Revived (6 page)

In the corner near the largest window is a little seating
area with a small futon and a striped yellow, red, and black chair. Between the two seats is a see-through coffee table, where a stack of magazines seems to be floating in midair.

“Is that Lucite?” I ask, pointing to the table before settling in across from Audrey.

“I guess,” she says.

“It’s so awesome,” I murmur. “Did you design your room?”

Audrey nods proudly, smiling.

“I’m into that, too,” I say.

“Cool.”

There’s a pause while I wonder what on earth to talk about next. Have I entirely used up my conversation starters after only a few days?

Thankfully, Audrey keeps things moving.

“So, your dad seems interesting,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

“Sure,” she says. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t hurl, but he’s hot,” Audrey says.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I joke, standing halfway up. Audrey laughs and I sit back down.

“I’m sure everyone tells you that,” she continues. “He looks like George Clooney… only not as old.”

“I’ve never thought about that, but you’re right. He sort of does.”

“Totally. But your coloring is so much lighter. You must look like your mom,” Audrey says.

“Maybe,” I say before I realize what I’m saying. When Audrey gives me a funny look, I proceed with caution. There are things I can share; there are things I can’t.

“I’m adopted,” I admit, which is mostly true. What I don’t admit is that I was an orphan when I died in a bus crash; that after the government brought me back to life, it wasn’t quite sure what to do with me; that ultimately it gave Mason a lifelong assignment to raise a child… or at least until I turn eighteen. That if we’re getting technical, the adoption isn’t legal because the real me died in Bern, Iowa, eleven years ago.

“Really?” Audrey asks, clearly intrigued by the whole adoption thing. Her brown eyes are wide and sparkling.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“I don’t know anyone who was adopted,” she says. “Did you always know, or did they pull a Lifetime movie on you and surprise you when your birth mother needed a kidney or something?”

Laughing, I say, “I always knew. Like you said, my dad treats me like an adult. Same goes for my mom. We don’t really have secrets.” At least not from one another. I scratch my nose before remembering that some agents would call the gesture a “tell.” I return my hand to my lap.

“Gotcha,” Audrey says, not seeming to notice. “But don’t you wonder about your birth parents?”

“Not really,” I say honestly.

“Seriously? I think I’d wonder.”

“The way I see it is that I don’t want to know people who didn’t want to know me. I don’t mean that to sound bitter, because I know they had their reasons. I mean it like I don’t want to spend energy worrying or thinking about people who aren’t in my life.”

“I guess that’s a good way to look at it,” Audrey says. “You seem incredibly well-adjusted about the whole thing.”

“Thanks, I think,” I say, laughing. I tip my head to the side. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘well-adjusted’ before.”

Audrey chuckles, too, and despite my concern about whether or not I’m sticking to the script, it feels good to have someone ask about my past. I’m so into the conversation that when Audrey asks how old I was when my parents adopted me, I blurt out the truth.

“Four.”

“Where did you live before that?” she asks.

Screeching tires and warning bells sound in my brain; I actually feel my fingers wrap around the armrests. For practical reasons, like if I have to go to the emergency room or something and my blood doesn’t match my parents’, it’s okay to tell people I’m adopted. But the story is that I was adopted at birth. Where I lived before is not part of the dossier.

“I can’t get over your mom letting you chalkboard
your entire wall,” I say, looking over Audrey’s head. I force my hands back into my lap. Apparently okay with the change of subject, Audrey turns in her seat and admires the décor, too.

“My mom lets me do what I want,” she says in this weird way that doesn’t sound egotistical. It sounds strangely… sad. Audrey shifts her gaze from the wall to her feet; there’s a brief pause in the conversation. Then, just when I start to feel awkward, her head snaps up and her eyes are on me again. “Hey, you want a soda?”

“Sure,” I say, thankful she’s not asking any more about my adoption.

“Regular or diet?”

“Regular.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” she says, standing to leave but then pausing in the middle of the room. “Want music?”

“Sure.”

Audrey goes over to her desk, but when she gets there, she huffs and shakes her head. I wonder what she’s annoyed about but don’t ask because it feels intrusive. Instead I look around some more as she opens iTunes on her laptop, selects a playlist, and turns up the volume on the little speakers.

“This okay?” she asks.

“It’s great.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Audrey leaves me alone in her room. As I relax into the lounger, I can’t help but think that it’s cozy here, in this chair and in this house. And for a girl with no real roots, cozy feels a lot like home.

One of my favorite new songs comes on, and I’m so happy that I can’t help but sing.

Something shifts in the doorway. I stop singing mid (tuneless) note and drop my arms to my sides. I look, expecting Audrey, but instead it’s none other than the guy I’ve been drooling over in English all week, Matt something.

“Wicked air drumming,” he teases, smiling a fidget-inducing half grin. His villain’s eyes are shining. Playful. He looks like he’s happy to see me.

“Thanks,” I say, at a loss for words because I’m confused about why he’s here. Is he Audrey’s boyfriend? Just a friend here to hang out, too? Then I realize that not only is he barefoot, but he’s leaning on the doorframe like he built it. My brain clicks. He lives here.

Duh.

Matt is Audrey’s brother.

“You should see my air cymbals,” I joke, happy to have solved the mystery. “They’re even more worthy.”

“Actually, what I liked most was the singing,” Matt says, smiling full-out this time. “The high note at the end was pure genius.” He scratches his defined jaw with the back of his index finger. It’s oddly sexy.

“Awesome, right?” I say, hoping I sound more casual than I feel.

He gives me a double thumbs-up and a totally cheesy smile. “I think you could easily get a recording contract.”

We both laugh, and when it subsides, we’re still for a few seconds.

“I’m Daisy,” I say, in case he doesn’t recognize me. “We’re in English together?”

“I know,” he says automatically. He looks down and away for a second, smiling a little to himself like he’s embarrassed for having answered so quickly. Then his narrow eyes are back on mine. “I didn’t know you were friends with my sister.”

“Our lockers are in the same hall,” I explain. “That’s how we met. She told me she has a brother. I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s me.” Matt nods again, shoving his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. He looks conflicted, like he wants to stay but thinks he should go.

“Audrey went to get sodas,” I say just to say some
thing, hoping that if I keep talking, he’ll stay put. It works, at least for a minute.

“How’d you do on that quiz?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. “I got an A.”

Another nod. “Me, too.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a slightly uncomfortable but still glorious moment. I feel like I did that time I had to present my science project in front of the whole freshman class: exhilarated and apprehensive at the same time.

Matt pulls an iPhone from his right pocket and steps into the room only far enough to put it in the charger on the desk. His being that much closer makes me shift in my seat.

“Don’t tell Audrey about this, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, confused. “Don’t you have your own phone?”

“Yeah, but hers has better music. One time, I accidentally—” Matt stops himself, as if remembering that he has to be somewhere. “Never mind. Long and boring story.”

I want to say that I’ll listen to any story he has to tell, but I manage to hold back. He returns to the doorway.

“Guess I’ll see you in class,” he says, hesitating before giving a slight wave and turning to leave.

“Bye,” I say quietly. Just then, as if the playlist is the soundtrack to my life, a lighthearted love song starts. But before I have too much time to skip into fantasyland, Audrey’s back.

“Sorry about that,” she says, a little out of breath as she rushes into the room. “My dad called from work and was grilling me about my homework. I didn’t mean to leave you alone in here for so lo—” She stops and looks at me curiously. “What’s with the goofy smile?”

“Oh, I was thinking about a guy,” I say cryptically, keeping my crush on her brother a secret for today.

“Does he look like Jake Gyllenhaal?” she asks. “Because Jake is the hottest guy on the planet.”

“No,” I say with a little head shake.
To me, Matt is even better.

Audrey and I read gossip magazines and talk about celebrities we’d like to have dinner with. She shows me the shoes she told me about earlier this week and I doodle daisies on her chalk wall. After a while, her mom invites us downstairs for cookies, which makes Audrey roll her eyes and causes my stomach to rumble. No one bakes cookies in my house. We jog down the steps and saunter into the kitchen, then plop ourselves onto the bench next to the rustic wooden table. Mrs. McKean gives us two cookies each, saying, “Don’t worry, I made the lower-fat option, and the milk is skim.” Audrey nods and we both start snacking.

Then every happily relaxed muscle in my body tenses when Matt walks into the room.

“What’s up,” he says to his mom.

“Hi, Mattie,” Mrs. McKean says before standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. He doesn’t pull away, but he does look a tiny bit embarrassed when our eyes meet, and I wonder whether it’s about the kiss, or being called Mattie, or both.

Matt goes to the cabinet and retrieves a mug, then pours himself black coffee from the pot and adds a touch of milk. No sugar. He grabs a cookie and sits down with me and Audrey at the table.

My stomach flips at the sight of the little wisps of hair behind his ears. They’ve become my English-class distraction. Being so close now, I fight the urge to reach out and touch them. As if he can read my mind, he looks at me curiously, like he’s wondering if I just might do it.

“Mattie, you slept the day away,” Mrs. McKean says from across the kitchen.

“ ’Cause he was out so late,” Audrey says under her breath. They both glance at their mom to make sure she didn’t hear.

“I stayed up late reading,” Matt says to his mom. She turns her back to us to get more cookies out of the oven. When she opens the oven door, it makes the warm kitchen hot.

“The show ran long,” Matt whispers to Audrey. “I couldn’t miss the encore.”

“What are you kids plotting over there?” Mrs. McKean asks, spatula in hand.

“Nothing,” the siblings say in unison.

We munch quietly for a moment before Audrey starts harassing her brother again. She leans toward him, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed, and lips pinched.

“By the way, I know you used my phone again. Just because you’re too lazy to charge yours doesn’t mean you can steal mine whenever you please. Stop taking my stuff.”

Matt rolls his eyes at her and then looks at me with an expression that straddles the line between annoyed and amused. “Thanks a lot,” he says in a voice that could be sarcastic; I don’t know him that well. Right when I decide he’s teasing, he gets up from the table.

“Later,” he says to no one in particular.

“Bye,” I say quietly, wishing I could make him stay.

Audrey and I decide to go to a just-opened mall that she says is like shopping heaven. We okay it with her mom and with Mason, then take off in her sunshiny yellow car. While we shop, I balance my overwhelming desire to ask about Matt, Matt, and more Matt with wanting to get to know Audrey better. I don’t want Audrey to think I’m only interested in her brother, so I decide as we walk through the temperature-controlled atrium that I’m restricted to asking only three questions about Matt.

As we meander down the aisles of Von Maur, GAP, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Hot Topic, Audrey and I chat easily about anything and everything else. After only
thirty minutes, I know that she got her hair colored at the salon on the first level, loves glass elevators, wants to go to Paris someday but takes Spanish at school, prefers pretzel bites to sticks or full soft pretzels, and is a closet history nerd.

“I could have rocked the Victorian era,” Audrey says as she fingers a ruffled, Victorian-inspired shirt at Anthropologie.

“I think you’re right,” I say. “But corsets? No thanks.”

“I bet they weren’t so bad after you got used to them.”