Sorry, Not Sorry: A Young Adult Novel Read online

  But there was a number: one hundred thou in cold hard cash that Ashley must have blown the instant she received it.

  Poe clamped her mouth shut and shook her head at both herself and her incompetent mother. She spun back around toward the front of the house. If she confronted Ashley, she’d have to reveal about the inheritance money, and Poe couldn’t afford to let Ashley touch a single cent of it. The secret stayed buried in her chest, the same way the secret of Poe’s paternity festered in Ashley’s all these years.

  With a sigh, she bent down and scrubbed the kitchen tiles. It felt like she was always the one cleaning up her mother’s mess.

  After the kitchen sparkled, Poe climbed up the creaky ladder to the attic and ducked under the low ceiling, practically army crawling across her bed. She didn’t have enough room for clothes up here but she had all her essentials: red lipstick, earplugs, a water bottle, and most importantly, her laptop, which she could only open part way before the top hit the ceiling. Her nose twitched at the intense scent of incense she lit in a holder beside her: frankincense, myrrh, sex. She only ever lit them because her mother coughed at the way they clogged the tiny house with smoke. It didn’t matter to Poe that she herself hated the scent as long as it meant rebellion.

  Her phone vibrated with a text from her latest conquest, a guy she hated except for the fact that hanging out with him gave her a reason to escape. Plus seeing him would get a rise out of Harper Faegan, her ex-best friend, if she ever found out. Some incentives were worth waiting for. Still on for tomorrow night? Movies at 8?

  Poe groaned. He was a sloppy kisser and an even sloppier conversationalist. Let’s do dinner first. Your treat?

  Did trading make out sessions for food count as prostitution?

  Sounds good. Pick you up at 6:30 then. Can’t wait!

  I can. Poe rolled her eyes at the phone. Guys only sniffed around her for something more than she could give them: acting tips, help with homework, sex. But of course, these guys were the only people at school willing to not only speak to her but also be seen in public with her. So she let them in but on a leash, always at arms length, using them just as much as they were using her. Dinner in exchange for her reputation. A date in exchange for an escape. Whatever they wanted in return, it was worth it.

  She tossed the phone aside and picked up her laptop. A low thrum buzzed in her body as she typed in a few key search terms into her browser. Valentina Cupo, Wisconsin. She couldn’t help note that Valentina’s last name wasn’t Easterly, just like her own last name wasn’t Easterly. A few results popped up, all pointing to social media sites for a Valentina Cupo who hailed thirty minutes in the opposite direction of Mr. Goddard’s law office, as if he was a hub and the girls were orbiting him on separate circuits.

  Poe clicked on one of the links, a nervous flutter warming her belly as the page loaded. The profile picture was of a group of girls smiling at a camera, one of their arms outstretched to take a selfie. Poe’s heart thumped as she studied each one, wondering which was Valentina. The girl on the left had orange fiery hair like Harper and pointy ears that made her seem Elfin. The girl in the middle had dark brown hair and hooded eyelids with sharp, angular cheekbones, all of which Poe had too. She gasped, even though she shared those traits with her mother. But maybe she also shared them with her father. And sister.

  Clicking through past albums proved the one in the middle shared her DNA. Her heart thumped wildly at the words she found on Valentina’s bio. School: Wisconsin State. This made sense; everyone in a four-hour radius ended up at Wisconsin State thanks to its proximity to the middle of nowhere and slashed prices for residents. Ninety percent of Poe’s graduating class would end up there too and the other ten percent would get married and spit out babies by next spring. Only a few lucky ones with either straight A’s or trust funds managed to escape this fucking state.

  Poe was not one of the lucky ones. She hadn’t applied to any ivies due to lack of tuition at the time of applications so she was stuck with Wisconsin State next year. No, not next year.

  Her eyes landed on the prospective student invitation she’d received a week ago. She’d considered going just to have a guaranteed safe place to sleep for the night but now she had another reason. To meet her sister and maybe discover where she really belonged because it certainly wasn’t at school where the ghosts of her past haunted her, floating through the hallways with the names Harper and Brett.

  CHAPTER 2

  HARPER

  Every time the door to the waiting room whooshed open, Harper Faegan’s entire body cracked to pieces. She flinched, her butt lifting off the chair like a balloon. The only thing tethering her from floating away completely was the strong grip of her boyfriend Connor Cunningham’s hand from the hard plastic seat next to her. Fat gray clouds lurked behind the windows, casting a gray haze on the gray carpet and gray chairs.

  Even the nurse squinting at the clipboard looked like she’d lost a battle with smoky eye shadow.

  Harper braced for her name, her breath stilling in her lungs. This was like being called on in class. You knew it would happen eventually, especially in English when Mrs. Paterson went on one of her participation rampages and every name that was called was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it wasn’t you, and a curse because you still hadn’t gotten it over with.

  “Amy Carter?” The cheery nurse craned her neck at all the patients stretching their legs in the too-low chairs. A woman a few seats away coughed into her elbow and then pushed herself to her feet, her long hair shaking behind her as she trekked into doom.

  Harper let out a breath. Not her. Not yet. “They’re torturing me here.”

  Connor playfully nudged her shoulder, his blond bangs flopping into his eyes. “Hey, could be worse. You could be in school.”

  Harper nudged him right back. “I had to miss gym for this. That’s a sacrifice.”

  A new DM vibrated in Harper’s purse and her whole body rattled. She scrambled for it with shaking fingers. When the little lime green icon appeared on her screen next to the name Blake, she rushed to swipe away the evidence unread. Her heart pounded as she thrust her phone deep into the recess of her purse.

  Connor squinted at her with those gorgeous blue eyes of his. “Who was that?”

  “Emma.” The lie scraped against Harper’s raw throat. She squirmed in her seat, a lead quarry settling into her stomach. Just tell him the truth.

  But the problem was there was nothing to tell.

  “Does Emma know you’re here?”

  Harper shook her head, fast and swift. The end of her ponytail slapped her cheeks with orangey-red curls. Only one other person knew and he was sitting right next to her. Two weeks ago, she’d gone in for a routine physical required by her coach next year from the Wisconsin State soccer team. The doctor was supposed to email the results to her but instead she received a phone call saying her EKG came back abnormal and requesting additional tests. Last week she’d been poked and prodded like a lab rat, enduring a CAT scan, stress tests, and even running on a treadmill connected to wires extending from all over her body. Connor had been there then, too. He’d rushed home four-hours from his freshman year at Wisconsin State to sit in a chair across from the scary machines, and he’d rushed home again when the doctors called yesterday saying they had her results and asking her to come in today to discuss in person.

  Doctors never delivered bad news on the phone. Her stomach squeezed.

  “Harper Faegan?” The same nurse from before looked directly at her, the cheery smile from the previous patient gone. She was a regular here now.

  Harper wobbled on the faded gray carpet and made a conscious effort to place one foot in front of the other, gripping Connor’s hand so tightly, both their knuckles turned white. Laughter spilled from the daytime talk show blasting on the TV, and it felt like the women behind the camera were laughing at her. At her last moment of ignorance.

  The nurse led them into Dr. DiPaulo’s office rather than an examinin
g room. Two plush chairs waited for them with curved wooden arms to swallow her whole. Get them comfortable before you destroy their lives. Certificates and degrees hung on the walls among pictures of smiling children and a needlepoint replica of the doctor himself. A warm blast of air hit her square in the chest from the vent directly above her head. Despite the heat, she shivered. Connor looked like he was about to be sick.

  The door swung open and Harper jerked upright, but the curved arms of the chair kept her seated like a cage. The doctor wore a grave expression as he circled around the desk and sat down, folding his hands on top of the mahogany. He cleared his throat, looking at Connor, then Harper, then finally at Connor again as if he couldn’t bear to look at his actual patient while delivering the news.

  “We’ve evaluated your test results and I’m afraid…” He paused to pull at his collar, and then pushed himself out of his chair. He strode to the window and leaned over the hissing radiator to unlatch the locks with a sharp sound that made Harper’s teeth clench. The window scraped open with a nails-on-chalkboard screech. A light breeze floated in and rattled the papers stacked on a filing cabinet against the wall.

  Harper gripped the sides of her chair, wrenching her hand from Connor’s.

  Dr. DiPaulo sat back down and fanned his face. “It’s not good news.”

  Harper’s lower lip trembled, but she moved into his line of sight, forcing Dr. DiPaulo to look at her head on. “Tell me.”

  “You have hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

  The words echoed in Harper’s head like a gong, drowning out all other noise.

  “Oh crap.” Connor raked a hand through his blond locks. “I’ve heard of this. It’s the thing that all those guys have. The ones who drop dead on the football field out of nowhere?”

  An image popped into her mind of her scoring a winning goal and her heart celebrating in rebellion, pumping too hard and too fast until it gave up. Her body crumpled to the ground, sprawled across the wet grass, her breath leaving her body forever.

  “It’s a disease in which the heart muscle becomes abnormally thick, making it harder to pump blood. It usually goes undetected.” The wounded look on the doctor’s face pricked Harper’s heart. “You’re very lucky we caught this. It’s the leading cause of sudden cardiac death in athletes under thirty.”

  His words sent a cold, crackling sensation down Harper’s spine. “Funny. I don’t feel lucky.”

  “You play soccer?” The doctor jutted his chin toward her shiny blue and gold uniform emblazoned with a stallion.

  Harper’s arms wrapped around her chest as if she could cover up all the evidence. Maybe if she didn’t admit it, the doctor wouldn’t try to take it away from her. But she was on the offense, on and off the field. She lifted her chin. “It’s my life.”

  The doctor sucked in a deep breath. “I’m afraid it’s too dangerous to keep playing. HCM can be treated, but not cured. Extensive athletic activity puts too much strain on the heart for people with the disease.”

  “But.” Gooey sludge clogged Harper’s lungs and she sucked down gulps of stale air. “I was recruited to be on the Wisconsin State women’s soccer team. The coach told me with a little practice and perseverance, I’ve got a shot at making the next Olympic team. I’m going to be the next Alex Morgan.”

  This was her oath, her mantra, a universal truth engraved so deep in her bones, it was a part of her very make up. She’d been working toward this since she was four-years-old and her parents enrolled her in “Nippers” soccer where she was the only kid on the field to take the skills seriously rather than fighting over who got to place down orange cones. She couldn’t just give it all up. Not today. Not before her championship game of High School. This game was supposed to be her transition from amateur to forever. It wasn’t supposed to be something she’d be watching from the bench.

  “Harper, let me put it plainly. You’re a ticking time bomb and you need to be careful.”

  But she felt like the bomb had already detonated, turning her entire life into shrapnel. “No, you said it could be treated! There has to be an option that still lets me play!” She held her breath, hope filling her lungs.

  The doctor glanced down at his desk, avoiding her eyes, and she flinched. Before he even managed to find the words to tell her that all the treatment plans came with the steadfast recommendation to cease athletic activity, she knew. Her life was over.

  Her eyes stared forward as she exited the doctor’s office, focusing on nothing but the blur of muted colors ahead of her. Connor stayed uncharacteristically quiet, his breath heavy, as if this news had knocked the wind out of him, too.

  “Shit,” he said when they reached the parking lot. He pulled her into a hug where the rest of the bomb finally exploded in a rush of snot and tears running down her face.

  Harper clutched the results she was supposed to fax to the school in shaky hands, creasing the pristine papers. Her heart was somewhere there in her chest, beating harder than she thought possible. There was no pain. No symptoms. Only shock. “What am I going to do?” She rubbed her eyes against the soft fabric of his button down. She was broken, and this wasn’t something he could fix.

  In high school, Connor was an ace at concocting quick schemes to get students out of trouble. When she’d been suspended after World War Prom, he managed to talk her out of nine of the ten days. When he was captain of the football team, he’d turned a group of guys known only for their magnificent losing streak into state champions. As President of Student Council, he led a protest to grant the three transgender students the right to use the bathrooms to which they identified. He even drove out in the middle of the night to change her tire when she’d gotten a flat at a party.

  “Here’s what you’re gonna do.” Connor plucked the thick packet of paper from her hand. “My buddy’s a computer graphics major. A few clicks in Photoshop and voila! Clean bill of health. No one needs to know, not even your parents.”

  Harper shivered despite the warm breeze, goose bumps erupting across her flesh. A lightness unfurled in her chest as she felt the possibility consume her like a nuclear explosion. She’d been playing for eighteen years without signs of injury. She couldn’t stop now.

  Not when her entire future was resting in the palm of her boyfriend’s hand.

  The popcorn inside the cardboard bucket jiggled in Harper’s arms, releasing a warm, buttery scent that made her stomach grumble. Her muscles ached from today’s game where she scored three difficult goals and managed to not drop dead. Her feet practically floated on air above the red velvet carpet that led into the theater. Earlier today when she’d walked into the doctor’s office, she felt like she was a participant in her own funeral procession but now her steps struck to the tune of a fighting march. She decided her future, not some test. And she couldn’t wait to start it.

  Connor had to drive back to campus but he kept texting her every twenty minutes to check on her. Except she didn’t want to think of her illness, she wanted to think of nothing, so she lied and told him she was going to sleep early and then called Emma to see if she was up for a distraction now that her Photoshopped medical records were safely ensconced in a fax machine at Wisconsin State. Last year Emma scraped Harper off the gym floor like stuck gum and gave her new life with their friendship after her previous best friends destroyed her. She hoped Emma might be able to do the same tonight.

  “Whoa, what’s gotten into you?” Emma Sanchez’s dark eyes roamed over Harper. Combined with her bangs and her sunken cheekbones, she looked ominous, like she’d stepped right out of a ghost story. “You’re practically skipping through the theater.”

  “I won. If that’s not a reason to skip, I don’t know what is.” Even Harper’s voice had a singsong quality to it.

  The girls slid into seats in the back row, propping their feet up on the empty ones in front of them. Emma tilted her drink toward Harper and she leaned down for a sip of fizzy Diet Coke while Emma dug foil-wrapped nails into the tub of popcorn. “True
. But too bad that cute boyfriend of yours didn’t stick around for a more exciting victory celebration.” Behind Emma’s bangs, her eyebrows waggled.

  Harper playfully knocked her friend in the arm. “He’s got those things called classes he had to get back for. After all these years, they’re somehow still a mystery to you.”

  “The only mystery is how I’m still managing the graduate on time.” Emma jutted her chin toward something a few rows up. “Oh hey, look at that!” She whistled through her teeth at a couple sucking each other’s faces off two rows up. The girl’s long ombré hair cascaded over the guy’s face.

  Harper wrinkled her nose. “Shouldn’t they wait until it, you know, gets dark?”

  “They must be in a rush to see who can swallow the other’s tongue first.” Emma scooped a handful of popcorn in her mouth, chewing gleefully as if the show had already started. “Hey, wait.” Emma leaned forward and squinted at the couple. “I think the girl is Poe Culliver.”

  The name sent an anvil tearing through Harper’s gut and ripping her insides to shreds. Her heart stopped. The whole world stopped, or maybe it was just her, frozen in her seat. She couldn’t bear to look so she poked one eye open. The long hair with the ombré ends was certainly characteristic but a glint of silver on the girl’s hand caught the light. Solid evidence.

  “I mean, it makes sense,” Emma went on, not realizing how every single word was a knife stabbed directly into Harper’s gut. “She does seem to have an affinity for public displays of indecency.”

  No, that was me, Harper wanted to say as an image of World War Prom flashed in her mind. The last time she’d spoken to Poe when the volume of their voices was loud enough to drown out the DJ.