Alice in Wonderland High (9 page)

“What class did you cut? Since you obviously weren't participating.”

He gathered a wad of sweatpants fabric in his hand. “Do these look like my normal clothes? This hat isn't even mine!” So either he stole it or he was delusional. Tough choice. “I forged a doctor's note.” He lifted his palm to his mouth and fake-coughed. “I'm so sick.”

“Yeah, you look like you're about to keel over.”

“That's not funny,” he said in a serious voice that almost made me follow it with a “sorry.” But then I remembered my level of sympathy for Kingston wouldn't even register on a normal thermometer.

“You must be sick because you're not acting like yourself. Talking to me like a normal person instead of threatening me.” Or, you know, trying to solve the mystery of time travel via a broken watch and some determination.

“I haven't gotten to that part yet.” He leaned into me, so close his warm breath coated my face. “And I'm not going to threaten you. It's too early for that.” He checked his watch. As long as he went by his stalled watch, it would never be time for threats. Though I did wonder what time he thought would be appropriate. “I'll tell you what I know and you can do what you want with that information, as long as it's the right thing.”

His riddles weren't nearly as cryptic as Whitney's. He might as well have spelled “stay away” in skywriting. My throat went dry. As much as I could pretend he didn't intimidate me, I'd be lying to myself. “What do you know?”

“I know what you're up to. You want us to get caught. I saw you talking to that girl.” He pointed back at the empty track as though that might clarify whom he meant. “The one with the red hair? She's like president of a bazillion clubs.”

“Quinn Hart? I don't think—”

“Then you shouldn't speak.” He let out an exaggerated sigh.

“What about her?” I asked. A full minute passed by, with him fiddling with his watch and ignoring me. I knew how to get his attention: mention the only thing that could hold it. “It's
time
you told me about her.”

“Him. Time is a him. Clearly you haven't spoken to him or you'd know that.”

“We haven't really had a chance to get acquainted.”

He lifted his head and studied me. Particularly, he studied my chest. “I can tell.”

Oh my God! Was that a jab at my needs-a-magnifying-glass boobs not having had a chance to grow? I crossed my arms to shield his view. “What about Quinn?”

“She's always snooping on my conversations, like she might get extra credit for unearthing something.”

I pursed my lips. Quinn did that? Maybe that was how she gathered her gossip ammo: she sniffed it out of people.

I rolled my eyes. “You don't know anything.”

“Chess may be blindsided, but I'm not. I know you're bad news, and I'm not going to sit by and let you ruin everything.”

“I'm not going to ruin—”

“And I know for a fact Chess is not what he seems. So I hope you're just using him as an in to the group and not because you like him. Because when you learn more about him, you won't.”

Kingston might be off his rocker and off in his interpretation of everything else he'd told me, but this was one area where he held the crowning expertise.

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like something was strange about the things Chess knew about me. He knew my address without ever having spoken to me before or being in one of my classes. He knew I was on honor roll. He claimed he would have known if I was into “this kind of stuff,” which meant he believed he knew me. He seemed almost excited to see me when he caught me spying, like it was a reunion and not a bust.

So where did he know me from?

Later that day, brushing my hair in my room, I kept going back to how he'd known the way to my house. It was like common knowledge to him, like he'd
been
there before. Too bad we didn't take attendance from everyone who ever entered the premises. And the closest thing we had to a security camera were the photo albums gathering dust in my—

Wait . . .

I dropped the hairbrush back on my dresser and headed to the hallway closet where we stowed the things we wanted to forget, like evidence of bad haircuts and the discarded violin carcass from the five seconds I'd attempted to learn. The only kind of instrument
I
should ever have played was the radio.

I yanked out a bunch of albums and set them on the taupe carpet. This might have been a long shot, but it was my best shot. I balanced the top album on my cross-legged knees and flipped it open. My mind was focused on haystack needles, so seeing my parents' smiling faces caught me off-guard. My throat tightened. I slammed the cover shut, as if to shut out my emotions.

The image stayed in my brain like a carbon etching, and my lower lip trembled. I sucked in desperate breaths that couldn't clear the lump. I hadn't looked at these photos since . . . before. It was hard to remember them as happy, as alive. It was hard to remember
them
.

Taking another deep breath, I opened the book. My parents stood in front of a crowd, arms latched around a few other adults I didn't recognize. A protest sign dangled from my mom's hands:
Gone Fission = Going Green
. I turned the page to find documentation of another mission. Only one other guy appeared in every photo with my parents. I traced my finger across the slick plastic film, envying them. The lump in my throat dissolved and renewed determination took its place.

Maybe one day I'd come back and study their methods, but for now, this book wasn't what I was looking for. I grabbed the next one on the stack and found a pic of Di and me sunbathing during a family barbecue where we thought we were so sexy because we were finally allowed to wear bikinis. I remember thinking I might one day fill out the cups in the bikini. Oh, how naïve I once was.

I almost passed right over the page when I glimpsed a photo at the bottom and my mouth opened. There, at the same barbecue where Di and I had stripped down to jailbait-wear, was a photo of a younger Chess. He sat on a bench in the background of my past. His hair was shorter, and he was obviously scooting away from a man who'd tried to put his arm around him.

I didn't remember Chess at all. Di and I had been too busy trying to get the attention of one of Lorina's guy friends who we had a
huge
crush on while he probably thought we hadn't yet graduated to solid foods.

The guy next to Chess looked familiar, but not because I knew him—

—Because I had just flipped through hundreds of pictures of him in the album with my parents. Chess's dad had been involved in all my parents' environmental protests.

It seemed like Chess was deliberately trying to keep the info that our parents knew each other a secret. If I'd had his phone number, I would have canceled the date. But then I had a better idea: use the date to get answers. And yeah, I hoped the answers would be the kind I could get behind, like he wanted me to like him for him and not because my parents had liked him.

I changed my outfit a bazillion times before settling on something boring because I didn't have anything more exciting. Jeans and a plain, white T-shirt. I was a walking Gap advertisement.

I sidled down the stairs. Lorina lounged in an armchair, her feet planted on the ground instead of dangling off the side like mine did. She watched the TV in a trance, which was odd. The last few days, the TV had remained off while Lorina studied maps and pored over notes filled with her loopy handwriting.

I was about to open my mouth to say something when I caught my reflection in the mirrored china cabinet. An unruly lock of hair had escaped its flock. I patted it down.

“Do you have a date?”

Leave it to Lorina to notice the moment I indulged in narcissism. “I'm going out with a friend.” My cheeks betrayed me, blooming a rosy pink.

She shut off the TV. “It's a school night.”

“Yeah . . . School project.”

Lorina stood up. “Not the way you're blushing.”

Of course, that made me blush all over again.

She placed her palms on my shoulders, a giddy smile on her face. “Who is he?”

I couldn't tell her. Not when she might be investigating him. So I did the next best thing: distracted her. “Any new developments in the investigation?”

She let go of me and swung her arms at her sides. “Not anymore. My boss axed the project. Apparently things have died down.”

“They have?” My own frown matched Lorina's. I wondered if Whitney had ceased operations after my flooding fiasco.

“Yeah.” She twisted the class ring on her finger. “Nothing's happened in a while. My boss is thrilled. Thinks we scared them. But I don't know. I think they're lying low.”

The sad part was we both hoped for the same thing, but for very different reasons.

“Well, good job then.” I headed into the kitchen and swiped the box of leftover petit fours. They were getting stale, so they might not go to Chess's heart—by way of his stomach—but at least they wouldn't go to my hips. “You should celebrate the victory, maybe go out and get ice cr—”

“Oh no.” She lifted a finger at me. “You're not getting away that easily. Alice, dating on a school night isn't allowed.”

“I won't be home late.” I cringed at my lame plea. “And my homework's done.”

She stretched the skin of her face with her fingertips. “I understand, Alice, I really do. Hey, I'd kill to go on a date tonight.”

I wavered in place, not knowing what to say or do. Part of me wanted to trudge upstairs and stop putting her through all this extra pressure. Give up what I wanted, like she had done for me.

“If I was only your sister, I'm sure I'd be helping you sneak out.” She let out a strained laugh. “But I have to be more than that. I have to be—”

“No.” I straightened my shoulders. I knew where this was going. Not just tonight, but for the next few years. She'd stay home to set a good example, but we'd both lose. I crossed my fingers behind my back, knowing there was only one way to prevent this and hating myself for what I was about to do. “You're not my mom.”

I wrenched open the door and slammed it shut, then leaned against it, my eyes closed and my breath ragged. Oh God. I was such a wretched girl. I considered opening the door and apologizing. I half-expected her to come outside and yell, but she didn't, which made the knot in my stomach grow bigger.

Bright headlights swung into my driveway a few minutes later. I pushed my hair behind my ears and strutted toward the car, praying the brave appearance would seep into my psyche. Chess leaned over and popped the door open for me. Seventies rock music drowned out the neighbor's barking dog. As he twisted the radio dial to a new station, I sank into the passenger seat. “I have a present for you.” I settled the box on my lap.

“That's kind of weird because I have one for you.”

I clasped my hands in a prayer position. “Please let it be a razor, please let it be a razor.”

He laughed. “This one's courtesy of Whitney.” He pointed to the back seat where my backpack rested on the cushions.

“Oh.” I closed my eyes. “Thanks.” If Whitney had given it to Chess, it meant there would be no future opportunity for her to give it to me herself.

“What's yours?”

I lifted the lid to show him.

“Wow, you bought those for me?” The grin made me wish I had.

“Wait until you taste them.”
Because you won't be as excited then.

He reached over to grab one, but I shut the box, suddenly regretting my idea of salvaging cakes from a life of mold by pawning them off on a guy I liked. “They're for dessert! Which makes me wonder . . . where are we going?”

He abruptly swerved the car to the shoulder of the road and put it in park. Suburban houses outlined the street, an odd background for . . . parking? Didn't the guy usually bring the girl to some scenic overlook if he wanted to make out? My clammy hands slid apart. I might be on a direct path to shedding my good-girl image, but not like this!

He twisted off the radio he had worked so hard to set, and stared out into the moonlight. “Alice, I have a confession to make.”

I held my breath, stupidly wishing he might confess his feelings for me.

“I haven't decided where I'm bringing you yet.”

“What are the options?”

“We could get coffee or something. Sit and talk.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel before pinning me with his intense gaze. “Or we could go to Whitney's.”

“Do you want me to choose?”

He leaned his head back against the seat. “I want you to stay out of this stuff. If you get hurt because of me . . . us . . . well, I'd feel awful.”

His words sent a cold sensation racing up my spine. “Hurt?”

His mouth hung open for a second. “In trouble.”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Are you sure? Because I don't think you do.”

I turned toward the window. “I'm a big girl.” I laughed at the irony.

“Hey,” his voice softened. “I didn't mean to upset you. It's just—I heard about your parents.”

I faced him again. “And I heard about yours. Well, your dad, anyway.”

He shifted in his seat, forehead creased. After a beat, he said almost cautiously, “What do you know?”

“I know my parents and your dad used to do protests together. I found pictures. Including one of you at my house.”

“And?” He clasped his hands in his lap.

“And in gym you said I didn't have a reason for doing this stuff. But I do.”

He met my eyes. “You know? I thought you didn't.”

I squinted at him. “Wait—know what?”

He studied me for several seconds. “What our parents were doing.”

“You mean the protests? I know they got the nuclear-power plant shut down. And they were trying to get a farmers' market started.”