When I found Kathryn again she was laughing like an idiot at one of Tim McNamara’s stupid jokes. She looked over at me, and the blackness just went everywhere. Kathryn wanted to be an A-lister. She wanted to date all the best guys and go to the best parties. She thought because she was beautiful and little that she could steal my friends and step all over people to get what she wanted. Well, I was the top of the A-list. I was the one with the power. And I decided it was time.
Time to take care of Kathryn.
I waited for Tim to move, then I walked past, bumping her with my shoulder. We hit so hard her drink sloshed onto her shoes.
“Hey!” She laughed. “Watch where you’re going, B.”
I bumped her again. This time, her plastic cup bounced to the concrete. She shook her hands, trying to get the beer off them. I leaned over so I could whisper into her ear.
“You are a bitch. I know what you did, and if you know what’s good for you, you will watch yourself.”
She backed up, staring at me with those big, wide eyes. “What?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
I kept my voice down—I didn’t need the whole school hearing what I had to say, but I made sure that she could hear every word.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You are a bitch and a liar and a backstabber. And you’re lucky I don’t kick your ass right here.”
There. I’d said just enough to put her in her place. I started to walk away, but Kathryn rushed ahead and planted herself in front of the kitchen door.
“No.” She stuck her chest out. Her eyes held on to mine with those gold flecks flashing. “You’re not doing this again, Brooke,” she said. “If you’ve got a problem, you can tell me what it is.”
“Unbelievable.” I tried to get past her, putting my weight into one giant shove. She held steady. This time, it was me who had to step backward.
“I know you’re mad,” she said. “You’ve been mad at me for weeks, and I’m through trying to guess why.” She put her arms up on either side of the door. “This is it. Whatever is wrong, we are going to talk about it. Now.”
KATHRYN
BROOKE LOOKED AT ME LIKE a boxer sizing up an opponent on the opposite side of a ring. I waited, half terrified, but also strangely relieved. At least I would finally know why she hated me so much.
Chloe and Dina rushed out of the house, stopping when they saw us.
“Hey,” Chloe said. “What’s going on?”
Brooke scowled at me. “You put that shit online about my dad.”
Online? I felt my jaw drop, my brow knit together in confusion.
“I did what?”
“You went online about my dad and Jake. You knew it was private, and you posted it for the whole world to read.”
“I did not,” I said. “I didn’t tell anyone….”
But suddenly, I felt sick. The conversation at the mall came back to me, the one after the Senior Keg, and the horrible truth of what I had done—or helped somebody else do—hit like a knee to the stomach.
“It must have been Chloe or Dina,” I blurted out. “One of them must have done it!”
“Excuse me?” Chloe whirled around and glared at me. “Thanks a lot, Kathryn. Don’t drag us into your crap.”
“We’re not the ones who are P-O-O-R,” Dina sneered. “How much did they give you for all the details, Kathryn?”
There they stood, two girls who had been my friends just minutes earlier, eyeing me now like an unwelcome stranger. Chloe, who always seemed to have a solution for every awkward situation, offered no aid whatsoever.
“You have to believe me,” I pleaded with Brooke. “I didn’t tell anybody but Chloe and Dina!”
Brooke scowled even deeper. “You weren’t supposed to tell anybody.”
“I know that now, and I’m sorry. But I wouldn’t do something like post it online. I would never do something like that.”
Brooke stepped toward me, pushing Chloe out of the way. “Do you ever drop the act?” she asked.
“What act?”
“The one you’re doing right now. Where you treat people like shit and then pretend you’re just poor, confused little Kathryn.”
“But I don’t get it. Who have I treated like shit?”
“Me, for one.” She thrust out her hand and started ticking off her fingers. “Your parents, who you totally disrespect. And what about Miles? You have no idea how lucky you were to have him, but all you could do was bitch.”
I’m sure it was the alcohol, making certain things clear and other things, like my judgment, hopelessly blurry, but I realized then something I should have picked up on from the start: The way Brooke had made herself scarce when Miles started asking me out, the way she’d turned sullen when I’d tried to talk about him…
“You like Miles!” I said, nearly shouting because it was so obvious, and I had been so stupid not to see it sooner.
Chloe gasped and Brooke shrank back, her eyes darting frantically around to see if anybody else had heard me.
“It’s true!” I went on. “You like him. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Brooke looked like she might be about to cry. “I shouldn’t have had to tell you,” she hissed; the expression on her face begged me to keep my voice down.
No, I thought. No. I won’t be quiet. So much could have been avoided with just a few honest words, and now it was too late. I moved forward, emboldened by the alcohol.
“I don’t read minds, Brooke. I asked you for weeks what was wrong, and you told me nothing. I’m starting to think maybe I’m the one who’s been treated like shit.”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I could trust you,” she said. “And I was right. You’re a fake and a crappy drunk and you’re making a fool out of yourself.”
I’d had enough alcohol to make me buzzed, but not so much that I couldn’t quickly scan back through the evening and take stock of my actions; I’d done nothing out of line, so what could Brooke—Brooke, who, according to Chloe, had thrown up at a Steak ’n’ Shake and bared her behind on more than one occasion—be talking about?
“So you’re the only one who gets to drink and be stupid and have fun?” I asked. “How in the world is that fair?”
“I’m not going to talk about this,” she said.
“Why? Is it too embarrassing? I heard about all the things you’ve done when you were wasted, and unless my memory is faulty I don’t think I’ve ever vomited in public, nor have I ever run around with my pants down. So tell me, Brooke, just what makes you think you’re any better than me?”
Rocking forward, she pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “You really want to know?”
“Yes, Brooke. I really want to know.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll tell you. I am better because I don’t take everything for granted. Music? You’re lucky you’re so good because otherwise you’d be nothing but a hack. Matt…Where is he tonight? Sitting at home watching movies by himself?”
That one hurt, because she was right; hours earlier, when I’d gone by his house to check in, I’d found Matt with the Star Wars series on DVD, watching alone in the dark while Anakin Skywalker fumed over an imagined betrayal by his best friend and mentor. He’d tried to get me to stay for the end of the movie, but I told him I had to go—I didn’t want to be late for my date.
“Leave Matt out of this,” I snapped. “Matt’s fine. He understands.”
“What? That you’re a two-faced popularity whore who drops her real friends as soon as someone shinier comes along?”
A crowd had started to gather, drawn by the rising volume of our voices. One of Brooke’s brothers emerged from the group, saying, “Hey, hey. What’s this all about, now?” Brice put one hand on my shoulder, the other on Brooke’s, attempting to separate us. I shook him off.
“You picked me,” I said. “Remember?”
Brooke laughed. “My mistake. You’re nothing special. You think you are, but just watch how fast I can take it all away
.”
“God, who are you?” I said. We had moved beyond petty misunderstandings to somewhere darker, a place I didn’t want to go but couldn’t resist. “What are you? Is this some kind of high school mafia movie? Are you like the Douglas High Godfather?”
“I might as well be, as far as you’re concerned,” she said. “The only reason you’re here tonight—the only reason you are anywhere—is because of me.”
“And you’re only here because of your brothers.”
She stopped, eyes gaping, red blotches beginning to show on her cheeks. I knew I’d struck close; all I needed was to push a little further and I would find my mark.
“Look at yourself, Brooke. You have everything, and yet all you can talk about is how much you want to get away. It’s like you think you’re doing us a big favor by allowing us to bask in your presence. You’re the Queen B because you’ve had somebody telling you that ever since you were old enough to put on a show, but that’s all this is—a show. You’re Daddy’s Little Star, and damn, don’t you believe it?”
I didn’t see her fist coming, but I felt the blow, like a hammer to my left eye socket. It sent me backward, onto my rear end, and then flat onto the floor. The alcohol kept my eye from hurting; it also kept me on the ground. I remember lying there with my hand to my cheek, moaning, “What happened? What happened?” And then everything went black.
For the first couple of days afterward, nothing happened; in fact, I woke up the next morning certain that the fight had been a dream. Then I looked into my bathroom mirror, and there it was—the purple welt under my eye. I hurried to cover it with makeup, trying to hide the mark from my parents but also hoping that, by concealing it, I could somehow make the entire, awful evening go away.
Monday at school, nobody talked to or looked at me. I walked around in an odd, shocked calm while people tried to make sense of what had happened and figure out which side to take. Then, on Wednesday, it started. A group of seniors sat giggling at the back of the choir room, huddled over their BlackBerrys as I came in after lunch. When they saw me they started to whisper. Brooke walked in and they gave her high fives, then they looked back at me and doubled over laughing. Brooke shot one icy glare in my direction, then gathered her folder and went to her seat. That night Matt needed just a few minutes of cybersleuthing to find what they were laughing at: a clip of Brooke punching me that someone had taken with their cell phone and posted on YouTube. Over and over, her fist flew into my face and I staggered backward. I looked so small next to her, so awkward and exposed, that I had a hard time believing it was really me.
The next morning my locker was egged. The weary-looking janitor made me clean the mess myself, and when our principal, Ms. Van Whye, came by to ask who’d done it, I couldn’t tell the truth; I told her it was a prank by some friends who were getting back at me for a prank I’d played on them, and she threatened me with detention.
I still held out hope, though—if only I could talk with Chloe. I found her during morning break, with Dina at the A-list bench in the commons.
“Hey, guys,” I said, hurrying over. “What’s up?”
“So I’m thinking a Marie Antoinette theme for prom,” Chloe was saying to Dina. “I’m the first junior to ever head up the planning committee and I want to make a splash.”
“That’d be so sweet!” Dina squealed.
“Hey,” I tried again. “I loved that movie. I could hel—”
“Or maybe not Marie Antoinette. What about black and white? Like a debutante ball. Check out these pics I got online.”
Chloe whipped out her cell phone and, wedging me out, leaned over to show Dina the screen. My ears burned and my breath came short as I backed away, hoping no one had seen them ignore me.
I spent the weekend fielding hang-up phone calls and obscene IMs, returning to school to find the worst humiliation yet: Alex Kelly, waiting for me at my locker. For a moment I allowed myself to hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d come to pick up where we’d left off in those final moments at Bud’s party, but when I got close enough to see into those kind brown eyes, I found them instead filled with pity and disgust.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I paused with my backpack half off my shoulder. I hadn’t spoken to Alex since the party, so how much more alone could I leave him?
“You heard me,” he repeated. “Leave me alone. Stop calling. Stop emailing. Stop leaving notes in my locker.”
“I didn’t leave anything in your locker.”
“You’re telling me this isn’t from you?”
He held out a piece of notebook paper, folded in quarters with a broken heart seal. I opened it to find an uncanny imitation of my handwriting.
Alex. Please. I can’t stop thinking about you. When are you going to call me? When are we going to go out? I think I’m in love with you. Please don’t ignore me.
Kathryn
My cheeks were on fire and my stomach churned; someone had been pretending to be me, begging Alex for attention, and he had believed it; he thought I was some sort of pathetic, needy stalker.
“We’re not going out,” he said, taking the note back and crumpling it in his fist. “I don’t like you. Okay? I don’t.”
I stood in front of him, searching through the shame for something to say, while underneath it another emotion began to blossom. I had made so many mistakes—believing Brooke when she told me nothing was the matter; believing Chloe when she said she would keep Brooke’s secret; believing my newfound popularity was real and not an illusion that would shatter as soon as Brooke decided to end our friendship with her fist. I had betrayed Matt, I’d betrayed Brooke, and I’d betrayed my parents, who’d gotten a call just days earlier from the school counselor, concerned about how badly my midquarter grades had fallen.
“How could you do this?” my mother had asked when she’d gotten off the phone. “You know how important your schoolwork is.”
Yes, I had made mistakes—terrible ones; but did I deserve this?
I straightened, willing myself to look at Alex, if only for a second. “You couldn’t wait to be with me when you thought I was with Owen Lynch.”
I saw his features soften, like he knew that what I’d said was true. Almost as quickly, they hardened again.
“You aren’t who I thought you were then.”
“You’re right,” I said. Then I turned and ran out of the building and away from school, to the Mexican restaurant where I waited for Matt to come and find me like I always knew he would.
“Ignore them,” he told me over my fifth Dr Pepper. “Sooner or later they’ll stop.”
I learned to keep my head down, keep moving, keep from making eye contact—let people do what they were going to do and hope it would be over quickly because any other reaction would just invite more torment. I buried myself in my schoolwork, in music, in Matt, and he was right; gradually they did stop. Torment turned to cold shoulders and then to blank stares, which were even more painful because before when I was invisible, it was only because nobody knew me. Now, everybody knew who I was, and they knew—because Brooke had told them—that I wasn’t worth so much as a second glance.
In a perfect universe I would have forgotten I had ever met Brooke Dempsey. But the box with her black boots greeted me every time I opened my closet door, until finally I took it to the basement and shoved it into the storage room behind the old Christmas decorations. And then, there was choir. Every day Brooke stood in the back row, just nine spots away, showing me nothing but that regal profile. But I could tell from the energy radiating off of her that she was as painfully aware of me as I was of her. And I knew that whatever had started between us would continue, because music was the one thing neither of us could give up. She could go back to her world, and I could go back to mine, but music was the world in between. As long as we both loved to sing we were destined to meet there, and neither of us would be able to forget.
SENIOR YEAR
Crescendo: to increase t
he volume and intensity of a musical passage
KATHRYN
“YOU’RE GOING TO HOMECOMING WITH John Moorehouse.” The voice comes from behind as I crouch at my locker pulling books into my backpack during morning break. I turn to see Chloe Romelli standing over me.
I should have known this was coming. Ever since John asked me two days ago, questions have been ricocheting around in my head like little boomerangs: Why did he ask me? Why did I say yes? And what if John is part of Brooke’s new campaign, the bait in some scheme to lure me out so that she and her friends can have a last laugh at my expense? That must be the plan, or Chloe wouldn’t be standing here while Laura Lindner, her newest acolyte, glances territorially around the hallway, practically daring somebody to interrupt us.
“He asked me,” I say.
“I know he did,” Chloe replies. “You going?”
I pause. Am I going? I haven’t told Matt yet because the whole thing happened so fast, and I wasn’t thinking straight thanks to the migraine, which still buzzes faintly behind my eyes. Besides, if this is a plot, then I would be an idiot to go walking right into it. John doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would participate in one of Brooke’s vendettas, but then I don’t really know him all that well, now do I?
Still, I hate the tone of voice Chloe is taking with me. Considering that she hasn’t given me the time of day in months, I’d say the signs all point to a new plot in the making.
“Well?” she presses. “Are you going or not?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Look.” Her voice descends to a concerned-sounding murmur—the same one that used to make me feel like I was being let in on some valuable piece of advice. “Brooke would probably kill me if she knew I was talking to you about this. But I really think you ought to know. She likes John.”
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