Point Horror: Identity Theft Part 6

"No." I shook my head. "I mean, for everything. You kinda saved the day."

"Just call me Superman," he said as he let himself into my car.

And something had shifted. I was still hurt, but I no longer felt like I was on the verge of tears. I was able to take notes in cla.s.s and go over a few Ainsworth questions during lunch. I was okay.

Or, I would have been okay if Jessica hadn't appeared at my locker at the end of the day.

"Hey," she said in a small voice.

"What?" I snapped.

"Um ... I was just supposed to ask you for the budget stuff. Mrs. Ross told me to."

"I'll give it to you tomorrow. Is that all?" I asked crisply, slamming my locker shut.

"You don't have to hate me, you know. If anything, I did you a favor."

"Right. Because setting up a fake profile, then stalking someone until she does something incriminating is really philanthropic. Don't have time to volunteer at an animal shelter? Ruin someone's life! It all helps save the world," I said sarcastically.

"What are you talking about?" Jess asked. "Your profile had public settings. All I did was find it."

Around us a cl.u.s.ter of kids had paused to listen. Even Dr. Osborn had stopped in the middle of the hallway.

I lowered my voice. "Don't play dumb, Jess. You made the Facebook profile, and you framed me. You took the picture, you uploaded it, and you smeared my character. Yes, I was at the party. And yes, I was holding a drink. Was that a bad decision? Yes. Do I regret it? Yes. Was it normal teenage behavior? Yes. Meanwhile you were hiding in the woods, spying and taking pictures of me. That is insane." I was shouting now, but I didn't care.

Her freckled face drained of color and she took a few steps back. She was afraid of me. I felt a sliver of satisfaction.

"Hayley, listen. I didn't upload anything. I found your profile, and felt it was inappropriate. But the picture was there. I didn't take it. Do I look like a girl who would run around the woods when I have a boyfriend to hang out with?"

"I don't know. You look like a blackmailing backstabber," I said tightly.

"Oooh!" a freshman yelled.

"Catfight!" another cheered.

Jessica shook her head. "You're calling me crazy, but I really think you should listen to yourself, Hayley. Look, I care about the Spectrum. But not enough to, like, sabotage you."

I looked into her eyes. They were small and narrow and her face was birdlike, with a thin, pointy nose and eyebrows that sloped upward, giving her a permanently suspicious look. She stared back at me.

I mashed my lips together. "I'll give the budget and the other materials to Mrs. Ross tomorrow," I said for the benefit of our audience.

When I got home, I immediately went to my bedroom and flopped onto my bed. Then, I abruptly sat up. The faintest trace of smoke seemed to waft through the air. It wasn't fiery; it was as if someone who'd just smoked a cigarette had walked through the room very recently. But Mom and Geoff were out. And neither were smokers.

"Sadie?" I called.

Immediately, I heard her running up the stairs. She paused at the threshold, panting hard and staring at me.

"Sadie!" I clapped my hands against the tops of my thighs. At this, she ran toward me, hurling herself into my lap before licking my face.

"Everything all right, girl?" I whispered. I glanced around the room. From the neat shelf of DVDs to the framed Starry Night print to my open closet, where all my clothes hung in order of color and length, everything was the same.

"I'm fine," I whispered, as if answering myself. Sadie c.o.c.ked her head, as though she were agreeing with me.

I opened the window to get rid of the scent, then pulled out my laptop, sat cross-legged on my bed, and began to work on my Ainsworth bio. Now that I didn't have the Spectrum editor position to talk up, I needed to make sure it was perfect; that every sentence painted me as the serious, ambitious student who was going places.

Hayley Kathryn Westin has always looked around the corner for answers, I began. I chewed my lip, erased the sentence, then wrote it again. But I wasn't stressed out. This was something I could control.

The profile remained down. But there were a few small things - an all-out search for my Bainbridge student card, a mysterious "no ID available" missed call, and a temporary lockout to my e-mail address - that made me feel like I was going crazy.

"Have you seen my bracelet?" I yelled to my mom before I combed my fingers through my jewelry tray. It was the Friday night before the Ainsworth interview, my clothes were all laid out, and the only thing I was missing was my - or rather, my mom's - bracelet. A thin chain with an engraved silver-plated ID, it had been a present from her parents upon her acceptance to Harvard. She'd given it to me when I'd advanced to the state finals of the fourth-grade spelling bee. Ever since then, I'd always worn it for luck. But now, it was nowhere to be found.

From the doorway, Mom c.o.c.ked her head in concern. "No. Is it missing?" Mom was wearing a sky-blue c.o.c.ktail dress that hit midknee and hugged her curves. I knew that she was going out with Geofferson tonight. I knew she'd cancel that in a heartbeat if she thought I needed her to stay home with me. And I didn't want her to have to do that.

"I'm sure it's somewhere," I mumbled. It was just one more not-quite-right thing to add to the list of odd occurences. The Facebook profile hadn't come back. There hadn't been any random texts. But there'd been the vaguely smoky scent that seemed to linger in my bedroom coupled with the feeling that something wasn't right.

"Things always turn up," Mom agreed. She let her gaze linger on me. I knew she wanted me to open up and tell her what was wrong. But what could I say when I wasn't even sure myself?

"Anyway ... good night. I'm just going to read, then try to fall asleep early," I said, as if I was talking to a stranger.

"All right. I'll just be in town with Geoff, but I'll be coming home tonight. I love you, Hayley bunny." She walked into the room and planted a kiss on top of my head. "Think about the bracelet before you go to bed. Maybe you'll dream about where you left it." She nodded as if she were willing herself to believe her hippie-tastic rhetoric.

"Really?" I gave her a hard look. After all, at one point, Mom had been intelligent. Skeptical. And there were some things that dreams just couldn't solve.

"It can't hurt." Mom opened her mouth as if to say something else, then closed it, sighed, and padded down the stairs. I heard the front door click closed.

Abandoning my bracelet search, I set my regular alarm clock and my phone alarm clock, and opened the blinds to my window so if all else failed, I'd be woken up by the sunrise. It was something I did before every major compet.i.tion.

I took a swig of water from the bottle on my nightstand, climbed under the covers, and somehow fell asleep, only to wake up at four o'clock, when the creak of a stair step made it clear Mom had come home. At six a.m., I heard the low strains of a Nina Simone song coming from the kitchen, meaning Mom was making breakfast for me. Just like always.

I padded down the stairs, trying to seem perky. I felt awful. My stomach was swirling, my head was pounding, and I knew I was getting sick. Great.

Mom glanced up from the counter. Cooking wasn't one of her strong suits, but she always made an effort to make me a spinach-and-egg-white omelette on the morning of a major academic event. Today, the thought of it made my stomach churn in protest.

"Hayley, you should still be sleeping!" Mom admonished, waving a wooden spoon at me. "Did you find the bracelet?"

"Nope." I crossed over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. I may have felt like death, but that didn't mean I didn't want coffee. "Couldn't sleep."

"Because you're nervous or because you're excited?" Mom asked, pouring the egg mixture she'd concocted into a pan on the stove.

"Both." When I was younger, Mom would always tell me to have fun at debate tournaments, instead of saying good luck. She wanted to raise me to be noncompet.i.tive. Clearly, the method backfired. But really, I felt sick. I wasn't going to tell her. It wasn't as if she could prevent me from going, but she could - and would - worry.

Mom ran her fingers through my tangled hair. "Hayley, I wish you wouldn't drink so much caffeine," she clucked.

"I could be doing worse stuff," I said, my voice m.u.f.fled by a cough.

"I know, but I just hate thinking of so much caffeine in your system," she fretted. "And are you getting sick?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

Mom gave me a hard look, but luckily, any further questions were interrupted by the fire alarm beeping.

"Shoot!" Mom rushed to the oven, sliding a blackened mess onto a plate.

"It's fine," I said, grateful that I didn't have to force it down. "Adam and I will grab something on the way. Or something."

"If you're sure ..." Mom hedged.

"I am!" I said quickly, grabbing the plate and throwing the omelette into the trash. "You can go, I'm fine." She had the opening shift at The Sound and the Story on Sat.u.r.day mornings.

"Okay, so I'll see you tonight. We'll go out to dinner?" she asked. We used to always get pizza after compet.i.tions.

"Sure." I shrugged. Hopefully, by then my stomach wouldn't feel as awful as it did now.

"Good. And I hope you don't mind, but I've invited Geofferson. He and I are spending next week in Boston, and I think it'll be good for you and him to get to know each other a bit. He's a good person, Hayley."

"I never said he wasn't. It's just ..." I sighed.

"What?" Mom's normally aqua eyes darkened into a stormy indigo.

I held my head in my hands and ma.s.saged my temples with the pads of my fingers. The last thing I wanted to do was get in a fight with Mom.

"He's great," I said, lying through my teeth.

Mom mashed her lips together into a firm line before she spoke. "He is. Someday you'll understand. Everything isn't as simple as it seems."

With that, she grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

Everything isn't as simple as it seems.

The sentence tugged into my head, interrupting any thoughts I had about how the Renaissance influenced hip-hop or how Facebook proved the theory of relativity. What the h.e.l.l did Mom mean? That there were underlying reasons for her hanging out with mouth-breathing, ugly-tie-wearing Geofferson? Again, my mind turned to money. It wasn't something I could exactly ask ... but at least if I won the Ainsworth, that would be out of the equation. And then, if she kept dating Geoff, I'd be better able to accept it. It was only the idea that she was dating him to make life easier for me that I couldn't stand.

I took another large sip of my travel mug of coffee. The caffeine was already sharpening the edges of my brain and calming the b.u.t.terflies in my stomach. Now I just had to focus. I turned and inspected my reflection in the window. At least I looked the part. My dark hair was pulled into a low chignon with all the annoying flyaways bobby-pinned back. I had clear mascara on my eyelashes, a peachy gloss on my lips, and the subtlest hint of bronzer dusting my cheekbones. I'd decided how to do my makeup after Googling what lawyers are expected to wear on a job interview.

At eight, Adam rolled up to the curb. As soon as I opened the door, I was. .h.i.t with a blast of hot air, coupled with the sound of a 1970s-style guitar riff. Adam always listened to Jethro Tull before debates. Usually, I made fun of his vaguely hippie-ish leanings. But I felt too awful to say anything today.

"Hey." Adam drummed his fingers on the wheel and pulled away from the curb. He was wearing a dark suit with a blue-checked shirt. He looked older. Self-a.s.sured. We hadn't really talked since last week, when he'd seen the pictures of me and Matt in Alyssa's barn. There had been a few times when I'd been about to call him, but I'd resisted. Right now, it was easier not to trust anyone.

"Ready for donuts?" Adam asked, once we'd turned onto the highway.

"I guess so," I said, even though I wasn't anything close to hungry. But tradition was tradition. Ever since a seventh-grade field trip, when I'd discovered that a sugar rush could subdue my car-induced nausea, it had been tradition for us to stop and get as many donuts as possible from the rest stop right after the entrance to the highway.

Inside, Adam headed to the coffee stand while I waited in line for donuts. This was a well-ch.o.r.eographed part of our routine. He was in charge of picking out the most caffeinated beverages while I always went for the gooiest, weirdest donuts. It was nice to know that some things didn't change.

I picked out two cream-stuffed ones, two chocolate-flavored, and two bear claws, then stepped up to the counter. I looked at my haul, remembering how Adam and I used to make jokes about our donut binges compared to our cla.s.smates' booze binges. Now it didn't seem that funny.

"Five fifty," said the bored-looking cashier.

I pulled out my wallet. Weird. Where I'd once had at least two twenties, now I had nothing but my Coffee Hut receipt from when I'd gotten my latte the other day.

"Miss?"

I glanced up sharply at the cashier.

"Um ..." I fished around the bottom of my purse and pulled out a few dollar bills. Then, I tipped it all the way to the side to come up with a handful of change.

"Here you go." Behind me, Adam slid a five across the counter.

"Sorry," I said in a small voice as I guiltily grabbed the donut bag. "I thought that I had cash."

"No prob," Adam said, but his voice was tight.

We got back into the car and turned onto the highway. The ride to Concord would take about an hour, so I pulled out acupressure bands from my bag and slipped them over my wrists as insurance against throwing up. Then, I took out a donut and gingerly took a bite. My nausea was worse than ever.

To distract myself, I looked out the window and visualized myself walking onstage to partic.i.p.ate in my interview. The rules were easy: Shoulders back, eye contact, pause after each sentence. Take your time walking to the podium; choose one judge you can connect with. Recognize they know you're nervous and aren't looking for an automaton. They're looking for a human to root for. Make it a conversation.

Don't throw up. It wasn't on the list, but it should have been. Because the sugar-and-acupressure combo wasn't making anything better.

"Perfect," I whispered under my breath, even though I felt the cardboard, sickly-sweet taste of the bear claw on the roof of my mouth. My teeth felt slick, and I felt bile rising in my throat.

"You need to pull over!" I burst out, just as Adam had gotten off the expressway and into the winding streets on the outskirts of Concord.

"Can't you wait?"

"No!" I yelped. I held my hand to my mouth, frantically looking for somewhere - anywhere - to park.

"Gas station!" I panted, viewing a run-down structure at the corner.

I didn't even wait for Adam to fully stop the car before I ran into the convenience store, grabbed the key to the restroom, and retched, over and over again.

I splashed cold water on my face, not caring that some droplets dripped on my silk blouse, and headed straight for the soda aisle.

Once I was there, I opened the door to one of the refrigerated cases and allowed the cold air to wash over me. The car had been too hot, the music too loud. I felt my body temperature begin to lower and exhaled in a sigh of relief.

I kept the door open for another minute, pretending to be supremely interested in debating the pros and cons of ginger ale versus orange soda.

I headed to the front of the store and slid the key across the counter.

"Huh," the cashier appraised me. "I thought you'd already left."

"Leaving now," I said. I could see Adam pacing in the parking lot and knew he was freaking out about our unantic.i.p.ated delay.

"Well, we should get going," Adam announced as soon as I walked into the parking lot. As if I'd just been hanging out in the gas station for fun. If I'd felt better, I'd have called him out on it.

"I know," I said sulkily. "And, FYI, I no longer feel like I'm gonna die."

"Oh, sorry," Adam said.

"It's fine. I'm getting in the back." I stretched out in the backseat, pushing aside a pile of library books. I popped in my earbuds and closed my eyes, hoping that even a ten-minute nap could restore me to normalcy. Lulled by the swaying of the car, I fell into a fitful sleep.