Upside Down Read online

  Upside Down

  Lia Riley

  New York Boston

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  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  To my matey—I still have a lot of time for you

  Acknowledgments

  When it comes to sharing gratitude to everyone who made this book possible, my first inclination is to messy cry. First up, a simple fact. Talia and Bran would never exist without the vision and gentle encouragement of my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim. High fives to everyone at Team Forever, in particular, my editor ninja, Lauren Plude, for taking a mind-boggling leap of faith on this series and giving wise, thoughtful nudges to deepen shallow plot points. Elizabeth Turner, you designed beautiful covers that surpassed any poor imagining. Carrie Andrews, your copyedits made everything sparkle.

  I’d like to dedicate a keytar solo to Christopher Peterson and Megan Taddonio for your advice during the initial stages. Infinite appreciation to the helpful elves who read rough words but shared love notes and/or a kick in the ass: Jennifer Ryan, Jules Barnard, Jennifer Blackwood, AJ Pine, Lexi Clemence, and Natalie Blitt. Also, hugs to my supportive lovies, Lex Martin and Megan Erickson. I’d interpretive dance my adoration, but none of you really want to see those moves.

  Writing friends save lives, or at least sanity. A big toast o’ Bigfoot juice (with a tequila chaser) to the ’14 NAs. Shout-out to Roguers, woot woot, especially Marina Adair for letting me pester you with so many questions about fast-drafting and process. Hugs to RWA-Silicon Valley and RWA-Monterey Bay chapters.

  To my parents, grazie for life, et cetera, still sorry about stealing the Bartles & Jaymes, but I turned out okay despite that whole “nighttime is the right time” phase. Hopefully, this is me putting that expensive college degree to good use. And to Helen and Dave, for your support and stepping up to watch the tinys so I could make word count. Kevin and Bridget, you’re here to avoid the “no one ever says that about me.”

  To Passenger, your music kept me company during 5:00 a.m. writing sessions.

  To J and B, who resorted to calling me by my first name to gain attention when I was in the zone, your frazzled mama adores you beyond the power of words. And Nick, who learned the hard way that when a girl says, “Hey, matey, I’m going to write a romance novel,” that really means “Surprise! You now live with a frat boy who needs more showers.” Thanks for learning to cook and digging American girls. We have so many of our own adventures left to write. I love you.

  Author’s Note

  I’m the kind of girl who always says something, walks away, thinks of something else, and then wants to say more stuff. So…YAY Author’s Note!

  Okay, last year, I was working on another book (not UPSIDE DOWN) and while it was going fine, it wasn’t fantastic. I started stressing, and suddenly, an old frenemy paid a visit. See, since I was eleven, I’ve struggled with obsessive-compulsive disorder, except I didn’t call it by that name. It was rather “my thing.” Yes, denial is more than a river in Egypt. Throughout my young adult and adult life, “my thing” waxed and waned. I’ll spare you the gory details, but it wasn’t until my younger sister (who happens to be a clinical social worker and therapist) matter-of-factly asked when I was going to deal with my OCD that it clicked. “Well, shit,” I thought. And I sat with the idea for a week or so.

  On one hand, the whole concept of having a “problem” filled me with unspeakable dread. On the other, it was a huge relief. I started therapy, got diagnosed, and began UPSIDE DOWN.

  I didn’t intend to write about OCD, but it was clearly “on the brain” (sorry, couldn’t resist). When I realized how the story was taking shape, and featured this topic, I fretted a lot. Would I portray things right? Would people say WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! THIS ISN’T HOW IT IS FOR ME! OR MY LOVED ONE! OR WHAT I SAW ON TELEVISION…whatever, you get the idea. Hyperbole is also a personal specialty. Talia isn’t me any more than Bran or, gulp, her mom. But I have shared some of her experiences as honestly as was in my power. Your own experiences may be (and probably are) different.

  But let’s still be friends. And if you struggle with OCD, you aren’t alone…

  The National Institute of Mental Health estimates that more than 2 percent of the U.S. population (nearly one out of every forty people) will be diagnosed with OCD at some point in their lives. I’m no expert, but there are plenty of places to seek help. If you or someone you know has OCD, the National Alliance on Mental Illness (www.nami.org) or the International OCD Foundation (www.ocdfoundation.org) are great places to gain more information.

  Moving along, I’d also like to say most places in the book actually exist. You can, and should, eat amazing Italian food on Melbourne’s Lygon Street. If you ever venture to Tasmania, one of my favorite places on the planet, do drop in to the Museum of Old and New Art or wander Battery Point. Sadly, however, there is no “The Rock” surf spot on the Great Ocean Road. This is a very, very loose reconstruction of Winkie Pop, a famous break that many non-surfers reassured me didn’t sound badass—even though it totally is.

  My brain is my heart’s umbrella

  —Jeffrey Lewis

  From “You Don’t Have to Be a Scientist to Do Experiments on Your Own Heart”

  Chapter One

  Talia

  I breathe on my bedroom window and smear a spy hole in the condensation. Not much going on this morning. A lone crow dips over California bungalow roofs while in the distance Monterey Bay is shrouded in mist. I’m a Santa Cruz girl to the bone, love that fog like it’s a childhood blanket.

  The downstairs phone rings and Dad turns off NPR. He’s a sucker for Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me! Once I get on the plane this afternoon, the only noise in the house will be that frigging radio. Guilt grabs me with two cold fists, right in the gut. I should be plopped beside him on the couch, trying to kid around, but I’m not even sure he wants my company.

  My sister, Pippa, would know what to do. She was the expert in easy affection. She’d blow through the kitchen on a Friday night, swig a sip of Dad’s beer, sling an arm around his neck, and torture him with wet cheek kisses. I’ve never been a hugger. My role was easy, the joke-cracking sidekick. But there’s no work for a sidekick without a hero. These days, if I wander into a room, Dad’s gaze automatically slides to the empty space beside me. Somehow, despite everything, I’m the ghost child. I don’t want to haunt him, so I keep to my room.

  My room.

  Not ours. No one’s slept in the other bed in a year and a half. My sister’s one-eyed sock monkey, Seymour, reclines in the middle of her calico pillowcase, wearing an evil expression. I know your secrets, he seems to say. What you keep hidden. I give the monkey the finger and instantly feel worse.

  Seymour and I go way back. To those days after Pippa died and my room was a safe place to shatter. He saw me research phantom medical symptoms until four in the morning, curl beneath my bed wrapped in the comforter so Dad never heard me weep, watched as I knelt in the dormer window seat and counted cars, closing my eyes if I ever spotted a red one because red was bad.

  It meant blood.

  Death.

  Seymour the Sock Monkey knows me for who I am.

  The leftover daughter.

  “Sorry, Pippa,” I mutter. Like my sister gives two shits a
bout my relationship with her fucking stuffed animal. If she can see me from wherever she is, and that’s highly suspect, I’ve given her far greater cause for displeasure.

  Seymour’s frayed mouth seems to sneer. We’re in agreement on that point.

  There’s a knock on the bedroom door. “Hang on a sec!” I slip on my T-shirt and tighten the bath towel around my waist. My computer is open on the desk. WebMD calls my name, softly seductive, like Maleficent to Princess Aurora. In this case, I’m not offered a spinning wheel spindle but reassurance that I’m not going to die. Dr. Halloway urged me to block access to any health-related sites, but in the shower, the freckle on my right foot looked bigger. Bob Marley died from a melanoma on his toe, so I’m not 100 percent mentally unhinged—more like 85 percent on a bad day.

  Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop obsessing over what-ifs. What if I have early-stage skin cancer? What if this headache is a tumor? My mind is a bowl of water that I compulsively stir. I want my brain to be still and serene, but for the love of Sweet Baby Jesus, I can’t quit agitating it.

  There’s another knock. More insistent.

  “Seriously, I’m changing.”

  “Your mother’s called to say good-bye,” Dad says through the door. His voice is tense, pleading, like he holds something unpleasant, an old man’s jockstrap, rather than the phone.

  I turn the knob and stick my hand out to grab the receiver. “Thanks.” I take my time putting it to my ear, humming the soundtrack to Jaws under my breath. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Alooooha.” Wow, a perfect extension on the long o followed by a short, sharp ha. She’s been practicing.

  I mime a silent gag. “What’s up?”

  “Your cell went to voice mail.” She doesn’t like calling the landline. “You know I prefer not to talk to him.”

  I push up my glasses and roll my eyes. “Such an inconvenience.” By him she means my dad, Scott Stolfi, the man she was married to for twenty-two years. She can’t even say, “May I speak to Talia,” without turning it into a thing. He was her high school sweetheart. They had one of those classic love stories, rich girl meets working-class boy. Now, a two-second conversation with the guy yanks her chain.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “And you say we never agree on anything.” I bend and struggle with the zip to my overstuffed suitcase.

  I bet two coconuts that Mom’s sprawled by the infinity pool on the cliffside deck overlooking the Pacific. She’s been holed up on my grandparents’ estate on Kauai’s north shore since she bailed last year. After they took Pippa off life support, Mom locked herself in the guest room for two days while Dad tackled an endless series of home repairs. When she finally emerged, he was mending the backyard fence. “You can’t fix everything!” she’d screamed. Next thing we knew, she’d bought a one-way ticket to Hawaii. In lieu of a cheesy postcard, she sent Dad divorce papers from the law offices of William C. Kaleolani, Esq.

  “Australia is just so far away. You’ve always talked about doing the Peace Corps one day, but to know you’re all grown up…” Her gusty sigh is dramatic. This phone call is her pretending to care, a big show, part of the game she still plays called “Being a Mom.” In all fairness, I shouldn’t snark, because guess who’s bankrolling my trip down under? As much as I hate to ask her for anything, I need this escape.

  Mom comes from old Carmel money earned when my great-great-grandfather decimated two-thousand-year-old redwood groves. Environmental pillage made him filthy rich, but the money lost its stink over time, transformed into sustainable energy start-ups and progressive philanthropic causes.

  I doubt the stumps rotting in the forest care.

  “Has Logan’s cookbook arrived?” Mom dials up the rainbow cheer. She’s got to be grinding out that forced smile, the one that makes her teeth look like they’re breaking. “His tour starts next week, LA and San Francisco. You could have joined us at the Esalen Institute.”

  The idea of soaking naked in a hippie retreat spa with Logan, Mom’s hump buddy/Hawaiian spirit animal, is the stuff of nightmares. To date, I’ve successfully avoided an encounter with the Wunderchimp. In her photographs, he sports a mean chest ’Fro. He’s a personal macrobiotic chef to the stars and wannabe guru. His book, Eating from Within, recently released and she mailed me a personal signed copy like I give a one-eyed donkey.

  I jam the phone between my ear and shoulder to shimmy into my skinny jeans. “About the breatharian section? Like, was he serious about gulping air for sustenance?”

  “The detoxifying effects are incredible.”

  Whatever. I’ll wager my own enlightenment that she’s dying for one of Dad’s famous cheeseburgers.

  “I’ve lost five pounds since we got involved.” There is a faint noise on the other end of the line, suspiciously like a wine bottle uncorking.

  Hawaii is three hours behind.

  Please don’t let her be drinking before noon.

  “Hey, um, are you—”

  “Sunny put a new photo of you on Facebook.” Mom’s a ninja at deflection as well as a social media junkie. She posts daily emo statuses about self-discovery alongside whimsical shots of waterfalls, out-of-focus sunsets, and dolphins. “Are those new shorts? I swear your thighs come straight from your father’s side.” She makes it sound like my genes sport cankles and triple chins, but she’s got a point. I did sprout from Dad’s southern Italian roots: Mediterranean curves, brown eyes, and olive skin.

  I slip on my shoes, turn sideways in the mirror, and pooch my stomach. “Had a physical last week with Dr. Halloway. Still well within normal range.”

  “Aren’t they stretching those numbers to make big girls feel better?”

  Mom is a size 2. To her, everyone is a big girl.

  Pippa was Mom’s doppelganger. They shared hummingbird-boned bodies and perpetually surprised blue eyes. I shove away the quick-fire anguish, slam my lids shut, and count to ten. The number nine feels wrong, so I do it once more for good measure.

  “Talia? I need a little advice.” Mom hushes to a “just us girls” level.

  “What?” She’s going to bash me and then get all buddy-buddy? Who replaced my real mother with this selfish hag?

  “Male advice.”

  “Um, wait, you’re joking, right?” This is above my pay grade.

  “I just read online how pineapple juice improves semen flavor. Any tips for how to raise the subject with Logan?”

  I open my mouth in a silent scream.

  “He claims he doesn’t enjoy the fruit. But what about me? My needs? He tastes like—”

  “Enough.” I flop beside my bed, grab a skullcap, shove it on, and yank the brim tight over my eyes in a futile attempt to hide. “You have got to be—”

  “I come from a land down under, where women glow and men plunder.” Sunny bursts into my room in a whirlwind of sandalwood essential oil and peasant skirts. Beth follows behind wearing the same hand-painted silk sheath gracing the cover of the latest Anthropologie catalogue.

  “Hey, I gotta jam. Beth and Sunny arrived to say good-bye.” My mom, I mouth, pretending to stab the receiver.

  They roll their eyes.

  “A hui hou, Ladybug. Australia waits. Discover your bliss.” When Mom gets philosophical, her voice takes on a theatrically British accent for no reason.

  “Bye, Mom.” I toss the phone on my dresser and fake a seizure.

  “Sounds like Mrs. S was in fine form.” Sunny tugs off my cap.

  Beth’s jaw slackens. “OMG, Talia, what did you do to your hair?” She runs her fingers through her own dark flat-ironed locks as if trying to reassure herself of their continued flawlessness.

  I skim my hand over the top of my head. “Box dye. Sunflower blond. You hate it, don’t you?”

  “You’ll be easy to find in the dark.” Sunny waggles her eyebrows in pervy innuendo. Nothing fazes this girl. I could tattoo a third eye on my forehead and she’d chat about opening root chakras. That’s why I love her.

  Bet
h halfway sits before realizing my bed’s buried beneath an avalanche of travel guides, bikinis, underwear, power adaptors, and multicolored Australian currency. She never touches Pippa’s bed. They were best friends. Beth had been riding shotgun in her Prius when the tweaker ran a stop sign and plowed through the driver’s side door. She never talks about that day. Neither of us do. We’ve been too deeply hurt.

  For a long time after the accident we remained optimistic. Pippa’s brain showed limited signs of activity, but eventually, hope devoured the heart of my family until nothing remained but ashes and bone. Dad finds solace in warm beer and cold pizza and my mom in baby men. Me? I’m still digging out of the wreckage.

  “Earth to Talia.” Sunny presses a matcha green tea latte into my hand with a wink. “We picked up your favorite swamp water.”

  “Hey, thanks.” I fake a sip, not having the heart to reveal I cut off caffeine and the accompanying hamster-wheel jitters. It’s part of the Talia reboot. Talia 1.0 is outdated and it’s time for a new model. Talia 2.0 isn’t an anxious freak and is more than Pippa’s tragic sister. She didn’t lose her virginity to Tanner, her dead sister’s long-term boyfriend after the BBQ held to commemorate the one-year anniversary of her passing, and she doesn’t count precisely ninety-nine Cheerios into her bowl at breakfast to feel “right.” And she certainly isn’t going to focus on the fact that she’s not graduating in six months—a secret that no one, not her parents or even her best friends, knows.

  Old Talia may have royally screwed her GPA. New Talia is focused strictly on the future. A shiny tomorrow. A new-car-smelling do-over.

  These girls are everything to me, but they don’t have a clue how far I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. I’m already one big sad story. Do I really want to be like Hey, how about my freaky compulsions?