Текст книги "Backlash"

Автор книги: Sarah Darer Littman

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

I’M IN my bedroom doing my homework with the headphones on when I get a text from Spencer.

Dude, why’s there a cop car outside your house? Saw it when I was walking the dog.

Wait, what? I text back.

I take off my headphones and look out the bedroom window. Sure enough, there’s a Lake Hills police car parked on the street in front of our house.

IDK. Gonna go check it out.

As I get to the bottom of the stairs, I hear Mom say, “Can’t I trust you to do anything right, Breanna?”

When Mom yells, you know she’s mad, but when she speaks in that cold, quiet voice, you know she’s really mad. Like “stay out of her way if you know what’s good for you” mad.

And then I hear Bree sobbing, so I detour to the kitchen. As much as I want to know what this is all about, going into the living room doesn’t seem like a smart move right about now.

Instead, I call Dad.

“Where are you?” I ask him. “Are you on the way home?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Do we need milk?”

“No,” I say. “The police are here talking to Mom and Bree.”

“WHAT?” Dad exclaims. “What about?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

He curses. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry,” I urge him before hanging up.

My phone buzzes. Another text from Spencer.

So? What’s going on?

I ignore it, waiting for Dad to get home. And then I hear Bree come out of the living room bawling, and her footsteps as she runs up the stairs to her room.

Figuring it’s the quickest way to find out what’s going on, I head back upstairs and knock on her door.

“Go away!” she cries.

But I don’t. I slip into her room, closing the door behind me.

She’s curled up on her bed, with her knees up to her chest, clutching Bertie, her worn, old teddy bear.

“I t-told you to g-go away,” she hiccups between sobs.

My sister and I aren’t super close like some siblings, but it’s clear something pretty bad has just gone down.

“What happened?” I ask. “Why are the police here?”

My questions just make her start crying harder again. I don’t know what to do. Bree’s totally freaking out about whatever happened in the living room, and I have no idea what it is.

I sit down on the bed and squeeze her ankle.

“It’ll be okay,” I say, even though I have no idea if that’s true. It’s just what people always say when someone is freaking out to make them stop.

“No it w-won’t,” she says. “N-nothing is g-going to be o-okay.”

“What’s this all about?”

“M-Mom’s right. I am s-stupid. B-But I had to t-tell them the t-truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“About L-Lara.”

Lara? What could the police have to do with Bree and Lara? I mean, they were friends and they aren’t now, but that’s not a crime. That’s just girls, from what I can tell.

And then I remember the night Lara was taken away in the ambulance …

“Is this about that picture you posted? The one the night Lara tried to kill herself?”

Bree uncovers her face and gives me a look like I’m the stupid one. She swallows, like she’s trying to get a grip, and says, “No, Liam. It’s not about that. The reason the police are here … the reason why everything isn’t going to be okay is because … I’m the reason that Lara tried to kill herself.”

I stare at her, trying to understand what she means. How can my sister be the reason Lara tried to kill herself?

“What are you talking about? She did that because she was upset about that jerk Christian guy.”

“I’m ‘that jerk Christian guy.’ He never existed. He was fake, right from the beginning.”

The horror of what Bree’s just said crawls over me like I’ve just stepped onto a nest of fire ants. I stand up and back away from her bed, my breath catching in my chest.

“You mean … that awful guy … who wrote all that stuff about Lara … was you?”

My sister nods slowly, staring back at me with eyes red from weeping, her face stained with tears.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask just above a whisper. “Why would you do that?”

Bree doesn’t answer. She just puts her head down and starts crying again.

I realize that I’ve grown up with Bree and I have no idea who she really is. Because the sister I thought I had wouldn’t do something that sick to anyone, especially someone who used to be her best friend.

I leave Bree to her crying and head for my room. And then I’m hit with a wave of nausea that sends me toward the bathroom instead. Because I’ve just imagined Sydney’s reaction when she hears about what my sister did.

I’M BOTH excited and nervous about Luis and Julisa visiting today. Ashley and a few girls from cheerleading came by last week to drop off fashion magazines and flowers, but I was taking a nap, and to be honest I was glad Mom let me sleep, because I wasn’t ready to see them yet. But Julisa and Luis are different. I know them better.

Even so, it’s hard. Julisa bursts into tears when she sees me and hugs me so tight I think my ribs will break.

“Don’t you dare scare me like that again,” she says, her tears dampening my shoulder.

“I won’t,” I tell her, hoping that I mean it.

Luis stands behind her, uncharacteristically awkward, clutching a bunch of bright yellow tulips. He smiles tentatively as I look at him over Julisa’s shoulder.

“Hey, Lara,” he says.

Julisa releases me from the bear hug, and he hands me the tulips. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you right now,” Luis says.

“Thanks. Tulips are my favorite,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says, looking down at the carpet.

“How do you know?” Julisa asks the question I am wondering.

Luis looks straight into my eyes. “You told us last spring. When we went to the concert in the park.”

I can’t believe he remembered. A group of us went to a free concert in the park downtown last spring. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday, and they’d set up a stage under a tent. The daffodils and tulips were out, and the leaves were back on the trees and everything seemed hopeful again – especially for me, because I’d made new friends after Bree dumped me.

That he cared enough to remember something so small about me makes me cry.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, worried, as tears stream down my cheeks. “I’m sorry – I thought they would make you happy.”

“Th-they d-do,” I sniff. “I j-just c-can’t believe you r-remembered.”

Luis looks totally confused. “I will never, ever understand girls,” he says with a sigh.

Julisa puts her arm around me. “Tontito, all you need to understand is that Lara likes the flowers, okay?”

“But if she likes them, why is she crying?” Luis asks, running his hand through his thick, dark hair.

The poor guy is so bewildered I can’t help giggling, despite my tears. I’d probably be confused, if I were him.

“It’s complicated,” I say, glancing at Julisa, who starts laughing, too.

Luis finally throws up his hands, says something in Spanish I don’t understand, and joins in the laughter.

I realize how happy I am to see them. And that it’s the first time I’ve really laughed like that since … since that awful night.

Later that night, I’m in bed trying to think of a third thing for my Gratitude List when the phone rings. I’d already written the first two:

1. Luis remembered I like tulips and brought me some.

2. Mom was so busy with work that she didn’t bother me for an entire hour and a half. I got to be alone, even if she could watch me out of the kitchen window.

I’d gone outside to read – luckily the visual problems I had after the overdose turned out to be temporary – but instead I ended up just listening to the leaves rustling, as the breeze blew them from the branches to meet their fallen comrades below, and to the geese honking as they flew south from Canada in a perfect V. I also listened to the thoughts in my head, the whats and the whys and the hows and the whos, and even though they made me sad and mad, at least I could just sit there with them and have them go through my head without anyone trying to “process” them. They were just there.

But I’m stuck on the third thing. My life is very limited at the moment. I go from home to Linda’s office and back home again. I’m not allowed on the Internet, except to do the schoolwork my teachers send home, and when I do that, Mom is in the same room and constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not on Facebook or chatting with anyone. What she doesn’t understand is that now that I know that Christian wasn’t real, I’m afraid to start all that up again. Because what if I make the same mistake again?

I miss my cell phone more than Facebook or Instagram or anything else. My parents haven’t even let me have that back yet, because I might go online with it, so I can’t even text my friends. I said they could turn the data off, but they said there’s always Wi-Fi and, besides, I have to “earn the privilege.”

I’m a lab specimen under constant observation. It’s as irritating for Mom as it is for me. She’s really resentful about how time keeping an eye on me is taking away from her work and the campaign. She’s trying to be a good mom so she doesn’t come straight out and say it, but it comes out in lots of little ways.

Sometimes, she takes me for a walk around the neighborhood to “get some fresh air,” but really so I get some exercise. I’ve already done enough damage to her campaign by being mentally unstable. I can’t compound it by getting fat again.

I wonder if Mom will ever stop thinking of me as her “problem child.”

I wonder if I’ll ever stop being one.

When I hear the phone ring so late, I’m afraid that someone is in the hospital. Or worse, has died. That’s what those calls usually mean. Late-night calls are never about good news.

My stomach clenches. Is it Grandpa, who has angina, or Nana, whose cancer has been in remission? Please don’t let Nana’s cancer have come back. There’s enough bad stuff going on right now. Pleasepleasepleaseplease!

Dad’s angry shout of “WHAT?” so loud that I hear Syd stir in her sleep next door tells me the call isn’t about death or illness. It’s something else. For once I’m glad about my “open door” restriction, because I can hear what’s going on.

Finally!

3. Open Door Policy helps me eavesdrop better.

“WHERE DID YOU HEAR THIS?” Dad yells.

I hear Mom telling him to stop shouting, because he’ll “wake the girls.”

Um … a little late for that, Mom.

Syd stands in my doorway, bleary-eyed and bed-headed.

“What’s Dad shouting about?”

“Haven’t a clue,” I tell her.

She comes in and collapses in a huddle on the end of my bed, her head resting on my stuffed Hedwig.

“What kind of sick —”

“What is it, Pete?” Mom interrupts him. “Who’s on the phone?”

“A reporter from the Lake Hills Independent,” Dad tells her, then recommences his rant.

“PETE! Tell them no comment and hang up, now!” Mom hisses at Dad.

“No comment! Good-bye.”

Syd and I look at each other as we hear the phone slam back in the cradle.

“I’m going over there right now and I’m going to rip them to pieces with my bare hands!”

I’ve heard my father angry before, but I’ve never, ever heard him like this.

“Who’s he going to rip to pieces?” Syd asks. “What’s he so mad about?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But he’s really starting to freak me out.”

“Me too,” Syd says, cuddling Hedwig.

I slide my toes under her for warmth, and she doesn’t protest. She encircles my ankle with the hand that’s not holding my stuffed owl.

Mom is telling Dad to calm down, that he can’t take things into his own hands.

Dad comes stomping down the hallway, with Mom on his heels.

“Pete, you have to let the police deal with this,” she pleads. “It won’t do anyone any good if you go vigilante.”

That’s when I know that this is about me.

Pulling my feet from under Syd, I jump up from the bed, and run out into the hall.

“What happened? What was that phone call about?”

Mom’s hand flies to her mouth. She looks paralyzed with fear.

Dad turns to me. He’s in his tartan pj bottoms and a faded Chicago Bulls T-shirt and slippers. Is he planning on going out of the house to exact retribution on someone like that? Tell me you’re not planning on leaving the house like that, please, Dad?

“You want to know what that phone call was about? It was a reporter from the Independent. She wanted to know my reaction to the news that it was our neighbors and former friends who’d set up that fake account.”

Neighbors and former friends?

No … It can’t be. He can’t mean … No way. Bree would never do that to me. Not Bree. Never. Christian couldn’t be Bree … He flirted with me.

I feel sick.

“Wait … you mean …”

It’s too hard to process, much less say the words I’m thinking.

“Yes,” Dad snaps. “I mean the Connorses. Your best friend, Bree, and her mother, Mary Jo. That’s who you’ve been talking to all this time.”

Christian … who used the L word …

Then told me the world would be a better place without me in it … was really … Bree.

My best friend, Bree.

My former best friend, Bree.

And her MOM.

Did they sit there laughing at me while they did it? Was messing with my head all some big joke to them?

I almost killed myself because of Bree and Mary Jo Connors.

How … can … this … be … real?

The dizziness comes over me so suddenly I have to put my hand on the wall to stay upright.

“I’m going over there right now,” Dad says.

“You can’t, Pete. It’s eleven-thirty at night,” Mom tells him, gripping his arm. “You’ll wake up the entire neighborhood.”

“You think I care?” Dad shouts, pulling his arm free of her grasp. “What kind of neighborhood is this when you can’t even trust the people you thought were friends? Huh, Kathy? Answer that for me.”

He turns on his heel and stomps down the stairs. A few seconds later we hear the front door slam so hard, the framed school pictures of Syd and me lining the wall of the stairway rattle against the wall.

Mom heads toward her bedroom. “I better go out there before he gets himself arrested,” she says in a voice clipped with anger.

Why does it seem like she’s angrier with Dad than with the Connorses?

She comes out, tying the knot on her bathrobe, her bare feet stuck hastily into a pair of pink running shoes.

“I’ll be back,” she says, her face grim, as she marches down the steps to save Dad from himself.

“Are you okay?”

Syd puts her hand on my shoulder, tentatively, like she’s afraid I’m going to shake it off. But I don’t. I’m grateful for it.

I shake my head no, not trusting myself to speak.

“I bet …” Syd puts her arms around me cautiously, like I’m an unexploded hand grenade that could go off any minute, and gives me a gentle but awkward hug.

Syd’s afraid I’m going to lose it again.

“I’m doing better than Dad,” I say, patting her back.

“No kidding,” Syd says, pulling away from me. “He’s scary.”

And that’s when we hear the commotion in the street. Shouts and screaming.

Syd and I look at each other and run down the stairs, through the door, and out into the street, neither of us caring that we’re in our pj’s and barefoot. The grass is cold and damp beneath my feet, and it sends a chill up my body, but not nearly as much as the scene in front of the Connors house. Dad is trying to get to Mrs. Connors like he wants to strangle her, and Mom and Mr. Nunn from next door are holding him back. Mr. Connors is standing between Dad and his wife, his fists clenched, ready to deck Dad if he gets any closer. Liam stands behind his mother, watching wide-eyed.

Mom is screaming at Dad to calm down and go home. Mr. Connors is telling him he’s crazy. Mrs. Connors shouts that she’s calling the police. Syd clutches my arm, and I hug her back for comfort and warmth.

And then I see Bree, watching the scene from their living room window. She has her cell phone in her hand, and she’s probably recording this whole thing to put on Facebook. Putting my family’s worst moments on Facebook seems to give her pleasure for some screwed-up reason. Why else would she have posted that picture of me on the stretcher?

Up and down the street, people are turning on their outside lights and coming out to check out the source of the noise, to see what the heck is going on.

More shouting.

“Hey, do you mind putting a sock in it? You just woke up my kids!” That’s Mr. Campbell from three doors down.

Mom grabs Dad’s collar so she can pull his head toward her. “Pete, you’re making a scene. We have to leave. NOW.”

People are holding up cell phones. This whole surreal scene is being captured for posterity or YouTube, whichever comes first.

And as none of us Kelleys are ever allowed to forget, Mom is running for reelection.

Syd starts crying. “Dad, come inside,” she wails.

I’m hugging her, not sure if I’m giving or seeking comfort. Despite all the tears I’ve shed since the night I took those pills, tonight my eyes are dry. Other than the cold grass under my bare feet and the wind that occasionally blows my hair across my face, I hardly even feel. Because this … this scene I’m a part of now … it’s not real. It can’t be. It’s too surreal. It’s a movie that I’m watching, that’s about my life, with familiar characters acting in unfamiliar ways.

And then we hear the sirens approaching. That’s when Mom loses it, too.

“Pete, get in the house,” she screams. “You’re making things worse.”

“Listen to Kathy, Pete,” Mr. Connors snarls. “Get off my property. Go home and leave my wife alone!”

When the police car pulls to a stop in front of the Connors house, the red and blue lights create a strobe effect, flashing off the houses, the gawking and videoing neighbors, my parents and Mr. and Mrs. Connors.

A police officer gets out and walks over to where my parents and the Connorses are standing. Mrs. Connors is still holding the cordless phone she used to call 911, brandishing it like a weapon in my father’s direction.

Dad, who has been like an attacking Rottweiler held back by Mom and Mr. Nunn, droops visibly when he sees the blue uniform. Mom and Mr. Nunn drop their hold on him, and he glances over at Mom, who doesn’t meet his gaze. She is marble – cold, hard, impassive, but I know underneath she is calculating the damage to our family image and her campaign and figuring out how to repair them both.

Can something like this even be repaired?

Mom catches sight of Syd and me shivering together on our front lawn and gestures for us to go inside. Syd wipes her tears away with the sleeve of her pajama top.

It’s like being at a sleepover when everyone else wants to watch a horror movie. I’ve seen enough that I don’t really want to watch any more, but I still want to know how it ends. But Mom gestures again, this time mouthing, “Go inside now,” and knowing the kind of mood she’s going to be in after this, it’s better to just go with it.

“Come on, Syd. We have to go in.”

“But what about Dad?”

“Mom says.”

We head back to the house. My sister casts a look back at my parents, and when I look back, too, I notice that Liam’s gaze is focused on us, not at what is going on with our parents and the police.

“My feet are freezing,” Syd complains when we get inside.

“Do you want me to make you some hot chocolate?”

She gives me a strange look. Under the kitchen lights, I can see the dried tear tracks that stain her cheeks, still tinged pink from the chill outside.

“What?” I ask.

Syd opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but closes it and looks down at her bare feet, which have bits of grass still stuck to them. “Nothing,” she mumbles. “Hot chocolate would be nice.”

I know she was going to say something else, but I don’t have the energy for twenty questions. Whatever’s on her mind, Syd’s gonna have to just spit it out.

I’ve just finished pouring the boiling water into the mugs when the front door opens and slams shut.

“How could you, Pete?” Mom shouts. “Do you realize you’ve probably single-handedly sunk my reelection campaign?”

“I’m sorry …”

“A citation for disorderly conduct? What kind of example —”

“Seriously, Kathy? That … woman almost killed our daughter and you’re worried about the election and setting examples?”

My former best friend and her mother punked me and I tried to kill myself over a guy who didn’t even exist, my dad’s been cited for disorderly conduct by the police – I’m sure the video of him losing it on our neighbor’s lawn in his pajamas is all over YouTube as we speak – and my mother’s reelection campaign is probably over as of tonight.

Everything is a complete disaster, and it’s all because of me.

Syd grabs my wrist as soon as I put down her mug of hot chocolate.

“Don’t.”

The fierce urgency in her voice shocks me. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that thing you do. Don’t go all zombie on me right now.”

Her eyes burn into me, trying to force me out of the numbness I’m trying so desperately to retreat into.

“You always do that. You always disappear when things get hard,” she says. “I’m sick of it. It’s not fair.”

I think, I’m not disappearing. I’m trying to save myself.

I say, “I’m right here, Syd.”

Syd rolls her eyes and blows a raspberry of disgust through her lips. “Sure, Lara. Okay, Lara. Whatever you say.”

She slides out of her chair, taking the mug of hot chocolate with her, and storms out of the kitchen, while I listen to our parents fighting and try my best to slip back into the comforting void, alone.