Gaslight

Chapter Three

We pile into the Audi the twins share. It's warmer than I'd anticipated for this time of year, and I can already feel the sun burning my shoulders as it beams through the open window.

The trees fly by, broken up by the oversize homes with their landscaped lawns. Granada Hills is like any other gated community, and north of the freeway where Tim and Lilly reside are midcentury homes filled with hospitable neighbors. Lawn mowers growl over the bass of Dylan's music; the clockwork sounds of suburban life. In one of the front yards, a man is mowing his lawn in a flannel shirt and khaki green shorts. He waves as we pass, using his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

Back home, there was always this sense of freedom that came with knowing you could be anywhere you wanted in thirty minutes, but here, life has slowed to a crawl. There's no rush to get anywhere, no sense of urgency or purpose. An old couple stops in the middle of the street, a move that would earn you a side-eye in New York, but here no one cares. Strangely, I like it.

I focus on the notebook in my lap, checking my list of things to do: join track, don't think, breathe. The last one is underlined three times, just in case I forget.

This is the first time in years that there isn't anything huge on my list. I have the perfect 4.0 GPA, I've been accepted to three out of four of my colleges, and while I've still got finals and graduation to think about, the hard part is over. The problem is, it's the hard part that stops me from unraveling.

After finishing up my checklist, I neatly rip the page from my notebook before putting it in my pocket. Jamie thinks I'm crazy for making lists, especially on paper and not on my phone, but there is something therapeutic about writing things down.

He messages now, his fifth one in ten minutes, but it's a relief to know he's thinking about me. I take a picture of my view from the window, then send it over WhatsApp with a heart emoji.

Can't wait to visit you in California, he messages back.

Dylan turns down the stereo to be heard above the noise. "You've gone quiet on us," he says. "You're not nervous, are you?"

He's looking right at me, waiting for me to confess. "Are there actually people who don't get nervous about their first day?" I ask. "Because to me, that makes you a psychopath."

He grins, and I'm surprised at how easily it settles my nerves. "You'll be fine," he says, "trust me." Like it is just that easy.

"What are you, omniscient?"

A snigger erupts from the backseat. "He thinks he is," Olly says. "You'll never meet a bigger know-it-all than Dylan, I promise you."

Dylan glares into the rearview mirror. "I think I know everything?" He shakes his head and says to me, "Trust me, it won't be long before you start to ask yourself how that skinny little body of his can carry around such a big head."

I laugh, and when Olly hurls an insult at Dylan, Dylan reaches back and thumps him. I watch as the pair of them go back and forth, not used to any of this.

"Look," Olly says, poking his head between the seats, "you look like someone who gets off on the whole school thing, unlike Dylan here, so I'm sure you'll do great. Just don't do anything to embarrass us."

I'm ashamed to say he's not wrong. Growing up, I was always the kid with my hand up in class, or who asked for extra work to do at home, and as a teenager, I'm even worse.

At first it was just my little way of making Dad proud. He loved to praise: his favorite thing to do was tell you that no one could paint like you or run like you or sing like you. He loved making you feel special. But when you were special, it meant someone else was not—usually my mother. Looking back, most of my memories are of her standing on the sidelines, watching us with what I'd always assumed was adoration, but instead was a hopefulness that one day, he'd look at her that way too.