First, Last, and Always Read online

  Charlotte

  Alexa is already home when I get off the bus. Looks like her best friend, Jazz, is here too; her car is parked in the driveway. Jazz is an interesting girl, and by interesting I mean she’s rude, snide, and pretentious. She spent most of her life in a boarding school, but was kicked out at the end of her freshman year for bad behavior. Apparently she was caught in a compromising position in the cafeteria with an eighteen-year-old dishwasher. According to Alexa, her parents, strangely enough, were more upset about who it was with rather than what she was doing. After that, Jazz’s parents tried to send her to another private high school, but she was kicked out of that one too. She ended up at Radcliffe two weeks into the start of her sophomore year. She and Alexa have been best friends ever since. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that around the same time, Alexa stopped talking to me as much.

  When I open the front door, laughter spits into the air like machine-gun fire. In the kitchen Alexa and Jazz are sitting at the counter going nuts over Jazz’s cell phone. I assume they’re reading texts or social posts, although they could be looking at pornography. I wouldn’t put it past Jazz.

  When Alexa is with Jazz she tends to ignore me more than usual. Knowing this, I don’t make an effort to say anything to either of them. Being as discreet as I can, I place my bag on a chair and open the fridge to look for a snack to hold me over before dinner. An assortment of vegetables, uncooked meat, an apple, and chocolate milk stare me in the face. Mostly grim choices. Chocolate milk wins out.

  “Hey, there, kiddo,” Jazz says, actually acknowledging my presence for once, in a peppy voice typically reserved for talking to toddlers under the age of three. I’ve noticed that Jazz always talks to people that way. It’s like she’s sixteen going on forty-five. She also calls my mom “hon,” which my mom hates, but Jazz does it to everyone.

  “Is Mom here?” I ask Alexa.

  Alexa nods but doesn’t take her eyes off the phone. Jazz responds for her. “I think she’s upstairs, hon.”

  I smile cordially and walk into the other room with my chocolate milk to watch TV for a while before heading over to Miles’s house to help him babysit. Jazz and Alexa continue to talk. Their conversations may as well be syndicated. Either they don’t realize how loud they are or they don’t care who hears their conversations. Personally, I don’t want to know what clothes they’re going to wear tomorrow or how they think some girl named Tina has anorexia, but it’s not easy to avoid.

  “I just got this great pair of pumps,” Jazz announces.

  Alexa gasps. “Is that them?”

  “Yeah.”

  A second later, Alexa says, “Holy crap. Three hundred dollars? I could never buy those. Even on sale they’re way too expensive.” One thing is apparent about Jazz, because she’ll make sure you know: She has money, or her family does. Her dad is some kind of an investment banker in Philadelphia. When Alexa first brought her over to the house when they met their freshman year, Jazz asked Mom if her purse was a Givenchy. Mom said it was from Costco. The look on Jazz’s face was priceless. She turned a light shade of green, and I’m pretty sure she threw up in her mouth.

  “You don’t have to buy them,” Jazz says to Lex. “I’ll let you borrow mine if you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. They’ll look hot on you.”

  “You’d really let me borrow them?” Lex sounds genuinely surprised by this gesture.

  “Of course. Lance would go nuts if he saw you in them.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Trust me, in those heels Lance will be dribbling hard. You’ll get serious ups.”

  Alexa laughs. “You’re bad.”

  “I know,” Jazz responds in a devilish tone.

  Now I think I just threw up in my mouth.

  Laughter continues for five more annoying minutes before abruptly coming to a halt. “Is someone here?” Alexa asks. Apparently I don’t count as “someone.”

  “Yeah,” Jazz confirms. “Looks like a car just pulled into the driveway.”

  “Jesus,” Alexa says a moment later. “It’s our uncle.”

  Jazz gasps. “Oh, my God. Is that the one who—”

  Alexa cuts her off. “Yes.”

  Jumping off the couch, I run to the front of the house. A tall man with light brown hair and tanned skin approaches. It’s our uncle Paul. Behind him I see Aunt Claire. I’m not sure why Alexa reacted the way she did, although my guess would be that it’s because Jazz is over and she’s trying to act cool. Normally she loves seeing our aunt and uncle. They’re like our second parents. Aunt Claire literally watched and cared for Alexa and I from ages two to eight. Uncle Paul worked part-time, so he was over a lot too. It was a convenient arrangement that was unfortunately born out of tragedy. Around the time we were born, Aunt Claire’s parents died in a car crash. As an only child of parents who were named partners in a law firm, she was left with a sizeable inheritance. Instead of going back to work, she told my mom that she wanted to stay home and watch us. She said she would rather watch us herself than send us to daycare. My parents worked a lot when we were little. I remember Dad always grumbling about how their combined salaries were barely paying the bills. Aunt Claire’s offer seemed too good to pass up, but my parents said, “No.” Aunt Claire was grieving. They didn’t want to further burden her with the responsibility of watching young children. Then she told them the other news that she found out the same month her parents passed away. Doctors told her she would never be able to have children. She wanted to watch us. She wanted to be part of our lives; to feel like she had some purpose, and she would not take no for an answer. She insisted and that was that. Those years were the best.

  “Hi!” I call out, pushing open the door and walking down the stairs to greet them.

  Uncle Paul and Aunt Claire don’t live far—down the street. When they aren’t over our house, our parents are at theirs. Usually we’ll see them every other day, but it’s been a while since I last saw them—a week or so.

  Bending down, Uncle Paul opens his arms for a hug. “Charlotte!” He’s like a giant teddy bear. He’s all muscle and brawn on the outside, but on the inside he’s a complete softy. If he stood next to Dad, you’d easily be able to tell they’re brothers, only Dad got the short end of the stick. Literally. He’s, like, six inches shorter than Uncle Paul.

  “Hey, there, sweetie,” Aunt Claire says in her soft, comforting voice. I adore her. She’s one of the nicest women you can possibly imagine, and she’s pretty too, in a 1920s-glamour kind of way—curvy, tall, fair skinned, light hair with giant waves that she pins up on the sides.

  After releasing her arms from around my shoulders, she straightens up and smiles back at Uncle Paul, a demure, sweet curl of the lips. There’s this amazing way they look at each other; it’s like a silent conversation is happening. Complete sentences are communicated without blinking an eye. Someday, when I actually do have a boyfriend, I want a relationship just like Aunt Claire and Uncle Paul. I want to be with someone who finishes my sentences and can tell what I’m thinking simply with a glance and a grin. That’s what they are: infallible hearts, unbroken links.

  He nods as if he’s heard her thoughts. “I’ll be in soon.”

  She nods back.

  “Your mom upstairs?” she asks me. Besides being our aunt and mom’s sister-in-law, she’s also Mom’s best friend. They spend a lot of time together.

  “I think so,” I respond.

  With a shoulder squeeze, she passes by and makes her way inside.

  “So, how’s high school?” Uncle Paul asks, tossing his car keys back and forth in his hands.

  “Eh.” I shrug.

  “That good, huh?”

  “I like lunch.”

  He laughs. “That was my favorite subject too.” As he finishes his sentence Alexa saunters onto the porch with Jazz.

  “Lexa!” Uncle Paul yells, opening his arms.

  She barely even makes eye contact. Smiling nonchalantly, she brushes pa
st me. “Hey,” she mumbles under her breath, walking right past Uncle Paul. “I’m going to Jazz’s,” she says to the air around her. “I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

  Uncle Paul lowers his hands, gives me a confused look, and clears his throat. “Bad day?”

  Bad attitude, I want to say, but instead I just shrug. Jazz backs her brand-new VW convertible bug out of the driveway and accelerates as fast as she can down the street.

  “Huh,” Paul says, staring down the street in the same direction Jazz’s car disappeared.

  “Uncle Paul?” I say, when he doesn’t say anything else for a moment.

  Snapping out of whatever thoughts are stirring in his mind, he shakes his head and smiles down at me. “Should we go inside?” he asks.

  I nod. I feel kind of bad for him. I know how he feels. Alexa treats me like that all the time.

  Miles

  “I’m foe.”

  “I think I heard something about that,” I say to my cousin Bella, who has told me three times in the past twenty minutes that she is four years old.

  “Are you foe too?” She smiles.

  “I just turned fifteen two weeks ago, remember? You came over for cake and ice cream.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her wide blue eyes stare back at me. She doesn’t remember. Cyndi, my other cousin, who is older but much shier, sits with her hands in her lap, staring down at her open-toed pink sandals with a line of rainbow-colored hearts on the sides.

  “How old are you?” I ask Cyndi, even though I already know. With her head still down she raises a hand, extending all of her fingers. “Five, huh?” I say.

  She nods.

  “Cool.”

  “All right, we’re leaving!” My mom’s sister, my aunt Irene, pops her head into the living room. “You girls be good for your cousin Miles.” She looks at me. “Thanks again for watching them,” she says.

  “No problem,” I say, although what I’m really thinking is: This could be a problem. I have no idea how to keep two young girls entertained for five hours.

  Mom walks in behind her. “The phone number for the restaurant is on the fridge,” she says. “You have my cell and Aunt Irene’s number. We’re going to the seven p.m. movie and should be home by ten.”

  “Okay,” I say as reassuringly as possible. I’m hoping I don’t need to use any of that information.

  “See you later.” Mom and Irene wave.

  “Byeee!” Bella waves.

  Cyndi doesn’t say anything. After they’re gone, the three of us sit and stare at one another for a while.

  “You want to play hide-and-seek?” I ask.

  “No,” they say at the same time.

  “Want to watch TV?”

  “No.” Bella giggles.

  “How about we play outside?”

  They shake their heads.

  Mom and Aunt Irene have been gone all of ten seconds, and I’m already having challenges.

  “What do you guys want to do?” This could be an extremely long evening. Cyndi steps forward and hands me a small denim bag.

  “What’s this?” I’m not gonna lie; I’m scared. Leaning over, I take a look inside. “This is what you want to do?” I ask with a heavy amount of reservation.

  Cyndi nods. The slightest smile creeps onto her lips. It crushes my heart.

  I knew this would be hard. I never should have volunteered for this.

  Charlotte

  I’m running late. Uncle Paul and I played a few games of Othello. I won—two out of three. I always beat him, but lately I’m starting to wonder if he lets me. No one can possibly lose as much as he does.

  It takes exactly eight minutes and seventeen seconds to walk to Miles’s house. I’ve walked this route over a million times: Derry Farm Road (where I live) to Bunt Drive, jump the fence at Whipple Road, cut through the backyard—the one with the giant pine tree. Travel around the edge of Leery Park until you get to the creek. Go past the creek about ten yards and hook a right into Miles’s backyard. I’m sure I could walk it blindfolded if I had to.

  I would normally walk onto the deck and let myself in through the sliding glass door, but that’s usually when it’s just Miles and his mom at home. Miles’s mom doesn’t care. She always treats me like a member of the family. His aunt Irene seems really cool too, but I don’t know her as well. They live in the area, but they only come over every so often. I guess his aunt Irene has a demanding job, something in law enforcement. When she’s not working, she’s taking care of her girls. Anyway, the last thing I would want is for her to think I’m some rude girl who barges into people’s houses. Today I decide to knock on the front door. Slipping around the house, I step onto the front porch. Lifting my hand, I tap the knocker three times and wait. It feels weird to knock on the door. It’s like I’m a stranger. I peek through the windows on the sides. I don’t hear anything. Maybe they all went out? Am I too late? I told Miles that I’d be here at four o’clock. It’s thirty-five past.

  I peek through the window and knock one more time. When there is still no answer, I ring the doorbell. That does it. Footsteps. The lock on the other side clicks. Finally the door opens.

  “Hey, I—” The rest of the words don’t make it out. My eyes pop, my neck jerks back, and my mouth gapes.

  “They wanted to play dress-up,” Miles mumbles with pursed lips.

  It’s difficult to stifle the laughter boiling up inside while he’s standing before me in a woman’s skirt and heels, with makeup all over his face.

  “Don’t you dare laugh.” There’s little intonation in his tone, but I can see the warning in his eyes.

  Pressing my lips together as hard as I can, I shake my head. It’s the costume jewelry that does me in—the pink beads wrapped around his neck and the clip-on plastic earrings. A bellowing hoot flies out of my mouth. “I’m sorry...I...” Everything I want to say is jumbled. “You...Oh, my God...it’s so...”

  Scowling, Miles shuts the door in my face.

  Miles

  “Who is dat?” Bella walks up to me and asks after I shut the front door.

  “My friend, Charlotte.” I say, crossing my arms over the long dangling necklace resting on my chest. “Do you remember her from my birthday?”

  “Uh...uh-huh.”

  She doesn’t remember.

  Tilting her head she wonders, “Why you close da doe?”

  “She wasn’t ready to come in yet.” I explain.

  Charlotte knocks again. “Miles! I’m sorry!” she calls out from the other side. “Let me in. I won’t laugh again. I promise.” A muffled snicker precedes a snort as if she’s trying to cover her mouth.

  “I can still hear you.” I call back. This is embarrassing. I doubt I’m impressing her in a skirt and earrings.

  The snicker fades after a few seconds. There’s a period of silence and then another knock. “Miles?”

  Cyndi, who was in the other room, has now joined Bella and I. “Why aren’t you answering the door?” She asks.

  “Is someone at the door?” I play dumb.

  “Miles!” Charlotte cries. “I hear you, too. Come on.”

  Both girls laugh.

  “What do you think?” I ask the girls. “Should I let her in?”

  They both look at me and nod enthusiastically.

  With a sigh, I open the door. “You’re only allowed in because Bella and Cyndi are tired of listening to you whine out here.”

  Charlotte gives me a sideways smirk. “You let me in because you won’t last another ten minutes with these cute girls.” She turns to Bella and Cyndi and smiles. “Hi.” She waves.

  “Hi,” they say in unison, seemingly happy to see an actual member of the opposite sex versus a dressed up fill-in.

  “You guys look like you’re having fun,” she says.

  Cyndi and Bella smile and nod.

  “Is it okay if I hang out and play with you guys too?” Charlotte asks.

  The girls look at each other and then Cyndi says, “Okay. Want to play Barbies?”
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  Charlotte turns to me, the smirk returning to her face. “I don’t know. Miles? Do we want to play Barbies?”

  Through clenched teeth I try to smile. “Sure.”

  The girls love playing with Barbies more than they enjoyed playing dress up. I tried to be the Ken doll. Bella told me I had to be Ballerina Barbie instead. It was slightly disturbing dressing her and brushing her hair. I may have accidently put my hands on Barbie’s lady parts. I prefer not to give details. It’s somewhat traumatizing.

  An hour into Barbies we transition to brushing each other’s hair. (Apparently brushing the Barbies’ hair was not good enough, so I was told.) Bella is brushing my hair and Cyndi is brushing Charlotte’s. Every now and then Bella will brush, gather sections of my hair as best as she can in her little fingers, and clip something in. There isn’t a mirror around, but I’m pretty sure I have six barrettes scattered over the top of my head. Charlotte isn’t faring so well either. She has three ponytails on the top of her head.

  Bella looks me in the face every once in a while to tell me I’m pretty. The whole time I’m staring at Charlotte who is staring at me with laughter brimming in her eyes. It’s the most fun I’ve had, never. I’m seriously thinking that at some point, possibly after the eleventh or twelfth barrette, I may shed actual tears. But then, Bella looks at me and instead of telling me I’m pretty she gives me a big hug around the neck, a kiss on the cheek, and says, “Miles, I willy, willy like you.”

  Charlotte makes the same oh-my-god-that’s-so-cute face as I do and says, “I totally agree, Bella. I really, really like Miles, too.”

  My heart immediately soars.

  Alright. Maybe this babysitting stuff isn’t so bad.

  Charlotte

  A little after nine o’clock I stroll home. It’s dark when I step inside. The sound of faint conversation and laughter can be heard in the backyard. Walking toward the kitchen, I call out, “Mo—” I stop short when I turn the corner. Alexa is standing in the shadows, peering out into the backyard. I’m not sure if it’s the way the light of the moon is reflecting onto her face, or her wistful expression, but she looks younger to me, like a former version of herself that is peeking through the surface. Sometimes it’s hard to look at her and not think back to the moments when we used to be so close. And we were more than close. She was my best friend.