She, Myself, and I by Emma Young

Author:Emma Young
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2017-10-18T04:00:00+00:00

21.

It’s 6:04 A.M., according to the clock on Joe’s dashboard.

I’m trying to distract myself from wondering whether Althea’s replied yet—unlikely, I know—by reading, in the dome light, a month-old copy of USA Today, which I found on the backseat.

The lead story seems to be about a business scandal, which doesn’t interest me. In a box on the bottom left of the front page, there’s a simple graphic with accompanying text:

Did you know? About 35 million pounds of candy corn are produced annually. How adults eat it: 43 percent start with the narrow white end; 47 percent eat the whole piece at once; 10 percent start with the wider yellow end—

There’s a click and a gust of cold. Joe’s getting into the car with two oversize cups of coffee from the beverage station in the lobby. He passes one to me. Behind his head, beyond the parking lot, above the trees, the early clouds are separating, revealing glowing streaks of light.

Dawn, in Lexington. I’m in a car with Joe, in the town where Sylvia lived. It’s hard to believe this is real.

“Thanks,” I say as I take my coffee.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he says, and I have to try hard to stop myself from focusing on what it was like to have his arm around me, to sleep beside him. “What if Sylvia’s parents are looking for you? Maybe you need a disguise. Do you think you need one?”

A disguise?

I had wondered how to avoid being recognized. I thought, maybe a hat. And my Jackie O sunglasses.

If Sylvia’s dad didn’t follow us from the hospital, though, I doubt there’s much risk of him turning up now.

I take a sip of coffee. It’s weak. But I’ll take all the caffeine I can get. “That license address was in Connecticut.”

“I guess maybe they moved after what happened to Sylvia. But her dad might assume you’ve found out where they used to live.”

“If he’s still looking for me around the hospital, and he doesn’t see me, won’t he think I’ve gone into hiding? I don’t know if he’d think I’d be back here.”

“Back here?” His expression doesn’t alter. Just his tone.

“Here.”

“It’s not just him,” he says, apparently deciding to let my slip pass. “If someone sees you and thinks they recognize you, they might call her parents. A disguise would help.”

I must look skeptical, because he frowns.

I know: There must be dozens, even hundreds, of people in Lexington who could recognize Sylvia. If a disguise makes sense—which it does—why am I so resistant to the idea? Because it smacks of pranks and silliness, I think. And the reasons I’m here are so very serious.

But if I’m serious about finding out about her—of course, he’s right.

“Okay,” I say. “Yeah, a disguise . . . What’s candy corn?”

His frown deepens. I guess he’s trying to work out why I’m asking.

I hold up the paper and point to the graphic. “Forty-three percent of adults start at the narrow white end. I don’t even know what candy corn is.

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