“Oh yes?” I say. Paul and I share a disdain for authority, and Cate always says when I’m talking to teachers or policemen or librarians I take on his subtly dismissive attitude. I guess I’m proving her right.
“Some of the girls are concerned about your reputation. Now I know you are a great girl who makes her parents very proud.” She says this to remind me that she’s cool. It’s crap. She sniffs like her nose is stuffed up or something, but I don’t buy that either. “But that said, your current . . . exploration . . . of your . . . adulthood . . . is making some students uncomfortable. And more importantly, worried about you.” Mrs. Drake looks proud of herself. She is convinced that she has found a way to call me a slut without actually saying anything substantial.
“Exploration of my adulthood?” I tuck my hair behind my ears. I’m not even pretending not to understand or anything. But I want her to hear how insanely vague and strange that phrase is. “Like . . . I’m growing up too fast?”
“The way you’re dressing, Tabitha,” Mrs. Drake says, uncrossing her legs and leaning in closer to me. “The way you’re carrying yourself. Now, we’re not stodgy old fuddy-duddies here. We’re not conservatives, of course. And you have the freedom to dress how you want.”
“But?” I say.
“But I’m concerned about your relationships with other girls and maybe that you are being . . . naive.”
“Naive,” I say. No question mark. No need for her to answer. My legs itch all of a sudden, and I try to scratch with just one finger, but it’s not enough. I start scratching my thigh kinda voraciously.
“Do you feel comfortable with the way you’ve been dressing?” Mrs. Drake says. Her eyes go to my thighs. It doesn’t seem to matter that they are covered in tights.
“It’s from the Gap,” I say, echoing Cate.
“What kind of message do you think your clothes are projecting? I know things at your home can sometimes be rather . . . adult . . . and I want to encourage you to stay in childhood as long as you can.”
My mouth goes dry and our eyes meet. She is daring me to counter this statement, to remind her that she’s one of the people who’s been known to keep things “adult” at my home. She raises her eyebrows so high they meet her widow’s peak.
Usually Mrs. Drake deals with hot, popular girls bullying nice, smart ones. As a guidance counselor, that’s, like, her primary role.
This is something different. She knows it and I know it.
Alison and Jemma are not the hot, popular, bullying girls. And I’m not a loser or a druggie or a slut or a cheerleader at the top of the social pyramid. This is two nice, boring, borderline nerdy girls feeling pissed that their former friend got a little bit cuter last summer.
And this is Mrs. Drake taking their side.
Jemma says she’s sad about how quickly things changed, and maybe that’s true, but being sad doesn’t give you permission to, you know, be a bitch.
Except Mrs. Drake thinks it maybe does.
Never mind that I’m the humiliated one on the corduroy love seat in the cramped cubby-office.
“It seems like maybe you’re choosing boys over your girlfriends,” Mrs. Drake says after a bit of a pause. I’m about to scream. “All this flirting and carrying on and wearing those tiny skirts and all that makeup . . . it’s alienating your friends, and it’s making your classmates see you in a very particular light. I’m worried about you. You’ve changed so much, and whenever I see that kind of drastic shift, I wonder what else is going on.”
And with that last bit, she’s also managed to maybe-sort-of accuse my parents of being bad parents, on top of everything else.
You know what I’m really starting to hate? How superfast my feelings change. How impossible it is to hang on to the okay feeling. Like some bouncy puppy, I have it in my hands and it’s totally great and then all of a sudden it wriggles right out and runs around and I can’t catch it again.
“Well,” I say. But I can’t think of a snappy retort. The high from kissing Joe on Assignment has stopped banging around in my body. And I’m left on this stupid couch, blushing. “Well . . .,” I say, much more quietly this time. I’m hyperaware of the length of my dress and my huge boobs and my ridiculous mascara.
It’s a nearly intolerable amount of discomfort. There are floor-length floral curtains in Mrs. Drake’s office, and I would do anything to hide behind them right now. For a good long while.
“So do you understand?” Mrs. Drake asks. She doesn’t look concerned, even though I know I’m sweating a little and my eyes are going watery to match my shaky, quiet voice.
“Um, I guess,” I say, hating myself for the slump in my shoulders, my rounding back.
“Those are sweet girls who have expressed concern. Those are lovely girls looking out for you, and you should be very grateful.”
Implied but not said: Tabitha, you are not a nice girl anymore.
“I just wanna say,” I start in a small voice, “this isn’t right.”
“Mm-hmm?”
“I don’t know why they’re telling you that stuff? But the bigger problem is basically that they stopped liking me.”
“Sometimes things seems very simple, but they’re actually very complicated,” Mrs. Drake says, taking her time with the words.
“No, but in this case I think it was more sort of simple. They were sort of terrible and I was totally surprised and that’s basically it.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Drake says. “And what about changes you’ve made? What about your role?” This is not a real question. There is a right answer, and a wrong one.
“I don’t exactly need to, like, have therapy about this or anything,” I start. I move some of the pillows around on the love seat. I’m sure she will find some way to use that against me too. “But they were my best friends and then we went to a dance and they literally said they were disappointed in me. As a person. And that I wasn’t who they thought I was. And that they weren’t sure we should be friends anymore. I mean it’d been building a little. They’d made some comments for a few months, I guess. But they basically decided to give up on me one day. So, like, I don’t know why they’re feeling all sad and angsty about it. Because they obviously chose to do it.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this, because she’s on their side. Maybe it’s the calm vanilla candle flickering on the windowsill or the vague watercolor paintings hanging up on the wall or the whir of her ceiling fan or the simple fact that I am in the guidance counselor’s office and I am giving in to the implied rules of being here.
“It seems like it’s still upsetting to you. And I’m here to tell you that it’s still upsetting to them, too,” Mrs. Drake says. In her eyes the whole world is a balanced, even thing, with my upset on one side and Jemma and Alison’s equally valid, very important feelings on the other.
And that’s all lovely and Vermont-y and yoga-y. But it’s not the reality.
“You think I did something to them?” I almost yell. “I kissed a lacrosse dude from another school. I wore a V-neck and some eyeliner. I talked about boys a few times. That’s not normally grounds for dismissal! But fine. We’re different. They don’t like me. Okay. But now they’re bringing you into it? Now we’re going to all pretend I’m some troublemaker?” Mrs. Drake is nodding along with my words like she is a neutral party, but her jaw is tight and her eyes are not looking directly at mine.
“So it sounds like you see what I’m saying, about your reputation and the impression you’re putting out there. I’m worried about your decisions. Sometimes when people are lonely, they do things that are out of character. It seems like maybe you have lost a little track of who you are. Does that sound right?”
My jaw literally drops. I wonder if maybe she has gone deaf and heard nothing that I said. I clear my throat really loudly to check, and she responds with an eyebrow raise, so that’s not the problem.
I remember Jemma’s face the night of the dance. And I guess she wasn’t lying. She was actually worried about me. She did want
to keep me as a friend. But she wanted to keep some version of Tabitha that didn’t exist anymore.
I even know that it’s Mrs. Drake, not Jemma, who is the worst right now. Jemma legitimately thinks I needed a talking-to with the school guidance counselor, I bet. Jemma probably thinks V-necks and eyeliner are cries for help.
It’s Mrs. Drake who is making me feel like dirt.
“I mean, everyone changes?” I say, as if my ears are not screaming and my eyes are not bulging in disbelief at her response. Mrs. Drake nods, like I’ve just admitted to doing meth or something. I meant to say Mrs. Drake was wrong, not accidentally agree with her.
Mrs. Drake uncrosses her legs and leans forward like she’s ready to get out of her seat and let me out the door.
Which she does.
I spend the next half hour crying in the bathroom. And hating myself for crying. Wiping my face and blowing my nose with toilet paper. Vowing never to speak to Mrs. Drake ever, ever again.
Wishing that, like some of the LBC-ers, I’d thought to press record on my iPhone so I could post the conversation online and watch my new friends tear her apart.
Also, there are a million little details that I couldn’t tell Mrs. Drake, and I am pulsing with the desire to spill them all now. The tiny injustices. The barely visible omens telling me they were starting to hate me. The cracks in the friendship that became a crumble and then an avalanche until there was nothing left.
I log on to LBC when I get home that night, not sure what to write. I don’t want to put down an actual secret, but I want them to know something more about me, something real. I want them to send smiley faces and philosophy quotes and their own anecdotes to make me feel better.
BITTY: My best friend’s brother called me pretty once. She stopped being my friend, like, a month later. All that time I wanted someone to think I was pretty so, so badly. Then it happened, and it ruined everything.
Still. I wouldn’t change it.
That’s probably terrible.
I get goose bumps from the truth of it. The complicated, torn, two-sided truth of how it feels. It’s weird, to write something you didn’t know was true until the words are on the page and you have pressed send.
Secret:
I hate someone for the first time.
—Roxie
Hey Tabby,
So, that was weird. Today.
Weird good.
Weird hot.
You’re hot.
Crap. What are we doing?
—Joe
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Eleven.
I read the email a dozen times, hiding out in Cate’s office. I let the feelings that come with it boil inside me a bit.
He said he wants me. He wrote it down. He pressed send.
I mean, he didn’t say much else, but he said that.
I open up a reply window and watch the cursor blink. It’s like hypnotism or meditation: a half hour passes, and I’ve done nothing but watch the little line on the top of the email pulse, but at least it’s calmed me down a little. I am breathing normally, and the heat in my chest from the phrase “You’re hot” has cooled off a bit.
I type in a few words: Hey You, Hey There, Hi Joe, What ARE we doing? But none of them sound right, so I keep hitting delete. Hitting that stupid button so hard the pad of my forefinger starts to sting a little.
I think eating might help, so I make cinnamon toast and try to read Cate’s trashy celebrity magazines in the kitchen and avoid the cold stare of the computer. I’m worried what they’ll say about my completed Assignment with Joe, or my little revelation about Jemma’s brother and the fact that I kind of like people thinking I’m pretty, even if my best friends think I’m evil.
Maybe Life by Committee will only start hating me too.
For a moment, I focus only on the sound of the heat clicking on and the way silence sounds even lonelier when the sounds of the heater are cutting through it.
No sign of the parents.
I text Elise, to see if she wants to come over and watch TV or something, and she writes back WITH HEATHER OMG.
Distracting myself from LBC isn’t working, so I go through their profiles, instead of waiting anxiously for them to say something about my post. I click to Star first, but she doesn’t have any new updates, presumably because she’s caught in a haze of love and sex and long, meaningful looks. She’ll have to fly back home eventually, so she must be savoring every last breath of being with this guy.
I get a fuzzy feeling of yes in my chest. I think about kissing Joe again. I keep returning to the scene of the crime, because the way it makes my organs flip-flop is addictive. I bet that’s how Star feels about her guy. Maybe more than that, even.
Then there’s Agnes. I’ve been following her with almost the same intensity with which I’ve been following Star, but with less gleeful results.
I picture her with stringy hair dyed black and alien-sized eyes. I picture her skinny, with elbows like arrows and a not-ugly but not-sexy mole on one cheek. She half frightens me and half intrigues me. She’s smart and strange.
She’s the best LBC-er, I think, doing every single Assignment without questioning, and pushing everyone else to do the same.
I like her, because she likes me and Joe, or what she knows about me and Joe.
AGNES: DETAILS!
ELFBOY: Do you feel bad? Like a bad person? Do you believe in karma?
ZED: We expect you to share so we can all learn.
ROXIE: ????
@SSHOLE: Don’t hold back. This shit’s good.
I still feel a sting on my lips from where Joe’s teeth bit into me a little. When the kiss turned from beautiful to violent. It hadn’t really hurt at the time, but it’s bothering me now, the way a too-hot cup of coffee burns the roof of your mouth, even though you don’t really realize it until at least an hour later. I get the feeling the way he kisses Sasha Cotton is gentle and warm. Careful.
BITTY: There’s not much to tell. I dragged him to the gym and kissed him. He kissed back. We stopped when we heard someone coming. He emailed me. Like, two lines. Nothing life-changing. Mostly that I’m hot.
BRENDA: Seems like a lot of people think that about you, lately, huh? =)
AGNES: He emailed! That’s a great sign! He’s still IN IT, you know?
ZED: What you did was brave. And what you posted—that was brave too.
@SSHOLE: Wish we could see you.
ROXIE: Dude. Not cool.
ZED: Not the point, @sshole. Remember, we want people to be safe in here . . .
@SSHOLE: and dangerous out there. I know. I got it. Sorry.
AGNES: I bet you’re beautiful, Bitty.
BITTY: I want you guys to know me.
ZED: You’re doing an awesome job. We’re so glad you found us.
I’m about to reply with something deep and meaningful to tell them how grateful I’m feeling, and how there’s fear there too, but I like it. I love that they are interested in the tiny movements in my feelings, the little details. I have so many nuances that I’ve been hiding, since Elise isn’t that into feelings and Cate and Paul mostly deal with Cate’s pregnant feelings and Joe mostly deals with Sasha’s feelings. I have a lot to tell them, and it’s about to rush out of me, but Cate and Paul come in the front door without saying hello, and their voices are louder than usual, and it makes me stop.
I cross my legs so I’m tiny in the big swivel chair and lean back to listen in on them.
“Soon there will be a baby here,” Cate says, more shrill than I’ve ever heard her. Pregnancy has given her a whole new range of vocal expression.
“The baby’s not here now,” Paul says.
“We have a child already! What, Tabby doesn’t count?”
“Tabby loves it! What teenager doesn’t want a dad who smokes some weed?”
“I’m not saying you have to st
op completely, but you know, maybe not at work. Maybe not in front of the whole town.”
“It’s Vermont, babe,” Paul says. “No one cares. Everyone’s doing it.”
“Not everyone’s doing it!” Cate says. I pretty rarely take her side in fights, but she’s right. Paul is practically becoming the town mascot for stoner-dom. He’s on his own level. “It’s not cute anymore. It hurts business. Move to Brattleboro if you want to join all the stoners. It’s not like that in this town. You know that.”
Paul laughs. It is a huge, huge mistake. Cate storms away, upstairs I assume, and Paul heads outside. The back door slams.
I hover my hands above the keyboard and consider sharing the details of their fight but decide against it for the moment. I pick up my phone to text Elise about it, like maybe I can keep one foot in the real world and one foot in LBC.
I don’t do either. I pour all my attention into listening to the after-effects of the fight.
The walls are thin, and Paul’s favorite place to smoke is on the hammock right outside the computer room window. I know all the sounds and smells of smoking up, just not the accompanying feeling, not whatever the thing is that Paul just can’t get enough of. I have no interest in it. I hear the click-click-click of his lighter and then a little hum of pleasure as he inhales.
I mean. I love him, but he’s an idiot sometimes.
My screen lights up with more replies to my posts.
ROXIE: I think you should tell his girlfriend what he’s doing. Make him eat shit. Leave him with no one.
My focus shifts back to the computer, and I try not to hear Cate doing her little weeping bit upstairs. She’s just pregnant, I say in my head, but it doesn’t really help. Hearing Cate or Paul cry is an even worse feeling than what I felt in Mrs. Drake’s office today. Unsettling.
I squint, like that will help me focus more on LBC and less on my parents.
AGNES: No! Bitty has a real connection with this guy. Shouldn’t she go for it? I mean, if it’s real?
Life by Committee Page 9
