738 Days: A Novel (47 page)

“Miss Grace is not my responsibility. The people on this set are,” he points out. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep your head down and don’t go making yourself a target. We’ll take care of the whackjob. You just keep doing what you do.” He jerks his head in a dismissive gesture toward the cameras.

Then he walks away, leaving me fuming with impotent fury. The thing is, if I do what everyone is telling me to now, I win. I’m the good little actor who played my role in the scheme and got everything I wanted.

But if I accept the rewards as my due, then there’s no difference between me and Elise. Or Adam and me.

But at least the two of them are deliberate schemers. I just followed blindly, hating every second of it but doing nothing to stop it. That’s worse.

I need to do something else. I need to
change
, or I’m going to end up back here, hating myself again in six months, a year. Or maybe I won’t be that lucky.

A flicker of an idea, something Leon said, tickles the far reaches of my brain.

I can’t do anything to take back what I’ve done. But maybe I can fix things going forward. Maybe I can still try to be the person I should have been all along.

If I follow through, it’ll destroy everything I’ve done this week, every bit of career advancement gone. Forget the Besson audition, or any audition for a while after this. It might well land me back in Tillman on my knees, with a manure shovel in one hand and a groveling apology in the other.

Even worse, it’s possible that Karen’s right, and Amanda will hate me even more for making her humiliation greater and her pain worth nothing.

But just considering the idea makes me feel like I can breathe again, like I might be able to cough the water from my lungs and stop drowning. Which also makes me think it’s possible Amanda might understand exactly what I’m doing.

Breaking free.

35

Amanda

“What are you doing?” Liza asks, sticking her head in my partially open door before I can pretend to be reading or doing anything other than staring into space.

Technically, I’m staring at the torn-out pages I swiped from Liza’s discarded college brochures and taped to my walls years ago. All of them portray happy people in various stages of crossing the green open space of a quad. Sometimes they’re lying on blankets with books. Others are obviously in the middle of a (staged) Frisbee game. One of them, my favorite, is taken at dusk with the sky turning pink behind an enormous chapel, and a pair of students holding hands are cast in silhouette.

I think I could do that now, be one of those students. Suddenly, it just seems more possible. Before, I’d stalled out on progress to the point of no advancement at all. But I just spent five days, give or take, away from home and once I got past the rough start, I was mostly okay.

I’m not done, I know, working through the issues from being taken. But now, it seems like maybe the light at the end of that endless tunnel could be sunshine instead of another fluorescent light illuminating the tracks disappearing into nothingness.

But when I should be celebrating that fact and trying harder to push forward and make decisions, part of me now just wants to sit on the tracks and stay in the darkness.

“Nothing,” I say to Liza finally. I’m wallowing today, with self-indulgent abandon. But I’ve decided I’m allowed to for one day. Then, starting tomorrow, I’m going to figure out what comes next.

But that’s tomorrow.

Liza frowns. “Are you going to get up?”

“It’s only ten thirty in the morning,” I point out. “And for what? Mom’s not here.” She fussed repeatedly last night about canceling her dentist appointment to stay home with me. But Dad, in a rare moment of solidarity that I hope will become more frequent, backed me on my ability to stay home by myself.

I’ve never broken up with anyone before, never had my heart shattered, but I’m inclined to think that solitude is one of the recovery requirements.

“You’re hiding,” Liza accuses.

“No, I’m brooding. There’s a fine difference. Please note the chocolate-covered pretzels.” I shake the foil bag that I dug out of the pantry this morning at six when I couldn’t sleep anymore.

Liza rolls her eyes. “I have to leave for study group,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m…” Empty, angry, lonely. Sad. “I’m here,” I say finally. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Do you still want me to keep this?” She pulls my phone from her pocket and holds it aloft.

My heart leaps, and I curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching for the phone. In the car on the way home, I shut it off and gave it to her before Chase might even have a chance to text or call.
If
he even would attempt it.

“Did you turn it on?” I ask.

She frowns. “You told me not to.”

“Oh.” In that moment, I’m kind of wishing I’d given it to Mia or held on to it myself. My resolve would have weakened and I would have powered it on to check for messages. Now, I have to ask for it from Liza, who, despite her best intentions, will totally judge me for it, in true big-sister style.

“Do you think—” I begin.

The garage door goes up then, with a distant rumble, and a second later, the kitchen door bangs open.

Liza and I exchange confused glances.

She leans back into the hall. “Mom?”

There’s no answer but the sound of feet pounding through the kitchen and then up the stairs.

I tense.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” Mia crows breathlessly, pushing past Liza and throwing herself onto the foot of my bed.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, pulling my legs back before she crushes my kneecaps with her elbows in a further fit of enthusiasm.

“It’s Friday. You’re supposed to be in school,” Liza says, folding her arms across her chest, my phone still in hand.

“It’s just gym.” Mia waves her hand dismissively. “Everyone knows that’s optional.” She frowns at me. “You have chocolate all over your face.”

I swipe at it immediately with the back of my hand, guessing at its location.

Liza’s mouth pinches tight in disapproval. “Gym is not optional. Mia, you can’t just—”

“What aren’t we going to believe?” I ask, to prevent the fight that’s brewing.

“This.” Mia holds up her phone and presses a button. On the screen is a video beneath a huge headline: “Chase Henry Speaks Out on Amanda Grace, #AMASE, and the Future.”

“It’s all over everywhere. As of twenty minutes ago. I came home as soon as I saw.”

“I don’t want to see it,” I say automatically, my hand moving to cover my heart. Where it used to be, anyway.

“Yes, you do. Trust me.” Mia pushes the play button and scrambles to the head of the bed to shove in next to me, taking most of my pillow for herself.

“I’m going to be late,” Liza says, but she doesn’t move.

The video loads slowly, and for a second, I think I’m going to be watching that spinny circle and holding my breath forever.

But then the dark screen clears, and I recognize the turnaround in front of the Wescott Inn immediately. The crowd is still there with their signs, but Chase is the center focus, standing in front of the glass doors with the barricade up in front of him, holding everyone back.

The image is slightly blurred until the video starts to play. There are other cameras, professional setups, closer in, but this is someone in the middle of the crowd, holding up a cell phone and recording it.

“Thanks for being here this morning. For letting me talk to y’all.” His accent is back. He looks tired yet determined, and it makes my heart hurt. I want to reach through the screen and hold his hand.

“We love you, Chase,” someone near the camera holder bellows.

“Shhhh,” the camera holder hisses.

He looks up directly into the camera phone, and even with the distance, between us and between Chase and the lens, it’s electric. He’s staring straight into me, it seems, and I feel it like a kick to my ribs.

“I’ve been told not to do this by pretty much everyone I know,” he says, his gaze steady and defiant. “But we all know how good I am at following directions.” He pauses. “Actually, I’ve been better at it than you think. Not anymore, though.”

People chuckle uneasily, not sure what he means or where this is going, given his reputation.

“I want to start by saying I owe all of you an apology but one person particularly.” He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, and in his pause, I hear the click-click of dozens of cameras. “There’s been a lot of, um, speculation this week about certain, um, aspects of my personal life.”

Liza makes a face. “He’s ‘um’-ing too much.”

“Stop,” I say. Because this is Chase as I know him, uncomfortable with the attention when he’s not acting or reciting someone else’s words. And I want to hear
him.
The real him, I hope.

“Told you you’d want to see it,” Mia says with a grin, but she keeps her voice low.

“It was, as many of you suspected, a publicity stunt,” Chase says, and the collective gasp from the assembly is loud.

“Oh my God,” Mia squeals. “Here it comes.”

“You’ve already seen this,” Liza protests. “Let us hear.” She leans closer so she can see the screen better.

“Shhhh.” I wave my hands at both of them, my entire focus riveted on Mia’s phone.

“—fake, at least, it was in the beginning,” Chase continues. “It wasn’t my idea, but I went along with it because I thought I needed it and I thought what I needed was more important than anything else. Than anyone else.” He’s looking at me again, and I want to turn myself inside out to escape the pain and I never want it to end, all at the same time.

“Then it turned into something more, and I didn’t handle it right,” he says, the confession dropping his head low for a moment. Then he straightens his shoulders. “I wasn’t expecting to … feel what I felt, and when I did, I didn’t know what to do, how to tell the truth. But what happened was more real to me than anything, and I don’t regret that for a moment.” His expression is fierce, and it tears at me.

The camera bobbles a bit as the girl holding it squeals under her breath.

He shakes his head. “All of that is personal and more than I’m willing to discuss, but I want to apologize to y’all for the lies. That was wrong. You should decide if you like what I do without being tricked into it.”

I think I might be the only one to hear the faint tremor of uncertainty beneath the determination in his voice. He’s putting himself out there, drawing a line in the sand, without knowing for sure if people will follow him across it. He’s been told for so many years and by so many that he’s only worth what they find valuable in him, what they can use.

Oh, Chase.
I draw my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me. Hot tears roll down my cheeks to drip off my chin.

“And to Amanda Grace, I’d just like to say I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks, and someone near the recording makes a soft “oh” sound. “I know you think I was pretending to be someone else. But I wasn’t.”

Mia’s free hand finds mine and squeezes.

“I was trying to be a better version of myself, the person you make me want to be.” His gaze catches “our” camera again, and I go still, watching his throat bob up with barely restrained emotion. “But I messed up. My fear got the better of me. I thought if I told you the truth, you’d leave, so instead I let you down in the worst way. That’s completely unforgivable, I know. But when I said I loved you, I meant it.”

The crowd explodes with noise, and he waits until they shush themselves into something resembling quiet before he continues.

“You told me once that we’re all on our second or third or fourteenth chances. And I hope … I guess I’m still hoping for another one, even though I don’t deserve it.” His smile is tremulous and uncertain. “I still need to know your favorite color.”

He runs a quick hand under his eyes, which makes the camera holder tremble again.

Then he shifts his gaze to the entire crowd, seeming to search for someone before nodding his head. “Thank you.”

The screen freezes on him turning to go inside, and I want to push forward through it and chase after him.

But then the image goes dark and vanishes, and Mia lowers her phone to tuck it into the oversized pocket of her jacket.

Liza looks at her watch and sucks in a breath. “So late.”

Mia takes advantage of her distraction and reaches up to snatch my phone from Liza’s hand. “Give me that.”

“Wait,” I say.

Holding it away from both of us, she powers it on, and it sings to life. Almost immediately, it chirps with voicemails and texts.

“Chase … Mroczek?” She frowns. “Is that—”

“His real name,” Liza and I say together.

“Huh. Probably a good thing he changed it, then,” Mia mutters.

“Amelia,” Liza says in warning. “Give me the phone.”

Mia ignores her. “Well, Whatever His Name Is called you like twenty-seven times, and you have thirty-one new texts.” Turning toward us, she lets her finger hover above the screen. “Should we find out what Mr. What’s His Name has to say?”

“No,” I say sharply even as a voice screams,
Yes!
inside my head.

“Why not?” Mia demands with a pout.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” I say wearily.

Liza hesitates. “What he said in the video
seemed
genuine,” she admits. “Even with all the stammering.”

“See?” Mia says.

“It’s not up to you.” Liza reaches over me to snatch the phone back from Mia, who’s too busy scowling at me to see her coming.

“Hey!” Mia protests.

“She said no,” Liza says. “So forget it. Just go back to school.” Then she hesitates. “You okay?” she asks me with a cautious glance.

I nod, my chin rubbing against my pajama-covered knees. The fabric is damp from my tears. “Sure.”

She gives me a considering look. “Maybe we need to take another drive when I get back from study group, try my stress-relieving technique again.”

“What are you talking about?” Mia asks with a put-out expression.

“Nothing,” Liza says firmly. “I’ll see you tonight.
After
school.”