Love Over Matter (14 page)

Aleks: a sweet name for a boyfriend,
no?

Speaking of significant others, Aleks
lists his relationship status as “It’s Complicated,” which, if
nothing else, adds intrigue for those of us with inquiring
minds.

I should send him a
message, feel him out,
I think.
If I do it today, he might remember me. I mean,
how many borderline-albino girls could he have met in the past
twenty-four hours?

But what to say (or write, as it
were)? Nothing too forward. Or dorky. Definitely no babbling. Or
gushing. Just something friendly, but professional. Maybe with a
touch of aloofness. And leave George out of it. For now.

Hmm . . .

Easier thought than accomplished, I
guess. If I start typing, maybe the words will come together on
their own.

Dear George,
I tap out. I stare at the screen for a good minute
before realizing what I’ve done. With a sigh, I backspace the error
into oblivion and begin again.

Hi, Aleks. My name’s
Cassandra (but I suppose you already know that if you’re reading
this). Anyway, I was at Columbia today, at lunch, with that group
of kids at your table. My friend was talking to your dad about his
book. We (you and I) said we might meet on campus
sometime.

We did say that, didn’t we? Or at
least something like it?

Well, anyway, I know we
(my friends and I) had to leave pretty quick, so we (you and I)
didn’t get to finish our conversation. So, um, I thought I
should
 . . .

What should I do again? Oh,
yeah.

. . . 
uh, I thought it
would be a good idea if I told you about my college plans, since
you seemed interested.

I swear, he seemed interested. Right?
Didn’t he?

The thing is, I’m only a
junior in high school right now (actually, I’m not even that until
school starts in a few weeks). And I haven’t technically applied to
Columbia yet, but I’m definitely considering it. Very much
considering it, in fact. So maybe you can tell me some more about
the place, to help me decide for sure. Like, what do you like best
about it? Would you go there even if your dad wasn’t a teacher (you
must get an employee discount, huh?).

Am I hitting too many topics for an
introduction? Maybe I should dial it back a tad.

I guess my point is that,
if you have the time, I wouldn’t mind hearing your opinions on the
college search process and what I should be looking for when I
start filling out applications. You seem like a smart guy, and I
could use your help.

There. End with a compliment. That’s
sure to reel him in. I do want to reel him in, don’t I?

He’s not George,
I hear Ian warning.

My finger skips across the mouse,
threatening to hit send and let nature take its course. I mean, is
it my fault that the boy I love is gone and a real, live (and
equally nice and good looking) carbon copy has materialized in his
place?

George wouldn’t blame
you,
I hear my father assuring me.
He’d want you to go on with your life and be
happy.

As many times as I’ve been pelted with
these sentiments—from my parents and from Mia Garmin, the therapist
they hired to counsel me—you’d think they’d have lost their power,
dissolved into meaningless gibberish. But the opposite is true.
Only now am I sure that George would want me to go on. And he’d
want me to do it with a part of him, the closest earthly
manifestation of his goodness: Aleks Smullen.

It’s almost imperceptible, but my
finger does a hesitant twitch before nailing the send button. And
then I start panicking.

Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. What am I
doing? What if he was just being nice? What if he hates me—or
worse, thinks I’m a pathetic dweeb who’s infatuated with
him?

I’ve never had a reason to rescind a
Facebook message before, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to
do—and furiously so—when a bunch of clomping in the hallway
distracts me.

“
Why don’t you girls get
some dinner,” Dad’s muffled voice suggests, “before you turn in for
the night?”

You girls? Haley must have company.
And turn in for the night? It’s only nine o’clock.

“
Thanks, Mr. McCoy,” Opal
replies in a tone that sounds falsely upbeat, even from where I
sit.

I scoop Clive off the bed and return
him to his cage, stash that dazzling feather with its not-so-glitzy
brethren in a feather-crown that dangles from my cheval mirror. The
message I’ve sent Aleks will have to stand, because my ESP is
kicking in, insisting my mother is headed my way.

I step into the hall en route to
return the laptop to Haley, who’s under the misguided impression
that she—and she alone—owns the thing, when I hear, “Just a minute
there, young lady.”

Oh, no. Mom’s pulling out the “young
lady”? I turn slowly. “Hmm?”

My mother is at the cusp of the master
suite, a gaudy floral-printed tote slung over her shoulder. Even at
a distance of twenty feet, the smirk on her lips is
blatant.

She motions for me to join her in the
bedroom, which I do—computer and all. She flips the light on and
eases the door shut behind us. “Go ahead,” she says, indicating an
upholstered chair by the fireplace. “Make yourself
comfortable.”

I perch on the edge of the seat, the
laptop balanced across my knees. “How was the botanical
garden?”

She keeps her back to me, unloads the
contents of the tote into the closet. “You’re not fooling anyone,
Cassandra. Your sister told me all about your little foray into the
city.”

Haley is such a rat. Why would she
expose us like this? “Um . . . what?”

She hangs the empty bag on
its hook, marches around the bed and stops in front of me, crossing
her arms over her chest. “You’ve got no business leaving the state
without my—or your father’s—permission. Anything could have
happened to you.
Absolutely
anything.
Don’t you get that?”

The jig is up, I guess. I might as
well throw myself on the mercy of the court. “We didn’t do anything
dangerous,” I plead. “And Ian and Rosie were there to
chaperone.”

With an annoyed huff, she rolls her
eyes. “Please. I have half a mind to fire Rosie over this. It’s a
serious breach of trust. And, frankly, it’s beneath
her.”

“
She was only trying to
help,” I say. The least I can do is attempt to save Rosie’s job,
though I’m not sure how much luck I’ll have. Before Mom’s heart
attack, she was soft around the edges, easygoing and carefree. Now
it’s as if a grizzly is chomping at her ass, and she
(unintentionally, I like to believe) takes the stress out on the
rest of us. “You can punish me if you want. It was my
idea.”

She eyes me as if she’s
trying to solve a riddle. “I’d rather not,” she admits, taking a
seat opposite me on the bed. “You know what I
would
like, though?”

I haven’t the slightest clue. “Uh
. . . for me to take some extra shifts at the
restaurant?”

She tosses her hair, suppresses a
grin. “Not even close.”

“
What then?”

“
You never talk to me
anymore.”

Ouch. “Yes, I do.”

“
Since George passed”—she
pauses as if searching her memory—“actually, no, since my heart
went kabluey, you’ve changed. Remember all the stuff we used to do
together: the garden, rollerblading, garage sales. We had so much
fun.”

“
I’m not ten anymore,” I
say with a shrug. “I like different stuff now.”

“
How about liking something
with me? Or is that too perverse for someone of your
age?”

Is she calling me a pervert? “Sure.
Until school starts.”

She asks, “Well, what did you have in
mind?”

“
You pick,” I answer,
hoping she’ll settle on something like sewing, since I could use
some cute new clothes.

“
Why don’t you start by
telling me about this Smullen boy?”

chapter 12

I told my mother all there was to tell
about Aleks Smullen, which was next to nothing since I don’t really
know him yet. Then we joined Haley, Opal, and Dad in the kitchen
for microwaved s’mores and a round of hot cocoa. Finally, Dad
bothered explaining that, thanks to the late hour and a bunch of
legal mumbo jumbo, Mrs. Madden couldn’t be bailed out of jail until
tomorrow at the earliest. And until then, Opal would be our
more-than-welcome houseguest.

I tried my best to make Opal feel
comfortable, even offering her my bed (which, of course, she
refused in favor of shacking up with Haley in sleeping bags and
pretending to be on a campout). I also tried not to feel sorry for
her, even though her mother is a nutso flake, her stepfather,
apparently, abandoned her, and her birth father . . .
well, no one even knows who the guy is.

The laptop never went back to Haley,
so after I brush my teeth and wash my face, I decide to give
Facebook one last shot before passing out for the night. As soon as
I pull up my account, I notice the little red box indicating
messages (and the even smaller white number—a two, in this
case—telling me how many friends are eager to correspond with
me).

The first message is Ian, giving me
the lowdown on our weekend plans: bowling at Pinhead’s, followed by
Italian (or French) cuisine at Chez Luigi. He also suggests I
invite Rosie (and whoever else I think might be cool)
along.

I type an agreeable reply and move on
to the second message, which just so happens to be from Aleks
Smullen. I hold my breath as I click to see what I’ve gotten myself
into.

Hi, Cassandra,
the note begins.

So far, so good. Classy opening—and he
didn’t even take the liberty of abbreviating my name, which shows a
level of respect most boys don’t acquire (or so I’ve heard) until
age twenty-five.

The note continues:
There are lots of great reasons to apply to
Columbia, including the superb faculty, my father among them. To
answer your question: yes, the university would have been my top
pick, regardless of my familial connection.

Weird. He mentions his family, as if
there’s more than just Dr. Smullen, meaning George probably had not
only a mother and father he never knew, but loads of other
relatives too.

I read on.

What field of study are
you considering? The university is world-renowned for its
journalism, law, and medical programs.
I’m
planning to follow my father into anthropology, but engineering and
geology are attractive too.

Geology? What are the chances? I get
the urge to drag out the memory box and ponder George’s beloved
quartz-veined rock.

The remainder of the message explains
the nitty-gritty of the application process, with emphasis on
meeting deadlines, completing financial aid forms, and arranging a
formal campus tour. He wraps up with an offer to video chat, which
makes my heart flutter.

But how to reply?

I love your
brother,
I type, knowing I’ll never have
the guts to send such a brash declaration.
You might not know about him, but he was the nicest,
funniest, most sincere guy I’ve ever met.
I’m sorry to tell you this, but he died in a car accident two
years ago. And he was your twin (identical, I’m guessing, because
you look exactly the same, down to the hint of a dimple carved into
your left cheek). His name was George Alfred Brooks, and he loved
me. He was shy about saying so, but he did.

I came to New York to find
his mother—
your
mother, as it turns out—and tell her about him. That way, I
figured, he could rest in peace. I’d rather not say too much about
her now, because as far as I know, she’s out of the country under
difficult circumstances. And it’s not really my business to get
involved.

An invisible tug pulls me
toward my bedroom window. I leave the laptop open on the bed, the
response to Aleks intact but unsent. I lean forward and squint into
the yard, where I see something—a slow-moving blur (yes, there is
such a thing)—plowing through Mom’s garden.
Probably one of the neighbor’s gazillion felines,
I think. Two houses down from us is a bona fide
cat lady.

Clive gives a friendly squawk as I
duck around his cage and click off my bedside lamp, making it
oh-so-much easier to peer into the darkness. And when I do, what I
find is . . .

A sign.

My breath stops, a lump forming in my
throat. Plunked in the middle of the garden is a lazy-looking,
rather obese raccoon, a tomato clutched in its paws and
periodically traveling to its twitchy mouth for a chomp, an
outright smirk plastered on its smug lips (do raccoons even have
lips?!) between drippy bites.

I want to vomit.

“
I’m sorry,” I say, knowing
George is listening. “If you don’t want me to talk to him, I
won’t.”