nothing for me to do but…

  Twelve

  Delaney didn’t call me back. Suddenly she had a million…

  Thirteen

  Before she spent her days and nights with Andre, Xanda…

  Fourteen

  More and more, I spent my free time either in…

  Fifteen

  After Miz Wrent’s visit, I expected my mom to champion…

  Sixteen

  After Ty Belkin’s moment of truth, questions and answers blurred…

  Seventeen

  Mom usually puttered around in the morning with Dad already…

  Eighteen

  The last weeks of October found everyone at school humming…

  Nineteen

  That’s how I ended up at Dylan’s Halloween party, sneaking…

  Twenty

  I remember the day Dad brought him home.

  Twenty-One

  Where my pregnancy made a mere ripple in the Elna…

  Twenty-Two

  My parents wasted no time setting me on the path…

  Twenty-Three

  Throughout November, I performed a bevy of soul-sucking tasks for…

  Twenty-Four

  “I don’t think I’ll be here for Thanksgiving,” I announced…

  Twenty-Five

  I climbed into Shelley’s SUV and saw a whole new…

  Twenty-Six

  Elna Mead scheduled the Winter Ball for the last weekend…

  Twenty-Seven

  A few minutes later, I pulled into the church parking…

  Twenty-Eight

  “What,” my mom hissed, “is going on here?” She looked…

  Twenty-Nine

  Montage opening night was sure to be a packed house…

  Thirty

  Mom drove with her eyes straight ahead, boring into the…

  Thirty-One

  The Impala had cleaned up nicely since the crash that…

  Thirty-Two

  “It was Christmas Eve, remember?” It seemed absurd, standing by…

  Thirty-Three

  “You sure you don’t want me to take you home?”

  Thirty-Four

  The darkness gathering around me and Xanda felt close, warm,…

  Thirty-Five

  A pinch on my backside awakened me, pulling me out…

  Thirty-Six

  Once I hit SEND, it was too late to go…

  Thirty-Seven

  “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry,” I kept saying, as if chanting the words would…

  Thirty-Eight

  Shelley wiped her forehead as if pressing that mountain out…

  Thirty-Nine

  Shelley came back with DaShawn—the day after Christmas, and the…

  Forty

  I spent the next couple of weeks living at the…

  Forty-One

  Lexi went from the ventilator to the incubator, upgraded out…

  Forty-Two

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” a voice roared in…

  Forty-Three

  After Xanda stormed out on Christmas Eve with Andre in…

  Forty-Four

  The bus wound through the hills of our neighborhood as…

  Forty-Five

  I became an older sister the day I turned eighteen.

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  It’s tough, living in the shadow of a dead girl. It’s like living at the foot of a mountain blocking out the sun, and no one ever thinks to say, “Damn, that mountain is big.” Or, “Wonder what’s on the other side?” It’s just something we live with, so big we hardly notice it’s there. Not even when it’s crushing us under its terrible weight.

  No one mentions my sister. If they do, it’s mentioning her by omission, relief that I am nothing like her. I am the good sister. Thank God.

  To speak of my sister…there’s nothing more sacrilegious. Alexandra, Andra, Alex. Xanda—who was, and is, and is to come. To speak her name is my family’s purest form of blasphemy.

  To think of Xanda is to conjure up a person out of phase with the rest of us. Gym socks and Mary Janes. Lipstick always slightly outside the lines, as if she were just the victim of a mad, messy kiss. Laddered stockings with dresses that were decidedly un-churchy. Sloppy in a way that was somehow repulsive and delectable at the same time. Repulsive to my parents. Delectable to me.

  At ten, I was practicing her pout in the mirror. By twelve, I was trying on her clothes (in secret, of course), thrilled with the way her shorts hugged my cheeks and made my underpants seem obsolete. Xanda was seventeen. She didn’t wear underpants.

  One day she caught me in her boots and safety-pin dress, the one she had painstakingly assembled like rock-star chain mail. I was so scared I poked a pin through the end of my pinky. I imagined her taking off one of her stilettos and plunging it into my heart.

  But Xanda didn’t skewer me. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed a dazzling, tonsil-baring laugh, then smothered me in a hug. She had that sour, sharp smell, and I knew she had been with Andre—Andre, of the sultry voice and skin the shade of coffee with milk. Café con leche, as he put it. Sweet and dangerous. A bit of a con, said Andre. A bit of a letch, said my sister.

  After she bandaged my finger, Xanda insisted I try on the matching safety-pin leg warmers. They hung like chains around my ankles. Clump, clump, drag. With a heavy grasp, she steered us both toward the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. The metal of the safety pins shimmered down my straight, twelve-year-old hips. Xanda stood behind me, the glow of the bedroom window lighting up the pale chaos of her hair in a halo. She shimmered, too, but in a different kind of way. Her sheer white dress fluttered around her, a ghost trapped behind my chain-link figure. When she smiled, she looked like an unholy angel.

  She studied my face with one eye closed, like an artist sizing up a canvas. “You know what?” she said. “I don’t think you should be Mandy anymore.”

  “Should I be Miranda now?” I asked.

  “No, I was thinking more like…Rand. Rand is so much cooler than Mandy. Kind of edgy. Don’t you think?”

  I tested the name in my mouth. Rand. Rand would wear a safety-pin dress. Rand could probably go without underpants now and then. Rand sounded almost like Xanda. I liked it.

  “Do you want to know a secret?” I whispered to the sister in the mirror.

  “Tell me,” she whispered back. “Tell me, and I’ll tell you one.”

  I cupped my hands around her ear
. You never knew when our mother would turn a corner, shattering the most perfect moment with a well-placed shard of disapproval. Andre’s scent lingered in Xanda’s hair, filling my head and fueling my passionate announcement: “I want to be like you!”

  Xanda staggered backward, the smile on her face slipping first into a grimace and then into a beaming hiccup. She threw her arms around me and rocked back and forth. Her body heaved with silent giggles until I nearly suffocated in her clutch. I laughed, too, at my own ridiculousness. It wasn’t until she pulled away that I realized she was crying.

  “You don’t want to be like me.” She swiped at the tears, smearing her left eye just enough to match her right. A bitter laugh gurgled up. “You’d be better off being like Mom than me.”

  The front door slammed—Mom returning from the church drama committee, or praying for Xanda’s soul. The safety pins closed in on me like a thorny noose. My eyes met Xanda’s in the mirror: panic in mine, resolve in hers. She pushed past me and out the door, where Mom saw her see-through dress and immediately began the usual tirade. Dressed like a streetwalker…playing with fire…don’t you see what you’re doing to your life?

  I winced, knowing I could never stand up to the words my mother threw so easily at my sister. “That’s just it, Mom,” she countered. “It’s my life, not yours.”

  Then it dawned on me: Xanda was buying me time. After wrestling with the pins, I escaped with only a few scratches through the secret passageway Dad had built between our bedrooms, her words burning in my heart. Tell me, and I’ll tell you one.

  Xanda never did tell me her secret, though I thought I could guess. I could see it in her eyes the last time she left. I knew, from the suitcase bursting with her clothes found in Andre’s car when they tried to escape Seattle forever.

  “It was that boy,” my mother told me the night she died. “It was that Andre’s fault, for his drinking.” And Dad’s, for bringing him into our lives.

  In the five years after Xanda died, each of my parents disappeared behind a locked door, NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY—Mom into drama and the prayer chain, Dad into his construction business. I was left to wonder, what role did Xanda fill that I could not? What secret did she keep? And what path could I take to find it?

  Any choice could lead to something irrevocable, as my boyfriend, Kamran, would say. I had to tread carefully.

  I first saw Kamran checking out my labyrinth drawings in the Elna Mead Junior Class Art Exhibition last February. A guy I’d never seen before hovered right next to the display glass, drinking in the lines of my mazes as though he were trying to navigate them.

  He wasn’t much taller than me, with metal-rimmed glasses, combat boots, casually holding a motorcycle helmet. He stood there at some point nearly every day, absorbing the images and making notes in a small notebook. I would find it odd if he wasn’t so hot.

  Essence was my spy and confidante, back when we were still friends. Before Delaney Pratt changed everything.

  “Yup, he’s still there,” Essence said, plopping her books down next to me in chem class. “Do you think he’s a freak or something?”

  “No,” I said. “I think he’s cute. I haven’t seen him before. Do you think he’s a transfer student? Ooh, maybe he’s from Germany or Israel or something. He looks kind of Euro, you know?” And a little bit of con leche, I hoped.

  “No idea. Maybe Eli knows.”

  Eli was Essence’s new squeeze—actually, her first-ever squeeze. She had been spending an inordinate amount of time getting to know him and his tonsils, so I didn’t see her much anymore outside of chem lab. They met in Drama, where Essence was honing her stage skills while I drifted deeper into preparing for art school—and checked out art-appreciating hotties.

  Eli was not impressed with our sleuthing. “Are you blind? That’s Kamran Ziyal. He’s been around since second grade.” Eli was haughty in that “I’m infinitely smarter than you” kind of way, which Essence thought was adorable. “Too cool to come down and mingle with the rest of us,” he declared. “He’s busy trying to get into aeronautics and astronautics at MIT.” Perfect—a stone’s throw away from my choice, Baird School of Fine Arts, in Boston.

  I was too shy to say anything to this mysterious Kamran until the day I caught him holding a pencil and sheet of paper up to the glass—copying my work.

  “Hey,” I said, my outrage overcoming the tongue that had been tied up for weeks. “You can’t copy that! It’s mine!” I sounded like a twelve-year-old, but I didn’t care. If Mr. MIT Astronaut Man was going to copy my art, I wasn’t above making a twelve-year-old stink.

  He shifted his weight toward me, turning the full power of those olive eyes onto my face. I opened my mouth to shout something—anything—and he smiled a kind of cocky half-smile, knocking the rules of communication right out of my head.

  White teeth…nice lips…eyelashes…I could no longer make sense of any of them. Except that they were talking to me. Well, the lips were talking to me. The eyes were looking at me in the same way they’d been looking at my art for the last month—searching for something beyond this dimension.

  “I wasn’t copying, I was making a sketch of it for the poem I’ve been writing about your art. I wanted to remember it.”

  The boy wrote poetry. About my art. I thought I was going to pass out.

  “I’m studying hyperspace—you know, wormholes, which are kind of like labyrinths, only instead of traversing a landscape, they can traverse space and time, and possibly even an infinite number of galaxies. So I wanted to write about them. Your art inspired me.”

  Okay, make that hyperventilate, here in hyperspace, with the cute boy who writes poetry.

  “Oh…oh,” I stuttered. “So you write about wormholes. Labyrinths. I mean…labyrinths are my passion.” They had been, ever since Xanda died.

  He smiled even wider. “I can see that. I like labyrinths, too.”

  I was hooked, enough to keep checking for mystery-man Kamran lurking around my art and hopefully thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him.

  When the display came down, I was afraid he would disappear.

  Everything about last year seemed irrevocable now—the intersection of Kamran and me. Meeting Delaney. Losing Essence. The choices we made, the last time I saw them all.

  I would not have chosen to spend the summer before my senior year working at Evergreen New Creation Camp teaching art. “After all,” said my mother, “you can’t be a teacher if you don’t start acquiring some experience.” Make art, Mom, not teach art. But it was pointless to remind her when she had already made up her mind. Money in the bank, Dad would say. You never knew when you’d need it.

  It was as if they already knew what I’d done and had devised the perfect purgatory. They couldn’t have chosen much worse than nine weeks at the church kiddie camp, eighty miles outside of Seattle. Nine weeks. Nine hundred kids. At least nine different behavioral disorders. And while I was painting crosses and rainbows and getting sick from the heat and collective prepubescent body odor, Kamran took classes and worked two jobs, Delaney jetted off to Amsterdam, and Essence would probably go to theater camp like she had every summer since fourth grade.

  I returned home the week before school to life as usual in the Mathison house: Mom the drama queen, Dad the absentee, and me…a seventeen-year-old with too many secrets—and a mountain of my own, threatening to blow.

  Two

  Coming home after almost three months was like walking into someone else’s house, all dressed up to look like ours. Same shiny wood floors speeding through the entry and into a bright, sunny kitchen; same white trim on white paneling; same whispered challenge to find a speck of dust or trace of actual humans living there—except for my own reflection in the mirror as soon as I crossed the threshold.

  I looked at my face to see if anything had changed, if my secret was written there for anyone to read. But it wasn’t. Grimy with camp dirt, bedraggled, tired—three sessions of summer campers left the only sig
ns.

  “Wait until you read my script, Mandy,” my mom was saying as she pushed her way through the front door, dragging a summer’s worth of my clothes on wheels. “I am so close—I was hoping to finish before you got home but ran out of time. You know how these things go. So much to do around here.”

  “I know,” I said. It was all coming back to me. The notes. The scripts. The to-do lists. The never-ending cadre of people to impress.

  All the way home, Mom had talked about her new script for this year’s Christmas montage. Almost finished, can’t wait to get your opinion, will be the best one yet, Mom went on. I wouldn’t be seeing much of Dad—nothing new about that. The summer remodeling season wasn’t over, then there would be the interior remodeling season, then set-building season, then the winter remodeling season. As if I needed an explanation after years of Dad never being home. I kept waiting for some sign of quiet rebellion, some indication he might one day break free and boogie. Either that, or ditch us for good.

  “And the best part,” she continued, brushing the hair out of my face and then wiping her hands on her skirt, “is what I’ve been writing for you—” A pause, for maximum effect. “—the starring role.”

  Once, there was a time when I might have been thrilled to hear those words spoken to me and not to my sister. We each had our parts to play in the perfect family drama: Mom, the director; Xanda, the actor; Dad, the builder; me, the backdrop. I had painted more sets than I could remember—living rooms, war zones, hospital corridors. Only once had I acted in one of Mom’s plays—the year Xanda died.

  “God, Mom, you don’t have to force everybody into your lame-ass play,” Xanda had said when Mom announced I would be the daughter of a traumatized soldier, the lead role originally meant for Xanda. Onstage, she could be the kind of daughter my mom wanted—the kind I already was, if only my parents would notice. But this year, Xanda refused the part.

  “I’m not forcing you,” Mom said. “I was asking Mandy.”

  “So you’re forcing Rand instead. Do you even realize what a control freak you are?”

  I stood there, trying to shift myself into part of the wall. They were like the angel and the devil, arguing over my soul. Good Mandy, Bad Rand. Or was it Bad Mandy, Good Rand?