CHAPTER 1

GRACE

My mother found me in the bathroom. “Grace?” she said, and in a heartbeat she was at my side. “Gracie? What’s wrong?”

I slowly lifted my head from the toilet seat and, with violet sleep-­deprived eyes, gave her my most lethargic of looks. I hadn’t looked this wiped since running in our town’s Spring Fling 10K the morning after junior prom. “Don’t feel well,” I mumbled. “Puked last night.”

“Oh, sweetheart . . .” She took a reluctant peek into the toilet, where a smoothie-­like blend of dinner and dessert swirled in the bowl. If you tried hard enough, you could recognize a pulled pork sandwich, coleslaw, baked beans, and an ice cream sundae. Mint chocolate chip with hot fudge, whipped cream, and M&Ms. It had been delicious. “Scott!” my mom called. “Scott!”

“I’m sorry,” I moaned when my father arrived, his blue-­and-­gray tie half knotted. “It happened in my room, too.”

My dad crouched down next to me. “Why didn’t you come get us?” he asked as I curled into a ball on our bath mat and started shivering. He put a warm hand on my back.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” I said. “You both have those big meetings today.”

There was a moment of silence. I imagined my parents using their couple superpower, communicating with only their eyes. Well, what do you think? my mom was probably asking.

I think we should get her to bed, I hoped my dad was answering.

“What’s going on?” another voice said, and the three of us turned to see James in the doorway. I’d heard him playing his keyboard earlier, our family’s morning alarm, but now he was dressed in jeans and a well-­worn concert T-shirt from The National’s last tour and was shoveling Lucky Charms into his mouth.

“Your sister has a stomach bug,” our mom said. “She’s been throwing up all night.” She sighed. “James, you know there’s no food allowed upstairs.”

It was one of the new rules, to keep the house spotless for eventual showings.

My brother lowered his cereal bowl, and I swallowed—­now really and truly nauseous. James cocked his head with interest. “All night, huh?” He slurped some more cereal. “Too bad I didn’t hear you.” His smirk sped up my pulse. “I could’ve held your hair back.”

“Let’s get you to your room, Gracie,” Dad said, helping me to my feet. “We’ll put a bucket by your bedside—­”

“Wait, are you serious?” James cut in incredulously. “She gets to stay home?”

“Of course,” Mom told him, flushing the toilet for emphasis. “We don’t want her spewing all over Council Rock North.”

“I doubt there’s anything left in her stomach to spew,” James grumbled, then said, “Last month you made me go to school with a fever.”

Yes, I thought. A fever brought on by a hair dryer.

(It hadn’t been his best performance.)

“Because you have too many absences, James!” Mom said. “Principal Unger called us.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t even know how to explain half of them!”

My school-­skipping brother backed down and turned to me. “May I have the car keys, please?” he asked. “Since you’ll be bedridden today, dearest twin?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. While we were both seniors, James and I weren’t technically twins; we’d been born ten months apart. He was older and eternally irked that our shared Subaru was known as “Grace Barbour’s car” at school.

“No, wait, it’s okay,” I said, making a weak attempt at collecting myself. “I should go to school. James is right; there’s nothing left in my stomach. As long as I don’t eat . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed a hand to my abdomen, as if waiting for a cramp to pass. “I’ll be fine.”

My dad kept his arm firmly around my shoulders. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I’m student body president.” My voice floated up, up, and away—­lightheaded, I was so lightheaded. “My people need me.”

“Jesus Christ,” James said. “Put the powermonger to bed.”

“The keys are in my backpack’s side pocket,” I told him before letting our parents escort me out of the bathroom and down the hall.

“Oh, wow,” my mom commented when she saw the crime scene in my room: brown sludge spurted across my beige rug. I might not have been successful, but it looked like I’d at least attempted to make a run for the toilet.

“Carpet cleaner,” my dad said as I climbed into bed. He pulled up my covers, tucking me in like when I was little. “Relax, Kim. We’ll get the carpet cleaner and it’ll be good as new.”

I thought otherwise. If I did say so myself, I’d done such a worthy job that a professional would need to be brought in to achieve a good-­as-­new level of cleanliness.

“Now, text us,” my dad told me a few minutes later, after spraying the foaming cleanser. My mom had run outside to catch James and give him my absence note. “Okay? If you need anything, don’t hesitate to text.”

Through my window, I saw James back out of the driveway and speed off toward school. He was pissed. “Okay.”

“Or call,” my mom added, coming back into my room. “If something’s really wrong.”

“I will.” I snuggled into my pillow. “But I wish one of you could stay. . . .”

My parents exchanged a look. I knew they were considering it, but at the same time, I knew they weren’t. Again, they had those meetings, and I was seventeen, not seven. I could look after myself.

“So do we, kiddo.” My dad kissed the top of my head. “But I’ll be home at six sharp, don’t worry.”

“I’ll try my best to swing by at lunch,” my mom said. “If you’re feeling better, I’ll make you a nice broth.”

“Mmm, that sounds yummy.” My eyes drifted shut, and I murmured in my faraway voice, “I love you.”

“We love you, too,” they harmonized before backing out of the room and quietly closing the door.

Then I listened. I listened to them finish getting ready for work; I listened to their murmured conversation as they headed downstairs; I listened to them say goodbye to our dog; I listened to the familiar bing of the front door opening and shutting; and I listened to the hum of their cars.

And once they were gone, most likely en route to the drive-­thru Starbucks (even though we had a perfectly capable Nespresso machine here at home!), I sat up in bed and threw back my covers. And, scene! as my drama teacher would’ve said.

I had plans for today, and none of them involved school.

V­

After unlocking my phone and tapping its screen a few times, my favorite eighties music pulsed through our Sonos speakers. Most of the songs were cheesy, but I loved them. Belting out lyrics, I danced out of my room and into James’s. Per usual, his bed was unmade and clothes covered the floor, but his extensive vinyl collection sat organized on his big bookshelf—­Adele? Frankie Valli? Kendrick Lamar? The La La Land score? He owned it—­and his beloved keyboard waited under the window. “Who’s the master now?” I asked the empty room. “Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

Truthfully, it was still him. James had perfected the art of fake illnesses over the years, always shooting for something specific yet also vague. His faux congested voice deserved an Academy Award, and I’d never forget the time I caught him licking his palms. “For clammy hands,” he’d told me, minutes before our mom had diagnosed him with the sweats and sent him back to bed. “Always a standby.”

Not only had I licked my palms this morning, but I’d also patted my face with saliva. The skincare routine of super­models, I’m sure.

When my alarm had beeped at five a.m., I’d tried not to laugh as I crept down to the kitchen to make a fresh sundae and let it melt while mixing together some of last night’s barbeque leftovers. No one would hear me; my parents were part of the CBD oil cult, and James slept with headphones. Combine in Cuisinart, I thought, then blend with liquefied dessert. I’d chewed up a handful of M&Ms and spit them in the bowl, along with a crumbled slice of cornbread. A bit of texture couldn’t hurt, could it?

Once I was back upstairs, I’d spattered half the concoction on my floor and dumped some more in the toilet before digging out my makeup and watching a YouTube tutorial on how to create believable bags under my eyes. It was tedious, and part of me was shocked that my parents hadn’t seen through the scam. Maybe I had a future as a makeup artist in Hollywood?