From Bad to Cursed Read online

  For Juli, George, and Alexandra

  Text copyright © 2011 by Katie Alender

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-5256-9

  www.hyperionteens.com

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

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  Acknowledgments

  My sincerest thanks to the many people who have made it possible for this book to exist, either by direct assistance, encouragement, or just putting up with me in general (which, I begin to suspect, is actually quite a lot of work).

  Agent/therapist/cheerleader/friend Matthew Elblonk, and the entire crew at DeFiore and Company;

  The one and only Arianne Lewin;

  Abby Ranger, Stephanie Owens Lurie, Hallie Patterson, Laura Schreiber, Marci Senders, Ann Dye, and all of the wonderful people at Disney-Hyperion, whose dedication, insight, and hard work I witness with awe and gratitude;

  My family, most especially my husband, but also the many parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and sundry other relations who are so supportive;

  My dear friends, who happily for me are too numerous to name;

  My dog show cronies and everyone at Soapbox;

  The author friends, book bloggers, blog readers, Twitter followers, Facebook fans, sister Debutantes, and Backspace folks who have made this journey so much fun and have occasionally been credited with saving my sanity (and by “occasionally” I mean “on a weekly basis”);

  Librarians, teachers, booksellers, and all of the people who make it their business to champion a love of books and reading;

  And, finally, to all of the amazing readers who make me laugh and think, and whose sweetness and intelligence never fail to make my job easier and my days brighter.

  I’m absolutely humbled by your generosity and kindness. Group hug!

  AT FIRST GLANCE, the town houses in Silver Sage Acres are as white and identical as an endless row of bared teeth. Looking down the single road that winds through the community is like holding a mirror up to another mirror and watching the world curve away into infinity.

  If you search hard enough, you can find landmarks, even though the place is engineered not to have any. The ficus tree with the one branch that sticks out sideways. A thick splotch of paint (white, of course) on the asphalt from the can that rolled off the back of a contractor’s truck. Each discrepancy is a little scar on the landscape, in constant danger of being buffed away by the all- powerful homeowners’ association.

  Every few hundred feet is a turnout with a colony of mailboxes and a row of guest parking spaces, because heaven forbid your guests should park in your driveway, much less on the street. And that’s just one of the billion rules: No dogs bigger than twenty-five pounds. No decorative items in the windows. And trash cans are like Cinderella—only allowed out for a few hours at a time. After that, the citations start piling up.

  But for all its artificial cosmetic appeal, the development feels like it was built to last only until somebody came along with a better idea. When it’s rainy, the gutters get so full of water that you have to take a four-foot leap to keep from getting your shoes soaked. When it’s breezy, the street becomes one big wind tunnel, freezing you to the bone and pelting your eyes with an asteroid belt of grit and crushed leaves.

  We’ve lived in #29 for a year and only know one other family, the Munyons in #27, who pay me five dollars a day to feed their cat when they go on vacation.

  Really, though, it could be worse.

  One thing about a place this locked down—there are no surprises.

  Twenty-nine Silver Sage Acres Road is everything our old house wasn’t:

  Modern. Sterile. Generic. Efficient. Compact. Controlled.

  Most importantly, it’s completely devoid of murderous ghosts.

  And that suits my family fine.

  GRIMY PATCHES OF MUD, drops of dried blood, a sprinkling of gravel, and a full-body sheen of sweat that plastered his long-sleeved tee to his back…and I was still tempted to fling myself into Carter Blume’s arms and declare my undying devotion.

  Not that I ever would. In my opinion, the L-word deserves better than to be tossed out on a sweaty August Saturday afternoon like some sort of emotional Frisbee.

  Furthermore, I’m not the flinging type. And even freshly laundered and not bloody, Carter wasn’t the sort of guy to invite girlfriend-flingage.

  I did fling the car door open, but that’s different. He stepped out, wincing as he put weight on his left leg. As we walked to my front door, pebbles skittered to the ground, dislodged from his knee or his thigh or wherever they’d ended up when he ate it on our hike.

  “It’s your own fault,” I teased, pulling out my key chain. “Holding back your fellow racers and then running off ahead is very bad karma.”

  “Is it?” he asked. “I almost forgot, in the thirty-five seconds since you last brought it up.”

  I opened the door, and Carter hesitated at the welcome mat like a well-trained dog. “I don’t want to get the floors dirty.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I mop on Sundays anyway.”

  He cocked his head. “I thought you mopped on Wednesdays.”

  The main part of the town house was basically one big, echoing room that held the kitchen, dinner table, and family room. A hallway extended to the left, bending around a corner to conceal the bedrooms.

  “Come on,” I said, heading for the pantry, where the first-aid kit lived.

  Carter trailed behind me into the kitchen and stood still, afraid to touch anything. I wet a washrag and wiped the dirt and blood from the palms of his hands, which he’d used (semi-unsuccessfully) to keep himself from skidding down the mountain.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he said, voice low. “You mop twice a week, don’t you?”

  “This is going to sting,” I said, plying his hands with a layer of antiseptic spray.

  He flinched and then held his palms steady. “Don’t distract me when I’m making fun of your OCD.”

  “It’s not OCD,” I said. “I just like things clean.”

  “I’m not clean.”

  “No,” I said. “But for you…I’ll make an exception.”

  He leaned down, using his wrists to pull me close. I pressed up on my toes to meet him halfway, then we kissed.

  The only way to describe kissing Carter is this: it’s like being on a roller coaster in a pitch-black room, and you’re going downhill, and for a few moments you’re weightless, and you want to throw your hands in the air and scream.

  After a minute, a thought popped into my head, and I pulled away. “You’ll need to pretreat those bloodstains and wash everything in cold water.”

  Carter gazed into my eyes and brushed a strand of my pink hair away from my face. �
�You’re insane.”

  “You might need to use a toothbrush to get the mud out. I keep extra old ones around, if you don’t have any.”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “All I want in the world is to be close to you, and all you want is to clean my dirty clothes.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century,” I said, pulling his face down toward mine. “I want it all.”

  And we were kissing again, the edge of the tile countertop pressing a cold line into my back. Carter rested his hand against my shoulder.

  “Oh, no!” he said, jerking away. “I’m sorry.”

  “No big deal,” I said, glancing down to see two tiny spots of blood on my Surrey Eagles T-shirt. “Not like it’s an heirloom or anything.”

  He leaned down so his mouth was deliciously close to my ear. “You’re going to want to pretreat that,” he whispered. His breath sent a ripple of chills down my spine. “And wash it in warm water.”

  “Cold water! You’re not even listening!” I slipped out of his grip, as much as I would have enjoyed prolonging the moment. My parents didn’t mind him being at the house when they weren’t there, but only because they trusted us not to spend hours in the kitchen making out.

  “I can only learn so much in one day,” he said. “Such as, cheaters never win.”

  “Cheaters go flying face-first down a hill,” I said. “And end up with gravel stuck in all sorts of exotic places.”

  I took in the whole picture of him, new tennis shoes scratched, knees mottled, shorts muddy, shirt stained and stretched.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “How can a man with pebbles embedded in his butt be so irresistible?”

  Sun shone through the kitchen window, casting a glow on his summer-tanned skin and making the curls in his blond hair look like strands of gold.

  I smiled at him, not wanting to interrupt this perfect moment.

  “It’s going to be a good year,” he said.

  “The best year,” I said. And I believed it. I had a boyfriend who was going to be Student Council president, the perfect best friend, and I even got along with my parents. In that moment, it seemed like nothing could possibly go wrong.

  He reached a hand out to me, and I took it. As we melted closer, something caught my eye, a change in the light somewhere in the room.

  I glanced up and then slammed back against the refrigerator, like I’d seen a ghost.

  It wasn’t a ghost—but it was close enough.

  My little sister, Kasey, stood at the end of the hall in a baggy black T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair in a long braid. Her once-round baby face was thin, and sharp shadows underlined her cheekbones. Her eyes were rimmed by faint gray half-moons.

  In half a heartbeat, I was across the room, crashing into her. We tumbled to the floor, our limbs tangled underneath us.

  “Lexi!” she sputtered. “Wait!”

  “Don’t move,” I said, grabbing both of her wrists in my hands.

  “Be careful!” Carter said, rushing over to us. “I’ll call the police!”

  “LEXI, STOP!” Kasey’s screech cut a hole in the chaos. In the sudden silence, I realized she wasn’t struggling.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Did you run away?”

  “Run away? No, Lexi,” she said. “I’m home. I’m just home.”

  NINE MISSED CALLS.

  I lobbed my useless cell phone at the couch. “It was on vibrate.”

  Mom’s hands were pressed against her forehead like she was fending off a headache. “Your father and I were gone for twenty minutes, max. We had to sign some papers at the school.”

  About thirty seconds after I self-defensed my sister into submission, my parents came tra-la-laing through the front door to find me still sitting on her. High jinks ensued.

  I tried to apologize to Kasey, but she slunk off into her room.

  “But honestly,” I said. “She’s at Harmony Valley for ten months and you had no clue she’d be coming home three weeks early?”

  Mom did a palms-up shrug. “Honey, we didn’t know for sure. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

  “Hopes,” I repeated.

  The flatness of my voice made my mother cringe. “Alexis…you’re happy about this, right? Not the—the tackling part, but—Kasey coming home?”

  We both caught the pause before my answer. “Of course,” I said. “Mom, I was surprised. I get back from hiking with Carter, thinking the house is empty, and Kasey comes trotting out, all, ‘Oh, hey, remember me, your sister from the mental hospital?’ I thought she escaped.”

  Mom shuffled through the stack of papers in her hand, her faux-casual attitude giving away how upset she really was. “I just really want this to work for her. I want her to make friends, and find her way around school, and—what if she doesn’t?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She will.”

  Kasey being home meant she was going to Surrey High, where I’d spent two years building up and then dissolving a variety of enemies and alliances.

  She wasn’t just a freshman; she was Alexis Warren’s little sister.

  And that meant it was my job to make sure she didn’t crash and burn.

  Even though Mom didn’t mean to make me feel responsible for Kasey, we all knew that my reputation preceded her. I’d mellowed way out, but there were still a lot of people who would never see me as more than the rebellious punk I’d once been.

  Cyrus Davenport was one of them.

  “Oh”—he sneered at me over the cheese tray on the snack table—“Alexis. I didn’t know Cecilia invited you.”

  “Hey, Cyrus,” I said. “How’s UCLA?”

  “I assumed you’d be in juvie by now,” he said, pursing his lips and turning away.

  “Okay…good to see you, too,” I said to the air where he’d been standing. The low buzz of the Davenports’ first-week-of-school party closed in around me.

  “So Cyrus is still a drama queen,” Megan said, appearing at my side. “Nice to see college doesn’t always change people.”

  Kasey stood a few feet away, clutching a bottle of water in her hands like a security blanket. She was wearing stiff, brand-new jeans and a shirt she’d borrowed from our mother, this gold silky blouse that made her look about forty. “Why does that boy hate you?”

  Carter slipped his arm around my waist. “I’m a little curious, myself.”

  “It’s one of Alexis’s bad girl moments,” Megan said. “I’m sure you guys wouldn’t be interested.”

  Carter lowered his chin. A smile played on his lips. “What did you do, you monster?”

  I glanced at my sister, whose eyes were as round as quarters, not sure if I wanted her to hear this story. “Well…two years ago—you were still at All Saints, Carter—I was going through one of my…phases. I hacked into the drama club website and switched some casting decisions for The Sound of Music. I mean, their password was password. They were asking for it.”

  “And Cyrus got the part of…”

  “Fräulein Maria,” Megan said.

  “Turns out it was the one role he always wanted,” I said. “He’s hated me ever since.”

  Carter pulled me closer. “Know what I always wanted? A girlfriend who was a junior.”

  “Aww,” I said. “I always wanted a seventy- to three-hundred-millimeter zoom lens. With macro.”

  He gazed into my eyes.

  Even though we’d been a couple for almost five months—since the April prom night when we officially admitted our feelings for each other—a battalion of happy butterflies still launched in my stomach when he looked at me like that. He wrapped his hands around mine, and it was like we were in our own little world, not a single angry thespian in sight.

  “You two are gross. I’m going to mingle.” Megan gave her dark shoulder-length hair a shake and scanned the crowd. “Want to come with me, Kasey?”

  “What?” Kasey asked, choking on a mouthful of water. “No, thank you.”

  “Yes you do,” Megan sa
id, herding her away. “Because the alternative is staying here with Edward and Bella.”

  When we were alone, Carter’s expression darkened with concern. “Everything okay with her?”

  I nodded. “She still flinches whenever I walk into a room, but she accepted my apology.”

  His hand rested lightly against my lower back, almost like he was trying to prop me up. “I’m surprised she came.”

  “Me too.” In fact, I’d only asked her because I was sure she’d say no.

  But then she said yes, and the night became less about having a good time and more about making sure nothing disastrous happened to her.

  I began to get the feeling that having a good time in general was about to get a lot more complicated.

  As things began to wind down, Carter got stuck in a conversation about Student Council elections and I got up to find Megan. I found her in the kitchen—alone.

  I tapped her on the shoulder. “Where’s my sister?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” Megan said, like it was no big deal.

  I looked around, panic rising inside me.

  “Lex,” Megan said, putting a hand on my arm, “she’s not a two-year-old lost at Disneyland.”

  “But she’s never been to a party like this before.” I knew most of the kids there, but not all of them. A couple were even in college. What if somebody spiked my sister’s drink? Lured her away from the crowd?

  Seeing my face, Megan relented. “All right,” she said. “Commence Operation Find Kasey.”

  We wove through the house, finally ending up in the hallway in front of a closed bedroom door. Sloppily taped on it was a handwritten sign that said, BAGS IN HERE.

  “You check that room,” Megan said. “I think there are some people in the garage. I’ll go look out there.”

  I opened the door.

  “Kasey?”

  No answer.

  The room was dark, but it wasn’t empty. Three kids—none of them my sister with her golden ponytail—sat on the floor, with flickering candles scattered around. My pulse perked up at the sight—we Warrens weren’t big decorative flame (or any kind of flame) folks anymore. Watching your house burn to ashes sort of reduces the appeal.

  On the floor between them was a Ouija board.