Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

“I mean with Jax?”

“Again, up to you,” I say, not feeling nearly as gung ho on the possibility of love like the ever optimistic and happy Jenay.

“Listen,” Abby says, stopping in front of my driveway and gazing at me. “I don’t mean to sound strange or anything, so I hope you don’t take it that way, but… what’s it like having a boyfriend? I mean, is it weird?” She scrunches up her nose and looks at me.

“What do you mean?” I ask, gazing down at the hole in the toe of my black Converse sneaker, thinking how I need to either get a new pair or find a new look.

“Well, Jenay acts like it’s so great, I mean, she even wrote ‘Ms. Jenay Williams’ on her notebook the other day. Seriously. And when she saw that I saw she turned bright red and scribbled over it. But like, while she always acts so love happy, you… well you’re like the exact opposite. You’re like some big-time reluctant girlfriend, who can’t quite figure out how you got there.” She laughs at the end of that, but only to soften the blow.

I take a deep breath and stare at the crack in my driveway, surprised to learn I wasn’t putting on near as good a show as I thought. Though I guess it’s hard to fool Abby. I mean, she knows me too well. “Truth?” I finally say, looking right at her. “Just between us?”

She nods, waiting.

“It is weird. And to be honest, I really don’t know how I got here. It just kind of happened, and before I knew it, I was in.” I shrug.

“But weird how?” she asks, narrowing her eyes, obviously wanting to follow and understand. “I mean, what’s it like? Do you talk on the phone all night? Are you going to have sex?”

I think about Parker, how cute he is, how nice he is, and I shrug. Honestly, I have no idea what he sees in me, no idea what he’s even doing with me. But one thing’s for sure, he’s not the one who makes it so weird. That blame

lies entirely with me.

I look back at Abby, then quickly glance away. Then I take a deep breath and say, “Honestly? Sometimes when he calls I purposely let it go into voice mail, because I feel so awkward, and nervous, and stupid, and guilty. And up until now we’ve only kissed or made out or whatever. But nothing more. I’m just not ready for more, and it’s not like he pushes it, either. And it’s like, even though I’m fully aware of how practically everything about him is really amazing and great, and even though I keep reminding myself of how lucky I am that he likes me, it’s almost as though my heart refuses to cooperate with my head, like it’s blocked out all of that chatter and refuses to listen. Does that make any sense?” I ask, wondering if she thinks I’m a total freak now that I’ve confided all that.

But she just looks at me and shakes her head. “You know what the sad thing is?” she says, still looking at me. “I think I can relate to your version a whole lot better than Jenay’s.” She laughs.

I laugh too. Then I head up the driveway, following along the thin, jagged crack ’til I reach the front porch.

“You wanna study later?” Abby calls out.

I reach for my keys and unlock the door. “Sounds good,” I say, before closing it firmly behind me.

The moment I’m inside I bolt for my room, drop to my knees, and shove my hand under the mattress, wanting nothing more than to lie on my bed and get between the pages of Zoë’s diary.

Only it’s not there.

So I push my hand farther, delving deeper into the tight space where my mattress meets my box spring. And when it’s still not there, I dive headfirst into full-blown panic attack.

Grabbing the pillows, sheets, blanket, and duvet, and throwing them all to the ground, I lift the mattress all the way up ’til the side is pointing at the ceiling, the top is resting haphazardly against my nightstand, and the entire left side wobbles like it’s gonna crash through the french doors or something, as my eyes scan the space quickly, but not finding a thing. So then I drag it off completely, pulling it to the floor and flipping it over, thinking maybe the cobalt book got stuck to the stitching, but again, nothing.

I sink to the ground, a sweaty, panting, heart-racing mess. And as I unravel the sheet from my leg, my mind is in turmoil, wondering where the hell it could be, and even worse, who could’ve found it.

And when I finally gaze down, I notice how the sheet wrapped around my leg is not the same one I woke up with this morning. Since I know for a fact that when I left for school, I left behind an unmade bed with pink striped sheets. And these are cream with blue stars.

And then I remember Mariska. Our cleaning lady. The one who comes on the fifteenth of every the month. The fifteenth, just like today.

So I pick myself up and head for my dresser, Mariska’s drop spot for orphaned items. And wouldn’t you know, right there, smack dab in the middle, is Zoë’s diary, cover shiny and blue, pages seemingly undisturbed.

Then I fix my bed, change my clothes, and begin where I left off.

…Seriously, he even told me about how he had to deal with his mom when his dad got shipped off to federal prison, how needy and weak she was, and how at just ten years old he was practically forced to grow up overnight.

I’d always heard his family was mega, filthy rich, and supposedly had several more houses even bigger than the one he lives in now. And of course I’d heard all the crazy stories about his dad, but there were always so many rumors, so many insane legends — he killed a man, he robbed a bank, he embezzled a bunch of money, he was in the mob — that I just didn’t know what to believe. So I didn’t believe anything.

But I guess in the end, those stories were like a gazillion times more exciting than the true and boring fact of how his dad is just another greedy, rich bastard who wanted to be even richer.

Anyway, his mom ditched his dad, actually served him divorce papers during his first month in jail. Said there was no way she was living single for ten years minus time off for good behavior. So whenever Marc wanted to go see him, he had to get a ride with his uncle Mike (his dad’s brother). And they’d both have to endure a full-body cavity search before they were allowed inside.

Only Marc didn’t really say that part about the cavity search. He says that’s how it is for hard-core criminals, not wealthy nonviolent types like his dad. Apparently all they had to do was sign in and go look for his dad — who, by the way, was allowed to wear clean pressed khakis instead of an orange jumpsuit. And then they all sat around at these plastic tables and chairs, eating vending-machine snacks and talking face to face (as opposed to being separated by a sheet of bulletproof glass and having to use a phone).

Whatever. My version’s way better, way more dramatic. And I even told him he could show me a picture and I’d

still choose to believe my story over his.

So he goes, “Oh yeah, and you’re not allowed to take pictures either/’

So I go, “See ? In my version, they let you do that.”

Anyway, I guess his mom became a major pill-popping heavy drinker, although she may have been one even before all that I mean, it’s kind of unclear but it really sounds like it And oh yeah, now she’s apparently married to husband number three, and each one has been even more rich (and more messed up) than the one before.

So I went, “Is that why you drive that old Camaro, cuz you hate money?”

But he just laughed and said, “I drive an old Camaro cuz I like old cars. What, would you like me better if I drove a Porsche?”

And then I — damn, I can’t believe I said this (!) but then I go, “I can’t imagine liking you any more than I already do!!!!” Seriously! I could die! And I thought I would! I mean it just slipped out before I could stop it.