Read Revived (Cat Patrick) for Free Online Page A

me for a moment and smiles genuinely, then refocuses on driving. I turn and look out the window at the suburb inching by. Though not brand-new, the houses are massive, with sprawling front yards and the kind of grown-up trees you can barely stand not to climb. In one driveway I see a family loading into a minivan: Both parents are dressed in weekend casual, their older child is dressed like a princess, and the baby is still in jammies. A block later, we hit a stop sign and three girls with pigtails ride their bikes in the crosswalk, all in a row, like ducklings.
    When the GPS lady tells us, “You have arrived,” an unfamiliar jolt of what I realize is nervousness pokes me in the gut. Too quickly for me to will it away, Mason turns into the driveway of a brown brick plantation-style house. It’s impressive, with columns flanking the front porch and everything. I want to stare, but Mason quickly opens his door to get out, so I do the same. Audrey must have been watching for us; she flings open the front door.
    “Hey!” she says.
    “Hi, Audrey!”
    Mason walks toward the front porch and gets there before I do.
    “This is my dad, Mason,” I say as he opens his mouth to introduce himself.
    “Hi, Daisy’s dad,” Audrey says. Her mom appears behind her in the doorway, and you’d think Audrey and I were getting married for all the hand-shaking that goes on.
    “Joanne McKean,” Audrey’s mom says as she takes my hand in hers. “It’s so nice to meet you, Daisy.”
    “Nice to meet you, too.”
    Mrs. McKean has manicured nails and soft skin and smells a little like maple syrup. She’s wearing a gold cross and a light blue cardigan with worn jeans and flats. Her blond hair is blown dry into a sleek bob, and she looks like she should accompany the dictionary definition of mom . Even though they are nothing alike, Mrs. McKean makes me miss Sydney.
    We all chat until finally Mason takes my (overt) cue to leave—“Dad, don’t you have to be somewhere?”—and Audrey and I go inside. She gives me a quick tour of the main floor of the house, which is a cross between an art gallery and a Pottery Barn catalog, before we retreat to her bedroom.
    I like Audrey even more when I step into her space.
    The wall behind her bright yellow lacquer headboard is painted with black chalkboard paint, and it’s covered with doodles and drawings, sayings and notes, scribbled floor to ceiling. The bed’s made with simple white linens, but there’s a funky throw pillow on top that has a cartoony map of Nebraska embroidered on it.
    The rest of the walls are white. On the one directly across from the bed is a modern low black dresser; the wall with the door holds a small white desk, with no-frills shelves hanging over it. There are photos as well, but most are of Audrey and her family; the few shots of friends show faces I don’t recognize. I wonder again why Audrey doesn’t have more friends. Then, happy to be here regardless, I move on.
    In the corner near the largest window is a little seating area with a small futon and a striped yellow, red, and black chair. Between the two seats is a see-through coffee table, where a stack of magazines seems to be floating in midair.
    “Is that Lucite?” I ask, pointing to the table before settling in across from Audrey.
    “I guess,” she says.
    “It’s so awesome,” I murmur. “Did you design your room?”
    Audrey nods proudly, smiling.
    “I’m into that, too,” I say.
    “Cool.”
    There’s a pause while I wonder what on earth to talk about next. Have I entirely used up my conversation starters after only a few days?
    Thankfully, Audrey keeps things moving.
    “So, your dad seems interesting,” she says.
    I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”
    “Sure,” she says. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And don’t hurl, but he’s hot,” Audrey says.
    “Where’s your bathroom?” I joke, standing halfway up. Audrey laughs and I sit back down.
    “I’m sure