Текст книги "Backlash"

Автор книги: Sarah Darer Littman

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

MOM WON reelection to the city council by a “comfortable margin” despite Dad’s televised pajama rant. Her opponent tried to bring up her parenting skills in a debate and was booed down by the audience. Over a celebratory dinner at home tonight, Mom says that even if he hadn’t been, she’d been prepared. After discussing it with her campaign manager, she’d decided that the best way to deal with the issue was to face it head-on so she could “frame” it to her advantage. Lara and I secretly roll our eyes at each other.

After dinner, I follow Lara to her room and ask her how she feels about being an “issue” to be “framed.”

To my amazement, she actually puts her hands around her face like she’s making a picture frame and laughs.

“It’s just never-ending fun and giggles,” she says in a comically bright voice.

But then she puts her hands down and shrugs, the smile fading from her eyes. “Whatever … it’s Mom. She deals with life her way. I have to learn how to deal with it in mine.”

“But … what if her way makes your way … I mean, what if she makes you crazy?”

“I have to try to talk to her about it. Like I’m doing about this Lara Laws thing. I get that passing a law is her way of trying to help. But we’re trying to get her to understand that naming it after me is going to stop me from moving on.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” I ask.

“Linda,” Lara says. “She’s not as bad I as thought she was in the beginning. She says I can go back to school soon.”

“Wow. That’ll make Mom happy,” I say. Mom has made no secret of how difficult it was making it for her to campaign when she had to babysit Lara all day. She’d started dragging Lara around with her when she went door-to-door. “But what about you?”

“I don’t know,” Lara replies. “Part of me is relieved I won’t be stuck at home with Mom watching my every move anymore.”

“At least you can pee and shower with the door closed now,” I remind her. She’d been allowed that privilege back the previous week.

“Oh yeah! And I won’t miss having to go door-to-door canvassing with Mom,” Lara says. “Although, I have to admit, it made me see a different side of her.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I guess to me it always seemed like this political stuff was all about her, because of the way it affects our lives,” Lara says.

“What, like having to pretend we’re the Perfect Family of Perfect Town all the time?” I say with a heavy dose of snark.

“Yeah, that,” Lara says. “But when I was campaigning with her, I heard people thanking her for the things she’d done to help them and their families. I realized she really does want to try to make people’s lives better. I mean, it doesn’t make it any less annoying about the Perfect Family stuff, but at least I started to see something good that comes from all her politicking instead of hating every single thing about it.”

“Or maybe you’re just starting to understand where all Mom’s crazy stuff comes from,” I say.

Lara laughs for a second time. Which makes me think she’s finding herself again, gradually, but a stronger, better version. I’ve missed that Lara.

“Definitely,” she says. “But maybe understanding where the crazy comes from makes it a little easier to deal with.”

I pick up Hedwig and make her pretend fly around my knees. “So are you scared? About going back to school?”

“Of course I am,” Lara says, looking at me like I’m an idiot. “I’m terrified. Scared to face the stares and the whispers. You know, That’s the girl who tried to kill herself over some guy who turned out to be her next-door neighbor pretending. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Totally. But at least you won’t have to face Bree now that she’s transferred.”

“I know. That’s a big relief. It would be even harder to go to school if she were still there.” Lara wraps her arms around her knees. “It’s going to be hard enough facing everyone else.”

“Do you wish you could go to a different school, instead of going back to Lake Hills High?”

“We talked about that,” Lara says. “But even though there are bad things about going back to Lake Hills – like dealing with the people who I thought were friends and weren’t – at least I’ll still be with the people who really are friends, rather than starting over totally.”

She sighs. “Do you want to know the worst part of going back to Lake Hills?”

“What?” I ask.

“Dad,” she says, grimacing.

“Don’t tell me he’s still on you about The Spreadsheet.”

“He’s totally insane!” Lara exclaims. “You need to know who these jerks are so you can be wary of them when you go back to school.”

Lara’s imitation of Dad makes me giggle, but her expression sobers me up quickly.

“I take it you still don’t want to look at it,” I say, remembering the scene that night in the hospital when Dad tried to force her to do it.

Lara shakes her head no. “It’s too painful. I remember a few names of people who liked Christian’s post from that night before I took the pills, but believe me, it’s not because I want to.”

I don’t want to disagree with her now that we’re finally getting along and she seems to be doing so much better. But I kind of agree with Dad on the list thing.

“But if you don’t … like, if you just try to forget it all, then how will you know who to trust?” I ask her. “I mean, if they were that mean to you once, what’s to stop them from doing it again?”

“I know, I know,” Lara says, dropping her head to her knees. “I’ve heard it all a million times from Dad. Forewarned is forearmed, Lara. You need to know to protect yourself.”

She raises her head and looks me in the eye. “Syd – the names I do remember … they might not have been my best friends, but they were people who I thought at least liked me. Why would they do something like that? Why?”

I don’t have an answer for Lara then. None of us do. And that’s what’s so hard for everyone – especially my sister.

Liam and I keep meeting up in the tree fort, despite the objections of our parents.

“It makes me feel like we’re Romeo and Juliet,” I tell Liam as we snuggle together in the candlelight.

“That’s cool – as long as I don’t end up poisoned and you don’t stab yourself,” Liam says with a wry smile.

“Okay, like Romeo and Juliet but with a happy ending,” I say.

“That would be a story with a different title, I think,” Liam says.

“Liam and Sydney, then.”

“I hope that one has a happy ending.” Liam sighs.

“Is everything okay?” I ask him. “I mean, I know everything isn’t okay, but … you seem upset.”

He runs the hand that isn’t around my shoulder through his hair. “I’m just sick of taking crap for what Bree did. How much more of this do I have to put up with?”

I don’t have any more answers for him than I do for Lara.

“Haven’t a clue.” I sigh.

“I wish I had a Time-Turner or a TARDIS so I could go back in time and tell Bree to think it through before she made that stupid profile,” Liam says. “Dad says I have to find a way to forgive her, but I’m still way too mad.”

“I’ll bet,” I say. I can’t find it in my heart to forgive Bree yet, either. I mean, I feel bad about the death threats and stuff, but I’m glad she had to change schools. Glad for Lara’s sake and, if I have to admit it, glad that she has to suffer in some way because of what she did.

“Mom’s business has crashed to a grinding halt,” Liam says. “So much for being the real estate queen of Lake Hills. No one wants to list property with Monster Mom. Dad’s business is suffering, too. And it’s not like he had anything to do with it.”

No wonder Liam has a hard time forgiving his sister.

“I keep wondering if it makes me a bad person,” Liam says. “Dad says she’s my sister, and family is so important, and we have to support each other, especially because she’s getting so much grief from the outside.”

I feel all his muscles tense with anger.

“But so am I,” he says. “And it’s not like I did anything wrong. And that’s not all. We have to cut to basic cable because we can’t afford the movie channels anymore, and Dad’s talking about all these other ‘sacrifices’ we have to make. All because of Bree.”

As bad as things have been for our family, at least we’re slowly starting to heal. Lara’s back at school and Mom got reelected. And maybe I didn’t get to audition for the fall musical, but I’m going to be first in line to audition for the spring talent showcase.

“You’re not a bad person, Liam. I’d be mad, too.”

I kiss his cheek. It’s soft and chilly from the autumn cold. “It’ll get better eventually,” I tell him. “Remember when the press people were here? At least they’re gone.”

They were camped outside our houses for almost a week until some politician sent an “inappropriate” photo of himself to a woman who wasn’t his wife, knocking “Monster Mom” and “Mother-Daughter Bullying Team” off the front page.

“I hope you’re right,” he says. “And I just hope eventually comes soon.”

THE KITCHEN timer goes off, and I step into the shower to rinse my hair, turning the water as hot as I can stand it. I watch the water swirl into the drain, dark and muddy, as it washes the excess color from my hair. When the water finally runs clear, I comb through the conditioner and wait for two minutes like it said on the instructions, wondering as I wait how I am going to look, what my parents are going to say, whether this is going to make a difference.

After I blow-dry and look in the mirror, I look like me, but different. My hair is inky black, not light brown like Mom’s or chestnut like Dad’s and Liam’s. My skin looks pale in comparison: white and almost translucent under the mirror lights. I like it. It feels more like the me I am now instead of the Bree I’m trying to escape.

If I can ever escape her. That’s the million-dollar question. Transferring schools only helped a little because everyone at my new school knows what happened. When you’ve been a national news story, it’s hard to get a fresh start short of getting into the Witness Protection Program and getting a whole new identity. Important crime witnesses qualify for that, but high school cyberbullies don’t.

So every day I face the whispers, the looks, the cold shoulders when I try to make new friends.

The only light on my horizon is dance team, which makes me feel a part of something. My teammates still don’t invite me to sleepovers or to go shopping with them at the mall, or anything out of school – real friend stuff. But at least they say hi to me in the hall and let me sit with them at lunch, and when we won a competition I was part of the group hug just like everyone else. At least they don’t shun me. It’s a start.

When I transferred to the new school, Mom tried to get me to try out for cheerleading.

“No. I’m done with cheerleading,” I said. “I’m trying out for dance team. I already talked to the coach and she said she’d let me, even though it’s midyear.”

“What do you mean you’re done with cheerleading?” Mom said. “You love cheerleading!”

“No, Mom. I don’t. You love cheerleading,” I said. “I am sick to death of cheerleading. I’m glad I didn’t make the team at Lake Hills. And I’m not going to try out at West Lake.”

My mom opened her mouth to say something, but Dad put his hand on her arm to stop her.

“Mary Jo, it’s okay. Maybe exploring a new activity is just what Bree needs right now,” he said.

Mom closed her mouth and ate the rest of her dinner in stony silence, while Dad tried to keep up the conversation to lighten the atmosphere.

The weirdest thing about that whole night was Liam. He’d been speaking to me only when necessary, barely making eye contact, like he couldn’t stand to look at me because he hated me so much.

But that night at the dinner table, after I said I wasn’t going to do cheerleading anymore, he actually looked me in the eye and grinned. I smiled back, but I don’t know why he did it. It’s not like it lasted – he’s still really angry with me most of the time. But it was something.

Since then, we’ve sat watching TV – basic cable because we had to cut all the movie channels – and have laughed like we did before at stupid stuff, until he remembers he’s mad at me again.

Everyone is in the kitchen when I go downstairs – Dad’s reading the Sunday paper, Mom is looking at the help-wanted section, and Liam’s eating a bowl of cereal. I slip in quietly and go to get a bowl for my cereal, waiting for someone to notice.

“Morning, hon,” Dad says, but he barely glances up, so he doesn’t. Liam doesn’t pay any attention to me, as usual.

But of course my mom notices.

“Breanna Marie Connors, what on earth have you done to yourself?” she shrieks.

Knowing that my mother hates my hair just makes me love it all the more.

Liam stares at me, a mouthful of unchewed cereal in his mouth.

“Well, that’s a very … different look, Bree,” Dad says, lowering the paper to the table. “What brought this on?”

I can’t tell from his measured tone if he’s mad at me or not.

“And how could you do this without asking us?” Mom adds. There’s no doubt from her voice that she is.

“It’s my hair, so it’s my decision,” I say.

“However, you are fifteen years old and we’re still your parents,” Dad reminds me.

I guess he is mad. I don’t care.

“I needed a change,” I tell them. “I want to be someone different. Someone besides Bullying Bree.”

“Yeah, like dyeing your hair is going to change things,” Liam says. “Right.”

Thanks for nothing, Liam.

I raise my chin defiantly. “It’s something. It makes me feel more like myself when I look in the mirror.”

“You look like a drug addict,” Mom says. “It washes you out completely.”

“Wow. Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, swallowing the lump her words bring up in my throat. “I can always count on you to build up my self-confidence.”

“Would you feel better if I lied to you?” Mom asks. “Okay, fine. You look like Miss America. There, happy?”

“No, but —”

“It’s not a parent’s job to sugarcoat things, Bree,” Mom says. “It’s our job to tell you how the real world works.”

“By making me feel like I’m never good enough?” I throw back at her. “Because if that’s the case, you’re the best mom ever.”

“Okay, that’s enough, Bree. Upstairs,” Dad orders me.

“But I haven’t even had breakfast!”

“Now!” he demands.

I hate my family. I hate my life. I hate everything and everyone.

Making as much noise as I can stomping up the stairs, I head up to my room and slam the door hard enough that one of the ornaments on my desk falls over. Luckily, it doesn’t break. I’ve messed up enough things in my life as it is.

I fling myself on the bed, clenching my fists so tight that my fingernails dig into my palms. I want to explode, but I’m too numb, like my detonator’s gone missing. Only those half-moons in my palms remind me I can feel, that my pain is real.

There’s a knock on the door. It opens before I decide whether to say “go away” or “come in.”

It’s my dad. It was only a courtesy knock, telling me sure, it’s my room, but I’m only fifteen years old and he’s still the parent, so he’s coming in no matter what I say.

I sit up and curl into a ball, holding my knees, as he walks over and sits on the bed next to me. He’s carrying a bowl of cornflakes, which he hands to me.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he says.

Shrugging, I take it from him. I’ve kind of lost my appetite, but I take a bite or two to make him happy, then put the bowl on my nightstand.

Dad’s regarding me sadly.

“Things are really tough for you,” he says.

“You think?”

“Believe it or not, honey, we’re on your side. We want to help you. I could do with less attitude.”

“Mom wants to help me by telling me I look like a drug addict?”

Dad takes my hand, which is still clenched into a fist, and holds it between his two hands. They are large and warm and comforting, despite everything.

“Breenut, when you created that fake profile, you acted before you thought,” Dad says. He hesitates. “And sometimes … sometimes Mom speaks before she thinks.”

The relief of Dad admitting that Mom was wrong to say that makes me unclench my fists. He strokes my hand, turning it over. First he sees the deep marks in my palm where I’d dug my nails into the skin. Then he sees the other marks. The ones I made last night when I dragged a sharp pair of scissors across the skin on my forearm.

“Honey, what did you do?” he asks, sucking air through his teeth as he touches the marks gently with his finger.

“Nothing,” I say, turning my face away. I can’t meet his gaze.

“This isn’t nothing, Breenut.”

When I don’t respond, he says, “Look at me, Bree.”

I turn my face toward him and see concern.

“What’s going on, Bree? The hair … hurting yourself like this …”

“I don’t know.”

He shakes his head. “You must know,” he says. He sounds … angry. “People don’t just do things like this out of the blue without knowing why.”

“I already told you about the hair. You just don’t listen.”

There’s something inside me that’s so big it scares me. But no one sees it. No one hears it. I don’t have the words for it. All I know is this:

“I just … I need what hurts to show on the outside as much as I feel it on the inside.”

I look away, because I don’t expect Dad to understand. I’ve given up on being understood. I blew that right when I pretended to be Christian. One stupid mistake and I’ve messed up my entire life, forever.

“Bree,” he says, and his voice sounds strange. Strangled.

I turn to him and there are tears rolling down his cheeks. The only time I’ve ever seen my father cry before is when Grandma died. He holds open his arms and something breaks open in my chest. Suddenly, the numbness is gone and in the comforting warmth of my father’s hug I sob – great, messy, painful sobs so big they feel like they’re going to break my ribs.

Dad strokes my hair as I cry and tells me it’s okay, that he’s going to arrange for us all to go to a family therapist, that he thinks we need outside help to get through this, that it’s more than we can handle by ourselves.

“I know some people say asking for help is a sign of weakness, but I don’t hold with that,” Dad says. “The smartest, strongest thing a person can do is to know when to get help.”

“But d-doesn’t that make me c-crazy, just like L-Lara?” I sniff.

“Haven’t you learned not to call her crazy?” Dad says.

“Mom always does.”

“Well, that’s another thing we need to change around here,” Dad says. “Calling people names.”

I pull away and ask him the question that plagues me every moment of every day.

“Did I mess up my life forever? I mean … will people ever forget about this?”

Dad’s the one who is most likely to tell me the truth.

His hesitation in answering tells me the most.

“Things will get better. I can’t tell you how, or when. It might take a very long time. But we’ll get through this.”

He doesn’t know. None of us do. The future, once so full of possibility, is now a dark and scary place. But hopefully, like Dad says, maybe with help we can get through it, however long it takes.

TO SAY life is back to normal would be a lie. It’s probably more accurate to say we’re living the “new normal.”

Mom is still trying to get Lara Laws passed in the state legislature and is using the notoriety of our case to lobby for similar laws across the country. She and Dad are still furious that Mrs. Connors and Bree weren’t prosecuted for what they did, and they want to make sure there’s a law in place to protect people. But after we talked about it in family therapy, she agreed to change the name to BIC Laws – against “Bullying in Cyberspace.” Doing that allows her to heal in her way and me to heal in mine.

Healing for me is still a work in progress. Before I went back to school, Dad kept nagging me to look at the list of people who’d liked Christian’s mean post on my wall or had made awful comments. I didn’t want to, any more than I had in the hospital. In the end, I compromised by taking the list to therapy and looking at it there – away from the house, away from my parents, in a place where I could just feel whatever I needed to feel about it.

What did I feel when I finally let myself look at the names on that piece of paper?

Betrayal. Anger. Disgust.

But that was a positive sign, according to Linda. Because I was starting to feel angry, instead of sad. Because I was getting mad at the people who were behaving badly toward me, instead of directing the feelings toward myself and feeling sad and suicidal. Because gradually, I was learning not to let those people have control over me anymore.

When I finally did go back to school, I was glad I knew those names. Some of the same kids who’d liked the picture of me on the stretcher, who’d written things like “Corpse Girl” and “Is Lardosaurus dead?” came up to me and acted so genuinely friendly and concerned that if I hadn’t seen Dad’s list I would have believed they really cared. Just like the same trusting idiot I was before this all happened. Like I was with Christian.

People can be so two-faced.

Or maybe there’s another explanation. Maybe they really do feel bad about what happened. That’s something Linda brought up when we talked about it. Maybe, after I ended up in the hospital, they thought about what they’d done. Maybe they hadn’t realized that the words they’d typed so casually caused me so much real pain.

The problem is, I can’t read their minds, and that’s what scares me the most – that I don’t know how I’m supposed to trust anyone ever again. Linda keeps reminding me that it’s a process. Ugh, the dreaded P word again. I keep asking her why someone can’t just give me a pill to cure this – I’d even take an operation. Why does everything have to be a long, drawn-out “process”? People always say, “It gets better.” What I want to know is when?

And then the person who bullied me got bullied, too. You’d think I’d be happy about the poetic justice of that, but the weird thing is, I wasn’t. I mean, sure I was mad at Bree. I still am. But knowing that people were being so cruel to her didn’t make me feel any happier. As strange as it seems, it only made me feel worse.

It was as if the whole thing took on a life of its own that had nothing to do with me anymore. People who wanted “vengeance” on my behalf were as mean to her as she was to me. Did it make it better, any less cruel because they didn’t know her, because they hadn’t been her best friend once upon a time?

Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, everyone ended up hurt. She hurt me and they hurt her. Liam got hurt. Syd got hurt. Our parents were hurt. Did any of it help in the end, other than all of us hurting?

Even though I’m relieved that I don’t have to see Bree every day, I still see her going to and from her house once in a while – it’s hard to completely avoid someone when you live right next door. I have frequent, imaginary conversations with her in my head. They’re always short conversations. I ask her, Why? What did I do to make you hate me so much? Why did you do it?

The conversations are short because she never answers. Because even when I try to imagine reasons why she would hate me enough to trick me with Christian, to write the things she did, I come up blank. Even a year later, after all this therapy, I still can’t figure it out.

That, more than anything, is what still makes me crazy and prevents me from moving on.

“Come on, Lara,” Dad shouts. “We’ve got to leave if we’re going to get to the game on time.”

It’s the big Lake Hills versus West Lake football game today.

Liam and Syd are both freshmen at Lake Hills now, although Liam told us the Connorses might have to sell their house and move to a smaller one because Mr. Connors’s plumbing supply business still hasn’t picked up from the hit it took after the bad publicity. Mrs. Connors’s real estate business is dead. She’s working at Walmart for minimum wage. They’re struggling to afford the mortgage.

I take a last look in the mirror, adjust my purple-and-gold hair ribbons, and head downstairs. Syd and Dad are already in the car.

“Hurry up!” Mom says, handing me my pom-poms.

We pull out of the driveway and just as we pass the Connors house we see their car starting to back out of theirs.

“Is Bree going to the game?” Mom asks.

“Yeah,” Syd says. “She’s on the dance team. They’re performing at halftime with the West Lake band.”

My mom glances back at me, her forehead furrowed with the “worried about Lara but don’t want to say anything to upset her” look.

“Mom, we live next door to each other. I already see her once in a while without totally losing it, so I think I can handle her dancing on the football field without having a relapse,” I say.

Syd gives me an encouraging grin.

“I wasn’t thinking you were going to have a relapse, Lara, honey,” Mom says. “You’ve made such good progress. I just … don’t want you to be upset.”

I try to imagine how I’ll feel if Bree and I actually come face-to-face – like if we bump into each other randomly in the crowd. Will I ask her why, or just act like nothing ever happened because what’s the point? Will I say hello or walk straight by her like we never met?

Until it happens, I’m not sure how I’ll react. Maybe today’s the day I’ll find out. Or maybe not.

When we get to school, my parents and Syd go to sit in the stands, and I head down to the sidelines to meet the rest of the squad. We start doing crowd warm-ups, even though the stands are still half-empty and not everyone on the team is here yet. It gets people psyched up, and moving keeps us warm.

Mom and Dad are sitting together, but Syd’s not with them. She’s sitting in a different section a few rows down with Liam. They seem relaxed together, and happy. Even if their relationship doesn’t last, at least something kind of good has come out of this whole mess. For that, I am grateful.

But as much as I try to be happy for them, it only reminds me of my loneliness. I’ve been too afraid to get involved with anyone since Christian, too scared to trust people, even the ones I can see right in front of me.

Knowing that Liam’s here, I can’t help turning around and glancing at the opposite sidelines to see if the West Lake dance team is there. They are, and they’re wearing black-and-silver track suits. But I can’t pick her out.

Maybe she didn’t come. Maybe she couldn’t face being back here.

I could understand that. People might have moved on, but they haven’t forgotten.

Luis and Julisa wave to me from the stands. They’ve been so supportive of me. I couldn’t ask for better friends.

“See you at halftime, after the show!” Julisa shouts.

I give her a thumbs-up and wave my pom-poms in their direction.

Luis smiles and shouts, “Cheer hard!” Ever since he remembered about the tulips, I’ve started noticing little things about him. Like what a great smile he has, and how even though he and Julisa might bicker about little things, he always sticks up for her.

When the game starts, I don’t know if it’s because I think Bree might be there, but I cheer even louder, kick even higher, and smile even bigger than I normally do. I want to show everyone that Lara Kelley is doing just fine. Lara Kelley didn’t let this destroy her – even though she almost did at first.

We’re up 14–7 at halftime, when the West Lake band, their cheerleaders, and the dance team take the field. I search for Bree, and I think maybe I spot her. I have to admit, their routine is pretty good.

Then it’s our turn and, for the first time in a while, I’m really nervous to perform. It’s the halftime show. All eyes on us. And I don’t want to mess up any tumbles or do the slightest thing wrong, because Bree might take it as a sign that she damaged me in some way. That somehow she won. But then, as I think that, I see myself sitting in Linda’s office. Hear her telling me that’s an unproductive thought that I need to learn how to toss.

So I pretend it’s a piece of paper and mentally throw it in a pretend garbage can as the band starts up. Taking a deep breath, I just let my muscle memory take over and do what we’ve been practicing over and over.

It’s all good.

Luis and Julisa meet me on the sidelines when we come off the field.

“You hungry?” Luis asks. “I’ll buy you a wrap.”

“Sure,” I say.

“What about me?” Julisa complains. “Are you buying me a wrap?”

He looks at her like she’s crazy. “You’re my sister,” he says. “Buy your own wrap!”

“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “Be a good twin and get one for Julisa, too!”

“I get suckered into everything,” he says, sighing before heading off for the food cart.

“I have to run to the bathroom,” I tell Julisa. “I’ll meet you back here.”

“Meet me at the food cart,” she says. “I’ll go keep Luis company in line, since he’s treating.”

As usual, there’s a line for the girls’ room. I’m standing behind a group of girls in black-and-silver tracksuits. I wonder if they know Bree.

“How does it feel being back at your old school?” one of them asks the black-haired girl standing with her back to me.

“Weird,” she says. “Really weird.”

My heart starts thumping in my chest, and my palms are damp. It’s Bree.

“I never thought I’d come back here, ever,” she continues. “Not after … what happened.”

I stand there, frozen.

And then Christine, one of the other cheerleaders, comes out of the bathroom, and says, “Hey, Lara,” and Bree turns around, looking at me, wide-eyed.

Her face looks thinner and paler against the stark black of her hair.

I feel a flood of nerves explode within me, and I have the urge to bolt. Instead, I quietly say, “Hi, Bree.”

“Lara,” she says. “Hi … I was wondering if I’d … see you here.”

“Yeah … me too,” I say. “You —”

Hurt me so much … Made me try to kill myself over a guy who didn’t even exist … Made me afraid to trust anyone including myself …

“– look different with dark hair.”

“I did it a while back,” she says, fidgeting a little. “Mom hates it.”

The girls she’s with are watching and listening. They know what happened, and they’ve figured out that I’m Lara Kelley.

The girl who fell for Bree’s trick. The girl who tried to kill herself.

I am that girl, but I’m not just her anymore. I’ve been working really hard to become more. I straighten my shoulders.

“I liked the routine you guys did,” I say, even though what I really want to say is Why, Bree? Why did you do it?

“Thanks,” Bree says. “We’ve been practicing that one for a while.”

She glances at the line ahead, as if desperate for it to be her turn so she can avoid talking to me anymore. “How are things here?” she asks. “With you?”