Finding Felicity - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Stacey Kade is the author of the Ghost and the Goth trilogy (The Ghost and the Goth, Queen of the Dead, and Body & Soul), the Project Paper Doll series (The Rules, The Hunt, and The Trials), For This Life Only, and Finding Felicity. She lives in a suburb of Chicago with her husband and two retired racing greyhounds. Find her on Twitter (@StaceyKade), Instagram (@AuthorStaceyKade), and her website StaceyKade.com.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Finding Felicity

Chapter One

By the time graduation is over, I just want to go home. The bobby pins my mom used to attach my cap are digging into my scalp, my strapless bra is sinking slowly toward my waist, and a sticky sheen of perspiration clings to my skin, thanks to the polyester confines of my graduation gown.

I’m done.

Unfortunately, Mom has other ideas.

“We’re celebrating,” she says, turning the car away from the direction of our house. “Netflix will be there when you get back. You only graduate from high school once, and we’re going out to mark the occasion.”

I feel a lightning bolt of dread. “Really, it’s okay,” I say. “We don’t have to—”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, Caroline! Besides, we already have reservations at your favorite place.” She gives me a hurt look.

So I guess that settles that.

A dull roar of conversation and laughter greets us as soon as I pull open the door to Lucci’s. It’s crowded tonight with other graduates and their families, and I’m caught between trying to avoid eye contact and studying the faces to see who’s here. Sweat prickles on my upper lip.

Luckily, with a reservation we’re not stuck in the waiting area long before a hostess is leading us to a booth. Hopefully, a very dark booth, waaaaay in the back.

But about halfway there, Mom stops abruptly. “Oh, look, there’s Mrs. Davidson. I need to say hello,” Mom says, changing direction and threading her way through the tables.

Even with my desperation to sit—to hide—eating at me, I know better than to protest. It won’t help. My mom works at the Merriman Hospital Foundation, in fundraising. She recruits donors and makes sure that their family members receive VIP treatment if they’re ever patients at the hospital. It’s her job to make sure they feel taken care of, which means she’s on call pretty much 24/7, especially when one of her “people” is admitted or comes in to rule out a heart attack at three in the morning. She spends a lot of time coordinating with her donor families and networking with doctors. “It’s all about relationships,” she always says.

“How are you, dear?” Mrs. Davidson asks me, once she and Mom have covered the basics of small talk.

I smile and try to say, “Great!” But my throat does that thing where it convulses midway through a word, and I end up choking on my own spit.

“Too much excitement,” my mom says with a laugh, patting me on the back as I sputter.

Can we just go home now? That would be celebration enough.

“Get whatever you want, Caroline,” Mom says, once we’re finally seated with menus. “And no arguments—we’re ordering dessert, too. One for each of us!”

Normally, I’m the last person who has to be talked into getting dessert. But right now I want to be in and out as fast as possible. One wrong person walking in, the wrong family choosing Lucci’s to celebrate graduation, and I could still be totally screwed.

But Mom is looking at me, so hopeful that all I can do is nod and say, “Okay.”

Dinner takes forever, mainly because Mom can’t decide what she wants, which is odd. We’ve been here hundreds of times over the years.

And she’s being . . . weird. Studying her menu, avoiding my gaze, except when I catch her staring at me, her eyes almost welling to tears.

Finally I have to ask: “Is everything okay?” My stomach is tight with dread, and every time the door chimes, signaling new arrivals, I have to fight the urge to look over my shoulder.

But if there’s something wrong with Mom . . . My imagination shoots rapid-fire through various disastrous scenarios: cancer, laid off, marrying some guy who wishes I didn’t exist.

She waves my words away. “I’m fine. A little emotional, that’s all.” She takes a deep breath. “My baby, graduating and going away to start college!”

I’m not sure I believe her, but she promptly dives into a one-sided discussion about the pros and cons of ricotta cheese, clearly signaling that that branch of conversation is over.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, we’re finished eating, the dishes are gone, and the waiter—who vanished for, like, twenty minutes—has finally returned with the check.

It takes everything I have not to bolt for the door as soon as Mom signs the receipt. I feel like I’m escaping my doom by a narrow margin, somehow. Which is ridiculous, because nothing happened. I’ve made it. I graduated. I’m done. Safe.

Mom is quiet on the drive home. Too quiet.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I press. “You know I’ll come home on breaks. I’ll only be gone for a couple of months at a time.”

“I know, sweetie, I know.” She reaches over and pats my hand with a laugh. “I’ll be all right.”

“If you don’t have to work tomorrow, we could stay up tonight and watch one of your old movies. I’ll let you pick a black-and-white one,” I offer.

“Oh, such a sacrifice,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You know the classics are the ones everybody else steals from.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It’s an old argument, comforting in its familiarity. But it doesn’t seem to help much. The silence in the car is still too loud, and Mom seems nervous—anxious, almost—and I don’t know why.

Once we’re home, I start to head upstairs to change, but she stops me.

“Nope, not that way,” she says with a wide smile, as she forcibly steers me toward the sliding glass door onto the patio.

And only then do I understand why the evening was so drawn out and why she seemed on edge.

Oh no.

Our backyard has been transformed into something out of a movie. A dozen tall tables—wrapped in white tablecloths and tied off with red ribbons to match our school colors—decorate the brick patio. White tea-light candles flicker on mirrored centerpieces. The band is setting up under a tent near the far end of the pool, which is full of red and white floating candles, bobbing gently with the motion of the filtration system. There’s even an ice sculpture by the punch bowl in the shape of our graduation year, although the 2 and the 0 are already melting.

“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice coming out in a squeak. I face my mom. “What is this?”

“Surprise!” my mom says, beaming at me.

That is an understatement. It’s absolutely perfect. And absolutely horrible.

“Sophie set it up while we were at dinner. I was so afraid I’d give it away!” She laughs. “I know you suspected something, but not this, right?”

“No,” I agree weakly. Never, ever, this.

Mom steps forward to reach up and wrap an arm around my shoulders. Thanks to a late-breaking growth spurt, I’m now a few inches taller than she is. “You deserve it. It was rough starting over, but you dug in and made a life for yourself here. You kept your grades up and found your place with the yearbook...