The Mean Girl Apologies

by Stephanie Monahan

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next night, I managed to arrive at Sarah’s apartment despite being followed by a gang of crazed photographers. Lucky for me, you have to be buzzed into Sarah’s building, and I left a couple skinny guys with cameras lurking around the parking lot.

  Sarah answered the door in a law school T-shirt and black yoga pants, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and an apprehensive look on her face. “Come in,” she said, as if she wasn’t sure she meant it.

  Sarah and Derek’s apartment was easily twice the size of the one she used to share with me. There was a large stone fireplace in the living room, a kitchen with new appliances, and a separate dining room. In addition to their bedroom and a guest room, she had her own office, big enough for a desk and two bookshelves. A grown-up’s apartment. Sarah really had grown up. She was moving on. That’s all I wanted for myself, too. But in order to do that I needed to get rid of all this weight holding me back.

  “Want anything to drink? Wine?”

  “No thanks.”

  She got herself a glass of water from the refrigerator, one of those fancy ones with the built-in icemakers in the front. I bet she didn’t miss the faucet in the kitchen that wouldn’t stop dripping even after the landlord sent over the plumber—three times.

  I followed her into the living room, where we sat with a sizeable distance between us on the couch. I put my hands in my lap and turned toward her. “So, I know you’re confused. And I’m really, really sorry I didn’t tell you any of this before. What happened with Jack, I tried to forget about it. Pretend it never happened. But then…I heard the song.”

  Sarah blinked. “The song you say is about you.”

  “It is about me. Everything I said in the article is true. I know you’re confused, and I’ll explain all that, but first…first I have to tell you something.”

  “Something else?” she asked, as if she couldn’t imagine there could be anything more.

  I nodded.

  “Okay.” She swallowed. “I can tell by the look on your face that it’s bad.”

  She had always been convinced that bad news was just around the corner. This was one of the few instances when she was right.

  “It’s bad.”

  She blinked a few times, her eyes already starting to water. “It’s your other apology. It’s to me, isn’t it?”

  I nodded again.

  She let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. So it’s about something that happened in high school? We all did bad stuff in high school.”

  Okay. Maybe she’d understand. We were young and stupid.

  “Remember when you and Mike broke up? For the last time?”

  “Yes. Of course. Two months before prom, the bastard, after I’d already bought tickets.”

  “Right. Well…you know how Amber and I said we saw him at the mall…”

  She jerked her head up. “Yeah, Burlington. Which was weird, because we never went there…”

  “Right. So you’d broken up, like, ten times that year already, remember? And then he got in early acceptance to Sienna and you were going to forget all about where you wanted to go and follow him there, and we knew it was a mistake. And if you didn’t go there, and you had a long-distance relationship, we knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it. So we…we lied.”

  “You lied?”

  “We never saw him at the mall with another girl. We thought… We thought it was the right thing to do,” I finished weakly.

  “So you lied. You made up some story that I believed. For my own good.”

  It sounded even worse when she said it. Who did we think we were, to know best? Did we really think we were saving her?

  She stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  I started to ramble. “Amber—she convinced me it was the right thing to do. She said that he wasn’t good for you, and we were worried about you…”

  “You were worried about me.” The words had no feeling or intonation—she sounded like a robot. “So you made me think my boyfriend—the one person I thought loved me—you made me think he was cheating on me.”

  “You were obsessed with him. It wasn’t healthy.”

  “I’m so lucky I have friends who care about my health so much.”

  “Amber said—”

  “Stop blaming everything on Amber! I never saw her put a gun to your head and make you do anything!”

  Okay, so she was mad. Really mad.

  “This isn’t about you and Amber,” she said. “This isn’t even about me and Mike. It’s about you and me. And how I thought you were my best friend.”

  “I’m really, really sorry. That’s why I came here tonight, to apologize.”

  She crossed her arms. “Why now, after all this time? Just because of the song? If that song had never been released, would you have gone on lying to me forever?”

  I shook my head. I would have told her, eventually. I knew I would have. The song was just the catalyst. “I would have told you the truth. Because now I’m back here, but I’m not the same person. I want to have a real friendship with you.”

  Sarah’s eyes were glassy as she stared at me. There weren’t any tears, only confusion and anger. “So what were we having for the past what, fifteen years?”

  “We are friends,” I said quietly. “Best friends.”

  She laughed and I couldn’t even defend it, because I knew we really weren’t.

  “Right. Best friends then and now. One best friend who spills her guts, and other who just sits there, listens, and lies.”

  She stood up but didn’t go anywhere, and I looked up at her. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Well, you could leave me alone. I guess that would be one thing you could do.”

  I got up and started toward the door.

  “You know what?” she said, stopping me. “I don’t believe that all these apologies were for the people you hurt. I think they’re for yourself, so you can clear your conscience. You’re the same selfish girl you were back then. Back then, I could overlook it because I thought we were friends. But we’re not anymore.”

  For probably the first time in our lives, I was the one crying now, and Sarah was perfectly composed. When she used to cry, I remembered thinking how I never wanted to be the crying girl. I’d always thought the way she wore her emotions on her sleeve made her weak. But I knew now that keeping things inside, keeping secrets, were the true ingredients of weakness. I cried all the way back to my apartment.

  …

  The following weekend, Gillian officially moved in. We spent Friday night and all of Saturday unpacking and breaking down her remaining boxes, then going shopping for some new dishes and assorted kitsch to brighten up the place. We went to the art supply store and bought a wreath for the front door and some eucalyptus to stuff in vases for the bathroom. We did all this with the vague notion of being followed, though we never saw a camera or heard a flash.

  By the time Sunday afternoon came, I still had not heard from Jack. Maybe I’d miscalculated. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  I hadn’t heard from Sarah, either, though I hadn’t expected to. I’d texted her last night—are you okay?—but didn’t get a response.

  As Gillian’s experimental broccoli quiche baked in the oven, we sat in the breakfast nook and flipped through the newest issue of Celebrity Weekly. “I think Lacie Merlin and Ashton Levine are going to end up breaking off their engagement,” Gillian said. “The long-distance thing never works, you know?” I nodded in agreement, as if we knew them.

  “We can add quiche to our cookbook,” I said later, so full I could barely stand.

  And that, of course, was when the doorbell rang.

  The doorbell had been ringing on and off since the article, reporters who refused to take “no comment” for an answer. The possibility that Sarah was on the other side of the door made me hurry over to it. I looked into the peephole. “Shit.”

  It was Amber.

  “Who is it?” Gillian called from where she was
doing dishes in the kitchen.

  “My worst nightmare, pretty much.”

  “I can hear you,” Amber said in her raspy voice.

  “Good for you.”

  “Let me in. I won’t be long. I have something important to tell you.”

  She knew what to say, and how to say it, to get me to do what she wanted.

  I pulled open the door, and she sauntered inside, as perfect as always in jeans and leopard print flats. I, of course, was wearing ratty sweatpants and the Brown T-shirt I’d gotten freshman year. She scanned the apartment, wrinkling her nose.

  “Sarah’s too upset to talk to you, so she wanted me to relay a message. Stop texting her.”

  I stood there, staring at her, and she smiled. “You didn’t really think that she’d blame me, did you? I mean, maybe I did get sucked in, but I wasn’t her supposed best friend, always jealous of her relationship with Mike. You really hated being the third wheel back then, didn’t you?”

  I figured Amber would try to twist the story, but would Sarah really believe her? They had stayed here the whole time I was away at college. They had a friendship I couldn’t fathom and didn’t understand. Sarah had defended her to me before. Still…would Sarah really believe her over me? Was I the only one who saw Amber for who she truly was?

  I decided to call her bluff. “I don’t believe she really sent you over here to say that.”

  Amber smiled. “Believe what you want, honey. It makes no difference to me. Or Sarah.”

  It was borderline scary, how her nasty tone was juxtaposed with the smile on her face.

  “The thing I can’t figure out,” she said, “is why you made up that story. Are you suffering from some sort of mental illness? Or are you just incapable of living in a world that doesn’t revolve around you?”

  “Oh, right. Project much?”

  She ignored me. “And if what you say really did happen, and you had these sudden epiphanies, it does seem pretty convenient, don’t you think? All of a sudden the guy’s a famous rock star, and you finally have the courage to tell the whole world about your secret relationship? That’s just. So. Brave.”

  I wished that as she spoke, a part of me wasn’t trying to figure out a way to get her back on my side. Years of seeking her approval had turned into a nasty habit. One that I had to break.

  So I looked her in the eye. “Thank you.”

  Her mouth parted as she stared back at me. The surprise registered in her eyes, and as she considered me, something else passed over her face, and for one second, I thought maybe it was respect.

  Something behind me caught her eye. I turned to see Gillian, her hands hidden beneath soapy rubber gloves. Amber showed her teeth. “Who are you?”

  Gillian crossed her arms. “Gillian. Who are you?”

  “Ah.” Amber nodded. “The girl from work? The one you’ve been hanging out with because you feel sorry for her?”

  I had to laugh because it was so stupid, but when I looked at Gillian and saw the blindsided shock and hurt on her face, I just got angry. “She’s lying,” I said to Gillian. “She makes shit up. This is what she does. Seriously,” I said, gaining momentum as I turned back to Amber. “You’re still seventeen years old, aren’t you?”

  Amber simply shrugged. She was still smiling. “Oh, one more thing. Your services are no longer necessary at my wedding. So don’t show up.”

  “Great! I never wanted to be a part of your incredibly over-the-top, ridiculous wedding, especially since when Peter realizes what an entitled bitch you are, he’s going to dump your ass anyway if he’s not already cheating on you!”

  That wiped the smile off Amber’s face. It should have felt amazing to finally tell her exactly what I thought, like it had with Adam. But it didn’t. It just felt mean.

  An awkward silence fell over the apartment, and poor Gillian turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Now she knew what a jerk I really was.

  Without saying anything, Amber marched toward the door. I ran my fingers through my hair and pulled at the ends—why did I have to go and say something like that? She’d always been a little sensitive about that kind of thing after what happened between her parents. I didn’t want to be the person who found someone’s sore spot and kicked it.

  “Amber—”

  She turned around, her hand on the doorknob, and flashed me a smile. “By the way, the dress is nonrefundable.” She slammed the door behind her.

  I stared at the shut door for a second, colleting myself, before going into the kitchen. Gillian had gone back to washing dishes. I grabbed a towel and started to dry. “Well. In case you couldn’t tell, that was Amber.”

  She was up to her elbows in soapy water. “Yeah, I figured.”

  “You know I never said anything like that about you, right?”

  “I know.” And she didn’t seem to have any doubt about it. Another sure sign she didn’t know me in high school. “She seems seriously psychotic. I couldn’t imagine you being friends with her.”

  “Yeah, well. I wish I couldn’t, either.”

  …

  Less than twenty-four hours later, standing in nearly the same spot in the kitchen, I started to think that maybe things were turning around. Neither Sarah nor Jack had called me, but at least Amber was no longer in my life. And this morning, I’d woken up to two emails in my Photos by Natalie inbox, and by the afternoon, I’d booked two freelance jobs.

  Now, after we devoured leftover quiche and emptied a bottle of wine, Gillian and I discussed what to watch on TV. We had many options now that she had ordered cable. We both felt a silly comedy was in order. We were about to retire into the living room when Gillian checked her phone and I saw her face go white.

  I sighed. “Oh God, what now?”

  She handed me her phone.

  Celebrity Weekly Online…Your One-Stop Shop for Celebrity News!

  Celebrity Weekly is excited to bring you a new EXCLUSIVE report on the Jack Moreland/Natalie Jamison saga! “There’s no way this story is true,” says Amber Howell, a very close friend of Natalie’s since childhood and daughter of long-time Massachusetts Senator Troy Howell. “I’ve known her since we were twelve years old. We still live in the same town. Nothing ever happens to one of us without the other knowing. There’s absolutely zero percent chance that this story is accurate.”

  When asked why she thought her best friend might be lying, Amber can only speculate. “She’s been going through a hard time. She tried to start her own business, but I’m afraid it’s not going very well. I don’t know why she thought she could make something like this up; maybe she needs the money? I told her many times I would help her out financially, but she’s unwilling to let me help. She’s started telling other lies, too. My friends and I are actually worried about her. We think she might be losing it. It’s really very sad.”

  For his part, Jack Moreland has still refused to comment. Phone calls to Natalie herself have gone unanswered.

  What a bitch.

  This, of course, was Amber’s payback. For telling Sarah about what we’d done, for standing up to her in my apartment, for the low blow about the cheating, and probably for hundreds of things I’d done to annoy her over the years. For all I knew, she’d been waiting her entire life for this.

  …

  I guess it was Amber’s article that spurred me to finally talk to Rick Peterson.

  Jack still hadn’t called, and I knew he wasn’t going to. In fact, the only people who had called over the past forty-eight hours since Amber’s article, excluding reporters, were the two freelance assignments I’d managed to book, and both had called to cancel. They didn’t think this was the right time to begin a professional relationship with me. They hoped I’d understand.

  So Rick Peterson caught me at just the right time. I was sitting at my desk, rereading Amber’s interview. Even now, even after everything, she still managed to have the upper hand.

  “Natalie?” Jason in Sports stood at the side of my cube. “There’s some weasely loo
king guy in the lobby asking for you.”

  Rick was standing there like he owned the place, smoothing out his tie and making small talk with our part-time receptionist.

  “You’re back for more?” I asked.

  He gave me a sheepish grin that I imagined got him out of a lot of trouble with girlfriends. “I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry. But I can help you.”

  I brought him into our one and only conference room, which functioned better as a closet. There had been a clock on the wall once, but nobody knew where it went, and only the lonely screw remained. Rick gave me a closed-mouth smile as he took in the room. His tie and shiny leather shoes were comically out of place here. “I’m sure you’re used to nicer accommodations,” I said.

  “This is fine. Little hometown papers are so inspiring.”

  Condescending much? I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “So why are you here?”

  “First of all, let me say, I like you.”

  “Why would you like me? I refused to speak to you, and then I flipped you off.”

  He cocked his fingers at me and clicked his tongue. “Exactly. I’m used to dealing with celebrities who say they don’t want to talk. But really, they always do.”

  “Okay, first of all, I’m not a celebrity. And second, that’s just what you tell yourself so you don’t feel bad about ambushing people when they try to walk across the street.” Like that poor preteen star of the latest singing contest show who was recently photographed at Whole Foods with a gigantic zit on her chin and the accompanying headline: cassidy monroe shops without makeup!

  “There’s where you’re wrong. You are a celebrity. And you’ve got to get the fans on your side.”

  I laughed. “I don’t have fans. I know, I read the message boards.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. These people need to get to know you. You’re everywoman. The cute girl right out of college who’s still trying to find herself, getting caught up in a whirlwind that’s spun out of control. You really are just like our readers. But they don’t know it yet. As far as they know, you’re a pathological liar or obsessed fan.” Funny, I remembered assuming that Gillian would think the same thing. “Now, I know that’s not true,” Rick continued, “but them? They need to be convinced.”