Tease Page 13

  Wait. Oh my God. I slept with Dylan so Brielle would be nice to me? What?

  “Honey, don’t look like that,” Brielle says, and suddenly she’s pulling me into a hug. “I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me. Marcus is just all smart and stuff, it’s kind of a drag.”

  She’s holding my shoulders so my face is smooshed into her long hair. It’s perfectly straight tonight, soft and smelling like flowers, but I can’t breathe. Maybe if we ever hugged this wouldn’t feel so awkward. It’s a relief when she breaks free, almost pushing me away, giving her dress one more little adjustment.

  “C’mon,” she says. “That skank is slutting up the whole place. I’m sure everyone could use a break from her aura of skankitude.”

  “Her slutmosphere,” I say, trying to get into the spirit.

  “Ha! Yeah. Her whorbit.” Brielle grabs her sparkly clutch from the counter and clacks across the tiles, throwing open the door. An Usher song throbs from somebody’s fancy iPod speakers in the kitchenette.

  Out of the bathroom, I immediately realize two things: One, this party is completely out of control. We’ll be lucky if the hotel doesn’t kick us out within the hour. I don’t even recognize a bunch of the people here, and I’ll be shocked if they leave in time for Dylan and me to have any romantic . . . whatever. Even though I was worried about being alone with him before, now I’m kind of sad that it probably won’t happen, that the special romantic room has been taken over by this party.

  And the second thing is—I don’t see Dylan.

  A lot of the guys here came straight from the dance, so they’re still wearing nice button-down shirts and stuff. I made Dylan wear a tie, so it’d be more believable to my mom that we were going to the dance, but he took it off when we got to the hotel. Still, he has on a nice red shirt, and he’s tall, and all night it hasn’t been hard to spot him. I mean, we’re in a freaking hotel room. It’s a suite and everything, but it’s not that big.

  So I hurry farther into the room, out where I can see the whole kitchenette . . . not here. Or maybe in the big bedroom . . . not there either, and gross, Noelle and Jacob are making out on the bed. Ugh. So, okay, there’s a smaller bedroom on the other side . . . more people making out, gross again.

  I rush back to the master bedroom and grab my shoes, just so I have them, careful to not look at the bed, then back into the main part of the suite. Think, think. I stopped drinking a while ago but I’m still all dizzy and wired, and it feels like I’m just standing there forever, until finally—the balcony. Duh. Dylan doesn’t smoke, but lots of people have been going out there all night and he must’ve gone with one of them.

  I spin around a little too fast and have to catch myself with one of the curtains, pulling it back. That helps me find the handle to the glass door, and it slides open easily, unlocked already.

  The cold smacks me in the face as soon as I step outside, and I still have my shoes in my hand, so my feet go numb almost immediately. And then the wind is in my eyes, which fill with tears before I can even blink. So at first, I’m not actually sure that I’m seeing what I’m seeing.

  But I am; I’m seeing it.

  At the other end of the balcony, leaning against the wall and totally oblivious that they’re not alone, are Dylan and Emma.

  I blink again. Once, twice. They don’t disappear.

  And they don’t stop kissing.

  One shoe has left my hands and hit Emma in the back before the words are even out of my mouth.

  “You fucking slut! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

  My shrieks are carried away in the icy air, leaving me breathless. Emma turns toward me, her eyes wide and horrified. But not wide enough to dodge the second shoe I’m hurling at them—this one hits her on the shoulder, just glances it, really, but she yelps, both hands flying up to her face, like I have anything else to throw.

  “I knew it!” I scream. I turn to run back into the hotel suite but the curtain is in my way and I have to shove at it, pull it—I hear a clang and realize I’ve yanked down part of the curtain rod, but it doesn’t matter because I’m inside again, I can’t see Emma anymore. Part of me wants to turn around and pull her hair out like I pulled the curtain, but most of me just wants to get away, far, far away from here.

  Everything is a blur—I’m running and crying and my feet hurt and the halls in the hotel all look the same and Jesus, I really did have too much to drink, why can’t I find the elevators?—and then Brielle is there, and I’m wearing a coat. I’m in an elevator, holding on to the wall. I’m outside, I’m putting on someone’s shoes that’re too big for me. I’m waiting in the cold, the front entry lights of the hotel shining down on me, making me visible to everyone who wants to see a pathetic excuse for a girl, a walking mascara stain, a stupid, no-longer-virgin, cheated-on, worthless—

  Brielle’s SUV bumps onto the curb and I have to jump out of the way. I almost lose my balance, but instead I’m able to reach out and grab the passenger-door handle. And then I’m in, on a heated seat, the same stupid Ellie Goulding song that was playing upstairs blaring from the speakers as the car bounces back off the curb and pulls out into the night.

  “Blech, sorry, lemme just—” Brielle reaches over and punches the radio button off, and the car fills with silence.

  It’s quiet until I choke on another sob and hear myself whispering, over and over, “I knew it. That slut. That slut. I knew it.”

  “Shh, shh,” Brielle says. She reaches over and pets my hair clumsily, but with just one hand on the wheel the car yanks dangerously to the right, so she pulls back again quickly.

  She’s drunk and she shouldn’t be driving, I think. But I don’t care.

  “Don’t worry, babe,” she says. “We’ll fix this. That bitch won’t even know what hit her.”

  Good, I think. I nod my head, or my head nods itself. I just keep nodding. Good, good, good, won’t know what hit her. Then she’ll know how I feel.

  September

  “IT’S EXACTLY LIKE we went over last time. You just tell me how the Valentine’s Day events were Miss Greggs’s idea. We have the Michaels receipt for the sign supplies, paid for on her MasterCard. Unfortunately the roses were bought with cash . . .” Natalie flips open a file and peers at some fine print before looking back up at me and my mom. “Then we’ll move on to March, okay?”

  I nod and focus on Natalie, across the table, ignoring Mom’s jiggling foot next to me. We’re running through the testimony I’ll have to give in two weeks. Two weeks. We were in court once before, when the charges were filed and everything, but this time I’ll be in a courtroom with Emma’s parents. I’ll be on the witness stand. I’ll be talking, answering questions, getting to tell my side of the story. Natalie said it won’t be like TV, it’s just a bunch of tables and I shouldn’t talk too much or anything. I should just answer the questions like she’s telling me to. But still.

  I think I’m gonna throw up.

  Mom’s obviously not feeling so great, either. She’s just fidgeting, not looking at me. She has to come to the meetings because we’re so close to trial. I know she doesn’t want to be here, but Jesus, neither do I. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t even come up with any of the pranks that supposedly pushed Emma to commit suicide.

  Or that’s what I’m going to testify to, anyway. That it was all Brielle. And Brielle’s probably going to testify that it was all me.

  When I told Natalie how unfair that is, she shrugged. “It’s a lawsuit. You want to win.”

  I guess it’s just as well that I don’t have Brielle at school anymore. I probably should have known that this whole thing wasn’t just going to take her away for the summer—I should have known I wasn’t ever getting my best friend back. She’s gone now, just like Dylan. Just like everyone.

  Natalie’s running through the same questions about last February, and I’m answering them the way we practiced. Mom gets really quiet while I talk.

  Then Natalie says, “Now, on March first you visi
ted Miss Putnam’s home, is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say. I feel Mom sit up a little straighter. She hasn’t heard this before, I don’t think.

  “With Miss Greggs?”

  “Yeah. She drove,” I add, since Natalie likes to point out anything that makes Brielle look more guilty. Obviously I feel like a total bitch doing this, but it’s too late now. My whole life depends on how guilty Brielle is. Or anyway, that’s what I tell myself. There’s got to be someone to blame.

  “Okay. And why were you and Miss Greggs visiting the Putnam home?”

  “To . . . um.” I clear my throat. “We wanted to tell Emma’s mom, Mrs. Putnam, that Emma had been . . . you know, hooking up with, um, some guys who were . . . who were older.”

  “You wanted Mrs. Putnam to know that her sixteen-year-old daughter was having sex with young men who were over the age of consent?” Natalie says smoothly.

  “Yeah. I mean, I guess so.” My mouth feels dry again. I grab the bottle of water on the table in front of me and gulp some down. A little bit spills on my chest, the part that’s not covered by my tank top. It’s so cold it burns.

  “You were concerned about Emma’s well-being,” Natalie says. Not a question.

  “Definitely,” I lie.

  Natalie nods crisply, and from that point on, I don’t think either of us says anything that’s entirely true. After another hour we’re finally done for the day, or I think we are until Natalie looks at my mom all seriously and goes, “We really should revisit our talk about a settlement.”

  “I want Sara’s name cleared,” Mom says.

  “I understand that,” Natalie replies, and I can hear in both their voices how many times they’ve already had this conversation. Like, more than I’ve heard it.

  Natalie goes on. “After she turns eighteen we can work to have her record expunged. But for now—I am very concerned. These are serious charges, and I’d be very surprised if the other defendants go through with the trial.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. I mean, we went over this, right?” I look over at Mom. Her face is set, her mouth pinched. She doesn’t look so sure anymore.

  Natalie pushes back in her chair and says, “Please just keep thinking about it. It’s a compromise, but everything could be over. I think we could get a pretty good deal. You could have your lives back.” She looks at me for a second, like she wants to say something else.

  But Mom jumps out of her chair like it’s got springs, and almost too late I realize we’re leaving. I’m surprised I even catch up to her in time to share an elevator ride back downstairs.

  We’re alone, but if anyone was with us they wouldn’t even guess we were together. Mom’s still in her work clothes and I’m in jean shorts, but it’s more than that. She won’t look at me. I guess she’s scared too. Or probably just freaked out about all the details we just went over. Every time we come here, it seems like there’s something she hasn’t heard before. Every time she gets a little more distant.

  I want to say something to her—or really, I want her to say something to me. I mean, I’m freaked out too. We’re supposed to settle? That means I admit to being guilty. Which I am not. Doesn’t she still believe that?

  “This is a nightmare,” Mom says, but her voice is a whisper. Maybe I didn’t hear her right.

  But either way, it’s true. This is a freaking nightmare.

  On Friday afternoon I’m driving really slowly past Albertsons, wondering what I’m doing on this side of town instead of going to see Teresa and then picking up the boys. This is not on the agenda.

  But my car almost magically turns itself in to the grocery store parking lot and finds Dylan’s SUV in the last row. There’s an empty spot next to it, and without really thinking, I pull in, shutting off the car but not taking the keys out, so I can roll my windows down and keep listening to High Violet. The song that goes “Sorrow found me when I was young” starts, and by the time it gets to “I don’t want to get over you,” I’ve got my head on the steering wheel and I’m crying. The tears just gush out in big, heaving sighs, shaking my whole body but not making much sound.

  I don’t have to be alone right now. There are people I could be with. But I don’t want any of them. I want Brielle, I want Dylan. For half a minute there, my life had actually made sense—I had a best friend, and friends, and a real boyfriend. I was pretty, kind of, or at least I knew how to act pretty. Being with Brielle made me pretty, made me belong. Made me laugh. Being with Dylan made me a real person—people could see me. I could go to the mall and see a bunch of seniors and, like, hang out with them. Even after Dylan and I broke up, I still had Brielle, and we had fun.

  But maybe now that I think about it, no one really saw me that much, even with Dylan. I was never tagged in his Facebook photos. I was the jealous ex-girlfriend for, like, a minute. And then I was the girl who was there when things with Emma got really messy. I mean, at that point, I was kind of the girl who made the mess—but Emma has to take some of that blame. She didn’t have to go after my boyfriend. She didn’t have to flirt with Brielle’s boyfriend last fall, she didn’t have to be friends with Tyler and Dylan and Jacob, she didn’t have to walk around like a huge victim and sleep with every guy in school at the same time. Most of all, she didn’t have to kill herself. I mean, who doesn’t feel like killing themselves at least once a week? It’s gotta be easier than this, than high school. It’s definitely easier than being blamed for someone else’s suicide.

  Emma got right in the middle of everything. If I was invisible, she was too visible; she was ultraviolet. She was a nuclear explosion, detonating and destroying everything and everyone else in the process. Now I’m stuck at a school that’s still in mourning, stuck in a whole world of people who think I’m the reason this girl is dead. They act like they want me dead too, like I should just go kill myself because Emma did—and no one even seems to see how that doesn’t make any sense at all.

  I’m still crying, but the sobs have turned into regular tears, just fat drops rolling down my face without my permission. The next song starts and I turn the keys, cranking the engine back on. As I’m backing out of the parking space I think I see Dylan in my rearview mirror, walking out the back door in his stupid store clerk blue polo shirt and khakis. I blink hard, trying to clear my vision, but I don’t look back again. Instead I lower the visor and slide open the little mirror. Carefully smoothing the skin under my eyes to hide that I’ve been crying, even though the tears are still coming, I take a long breath. Then I snap the visor back up and jerk the car into reverse. There’s still time to kill and I need to do it somewhere else.

  No one from school goes to the Starbucks at the Barnes & Noble on Seventy-Second Street because it’s right next to the crappy mall, which is another place no one goes. The bookstore isn’t so crappy, though, and it’s not too far from Teresa’s. It’s basically the perfect place. As I walk in I think maybe I should just move here.

  There’s no one in line so I get my latte pretty quickly, even though the guy working looks like he’s baked and hates everyone. There are a couple of little kids running around the seating area while their moms talk and take up all the armchairs. So I put a Splenda in my coffee and head farther into the store, running a hand over the Staff Recommends and Great Reads for Back-to-School tables. I turn aimlessly down an aisle and practically trip over someone sitting on the floor.

  It’s Carmichael.

  “Oh,” I say, almost falling backward. We haven’t talked much at school since that first day, mostly because I don’t know what to say.

  I still don’t know, and for a second I think I should just run in the other direction, when Carmichael looks up and shakes his hair out of his face.

  “Hey,” he says easily. “What’s up?”

  I shrug. I think maybe I’ve been avoiding Carmichael, but I’m not sure if it’s been for his sake or mine. His friends are all shaggy-haired bike riders and usually he seems busy with other things at school—and our sch
edules are just different. And I’ve gotten really good at not looking anyone in the eye during the school day. It’s easier that way.

  “Sit?” he asks, sweeping a hand over the patch of floor next to him like he’s offering a silk pillow or something.

  What the hell. I shrug again and lower myself down, crossing my legs and looking at the book he has open on his lap.

  “It’s a good one,” he says. “Have you read the others? The Walking Dead?”

  “Like the show?” I ask.

  “Waaaay better than the show.” He flips the book closed and adds, “If you haven’t read them, I don’t wanna give anything away.”

  I smile a little and sip my coffee.

  “So,” he goes on, “you following me now? Like you did all summer?”

  “What? That’s the dumbest—I wasn’t following you!”

  He keeps a totally straight face as he says, “Well, whenever I went to school, you were there.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s how it works,” I say, unable to stop explaining the obvious. “And you were never there!”

  “I helped you pass English, though.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. This is true. And he helped me to feel sort of normal for a couple of weeks. “You know your Shakespeare. What were you doing in summer school, anyway?” I’ve been wondering this for a long time, but I want to bite the words back. It’s like when I asked about his tattoos—I’m sure it’s too personal.

  But like with the tattoos, he doesn’t seem to mind. “I tried to transfer,” he says. “Well, technically, I tried to move away, but it didn’t work out. And by the time I came back, I was behind, so, you know.”

  “Where’d you go?” I ask.

  “My dad’s. Kearney.”

  I nod. I’ve never been to Kearney, but I know it’s a couple of hours away, kind of in the middle of nowhere.