“Has Kiera been writing to you? I haven’t heard from her for more than two weeks,” Jordan said. I knew she suspected I had been reading something from Kiera on the computer.

Although it was painful to tell her that yes, Kiera was communicating with me far more than she was with her, I didn’t want to lie to her again.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, has she said any more about this young man from England? Donald asked me last night, and I could tell him nothing.”

“She’s still seeing him. She sounds happy about it, too.”

“Um. I feel sorry for him,” she said. Mrs. Caro served her some coffee. She glanced at me, raised her eyebrows, and returned to the kitchen to get Jordan her toast.

“She tells me he’s a proper Englishman,” I said.

“Yes, I heard about that. She said his father was knighted. It’s hard to believe she would be with anyone proper,” she replied, and sipped her coffee. “I don’t enjoy speaking about her like this, but I am not one of those mothers who refuses to see her child’s flaws, especially this child.”

I looked down and continued to ea

t my eggs.

“I’m not saying I’m not happy that you and she have developed a friendlier relationship. If anything, I think that’s wonderful of you. The way you treated her with so much kindness after she did that stupid drug thing and all the other things to you impressed both Donald and me, but always be careful. You’re too sweet and trusting, just the way Alena was and would be today. You both have too much angel in you.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised. Lately, I wasn’t feeling anything angelic about myself. I was feeling more guilt because of the way Jordan often compared me to Alena.

Mrs. Caro brought her the toast. She nibbled on it like a small rabbit and stared ahead.

When I was in the hospital after the accident and Jackie Knee urged me to accept Jordan’s offer and take what I could from her and her family, she was surely envisioning what she thought was a pretty close to perfect world, a world in which everything you wanted was at your fingertips. She was right about it to a certain extent. What could I ask for now that I didn’t have materially?

But as I looked at Jordan lost in her own sad thoughts for a moment, I thought this was far from a perfect world. Sadness was a permanent guest here. It crawled about through the shadows, walked freely during the night, visiting both Jordan and Donald and even me. Outside, the grass couldn’t be greener, the flowers brighter, the fountains more luscious and crystal clear, but despite the pleasures I was enjoying and the comfort I experienced, in the back of my mind, I knew it was wrong to begin here by standing in a dead girl’s shoes. I could feel the dread. Something sometime in the near future would make me regret the Marches’ generosity in ways I couldn’t imagine. It was coming. Like Mrs. Caro, I could sense things others could not, and deep down, I was afraid.

“Oh, you’d better get a move on,” Jordan said. “Remember, no speeding. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you, too.”

“I’m okay. I have plenty of time,” I said, but wiped my mouth and rose. I was going to bring the plates into the kitchen, but Mrs. Caro, as usual, was right on the mark, as if she had been hovering behind the door listening and waiting for her cue, as if we were all in a play.

I thanked her again, gave Jordan a kiss on the cheek as I had started doing recently, and headed out. My schoolbag was in the entryway on the eighteenth-century wood bench Jordan had bought at an auction in France. I had gotten into the habit of putting it there after I had done my homework. If there was anything the teachers at my school hated, it was a student forgetting his or her books. On more than one occasion, my classmates would call home for something they had forgotten, and their parents would either bring it or send it along in a taxicab or limousine. It wasn’t so strange to see a uniformed chauffeur bring something into the school.

I stepped out into another very warm late October morning with a sky as blue as a summer sky. Mrs. Caro always talked about the weather. Donald didn’t believe there was a man-made climate change, but she would always shake her head and mutter, “Somethin’s not right, and it’s not nature’s fault.”

I walked to the garage. It wasn’t far, but lately it was practically the only walking outside of the school that I was doing. When we were homeless, Mama and I seemed to walk forever some days. Even when I had a new pair of sneakers, my feet would blister, and hers began to look like the feet of someone who walked on a bed of nails.

Just before I reached the garage, my cell phone vibrated, and I paused to answer.

“Hi,” I heard. “Have you left for school yet?”

“Who’s this?” I asked, even though I knew full well who it was.

Shayne Peters was a starting guard on the basketball team, six feet two, with a shock of rich golden brown hair. His father was a famous criminal attorney who had recently defended a congressman accused of murdering his wife. He had gotten him acquitted.

Shayne had been going with Sydney Woods, but they recently had broken up. The rumor mill blamed it on me. The story was that he had a big crush on me, and Sydney, finally disgusted with him, gave his class ring back to him. I don’t know how that had all started. I had done little to encourage him.

“It’s Shayne!” he cried, obviously upset that I didn’t recognize his voice.

“How can I help you?” I asked in the most formal tone of voice I could muster.

“Huh? Look, my car won’t start. Can you pick me up on the way to school?”

“No. I’m late,” I said. “Take a taxi.”

“Wait!” he cried, anticipating my hanging up. “Are you going to the game Friday? It’s a home game, and I thought that after the game we—”

Tags: V.C. Andrews Storms
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