She's So Dead to Us (The He's So/She's So Trilogy) - Softcover

Kieran Scott is the author of the True Love series, including Only Everything, Complete Everything, and Something True; and the Non-Blonde Cheerleader series along with the He’s So/She’s So trilogy: She’s So Dead to Us, He’s So Not Worth It, and This is So Not Happening. She also writes the New York Times bestselling series Private, as well as the Shadowlands trilogy, under the pen name Kate Brian. She resides in New Jersey with her family.

AUGUST
                                                              
 
Oh. My. God. You are never going to believe who I just saw driving through town in a Subaru.
 
Who?
 
Ally. Ryan.
 
You’re not serious.
 
Do I look like I’m laughing?
 
I heard she’s been sunning herself on the French Riviera for the past two years living off all our college funds.
 
No way. Her dad lost all that money.
 
My mom says they’ve been living in a trailer in West Virginia somewhere, like, under a bridge or something.
 
Oh my God. Did she look malnourished?
 
Her hair was kind of frizzy . . . .
 
I can’t believe she’s back. Does Chloe know?
 
Are you kidding? She sent a 911 text to the girls and they’re already convening at Jump.
 
Unbelievable. Ally Ryan back in Orchard Hill.
 
I cannot wait for the first day of school.
Ally
 
“So? What do you think?”
            Hmm. What did I think? I had to take a moment to sort out an answer to that one. Here's what I came up with:
            I thought that my ass hurt from sitting for four straight hours on the car ride from Maryland to New Jersey. I thought that the dingy gray condo in front of which I was now standing—discernable as my new home solely by the fact that the movers had propped the storm door open with a cinder block—was butthole hideous. Although, on the bright side, it was exactly the same butthole hideous as every other condominium on this particular block of the Orchard View condo complex, so at least it wasn’t alone in its butthole hideousness. I thought that the last time I had been in Orchard Hill about two years ago there had been a gorgeous apple orchard right where I was standing—an orchard that actually made sense of the name Orchard Hill—and that now it was gone. So not only was there no Orchard anywhere near the Orchard View condominiums, but there was also no View, since we were at the bottom of the hill from which one would have viewed said orchard, back when said orchard existed.
            Sigh.
I also thought—no, knew –that the way I answered this question would determine my mother’s mood for the rest of the day. The rest of the week. Maybe the rest of the year.
            So I smiled and said, “It’s great, Mom.”
            Her tired, sad eyes brightened and the tension disappeared from her smile. “Don’t you think? And honey, it’s not forever. I’m going to put half my pay check away every week and Danielle says that before we know it we’ll be able to afford one of those cute little houses over by the library and . . . .”
            Danielle was Danielle Moore, mother of my old friend Shannen Moore and the only one of my mom’s friends from Orchard Hill who still talked to her. Probably because she understood that wives and daughters should not be held responsible for the actions of husbands and fathers. Mrs. Moore was also the realtor who’d found us this lovely little condo in the first place. I had to remind myself not to thank her when I saw her again.
            I missed the rest of my mother’s rambled promises because one of the movers—a round dude with too much facial hair—was walking by with my bike on his shoulder.
            “Um . . . excuse me? Could I get that, please?” I asked, swallowing my aversion to strange men with pit stains.
            He grunted and dropped my bike to the ground so hard I swear I heard the suspension whimper. But at least it was my bike. If home is where the heart is, home had just arrived.
            “Thanks.”
            He grunted again. I straddled my bike. Closed my hands around the well-worn rubber grips. There was plenty of dirt stuck up in the thick treds and I was ready to add some more. Instantly I felt about nine-hundred percent better. Nine-hundred percent more free.
            “Ally, where’re you going?” the light was already gone from Mom’s eyes. “Don’t you want to see your room?”
“I’ll see it later. I’m going for a ride,” I said.
            “Where? I hope you’re not thinking of—“
            The movers slammed the truck door shut, muffling her last words, but I knew what she had said. And we both knew that I was thinking of what she thought I was thinking of. There was no reason to confirm or deny. Without a backward glance, I rode through the gates at the front of the complex, hooked a left and headed for town. It felt good to move. To breathe. To get the hell away from my mother and all her positive thinking. I love you, Mom, but things were not going to be the same now that we were “home.” Things were never going to be the same.
            But still . . . it was kind of good to be back. As I waited at the light at the bottom of Orchard Avenue I couldn’t believe it had been over a year. The place looked exactly the same. Not one storefront had changed and they all still had the same cheesy names that had cracked me up back in kindergarten. The Tortoise and the Hair Beauty Salon. Baby It’s Yours Kids’ Clothing. Needle Me This Knitting Supply. Jump, Java and Wail! Coffee Company. The proprietors of Orchard Hill lived for their cutesy plays on words, which just made the Starbucks and the Gap look all the more cold and austere with their been-there-done-that signage. The movie theater anchored the downtown shopping area, its old-school neon lights doused since the sun was still up, its placard advertising the three latest and greatest indie movies of the month. The brick-faced post-office was bustling with activity and a few middle-school guys were using its handicapped ramp to show off their tricks. In the park across the way, a group of girls were laying out in shorts and tanks, their tops folded up to expose the maximum amount of stomach. As soon as I saw them I stood up on the pedals, racing up the hill and under the train trestle toward the crest. I doubted I knew any of them—most of my former friends had huge backyards with pools if they wanted to lay out—but I wasn’t ready to do the whole reunion thing yet.
            Which was hilarious, considering where I was headed. I hesitated for a split second at the foot of Harvest Lane. What was I doing here, anyway? I hadn’t seen this hill since February of my freshman year—the night my family and I had driven down it for the last time, me staring out the back window of my dad’s soon-to-be-repossessed BMW, trying to commit every detail to memory. I hadn’t even called my friends to say goodbye. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t emailed. Hadn’t tweeted a less-than-140-character “See ya!” I’d been too confused, too scared, too embarrassed. And soon too much time had passed and getting in touch felt awkward and humiliating and I just . . . never had. Now here I was, eighteen months later, wishing I could go back and smack my freshman self upside the head. Because if I had said goodbye, if I had kept in touch with any of them, it would have made moving back here so much easier. But how was I supposed to know my mother would one day get a job at Orchard Hill High? When we’d left, my parents had told me we were gone for good and I’d believed them.
            It wasn’t my fault they didn’t have a clue they were talking about.
After spinning a couple of circles at the foot of the hill, I figured what the hell? I’d come this far. If fate wanted me to bump into one of my old friends today, then let fate have her way. I turned, flipped my bike into first, and started the long climb. The late August sun beat down on my back and sweat prickled my neck and underarms as I worked my bike uphill. There were no houses on this stretch of Harvest, the drop off on my right way too steep for building, the ridge on my left made of solid rock. As I came out of the trees, the view opened up and I glanced over my shoulder to see New York City lying low and gray in the distance. In front of it, the town of Orchard Hill opened up like a pretty pop-up book at my feet. From this height I could see Orchard Avenue and all the little side streets criss-crossing it at various angles. On the hill across the way was Orchard Hill High where I’d be starting school in a few days, and at the foot of that hill, the Orchard View condos, where my mom was probably cursing my name right now. Beyond that were all the cute cookie-cutter houses on their grid-like streets and the strip mall with its Dunkin Donuts and CVS and mom-and-pop pizza place and deli. At least we lived within walking distance of Munchkins and pizza. Always try to look at the bright side.
At the tip top of Harvest I paused and put my feet down, breathing heavily and taking in the view. I’d been thinking about this moment the whole ride up from Maryland. But now that I was here, my heart fluttered with nerves. I swallowed hard and pretended I didn’t feel it. Why should I be nervous? It wasn’t like I was going to see anyone. It wasn’t like it mattered. It was all in the past. I was a completely different person now. I was smarter. Stronger. Better.
            I took a deep breath and rode around the bend. Suddenly everything became crisply clear in front of me, as if I’d been looking through someone else’s glasses for the whole ride up here and they’d finally fallen away. I leaned back on my bike and drank it all in. The tall, green trees forming a canopy overhead, the hissing sound of the sprinklers spritzing the manicured lawns, the scent of barbecue wafting through the air from the backyard of one of the stately houses. Suddenly I was twelve years old again. Ten. Five. A little kid running from yard to yard, chasing fireflies with my friends, laughing and shouting and singing like no one could hear.
            Home. I was finally, finally home.
            I rode slowly, lazily, down the wide lane, letting my front wheel weave in and out like I always did when I was a kid. The first house I came to was Faith’s. It was all stone and brick and pointed roofs, like something out of a gothic novel, except that her little brothers’ sleek, silver scooters were parked on the gravel path out front. The landscapers were out in full force, mowing and blowing and trimming and weed-whacking. There was one car in the driveway, a red Audi, which I didn’t remember. But this was not surprising. Faith’s mother got a new car every year, donating the old, barely driven one to charity as if she was doing it for the less fortunate and not just because she wanted her new-car-smell back. When I left, Faith was convinced she was destined for either Broadway or her own show on The Disney Channel. She was auditioning for some summer program at a theater in the city. I wondered, not for the first time, if she’d gotten in. If she’d taken her first step toward superstardom.
            A little bit further and I came to Shannen’s place. Wide and white-faced and sprawling. The yard was unkempt, but it was otherwise the same as always. Two cars this time, and I heard music blasting from the general direction of Shannen’s bedroom. I leaned down and pedaled as hard as I could until I’d gotten past the hedgerow and out of sight. The level of fear I felt at the thought of seeing her surprised me. What the hell was I going to do on the first day of school if I couldn’t even handle the thought of Shannen Moore spotting me out her bedroom window? Drop dead of nervousness, apparently. I wondered how her family was doing these days. It had been almost two years since Shannen’s older brother Charlie ran away. When I left, Shannen still thought it was her fault and her parents weren’t speaking to each other. Had things gotten any better since? Had Charlie ever come home?
At the corner, was Hammond’s place. It looked dead. Down the shore for the weekend, of course. No one spent more time at their shore house than Hammond’s family. Sometimes they spent the whole summer, but they were probably back during the week now, since Hammond would have soccer practice. Everything revolved around Hammond’s sports schedules—and his older brother Liam’s back when he was in high school. I stood up on the pedals, trying to spot the secret path that cut through the tree line separating his back yard from my side one, but the full, green trees hid it from view.
The secret path. My heart pounded at the thought of the last time Hammond had used our short cut, and I quickly hooked a quick right onto Vista View Lane, scooting past the yellow “Dead End” sign that both my mother and Chloe’s mother had actually gone to borough hall to protest because it was so “unsightly.” To my left was Chloe’s place, and the thought of seeing her freaked me out even more than the thought of seeing Shannen. Did Chloe know? Had Hammond told her what had happened that last time he’d come over? Were they still together? And if not, was I the reason?
I only knew one thing for sure: I was not ready to find out the answers to those questions. I laid into my pedals, putting Chloe’s place behind me. And then, there it was. At the end of the cul de sac was my house. My home. The mansion where I'd grown up. I assumed the gate would be closed, but it wasn’t, and as soon as I saw the opening, I accelerated. I didn’t even think. I just rode. Through the gates and up the hill of the driveway. At the top was the circle with the apple tree at the center, surrounded by little pink flowers and a stone border. My dad had taught me to ride my tricycle around that circle, and later my bike. All the scraped knees and tears and shouts of joy came flooding back out of nowhere. I rode around it once and everything unexpectedly blurred. 
There was a set of shrubs planted under the library window. Someone else’s bike tossed on the grass. New planters in front of the door with happy little marigolds dancing in the breeze. Not my house anymore. Not my home.
My gaze dri...