Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [91]
“You’re getting home at midnight, then staying up till four so you can ace your tests and keep up the charade.” Some of this I had learned through phone calls and research. Some I had surmised. Her mother had been all but comatose when I’d spoken to her. “It’s got to be hard to keep track of all the lies.”
“She’s a consummate artist,” Emily whispered. “The critics say her music makes the nightingales hang their heads in shame.”
“You don’t want to be like them,” I said. “That’s why you came to see me.”
Another tear fell softly after its mate, swelling along the same course. “I’d be lucky to be half so talented—”
“You won’t be like them,” I said. “Unless you’re unable to face reality.”
She looked at me suddenly, eyes blazing with anger and frustration and a world full of fear. “You don’t want to hear the reality.”
I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “I think you’re right,” I said. “But try me anyway.”
32
I’d rather be schizophrenic than alone during school lunches.
—Emily Christianson,
Chrissy’s favorite psychotic
As it turned out, Emily Christianson was right. I didn’t want to hear her reality. Because it made it almost impossible to feel sorry for myself. I considered that as I stood in my kitchen making an abbreviated chef’s salad and trying to talk myself out of drinking the French dressing as an appetizer.
True, my parents may have had the instincts of killer bees, but at least they hadn’t abandoned me to the world at the ripe old age of thirteen. Well, actually, her father who had vacillated between neglectful and horrifying, had left her long before that. By comparison her mother was a virtual saint, but her weaknesses had finally destroyed any hope of the two of them forging a meaningful family unit. In fact, Emily, whose real name wasn’t Emily at all, had, over the course of the past three years, created an entirely fictional universe for herself. Her ability with computers had enabled her to make that fiction seem real to nearly everyone she met. Not to mention allowing her to deflect the emails I had sent to her school therapist. Two years ago she had gone through a great deal of trouble to change her identity and she had no intention of allowing me to ruin things.
Her ploy had worked shockingly well, until the stress of an unlivable life had become too much to bear. It all left me baffled and melancholy. In the end I had promised to tell no one of her duplicity if she began seeing me twice a week, at least until I could figure out what to do.
The entire situation had me feeling out of sync. I had always believed that people were basically who they were. They could change their situations, their surroundings, and their actions. But eventually their true colors would show through. For instance, Nadine Gruber seemed as though she had her shit together, like she was content with her circumstances, but in the end, she had acted on her frustrations. In fact, she had gone so far as to trash my house just to score the Green Goo recipe and Laney’s jean jacket.
Which seemed strange, because the Goo tasted like the devil’s nectar and jean jackets are a dime a dozen. Of course, that had nothing to do with a neurotic’s reasoning. Then again, the letters Nadine had sent didn’t exactly seem like the work of a whack job. They were too well composed, too neat. Too—
My front door opened just as I was ruminating. I jerked toward it, still jumpy even though my troubles were behind me. But it turned out my problems were bigger than I’d expected; Solberg still had a key to my house.
“Hey, Angel.” His voice scraped down the hallway, followed by his footsteps. “You ready?” He appeared in the doorway of the kitchen like a grinning nightmare. “Where’s Laney?”
I scowled. Something had soured in my stomach. “I thought she was with you.”
“No-kay doke,” he said. “I was arranging a little surprise for her, but I told her I’d pick her up at seven. We’re meeting my parents in less than an hour.”
“Your parents?” If