The Pact by Jodi Picoult Page A

about. . . this . . . you can always ask your father or me,” Gus managed, praying he'd hit up James. She wondered what had compelled her to confront Chris in the first place. At this point, it was a toss-up as to who was more embarrassed.
    “I do.” Chris looked into his lap, twisting his hands together. “Some of the stuff in that book ... well, it's...” He lifted his gaze. “Some of it doesn't look like it would work so well.” Gus touched her hand to her son's hair. “If it didn't work,” she said simply, “we wouldn't have you.” Emily and Chris sat under the tent of a blanket on her bed, a flashlight balanced between their bare feet. Chris's parents, off to some hospital charity ball, had asked the Golds to sit for him and his sister. Kate had gone to bed after her bath, but Chris and Em were planning to stay up past midnight. Melanie had tucked them in just before nine and called for lights out, but they knew if they were quiet, no one else would be the wiser.
    “So?” Chris pressed. “Truth or dare?”
    “Truth,” Emily said. “The worst thing I ever did. .. . was call your mom and pretend to be the principal's secretary.”
    “That's not true. You forgot the time you poured nail-polish remover on my mom's bureau and blamed it on Kate.”
    “I only did it because you told me to,” Emily whispered fiercely. “You said she wouldn't know any better.” Then she frowned. “Anyway, if you knew the worst thing I ever did, why'd you even ask the question?”
    “Okay. I'll ask another one,” Chris said. “Read me what you wrote in your diary when I was brushing my teeth.”
    Emily gasped. “Dare.”
    Chris's teeth gleamed white in the glow of the flashlight. “Sneak into your parents' bathroom,” he said. “And bring back their toothbrushes, so I know you did it.”
    “Fine,” Emily said, throwing back the covers. Her parents had gone to sleep a half hour ago. Surely they wouldn't still be awake.
    The minute she was gone, Chris stared at the tiny paisley-covered book into which Emily poured out her heart every single night. It had a lock, but he could jimmy it. He touched his hand to the back of the diary, and then snatched it back, his palm burning. Was he chicken because he knew Em wouldn't want him to read it? Or was he afraid of what he might see?
    He shook the book and eased it open. His name was all over the place. His eyes widened, then he slapped the diary back down onto her desk and went back to the bed, certain that guilt was written right across his forehead.
    “Here,” Em said, breathless, crawling back onto the bed. She held out two toothbrushes. “Your turn.” She tucked her feet beneath her. “Who's the prettiest girl in the fifth grade?” Well, that was a no-brainer. Emily would expect him to say Molly Ettlesley, the only fifth-grader who really needed a bra. But if he did say Molly, he knew that Emily would get pissed off, because he was supposed to be her best friend.
    His gaze cut to the diary. Did Em really think of him as some knight?
    “Dare,” he muttered.
    “Okay.” And before Emily could edit her thoughts, she told Chris he had to kiss her. He threw the blanket off their heads. “I what?”
    “You heard me,” Em said, frowning. “It's not as bad as sneaking into my parents' bathroom.” His hands were sweaty all of a sudden, so he wiped them on the knees of his pajamas. “Okay,” he said. He leaned forward and pushed his mouth up against hers. Then he drew back, just as flushed as Emily. “Well,” he announced, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “That was pretty gross.” Em gently touched her hand to her chin. “Definitely,” she whispered. The one McDonald's in Bainbridge, New Hampshire, sported a changing battalion of teenage workers who slaved over greasy grills and oil pits until they up and graduated. But for several years, one man had worked there consistently. In his late twenties, he had long black hair and a walleye. Adults