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  To my family, to my girl, and to anyone who’s ever filled a prescription or fallen in love

  (I think that covers everyone)

  PROLOGUE

  ABRAM

  SHE TAKES A CAB every Saturday morning. Not sure where; still want to go, too—I’m up for whatever when it comes to her. Instead, I’m crouching beside my favorite window like the creepy, uninvited neighbor I am, waiting for her to walk outside with a frown on her perfect face. Wouldn’t be surprised if my mom’s standing behind me with her arms crossed, wondering what’s gotten into me.

  Hold up. There she is, slamming her front door precisely on time, speed-walking toward the cab, annoyed that everything is making her late. Her hair is down and straight today, not in its usual tightly wound bun contraption. She puts more effort into getting ready on Saturdays than she ever does for school, that boring place we both go where she also pretends I don’t exist. Not that I’m blaming her for treating me with silence only—she has her reason, and it’s a good one.

  As her cab backs out of the driveway and begins speeding down the road toward my house, I crawl to the side, out of view. I like to imagine her heading to a happier place that isn’t church, because from what I can tell, home and school don’t seem to be providing a barrel of laughs. I bet she manages to be productive on the way, maybe fills out college applications similar to the blank forms collecting dust atop my dresser, only for better colleges, until she starts feeling carsick … and then forces herself to complete them in their entirety, anyway. That’s how she rolls when she jogs, too, so determined to out-sprint whatever’s haunting her. I’ve come to know this side of her naturally; I’d see her running along the path by the tennis courts where my father and I used to drill pretty much every day, until that day.

  It’s almost like she and I were meant to be complete strangers with an unthinkable tragedy in common.

  1

  Juliette

  THERE SHE IS, standing behind the counter: my CVS pharmacist, Mindy. We’re on a first-name basis. Not sure how she feels about that, but the other day I hid inside the Starbucks bathroom for five minutes to avoid running into her, so …

  I walk up and slide my prescription toward Mindy’s waiting hand, ignoring the sign reminding me not to forget this year’s flu shot on purpose again.

  “Hi, Juliette.”

  “Hey, Mindy.”

  Mindy picks up the paper, stares at it like we don’t go through the same embarrassing routine every month.

  “Let me check if I have this medication in stock.”

  She does—I called ahead but don’t want to admit it, just watch as Mindy walks over to the safe where they keep all the stuff worth getting prescribed. She crouches down and practically folds herself over the front of it, paranoid I might memorize the combo as she punches it in. At best, she looks awkward. At worst, I’ve already memorized it—never know when things will get more desperate than they already are.

  She walks back, tells me they have it, and starts typing my order into the computer. Frowning, she says, “Your insurance won’t cover this until the end of the month.”

  “Really?” I say innocently. Went a little overboard on my daily dosage last week. After hesitating for what seems like an appropriate amount of time, I tell her I’ll pay out of pocket and remove my sketchy online discount card from my purse. Mindy shoots me a conflicted expression that I’m not mentally equipped to help her feel better about. I have my own problems, clearly.

  “When would you like to pick up your Adderall?” she practically bellows.

  “Ten minutes, please,” I say, my voice a sharp, pointy whisper.

  Mindy pushes back the bangs she probably shouldn’t have cut in the first place, wanting me to understand how heavy the burden I’m placing on her is. The store is empty. Mindy’s going to be okay.

  When we’re almost finished with each other, a noise rings out from the aisle behind me—a bottle of pills dropping to the floor. We’re not as alone as I thought. Nevertheless, I don’t turn around. Why? So I can see someone I know? Or, worse, someone-I-know’s mom? I look up toward the shoplifters-beware mirror mounted to the corner wall. Not liking what’s reflecting back at me. At all.

  I’m seeing a crown of wavy blond surfer-dude hair, droopy gray sweatpants, flip-flops. But it’s the bewilderingly cute face, his face, and the watery-blue color of his eyes, which stir up feelings I haven’t yet figured out how to compartmentalize.

  For now, I give my brain tips like Stop it and I hate you. I’m still getting a faceful of Abram Morgan at CVS, on a Friday, at midnight, dropping a bottle of fish oil on the floor.

  He places the bottle back on the shelf, mutters an apology to no one in particular, and walks away. Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be playing tennis, or doing whatever Abram Morgan does on the weekends so I don’t have to worry about seeing the waistband of his boxer briefs outside of eighth-period English?

  I finish up with Mindy and then duck past the greeting cards into the most boy-repelling aisle I can find: the tampon section. Then I go one aisle past that one, because I just can’t be that girl right now, even in hiding. Eyes lowered as far as they can go, I examine the boxes of hair color as if I’m in the market for a new hue that’s destined to result in my best friend, Heidi, a genuinely nice person who could do a lot better for herself than the damaged goods I’m bringing to the table, throwing me a pity party and having to pretend it’s just as fun as a regular party.

  One of the hair models, a doll-like woman with an intentionally disheveled blond bob, looks eerily similar to my mother. Her lips are painted a deep red, her chin tilts upward like she’s found a secret beauty ingredient bubbling forth from the fountain of youth, and wouldn’t you like to buy what it is? A chill plays the piano down my spine.

  I pick up the box—the last one on the shelf—and drop it quietly to the floor, sliding it underneath the bottom shelf with my worn-out running shoe. For a second I flash back to my mom in a hospital bed, eyes closed, face flawless and scratch-free, her brain the only injured part of her body. Even close to death, she looked very, very much alive.

  My chest feels tight, and I can’t breathe, and, new rule, no thinking about my mother on life support again for at least the rest of my days. Especially with Abram Morgan, a living reminder of who she’d become, nearby.

  Then it hits me. Not another anxiety attack. Not anything close to inner peace. The Adderall I classily swallowed at the kitchen sink, before my two-mile jog over here? Unfortunately, that’s it. The side effects are giving me a false sense of euphoric confidence that I could maybe, possibly, confront Abram Morgan, head-on, and “kill my frog,” as my well-meaning father, a lifelong people-procrastinator himself, likes to preach but rarely leaves the house to practice.

  Say I did walk over to Abram right now—how would I go about forcing casual conversation? Should I unzip my track jacket so he can get a clearer v
iew of my protruding clavicles? Flirtatiously release my dry-shampooed hair from my extra-taut runner’s bun, mid-sentence, to indicate how relaxed I’m not in his presence? Smile through the pain I’ve been distracting myself from by taking more than my fair share of ADHD pills?

  I start searching for him, pretending I’m the silly-but-lovable blond heroine (addict) in a low-budget indie film I just made up. Working title: Prescription for Love. My character, a type-A smart girl with mom issues and a one-track mind, is completely unaware she’s about to find a cute guy where she least expected, at CVS, while waiting for her refill. Prescription for Love has direct-to-DVD flop written all over it, but there’s a Redbox conveniently located outside the entrance here, should anyone want to rent it after we’re done filming.

  There he is, in the candy section: Abram. Deep breath. I’ll do my best to make the next scene more take-charge than outtake, but no promises, being that his father killed my mother a year ago.

  2

  ABRAM

  I’M ALWAYS AMAZED by what I discover at CVS while waiting for my antidepressant to get refilled. Colored pencils, dog treats, socks that’ll improve my blood circulation—all of these items have found a home inside my little red basket.

  What I didn’t expect to find here tonight, at midnight especially, was Juliette Flynn, completing a transaction at the drop-off counter. I was staring at her, not-really-examining a bottle of burp-less fish oil, when I blew my cover and dropped the bottle. The noise was loud enough to make the pharmacist jump out of her skin, but not Juliette. She looked up into the shoplifter’s mirror, saw it was me, flexed her angular cheekbones, and didn’t even turn around. The toughest of cookies. I can think of easier things to be consistent about, you know? Eating cookies, for starters—just threw some in my basket and plan on proving that point later with my boys, Ben & Jerry.

  Sure, I’m in the market for another friend or two. But now Juliette’s back to avoiding me, so I probably can’t befriend her.

  At first I get a kick out of watching her pretend to shop for hair dye, lug around that designer purse, hide her face from wherever she thinks I’m lurking—I’m over here, by the tampons. Then I feel the weight of why she’s keeping me at arm’s length in the first place.

  I grab a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from an end-cap Halloween display and start walking toward the main candy section, in search of a replacement for the Big Red I stole from Mom’s secret candy drawer (the secret’s out). The gum’s on sale … but only for customers who remember their ExtraCare cards, which I have never. I’m reaching for the last remaining pack when I see a second hand that’s much softer-looking than my own, heading in the same direction.

  Juliette. Incredibly close. Her alert green cat-eyes are scratching through my lazy blues, making me feel like I’m in trouble for not doing something I honestly forgot about. Her face bears no blemishes, no freckles, no emotions; just smooth, impenetrable surface. I might have that defensive, survival-mode look on my face, too, if I weighed somewhere in the high nineties. She could use a few more trips to the Taco Bell drive-thru.

  “Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back.

  “You like Big Red, too?”

  “I was getting it for my dad.”

  “Same,” I say. “For my mom, I mean.” Except I’m sure the last thing this enigmatic girl wants is for our surviving parents to have something in common, too. I hold out the gum to her. “You go ahead.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ll find something else.”

  I wait, watch as she selects a box of Hot Tamales and then turns back to me.

  “What are those?” Juliette asks, pointing to the circulation socks in my basket. Unclear why I thought they were such a good idea fifteen minutes ago, I hand them over. She takes them, examines the label for a second. “My dad needs these. He never gets out of his swivel chair.”

  “My kind of guy.”

  She doesn’t smile. I offer her the socks and she accepts, thanks me, and situates them in her left hand with the Hot Tamales. At the same time, the giant purse slung over her right shoulder is looking heavier by the minute.

  “Want to put your stuff in my basket until you’re ready to pay?”

  “Not really.”

  “Cool.”

  Her free hand reaches around toward her bun. She contemplates taking her hair down, then decides against it. Then she goes through these motions again and arrives at the same conclusion.

  “Sorry, I’m not the best at making conversation,” she says.

  I act like this is the craziest self-assessment ever—“What? Noooo, you’re good”—probably overdoing it.

  “You have a dog?” she asks.

  “Maybe,” I say mysteriously, thinking I’ve missed something. “Why?”

  Juliette points to the dog treats I forgot were in my basket.

  “Sorry, yeah. A golden retriever.”

  Her mood goes from dark to darker before I can do anything about it. I have to hold myself back from making a physical-contact-based gesture that wouldn’t be appreciated.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  “Yes, with my dad … He doesn’t believe in family pets.”

  I stop myself from mentioning that my dad had a similar policy, one that my mom and I conveniently forgot about on our way to the dog breeder’s place.

  “That’s disappointing,” I say.

  “Agree.” Then Juliette’s stomach growls, and I consider offering her a biscuit as a joke, but it wouldn’t be funny.

  “Hungry?” I say, because I can’t help myself.

  “Not at all.”

  I’m amazed by how resolutely she’s able to ignore the growl.

  “In that case, I think there’s an animal living inside you.”

  Her stomach growls again, louder this time, more like a roar. She still doesn’t flinch.

  “I was going to stop by Taco Bell after here, if you, uh…?”

  The scrunched-up nose she gives me back indicates she has other plans. Then she tells me she’s jogging home, and it’s my turn to make a scrunchy face.

  “Just keep me company for ten minutes,” I bargain, minus any chips. “I’m more fascinating the longer you’re around me. Promise.”

  No response.

  “Their drive-thru is the fastest in town.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Okay…?”

  “Okay, I’ll go to Taco Bell with you for ten minutes.”

  The speedy-drive-thru angle is what sold her? Both confused and thrilled by her sudden change of heart, I watch as she power-walks toward the prescription pickup area, hoping this is the beginning of something that has a lot more of her in it. I start walking over to join her, but then change my mind, not really wanting Juliette to watch me sign for a big bag of Paxil. Nope, I’ll just get it tomorrow.

  Waiting outside at the Redbox next to the entrance, I look over to my car and remind myself to drive well below the speed limit. The last thing I need is Juliette worrying I’ll take a thirty-five-mph curve going seventy and roll the vehicle three times. Like my dad did that night, a year ago, with Juliette’s mom in his passenger seat.

  3

  Juliette

  MY DAD WOULD never approve of my riding in Abram Morgan’s SUV, so it’s a good thing I have no plans to tell him about it. Abram overcautiously drives through to the fluorescent Taco Bell menu and orders something called a Doritos Locos Supreme. Five of them. I make a bizarre yum noise and tell him I’ll have what he’s having, sounding like a foreign exchange student.

  I offer to pay as Abram pulls up to the window, but he insists. I insist back, telling him I have this thing about not owing people money. (Just don’t want to owe him anything.)

  “I get it,” he says, finally accepting my card. “I keep forgetting to take my wallet to school, and I owe two or three people lunch money right now—not a good way to live.”

  He doesn’t get it, but it’s considerate of him to downplay my issue by bringing
up one of his. I should say something nice about him in return.

  “I like your heated seats.”

  “Thanks,” he says, smiling.

  Abram still hands the cashier his card. I can’t protest because I’m attempting to dry-swallow a pill chunk (I like to break my two-pills-per-day dosage into quarters under the delusion I’m taking more). I manage to cough it down, smiling innocently as he looks over and asks if I’m okay. Thinking the smile is for him, the cashier gives me a perverted look like he knows his way around a taco. Please make it stop. Abram asks for extra packets of mild sauce and drives away.

  Look at Abram Morgan behind the wheel, sunroof open, wind in his hair, an overstuffed sack of questionably Mexican food between his legs. Okay, enough. I’m not going to be the girl who pulls him up by the straps of his flip-flops, prunes his scraggly sideburns with a nose-hair trimmer, and transforms him into four-year-college material.

  But I’ll admit that there’s a hopelessly endearing quality to him. And coexisting with someone else who’s halfway to orphanhood definitely takes the pressure off. Neither of us feels like we have to give the other a bouquet of daisies just for getting out of bed and taking things one pill at a time.

  “Why didn’t you pick up your Paxil at CVS?” Rude of me to ask this right as he’s taking his first bite.

  He doesn’t seem fazed, just resumes the bite while making a noise that sounds like a question mark.

  “Sorry, I saw a bag of pills next to mine with your name on it.”

  “S’okay,” he says, swallowing. “Honestly? I was embarrassed. Thought you’d think I was weird for being on an antidepressant.”

  I raise an eyebrow and point to the prescription bag sticking out of my purse.

  “Your doctor put you on one, too?” Abram asks.

  “I’m sure he would have if I hadn’t faked my ADHD symptoms.”

  Abram thinks I’m joking and laughs, saying, “Crazy how quick they are to prescribe meds these days, you know? I’ve never been able to tell if mine are working.”