The Secrets We Keep

By Kimberly Blackadar

One week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours.

Is it enough time to forget about life for a while?

Seventeen-year-old Callie Williams, a basketball phenom, heads to the beach and stays with her anything-goes friend Courtney. There, she meets Ryan. Gorgeous and witty, Ryan might just be everything she needs. But when things don’t add up, will he be the answer to her problems or one more problem to answer? Only time will tell, but time is short, and Callie needs answers—and fast!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kimberly Blackadar
• Release date: Aug 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310432668

Kimberly Blackadar

Kimberly Blackadar is the author of NOTHING BUT TROUBLE AFTER MIDNIGHT and THE SECRETS WE KEEP.Before she began her writing career, Kimberly taught English, social studies, and drama at the secondary level and cites her teaching experiences as the greatest inspiration for her teen series. Her first teaching job was at Ocoee Middle School (Ocoee, FL) and was followed by other positions at Winter Springs High School (Winter Springs, FL), Ludlow Middle School (Ludlow, KY), and John Edwards High School (Port Edwards, WI). While teaching, she earned National Board Certification for Early Adolescence/English Language Arts and continues to reach students through her writings.Born in Massachusetts, but raised in Florida, Kimberly graduated from Lake Mary High School (Lake Mary, FL) and earned a teaching degree at Florida State University. She now resides in Minnesota with her husband and two young children. Concurrently, she is working on the second installment of the seven-book series and a standalone adult novel.Kimberly is an avid runner and reader, but above all, she enjoys visiting schools—receiving feedback from teens is the greatest part of becoming an author!

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The Secrets We Keep

by Kimberly Blackadar

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by Kimberly Blackadar

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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

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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 she 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!

*****

Minutes later, I am sitting in Courtney’s apple red convertible, top down, as we bullet down A1A. I turn up the volume, letting the music mingle with the wind and the purr of the engine. We sing—no, shout—along to familiar songs, and intermittently, we look at each other and sing to one another—especially the mushy love songs—and then giggle at our stupidity. I hate to admit it, but there is something magical about driving down A1A in a bright red convertible, singing, laughing, and just being silly and seventeen. And for a brief moment, I forget the anger and the sadness.

As we head deeper into Daytona Beach, guys take notice of us. Seeing two girls, scantily clad, elicits a rabid response from the opposite sex. Courtney thrives on the attention and always dresses the part. Me? I’d rather be decked out in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, but tonight, I have on cut-off jean shorts and a skimpy tank—courtesy of Courtney’s wardrobe. Not what I would choose to wear, but I left the apartment in such a rush that I didn’t have time to repack from basketball camp.

Even though Courtney and I have different shapes—I’m a long rectangle, and she’s a classic hourglass—we can share clothes. They just have a different effect on our bodies, from hugging to hanging. I look down at my chest—or at least where it should be—and wish I had a push-up bra with me. I read this article about body types a few months back, and it said to accentuate the chest in order to create the illusion of having a fuller shape. But at an inch over six feet and weighing in at 150, I am tall, thin, and definitely all legs. No illusion about it, I look like a basketball player—good thing I can actually play.

We pause at the red light, and a hollowed-out jeep, full of shirtless surfer boys, stops next to us. One leans out the passenger side door. You, he emphasizes, are like nectar from the gods. His words, aimed at my blonde best friend, awaken the jealousy demon.

Then the light turns green, and Courtney hits the gas; she crosses the intersection and swerves in front of the jeep. She searches for more confirmation and gets it from some college boys in a silver SUV, locals crammed in a muddy pick-up truck, and horny businessmen sporting a white Ford Taurus. The Ford sidles up next to us. An old, bald guy points at a high-rise and hollers, Room 5-2-2, honey!

Bleh. Courtney cringes. He’s like our dad’s age.

Then she takes a quick left into an old residential section of Daytona Beach where houses, painted in shades of stale hi-liters, crowd the streets. Courtney inches down the road where cars line both sides. Soon a silver sedan slips out into the street and leaves an opening in front of a pale pink house.

Courtney takes the spot. With the engine still purring, she cuts the music and turns toward me. Cal, I know you’re really upset right now, but try to have fun…okay?

Yeah, okay, I mumble, folding my arms across my chest.

And I’m sorry about Mike. I don’t know the whole—

Listen. I turn and face her. I didn’t come here to talk about it. I came here to get away from it.

I know that.

Then don’t bring it up.

Okay, okay, I won’t bring it up. She lifts up her hands. I won’t say anything...I won’t say anything at all.

Good.

Good, she echoes.

Silence creeps between us, yet I hear her intermittent sighs over the hum of the air conditioner while a truck sputters down the street. Then I notice some people sitting in a circle of lawn chairs, partying it up on the front yard. One guy gets up, staggers a few feet, and tosses a stick to a dog.

So, uh… Courtney begins. There’ll be lots of hot guys in there. That should cheer you up!

Huh? I turn and then follow her gaze. Her eyes fall on an aqua house across the street. I’m not like you.

She takes offense. What does that mean?

It means, I slip in a little attitude. I don’t need a guy to fill some void in my life.

I don’t have any voids in my life.

Yeah, I forgot. I channel my inner sarcasm. Your life is so perfect.

I didn’t say that, Cal, and don’t take this out on me. I didn’t do anything.

Yeah, you did. You brought it up.

Oh, whatever, she huffs. Just forget it.

Good. I gaze across the road again and watch the guy toss a stick into the road. The dog rushes into the street and plays dodge car with oncoming traffic. I hold my breath until the dog returns safely to the yard.

Do you just wanna’ go back to my place?

I turn and look at her. Yeah, I didn’t want to go out anyway. It was all your idea, remember?

Fine. She kills the engine and hands me her keys. Go back to my house. Have fun! She opens her door. I’ll just have Ian drive me home. Courtney gets out and marches in front of the car; then she opens the passenger-side door. No, forget it. You’re not leaving.

I just stare at her, thinking evil thoughts about killing her. Courtney Valentine has to be one of the most annoying people in human history. I slip out of the car and she gives me a fake hug—a millisecond middle-school hug that says sorry with the sincerity of a thirteen-year-old girl. Thanks for changing your mind.

You’re really pissing me off, you know that?

So sorry, she offers and extends a palm. Keys, please? I drop the keys in her hand, wishing I could keep them. I would not think twice about leaving her sorry butt at his party. I glance around at the neighborhood. Okay, maybe I would think twice.

Courtney slips back in the car to put up the top, gets out, and then presses the lock button on the remote key several times. Then she places a hand on my shoulder, attempting sincerity. I’m sorry…but you know I’m not good at this. She shrugs. I mean, I’m glad you’re here and all, but I don’t know what to say to you.

That’s the whole point, Courtney. Don’t say anything at all.

Nothing?

Well, nothing important.

You mean, you just want to engage in shallow, meaningless conversation?

Yeah, I say, pretty much meaning duh.

Well, that’s my specialty.

I know. I point at her and offer a sardonic smirk. That’s why I came to you.

Well, then. Her eyes twinkle. Let me tell you all about Ian. He is so unbelievably… Courtney rambles on about the new guy as we amble toward the aqua house. We head up the driveway where healthy weeds sprawl out of the cracks. The neglect eats at me, reminding me of what happened to our house after my dad moved out. I push back the memory and curse my mind for its uncanny ability to construct an instantaneous bridge between the painful past and the present.

That’s why I envy amnesiacs: They can erase the past and start over again. Well, wouldn’t that be nice?

I also envy people with money. No matter what they say, it really can buy happiness. Trust me, I know. My family used to have money—lots and lots of glorious money. Now we just have debt. When my mom pays the bills, she sits at the kitchen table, hunched over, and shakes her head, mumbling some nonsense about me getting a job. I’m not a spoiled brat, but I play basketball on the elite circuit. I’m good, really good, and the coach waives most of the fees. So it doesn’t cost her that much. But if I quit the team, it would cost me my future, which, right now, is all I really have…

…which brings me back to amnesia…

If I only had a future, and not a past, I could focus all my energy on basketball. I’d be unstoppable. I conjure up thoughts of my own awesomeness and picture myself flying toward the net in a spiraling jump shot. I slam the ball into the basket, and the crowd roars with enthusiasm.

Well, do you? Courtney interrupts.

Uh…do I what?

Want to go to the game?

What game? I ask.

Forget it.

Good.

Courtney and I reach the front door, but she doesn’t knock. She opens the door, marches across the threshold, and snakes through the packed crowd. I follow and try not to take a whiff of the foul ambience: a manly meld of locker room sweat, stale beer, and pepperoni pizza. We step deeper into the family room where the music vibrates the walls and drowns out conversations. Courtney stops in front of a tall, blonde guy. He is insanely cute with his disheveled, sun-streaked hair and body-building physique. His chest swells under his tight, grey T-shirt, and Courtney rushes in for a hug. She finds his lips, kisses him gratuitously, and then turns to face me again. Callie, this is Ian. Isn’t he hot?

I smile, somewhat uncomfortably, and notice how Ian winces at the introduction. He steps forward with an outstretched hand, and I accept his warm handshake. Nice to meet you, Callie, he hollers above the bass. Courtney’s told me all about you.

All good, I hope.

Yep, nothin’ but, he returns. Can I get you something to drink? He pantomimes a glass and tilts it toward his lips.

I shake my head, but Courtney always wants one.

Ian leans closer to me. You don’t drink?

Nope, not anymore.

Ian smiles broadly. Really? That’s cool. I wonder why this impresses him since he happens to be holding a bottle of beer.

For over a month now, I have sworn off alcohol and pretty much avoided the party scene altogether. Our close friend Chloe was date raped at a party—one that happened at Courtney’s house nonetheless, and it was pretty obvious that the culprit slipped a Rufie into her drink. Just thinking of that night makes me want to be anywhere but at a drinking party, but I say nothing and follow Courtney and Ian into the cramped kitchen. Ian rifles through the fridge and returns with a couple of beers and a bottle of water for me.

In case you get thirsty, Callie, he says in my ear. Then he slides back with a warm smile and then I