No One Needs to Know

Woodbury, Minnesota

Copyright Information

No One Needs to Know
© 2014 by Amanda Grace.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

First e-book edition © 2014

E-book ISBN: 9780738740881

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Ellen Lawson
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Acknowledgments

Firstly, this book wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz, who suggested I write outside my normal box. Thank you for believing I could pull it off, and for pushing me when the first draft didn’t quite work.

Secondly, thank you to Sandy Sullivan, who always manages to catch the trouble spots. I appreciate your keen eye!

Thirdly, thank you to my kind, amazing agent, Bob Diforio, who must operate on 2.5 hours of sleep. I don’t know how you do it.

And finally, thank you to B and D, who never complain when I disappear into my office for a few hours to write. At the risk of sounding like Kelly Clarkson—life would suck without you. Love you both.

OLIVIA

Before I even open my eyes, I know something’s off. My bed’s too stiff, my pillow is too thick … and I can hear my twin brother, Liam, snoring.

I want to roll over and cover my head with my blanket, but judging by the light trying to pry its way through my eyelids, it’s morning. And a school day. Ugh. I still haven’t quite adjusted to September.

I groan and sit up, glaring in the direction of the sound. My brother’s sitting on the other sofa, an arm slung over his eyes, his mouth open as he snores. The TV screen is overtaken by a screensaver; random portraits of wild animals glide across the screen, one after another.

We’d been chain-watching
The Walking Dead
on Netflix when I zonked out.

I reach over to the coffee table, scoop up a handful of popcorn, and hurl it at Liam. Only one kernel lands in his mouth, but it’s enough. He snorts and coughs and then abruptly sits up, spitting the popcorn onto the ground. His sandy-blond hair is sticking up at odd angles, making me giggle.

“Thanks, dude,” he says, glaring at me through slitted eyes.

“
De nada, señor
,” I say, swinging my feet to the floor and then heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. While it fills from the dispenser, I study the flier stuck to the fridge. “I get to choose our Friday night movie.”

“I know, I know.”

I don’t miss that it’s more of a grumble than an agreement.

“You can’t complain if it has subtitles,” I add, tracing the name of one of the movies with my finger. It’s French.

My glass full, I walk to the windows and peer out at Puget Sound. In the distance, a ferry steams toward our shoreline, carrying people from Vashon Island. We’ve lived in the penthouse at
Point Ruston
for two years and I’m still getting used to it. I mean, the elevator, the parking garage, the Brazilian-cherry floors, sure. The view? It’s just as awe-inspiring every time I peer out the windows. Our old place, a beautifully restored Victorian mansion, was farther up the hill. The water view wasn’t quite as
in your face
.

“Pretty much everything at the Grand Cinema has subtitles,” Liam mutters, finally getting off the couch and walking up next to me, still rubbing at his eyes.

I ignore his whining. “We should go kayaking on Saturday. It’s supposed to be hot.”

“I’m busy,” he replies. “Maybe next weekend.”

I want to ask him what he’s busy with
this time
, but I resist.

“Maybe by next weekend the weather will suck.” My eyes roam the skyline, taking in the high, fluffy clouds. It’s been hot all week. Well, hot for Washington State anyway—mid 80s, blue skies, the feeling of the days stretching on and on. “Summer’s pretty much over.”

“So?”

I frown. “So, if we miss the good weather, it’ll be months before we get out again. Come on, please? You never want to hang out anymore.”

Liam rolls his eyes, then looks down his nose at me like I’m being childish. “We’re going to the movies tonight, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I hate the needy tone of my voice, but I can’t help it. There’s just something …
off
about our friendship lately, but he won’t acknowledge it.

“You nail down the quarterback position yet?” I ask, walking back toward the kitchen.

“Coach will pick on Monday.” His reply is surprisingly half-hearted.

I study his face. “You still want it, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

I chew on my lip. I’m not buying it, but my brother is obviously not in the mood to talk. “Okay, well, good luck.” I set my cup on the counter. “Meet me at the theater at six?”

“Sure,” he says. “See ya then.”

I leave him in the kitchen, walking to my room for a quick shower before heading off to another mind-numbing day of school.

“Marriage of convenience,” my best friend Ava announces as she arrives at our lunch table. She sets down a Diet Coke and drops onto the creaky bench.

“Uh, you mean like an arranged marriage?” I ask, popping a baby carrot in my mouth.

“Exactly.” She dumps her food out of a brown paper sack, and I just barely manage to catch an apple that rolls across the table. I toss it her way and she catches it without a blink. “Wouldn’t that be nice, if some level-headed person could just pair you with the right guy and you didn’t have to put up with all this dating garbage?”

I laugh. “Yeah, because I’m never going to find a boyfriend in an all-girls school. I’d take an arranged
date
at this point.”

Ava grins. “Right?”

“Why is arranged marriage on your mind? Is Ayden being a jerk again?” I ask.

“No. It was last night’s article,” she says, yanking open a bag of potato chips. “It was about how arranged marriages aren’t just in India or whatever, but that a lot of industrialized countries still have them.”

“Ohhhh.” Every day, Ava’s dad makes her read one long-form article from a major magazine or newspaper—we’re talking
Time
, not
Seventeen
—and then discuss it at the dinner table.

I reach for another carrot. “I don’t know. If it was up to your dad, you could end up married to a total creep who looks really great in pictures. You know, for the campaign trail or whatever.”

“But at least the creep would attend the charity brunch my mom is coordinating this Saturday, unlike Ayden, who’s trying to ditch it.” Ava sits up straighter, fingering the strand of pearls on her neck. “I mean, they’re not
that
bad. I got to meet the president last year.”

“Yeah, no, they’re really that bad,” I say.

“Whatever.” Ava grins because she knows I’m right.

“Do you want to work on our reading list this weekend? I’m completely overwhelmed and we’re, like, only two weeks into the semester. I’m so screwed.”

Her nose scrunches up. “Ugh,
no
. CliffsNotes. They invented them for a reason.”

“There’s still the essay assignment, and the million calc problems, and the chemistry lab—”

“Whoa, take a deep breath and quit worrying about it, will you? You sound like you’re about to break out in hives,” she says.

I sigh. “It wouldn’t kill you to work with me on homework. I mean, one of these days Mrs. Emery is going to realize you’ve never read
any
of the assigned reading, and this is your third year with her.”

Ava smiles, wide and triumphant. “I look forward to that day. Then I can remind her that my dad pretty much paid for the library that houses said books, and she’ll have to shut up.”

I toss a carrot at her. “You’re terrible.”

“Terribly awesome,” she says, flinging the carrot off her green plaid skirt—which is standard issue for all girls at Annie Wright School. “You’re just jealous I’m so cool and collected. Unflappable … unflustered … composed … ”

“Oh come on, Ava,” I say. “You’ve gotta worry about school at some point.”

“Please. If I’m going into politics like my dad, I can’t get worked up over freaking homework.”

I prop an elbow on our lunch table and rest my chin in my hand. “Have you done
any
of it?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m totally done with the mock campaign posters for leadership.”

I snort. “Naturally.”

“I’m so gonna ace that class. I’ve been waiting
years
for it.”

I pop another carrot in my mouth, wondering how many I can eat before I turn orange, and let Ava’s words go in one ear and out the other. She can blather forever when it comes to leadership class, and before I know it, the bell rings. She disappears almost immediately, waving goodbye to me over her shoulder.

My stomach growls as I stand, shoving most of my lunch back into my bag. It’s not that I’m trying to lose a ton of weight, but a pound or two would help my gymnastics performance. It’s a small price to pay, really.