Tease

by Amanda Maciel

  Brielle holds up her hand before the word is even out and goes, “Stop. Stop, okay? We’re gonna fix this.” She finally turns her back to the mirror and pulls herself up to sit on the counter. Brielle is always sitting on counters, and somehow she never gets her pants covered in water like I always do. She smooths her hair back and up in one swift motion, knotting it in a perfect updo while I just stand there, waiting for the plan.

  More than ever, I need Brielle’s plan.

  “Dylan is just confused,” she declares. “More importantly, Emma Putnam is confused. She seems to think she actually belongs at this school, with us and our friends and our boyfriends. But she is wrong about that.”

  “I know, but what are we supposed to do?” I can’t stop myself from whining.

  “God, Sara, don’t be an idiot. The girl has been kicked out of, what, four schools already?”

  “Actually I think she just transferred, like two ti—”

  “Details. Fine, transferred. Well, Bitchy Bitch can just transfer her ass again.”

  I nod, finally getting what she’s saying.

  “We’ve been thinking too small,” Brielle says, jumping back off the counter as the bell starts ringing to change periods outside the bathroom door. “Obvs the girl is not getting the message with flowers.”

  Brielle sneers as she says this, and for a minute I want to argue with her—the flowers were her idea, but she sounds like she’s blaming me for them being lame or not working or something. But maybe it was my idea? Or maybe I should’ve come up with a better one, argued with her at the time? Not that I’ve ever talked her out of anything before.

  We grab our bags from the windowsill, leaving the bathroom just as a group of seniors is coming in. One of them is Noelle, and she and Brielle hip-check each other, like it’s an old routine they’ve done a million times. I blink, surprised by the move and the sharp pang of jealousy that sticks in my throat.

  “Hey, girl,” Brielle says casually. We’re about to go through the door when she turns back on her heel and points at Noelle. “How old is that boyfriend of yours?”

  “What?” Noelle asks. Her friends are at the mirror and she’s digging through her purse for something, not really looking at us.

  “I mean, is he eighteen?” Brielle asks. “His birthday was just in December, right? Was it his eighteenth?”

  Noelle looks up from her bag and wrinkles her nose. “What is it, weird question day?”

  “It’s just this thing,” Brielle says, waving her hand dismissively. “I thought I remembered something from his party, but I wasn’t sure.”

  Noelle looks like she wants to ask Brielle another question, but then her face clears and she shrugs. “Yeah, he turned eighteen. He got me into a club over break, actually.”

  “Badass,” Brielle says. And with an ironic finger-gun at Noelle—which Noelle returns—she finally turns back to me and pushes me out the bathroom door.

  “What the hell was that about?” I ask as we join the between-classes crowd in the hall. “You guys are friends?”

  “Duh,” Brielle says. “And it’s just research. You’ll see.”

  That afternoon, we follow Dylan’s car to McDonald’s. It’s like a sting operation—Brielle stays a safe distance away, and we wait in her car until they’ve gone inside and ordered and everything. Then we walk in, like it’s all a coincidence. But we walk right past the counter and over to their table.

  “Isn’t he a little young for you?” Brielle asks Emma.

  She looks up from the small packet of fries and puddle of ketchup in front of her. Her eyes have that soft, sad look they always get when a boy is around. Why can’t any of these guys see that she’s just using them?

  “Jesus, Brielle, give it a break already.” Dylan looks at me pointedly, like We talked about this, but I just stare back. This isn’t the school library. We’re allowed to be here, it’s a free country, and Emma should know we’re gonna say whatever we want.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma says with a heavy sigh. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and she’s wearing a chunky fisherman sweater and just a little mascara. She looks amazing. I look my best—since the breakup I’ve come to school every day in my nicest skinny jeans, my newest sweaters, my most careful makeup—but I definitely do not look effortless. Is that what I did wrong with Dylan? Tried too hard?

  Brielle ignores her and focuses on Dylan. “You better watch out,” she says. “Isn’t your birthday coming up? Wouldn’t want to get arrested.”

  Dylan’s face wrinkles in confusion. “Seriously, what are you talking about? Can’t you just go eat like everyone else? Sara, can’t you put a leash on her?”

  “What did you just say?” I blurt, and at the same time Brielle goes, “Oh, you best be joking!”

  Dylan holds up his hands as if he’s calling for a truce, or maybe just protecting his face from whatever he thinks we’re about to do. But at the same time I see Emma grab her soda, trying to hide a smile behind her straw.

  “You better put a leash on that,” I snap, jutting my chin at Emma.

  “If you can even stoop that low,” Brielle adds. “Come on, Sara. If we stand here any longer we’re gonna get an STD.”

  “You guys are really pathetic, you know that—” Dylan is still talking as Brielle grabs my arm and we stomp away from their table.

  We still don’t have any food, of course, and as we make our dramatic exit Brielle says loudly, “Drive-through, babe. It’s the only way we know our food won’t be contaminated.”

  I feel a surge of energy from yelling at Dylan, and amazingly, I’m really hungry. I’m even smiling as we climb back into Brielle’s car—this is, like, the first time ever that I’ve been around Dylan and my stomach hasn’t been in knots. I mean, they used to be good knots. Excited knots. But since Valentine’s Day it’s just been an awful tangle in there. Every time I see him or Emma or, the worst, both of them, I want to puke.

  But now I’m hungry. I’m starving. I’m smiling and ordering supersized everything.

  September

  “IS MR. WHARTON not joining us?”

  “Do you see him here? No, he’s not coming.”

  “I’m sorry, Julia. I didn’t mean—I just thought Sara said he was going to be in town.” Natalie shifts some papers on the table, clearly uncomfortable. She’s been saying all along—and, for the past week, nonstop—that having both my parents here would be helpful, and that they definitely need to come to the trial. Obviously my dad is totally excited about that.

  “I said he might be,” I clarify quickly, trying to see my mom out of the corner of my eye. “But he couldn’t make it.”

  Natalie gives us both a level look and takes a deep breath. “Well, I have news,” she says, and my stomach goes cold. “The charges against Dylan Howe are being dropped.”

  “What!” my mom shouts. “How did—”

  Natalie holds up her hand, interrupting her. “The evidence wasn’t sufficient. But he’s still agreed to testify against the rest of you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” my mom says. “What does this mean?”

  “It’s not good,” Natalie says. “And I think we need to seriously reconsider making a plea deal with the prosecution.”

  I can’t believe this is happening. I have to clear my throat to say, “But I’m not guilty. I thought we said I wouldn’t—”

  “I know what we said last time,” Natalie interrupts, but her voice is soft. “Honestly, though, this is a really tough case. There’s so much at stake—your whole future, Sara. I know it’s hard to see now . . . but this has always been my recommendation, as you both know, and now more than ever I think you need to take this option. We can plead to the lesser charges and you can go back to your life. After your eighteenth birthday your record could even be cleared, if they’ll agree to that.”

  My mom runs her hands through her hair and sits back, so I can’t see her face without turning. She used to think this whole thing was bullshi
t, I know—she used to think the Putnams were crazy for blaming me for Emma’s death. But I think going over all the testimony has been changing her mind. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t think I’m innocent anymore, even if she hasn’t said so to my face.

  “I think if we agree to allocute on the stalking and intimidation charges, and maybe one count of assault, we could see just twelve months’ probation,” Natalie says.

  “Probation?” my mom asks. I can’t tell if she wants to know what that means, or if she’s saying that’s too much punishment. Or not enough.

  “Sara would have monthly check-ins with a court official, and if she commits any crimes—whether or not they match the ones she’s being charged with here—she’ll be sentenced to time in a juvenile facility.”

  “But I’ll be eighteen in a couple months,” I blurt out. We were all charged as minors, of course—except for Tyler—but everyone’s getting older. Dylan’s birthday was in June, so he’s technically an adult now. I know his parents got a fancy lawyer, but on his birthday, when I was busy not calling him, I kept wondering what would happen if he had to go to prison for real. Like how Tyler might have to. It’s crazy. It’s not fair. I don’t like Tyler, but come on, prison? And if I’m going to be on probation until after I’m an adult—

  I shake my head, but I can’t stop my mind from spinning.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Natalie says. “You were charged as a minor.”

  “I know, but—”

  “It only matters when the charges were filed, when the prosecution claims the crimes were committed,” she clarifies. Right, I think she told us all this before. I don’t know. I can’t keep any of this straight.

  Mom’s still leaned back in her chair. “So there’s a chance this won’t go on Sara’s permanent record?”

  I finally turn toward her, furious. “What are you saying? You want me to tell them I’m guilty? I didn’t kill her! I didn’t do anything wrong—everyone hated her, everyone was mean to her all the time! And even if they weren’t, she was the one hooking up with everyone! She’s the one with the problem!”

  Mom shakes her head. “Sara, you did do something wrong. You did a lot of wrong things, don’t you see that? And no one’s charging you with murder.”

  I jump out of my chair, shoving back from the table so hard it almost topples over. “I knew it! You send me here by myself all summer, you make me feel like you can’t even be bothered with any of this, and all along you think I’m guilty!”

  “I didn’t say that, honey, sit down—” She reaches her hand out but I jerk away.

  “No! Fuck this!” I shout. I’m so hot I can’t breathe. I want to pick up the whole table and throw it across the room, or run through the wall, or just—I just—I want more air, there’s no air in here, I’m gasping and sweating and I could kill her right now. My throat seizes up and my eyes are stinging.

  But I am not crying.

  I am leaving, I’m out the door and down the hall. And I’m shaking, but I’m on the elevator, I’m outside, I’m sweating more because it’s one of those awful September days that feel like July and the humidity makes it impossible to breathe out here, either, but at least I can walk, at least there’s a sidewalk around the hideous office park, at least there’s a gas station right over there, and I have my cell phone, and I’m getting his number, I’m calling him, I’m getting a ride because I came here with Mom and there is no way I’m getting in that car with that woman ever again.

  Carmichael doesn’t ask any questions. He seems kinda freaked when he finds me under the awning in front of the Texaco, but he’s quiet as he reaches over and opens the passenger door of his dad’s truck.

  I climb in and I know I should just start apologizing, especially for him having to borrow the truck. But I’m too drained to say anything at all. I see him glancing over at me every few seconds. I keep my eyes forward, hoping he can’t see how red they are.

  I don’t know what Carmichael is doing, hanging out with me. He still talks to me at school, even though no one else does. Sometimes we have coffee on the weekends, though he makes me go to the independent place downtown, saying that Starbucks is too corporate. We don’t have the same lunch period, but I prefer to eat in my car anyway. The days that I feel like eating, that is. He’s a friend. He’s a better friend than I deserve, and he’s the only person left I can call.

  But after this, I swear, I won’t ask him for anything else, ever again. He’s a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve this. No one does. Maybe not even me.

  Finally he turns on the radio, flipping around until he finds a country station. I think he’s trying to make me laugh, like, Ha ha, you don’t listen to country, isn’t this stupid. But it’s a sad song, it’s not funny. The lyrics are about not being able to forgive someone, but not being able to leave, and I just wish I couldn’t relate.

  The song swells and I feel a wave of nausea come over me. I have to say something, I’m gonna say something. For once, I can hear the words that are about to come out of my mouth, and it makes me sick.

  “Why do you—I mean, like, why do you hang out with me?” I ask Carmichael. By the end of the sentence my voice is a rasp, and I have to swallow hard.

  “Why?” he says, turning down the radio. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  I just look over at him with one eyebrow raised. Well, with both raised. I don’t have Brielle’s one-eyebrow talent.

  But anyway, he knows damn well why.

  “All that stuff . . .” He waves a hand in the air like he’s clearing it, and for a second I think of Brielle again, how she always does that. Did that. I don’t know anymore. But either way, Carmichael does it differently—with him it’s not like he’s trying to erase something, and more like he’s gathering it all up.

  He takes a deep breath, and a painful minute passes as he stares out the windshield, watching the road, but then he goes on. “I know what everyone’s saying,” he says. “But sometimes what everyone says isn’t the whole story.”

  “No,” I say quietly. “It’s not.”

  “And freshman year, when everyone decided I was a terrorist over one made-up story, you never called me Bomb Boy,” he says.

  I look up at him, surprised. “I didn’t?” I say. I thought I did—it definitely seems like something Brielle and I would have done. But maybe back in ninth grade we were . . . different.

  “You don’t remember? Well, I do,” Carmichael says. “And then I saw you at summer school, and with your brothers, and now that we’ve hung out, I don’t know. You’re not mean to me. Plus, you’re weird.” He smiles, but I can’t return it.

  “They want me to make a plea bargain,” I tell him, finally. “And write a statement to Emma’s parents. And read it in court.”

  He nods. “That sounds like a good plan,” he says. “You must be relieved.”

  This idea stuns me so much I jerk back in my seat. “Why would I be relieved?” I almost shout.

  Carmichael hesitates. “Because . . . well, because now you can just say how sorry you are. Right? And not . . . not go to trial, not have to deal with . . . um, whatever’s gonna happen after that . . .” We stop at a red light and he turns to look at me, concern and confusion all over his face.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, my voice low but vicious, and he flinches. Typical. Just like everyone else, he shrinks back, afraid of me. Afraid of how angry I am. But I am angry—I’m furious. He doesn’t get it at all. No one gets it at all.

  But a second later he’s reaching over to my side of the bench seat, trying to take my hand. It’s my turn to pull away, but he stays where he is, looking me in the eye for another long second before the light turns green and he pulls the truck forward again.

  “I know you didn’t want her to kill herself, Sara, but you guys were pretty mean, right? You and Brielle, you guys are gorgeous, you were at the top of the, you know, the top of the high school food chain. Emma couldn’t fight back against all that. Don’t you feel bad about what happened to her?”
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  I’m breathing too fast. I feel a little faint. I’m hot and nauseated and I just have to get out of here. It feels like what happened at Teresa’s all over again, like my head is trying to float away from my body. I don’t even understand what he’s saying—me? On top of high school? I was clinging to one stupid guy and a couple of parties and Brielle’s coattails. I was nobody! He’s talking about Brielle. And, okay, maybe Brielle was too mean to Emma. Fine, maybe we both were. But I was just defending myself! I was just trying to—to keep things the way they were.

  Finally, finally the truck is pulling into our neighborhood, and even though we’re still two blocks away from my house, I take off my seat belt and grab my purse.

  Carmichael reaches out one more time. I shake my head, turning toward the window. When he eases into our driveway I yank the door open and jump out.

  My feet hit the pavement and Alex is already outside, running down the walkway steps to greet us. Tommy was allowed to be the one in charge today—apparently he’s old enough not to burn the house down for two hours—and for a second I panic that something is wrong. And then I remember that something—everything—is totally wrong, just not with the boys.

  “Mom’s been trying to call!” Alex is yelling before I’ve even closed the truck door behind me. “Are you okay? She didn’t know where you were!”

  My throat is still tight, but I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I’m okay, buddy, it’s fine.”

  At the front door I see Tommy, a dark, unhappy shape in the middle of the sunny afternoon. We match, I think. But we don’t go together. He turns and slams back through the door without a word.

  Carmichael’s out of the truck and coming around it, saying hi to Alex and still trying to catch my eye. I wish I could just follow Tommy into the house, but I finally manage to gather my dignity and my manners and say, “Thanks for the ride. I’m really sorry I had to call you.”

  “No, I’m glad you did,” he says, and there’s too much feeling in his voice. What does he think, he’s going to fix this? My life? It’s so broken I can’t even remember what it looked like before.