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Good night, Sleeping Beauty.

 

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Time:
7:45 A.M.

Re:
Physics notes

Hey, Ed,

I would wait to talk to you at school, but things are . . . whatever. . . . I thought e-mail was a safer form of communication. Also, to be honest, I don't really know if I'll be going back there. To school, that is. I mean, I thought I would quit, and then I changed my mind, and then . . . never mind. Okay. By now you're thinking, who the hell is this person, and what has she done with Gaia Moore? To be honest: I don't know. Anyway, I just wanted to say what's up.

If you don't feel like actually speaking to me, a simple e-mail response will do. Okay. I'm going to check for new mail now. Who knows? Maybe there will be a message from you.

—
The artist formerly known as Gaia Moore

 

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Time:
12:45 P.M.

Re:
Didn't see you at lunch

H.:

Where were you? Not in the cafeteria. Not in the library. Not in the ladies's rooms. (Okay, I don't know that for a fact. I took it on faith when the numerous girls I asked assured me that was the case.) I know you're worried about everything, and that makes me worried about you. So that makes today a great big worry fest. Maybe we all need prescriptions for Prozac. Yes! Great idea!

Love,

             Shred

She stared back at him, uncomprehending. Her heart began to pound. Maybe this
was
fear. . . .

 

IT FEELS LIKE SOMEONE'S ELBOW IS
in my ear,
Gaia thought in the split second before she opened her eyes.

Hockey-Mask Guy

Gaia turned her head and found herself staring at Sam's sleeping face. A shadow of stubble covered his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted. Gaia wanted to reach out and touch the strands of hair that fell over Sam's forehead. But she didn't want to wake him. She just wanted to soak it in—
this moment, this place, this boy...
everything.
She nudged the comforter that covered her body and peered beneath it. She had on her nicest pair of underwear (no holes, elastic unbroken) and one of Sam's oversize white T-shirts.

A smile spread across her face. She'd deliberately chosen to wear her nicest underwear because she'd thought that Sam might see it. And he had.

Everything had gone according to plan last night.
Better
than according to plan. After she'd managed to peel herself off the pavement after beating the shit out of that couple, she'd staggered over to Sam's dorm to find him arriving at the same moment—looking happier than she'd ever seen him. And then he'd swept her into his arms, like the most perfectly scripted moment....

Sighing, she brushed her fingers over her lips. They
were tender and felt a little swollen. How long had she and Sam lain awake last night, making out on his grimy, narrow, dorm-room bed? Hours? Days? Months? Of course, they hadn't been kissing the entire time. They had taken breaks to whisper to each other. About everything. About their life. About karma. About whether or not the hamburgers at Googie's were better than the hamburgers at Ozzie's. About their favorite episodes of
The Simpsons . . .

Of course, there was one thing that they still
hadn't
talked about.

Uncle Oliver.

Then again, there was still nothing concrete to tell Sam. After all, up until a few months ago Gaia hadn't even known she
had
an uncle. The existence of her father's identical twin brother was just one more secret that her dad had kept from her while she was growing up.
And then Oliver had appeared out of the proverbial thin air and saved Gaia's life in Washington Square Park one night.

But did he really want her to be part of his family? And what did he know of her father and of her mother's death? What did he
really
know? Because in some dark crevice of her psyche, she suspected that Oliver had the ultimate, incontrovertible evidence that her own father was responsible for her mom's murder—

Gaia shivered.
Not now,
she told herself. This wasn't the time to dwell. Not with Sam beside her in bed. Better to think about other things. Namely, the fact that she still hadn't lost her virginity. Okay—obviously, she didn't feel the same pressure that she had felt a while ago. But still, in a way . . .
hmmm.
She squirmed, unsure whether she wanted to giggle or frown. Maybe she
did
feel pressure. She had been determined to do the deed for months now—but up until ten hours ago Gaia hadn't even gotten to second base. And once things had become hot and heavy last night, Sam had pulled back. He'd said he wanted their first time together to be perfect. Planned. “Special.”

How much more special could last night get?

On the other hand, if she was going to have sex, she should probably at least shave her legs beforehand.

Without thinking, she kissed Sam lightly on the lips.

“Mmmm ...,” he moaned. “Good morning.”

“Sorry to wake you up,” she murmured.

He smiled, but his eyes remained closed. Just staring at him filled her with a thrilling combination of light-headedness, nausea, tingling, and melting. Was this what fear felt like? Maybe.
Maybe people who loved horror movies experienced something like this when the hockey-mask guy popped out of the bushes, wielding a chain saw.
Only this was all about pleasure. There was no fear involved.

“I had a great dream last night,” Sam mumbled sleepily. He rolled over on his back and yawned. “You and I were in a Winnebago, and we were driving cross-country. And we went to Las Vegas. You really wanted to play the slots.”

Gaia laughed. “You know me pretty well, Sam Moon,” she whispered.

Suddenly he rolled over on his side, facing her. His eyes opened wide.

“Let's do it,” he said.

She stared back at him, uncomprehending. Her heart began to pound. Maybe this
was
fear. Did he mean . . .

“What?” she forced herself to croak.

“Go to Vegas.”

Almost instantly her muscles relaxed. But she couldn't help feeling mildly disappointed. “Oh,” she murmured.

“Seriously.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Picture it. Picture
us.
Traveling across America together this summer. We could go to the Grand Canyon. Mount Rushmore. That museum where they have the world's biggest ball of twine. We could pool our funds and buy some decrepit old car with two hundred thousand miles on it, and we could just drive until the thing conked out somewhere west of Colorado—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Gaia interrupted, giggling. “Slow
down there, champ. Do I get to do the driving? I've never been a very good passenger.”

Sam laughed. “You behind the wheel? That could get dangerous.”

“Okay. We'll take turns.”

Getting into the fantasy, Gaia pictured the two of them camping on the side of highways and checking into seedy motels.
No rapists or serial killers or hit men to deal with.
Just the two of them, totally and completely free . . .

“Who knows? Maybe when we get back, we can get a place together,” Sam continued. “I could ditch dorm life and we could move into a cheap one bedroom in the East Village.”

Gaia looked up into Sam's eyes. She felt that nervous flutter in her gut again. “You
are
kidding about all of this ...right?”

He shook his head. “Nope.” There wasn't a trace of sarcasm or irony on his face. “So what do you say? You and me and a rat-infested apartment in Alphabet City? Then we could hustle chess games in Tomkins Square Park. The caliber of players isn't nearly as good as Washington Square. We could even use that chess-board I gave you.”

“What chessboard?” she asked, so overwhelmed with emotion, she could barely follow him.

“The one I gave you for Christmas.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Remember? You sent me a really lame
e-mail saying thanks for the gift, but—” He abruptly broke off.

Gaia stared at him. Either she was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer's, or there had been a major communication breakdown. But then it hit her:
Ella.
Right. She must have somehow interfered, stealing the gift and sending a bogus e-mail in Gaia's stead.
Another pang of regret shot through Gaia.
If only she and her foster mother had communicated earlier, a lot of torture and suffering could have been avoided. But part of Ella had always lived for inflicting pain....

“Ella,” Sam murmured, as if speaking for both of them. “I bet it's still somewhere in your house. But look—it doesn't matter. What you do think of what I'm telling you?”

“I love it,” she responded without thinking. “It sounds ...great.”

And that was the best she could do. Gaia was shocked at herself. She had never lied.
Ever.
And even though she wasn't technically lying, for the first time
—
for the first time in her entire
life
—
she wasn't telling the whole truth.
Yes, living with Sam did sound great. It sounded perfect. Idyllic. Only ...so did leaving New York City to live abroad with Oliver. She just couldn't tell Sam that—not now. For just a little while longer she wanted to keep up the illusion that
her life could be simple. Besides, if history were any indication, reality would come crashing in at any moment.

Then
she would deal with the truth. All of it.

HEATHER COULDN'T MOVE. HER BARE
feet seemed to be superglued to the cold patch of floor in front of her parents' closed bedroom. Even though her mom and dad were speaking in hushed tones, Heather could every word. And even if she
couldn't
hear them, she'd know what they were talking about.

The Rent

Money.
These days, it was always about money.

“. . . paid the rent ten days late
last
month,” Mom was hissing. “We have to get the money together on time, or else we're going to have a problem—”

“I'm working on it. I already put a call in to my sister.”

Heather swallowed. Dad sounded desperate. His voice was high-pitched, whiny. Out of control. Totally unlike the way he presented himself to everyone. She heard her mother sigh deeply.

“If we start borrowing from them, we'll never stop. Isn't there a way to do this on our own?”

“Have you seen the latest set of bills from the hospital? Even after insurance, the fees are astronomical.”

Heather pictured the bare, sterile hospital room. Phoebe could have stayed in a suite at the Four Seasons for less. And the group home was costing even more. Insurance had labeled Phoebe's extended therapy “elective” and refused to pay for a dime of it. Rage simmered in Heather's veins. How could people be so unfeeling?

“You need to find another job,” Mom suddenly stated.

Heather stiffened.
Another job?
Why on earth would he have to do that? His current job might not pay the hospital bills, but they'd eventually manage—

“How? At my age I'll be lucky to find any job at all, much less one that pays a decent salary. Besides, I was fired. People don't like to hire people who were fired.”

The yogurt Heather had eaten for breakfast started to congeal in her stomach. Laid off. Fired. There had to be some kind of mistake.
Her dad had been fired.
She hadn't even known. Of course not. Her parents hadn't told her. All at once she began to shake. Her throat tightened. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, focusing on the pain in order to keep any sound from escaping her lips.

The rage inside her began to grow.
A series of nightmarish images flashed in front of her.
She saw herself being thrown out of the apartment with nothing but a pair of Gap jeans and her favorite agnès B cashmere sweater. She saw herself
begging for change while her parents huddled around a trash-can bonfire. And what about Phoebe? Well, one thing was for damn sure. Without enough money to buy food, her sister would finally get down to her “target” weight of something like fifty pounds—

Heather whirled and strode back to her room. Enough. Her family was like a freaking hurricane that was whipping her in a thousand different directions—and she couldn't do a thing to stop it. She was fed up with feeling so helpless. She'd never been good at that. No. She needed to be on top of things. And there was only one person who could make her feel that way.

Heather wanted to be in his arms as soon as possible.

Some Pithy, Oscar Wilde–Type Phrase

THE MOMENT ED PROPELLED HIMSELF
out of the lobby of his apartment building, he nearly wiped out. Heather was standing right at the bottom of the wheel-chair ramp, her face half concealed by the hair that jutted out from under her navy
blue cap. Normally the fact that a beautiful girl was loitering outside his home would indicate Ed's life had definitely taken a turn for the better. But Heather's sour expression dispelled any fantasies.

He grabbed the hand brake and jerked to a stop. “Hey, what's up?” he asked nervously. “Couldn't wait to see me, huh?”