Текст книги "Backlash"
Автор книги: Sarah Darer Littman
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
“You’re at Central Hospital,” the nurse says. “You overdosed on medication.”
The nurse shines a penlight in Lara’s pupils to see if they contract. As she checks Lara’s reflexes, a doctor comes in wearing a white lab coat over his scrubs.
He talks with the nurse, looks at Lara’s chart, and then moves to near Lara’s head.
“Lara, I’m Dr. Delman. We’re going to remove the breathing tube now. I want you to exhale on the count of three. Nod if you understand what I’m saying.”
My sister’s head moves up and down slowly, her eyes blinking as if she is in pain.
“Okay, here we go, Lara. One … two … three …”
I have to turn the other way and close my eyes, because the thought of it makes me squeamish. But I can’t close my ears, and I hear Lara groan and gag, followed by Mom’s sharp intake of breath. I guess that means the tube is out, so it’s safe to look again.
“Your throat might feel a little sore for a while,” the doctor tells her. “You can try gargling with salt water or drinking some warm water with honey and lemon.”
Lara looks at him, her eyes wide and shadowed. I get the impression warm water with honey and lemon is the last thing on her mind. I wish I knew what was on her mind. I wish I knew what made her do this when everything seemed to be going so well for her.
Why did she have to mess up things for me when I’d been working so hard for auditions? I deserve an explanation.
But I know better than to ask. I’ll just get a lecture about how self-centered I am and how can I be thinking of myself at a time like this. Because it’s all about Lara. Just like it always is.
Turns out I don’t have to ask. My father is the one who can’t hold back from uttering the question we’re all wondering.
“Why did you do it, Lara? Why?”
The heart-rate monitor starts beeping faster. Lara closes her eyes.
My mother hisses, “Pete!” and gives Dad an angry look. Better him than me.
A tear trickles slowly from the corner of Lara’s eye, down her skim-milk-colored cheek.
When she says the word, it’s so faint we barely hear it.
“Christian.”
I CAN’T believe Bree took pictures.
Even worse, I can’t believe she posted them.
Why does she think that’s okay?
I check Sydney’s Facebook to see if she’s posted an update about Lara, but there’s nothing. Her last update is from earlier today – a selfie with her friends Cara and Maddie with the caption Break a Leg! Ready for BEAUTY AND THE BEAST auditions tomorrow!
Her bright smile is in total contrast to how pale and totally freaked out she looked as she followed her mom to the car after Lara was put in the ambulance.
I wanted to call out to her. I wanted to say … I don’t know, that I’m here. That even if we haven’t hung out for a while, even if Bree and Lara aren’t friends anymore, that I’m still here.
But my friend Spencer was standing next to me, and he’s one of the major reasons I stopped hanging out with Syd so much in the first place. He started with the “Syd and Liam sitting in a tree” stuff in fifth grade, hassling me nonstop about whether she was my girlfriend or not. By the time we got to middle school, he’d started telling the other guys I was probably gay because I spent all this time with Syd and hadn’t even tried to kiss her.
No way I could let people believe that, because I want to have a girlfriend someday. I guess I could have lied and said I did kiss her, but that didn’t seem right, either.
So I drifted away from Syd, pretending I was too busy to hang out. And I never told her why, which was a jerk move, now that I think about it.
Some friend.
Maybe I can make up for it. Maybe I’ll text Syd to see if she’s okay.
I pick up my cell, thumbs hovering above the touch screen.
And then I put it down, sighing, because I’m afraid she’ll think I’m trying to get info on Lara’s condition to post on Facebook, just like my awful sister.
A BUNCH of people piled onto Christian’s post on Lara’s Facebook page, saying, Yeah, Lara’s fat and ugly, and some of the kids who went to our middle school even brought up the nickname she hated so much, Lardo. It’s crazy, there are, like, twenty comments, just one thing after another. A few people say Christian’s a jerk and ask where does he get off saying stuff like that, but someone else even comes out and says why doesn’t Lara kill herself? I wonder if she saw that before she decided to … you know, do whatever she did that made the ambulance come. And I wonder – what will happen if she dies?
Oh God. What if she’s already dead?
I check my Facebook page. There are fifty likes on the picture of Lara on the stretcher being wheeled to the ambulance, and it’s been shared a bunch of times. People are already speculating in the comments.
She looks dead.
Is Lardosaurus dead?
RIP Lardo.
Corpse Girl.
Mom’s still not home. I wish she would get here.
And then I remember … Liam.
My brother is in his room, doing his homework. He’s got his headphones on and his foot is tapping to a beat I can’t hear. Liam and I have always marched to different drummers, or however that saying goes.
When I tap him on the shoulder, he jumps.
“Sheesh, Bree, why’d you sneak up on me like that?”
“I didn’t sneak. You just play your music obnoxiously loud.”
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
I hesitate, trying to figure out the best way to handle him. I need his help. He can find out what I need to know so badly.
“I’m really worried about Lara,” I tell him. “You’re still friends with Sydney, right? Can you text her to see how Lara’s doing?”
He takes off his headphones and stares at me without saying a word. I get this feeling I’m being judged, and hard.
“Why do you care?” he asks, his eyes narrowed on me like thin green lasers.
I expected him to give me some attitude, but not to ask me that. “What do you mean, why do I care?”
“You haven’t been friends with Lara for over a year, and now you’re so worried?” Liam says. “Why do you really want me to text Syd? So you can post something else?”
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want to be the first one to post whatever news there was about Lara. Who wouldn’t? But that’s not the only reason I want him to text her sister to find out how she is. It’s because … I never thought about death being so … real, so … permanent. Death’s always been for old people, like grandparents, or people far away who are killed in wars that you hear about when your social studies teacher talks about current events or your parents flick past the news on cable.
It’s not something that happens to someone I know, that I used to be best friends with.
“It has nothing to do with Facebook,” I half lie, pretending to be really offended. “Why would you even think that?”
“Maybe ’cause you posted that picture of her passed out on a stretcher, being taken to the hospital?” Liam says. “I mean, c’mon, Bree, how could you do that? It’s so wrong.”
“What do you care?”
“ ’Cause Sydney’s my friend,” he says. “And because you’re my sister, so when you do sick stuff like that, people think I’m a loser, too.”
How does it make me a loser when that post already has fifty likes? If anyone’s a loser in this family, it’s Liam. He just doesn’t understand. But I can’t say anything because I need him to send that text. So I try a new tack.
“If you’re such good friends, why wouldn’t you text Syd? Don’t you want to know if Lara’s okay or if she’s … you know …” I can’t bring myself to say the word, and without even having to pretend, my voice chokes up and I have tears in my eyes.
My tears are what convince Liam that this isn’t just about a Facebook update.
“Okay. I’ll do it,” he says.
He reaches for his cell and starts to text.
What he doesn’t realize is that I’m crying because I’m scared.
“OURFATHERwhoartinheavenhallowedbethynamethykingdomcome …”
“Pete! I think she’s coming to …”
BeepBeep. Beep. BeepBeep.
“Lara … Lara, sweetheart, can you hear me? It’s Dad …”
Ow. Hand hurts. Dad. Hurt me. Tell him. Mouth not working.
Beep. Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeepBeep.
“Syd, go get the nurse!”
“Lara, open your eyes for me. Your parents are here, and your sister. They want to see you.”
Who’s that?
“Wake up, darling. We love you.”
Mommy. Love can’t fix me. Too tired.
Beep. Beep. BeepBeep. BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.
“Come on, honey, you can do it.”
No, Daddy, can’t. Want to sleep.
Parents sound like they’re at the end of a bad connection. Want to hang up. Too sleepy to talk.
“Lara! Wake up!”
Syd.
Everyone else is soft and pleading. Syd is mad. Why so mad? Doesn’t she understand? Too tired. Shake head no, don’t hate me.
Try talking. Why mouth not working? There’s something in it. Throat hurts.
Have to leave cocoon. Don’t want to. But Syd mad. Open eyes. Eyelids stuck. Won’t open. Crack open. Lights so bright close again, too bright.
Eyes open. Room so bright.
Beep. Beep. BeepBeepBeep. BeepBeepBeep. BeepBeep.
“Welcome back,” a lady says, wearing a scrub shirt with pandas on it. Black-and-white pandas, purple shirt. Happy pandas. Pandas sososo happy. I am sad. Sad panda.
“Thank goodness!” Dad kisses my hand.
Mom next to the bed, sobbing.
What happened? Where am I? Why is everyone acting like I died?
Mask over my face. Smells like plastic. Thing in my throat. Hurts.
Try to get it out, but hand shaky and weak, like a newborn baby. Tubes in my hand. Hurts. Everything … hurts.
Panda Nurse tells me to leave the tube in my throat; the doctor is coming to take it out.
“You’re at Central Hospital,” she explains. “You overdosed on medication.”
Christian. You’realoseraloseraloseraloseraloser.
Theworldwouldbeabetterplacewithoutyouinit.
I failed. Can’t even get that right.
Wanted it to be over and it’s not.
Itsnotoveritsnotoveritsnotover. Hurthurthurthurthurtnononononononono.
Brightness, a painful spotlight in one eye, then the other. Seeing spots. Want to go back to sleep, get away from the pain, get away from the memory, get away from everything. Panda Nurse taps my elbow with a rubber hammer.
BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.
Man with glasses standing over me. See shoulder of his white coat.
“Lara, I’m Dr. Delman. We’re going to remove the breathing tube now. I want you to exhale on the count of three. Nod if you understand what I’m saying.”
Move my head, slowly. So tired. Brain hurts. Hand hurts. Throat hurts.
“Okay, here we go, Lara. One … two … three …”
Exhale … less pressure in my throat and then tube slides out.
Moan. Gag.
“Your throat might feel a little sore for a while,” the doctor says. “You can try gargling with salt water, or drinking some warm water with honey and lemon.”
It does hurt. More than a little. Everything does. Hurts. Especially … especially if I … no.
“Why did you do it, Lara? Why?”
My father’s voice.
Daddy. No.
Shut my eyes. Want to go back to sleep. Don’t want to think. Don’t want to feel. Don’t want to remember why. It hurts. Daddy, Mommy, it hurts too much, to remember. I want to go back to sleep.
Moving head side to side, trying to shake away thoughts, trying not to remember again.
But then I see his face.
See the words he wrote.
See them on my computer screen.
See them etched into my brain.
Feel them etched into my heart.
Know them deep in my soul.
Remembering.
Don’t want to remember.
Don’t want to live.
Tear rolls down my cheek.
“Christian.”
“Was that Christian she said?”
Doctor is asking. Are they going to do something to him?
I shouldn’t have said it. Open my eyes.
This is real. This is happening.
It was supposed to be over.
Instead of making it better I’ve … just … made … it … worse.
Panda Nurse tapping my knees with the rubber hammer.
Involuntary movement.
I’m awake involuntarily.
I want to go back to sleep.
“Is Christian her boyfriend?” That sounds like Panda Nurse.
BeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeepBeep.
He hates me. He told me the world would be a better place without me in it. I still don’t know why. But it hurts. It still hurts so badly I don’t want to be awake. I don’t want to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Not that we know of,” Mom says. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
“She’s friends with someone named Christian on Facebook and – What?! How can people —”
Sydney’s talking, but now she’s crying.
“Give me your phone!” Daddy. He’s angry.
Daddy’s swearing. “Who are these sick punks? What kind of kids would write this stuff?”
I don’t want to know.
Please don’t make me know.
I don’t want to feel.
PleaseletmegobacktosleepbacktosleepbacktosleepLetmeforgetIthurtsithurtsithurtsithurts.
I hurt.
MOM’S ON the phone with the police, who’ve left the hospital, telling them about this Christian DeWitt, which is his full name according to his Facebook profile. She tried to get Lara to tell her as much as she could, but Lara’s pretty out of it, so Mom hasn’t been able to get much info. Dad wants to go find this Christian guy and rip him limb from limb, and then when he’s done, go find all the other jerks who wrote nasty stuff about Lara on her wall and do the same to them. He made me take a zillion screenshots on my cell of Lara’s profile and Christian’s profile and his friend list and all the people who commented on Lara’s wall and then email them to him so he can start his personal investigation and vendetta. Mom keeps telling him he has to calm down and let the police deal with it.
“Calm down? Our daughter almost died, Kathy!” Dad hisses. “And these animals are telling her she’s fat and ugly and saying she’s better off dead? Who does that? What kind of sick world do we live in?”
“I don’t know.” Mom sighs. “But getting yourself arrested for assault isn’t going to help Lara. Or me. Don’t forget I’ve got an election coming up in November.”
As if any of us could forget that for a second.
“Our daughter is lying in a hospital bed and you’re bringing up the election?”
Dad’s voice is starting to rise. Mom tells him to lower it so he doesn’t make a scene.
Hate to break it to you, Mom, but I think the scene has already been well and truly made.
I take out my cell to check the time. There are, like, a gazillion texts from Maddie and Cara, but I’m not up to reading them now. I just want to go home. It’s already so late I can forget about washing my hair. I’ll be lucky if I even get any sleep before auditions. Like, I know this is a crisis, and my sister is in really bad shape – again — but I’m so sick of being treated like a second-class kid just because Lara is messed up. It’s not fair!! I’m probably going to win the Worst Daughter in the World Award for asking to leave, but I decide to do it anyway.
“Mom … Dad? I know it’s a bad time, but when are we going to go home? I have auditions tomorrow.”
Mom looks like she’s about to explode and is trying very hard to hold it together.
“Sydney, do you understand what is going on here?” she says to me like I’m a three-year-old, which just sets my teeth on edge.
“Yeah. I understand perfectly, Mom. Lara tried to kill herself, which is really, really awful. I was scared she was going to die just like you were. Now she’s going to be okay. I’m happy and relieved about that, honestly, I am. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that Lara’s messing my life up again, just like she always does.”
Mom opens her mouth, probably to tell me how awful and selfish I am, but Dad gestures to her to be quiet.
He puts his arm around me and guides me down the hall away from Lara Watch and my angry mother, who, as usual, doesn’t understand me.
“I need a snack. How about you?”
“I want to go home,” I tell him, my voice cracking despite all my best efforts to stay cool. “I want to be able to audition for the musical tomorrow. I don’t want Lara to ruin this like she does everything.”
Dad stops and turns me so I’m facing him, with his hands on my shoulders. He looks down at me, and when I notice the shadows and lines around his eyes, I feel bad for causing him more problems. But then my fists clench, because why should I always have to be the one who feels bad? I’ve worked hard and now Lara’s screwing things up for me. Story of my life.
“Honey, I know this seems unfair to you,” Dad says. “It is unfair. There’s nothing fair about it.”
“So? How come we can’t go home, then?”
I’ve got two parents here, and they each have a car. One of them could drive me home.
Dad sighs heavily.
“Because we’re a family, and we love and support each other. We’re part of a team. Sometimes,” he says, patting my shoulder, “you just have to take one for the team.”
I shrug his hand off my shoulder. I can’t believe this is happening, again. Actually I can. That’s what’s so messed up about it.
“How come it’s always me who has to take one for the team?” I ask, fighting a lump of angry tears in my throat. “When’s it going to be someone else’s turn?”
Someone else like Lara, for example. But of course, I can’t say that, especially not now.
“Oh, honey, I know …”
Dad hugs me, but I stand stiffly. I don’t want his hug right now. I just want him to take me home. But that’s not going to happen.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text.
“Go back to Lara,” I say. “I’ll be taking one for the team in the family waiting room.”
I can tell he’s torn. He wants to be by Lara’s side, but he’s trying to make it up to me for missing auditions. Like taking me for some crummy hospital cafeteria food could actually do that. Nice try, Dad.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” Dad asks.
“I’ll come get you if I am.”
He kisses the top of my head and heads back to Lara, the important child.
I walk to the visitors lounge to read my text. I need time away from the family drama to be angry on my own.
The text is from Liam.
Hey, Syd. Saw Lara taken in ambulance. Is she okay? Are YOU okay?
I hesitate before texting Liam back. Ever since Lara and Bree stopped being friends, it’s been kind of awkward for us. Like, before, our families used to hang out and do stuff together all the time. Our dads even built a tree fort in the huge oak tree in the Connors backyard when we were younger. It was supposed to be for all of us, but Lara and Bree made it theirs, telling Liam and me that we weren’t welcome because we didn’t know whatever stupid secret passwords they’d made up. Back then, it was Lara and Bree against the two of us despised younger siblings.
Until Lara started having problems in middle school, and eventually they started hating on each other instead.
Even after Lara and Bree stopped being friends, Liam and I still hung out. But then once we got to middle school, he started acting all weird, like I’d suddenly developed a highly contagious disease. It’s only recently we’ve started talking again. Still, it’s kind of out of the blue for him to text me.
It’s only because he asks about me, not just about Lara, that I decide to text him back. Because he cares about how I’m doing, too.
At least someone does.
Lara awake. Mom’s talking to the police. Me = wanna go home.
Wow. Glad she’s okay. Hope u can go home soon. Do you know what made her do it?
Did u see her FB page? What that guy Christian wrote?
No. Hold on.
I flip through the pages of a two-month-old People magazine while waiting for him to look up Lara’s page. I skip anything that has to do with real-life stories. The Kelley family has its own People drama going on, thanks. I’ll stick to deciding who wears it better in the Fashion Faceoff.
My phone buzzes.
I can’t BELIEVE it … Man, people are sick. I’m so sorry.
It’s not your fault.
Well … I’m REALLY sorry for that pic Bree posted on her FB page. I swear. I’m embarrassed we’re related right now.
Picture Bree posted? What picture?
I go to Facebook on my phone and look up Bree’s page. When I do, I want to throw up. Or throw the phone away, or, better yet, at someone, namely Bree Connors.
Bree posted a picture of my unconscious sister being wheeled toward the ambulance. As if that weren’t bad enough, it has seventy-seven likes and, although there are some expressions of concern and sympathy, some of the comments underneath are so awful, so cruel, that they make me hate Bree, hate Liam, hate everyone in the entire world.
Syd?
I switch off my phone. I don’t care if he’s sorry. I can’t text with him right now. I want to shut off the entire disgusting, mean, insane world.
And as I think that, I suddenly understand what might have made Lara do it.
It’s not easy being Lara’s sister. If she weren’t my sister, I probably wouldn’t be her friend. But she is my sister. And nobody, nobody, sister or no sister, deserves what I just saw on that page.
