The Mean Girl Apologies

by Stephanie Monahan

  His words were so smooth, so assured. He must have given this very speech before. But he had yet to convince me. “I don’t see why I should even care. So strangers hate me. So what. Many of my friends hate me.”

  “So you want your friend to get the last word? Because I have to say, she really didn’t seem like much of a friend. Calling you a liar and so forth.”

  He knew exactly the right buttons to push. Perhaps Rick Peterson, with his baby blues, was a better reporter than I’d thought.

  “All you have is your reputation,” he went on. “Listen, I believe you. And the truth is you’re the one who put it out there in the first place. Your friends are talking. This town doesn’t know what to think. Our readers want to know more about you. You get the public on your side, then sooner or later, Jack has to acknowledge it. His fans will demand that he does.”

  You don’t know him, I wanted to say. But at the same time, I wanted to believe he was right. “Will the other reporters go away?”

  Rick had already started to roll up his sleeves, clicking on the voice memo app in his phone. “Oh, yeah. We’re the big time. They’ll back off once you talk to us.”

  “Before we do this, tell me the truth. You don’t care about me and my so-called fans. You’re not doing this to help me. You just want the story, right?” I didn’t know why, but getting him to say it would make me feel better about what I was on the verge of doing.

  He smiled. “Natalie, we’re journalists. It’s what we do.”

  Finding common ground. Well played, Rick. “Okay. One more thing. I don’t want this to be a big deal, like I’m looking for attention—”

  “I’m thinking FOB, for sure,” he said, nodding. That meant front of the book, where his magazine stuffed as many short tidbits in as possible.

  “So it’ll be a Quick Shot.” That was what they called the section, with updates on babies and weddings and new projects celebrities have signed on to. I imagined my story could fit in well there: natalie sets the record straight. And then we could all move on.

  Rick looked impressed at the breadth of my Celebrity Weekly knowledge. “Yes! Exactly. Now, let’s get started.” He had become sort of jittery, completely unlike his usual cool demeanor, and again, I wondered what else he was hoping to get out of this. Rick was right. He was a journalist, like me, and as such, I knew there was nothing more important than getting the story. Still, he had started to become a little too desperate. A little voice—or a big voice, really—told me to run out of the room.

  Another, louder voice told me that soon this would all be over. And really, what could be said about me that hadn’t already been said?

  Rick clicked on his voice memo app, and we were off.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was on the freaking cover of Celebrity Weekly.

  My face on one side of the magazine, and Jack on the other. Between us was a wavy white line, and over the line, the words: he says/she says: who is lying?

  I was going to kill Rick Peterson.

  I had to look away after a second—could the picture they used of me have been any worse? I rolled up the magazine and hurried into the house, where I proceeded to drink directly from a bottle of wine Gillian had brought home for a weekend of cheese and wine tasting. I took the bottle to the couch and stared at the wall for a while. Eventually, I unfurled the magazine.

  The picture was worse than I thought. It was taken from the street, the diner’s glass doors behind me. The skin beneath my eyes was dark. Not at all the photo I’d given Rick, the one Gillian had taken for our story in the Gazette. On the cover of a nationally best-selling magazine, I was scowling. Jack, on the other hand, looked perfect. Of course.

  It seems that Natalie Jamison is at odds with more people than just Jack Moreland. After a high school friend told Celebrity Weekly exclusively that she believes Natalie is lying, Natalie has words to say about that friend, Amber Howell, daughter of MA state senator and Natalie’s childhood best friend. “Amber’s made it her life goal to make me miserable,” Natalie says. “She excelled at it in high school, and she’s trying to outdo herself now, making me the town outcast.”

  My whole body burned. I’d never said anything about Amber to Rick Peterson except that the two of us had a complicated history and that I didn’t consider her a friend. He’d completely fabricated my supposed quotes. I knew this “magazine” ran unconfirmed stories, but I didn’t think they’d make up direct quotes. I was so stupid. Yes, I’d gone to journalism school, but it wasn’t like Gossip Magazines 101 had been on the syllabus at Brown.

  While Ms. Howell implied that Jamison has made up this story for money, Celebrity Weekly reports that Jamison declined payment for the interview. Thanks, Rick, for small favors. Had I known this would happen, I would’ve let them pay me. At least I could’ve gotten something out of this. They probably gave Rick a bonus from the money he saved from capitalizing on my stupidity.

  Why isn’t Jack Moreland weighing in? A source close to the pop star claims Jack is staying silent so as not to hurt Natalie’s feelings. However, another source in his circle denies this and says Jack does not comment on personal matters. “He is concentrating on his music and hopes his fans will do the same.”

  We hope that Jack responds to our requests for comment on this story and puts the matter to rest. In the meantime, take our poll and tell us who YOU think is lying!

  The poll. Of course. I hurried to the breakfast nook and removed my iPad from its charger. I opened the app and there I was, staring back at me in all of my pale-faced glory. I felt like I should email Rick Peterson and point out the flawed premise of his stupid article. There was no he said/she said in play here. Jack wasn’t commenting at all. Still, I felt like I had to have some sort of say in my story. So I voted. I tapped my finger impatiently in the time it took for the little box to pop up: who is lying? 94% say natalie!

  I guess my plan to get the public on my side had completely backfired. My biggest comfort had turned against me.

  After a tiny twitch of hesitation, I deleted the app. I scoured the apartment, collecting every hard copy magazine I’d saved and started a pile. If I had a fireplace, I’d light the mother of all bonfires, even in the seventy degree weather. Instead, I dumped the stack in a black plastic trash bag, lifted it over my shoulder—the damn thing weighed a ton—marched outside, and dumped them in the recycle bin.

  Immediately, I felt a lot lighter.

  …

  Tonight, Amber was getting married.

  I took a sip of wine and stretched out on the couch. I was watching what seemed like the millionth hour of a marathon of an all-star edition of America’s Design Challenge, starring none other than Kirsten Worthington, one of Jack’s possible new girlfriends as per Celebrity Weekly. She was explaining her choice of materials in an avant garde challenge—she was planning on making a pantsuit out of pencil erasers, which would have sounded impressive if I didn’t already know a girl who made a dress out of duct tape and wasn’t a contestant on a fashion design show—when the doorbell rang.

  Over the past week, my doorbell had been a harbinger of doom. Or at least of nosy reporters. So much for Rick’s claim that talking to his trashy magazine would stop the rest of them from trying. I was pretty sure I’d just made things worse.

  The bell rang again and I wrapped a blanket around myself and crept toward the door. Leaning in toward the peephole, for a moment I didn’t see anyone. Then Gillian’s blue eye met mine, and my heart stopped for a second.

  I opened the door and ushered her quickly inside. “You scared me half to death.” I peeked once to my right and to my left, just to be sure there was no one behind her. “Why the hell are you using the doorbell?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot my keys. Oh, there they are.” Hanging on the hook besides the door—the one labeled “keys.” “I am so tired.”

  She sat on the couch and kicked off her high heels, took one look at the television, and turned toward me, worry lining her face. “Hav
e you done anything all weekend except watch TV?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  She patted my hand and, very casually, snuck the remote out from behind me. “Hey, this is your fault,” I said. “You’re the one who insisted we get cable.”

  Ignoring me, she clicked through the channels, finally settling on a show on the cooking channel. A close-up shot of a tray full of lasagna reminded me I hadn’t eaten all day. I got up to get a snack. “So,” Gillian said, taking in a deep breath, “something happened today.”

  I sat right back down.

  “I got a job offer. From Celebrity Weekly. In Los Angeles.”

  Right. Because this magazine hadn’t completely destroyed my life yet. The wine burned my throat. “Oh. Wow…that is—that’s great. A magazine with actual readership.”

  “I know.” But she wasn’t quite smiling.

  “So what did you say?”

  “I’m thinking about it. I have until the end of the month. You wouldn’t believe the offer they made, relocation benefits and everything, and the salary…yeah. It’s good.”

  I forced a smile, but I was afraid it looked more like me trying not to throw up. Gillian was my friend. I should be happy for my friend. “I bet you’d be able to meet that New Zealand guy from Hospitals and Housewives.”

  Her eyes lit up for a second. “Yeah, I thought about that.”

  We were silent for a couple of minutes. “All right, here’s the truth. If you go, it’ll suck. For me. But this isn’t about me, it’s about you. So if you go, I’ll be happy for you.” I hugged her and told myself to stop being such a baby and closed my eyes until the tears went away.

  “You’ll never believe it. My latest fan fic has fifty-nine comments on it, plus I’m up to a thousand followers. That’s doubled in just a couple of months.”

  “That’s awesome. Between that and your new job, you’ll have a book deal in no time.”

  She smiled, but she looked sad. “Okay, let’s stop talking about this. Want to eat? I’ll make something good.”

  We hadn’t been able to go grocery shopping all week, so we had very little in the house. She grilled English muffins and slathered peanut butter and jelly on both sides. While we ate, we played poker. It was my idea. Gillian was terrible. Way worse than Reid ever was. I could tell what kind of hand she’d been dealt immediately, even when she made an attempt to hide it. “When you start moving your lips back and forth like that, I know you have a good hand.” Sure enough, she laid down her cards to reveal a full house.

  “I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I’m just not good at hiding things.” And she really did sound apologetic about it.

  Gillian went up to bed around ten o’clock, but I wasn’t tired. I was actually a little wired, which was weird because wine usually put me to sleep. It was the anxiety creeping back in. I’d managed to lose all of my friends, and now I was going to lose Gillian. Because let’s face it, she was going to take the job. Of course she would. Maybe I could go with her. There was nothing keeping me here, after all. And in someplace like LA, I would be invisible. The town was overflowing with real stars; no one would care about me.

  Maybe I could just forget about trying to be a better person and get a job with the paparazzi.

  I was washing out our dinner glasses and wondering if, proportionally, there were more Botoxed women walking around LA or Stonebury—I’d bet it’d be a close call—when my doorbell rang. Seriously, reporters at eleven o’clock at night? I threw the sponge into the sink and marched to the door. This was it. I was getting my life back.

  “Who is it?” I barked.

  “Pizza delivery.”

  I rolled my eyes. Very clever. “You’re about three hours late. Now please go back to stalking a real celebrity.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have an order for a large cheese pizza to this address.”

  I closed one eye and leaned down to look through the peephole. A guy with a trucker hat, wire-rim glasses, and a thick brown mustache stood there. Sure enough, he held a pizza box in his hands. But I remembered what I’d read online about paparazzi, what lengths they’ll go to get the picture. A couple of them dressed in full army camouflage and hid in the bushes outside of some MTV star’s house just last week. You had to give them points for creativity.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t order anything.”

  Outside the door, the man sighed. “Please, ma’am. I’ll get in trouble if I go back to House of Pizza without delivering it.”

  “Then leave it at the door.”

  There was a pause. “Okay…but I thought maybe I’d get a tip…”

  This guy wasn’t going to quit.

  Unless he really was from the House of Pizza, just trying to do his job. “Okay. Fine. Give me a minute. I don’t know if I even have cash.” I found a twenty in my wallet. Well, at least I’d have food for a couple of more days without having to go to the Shop Saver. I unchained the door and opened it slowly.

  “Here.”

  The man looked down at the money in my hand, then back at me. He didn’t make a move to take it, and I shook my head. “So it was a lie. You went to a lot of trouble to make it seem realistic.”

  The man said nothing, just lifted up the corner of his mouth in a smile.

  I was pretty sure my heart stopped beating.

  His mustache was coming apart on the left side. He took off his glasses and slid them into his pocket.

  Jack smirked at me. “So are you going to let me in or what?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Five Years Earlier

  Because I’m not good enough

  Not good enough for you

  — Jack Moreland, “Good Enough”

  Jack didn’t show up at school the entire week after prom. All of my texts went ignored, my phone calls unanswered. I even did a semi-creepy walk-by of his house on Friday after school. His car wasn’t in the driveway. I couldn’t believe how much I missed that ramshackle death trap, but I did.

  I was supposed to spend Saturday studying for finals, but I was no good at anything requiring concentration. At two o’clock, an hour before I would leave for work, Sarah called. “Want to go get ice cream and eat it on the beach?”

  We used to do that all the time when we were younger, when it was just me and Sarah and we did whatever we wanted whenever we wanted, no Amber involved. She thought it was too childish—beach was for tanning purposes only—and so Sarah and I hadn’t gone in a long time.

  It was tempting, but my heart wasn’t in it. “I have to work,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s right. Hey maybe I’ll come visit you—”

  “No! I mean, my boss is really strict. She’d be mad.”

  Sarah paused. “You were just telling me the other night how cool she was.”

  “Well, yeah, she’s cool, but only because she likes me, because I do a good job and take it seriously. I can’t just hang out with my friends all night when I’m supposed to be helping customers.”

  “Okay. God, calm down. It was just an idea.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She sighed. “It’s okay. Don’t you think this is all going by so fast? Three weeks left of school and then…I don’t know… I just feel like everything’s about to change.”

  “That’s because it’s going to,” I said.

  …

  I poured coffee and brewed lattes and dished out plates of cheesecake, all the while trying not to be sick. At four-forty, the front doors opened and the band was finally there. The last Kerouacs show was advertised in the window, the product of Reid’s mother’s computer. come say good-bye! it said in bold letters across the top. This was it for the band. Next week was finals, the week after, graduation. Jack was all set to leave Stonebury immediately after graduation, and there were no Kerouacs without Jack.

  Darcy had been quiet the whole afternoon, smiling sadly at me whenever we made eye contact. When the three of them passed by us on the way to the break room, Travis and Reid waving a
nd Jack saying hello, pointedly, to her only, she put her hand on my shoulder and sniffed. “I’m gonna miss those boys.”

  I no longer had to walk super carefully when I carried the tea and cookies to the break room. The band wasn’t playing cards when I walked in. Jack was sitting in the corner, tuning his guitar. Travis and Reid sat at the card table, Travis reading a comic book, Reid with our giant physics textbook open on his lap.

  No one acknowledged my presence. “Hi,” I said loudly.

  Travis glanced up and nodded. Reid’s nose and ears flushed as he muttered a hello under his breath. I gritted my teeth against rising tears and wondered how much Jack had told them.

  It would have been easy to run out, tell Darcy I was sick, go home, and never see any of them again. It would have been easy and impossible at the same time.

  I walked over to where Jack was sitting and stood over him. He’d removed his black nail polish, but I could see streaks where it’d set into the skin around his nail beds. As he played, he tapped his foot softly against the floor.

  I took my foot and tapped his lightly. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  He didn’t look up, but kept right on playing and tearing my heart out.

  “Are we not ever going to talk about this?”

  A shuffling noise across the room was Travis and Reid packing up and getting out. I waited for the door to close behind them before I raised my voice. “Are you just going to ignore me forever? Act like everything that…happened, didn’t happen?”

  At that, he looked up, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “I don’t know, are you?”

  I started to sit down, but he stood and walked away, so I followed him. He put his guitar in its case in the careful way he always handled it. “I just don’t know what you expect me to say.”

  “I want you to say that we’re okay.” I put my arms around him, moving in front of him so he had to look at me. “They don’t deserve to know about us. I don’t want them screwing us up.”