Tease Page 8

  And maybe it was. But the date on it is January 20.

  The day after Brielle’s party.

  Brielle doesn’t know about the photo I found on Dylan’s page, but it’s like she does, because suddenly we’re practically on a mission to Get Emma. Every day Brielle finds a way to say something mean to her, at least in gym—though after the locker room thing, Emma isn’t around for gym very often.

  But Brielle is like the late-winter weather outside, cold and relentless. She makes us go out of our way to walk down the hall where Emma’s locker is. She finds Emma in the library. She never says much, but that’s almost scarier—just hissing “Slut” at someone as you walk past, so quietly they’re not even sure they heard it, is like a poison dart in the forest. Emma’s head always jerks up, and she always knows it was us, but she never really knows for sure. She just feels the sting.

  It’s just, I don’t know, a hobby. There’s nothing to do at school these days. I want to try out for the spring musical, but that’s not for another three weeks. Brielle used to play basketball, but she dropped it this year. I guess everyone’s bored, because Brielle seems to be gathering recruits to our anti-Emma campaign. Alison Stipe and Jacob aren’t even a little bit friendly to her now.

  Emma’s helping the cause, of course. Kyle asked her to the Valentine’s dance, so now she’s on to Boyfriend #256 or whatever.

  “She’s always around,” Tyler complains when we’re all having lunch off campus one day. It’s, like, two degrees outside and I’m sunk down in my puffy coat, not concerned that I must look like a turtle squished down in its shell. I can’t help it, though. Even now that we’re inside Burger King I can’t get warm.

  “Well, dude, I mean, they’re ‘dating,’” Jacob says, making air quotes with two french fries.

  Tyler laughs, but Brielle wrinkles her nose. “Are they, though?” she says. “I mean, Kyle keeps texting me. I think she’s just stalking him, like she did with all of you.”

  The guys act like they haven’t really heard this; they all seem to be very interested in their food suddenly. I shoot Brielle a look, but I don’t think she sees it. To be fair, only a small part of my face is visible right now.

  “Whatever, you know, she’s just gross,” Brielle goes on nonchalantly. “I just hope Kyle’s being super careful, because we seriously don’t know where that thing has been.”

  Now everyone laughs. I feel a little confused—isn’t this more insulting to Jacob and Tyler than the stalking thing?—but I’m relieved that the tension is gone. The boys go back to talking about baseball and I come out of my coat long enough to eat a few chicken nuggets. But Brielle is still kind of frowning, like she’s trying to figure something out. I try to catch her eye again, but when I finally do, she looks right through me.

  Dylan and I walk back to his car together, and he puts his arm around me on the way. “Are you always this cold?” he asks.

  “Yes! It’s ninety billion degrees below zero!” I say, and I wiggle my arm under his open coat, around his waist. “You’re so warm.”

  He just laughs and lets me into the SUV, where I sit and shiver until he comes around to the driver’s side and turns on the heat. “Sorry,” he says, “I should’ve started it before we got in.”

  “That’s okay.”

  He’s backing out of the parking lot, craning his head over his shoulder to see behind him, when he adds, “Why’s Brielle such a bitch about Emma, anyway?”

  I look over at him, startled. The car jerks as he shifts from reverse to drive, and underneath me I feel the heated seat kick in, starting to burn the backs of my legs.

  “Brielle’s not a bitch,” I protest, but he laughs.

  “Um, yeah, she is,” Dylan says. “She’s, like, the Original Bitch. The O.B.”

  My mouth is hanging open, waiting for some words to come out. But I don’t know what to say. I never know what to say. Is my boyfriend really being mean about my best friend?

  “She’s cool, though,” he says. “I just think you guys don’t need to get so mad at Emma. She’s a cool girl.”

  “To you, maybe,” I mutter.

  “Come on, you know what I mean,” Dylan says. He reaches across the car and grabs for my hand. I have it tucked under my legs for warmth, but I let him take it. “And really, Emma’s totally fun when you get to know her. And she’s nice, like you. I think you guys could chill, you know?”

  I don’t know. I don’t want to know. What is once you get to know her supposed to mean, anyway? What does Dylan know about Emma being fun? Not just fun—totally fun.

  I stare out the front window, blinking fast so I don’t cry. I’m holding Dylan’s hand, I remind myself. I’m his girlfriend. He just said I’m nice and fun.

  Just like Emma.

  After school I drive to the fancy mall with Brielle in the passenger seat. We’re going lingerie shopping for the dance. It might be fun, or I think it’s supposed to be fun. But Brielle hates my car, which I know because every time I drive she complains nonstop, like she’s doing now.

  “What is this?” Brielle asks, not kindly, grabbing my iPod and turning on the screen. Just as I’m opening my mouth she says, “Who are the National? That’s a stupid name.”

  “C’mon, they’re my favorite, you should just listen,” I protest. Lately I feel like I’m always playing defense around Brielle, always explaining something. But the explanation is never good enough.

  “Whatever,” she says, throwing the iPod back down on the console. “You and your deep thoughts. Blech, I hope you don’t go all emo on me again.”

  It’s been forever since my emo phase, but I don’t say that—and I also don’t point out that it seems like she’s the one being all moody. She stares out the window sulkily for a while, then turns back to crank up the heat. “God, it’s like a freaking freezer in here. We should’ve taken my car.”

  I swear I’m the only one in our group of friends who doesn’t drive a big SUV. Brielle’s “car” is a silver Mercedes M-Class that probably cost more than my house, and we almost always do take it. But I really like to drive. And I really like to be able to listen to my own music. I mean, singing along to Beyoncé is fun and everything, but sometimes I like to be the one in control for a change.

  “Sorry,” I say. “You’ll drive next time. And we’re almost there, anyway.”

  We’re pulling into the parking lot, actually, and I don’t even bother to find a spot close to the door; I just pull in at the first open space on the side with the Nordstrom. And for some reason, after we’re parked, I reach over and grab Brielle’s hand. We’re not affectionate like this—there are girls at school who walk around with their arms linked or do each other’s hair all the time or whatever, but we don’t really touch besides the times Brielle does my nails. But right now I take her hand in both of mine, and it is cold, and I give it a friendly little shake. It’s something I’d do with my little brothers to snap them out of a bad mood, and I guess the instinct just takes over.

  “Hey,” I say brightly, “let’s go buy some sexy-time underwear!” I grin like an idiot and wait for her to laugh.

  Instead, Brielle bursts into tears. Her head falls to her chest and she’s shaking, sobbing.

  My heart stops. I’ve never seen this. Brielle is not a crier. Not even when her parents separated for a month back in ninth grade and she thought they were going to get divorced. She’s barely a talker, even—she’s always got a plan, a joke, a designer suit of armor to throw on in any situation. But now she’s full-on ugly crying, her mouth open and turned down like a sad clown doll, snot already starting to come out of her nose.

  I reach into the backseat and grab a couple of tissues, grateful that I always keep a box in here and even more grateful that Alex hasn’t used them all. Brielle takes the whole handful and covers her face, then folds herself over, face down on her knees. She’s shaking, and all I can do from here is rub her back. The car is still on, so with my other hand I reach over and turn the heat up full-blast,
hoping that will help a little. She’s wearing her puffy white down coat—I have no idea how her hands could even be that cold. I’m also not sure she can feel my hand through the layers of down, but I keep circling it on her back, just quietly waiting for her to sit up and—I hope—tell me what the hell is going on.

  After what feels like an hour, Brielle throws herself back up into a sitting position. I jerk my hand away in surprise and try not to gasp when I see that she’s got mascara all down her cheeks, like the cartoon version of a girl crying. She’s even a little puffy. I cannot stop being shocked by seeing her so upset. And I completely don’t know what to say.

  “It’s so stupid,” Brielle wails, letting out another sob. “I don’t even know why I’m making such a big deal about it.”

  “About what?” I manage to ask. “What’s going on?”

  Her head drops down and she stares at the tissues, suddenly going still. Taking a big, shuddery breath, she says, “Diver. Stupid . . . fucking . . . camp guy.”

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting her to say, but it wasn’t this. Has she been in touch with Diver again? Is this another thing I didn’t know about, another thing she didn’t feel like telling me? But she’s so upset, it’s not like I’m mad—I just want her to keep talking. I reach over and turn the heat down—the vents are blasting, too loud and way too hot—and put the box of tissues up on the dashboard.

  “What about him?” I finally manage to ask.

  “He didn’t . . . We didn’t . . . you know, I mean, he had a girlfriend. He didn’t even seem to like her and we were hanging out all the time and then that night, he just . . . It was just making out, but he just . . .”

  She waves her hand across her body, like she’s pointing something out. I look but it’s just her puffy coat, the pile of tissues.

  “I thought you guys—” I start to say, but she’s shaking her head fast.

  “No. He did. He did it. He just did it. Like, on me. Like, just—”

  And then she has the box of tissues and she’s beating it against the dashboard, the window, her knees. She’s pulling it apart and throwing her weight back and forth in her seat, throwing a fit, a tantrum. I’m so scared I can’t breathe or move. I’m pretty sure she’s going to hit me next, or hurt herself, or hurt the car—and then she’s doubled over again, crying even more.

  This time I fall on top of her, hugging her as best as I can in the confines of the car. “It’s okay,” I’m saying, “it’s going to be okay,” but I don’t know if that’s at all true. I’m not even sure what she just told me—that Diver hurt her? That he . . . raped her? That . . . what? Girls like us don’t get raped. Girls like Brielle don’t get in trouble at all. Girls like Brielle get roses on Valentine’s Day from half the damn school. Girls like Brielle get whatever they want.

  Gradually, her crying slows down. She stays bent over, but I see her gather a handful of tissues to her face and hold them there, and suddenly she’s quiet. From the crumple her voice comes out, very small, muffled. “God, this is pathetic.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say. “I’m glad you told me,” I add, though I’m still not sure what she’s told me.

  “I just thought it would be romantic, you know? I thought it’d be like how it was for you and Dylan.”

  I still have my hand on Brielle’s back, and I have to stop myself from flinching, moving away. How was it for me and Dylan? I’d thought it’d be romantic too. But maybe it was? Maybe that’s as romantic as it could be?

  And I’m shocked to realize that Brielle never talks like this—she never confides stuff. She’s never unguarded, never unsure. I feel closer to her, but I’m scared, too; is she going to just pull away? In a minute, will she fix her mascara and pretend this never happened?

  Do I want her to?

  I sit there, frozen, waiting for what will happen next. But it’s not that dramatic after all. Brielle sits up and gives me a sloppy smile, her eyebrows raised in an Isn’t this ridiculous expression. Her eye makeup is smudged but she mostly just looks tired and sad. “Seriously, it’s not that big a deal,” she says quietly. “I wanted to . . . you know. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to do it.”

  I nod. Of course she did.

  “I just . . .” She trails off with a shrug, looking out the front window at the parking lot like there are some answers there.

  “It could have been more romantic,” I say, trying to finish her sentence.

  She snorts. “Yeah,” she says, her voice hard and sarcastic, the wall going back up. “More romantic. More consensual. All that good stuff.”

  I hesitate, wondering if I should just drive us home now. But Brielle pulls down the passenger-side visor and fixes her makeup in the mirror. “So where do you think, Victoria’s Secret?” she asks.

  “Uh—yeah, sure,” I say, trying to not sound surprised.

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh, don’t be like that. You’re not getting out of this just because I’m all PMS-y.”

  She opens her side of the car and jumps out, leaving a blast of freezing wind in her place. I give my head a little shake, trying to make these new things fit. Brielle being hurt by someone is just so . . . foreign. And the fact that she’s still thinking about it, still crying about it, all these months later . . .

  For a second I wonder if it could be because of me and Dylan, if she’s jealous. But Brielle has never been jealous of me, not even for a second. I’m jealous of her; that’s the whole deal. She’s the confident one, the one who knows all the seniors, the one who pays when I run out of my measly allowance. She knows where to buy fancy underwear. Well, I mean, I know where to buy it, but the last time I went to VS I just got some of those cotton Pink ones. Brielle knows how to take the lacy black bras up to the cash register without dying of embarrassment.

  “Hey!” she yells. She pounds on the roof of the car, making me jump. “It’s the effing tundra out here! Let’s go!”

  I yank my keys out of the ignition and jump out of the car, feeling the wind again. It stings my eyes and clears everything away with one violent whoosh, leaving nothing but two regular girls, running across a gray parking lot, puffy coats flapping behind us, laughing at how stupid we probably look, but not caring. Not a care in the world.

  August

  CARMICHAEL SLIDES INTO the desk next to mine on Friday, waving his copy of Hamlet at me like he’s saying hello with it.

  “Did you finish?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, of course,” he says. “Why, you?”

  I shake my head. I finally got the hang of the language, even got into the story a little bit, thanks to the internet’s help. But Hamlet is so depressed all the time, and everyone keeps dying in these awful ways. And then Ophelia drowns in the river, and Hamlet says he loved her the whole time, even though he treated her like crap when she was alive, and I just . . . it was just too freaking awful.

  I don’t say all that to Carmichael—for once I seem able to actually choose what comes out of my mouth around him. I just shake my head again and say, “It’s too sad.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. Then he holds his copy up again and points to the word tragedy on the cover.

  “Shut up,” I say, and I reach out to slap his arm. It’s playful—maybe even flirty—and to my shock he jumps back, like I’ve actually hurt him. But he’s just playing along. Maybe even flirting.

  “I could help you study,” he says. “If you want.”

  Just then Mr. Rodriguez walks in, right as Carmichael accidentally knocks his book off his desk, onto the floor between us. The slap it makes on the linoleum isn’t even that noticeable amid all the paper-shuffling and bag-zipping in the room, but Mr. Rodriguez shouts, “Everyone please get your books off the floor and start taking notes!” I roll my eyes at Carmichael, but he’s facing the front of the room, all model-student mode. I don’t get him at all.

  I try to concentrate on the Hamlet review, because I actually am worried about the test on Monday, but I keep thinking about what Carmicha
el said. Does he mean it? I really am starved for male attention, I guess, or just a friend. Or just something to do besides going to Natalie’s or Teresa’s.

  It isn’t a lab day in Chem and we only have one other section, foreign language; I’m in French while Carmichael’s in Spanish. By the end of the day I figure I should get in my car and leave before I do or say anything else idiotic, but just when I’ve made it to the trunk of my Honda, there he is again, standing on his bike pedals and coasting over slowly.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says.

  “That’s gonna be quite a trick, since tomorrow is Saturday,” I say.

  He just nods, acknowledging my stupid joke without laughing at it. “Right, that’s why I’ll meet you at your house. You live on Grandview, right?”

  I have no idea how he knows this, but I nod.

  “So, seven?”

  “Are you sure?” I say, and quickly add, “Because I really suck at Shakespeare. Really. I keep getting Polonius and Claudius mixed up.”

  Carmichael has been riding his bike in a circle this whole time, looking down at the pavement, his face mostly hidden by his hair. But when I finish talking, he stops and sets his feet on the ground, looking up at me.

  “Well, then you really do need my help. You have something we can stream one of the movies on? Or Netflix?”

  I nod.

  “Great. We’ll watch it, and we’ll figure out how you can keep two totally different characters straight, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, embarrassed but inexplicably happy. It’s a strange kind of relief to have someone be bossy with me—someone who isn’t a lawyer, I mean.

  He nods again and then pedals away, and I stand there, watching him go, wondering why the hell he’s bothering with all this. But then I shake off the thought and get in my car. I can’t worry about that. I have to just enjoy having someone to talk to. While it lasts.