Tease Page 22

  I’m stuck in the doorway, not sure if I should still try to get my keys from the hook by the back door or just retreat to my room. But when Mom sees me, she just goes, “You’re up.” Then she turns back to the sink and starts washing the dishes.

  Slowly, I walk over to the other side of the counter, between Mom and the back door. “Yeah,” I say. “And I kind of have to . . . go . . .” I gesture lamely at the door, waiting for her to start yelling at me.

  “Fine. Be back by noon.”

  She doesn’t look at me and I hesitate, wondering what’s wrong. Isn’t she still mad about yesterday?

  Slowly I reach for my keys on the hook, carefully lifting them so they don’t jingle. I don’t know why—the water in the sink is loud, and Mom’s tossing the dishes into the dishwasher like they’re all unbreakable (I guess most of them are, thanks to having two little boys in the house). I’m actually surprised I can hear her when she speaks again, because her voice is low, like she doesn’t have the energy even to talk anymore.

  “Enjoy it. I don’t know what they’re going to tell us about you at this meeting on Wednesday, but I’m betting you won’t be driving that car anywhere without the boys in it for a long time.”

  I’m looking at the keys in my hand, the doorknob in front of me, the whole life I have on the other side of it. Shit. I’d forgotten about that meeting, that phone call she was having with Dad. That was three lifetimes ago.

  “Just go,” she adds. “Just get out.”

  So I do.

  “Wait, first you need to sit down.”

  “And have some coffee.”

  “Yes! This is totally sit-down-and-have-some-coffee news.”

  “Can we smoke in here? It’s really have-a-cigarette news.”

  “Sara doesn’t smoke. But we could go out on the deck.”

  “Yuck, no, it’s freaking freezing outside.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

  “Damn straight! Keep calm and don’t freeze your ass off.”

  Brielle leans against the kitchen island, laughing, and Noelle doubles over on her chair. “Keep calm and wear some damn mittens!” Brielle shouts.

  “Keep calm and what the hell does that even mean!” Noelle answers.

  I’m standing at the other edge of the island, trying to laugh—or even just smile—but they aren’t paying any attention to me. They’re in their pajamas still, so obviously Noelle has been here all night. Brielle isn’t wearing makeup yet. She wipes her eyes and turns back to the coffeemaker, going, “Where were we?”

  “You were keeping calm and telling Sara the good news!” Noelle crows.

  “Oh my God!” Brielle whirls back around to face me. “Are you sitting? For the love of Christmas, sit down!”

  I walk around to where Noelle is perched on one of the tall bar chairs. Brielle’s kitchen is huge, with a big table and this wide island area. One wall is just windows, overlooking their giant deck with its own table, chairs, and bar area, next to a large sunken hot tub. Beyond that the trees seem to go on for miles—maybe they do, I don’t know; Brielle and I haven’t been back there in years. It’s a gray morning, the branches wet from rain and starkly black against the flat metallic sky. Driving over I thought there was something ominous about the weather, but I guess I’d just overreacted to Brielle’s text. Whatever’s going on, it’s obviously hilarious. To her and Noelle, anyway. Stupid me, thinking I’d be the first person to hear about it.

  “Here, stop pouting,” Brielle says, reading my mind. She sets a heavy Le Creuset mug in front of me and I lean over to look at the suspiciously thin brown water.

  “This is coffee?” I ask. I don’t really mean to sound insulting, but it looks wrong.

  “Shut up!” Brielle says, and Noelle cracks up again.

  “I told you that wasn’t enough scoops!” Noelle shrieks.

  God, this is all giving me a headache.

  Brielle is stomping back to the coffeemaker, pulling out the kettle part and dumping the rest of the watery liquid down the sink.

  “You are so going to get fired from Starbucks,” Noelle says.

  “I don’t have a job, silly.” Brielle smiles.

  “Guys, hey,” I say, finally, “you sent a 911? What’s going on?”

  They both look at me like I haven’t been sitting here, the subject of their little coffee one-act play, for ten minutes. Brielle’s smile widens and she says, “Oh. Oh, yes.”

  Noelle squeals, hops in her seat, and claps her hands. I’ve never seen her so perky. Though obviously I’m not her BFF, like Brielle.

  “I have one word for you,” Brielle goes on. “Tyler.”

  I just stare at her for a minute, then look back over at Noelle. Why are they trying to make me feel stupid? I feel stupid most of the day, anyway.

  And I must look stupid, because Noelle goes, “Tyler Chang.”

  “That’s two words,” Brielle says, but she’s still smiling.

  “What about Tyler?” I ask.

  “Tyler and Emma,” Noelle says.

  “Last night,” Brielle adds.

  Jesus, at this rate, I won’t know what’s happening until summer.

  “You guys, just tell me!” I beg.

  They look at each other, and for a second I think they’re going to start laughing about some other stupid inside joke, but finally Brielle comes up to the island and leans over again, looking at me excitedly.

  “Tyler and Emma hooked up last night.”

  “For real,” Noelle adds.

  “It’s all over for Emma Slut-nam.”

  “Sayonara, slutty!” Noelle says.

  “Wait—what are you saying?” I ask, blinking.

  “Well, Emma was grounded—” Brielle starts.

  “I know, I know,” I interrupt her.

  But she holds up a hand and says, “Let me finish! Emma was grounded. But Tyler, ever the gentleman, saw all the stuff about you and Dylan online—”

  “Um, thanks a lot for that, by the way,” I say, but she gives me such a dirty look that I stop, pressing my lips together tightly.

  “Do you want to hear this or not?” Brielle asks. She’s not angry, but she looks like she will be in about two seconds.

  I clench my teeth and nod quickly.

  “Okay. So Tyler goes over to Emma’s house—I don’t know, he like sneaks in, or something—and tells her everything, and they totally have sex.”

  “Totally,” Noelle chimes in. I really want to say Thank you for the echo, but I’m keeping my mouth shut.

  “And then—this is totally the best part—Emma called Dylan.”

  “Wait, what?” I blurt out, so surprised I can’t be quiet anymore.

  “I know!” Brielle says triumphantly. “This morning! Or last night, maybe, do we know?” She turns to Noelle, but Noelle just shrugs. “Anyway, she felt so guilty that she told him. I. Mean. What.”

  Brielle pushes back from the counter and just looks at me as she fans her hands out in the air, like she’s just served Emma’s head up on a silver platter and is waiting for me to say thank you. Which I guess is kind of what just happened.

  “That . . . I don’t . . .” I can’t really form words. This is good, right? Brielle and Noelle think it’s good, obviously. So . . . good. Right?

  “She is so transferred,” Noelle says.

  “Oh my God, they’re going to transfer her twice,” Brielle says.

  “Wait, her parents know?” I ask.

  “Um, kind of,” Brielle says sarcastically. “Marcus said Tyler told him they found Tyler sneaking out, so, um, the parents know for sure.”

  Noelle nods, still in Brielle-echo mode. I wonder what happened to the cool senior who barely knew us—but she’s obviously the one who stayed over last night, not me. I look back at Brielle’s messy morning hair, her favorite house-hoodie from Abercrombie. She never makes coffee when I spend the night. No wonder it’s so bad.

  “Ohhhh . . . my . . . shizz . . . ,” Noelle says, her eyes suddenly big
and round.

  “What?” Brielle and I ask her at the same time.

  “Tyler is eighteen,” she says solemnly.

  “You’re kidding me,” Brielle says, her eyes widening too.

  “I am totally not. His birthday was like a month ago. Remember?”

  Suddenly I do—it was like a week before Valentine’s Day, so obviously I’d forgotten all about it until now. But a bunch of us decorated his locker. I remember him talking about going to Adult Emporium, this store that sells porn and stuff outside of town. A lot of the guys talk about going there when they turn eighteen. I always assume they’re joking. But I guess with Tyler—or Jacob, for that matter—it might not be a joke.

  Brielle claps her hands together, just once, loudly. “That stupid bitch!” she cries. “I could kiss her!”

  “Uch, don’t,” Noelle says, wrinkling her nose. “You’d definitely catch herpes, at least.”

  Brielle and Noelle high-five. “Did I tell you, or what? It all works out in the end. That slut just did our job for us!”

  “Sounds like she did a lot of jobs,” I say, and Brielle and Noelle nearly do spit takes from laughing so hard. But my heart isn’t really in it. I kind of just want to get out of here—suddenly I just want to see Dylan, make sure everything’s okay. I mean, I’ve wanted to see Dylan since I woke up, but now I’m starting to feel a little panicky. Did this change things? Will he be . . . what? He’ll be happy, right? Because nothing else matters now. It doesn’t matter what happened in his car on Friday, or all the stupid stuff Brielle put online yesterday. We can just be together, and no one has to know anything else.

  Brielle is talking, Noelle is laughing, but I can’t hear them anymore. The nervous feeling in my stomach climbs into my head, making everything sound like fuzz, like it’s at the other end of a long tunnel.

  “I should . . . go,” I say, but they’re ignoring me. Brielle is back at the fridge, getting something out, and when she turns back around I see it’s a bottle of champagne.

  “Mimosas!” she’s saying, and Noelle is pulling out glasses. I notice she’s only holding two.

  But I’m getting off of my chair anyway, picking up my keys. “I’m gonna go find Dylan.” I finally manage to speak loud enough for them to hear me, for the words to reach my own ears, and Brielle just raises the bottle up high.

  “To getting your man back!” she cries.

  “Hear, hear!” Noelle says, holding up the two empty glasses.

  I think I smile at them, but I’m not sure. All I know is, I’m back in my car and pulling out of the driveway and driving, hoping that when I finally find Dylan, when I see him, when he touches me—maybe then I’ll be able to breathe again.

  October

  “IT’S TOO COLD to be wearing that, Sara.”

  “You let her dress this way to go to the lawyer’s office? To any office?”

  “She’s seventeen, Doug, relax.”

  “You both need to relax. I’m fine. Natalie’s seen my knees before, okay?” The truth is I’m still freezing—I found an old hoodie in the trunk of my car, but I didn’t have time to go home, so I’m still wearing the shorts I stupidly put on this morning. But I’m also still numb from talking to Dylan, so what difference does it really make?

  “Here you are!” Natalie greets us at the door, looking organized, for once. She waves us all in with a big smile and I’m relieved to find that her personal office is a lot warmer than the rest of the building.

  But then I notice that the cold had been distracting me from the waves of panic, the beating thrum of last time, last time. Last time I’ll be in Natalie’s office before . . . Last time I’ll see Dylan before . . . Last time I—

  “Everyone have a seat, great, right over here is good.” Natalie’s talking a little too loudly, but she seems excited. Not only is the heat on, someone cleaned up in here—we can actually all sit down at the table without rearranging any boxes, and it turns out there’s a coffeemaker on the side table. Natalie goes over to it and pours two cups for my parents and I try to remember what’s usually sitting on that spot. Piles of paper, I guess, like everywhere else. Normally.

  “Sara, you don’t take coffee, do you?” she asks brightly. “I guess with Starbucks, kids are starting younger and younger . . .” She carefully sets the other cups on the table, then turns back to pick up some sugars and a little container of milk.

  “I sometimes—” I start to say, but I’m cut off by my dad.

  “Kids think they’re drinking coffee, but those things are more like milk shakes with a little caffeine in them,” he gripes. I’ve heard this one before. “For six bucks a pop,” he adds.

  “They do make a mean Frappuccino,” Natalie says with another big smile.

  I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands and tuck them under my knees. Natalie turns her smile to me and I know what’s coming next.

  “Sara, I don’t think I’ve gotten your letter yet—did you have a chance to email that over?” she asks, just like I knew she would.

  I can feel Mom and Dad turn, on either side of me, to see what my answer is. “Not yet,” I say, and my voice is barely a whisper. I try to take a deeper breath before adding, “I can get it to you la—”

  “This is important, young lady,” my dad says firmly. He just can’t let me finish a sentence. “Natalie needs to see that in plenty of time before we’re in the courtroom. She’s our attorney, she needs to advise us on these things.”

  “What us?” I ask, but I’m whispering; no one hears me.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Wharton, I’m sure Sara just needs a little more time to figure out exactly what she wants to say,” Natalie says smoothly. “It’s not the official allocution statement, of course. We should go over that while we’re all here—shall we get started?”

  She gets up again from the table and grabs a bunch of file folders from her desk. Dad’s still looking at me, his lips pursed angrily, I can tell. I don’t have to look back to know he’s annoyed, waiting for something else to yell at me about.

  But I haven’t finished the statement. I wish I had; it’s like the worst possible homework assignment that I just can’t get done. I think about the notepad Teresa gave me, stuffed under my bed. I’d finally given up on trying to write the thing longhand. Now there’s just a bunch of words in a document on my laptop at home. Words that don’t fix anything, don’t change anything, don’t say anything. Don’t fix what happened, what went so completely wrong.

  Natalie comes back to the table and smiles at me. “Why don’t you go in the conference room and work on the letter while I talk to your parents?”

  “I need my laptop,” I say.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “No, you don’t,” she says wearily.

  Natalie’s already handing me a legal pad, and my dad slaps a pen on the table in front of me, hard.

  “Okay,” I say, still whispering. I pick up the pen, wondering what it would be like if he’d just handed it to me.

  I pick up the notepad, too. Everyone’s giving me blank pads of paper these days.

  “There’s a room across the hall, you know the one,” Natalie says. “It should be empty.”

  I sit there for a second, not moving yet. “Can’t I . . .” I stop.

  “What is it?” Natalie doesn’t seem impatient, not like my mom and dad, who are sitting like their chairs are on fire, all jumpy and weird. Like they would leap right out of them and into a courtroom this instant, if it meant this would all just be over.

  “Can’t someone else write something, and I could just read it?” I ask, finally. “Like, you? Couldn’t you just tell me what to say?”

  “It’s still optional—” Natalie starts, but Dad interrupts her.

  “Absolutely not!” he practically shouts. “You owe everyone an apology, young lady, and you’re going to make it yourself!”

  I stare at him. Mom and Natalie are looking at him too, watching his chest rise and fall with fast, angry breaths.

  “I’m sic
k of this whining!” he goes on, his face getting flushed. “You and your friends and your—your pranks—and now a girl is dead, and you’ve avoided a trial and jail time by this much—”

  “She wasn’t going to jail—” my mom says quietly, but Dad doesn’t seem to hear her.

  “Take responsibility, young lady!” he shouts at me. “It’s time to grow up! Can’t you see that you’ve been acting like a child?”

  Natalie is holding up a hand, trying to get him to calm down—he’s leaning out of his chair now, over the table, like he wants to hit me or, I don’t know, throw the table across the room or something. And before I know it I’ve shoved back, out of my chair, stumbling a little bit but hanging on to the pen and paper.

  “You’re acting like a child!” I yell at him. “You don’t know anything! You’re never here! Neither of you! You act like you know what happened, you act like you know who I am or what I did. But you don’t!”

  I hate that tears are coming down my face now, and I furiously try to wipe them away, but the stupid pen and notepad are in my hands, so I have to wipe with the backs of my wrists and it doesn’t work at all. Mom and Dad are staring at me, and Natalie is too, though I can’t really see their expressions. Everything is blurry from the tears. The stupid, childish, irresponsible tears.

  But then I see Dad sit back in his chair and throw his hands up. “I can’t work with this,” he says, still angry. “This is ridiculous. Can’t you make her behave?” he asks my mom. Or maybe he’s asking Natalie. But they don’t answer him.

  I manage to take a big, shuddering breath. For some reason, I feel a little calmer. I’m not shrieking when I speak again. And I look right at my dad’s face. He doesn’t scare me anymore.

  “Maybe I am a child, Dad,” I say. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe I’d know how to grow up if anyone had ever taught me.”

  For once, he doesn’t have anything to say to that. And even if he does, I’m out the door before he can.

  I’m thinking This is the last time I’ll visit Therapist Teresa when I flop down on her couch. But it doesn’t take long to find out I’m wrong about this last time.

  “I’ve already recommended you keep coming to see me as part of your probation period,” she says, twirling her pen in her hand. “Or another therapist, if you’d rather, but I’d like to keep seeing you if you’re happy with the work we’ve been doing.” She’s wearing a silver ring on almost every finger, and her scarf today is a blinding swirl of oranges, reds, and yellows. I wonder if I’ll wear scarves like that when I’m, what, forty or fifty years old? Is it a requirement?