The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

I tossed my bag on the kitchen table and shrugged out of my denim jacket. The story that had broken the night before was still on the news: a car bomb in Dubai had killed nine people, including a Saudi prince.

I clicked the TV off. The news was depressing. My mom was obsessed, which seemed like a waste of time since we couldn’t do anything to change what happened.

I wandered the kitchen, opening cabinets, the fridge, and finally pulling pistachio ice cream and frozen Thin Mints from the freezer.

The guy in the crosswalk could have been another transfer student, but I’d think I would have heard about him. Maybe he was somebody’s out-of-town cousin. Or prom date.

I set my ice cream on the table and flipped through the pile of mail. I dropped it all when I got to a postcard. Istanbul—a picture of a mosque with soaring turrets. That was new.

I flipped it over and smiled at the familiar precise cursive.

Avery,

Hope this finds you and your mother well. Istanbul is beautiful. You’d love all the color in the markets, the textiles, the lights on the river. Remember the gyro stand you liked near Copley Square in Boston? There’s one on every street corner here. The whole city smells delicious.

Charlie says hello.

Much love,

Fitzpatrick Emerson

Mr. Emerson had been our next-door neighbor in Boston when I was eight. It was right after our first move, and the longest we’d stayed in one place since. Mr. Emerson was all gray hair and round glasses, with a big booming laugh and a bowl of jelly beans—the classic grandpa I never had.

I’d always thought life would be easier if we had some family. Brothers and sisters as built-in friends, or cousins to write e-mails to, or an aunt to spend summers with—somebody besides my mom and me. Mr. Emerson wasn’t actually related to us, but he was the closest thing we had.

I ran a finger over the Turkish postcard stamp and read the message again. Charlie was Mr. Emerson’s grandson, and I swear, Mr. Emerson had been trying to set us up since I was a kid. I’d never seen so much as a picture of Charlie Emerson, but every time he wrote, Mr. Emerson told me about his adventures, and said he talked to Charlie about me.

I flipped the postcard over and looked at the picture. The Hagia Sophia. I remembered Mr. Emerson teaching me about it when I was little. About how “Hagia” was actually pronounced “Aya,” and its name meant “Holy Wisdom.”

I was glad he got to travel now that he was retired from teaching. And I was glad he still cared enough to send postcards. He was the only person over twelve moves who had stayed in touch for more than a couple months.

The laundry room door squeaked open and my mom poked her head out, a frown on her face. “Hi, Junebug. Have you seen my green pen? I swear, I was just holding it.”

I pointed to the top of her head, where the pen stuck out of a messy bun. She felt around, sighed, and pulled it out, letting smooth blond waves fall around her shoulders. “You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d think.” I dipped a cookie in my ice cream and took a bite. My mom wasn’t actually the flighty, flustered type. It was more like keeping our lives together crowded out unimportant stuff like keeping track of writing implements. “Oh, you were out of fizzy water,” I said. “I got you a case. On the counter.”

My mom came over and kissed me on top of my head. “What would I do without you, daughter?”

“Be thirsty and unable to take notes,” I replied. I hugged her hard around the waist.

“Hey,” she said, a note of concern creeping into her voice when I didn’t let go immediately. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed a hug. “Fine.”

I let go, but she slid down and nudged me to the side so she could sit on half my chair. She glanced at Mr. Emerson’s postcard but didn’t pick it up, and I wondered if she thought that was what was bothering me. Not that she’d ever ask about it directly. We used to talk about the moves, about how lonely I was, but it got to where it made it worse. Now we talked about everything else, but with undertones so clear, they may as well have been subtitles.

“Was play rehearsal okay?” She looped her arm through mine. I push you into these things so maybe we can both feel better, the subtitles said.

I put my head on her shoulder. “It was as bad as I told you it would be. Maybe worse.” I know you didn’t actually think I’d stick it out.

“Sweetie, everyone has a hard time with new things.” My mom pushed back the hair that had fallen in my face. “Is something specific bothering you?”

“Um, yes. Falling.” I shivered, thinking of the swaying catwalk. “Falling to my death.” That one was actually kind of true.

“Oh, Junebug.” She sat up and took my face between her hands like she used to when I was little.

Everyone said we looked alike. We had the same thick hair, with just a little wave—though hers was blond—same small frame, same little, round nose. But my eyes were wider, darker—especially with my brown contacts—and my very dark eyes in my very pale face made me look young. Her eyes belonged to someone older than the rest of her, especially with the deep worry lines between them.

“I know you’re afraid of falling, but sometimes, you’ve got to let go.” And I’m not just talking about your fear of heights, the subtitle read.

I know, and I don’t want to talk about it, I sighed.

My mom got up. “Tea?”

I nodded. She filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The burner clicked a few times and burst to life.

She took two tea bags from the cabinet and rubbed her forehead with a sigh that echoed in the quiet room.

I stopped scraping the bottom of my ice cream bowl. “Everything okay?”

“Did you see the mysterious new boy again today?” she asked. “Jack, right?”

I winced. She wasn’t the only one who could change the subject. “Mr. Emerson’s in Istanbul. Cool, right?”

The two mugs my mom was holding clattered to the counter. “Yes,” she said, straightening them. “I saw the postcard. Sounds like a fascinating city.”

“Mom. What’s going on?” There was obviously something bothering her, and it wasn’t the postcard.

“Nothing.” Her fake smile was back. “It’s been a long day. And . . . well, Junebug . . .” She looked longingly at the teakettle, like it might save her, then sighed heavily and sat across from me at the table. “We need to talk.”