His tone was amused, but I bet he couldn’t wait to get out of the car. And who could blame him? Who likes listening to other people fight, especially people you barely know?
It wasn’t easy, but I managed to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the ride, stewing silently in the backseat.
After Ruthie and I thanked Theo for his help, he disappeared into his house, probably collapsing with relief that he was free.
“What’s this Clark Kent business?” I muttered, climbing into the front and buckling my seat belt.
“Hello,” Ruthie said, like I was a moron. “Superman’s alter ego?”
“I know that.”
“Clark Kent is a reporter for the Daily Planet.”
“So?”
“So … Theo is editor of the Millbridge Monitor. Which, if you ever bothered to read anything besides Seventeen, you might know.”
My heart pounded with indignation, but my voice stayed calm. “Well, who’s Ruth Wakefield then?”
Ruthie heaved a sigh. “She invented the Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie.”
“Since when do you bake, anyway?”
“Since I needed an elective and I didn’t want to take metal shop. Okay? Are we done with Twenty Questions?”
“Oh my God!” I cried. “Why are you being such a wench?”
Ruthie snorted. “Why am I being such a wench?”
“Yeah. Why are you being such a wench?”
“Why am I being such a wench.” She slowed to a stop in front of a red light and shook her head. “That’s rich.”
“What is your problem?” I shouted.
My sister turned to me and said, without a drop of kindness in her voice, “Can you think about anyone but yourself for one minute?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? The whole reason I called you to pick me up was to help Taylor!”
“Uh-huh.” Ruthie pressed on the gas.
I knew what uh-huh meant: she didn’t believe me.
“What—” I cried, exasperated, “I was thinking of myself when I dragged Taylor out of there? If I was thinking of her, I would have left her there, passed out naked while a bunch of guys took pictures of her? That makes absolutely no sense!”
Ruthie shook her head. “I wasn’t talking about Taylor.”
“Well, who were you talking about?”
“Me, Lex! … I was talking about me!”
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, my sister started going off: saying how she was having a great time tonight when I called, how she didn’t want to leave, but I goaded her into picking me up.
“Goaded you?”
Ruthie ignored me and kept going. “You’re always doing that. Putting yourself first. Like whatever I’m doing—whatever I’m interested in—doesn’t matter. Band is a waste of time. Classical music sucks. My friends are geeks. How could I possibly have plans on a Saturday night? Well, let me tell you something that may shock you…. Are you ready for this? … I actually have a life, and it doesn’t revolve around you.”
“Well, that’s … I know that,” I said, stumbling on my words, feeling my face grow hot.
Ruthie kept going. She was on a roll now, pounding the steering wheel for emphasis. “Every time you come to me with one of your petty little problems, what do I do? I listen. I give advice. I try to make you feel better.”
“Petty little problems?” I sputtered. “You think my problems are petty?”
“Yeah, Lex. I do. On the scale of things that actually matter, I think your problems rank pretty low.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. You just can’t look past yourself long enough to see it.”
She then proceeded to hop in her time machine and fly back to August, where her college tour got interrupted by my accident—and to tell me how disappointing that experience was for her.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You think I ran into a tree on purpose, just to ruin your trip?”
Ruthie shook her head. “No.”
“Because that’s sure what it sounds like. It sounds like you think I deliberately rammed my face through Jarrod’s windshield, deliberately shattered my own bones just to—”
“No,” Ruthie said, more fiercely. “That’s not what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words.”
“Well, untwist them then.”
“I will … Jesus … if you could stop interrupting me for one second…. I know you didn’t hurt yourself on purpose. Of course I know that. I was scared shitless when it happened. I prayed for you—literally prayed, on my knees, in the middle of the hotel bathroom, that you would be okay. And I don’t even believe in God! … But that’s not the point…. The point is that ever since you got home, Lex, you’ve been front and center. Everyone comes to your rescue, and I just get left in the dust. ‘Oh, don’t worry about Ruth. She’s so smart. She’s so competent. She can handle it.’”
I opened my mouth to say something, but my sister kept ranting, through traffic circles and stop signs and blinking yellow lights. “After the accident, I thought you might open your eyes a little, gain some perspective. But you know what? You’re more self-centered now than you ever were before.”
“That’s not true,” I murmured, only half believing myself.
“Do you realize you never once asked me about my trip? Never once asked which colleges I’m thinking of applying to?”
I got a little snarky then, telling Ruthie I’m sorry, but I was a little busy getting jacked up on enough pain medication to stun a buffalo, and, you know, having my ass stapled to my cheekbone.
“Lex. No offense—because I don’t want to minimize the pain you felt in the hospital—but that was over two months ago. The victim act is getting old.”
“Easy for you to say!”
“No,” Ruthie said, pulling into our driveway and cutting the engine. “Not easy for me to say … and Dad’s going to kill me for saying it because he asked me to cut you some slack, which I have, for a long time. But I’m sick of this shit, Lex. I’m really sick of it. I’m sick of you lambasting Mom and Dad when all they’re trying to do is help. I’m sick of you barging into my room whenever you feel like it, and putting on my clothes without asking—”
I started to defend myself, saying that I hadn’t worn her clothes in days. Not since my new jeans and sweatshirts arrived in the mail.
But Ruthie just kept ranting. “Clothes which, for your information, I happen to like, even if you’re wearing them to make some kind of statement about how little you care what people think. Which is a joke because it’s so obvious how much you care.”
“No, I don’t,” I said weakly.
“Whatever your ‘Rules’ are,” Ruthie continued, scratching quotes in the air with her fingernails, “you’re obsessed with your face, you’re obsessed with how people perceive you, and you’re obsessed with Taylor and Ryan, to the point that your life has become … well … pathetic…. I mean, why did you even go to the dance tonight?”
An image of Rob popped, unbidden, into my head. Had I really imagined leading him into an empty room and sticking my hand down his boxers? Had I really thought that hooking up with him would hurt Taylor? It didn’t even make sense. How would she find out what I did unless I told her? And then, why would she believe me?
“Well?” Ruthie said.
A hot flicker of shame licked at my chest. I couldn’t tell my sister about Rob, so I mumbled a half-truth. “I wanted to feel like me again.”
“By dressing as Catwoman?” Ruthie looked at me like I’d just sprouted horns.
I shook my head miserably. “I don’t know.”
“Lex,” she said, no longer sounding like Cruella de Vil. “Do you really think you’re so different now?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I stared at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“I have no friends … and Ryan’s completely moved on.”
“Ken doll?” I co
uld tell from her voice that she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I loved him,” I said pitifully.
“Well,” my sister said, sighing and unbuckling her seat belt—a sign that she might finally be finished tearing me to shreds. “As far as I can tell, Ryan has never done much of anything to deserve your love. Taylor’s been your friend forever, but Ryan?…” She shook her head. “Whatever. You can make your own judgment about those two. I’ve said my piece.”
Then she announced that she was going inside—her car smelled like a barf factory, and she couldn’t breathe through her mouth anymore.
After Ruthie left, I sat in the car for a long time, wearing my rancid cat suit. Licking my wounds. Replaying her tirade over and over, trying to make sense of what she’d said.
Finally, it hit me. This whole time, I’d been wrong about my sister. Ruthie wasn’t jealous of me, not even close.
I’d Rather Be Cleaning
Litter Boxes
I WOKE AT five in the morning with an unsettled feeling—the kind you get when you know something bad happened, but you can’t remember what it is. Then I remembered.
Taylor on the wrestling mat.
The grim reapers.
The look on Mr. LeFevre’s face.
Ruthie’s litany of insults.
Taylor again.
I checked my cell: nothing.
Without even thinking, I found myself walking down to the living room in the dark. Sitting at the computer, logging on to MyPage. I used to MP every day—write on people’s blackboards, update my news flash—but this was the first time since the accident. I felt like I was opening a time capsule, or walking into Jenny Albee’s brother’s bedroom. Even a year after the funeral, Mrs. Albee didn’t touch a thing. Teddy bears still on the bed. Tonka trucks littering the floor. She left everything exactly where Caleb had left it the day he died.
The picture on my page was like a relic from another life. Smiling, scarless Lexi, face pressed up against smiling, rosy-cheeked Taylor. Both of us have our pointer fingers raised in the air, signifying to the world that we are number one, having just beaten New Canaan 3–2 in double overtimes.
We looked so young and happy it made my stomach ache. It made me remember a simpler time—a time before Ryan, before parties where people started drinking beer and tearing each other’s clothes off, before everything got so messed up.
There were a bunch of notes on my blackboard from the days following the accident. I scrolled down to the bottom and worked my way up.
OMG, Lexiiii!!!! What happened last nite? (Kendall)
R u ok??? R u really in the hospital? (Rae)
Y r u not ansring ur cell??? We have 2 talk! (Taylor)
R u getting my texts? (Ryan)
We r all thinking of uuuuu! Call ussss!!! (Laurel)
The most up to date was from Meagan O’Hallahan on September 1. R u not on MP anymore? Wazzup w/ that??? Coming 2 ur BBQ on Sat. Cant wait 2 c uuuuuuu!
There was nothing on my board from last night. There were no new messages in my in-box. For a second, I thought about calling Heidi or Kendall and Rae, but then I changed my mind. They’d probably say, “Why are you calling so early?” or worse, act all fake and thrilled to hear from me.
So I clicked NEWS FLASH. That is the beauty of MyPage. You can see what people are doing without them even knowing.
If only you could un-see something after you’ve seen it.
If only you could wave a magic wand and erase a single night from collective memory.
That’s what I wanted to do as soon as I saw Jason Saccovitch’s post. He and Kyle Humboldt were legendary for their perverted links. Usually, I ignored them, but this time, when I saw You have to check this out, I clicked it. The realization that I couldn’t delete what popped up—that Taylor and her rainbow underpants were on display for the whole world to see—made me nauseous.
Apparently, I wasn’t alone because someone behind me gasped. “What in the world…?”
I jumped a foot in the air. “Oh my God! Are you spying on me?”
My mother gasped again, leaning in for a closer look. “Is that you?”
“No!” I made a crazy attempt to cover Taylor with both hands before realizing all I had to do was press a button and the window would disappear.
“Well, are you … was that…” My mother grasped for words. “What I mean to say is … it’s perfectly natural for you to be curious about—”
“Oh my God,” I moaned, realizing what she was getting at. “You think I’m looking at porn? … Gross! It’s Taylor, okay?”
“Taylor?”
“I told you last night, she got a little drunk at the dance. That’s why I called Ruthie.”
The bare minimum. That’s what I’d given my parents when I got home. Just enough to get them off my back.
Now my mother was folding her arms across her chest, waiting.
“Okay,” I conceded. “She wasn’t a little drunk. She was a lot drunk. She passed out, and a bunch of guys took pictures of her and now someone posted them on MyPage. You can’t tell it’s her because she’s wearing a mask, but I know it is because I saw it happen and … I can’t believe I’m telling you this!”
My mother’s expression changed from shocked to disdainful. “I knew something like this would happen … with the amount of alcohol in that house … and the irresponsible parenting….”
“What are you talking about?”
My mother sighed. “Let’s just say that Bree LeFevre is not exactly a role model when it comes to drinking. And with Taylor’s poor judgment, not to mention poor self-esteem, something like this was bound to—”
“Oh my God!” I stared at her. “Are you blaming Taylor for what these guys did to her?”
My mother wrapped her bathrobe more tightly around her waist. “Of course I’m not blaming Taylor. I’m just making the point that—”
“Well, don’t, Mom. Okay? Don’t make points about things you know nothing about. You don’t know these guys. You don’t know anything!”
With that, I sprang to a stand, roughly pushed the swivel chair back under the desk, and marched out of the living room. Because there’s nothing like your mother getting on her high horse to suddenly inspire you to defend your ex-BFF and her stupid choices.
Later, when my mother came up to my room to apologize and to bring me my freshly laundered cat suit, I was still mad. But I had to bite my tongue. I’d promised my father I would make an effort.
“I didn’t mean to spy on you, honey,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“The reason we keep the computer in the living room is so Daddy and I will always know that you and your sister are safe. With the world the way it is today … Internet bullying, predators…”
“Right.”
“You did the responsible thing, calling Ruth last night,” she continued. “I want you to know that … and I also want you to know … if you ever find yourself in a situation like that again, I’m here for you….”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thank you for leaving me and Daddy a note to let us know you were going to the dance, so we wouldn’t worry….” She hesitated, gestured to the cat suit draped across the foot of the bed. “Did you at least have fun getting dressed up?”
“A blast.”
My voice wasn’t sarcastic. It was flat. Totally devoid of emotion.
“Alexa.”
“Mother,” I said, realizing I was mimicking her.
She gave me a look, and I looked right back at her.
I could tell she was losing her patience, but she kept her voice calm. She loved me very much, she said, but she didn’t appreciate my attitude.
“Well…” I said, scrambling for a comeback. “I don’t appreciate the attitude of guys who post photos of drunk girls on the Internet.”
It was a complete non sequitur, but somehow it worked.
“Those boys did a terrible thing,” my mother said, frowning. “Taylor is a very lucky gi
rl that you found her when you did.”
“Yes,” I said. “She is.”
All day, I waited to hear from Taylor. A phone call, a text—anything to acknowledge what I’d done for her.
But nothing came.
By Monday morning, I still hadn’t heard from Taylor—or from anyone else. This made me anxious to get to school, but not so anxious that I was about to get in a car with my sister.
I’d managed to ignore Ruthie for the past thirty-six hours. I’d almost cracked last night, when I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and there she was, standing in front of the mirror. She didn’t notice me; that’s how hard she was staring at herself. Staring and poking at her face with her fingers. At one point, she took a step backward and stood on her toes, to see her whole body. She lowered her shoulders, turned to side, and smiled at her reflection. Smiled!
What are you doing? I wanted to say.
But I already knew. I knew because I’d done it a million times myself: turned sideways in front of the mirror to see how I looked from a different angle. But my sister? Watching Ruthie check herself out was so weird I had to leave the bathroom. Without her even noticing I’d been there.
Now, Ruthie was sitting at the breakfast table, drinking coffee. Which I will never understand. She and Sasha and Beatrice think coffee is the coolest thing ever, even though it reeks and turns their teeth brown.
“I don’t need a ride today,” I announced, scraping my chair against the floor as I sat. “I will be taking the bus.”
Ruthie’s eyes widened over her mug. “Really?”
I nodded.
“But you hate the bus.”
“So?”
“I would be happy to drive you,” my mother said, gliding over to me with a glass of juice.
“No, thank you,” I said primly. “I don’t need anyone to rescue me.”
The corners of Ruthie’s mouth twitched, like she was trying not to laugh.
I shot her a look. “I’m glad you think this is funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny—”
“What’s funny?” my father said, appearing in the doorway in full court uniform: navy suit, red tie.
My Life in Black and White Page 15
