Tease Read online

  “I didn’t mean drink drink,” I say quickly. “I meant, you know, coffee. Or tea. Or iced tea. Or iced coffee.”

  “Or one of each,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say, wishing I could just talk like a normal person. Brielle would—well, I already know. Brielle would not approve. But Carmichael is smiling at me again, and nodding, and I nod back at him and we walk together to my car.

  We don’t talk while I drive—the closest Starbucks is only about a block away from school, so it’s more like moving the car to another parking lot—and by the time we’re sitting down with our drinks I realize I seriously don’t know what to say to him. I stare at his OCCUPY THIS T-shirt and wonder why I never watch the news; maybe I’d have something interesting to bring up right now if I knew anything besides a few theories on Hamlet’s manic-depressive personality.

  But of course I don’t watch the news. Sometimes I’m on the news.

  “So,” Carmichael says, finally breaking the silence. He shakes his venti iced green tea, rattling the ice, sighs. “Real school in a couple days.”

  “Go seniors,” I say, with zero enthusiasm in my voice.

  “Are you gonna be there?” he asks, and the bluntness of the question takes me by surprise.

  Of course I know exactly what he’s asking. I look down at the ring of condensation my iced latte is making on the table and shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I have to go to court in like a month. But for now, yeah, I’ll be in school.”

  I can’t look up at him, but I feel him nodding. “That’s rough,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say again. It is rough. I don’t know what else to say.

  “People judging you . . . I mean, whatever happened, that’s hard,” he adds.

  Finally I look up at him again. He’s staring at me like I might not understand what he means, like I might not believe him. Like I haven’t been judging him since the second I laid eyes on him—first as a hot emo guy, then as a pathetic burnout. I didn’t even know him that whole time. All I know, even now, is that he’s the type of guy who will talk to me—will have coffee with the girl who’s been accused of a horrible crime.

  And then I realize he’s probably talking about ninth grade, when everyone called him Bomb Boy for basically the whole year. I’d forgotten all about that until just this second, but of course, it makes sense. Someone said there’d been a bomb threat at school—turned out that wasn’t even true, but Carmichael was already into heavy metal and wearing black all the time, so the name stuck. I try to remember if I called him that. I’m sure I did.

  I look toward the window, a few tables away, and notice a woman staring at me. At least, I think she was staring—she sort of glances away when I catch her eye, like she’d been staring right up until then.

  Turning back to Carmichael, I try to change the subject. “What’s that tattoo about, anyway?” I ask him, pointing to his wrist.

  He turns his arm, looking at the infinity symbol like he’s just noticing it. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Well, it’s an infinity symbol.”

  “I know,” I say. “But . . . why do you have it?” I wonder if this is too personal to ask or something. Too late now, though.

  He shrugs. “I lost someone,” he says. “And I like to remind myself that forever doesn’t always mean forever. Or, you know, forever means different things.”

  I nod, though I’m not really sure I know what he’s talking about exactly. “Like, gone but not forgotten?” I guess.

  “Kind of, yeah,” he says.

  “Was it—was it someone close to you? That you lost?”

  “My grandma,” he says. “She was still pretty young, but she had a good life, you know, all that. But I miss her.”

  I nod again. I love my grandmother, my mom’s mom, though I don’t get to see her very much. I start to tell Carmichael he was lucky to know his grandma so well, but I don’t know if that’s the wrong thing to say.

  He leans back in his chair and gives me a little smile, and suddenly I feel a heat creeping up the back of my neck, like his gaze is a furnace. I grab my drink from the table, hurriedly pulling the rest of the coffee through the straw, making the last few ice cubes rattle. When the slurping sound gets really loud, Carmichael laughs.

  “You’re weird,” he says.

  Despite everything, I smile. “You’re always saying that, but in fact, you’re weird,” I say.

  “Yeah, I know. Remember? That’s how I can tell you’re weird, too.”

  He pushes out his chair and tosses his empty cup in the trash can behind us. As I get up to follow him out, I feel lighter. I’m still smiling a little, wondering if maybe I’ve found someone who really does understand. I mean, we have this dumb inside joke now, right? Maybe I’m not completely alone.

  But just as we’re opening the door, I look back over at the woman who was staring at me before—and meet her eyes again. This time she doesn’t look away. I do; I swivel my head around and march out the door like nothing happened. But I saw that look. I can still feel it.

  Bully.

  “When you look back on it now, do you think maybe you and Brielle might have been kind of scary? That Emma might have been afraid of you?”

  Therapist Teresa peers at me earnestly over her glasses, and I practically have to close my own eyes to keep from rolling them.

  “Um, what?” I ask. “We didn’t scare her.”

  “You don’t think so? It was kind of two against one, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, I mean . . .” I pause. “You make it sound like we were, like, Chris Brown or something.”

  She tilts her head to the side, asking a question without saying anything (for once).

  “You know, the singer? Beat up Rihanna?”

  “I know who you mean,” says Teresa, “I’m just not sure how that applies here.”

  “Whatever, I just mean,” I say with a big sigh, “we didn’t, you know, beat Emma up. She didn’t have a black eye or whatever.”

  “Yes,” Teresa agrees. “But you made her afraid, right? To go to her locker? To go to her car?”

  “She did that to herself,” I say, crossing my arms. “And we weren’t the only ones! Everyone at school said stuff about her—they said stuff about a lot of people.” It’s freezing in here again, and I forgot my sweater.

  Before coming over here I dropped Carmichael off at his bike and said I’d see him at school next week. But as soon as I was alone in the car, I remembered—Brielle will be at school. I’ll have someone to hang out with again. I figure they can’t keep us apart when we’re at Elmwood, even if we’re technically not supposed to talk. And besides, what am I going to do without her there? Where would I sit at lunch? Carmichael has his own friends. Brielle will totally burn me for hanging out with a Carless, and Carmichael’s friends would probably think I’m a bitch, just like everyone else.

  Teresa is just quietly studying me, and it takes me a second to remember what I was saying.

  “Look,” I say. Trying to explain the basic laws of high school to this woman—to any adult—is freaking exhausting. “Emma transferred to Elmwood two weeks into the year, slept with a bunch of guys before we even had winter break, and was constantly acting like a total freak. If she was worried about walking to her car, it wasn’t because of whatever me and Brielle might say. Everyone was saying it. Because of how she was. Because it was true.”

  “It was true that Emma was a . . . slut?”

  I can tell it hurts Teresa to say the word out loud, but I’m relieved she seems to finally get it. “Yes,” I say.

  “For having a few different relationships?”

  “Pfft,” I sputter. “A few? Yeah, she had a few. In the span of a few months.”

  “But why should that make you angry?”

  “Because one of them was with my boyfriend!” God, maybe she isn’t getting it, after all.

  “Weren’t you already angry with her before she . . . ‘hooked up’ with Dylan?”

  “I already knew she was a sl
ut,” I say, ignoring her awkward use of teen-speak. “I don’t know why you keep saying I was angry.”

  “You seem angry now,” Teresa says gently.

  “Yeah, well, now I am! She completely ruined my life!”

  “But her life is over,” Teresa points out. Her voice is very quiet and measured, but she’s staring at me like I’m a bug under a microscope. One that’s trying to escape.

  And I do shift on the couch, suddenly feeling hot instead of cold, wanting to get out of here.

  “Emma’s life is over because of Emma,” I say. “I didn’t kill her. Brielle didn’t kill her, the guys didn’t kill her. Maybe someone should blame her parents for making her transfer schools a million times. Or just being crappy parents, or whatever, I don’t know. I just wanted her to stay away from me and my boyfriend, and she wouldn’t.”

  I’m panting a little bit, feeling like I just ran around the block at top speed. I can’t look Teresa in the eye, though I know she’s still giving me that stare, but anywhere I look all I can see is Emma’s hair. All that red hair, hanging from the garage ceiling. I wasn’t there, of course, and I’ve tried so hard not to even think about it for a second. And now I feel like I’m standing in that garage, I can’t stop seeing that hair, just hanging down, lifeless but bloodred, obliterating her pretty face.

  Her stupid, stupid, pretty face. What the fuck, Emma? I think. If I had been there, if I had been anywhere—for months, that’s all I wanted to say to her. What the fuck? What is wrong with you? What the fuck are you doing?

  My breathing is even faster now, and I feel kind of numb. There’s a whirring sound coming from somewhere, and the cold garage in my mind shifts into a smooth cold cloud, a white, freezing cloud where my head should be, floating away from the rest of me. It seems like Teresa is beside me on the couch, smoothing her hand on my back, like she’s always been there. Through the tunnel of fuzzy noise I hear her say, “Lean over,” but her voice is coming from a long time ago. I mean, a long way away. I mean, it’s a far sound . . . a long distance . . . a . . .

  I think my eyes were closed. I’m not sure, though. All I know is that I’m staring at the ceiling and it’s suddenly in focus.

  I’m lying down on the couch, but my feet are still on the floor. My hands are folded on my stomach. I feel them out of nowhere, like the view of the ceiling, something that wasn’t there a second ago. Teresa is putting something wet on my forehead and talking quietly.

  “Don’t worry, you’re okay, you just fainted for a minute, you’re fine now,” she’s chanting.

  It’s a wet cloth on my head, and when I reach up to pull it off, my arm feels heavy and watery.

  “Have you eaten anything today?” Teresa asks. “I think I have some cookies at my desk, stay here . . .”

  She moves away and I go to sit up, but the rest of my body is cold and watery too. And heavy. So I stay down. I stare at the line of paint, at the turning point from the wall to the ceiling.

  I never faint. I’m not a fainter. I always kind of wanted to—it’s such a girly, old-fashioned thing to do. To swoon. Some guy is supposed to catch you. I mean, it would be better if it happened that way. This way is just stupid.

  It’s this terrible heat, I think vaguely. Or maybe Teresa just said that?

  She comes back and I eat one of those Pepperidge Farm fruit cookies, still lying down. I must have crumbs all over my face and in my hair, and it kind of tastes like dust, but I eat it fast. When I’m done I’m able to sit up and say, “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” Teresa says. She’s back in her chair, but she’s leaning over her knees, not holding her pad and pen like always. “Why don’t we call it a day? I’ll leave you here to rest for a few more minutes, all right?”

  I nod, though I don’t feel like staying.

  “I’ll step out, and I’m going to call your mother,” she says, standing up.

  “No,” I say, my voice suddenly loud. “Don’t.”

  She looks down at me and I know she wants to ask another damn question. But for once she just nods and says, “Okay. I’ll be back in about five minutes to get you.”

  I close my eyes as she shuts the door. For a second the image of Emma flares up again, red and white and cold and hot, and I think I’m going to throw up the cookie.

  I open my eyes again and Emma disappears. It’s just the old wooden coffee table with the box of tissues. Teresa’s worn-out chair. My knees are still pale after this long, long summer spent inside, talking about my feelings, talking about a girl I barely knew who didn’t want to live.

  Didn’t want to live in a world that had me in it.

  And I’m still here, in this crappy world. Fighting her ghost.

  The thing about having one really good friend, one person you talk to all the time about everything, is that you stop really talking to anyone else. You sort of talk to other people, but mostly you have your one person and that’s enough.

  And then one day, maybe for a good reason or maybe out of nowhere, you can’t talk to that friend anymore, and you suddenly realize you can’t talk to anyone else. Like, it’s physically impossible. No one understands you except that person. It’s like you speak another language, and the one other person who also speaks it is gone.

  That’s how I feel, walking into Elmwood the day after Labor Day. All the usual changes from summer vacation—Mayla Stotz’s new super-embarrassing haircut, and Wayne Halleck’s growing about five inches in all directions, and Ms. Hillman wearing a giant engagement ring—make me desperate to turn to Brielle and go, Did you see that?

  But Brielle isn’t here. I mean, she’s not with me, of course, as I walk carefully to my locker. She must be here somewhere, but I haven’t been able to spot her yet—I was checking for her car in the parking lot, and I look down the hall where her locker is as I pass by, but there’s no sign of her. I figure they made sure we don’t have any classes together, but I have to see her eventually. Or she’ll find me.

  Carmichael finds me first, though.

  “God, I’ve missed this place,” he says. He leans against the locker next to mine, like we’re totally casual, the oldest of friends. “You know what I mean? If I’m not here every single day of my life, I just feel . . . incomplete.”

  I smile at him, but I’m nervous. What do I do when I see Brielle? What if Carmichael is still standing here? Do I pretend I’m annoyed that he’s talking to me?

  Because actually, I’m really not. I’m so relieved to have someone to talk to, and I’m not at all annoyed that it’s Carmichael.

  On the first day we only have a half hour of each class, just enough to pick up books and get each syllabus and stuff. The fact that it’s a half day is the only reason I’m not already throwing up.

  We also have to go to the office to check in, because of summer school. We walk there together, and on the way I can feel people murmuring. I can’t believe my mom wouldn’t let me transfer. Natalie said it wasn’t a good idea, said we should maintain my innocence by not acting guilty, or something. I don’t know. I guess transferring doesn’t always work out—I mean, Emma tried it a bunch of times. But now that the hallways are crowded and the lights are on full blast, I feel like everyone’s looking at me. I feel like I really shouldn’t be here.

  I see Alison Stipe walk by and I try to wave or at least catch her eye, but she’s talking to Beth (that’s weird), and they ignore me. Or probably they don’t see me. Probably.

  “Hi, Mrs. Gerald!” Carmichael says brightly as we walk into the main office. I glance over at him, surprised.

  “Hello,” the head secretary says sourly, obviously well acquainted with Carmichael already. “You need your summer transcripts and schedules.” It’s not a question, and she doesn’t wait for our response before she wheels backward in her chair to a filing cabinet.

  Carmichael smiles like he’s totally at ease in here. Which he probably is.

  “Braden Carmichael and Sara Wharton,” Mrs. Gerald says as she wheels back to the desk.
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  My eyebrows go up even higher, but Carmichael just shakes his head, like he’s heard all the Braden jokes already. Then he goes back to smiling at the secretary and says, “How’d we do?”

  “You passed. Here’s your schedules.” She slaps the papers up on the counter, still not getting out of her chair, then wheels back to her computer.

  “Congratulations, Braden,” I say quietly. I can’t help it. I must have known his first name at some point in junior high, but I’d totally forgotten it.

  He shakes his head again, but he’s still smiling a little.

  Mrs. Gerald’s voice cuts through with an oh-so-cheery “Get to class!”

  We hurry back out of the office.

  The hallway is even more crowded than before, everyone hugging and talking so loudly I can’t hear anything in particular. I scan the faces, but when people look back at me and frown, I look down again. Turning a little toward the wall so I’m not so noticeable, I ask Carmichael, “Do you see Brielle anywhere?”

  “No, didn’t you hear?”

  I shake my head. Of course I didn’t hear anything. I don’t talk to anyone.

  I can feel a pit opening up in my stomach. I sort of forgot: Everyone’s still talking. Without me. Behind my back.

  Everyone knows about me, or thinks they know. But at the same time, I’m invisible. I used to be someone at Elmwood—maybe not the most popular girl, but someone you’d talk to in the halls, at least. Someone you’d see at parties. Someone who at least had a stupid Facebook account. And now I’ve disappeared. No one wants to even look at me.

  “Brielle’s not coming back,” Carmichael says. “Tutors and stuff.”

  I stare at him, too shocked to think. “So she’s not . . .”

  He just shrugs.

  Tyler, Jacob, and Dylan aren’t here, because they were seniors. They’d have been gone this year anyway. And now Brielle is gone, too.

  So I’m the only Emma Killer left at Elmwood High.

  Carmichael walks with me to my homeroom. I don’t know whether he can’t tell he’s with a total outcast, or if he doesn’t care. All I can hear are the whispers as we walk by, the weird looks at us. I’m not alone, I think. Carmichael’s height, his black T-shirt, black jeans, and dark hair feel like a protective wall beside me.