The Secrets We Keep
The Secrets We Keep
by Kimberly Blackadar
Copyright 2014 by Kimberly Blackadar
Dedication
For several years, I abandoned this book as well as my desire to write, but some of my readers never gave up on me. Their gentle urgings and prayers brought me back to my computer, compelling me to finish Callie’s story. Until now, only one person had ever read this manuscript, so in some ways, I finished this book for an audience of one. Mindy, as my friend and editor, this novel is for you. Thank you for encouraging me, but most of all, thank you for asking those tough questions, offering fantastic feedback, and prompting me to add more details to the last chapter. It was a process, albeit a long one with quite the hiatus, but, hey, we made it.
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Story of the Seven Cs
1. Friday Night
2. Saturday
3. Sunday
4. Monday
5. Tuesday
6. Wednesday
7. Thursday
8. Friday
About Kimberly Blackadar
Other Titles by Kimberly Blackadar
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Prologue: The Story of the Seven Cs
In sixth grade, a friendship formed under the strangest conditions. A gym teacher placed the girls on one side of the gym, and the guys on the other, sitting them alphabetically—by their first names. So it was in last period gym class, two sets of best friends—Courtney and Chloe, Caitlyn and Carly— lined up with Callie, Christina, and Cynthia. Never remembering their names, the teacher simply referred to them as the “Seven Cs.”
Yes, the fates of alliteration brought seven very different girls together, forming a circle that no other circumstance would ever create. The seven soon ate lunch together, sharing their secrets and dreams, sealing the bond with a friendship book and a secret handshake.
Their bond lasted through the rest of middle school, but in high school, with each passing year, the group became smaller and smaller. Eventually only one of the Cs remained, eating her lunch, all alone.
Will the girls find a way to reconnect, and if so, what circumstance could bring them all back together again?
Enter the story now: It’s the summer before their senior year in high school, and it’s life from Callie’s perspective…
1. Friday Night
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out!”
“And when will you be home?”
Never, I want to say because this crappy apartment doesn’t feel like home, but I say nothing as I fling open the door and slip into the humid night air. Fingers of heat crawl across my skin as I jog-walk down the hall.
“Come back here,” her voice pursues me. “I’m not done talking to you…”
I pick up the pace, round the corner, and descend the metal stairs. When I reach the bottom, I pull out my phone: “You busy tonight?”
*****
Driving under the influence of emotions equates to vehicular suicide. It has to be worse than driving drunk—at least drunk people try to focus on the road and try to observe the speed limit. I eye the speedometer, the needle hovering at 85 MPH, but I don’t consider slowing down. I don’t consider anything but how fast I can make it to the beach, and how fast I can get away from her and what she told me.
No matter how much I push the speed, the drive stretches slowly under the darkening sky. I focus on yellow dashes and white lines as the highway curves and straightens. Tree clusters grow thick and then thin out. The peripheral pattern repeats until a stretch of charred splinters interrupts the interminable greenness. The lasting evidence of a forest fire cuts across the highway, and I am a child again, sitting restlessly in the back of our silver Mercedes while my parents stress about getting somewhere on time. There was no exit, no alternate route around the insatiable fire, just a parking lot of cars inching toward various destinations. I have no idea where we were going that afternoon: all I can remember is the heated tension spreading inside the car, engulfing three young children.
As I continue along the highway, a housing development marks the end of the arboreal graveyard, and I wonder how realtors spin those listings—“borders a quiet forest” and “convenient to the highway.” My mom’s a realtor, and I have grown up with her gratuitous jargon, meaning I have always taken whatever she said and sliced it in half.
Needing a distraction, I opt for some music, but after the initial boom-duh-duh-boom, I remember who was with me and what we were doing when I last heard the song, so I settle on silence.
Yet silence opens the doors to the voices—the ones that remind, and admonish, and stab at my sanity with a knife. I listen, get angry, then cry.
It’s a vicious cycle, and I am an easy target tonight.
Tears fill the final minutes of the drive, and then I veer off the highway and head toward the Atlantic coast. I cross the bridge, which spans the Intracoastal, and take a quick right onto A1A, heading opposite of Daytona Beach. I follow the steady stream of cars into Ponce Inlet, a quiet beach town landmarked by the tallest lighthouse in Florida. Slivers of a blackened ocean dance behind the houses and looming condo complexes. Soon the condos diminish, and the houses, boasting great views, sit on the coast, huddled close to their neighbors.
I turn up the driveway of a multi-leveled grey house and park my car. Before I get out, I check my face and notice how my brown eyes, red and puffy, reveal the truth. I sigh at my own reflection and then undo my ponytail, letting my dark chestnut hair hide my face.
With nothing but a forced smile and a jam-packed duffle bag, I head toward the front door and peer through the frosted glass. I ring the doorbell and hear the melodic chimes, a familiar waft of some famous symphony.
No answer.
I ring again, growing impatient.
The door opens with an apology: “Sorry, I was just finishing my makeup.” Courtney greets me with a big hug and rocks me back and forth. She has sun-bleached hair and a killer bod, making her the quintessential surfer girl. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, then lets go of me, never really seeing me, and starts down the wide tiled entranceway. “Can you believe this is our last week of summer vacation—the last week before our senior year? The summer has gone incredibly fast, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
I deposit my flip-flops by the front door and follow her, noting the coolness of the tiled floor. “I’m so excited that you’re here! We’re going to have a blast—the best week of our entire summer!”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble. “It can’t get any worse.”
She turns like she finally sees me¬—and is no longer talking to her imaginary friend who is eternally cheery. “C’mon Cal. Try to be happy.”
“Woo hoo,” I muster, adding some sparkle fingers.
“Now, that’s the spirit!”
“Yeah, yeah, rah, rah,” I return darkly.
“Did you talk to Caitlyn?” Any mention of cheerleading—and it is usually in the negative sense—makes us think of our friend who is now the captain of Riverside High’s varsity squad.
I shake my head.
“What about Chloe?”
“Nah,” I say with a frown, thinking how the summer has changed Chloe more than any of us. “She has her own problems.”
“So—you came to me!”
“Yep, you were the only one left, Court.”
Currently, I have three best friends: Chloe Preston, Caitlyn Rivers, and Courtney Valentine. There used to be seven of us in our middle school clique called the Seven Cs—a friendship formed by the capriciousness of alliteration. Some moved away, but one, Carly Evans, just stays away from us since sh
e treats being normal like the bubonic plague.
“Ah, I feel so special.”
I roll my eyes. Courtney has never been lacking in the self-esteem department, and no matter what happens to her, she emerges with her big smile intact.
She stops in front of an open door, sweeping her arm gracefully to her side. “And your room, Madame. I trust the accommodations will meet your standards.” She says this in jest, but it stings, reminding of the fiscal disparity between our families now.
I enter the room and drop my bag on the end of the bed. Courtney follows, her phone buzzing with a text. “It’s Ian,” she says. “And he really wants to meet you.” She pauses and offers a grin that says, Do whatever I ask, and then she steps closer to me. “You up for it?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Cal.”
“No!”
*****