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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.