This is Jenny Ireland, btw.
Did I say that already?
My mom says we did Jam-Sing together one summer when we were kids.
Okay bye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I reread the whole thread again and plug my phone in to charge. I barely remember that stupid music class, but whatever. Now a total stranger thinks I need therapy, so that’s cool.
I close my eyes, thinking about the idea of getting my brain seen to by a legit pro-shmessional. What they’d say to me. What I’d say to them. At my house, reading the Bible is how you deal with your problems. Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved, for you are my praise. Jeremiah 17:14. That, or you take a walk, or a nap, or a shower. Build a bird feeder, needlepoint a prez. Carlsons don’t actually, like, unpack our feelings.
Thanks, I write. Then erase it. I’ll think about it. Erase. Butt out? Nothing feels right. Instead, I open my downloads and throw on an early Blondie album. Debbie Harry belts out a song I’ve heard a thousand times but, weirdly, it seems more meaningful than it ever has before. She’s singing about accidents, and how they don’t happen in a perfect world. Which only makes me want to sink deeper under the covers.
What I did to my mother, that was an accident, right?
In a perfect world, it wouldn’t have happened?
In the end, I leave them all hanging—Jenny Ireland, Leah, Gabby, Milo. I play the song on repeat until I fall asleep, dreaming of a world without heartbreak. A world where accidents like mine don’t exist.
20
You know that dream where you walk into a room and everyone’s staring at you? That record-scratch reaction of a nun entering a biker bar. That’s me when I walk into AP English on Tuesday. The Great Gatsby and the Greater Devastation of Johanna Carlson. Usually, in the dream, you’re naked. In reality, I have on this cool obi top I made last spring, paired with plaid joggers and my white high-tops.
“Oh. Uh, good morning, Miss Carlson,” says Mr. Gonzales. He clears his throat as he looks up, hands dancing awkwardly across the desk until he decides to grab a pen, busying himself with today’s lesson.
I try not to roll my eyes before looking around for an empty seat. It never used to bother me that I don’t have friends in English. Key words: used to. Now, a roomful of acquaintances is staring at me like I’m in a wet T-shirt contest.
I head for the back row, flopping down beside surfer-haired Tim Ellison and his bestie, Brandon O’Connor, with the frosted tips. I’ve always thought they’d make a great boy band—Tim would be the super stuck-up (and annoyingly gorgeous) crowd favorite, while Brandon, with his twenty-four-hour biceps and vacant smile, ticks the meathead box. Aside from the occasional dig, we never say hello or acknowledge one another’s existence, but today I realize Brandon’s eyes are bugging out at me, his fair skin blanching. He’s covering his mouth, whispering something to Tim. They both cringe, and all my skin tightens.
For a split second, I think, Should I move? There are other seats, other English classes, other schools in other states. But you know what? No. I’m sitting here, dammit.
“Mr. Gonzales?” Brandon hollers in his deep, boy-band voice. “Hey, Mr. Gonzales?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Um.” He pauses, glancing at Tim, then me, then Tim again.
I crinkle my brow, like, What, asshole?
Brandon and Tim go quiet, and I realize they’re having a moment—the telepathic kind Leah and I have too. Finally, Tim gets up, his designer jeans inching between desks toward the front of the classroom.
“Sir?” He pauses to artfully guide blond bangs across his forehead. “Should we be taking some precautions?”
Mr. Gonzales laces his fingers on his desk, furrowing his brow.
“Y’know—” Tim casts a nervous glance back at me. “Do something to put peoples’ minds at ease. Maybe check her bag or something?”
“Mr. Ellison, what are you talking about?”
“C’mon, Mr. G,” Brandon demands. “Check Johanna’s bag for a gun!”
My heart pukes its way out of my mouth. Nearly.
The air in the classroom turns greenhouse-moist, thick with sweat and strain. I want to roll my eyes—play it off like we all know Tim and Brandon are massive jackasses—but the looks coming back at me are tighter than that. Cagier. A lot of shock, some sympathy. Maybe even guilt, but nobody’s big enough to stand up for me, cowardice tugging at their shoulders and chins. And Mr. Gonzales. He says nothing. His demeanor sure as hell changes, though. Eyes darting to the back of the room, bulging as they lock onto me. Onto my eyelids and fingernails painted black, lips neon red, an Old School Anarchist pin on my coat. It shouldn’t be enough to make him balk, but he does.
Brandon can’t seem to handle the silence. He clears his throat meaningfully at Tim, who turns back to Mr. Gonzales and goes, “As our teacher, doesn’t it behoove you to protect us? Maybe she doesn’t have a gun in her bag, but what if she does? Do you really want that on your conscience when she shoots up the whole school?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Selene groans at him.
Selene. Not my teacher. But perky, blond Selene frigging Kenworth. Is this honestly happening?
Mr. Gonzales sighs. “Tim. Please take your seat.”
Only, Tim doesn’t. He just stares, lips hinting at victory. It reminds me of a scene in that movie Pretty Woman. Where the salesgirl asks Vivienne to leave the fancy boutique on Rodeo Drive, and when Viv comes back looking all couture, she goes, “Big mistake. Big. Huge,” to the saleswoman before walking away. In this case, big-mistake-huge is probably the fact that Tim’s dad is this fancy real estate developer and president of the school board. Ergo, Tim could probably get Mr. Gonzales fired if he wanted to.
“What is it exactly that you want?” Mr. Gonzales asks quietly.
“We want you to take this seriously.”
“I don’t want to sit next to a murderer!” Brandon yells.
Actually yells. It’s meant for the whole class, but his words go straight through my soul, killing something inside me, making my worthless lips tremble.
We’re all caught up in this vortex of silence until Tim shatters it, muttering, “Just check her bag,” like everything can go back to normal if we get this over with.
And it really happens. Mr. Gonzales stands up. He caves in, eking out a sigh as he walks slowly toward me. Students squirm all around us. Irked by the injustice, just not moved enough to defend me outright. I’d be a fool to think otherwise. I don’t know what I’d do, if the roles were reversed. Before all this, I might have sunk down in my seat too.
“Miss Carlson?”
I grit my teeth, steadying my voice. “Yes?”
“May I please take a quick look in your backpack?”
Selene huffs wildly from the front row.
“Do I have to let you?”
“She’s resisting!” Brandon wails. “She’s resisting. She’s really got a gun. Holy shit. Holy—”
“Brandon, enough,” orders Mr. Gonzales. But he swallows. “Johanna? Your bag?”
The way he starts to squirm—the way so many of them start to legitimately fear for their lives—I can’t take it. I yank my backpack up onto my desk and fling the zipper open. But I don’t just show him. I dump everything out. Every pen, notebook, tampon, lip gloss. All of it spills out onto the desk and the floor, loose change rolling across the carpet. Everyone gasps.
“That is not what I meant!” Gonzales snaps, bending down to grab the tampons first—because he obviously cares deeply about my privacy. “Collect your belongings and go see the Head of School.”
“What?!”
“You are being disruptive.”
“But—”
“Not up for debate, Miss Carlson.”
Selene jumps out of her seat, scurrying over to help. Anger radiates off both of us as we jam all this shit back into my backpack. We don’t even make eye contact. Nobody else moves. Except Mr. Gonzales, who walks uncomfortably
back to his desk to jot a few words on a pink slip of paper to hand me on my way out.
I want to spit in Brandon’s smug face as I’m leaving. Tim’s and Mr. Gonzales’s too. I want all three of them to apologize for humiliating me. For accusing me. For thinking I’d ever, ever do something to hurt the kids at this school.
Instead, I slink quickly through the room, fighting back tears as I let myself out.
• • •
In all my years at Chavez, I have never been sent to the Head of School’s office. Dr. Sanders is this pompous old white dude with no hair on his head, and shit-tons coming off his eyebrows. Super old-school rigid, but like, masking it with colorful bowties and a smile that says, I’m your cool, hipster cousin! Which he is not. This one time, we saw him dribbling greasy fried chicken at a back-to-school picnic, and everyone’s secretly called him Colonel Sanders ever since. That fond memory usually makes me laugh, but my hands only tremble when I knock on his frosted-glass door.
“Come in,” calls a muffled voice from inside.
Before I twist the knob, I remind myself to try and calm down. That I’ve done nothing wrong—Tim’s the raging dick; Mr. Gonzales is the spineless bootlicker.
“Miss Carlson?” Dr. Sanders says, surprise in his smile. Just as quickly, his eyes grow heavy. I can tell he knows—about my past—because he can’t quite think of what to say next.
“Mr. Gonzales sent me.”
“Oh?”
I swallow hard and pull the note out of my pocket, handing it to Sanders. His eyes widen at the implication of pink, growing even wider as he reads the words Mr. Gonzales has hastily scrawled. Words explaining my lack of obedience, how I disrupted the class with a messy outburst. Nothing about Brandon. No mention of Tim. Sanders puts the note on his desk and gestures toward the seat across from him.
“Want to explain what happened?”
“Tim Ellison and Brandon O’Connor,” I mumble. “They thought I had a gun in my bag.”
“Oh? Oh.” His eyes twitch, darting toward my bag before he looks back up at me. “I see. And this is all in relation to—” He clears his throat. “I heard about your mother’s death. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I nod a heartfelt thanks for his sluggish condolences. He seems expectant, but on no planet would I want to talk about that with him, so I point down to the note again. “After Tim blatantly accused me of concealing a weapon, Mr. Gonzales asked to search my backpack. I mean, can he even do that? Isn’t it private property? Like, what’s the probable cause or whatever?”
Sanders nods evenly. “And did Mr. Gonzales force you to remove the contents of your bag?”
“No,” I say slowly. “Not exactly. I guess I kind of dumped it out.”
“I see. So, you opted to open your bag willingly.” He hesitates. “Were you doing anything to … raise suspicion?”
“What? No! I was sitting there! Tim’s the one who—”
“All right, all right. No need to raise your voice.” Sanders lifts his palms with a curt smile. “I think I have a fair idea of what happened, but I’ll speak with Mr. Gonzales as well.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“No, no, of course not,” he says. “If there’s nothing you wish to add—”
“Well, it’d be nice if you didn’t let pricks—sorry, young men—like Tim get away with stuff like that. It was humiliating. Are they going to get in trouble?”
The question seems to catch him off guard. “Oh. Well, I see no need for this matter to be dragged out. Tim was voicing a concern, and we encourage our students to ask questions. I agree that he could have done so a bit more privately, but it sounds to me as if the whole thing got out of hand. It was a misunderstanding. Tim’s a good student. A Harvard legacy.”
Harvard. The word clogs my arteries. Tim won’t be punished. Not with Harvard sniffing up his ass. Sanders doesn’t know I’ve got my heart set on Parsons, but he wouldn’t care. I mean, it’s not fucking Harvard, now is it?
“I see. So, I’ll just forget this ever happened,” I say, swallowing a lion’s roar inside my chest. “Go back to business as usual? That sounds easier.”
“Wonderful idea.” Only an idiot could miss the sarcasm in my voice, but he grips my hand and adds, “Thanks for coming in.”
“No, thank you, Dr. Sanders.”
“And you shouldn’t have to go back to class. I’ll write you a pass. Why don’t you go to the library—take a little break.” He flashes a toothy grin, and I swear I can see the angel on his shoulder, applauding his lenience. “And please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help. My door’s always open.”
“Thanks, Dr. Sanders. I really appreciate that.”
“Of course,” he says.
And he actually hipster cousin winks at me as he’s shutting the door—that’s always open—right in my face.
21
“You okay?” Milo asks.
It’s Friday afternoon and we’re on his bed, all naked and sweaty and kissing, and I’m trying to forget about school and all the dirty looks … but. Apparently, it isn’t working.
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. “How ’bout you. What are you thinking about?”
“Me?” He snorts. “Guys don’t think after sex. We basically turn into cavemen.”
I laugh, but too automatically. Too cardboard.
Milo props himself up against his pillow, gently brushing hair out of my face. “Bet I know what you’re thinking about.”
“Sorry,” I groan. “I can’t stop remembering everyone whispering behind my back—or in front of it—acting like I’m a bomb in jeans. People seriously think I’ve been keeping this secret since preschool! Can you believe that?”
“They’re bored. Everyone’s gonna forget about it soon.”
“Not soon enough,” I grumble. “Did you see there’s a GIF of me?”
Milo scrunches his eyebrows.
“Yeah. I’m a GIF now.”
I reach onto the floor, grabbing my phone out of my jeans pocket. My GIF fame comes from a video someone took a couple of days ago in Mr. Gonzales’s class. When I got punished for basically being a human being. Well, and dumping my shit everywhere. For three excruciating seconds, there I am, shaking my bag with this maniacal, Bellatrix Lestrange look on my face. I didn’t even know my face could do that, but apparently my range is that good.
As far as bullying goes, this stupid animation is fairly tame, so I’m almost smiling as I search for it. I scroll past mundane poetry, bypassing selfies and food photography. But then, something entirely different catches my attention, putting my heart on lockdown.
“Oh my God.”
I—I honestly can’t believe what I’m looking at, so I thrust the phone at Milo for verification. It’s a photo. The one of me and my mom. The one I posted a few weeks ago with the hashtags #meandmom and #missyou. The original picture was this beautiful, innocent moment with her chin resting on the top of my head, my hand pinching her cheek as I look up at her, grinning. Now, though—someone has photoshopped it so that instead of pinching her cheek, I’m holding a gun, pointing it at her face. There’s even an artful spattering of blood coming out her other temple.
“Holy shit,” Milo gasps. “Who posted this?”
He clicks on the profile but it’s some anonymous user named FakerX; the rest of the account is blank. It almost makes me gag. Somebody did this. I mean, everybody knows, but only one person chose to do this with that information. And they didn’t even do it right—I shot her in the chest, not the head.
I bury my face in my hands.
“Jo, this is harassment.”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” I cry. “FakerX isn’t lying about what I did.”
“This is serious. We need to report this.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“I killed her, Milo. Wake up!” I pause as a hot, peppermint heat wells up inside my chest. “Maybe some asshole photoshopp
ed this, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m guilty.”
“Jo, you’re not. Try to calm down.”
I shake my head wildly. “Why should I? I killed her. I killed her. I deserve to be harassed and ridiculed and sent to the headmaster’s office and whatever else, because I killed my own mother.” I sit up and my head throbs. I’m practically panting at the realization. “I don’t think I can survive this. I hate myself. The only person who ever really loved me is dead, and it’s my fault. I did it. Oh God, Milo. What did I do? What-did-I-do- what-did-I-do?!”
Milo tries hard to hush me, hold me, but I refuse. My breath is too thin. Too tangled.
Bang. The familiar clap of a gunshot bashes into me. Terror snakes its way down my temples and into my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut to ignore it, but that only makes me want to push harder. Punch myself in the face or something. Cut something. Will physical pain stop the meteor from crashing? If I hit myself hard enough, can I be forgiven?
“Jo?” Milo says, voice cracking. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I wail, full-body shuddering. Giant tears plonk down my cheeks and paint his black sheets blacker. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s going to be okay.”
He scoops my rigid body toward him, tight into his chest. So close that I can hear his heart beating, each bu-bum bu-bum bu-bum turning into a gunshot. One after another.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I push myself off him and fall onto the floor. Naked. I’m butt naked, but it doesn’t matter. A volcanic heat is welling up inside me. Insides blazing. Breath shaking. I’m aching as my eyes dart around the room—for what? My clothes, my sanity, my innocence?
“Jo, what are you doing? Please, lie down.”
“No!” I scream.
And scream. And scream. With another gasp of air, I scream again. I want to scream until my ears bleed. To scratch my arms till my skin comes off. My heart pumps so fast, there could be a trampoline inside my chest.
“I think you’re having a panic attack,” Milo says. “Try not to breathe so fast.”
Accidental Page 13
