Текст книги "Backlash"

Автор книги: Sarah Darer Littman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

I WANTED Mom to drive me to school today, but of course she had to stay with Lara, who didn’t sleep well last night because of the press attention, and Mom doesn’t want Dad to drive me like he did yesterday because he almost punched out a photographer who tried to take a picture of us. He has to keep away from the press in case he does something stupid and messes up her campaign even more.

So I have to fight my way through the savage media hordes all by myself. They stick these big black microphones in my face and ask me questions about Lara and Bree. I push their mics away, saying, “Leave me alone, you’re going to make me miss the bus!”

But they keep surrounding me like a pack of rabid dogs, until Mrs. Gorski comes out of her house with a broom and yells at them.

“Leave the poor child alone!” she shouts, waving her broomstick at them like some crazy old witch. She’s wearing a flowered nylon housecoat and a pair of purple Crocs, which look ginormous at the end of her thin chicken legs. But Mrs. G. has never looked better to me, even in her Barney Crocs with her white hair sticking up in all directions.

She marches to the bus stop by my side, wielding the broom like a weapon, ready to use it on anyone with a camera or a mic who dares comes too close.

“Thanks, Mrs. G.,” I say.

My words come out damp and wobbly. Having this tiny old lady with her flyaway hair and her housecoat ready to fight for me, armed with only a household cleaning tool and her personality makes me feel more like the real Sydney and less like the beef jerky one.

The other kids at the bus stop give me a strange look when I get there, but I don’t know if it’s because of the news or because of Mrs. G. marching beside me with her broom and her purple Crocs.

Liam isn’t here. I don’t know if he was here yesterday. I didn’t see him in school. Maybe his parents are willing to drive him.

Mrs. G. keeps up a steady stream of conversation, telling me about how her daughter who lives in Cleveland is coming to visit with her one-year-old grandson this weekend and how she can’t wait to see him and she wishes they lived closer. Even though I’m only half listening, I’m grateful because it means I don’t have to answer any questions or wonder what the other kids are thinking. In fact I’m so grateful that when the bus pulls up, I hug her before I get on.

“Hang in there, bubbeleh,” Mrs. G. says, embracing me with her bony arms. “All this mishegas will be over soon, and they’ll move on to the next thing. You’ll be okay. Trust me.”

I don’t have a clue what bubbeleh or mishegas mean, but I want like anything to believe her when she says that I’ll be okay.

Two stops past our normal one, Liam gets on the bus, and it suddenly goes quiet. Then kids move to the aisle so that even though there’s an empty space next to them, he can’t sit down.

He quickly covers the flash of hurt on his face with a mask of indifference. But I know. I can tell by the way his skin flushes under his freckles. I can tell by the way his jaw is set. I’ve known Liam Connors long enough to tell.

Even though I’ve got every reason to be mad at the Connorses, more reason than any of the other kids on this bus to hate Liam, I don’t. He can’t help being Bree’s brother any more than I can help being Lara’s sister. We’re both stuck in this sucky situation by accident of birth. In that brief instant before the mask came up, he looked as tired, angry, and miserable as I feel. So I slide over to the window and gesture to the seat next to me.

I hear muttering. “What the?” … “Why would she do that?” … “Isn’t that Lara Kelley’s sister?” but I try to tune it out. They don’t know our history. They don’t know what it’s like to be me – or to be Liam.

Liam looks surprised, but he plops down next to me in the seat.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving me a quick, grateful glance, but then he keeps his eyes trained on the backpack resting on his knees as if he’s afraid to let the mask slip.

“How’s it going?” I ask, and then curse myself for asking because it’s a seriously stupid question.

“Oh, everything’s just swell,” he says, dripping sarcasm. “Someone posted our phone number online at two o’clock in the morning, and it started ringing off the hook with people leaving obscene messages and death threats for Mom and Bree. Dad finally ripped all the plugs out of the wall.”

As mad as I am at Bree and Mrs. Connors, as much as I want them punished for what they did to Lara, death threats are pretty extreme. Especially when Liam didn’t do anything wrong.

“That’s horrible,” I say. “Are you … you know … scared?”

Liam shrugs. “I don’t know. The policeman who came by at four this morning said the obvious thing to do is change our phone number and just be vigilant. They’ll investigate to see if any of them are really credible, but even if they can arrest someone, they can’t protect us twenty-four seven.”

He gives me a sideways look and, despite everything, manages a weak smile. “You’re not planning on bumping me off, are you, Syd?”

That he can still joke with me, while crazy people are threatening to kill his mom and his sister, tugs at my heart. He’s my friend, no matter what’s happening in the world around us. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

“Not this week,” I say. “But I’ll have to check my assassination schedule for next week.”

And then I get a real Liam smile, one that goes all the way to his eyes. “I’ll watch my back, then.”

I don’t want to take away his smile, but I have to ask. “How’s Bree doing?”

The light disappears immediately, and he starts picking at a loose thread on his backpack strap. “She’s a disaster. Especially after what happened with her cell yesterday.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone hacked it and changed her outgoing message, asking people to leave her death threats, then posted the number online. When she turned it on after second period, there were already seventy messages. She got totally hysterical and Dad had to go to school and pick her up.” He pulls hard at the loose thread and rips it. “They were seriously nasty – at least the few I was allowed to listen to.”

I can’t help myself. “Worse than the stuff that people wrote on Lara’s Facebook wall?”

Liam stiffens. “At least people weren’t threatening to kill her.”

I know he’s her sister, but it’s like he’s forgotten that Bree’s the one who started it all. If it weren’t for her, none of us would be living through this nightmare. Dad wouldn’t have a citation for disorderly conduct, Mom’s reelection campaign wouldn’t be on the rocks, Lara would be cheering at football games and getting on with her life instead of being such a mess, and I’d have had the chance to audition for the eighth-grade musical and maybe have gotten a lead instead of just being on crew and once again being reduced to playing a bit part in my sister’s drama.

If his life sucks right now, well, so does mine. And so does Lara’s. And Mom’s. And Dad’s.

“Maybe not, but people – no, not people, Bree — basically told Lara to kill herself,” I tell him. My voice cracks, as I try to hold back angry tears. “And she tried to do it.”

Liam stares at me, his green eyes dark and wounded. What does he expect? That I should feel sorry for Bree?

I feel bad for him, because he’s caught up in this just the way I am, but Bree’s different. She brought this on herself the moment she created that fake profile and started messing with my sister’s head.

“She’s my sister, Syd.”

I look away from him, out the window, the scenery blurred as the first tear trails down my cheek. “Well, Lara is mine.”

We don’t speak to each other the rest of the way to school.

Maddie and Cara are talking about Beauty and the Beast at lunch, because that’s mostly what they talk about these days. Cara ended up getting the part of Belle. I’m really happy for her, but whenever they talk about the musical – I can’t help feeling left out, even though I’m doing crew. It’s just not the same.

I also can’t help wondering what would have happened if Lara hadn’t tried to kill herself. If I hadn’t been stuck at the hospital. If I’d been able to go to auditions instead of being caught up in Lara’s drama.

Maybe it could have been me. It’s not like I’m mad at Cara – if anyone other than me had to get the lead, I’m glad it was her.

But the thing is … I wanted the role sooooo badly. Even if I didn’t get the part, at least I wanted the opportunity to try out. All that practicing for weeks leading up to auditions. And because of Lara – no, because of Bree – I didn’t even get that chance.

It makes me mad at Bree all over again. And at Liam. Is he crazy? How can he expect me to feel sorry for Bree? I mean, it’s not like I want people to make death threats. That’s going totally overboard. But she deserves something bad to happen to her because of what she did. She shouldn’t just get to keep on going on with her life like nothing ever happened. Because we don’t have that option. Not Lara. Not me. Not anyone in my family. Especially now.

“Ohmigosh, did you see the latest about Bree and her mom on the news?” Maddie says between bites of carrot.

Jeez, Maddie, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?

“You mean Monster Mom?” Cara giggles. “Wouldn’t that be a great new reality series?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “If it weren’t actually my life at the moment.”

The smiles fade from my friends’ faces.

“I’m sooooo sorry, Syd – I … just spaced,” Cara says. “I’m not used to stuff on the news having anything to do with people I actually know. You know … real people.”

“Trust me, this is all too real. For my family and the Connorses,” I say.

They both gape at me.

“Wait – are you sticking up for Breanna Connors after what she did to Lara?” Maddie asks. “Because that’s messed up.”

“Totally messed up,” Cara agrees.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been confused every minute of every single day since we found Lara unconscious in the bathroom. I alternate between being confused and mad. Mad at everyone and everything. Mad about why everything in our family always revolves around Lara. Confused about why life is so freaking unfair all the time. Wondering why people have to be jerks instead of being nice to one another.

“No … I’m not sticking up for her … exactly. It’s just … I don’t know.”

How do I explain that as much as I hate Bree and Mrs. Connors for what they did, the person who probably understands what I’m going through the most is Liam? Or at least was Liam. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t think anyone would. It’s hard enough to accept it myself right now.

“Never mind. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.” I get up and clear my stuff.

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Syd,” Cara says. “Really, I am.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Things are just … you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says.

But the thing is, Cara doesn’t know. Neither does Maddie. Neither of them have the faintest idea what it’s like. How can they?

The only person who really understands is the brother of the one who started all this. And now that I’m mad at him, I feel absolutely and totally alone.

It’s not till I reach the nearest bathroom that the realization hits me: I’m turning into my sister, Lara – a walking, talking buzzkill.

I’m working on my homework later that afternoon when I get a text from Liam.

Need to talk. Can u meet me in the tree fort?

My thumbs hesitate over my phone. Part of me is still mad at him and wants to stay that way, because it’s easier than trying to figure out the mess of feelings I have for him if I’m not. Also, if there are any press people lurking around, and they catch a picture of us together … I can’t even think about that.

But the other part of me, the one that feels so incredibly alone in this insanity – that part wins out.

K. Be there in 5.

I finish the problem I was working on, then go brush my hair and put on lip gloss, even though it’s only Liam and I’m just meeting him in the tree fort. So why am I bothering?

Slipping out the back door, I check for camera people, but they seem to be congregated around the front of the house. Still, I keep to the back of the yard and detour around the rusting swing set that none of us use anymore, just in case.

Liam’s already there when I climb up into the tree fort. It’s dusk and there’s no electricity up here, so he’s lit a few candles. In their flickering glow, I can see the fort is noticeably cleaner and less cobwebby than the last time I was there.

“It looks cleaner up here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You should see me with a feather duster. The spiders were quaking in their webs.”

“Well, it’s a lot nicer being up here without getting them in my hair, that’s for sure.”

And then we just look at each other in an awkward silence.

I break eye contact first, unsure of what to make of what I see there.

“Syd … I feel bad about this morning. You know … on the bus?”

I meet his gaze again. His green eyes glow, reflecting candlelight and what I think is … what I hope is … honesty.

I nod, afraid to say anything. And then he reaches over and takes my hand, warming my cold fingers.

“I totally get it that this is all Bree’s fault. And my mom’s. I really do. I know that because of what they did, Lara almost …” He swallows, and I’m temporarily distracted by his Adam’s apple, so it’s not till I look back to his eyes that I realize how upset he is about this. “Almost died, and I get how sick that is.”

Then he kind of tugs my hand, pulling me toward him, and we are in an awkward hug. I’m suddenly aware of how close his lips are to mine, and I wonder if Liam wants to kiss me. Because I want to kiss him. And then he’s leaning in, a brush of lips, soft and warm on mine, with the candle in between us, like a warning that I might get burned.

I pull away and bite my lip. I wanted that kiss, but this is all just so messed up. My first kiss ever – and it’s with Liam Connors, whose sister almost caused my sister to die.

“I know how hard things must be for you, Syd. I just … I just wanted you to understand that things are pretty messed up at our house, too.”

“I know,” I say. “And I know it’s not your fault.” I sigh. “Are you still getting the death threat calls?”

“We haven’t plugged the phones back in yet,” Liam says. “We’re not going to until we’ve changed the phone number to an unlisted one. But in the meantime, someone hacked Dad’s business website and redirected it to a porn site.”

“Eww – that’s disgusting.”

“It’s more than disgusting. It’s shut down his online business until he can get someone to fix it,” Liam says. “Not to mention how it’s hurting the reputation of his store. He says this could end up ruining everything he’s worked for his entire life – because Mom and Bree were idiots.”

What does he want from me? Sympathy? Comfort? Understanding?

“Bet that went down well with Mary Jo,” I say.

Liam laughs bitterly. “Oh yeah. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear the shouting from your house.” He moves the index finger of his free hand back and forth through the tip of the candle flame.

“Stop!” I exclaim. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“This?” he asks, doing it again, grinning. “No. Try it.”

I shake my head. I already feel like it’s dangerous enough being up here with him. Kissing him, even. I don’t need to make it even more real by sticking my finger through a flame.

“I spent a lot of time doing this up here last night when Mom and Dad were fighting, and the phones kept ringing off the hook, and Bree was crying,” Liam says, running his finger through the flame again. He looks back to me from the flame. “We have to change all our phone numbers. They haven’t hacked my cell yet, but the police said they could sooner or later, so Dad’s canceling everything tomorrow.”

“That sucks,” I tell him. It does suck for him about the phone, because it’s a pain to have to change numbers, and I feel bad for Mr. Connors, because it wasn’t like he was pretending to be Christian DeWitt, either. But … I slide my fingers out from Liam’s, unsure of how he’ll react to what I’m about to say. “The thing is, Liam, it’s no picnic at our house, either. Lara’s a mess, and we have to tiptoe around her in case she relapses. My dad … Well, his being on the news going psycho on your lawn in his pj’s – that was fun.”

Liam laughs until he realizes that I wasn’t trying to be funny, and his smile fades.

“And then there’s Mom, who’s desperately trying to figure out how to salvage her election campaign because having an Emotionally Damaged Daughter and a Psycho Husband ruins her Perfect Wife and Mother cred, don’t you think?”

“Do you … think she’ll withdraw?”

I laugh. “Kathy Kelley? Withdraw? As if! My mom doesn’t withdraw. She just figures out a new angle.”

Liam smiles. “I thought I was the World’s Most Cynical Teen, but apparently not. It’s you, Syd.”

I wonder if he’ll kiss me again.

“Do you ever wish you could change your name or be adopted by another family?” I ask. “A normal family? Like one that isn’t in the newspapers or on the national news or doesn’t have to pretend to be perfect because they’re running for public office?”

“Or isn’t doing screwed-up things like setting up fake Facebook profiles and almost causing their former best friend to kill herself?”

“Yeah, that kind of family,” I agree. “One that does normal stuff together like have barbecues and build tree forts. Like our families used to do before everything got screwed up.”

“Do you think life can ever get back to normal after this?” Liam asks. “Or will I always be Son of Monster Mom?”

“And will I always be the sister of the girl who tried to kill herself over the fake Facebook guy?” I say. “With all these news stories being online, we can’t even go off to college and escape this now. It’s going to follow us wherever we go.”

“I’m not going to let Bree’s stupidity ruin the rest of my life,” Liam says. “I’m going to do something so amazing that people will remember me for being me, not because I’m her brother.” Then he laughs ruefully. “The problem is, I haven’t figured out what that amazing thing is yet.”

Liam’s so brave and determined that I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll do it.

“You will,” I tell him, taking his hand. “I know you will.”

He smiles at me and shifts over so he’s sitting next to me. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder, and I snuggle next to him, resting my head on his shoulder. We sit looking at the flickering candle flame, just being there in our little tree house of sanity.

I HATE the Gratitude List. I hate Linda’s office. I hate Linda.

Days like today I wish the pills had worked so I wouldn’t be stuck sitting here in this stupid office, talking about the stupid Gratitude List with my stupid therapist.

“I’m sure the last few days haven’t been easy for you, with this being all over the news,” Linda says. “How are you feeling?”

If I were feeling good, would I be forced to come here to see you, Shrink Lady?

“Okay, I guess.”

I don’t want to talk to her today. I don’t want to be in her faux homey room with all the well-worn toys that are supposed to fool messed-up kids into thinking that they’re not being therapized.

But therapists don’t get paid big bucks to give up easily.

“How have things been at home?”

“What, since Dad got cited for disturbing the peace in his pajamas and they had video footage of him on the news? Oh, Mom’s thrilled about that,” I tell her, trying not to sound too bitterly sarcastic because that just convinces her that I’m still messed up and I need even more time in therapy. “It’s done wonders for her election campaign.”

“So your parents are fighting?”

I should have kept my mouth shut. Every time I open my mouth I inadvertently give her more clues about “what is wrong with Lara.”

“Parents fight. There’s nothing abnormal about that.”

She stops writing on her notepad. It worries me when she scribbles notes about the stuff that comes out of my mouth. I’m always wondering what it was I said that was so padworthy.

“Have they been fighting more than they normally do?”

“I guess,” I admit. “Just another thing that’s my fault.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because all the stuff they fight about … none of it would have happened if I hadn’t been stupid enough to talk to Christian. You know … if I wasn’t idiot enough to believe that someone that hot could like someone like me.”

The therapist is scribbling again.

“Lara, can you tell me … what did Christian give you?” Linda asks.

What part of he didn’t even exist doesn’t she understand?

“He didn’t give me anything,” I say. “He was Bree and her mom doing this for whatever messed-up reason they had for doing it. Giving me presents definitely wasn’t one of them.”

Linda takes a deep breath and leans back in her chair. I get the feeling that today, at least, I’m annoying her as much as she annoys me. Yay! We’re even!

“I’m not talking about presents, Lara. I’m asking you to think about what you got from those chats emotionally,” she says. “It must have been something, or you wouldn’t have kept chatting with him over a period of weeks.” She leans forward again, and the tight grip of her fingers around the pen betrays her frustration with me. “So you must have gotten something from your interactions – even if he did turn out to be a fictional friend.”

“We talked about stuff,” I say.

“Like what?” she asks. “What kind of ‘stuff’?”

“I don’t know. School. Our families … Although I guess he … I mean Bree, was lying about his, like everything else, because the people he was describing weren’t the Connorses.”

“What was it about Christian that made you feel so attached to him?”

It’s too humiliating to admit, even to just her and these four walls, that I couldn’t believe such a hot guy was interested in me. That was just what made me do something I knew I wasn’t supposed to do – friending someone I didn’t know in real life in the first place. But his looks weren’t what made me feel close to him.

“It was how he listened to me,” I tell her. “He made me feel …”

I miss him.

Without warning, the realization hits me. It’s like a piece of me cracks, and then I’m sobbing. Deep, shuddering sobs that rack my body so hard it hurts my chest. She’s taken her shrinky flashlight and pointed it into the dark corners of my mind, shining a light on the last thing in the world I wanted to think or talk about. By making me even consider for a moment how much I miss Christian, she’s opened the floodgates on all the pain I’ve been trying with every ounce of my being not to feel.

And I hate her even more for doing it.

She gets up from her chair and hands me the box of tissues, even though they’re on the table right next to me. I take one, and then another and then another. Are there enough tissues in that box, in the entire universe, to soak up all the pain I have inside?

Linda is back in her chair, with pen and notepad good to go, waiting for my sobs to slow to sniffles. When I’ve blown my nose into the eleventh tissue, she says, “That brought up some strong emotions. What are you feeling right now?”

I use tissue number twelve to wipe the mascara from under my eyes, which I’m sure are raccoon-like from all the tears. It also gives me a reason to delay answering the question I’ve grown to hate in all its variations – What are you feeling? How are you feeling? Are you feeling okay?

“I feel s-sad,” I sniff.

“Why?”

I should have known she wouldn’t let it go at that.

“Because …”

I hesitate. How do I admit I miss a person who never really existed? That’s going to make me sound even crazier than everyone already thinks I am.

“You probably won’t understand.”

“Try me,” she says.

It’s hard to know who I can trust anymore. I’m afraid to trust anyone. But I figure she’s bound by doctor-patient confidentiality and the truth is, there’s no one else I can really talk to about Christian.

“I know this is going to sound crazy, because he wasn’t even a real person, but … I miss Christian. I miss him a lot.”

I swallow, willing myself not to start crying again. “And when I feel that … when I’m alone in my bedroom crying because I miss him and I feel so lonely, I know I’m the stupidest girl who ever existed,” I tell her. “Because he was Bree. Or her mom. And none of the nice things they made him say were even true.”

“Feelings just are, Lara,” she says. “It doesn’t do you any good to judge yourself for having them.”

“But how can you miss a fake person?” I argue.

“It’s not the person you miss,” she says. “It’s what he gave you emotionally.”

I start ripping the tissue into little pieces in my lap as I consider what she’s said.

“What do you miss the most about your chats? How did chatting with him make you feel?”

And then I can’t stop the tears again, as I’m once again hit with the emptiness and the loss.

“He … made … me … feel … special,” I sob. “Like … I was actually … worth something.”

She lets me cry without probing further, and I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful that I’m allowed to experience these feelings without her making me analyze them anymore. Because right now I’m exhausted just from having them.

“Lara,” she says, and her voice is softer and gentler than it has ever been before. “You are worth something. Maybe we need to work on you owning that before you get into more relationships.”

I shake my head. “How do I own something I can’t see?”

“That’s what we’re going to work on,” she says. “Helping you to see your strengths.”

I think it’s a useless exercise because I don’t have any strengths, but she sounds so confident about the possibility of it happening that I feel a tiny whiff of hope, as faint as the breeze from a butterfly wing.

Even that is a step up from the utter despair I’ve felt ever since Christian told me the world would be better off without me in it. Is this progress?

Mom is on her cell in the waiting room when I get out. We walk out of the office, and when I push the elevator button she shakes her head and points to the stairs, gesturing to the phone.

“It’s Nightline,” she mouths.

Oh no. Not more TV.

I try to tune out as we walk down the three flights of stairs, but it’s hard to avoid the sound of Mom’s overloud cell-phone voice in the echoey stairwell.

“Yes, it really is sick, and as a parent, one of the most frustrating things is that there’s no adequate legal remedy available,” Mom says. “That’s why I’m planning to work with existing antibullying organizations to lobby for Lara Laws, trying to persuade states to add specific cyberbullying language to their existing bullying statutes.”

I stop so abruptly Mom almost trips over me on the stairs. “What are you talking about, ‘Lara Laws’?” I hiss.

She mutes her phone. “Wait till I’m done,” she says. “I’ll explain everything.”

I don’t want to wait. It’s my name she’s tossing around here. I don’t want my name on a law. I want it all to go away so I can try to forget it ever happened.

“But, Mom —”

She waves her hand at me to be quiet, and I turn and stomp down the rest of the stairs as noisily as I can, making sure to slam the door at the bottom.

The brisk autumn air outside the building does nothing to cool my anger. Neither does the length of time I have to wait by the car as Mom stands in the lobby finishing her phone call. By the time she comes out to the car, I’m fuming.

Mom acts like nothing happened.

I get in the car and slam my door. “So are you going to tell me what these Lara Laws are about, or am I supposed to find out by watching Nightline?”

Mom starts the car and backs out of the space like I haven’t even spoken. It strikes me that maybe there’s a good reason I feel like I don’t matter. Note to Linda …

“Earth to Mother? Why are you using my name without my permission? I have a right to know what this is all about.”

“I’ll tell you what this is all about,” Mom says, her voice calm and even. “It’s about helping you and other kids like you. It’s about making sure that if any adult is as sick as Mary Jo Connors, there are legal ramifications to make sure she ends up behind bars.”

Mom says this is about me, but it isn’t. It’s about her. If it were about me, she would have told me sooner. I would have been a part of it. Instead I’m just the convenient excuse for her next political project.

“Call it something else,” I say. “I don’t want it named after me.”

The only sign Mom gives that I’ve pissed her off is how tightly her hands clench the steering wheel.

“What else would we call it?” she asks.

“How about the Psycho Parents Law?” I suggest.

My mother is not amused.

“I’m doing everything I know how to help you, Lara. It would be nice to have a little appreciation once in a while,” Mom snaps.

“If this is really about helping me, how come you didn’t ask my opinion first?” I say. “Why didn’t you even tell me about it?”

Mom doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes remain on the road ahead; her lips are tightly compressed. In my imagination, I can hear the cogs of her brain working, coming up with the way to frame this that she thinks will play best to the angry-teen-daughter constituent.

“Lara, honey, you’ve been in a fragile state since your … hospitalization. We’ve been trying to protect you. The last thing Daddy or I want to do is cause you more anxiety when you’re in such a delicate state of mind.”

“Really, Mom? You thought that using my name for some new law you want to get passed without asking me about it was going to help my delicate state of mind?”

“Of course I was going to talk to you about it, Lara,” Mom says.

“Yeah – after you talked to freaking Nightline and the rest of the country.”

Mom doesn’t say anything for a moment. When she does speak, her voice cracks like she is on the verge of tears.

“I’m doing the best I can here, Lara. You’re my daughter. These people hurt you, so badly that you tried to kill yourself, and the police and the prosecutor are telling us that their hands are tied because of the existing laws. I can’t just sit here and do nothing. And I had to consider your mental health.”

“I might be depressed and confused, Mom, but I’m not a baby,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to use my name. I’m never going to be able to put this behind me if you’re going on nationwide TV talking about Lara Laws, am I?”

“Making sure this doesn’t happen to other people can help you put it behind you, Lara,” Mom says, and now I see a tear rolling down her cheek. But somehow knowing that she’s hurting, too, and it’s my stupidity that made it happen doesn’t make me any less angry. Only more.