TMI (4 page)

Meg strode to the mailbox at the curb. Empty again. She cursed and hurried inside.

“Meg? That you?”

“Hi, Mom. Did you get the mail?” Meg dropped her backpack near the front door and headed for the kitchen.

“Yeah, it's on the table. I have class. I'll see you later.” Pauline Farrell hurried past, wet hair ruthlessly scraped back in a ponytail, and patted Meg's cheek on the way by.

Meg rifled through the envelopes piled on the old oak table and froze.

“Mom, wait.” Her voice squeaked. “My scores. They're here.” She pulled out a chair and slowly sank into it.

Pauline joined her at the secondhand kitchen table, a smile brightening her tired eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Open it.”

Meg put her hands on the table and drew in a deep breath. For three weeks, she'd been waiting for these scores, and now they were here—the numbers that would determine her future. With her blood pounding in her ears, Meg opened the envelope while Pauline twisted her hands.

She scanned the numbers.

Her shoulders sagged.

She moved her hand to her chest and tried to shove in more air, but it didn't work.

“Honey, it can't be that bad. Let me see.”

Meg let the slip of paper fall from her hands and shut her eyes. Pauline took the sheet and gasped.

“Meg, these are good.”

Meg thought about The Plan. “Not good enough.”

Pauline took a chair beside Meg and pulled her hands away from her face. “Megan. A 1950 is a really great score.”

Slowly, mechanically, Meg shook her head. “No, Mom, it's average. I needed to do so much better than average.”
Average
didn't get the scholarship money. She'd been counting on it. She'd based her entire plan on it. No scholarship meant no degree. No degree meant no career. No career meant no financial independence.

Her dad would be so ashamed.

Pauline laughed once. “What were you expecting, honey? A perfect 2400?”

Meg gulped back a sob. Pauline didn't get it. The Plan was never anything more than just something Meg and her dad did together. It was never real to Pauline.

And now it would never be real at all.

Pauline's smile slipped. “Megan, look at me.” She lifted Meg's chin with a calloused hand. “You're working so hard. But you're putting too much pressure on yourself. And that's my fault.” Her tired eyes teared up. “A 1950 is an excellent score. It says here that's the ninetieth percentile. That's much better than I did, and I went to a good school.”

“You're right, Mom.” But in her mind, she was saying,
Yeah, such a great school and still no degree.

“Crap, I'm late.” Her mother glanced at the clock. “I'll see you later. Sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine.” Meg managed a tight smile and even a wave. Only after she heard the front door slam and her mother's car start did she head upstairs to her room and give in to the tears that choked her. She cried until it sapped her energy, until she had nothing left to feed the sobs. It was obvious a really good school wasn't in her future. Her scores were good enough to get in but not good enough for a full ride. She'd need a whole new plan. She'd have to readjust and find one of the local colleges where her pathetic score might get her more financial aid. The degree is what's important, not the school. She just had to get her degree so she could get a high-paying job and never have to—

A light went on in the window across the yard. Her belly flipped and for a second—just for a second—she thought about calling Chase to cry or vent or whatever.

No.

She wiped her eyes, straightened her clothes, and picked up her paintbrush.

She would not do that to him.

Instead, she opened oil paints and mixed Prussian blue with Flanders yellow. As a rule, she hoarded these paints. Artist-grade paint was expensive but so much better than working with student-grade materials. Plus, they took forever to dry. But she
had
to find the right green.

She needed to paint Chase. It was the closest she could ever allow herself to get to him. The rest of her plan may be shot to hell, but this—oh, this she would master.

She grabbed one of the small canvases she'd already underpainted and started layering colors. She began with a foundation color. A faint gray. On top of that, she added a circle of the green she'd mixed and then stepped back to critically examine it. Maybe…just maybe. She noted the color mix formula. She added a subtle rim of the black around the green iris and then dabbed on a pupil in the center. She mixed a few more colors—a soft brown for contrast, a warm gold for highlight. She switched to a fine brush and worked from the center out, blending and pulling, stepping back often to examine her results.

She glanced at her bedside clock and cursed. Where had the time gone? She was on the schedule to work tonight, so she quickly capped paint tubes, cleaned brushes, and found her uniform, doing her best to ignore the echo of her dad's voice.

What
are
you
going
to
do
with
the
rest
of
your
life?

She shoved the thought away. Right now, she was due at the theater, so she fastened her name tag to her uniform, tucked her phone into her pocket, and wondered about what candy to take home for Bailey. Mondays at the theater were usually slow, which meant the time would drag. She should bring her backpack because she hadn't yet done any homework. One good thing about Monday was that it was payday. She needed a few tubes of acrylic paint. At four bucks a tube, she could easily spend her whole paycheck, so she would have to settle for the basics—red, blue, yellow, and white.

She also needed to eat. She frowned at the pathetic contents of the refrigerator. Still no groceries. Her mother hadn't stopped on her way home from work and was off to her class. Pauline worked full time during the day, went to night classes twice a week, and every other night worked as a waitress at the diner on Main Street.

Meg rinsed the coffee cup her mother had left on the counter and then searched for something to eat later. She sighed and smeared peanut butter and jelly on the two heels of the bread loaf left in the bag and then hunted for plastic wrap in the kitchen drawer.

Instead, she found a photograph, creased and stained, stuffed at the bottom of the drawer.

For a long moment, she stared at the picture, sandwiches and plastic wrap forgotten, her hands clenched into fists, her breaths coming in heaving sobs. She grabbed the knife, still smeared with peanut butter and jelly, and drove it through the face in the picture—again and again and again—until the snapshot was shredded, pieces of it glued to the knife. She raised the knife one more time, but a flash of movement caught her eye. She whipped her eyes to the back door.

Chase. Oh, God, Chase.

The knife clattered to the floor.

She shoved the door open and stood in the frame. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was raw.

He swallowed and brought his arms up but never touched her. “Um. I messed up. Big time. Brothers all hate me. Parents disappointed. My only hope for redemption is Happy Meals. Do you need a lift to the theater? I thought we could grab a burger or…you know…” He trailed off.

She wanted to say no. It was better to say no. But she looked at the sandwich on the counter and her stomach rumbled. Finally, she sighed. “Yeah,” she said and blinked. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Chase made a strange choking sound, stepped over the threshold, and tugged her close to his chest. For a moment, she melted and allowed him to hold her. She even raised her arms and thought about hugging back. But her dad's words replayed in her mind. Instead, she stepped back, set her face in her toughest expression, and bent to clean up the pieces of paper from the floor.

Chase knelt to help and gasped. “Jesus, Megan. What the hell?” he asked with wide eyes, and just like that, she knew he knew about her dad.

He
knew
.

She shot up like an arrow and stalked from the room. He didn't follow. She heard him moving around in the kitchen, the slide of the doors, the click of the lock, the slam of a cabinet door, and she was grateful for a few moments to settle herself down. She was tying on the black tennis shoes that were required with her uniform when he joined her.

“Um. I wrapped up your sandwich. You ready?”

Meg took the wrapped sandwich without looking at him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He shrugged. “Why are you so mad at your dad?”

She scowled and rolled her eyes as if the answer was so obvious. “Because he left.”

Chase shook his head and reached for her again. “Megan, he
died
. I know you miss him, but—”

She slapped his hand away. “I'm fine. Look, I'm just gonna walk. Thanks for—just thanks.” She jerked open the front door and bolted out into the evening chill.

She heard her front door slam and cursed under her breath. She'd forgotten to shut it.

“Megan! Megan, wait,” he called.

Meg's long legs ate up the street. She never slowed. Chase broke into a jog, caught up to her, and with an arm on her elbow, spun her around to face him. “Damn it, Megan. I said wait.”

She couldn't look at him. She'd lose it if she did. “I'm gonna be late.”

“Talk to me, Megan. We're friends. You can trust me.”

“Trust you?” She laughed once, a “yeah right” laugh. “You're a guy.” The last time she'd trusted him, she'd gotten a C- on a project! It was her lowest grade ever. A C- would never get the scholarships or the high-paying jobs. All a C- would get her is locked into the life she was trying so hard to escape.

He took half a step back, like she'd slapped him. “Megan, come on. You've known me how many years now? When have I ever let you down? Just talk to me. Tell me what's wrong.”

She looked up at him, and for a second, she wished she could just unload and tell him everything. Tell him about her dad, about her plan, about the feelings she really did have for him but pretended not to. He reached out and—

“Meg! Chase! Hey, guys!”

Chase spun around to watch Bailey jogging over to them and groaned. Meg caught her eye for a second—less than a second—and took the opportunity to run.

Bailey bounced down the porch steps and hurried down the street to Meg's house just in time to see the fireworks.

“Megan! Megan, wait!” Chase was…well, chasing Meg from her house down the street. She ignored him and kept stalking. Uh-oh. Bailey had seen that walk before—a lot. She called it the Meg March. It rattled the dishes in Gran's cabinets. It could mean only one thing.

Meg was seriously pissed.

Bailey shrugged. It didn't take much to piss Meg off, and whatever it was, she was sure she would quickly get over it because for Meg, anger was a lot like a sugar high—it peaked fast, burned off, and then she'd crash. If she needed to talk, she'd text, but right now, she'd focus on her work because Meg always gave things 100 percent. Bailey, however, was between jobs. For her, jobs were like boys. She couldn't seem to hold on to either for very long.

With a mental kick, Bailey snapped herself out of her pity party and slowed up her steps when Chase grabbed Meg's elbow and spun her around. Wow. That was so romantic, and Meg didn't have a clue. She waited—neither of them had noticed her yet, and she wouldn't have said a word, not one peep, if she hadn't seen Meg's face.

Meg was on the edge of a complete blurt.

Oh, God! What should she do? Meg hated the Blurt—she called it verbal diarrhea—with the same level of intensity she usually saved for a bad grade. But this was Chase, the boy next door with the fairy-tale eyes who adored her and needed just one opportunity to show how her much. She could duck between cars or maybe dive behind those shrubs or—damn it! She could see Meg take a deep breath. Blurt was imminent, so Bailey did what friendship demanded.

“Meg! Chase! Hey, guys!” she shouted and hoped nobody noticed how shrill her voice was.

They spun around. She heard Chase curse but saw the relief that flashed across Meg's face, and then Meg was gone, practically running down the street.
You're welcome,
she thought.

Bailey turned to Chase with an overbright smile. She'd really wanted to see
him,
not Meg. Her smile faded when she got a good look at his face. “Hey. You okay?”

Chase's worried green eyes rolled skyward and he shook his head once. “Not even close.”

“What did she do now?” Bailey asked, already aching on his behalf. He was a good guy and Meg needed to start appreciating that instead of pushing him away.

Chase raked both hands through his hair. “Bailey, what the hell did her dad do to her?”

Bailey's eyes popped. Meg didn't talk about her dad, not with anybody, and that included her.

Bailey twisted a curl and considered Chase for a moment. She decided it was best to stick to the obvious. “Um…he died.”

Chase spun around, muttered something she didn't catch, and then spun back. “Yeah, I got that part. Why the hell is she mad enough to stab pictures of him?”

Her mouth fell open. Stabbing pictures? There were no pictures of Meg's dad in her house that she had ever seen, so she didn't know anything about why Meg would be stabbing them.

Chase made a choking sound and bent over to grab his knees. Bailey stepped closer and patted him on the back because it was the only thing she could think to do. Then again, she didn't really know why he was so upset.

“Oh, God. Oh, my God, Bailey. Did he…did he, you know…
hurt
Meg?”

Of course he'd hurt Meg. She was only six or seven years old when he died, and Meg missed him. Bailey looked closer at the sick expression on Chase's face, and her eyes popped in understanding. “Oh! You mean—no. Eww. No.” She shook her head. “No, it was nothing like that. She's just mad at him for dying, you know?”

Chase shook his head. “I've seen her mad lots of times—well, pretty much all the time—but not like this. She was—it was like she was burning with it. I mean, off the charts with mad.”

Bailey smiled once. “Yeah, that's how she gets. I'm sure it's nothing serious, Chase.”

“Nothing serious?” Chase stared at her like she'd sprouted a huge zit between her eyes. “Bailey, no offense, but this is like the most serious shit I've ever seen. I was about to pick up a flowerpot and heave it through the glass door.”

Okay, this had gone far enough. If there was one thing Bailey knew, it was how to handle Megan Farrell, and Chase needed to understand he was doing it all wrong. “Chase, you need to back off. Meg hates people getting all up in her face when something's bothering her. She'll get over it on her own. The more you nag her, the more you try to ‘be there for her,' the madder she'll get,” Bailey said, making air quotes. “By the time she gets home from work, she'll be back to normal. Trust me.”

Chase continued to stare at Bailey. She rubbed her forehead. Definitely no zit.

“What?”

“Bailey, you know what's up, don't you?” He folded his arms and frowned. “The anxiety attacks, the mood swings—you know.”

Uh-oh.

“Bailey, tell me.” He stepped closer.

Bailey shook her curls.

“I need to know.” He grabbed her arms.

She shook her head again. “No, Chase. She doesn't talk about it. She doesn't want anyone to know. I don't even know all of it.” There was only one thing she could say that he'd really hear. “You want to impress her? You want her to love you back? Let Meg keep her secrets.” She smiled brightly at his look of confusion and barreled ahead. “I was heading to your place to see you anyway. Are you busy tonight? I want to talk to you about a video game.”

Chase blinked and then lifted his brows. “A video game or
your
video game?”

“Um…yeah, my video game. I was hoping you could help me actually build it.”

His eyebrows pinched together. “Right. Your famous video game. I've heard you and Megan talking about it. So you really want to build it?”

Bailey's face split into a wide grin. “Yeah, I love video games. It's like
Assassin's Creed
,
Call
of
Duty
,
Halo
, and
Dance
Party
Central
all combined into one. I have character histories, settings, rules of engagement, levels—all of it.”

“Um,
Dance
Party
?” Chase repeated. “Um…it sounds, uh…great.”

Bailey rolled her eyes. “Yes, controller-less play. I want a gesture interface.”

Chase's eyebrows leaped into his hairline, and she beamed. When his mouth fell open, she laughed. “I want to tell you what I have so far. Wanna grab a burger?” Bailey knew a lot about gaming but only a little about computer programming. She just liked playing video games and figured designing one couldn't be much harder than writing down all the outcomes and handing it all off to a programmer to code. Chase was a member of the computer club at school. Who better to take her baby from idea to reality?

Chase's teeth snapped shut, and she was sure he'd rolled those emerald eyes of his behind their lids. She shrugged. He wasn't saying no, so Bailey counted it as a win.

“The McDonald's next to the theater okay with you?” he asked.

Bailey's lips twitched. That was right where Meg worked. This couldn't be more perfect. She wanted Meg to see her with Chase. It was time Meg realized that Chase Gallagher was a total hottie and wasn't going to wait forever for her to get her head out of her butt.

Ten minutes later, they were eating burgers and fries at a table near the window. Meg would be sure to see them if she was working the ticket counter. Bailey told him all about her game, but Chase was brooding.

“Chase?”

He shook his head once like he was knocking loose a blockage. “Uh, sorry, Bay. What were you saying?”

“Okay. It's based on our history class from last year. I was having trouble passing, so Meg helped me come up with a way to remember all those facts and places and dates and people and stuff and so—” she said and splayed out her hands with a flourish, “video game!”

“Uh-huh.” Chase just looked more confused, so Bailey started over.

“Okay, it's pretty simple actually.” She bit into her burger and talked with her mouth full. “Players move from level to level by figuring out what really led to the major historical incidents of a particular time period, like the Renaissance or the Crusades or World War I.”

Chase's eyebrows rose as he sipped his Coke. “What do you mean…what really happened?”

Bailey bounced in her seat. “Well, it started when Meg told me that there isn't just one thing that led to the major incidents throughout history. Usually, it was a combination of things, a buildup, a chain reaction. Our history books just scratch the surface. There are dozens of things that never make it into the books, like the Civil War wasn't only about slavery and World War I wasn't only about Archduke Ferdinand's assassination.”

“What was it about?”

“Well, the Civil War was also about money.”

“Money?”

“Yeah.” She emptied her fries into a pool of ketchup. “Slave labor was free except for…you know, buying the slaves and having to feed them and take care of them and stuff. But that was still cheaper than running a big Southern cotton plantation with paid labor. And then there was the imbalance between the heavily industrialized North and plantation South.”

“Imbalance?”

“In the electoral college.”

Chase blinked at her. “Right. The electoral college.”

Bailey rubbed her lips. No ketchup. She angled her head at Chase, but he just kept looking at her. “Um, yeah…so the country was already pretty much divided politically before the slavery issue heated up.”

She paused to pop a French fry in her mouth. Chase scratched his head and narrowed his eyes.

“So what caused World War I?”

“World War I was really caused by the sinking of the
Lusitania
, but even that was a conspiracy designed by—what?” Bailey grabbed a napkin and rubbed her forehead when Chase looked at her funny again.

Chase shook his head. “Um…nothing. I'm just impressed.”

Bailey's face split into a wide grin. “Really? You are?”

“Yeah, but there's one problem. The Crusades? Renaissance?
Assassin's Creed
already did that
.
”

Bailey shook her head. “Yeah, I know. That's why there's more.”

“More?”

“Yeah. Time travel, you know, like
Halo'
s slipspace or maybe campaigns like in
Call
of
Duty
. I'm not really sure yet. But players are chasing these bad guys who are really aliens through time—kind of like Lavos in
Chrono
Trigger
, only a lot more—before they can change history.

“Um. Aliens. Right.”

“No, seriously. It starts off with a mission, you know, like a ‘Should you choose to accept it' thing.” Bailey made air quotes. “You travel back in time to figure out what set off that moment in history and discover it's nothing like what the textbooks told you. It's an alien invasion. You battle the aliens and then rewrite the history books so that the truth is hidden.”

“Why do you have to hide the truth?”

“Because the MIBs work without glory, without fame.”

“MIB? Like the movie?” Chase blinked at her and finally smiled. “Okay. What the hell? Tell me more.”

Bailey squealed. “Yay! Okay. It's called
Lost
Time
.” Bailey told him how she envisioned playing the game, describing the various levels and achievements as well as characters and their backstories.

“How long have you been working on this?”

“Since sophomore year.”

“What about wire frames for the landscapes or maps of the time periods?”

Bailey frowned and shook her head. “I…well, I'm not a great programmer.”

“Can you program at all?” He finished his burger and licked ketchup from his fingers.

She shrugged. “I mess around in Java, but I suck.” She slurped the bottom of her Coke. Simon had promised to buy her the software she needed to build her video game. They'd spent hours talking about it, arguing over the points system and leveling up, how the environment would look. He'd said he was impressed too. Her eyes misted and she blinked the tears away.

“It's not hard if you know the basics. I can get you a game library. Know what that is?”

Bailey nodded. That was the software Simon had promised her. “Sure. It lets you use precoded objects for common functions.”

“Right. I'll get you one and you can—”

Bailey stopped him with a raised hand. “Yeah, I know what it is, but I don't know what to do with it.”

“Oh, okay. I've got a few game engines we can try out.”