Tease

by Amanda Maciel

  Alex is looking at us like we’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. I put my arm around his shoulders and say, “Come on, let’s get back inside.” He nods, but he pauses to wave good-bye to Carmichael. I don’t. I turn away as soon as I can, trying to keep Alex from seeing how awful everything is.

  But I don’t turn quite fast enough, because I still see Carmichael’s face—that look of betrayal, of disappointment. Of disgust. That look that says She doesn’t understand at all.

  And he’s right. I really, really don’t.

  In my room I unfold my laptop and do what I haven’t done in months—Google Emma Putnam.

  Dylan’s name comes up right away. Apparently the dropped charges are something the papers can talk about. There are a lot of recent articles about the trial coming up, and Tyler’s name is in there. Brielle and Jacob and I aren’t named yet, we’re still just the “minors,” but Natalie says we’ll lose our anonymity when we go to court. She said sometimes you can make a deal where your name doesn’t get published, but Emma’s parents wouldn’t agree to that for any of us. And anyway, what difference does it make? Everyone knows who we are already.

  All the articles talk about Emma like she was a saint, of course. Or like she wasn’t even a real person. Months of bullying and relationships with a few popular senior boys and physical assault and statutory rape jump out as I skim through.

  “Emma was a new student who was trying to make friends, and instead made enemies of a few vicious girls in the junior class,” the prosecutor said in a statement.

  Emma Putnam was just one month from her seventeenth birthday when she took her own life by hanging herself in the garage of her parents’ home.

  I didn’t know that. The birthday thing, I mean. I knew about the garage. Everyone knew about that stuff almost the second it happened, or pretended they did. People at school had different stories about what she hanged herself with. I try not to let myself picture it, though obviously sometimes I can’t help it, like that day at Teresa’s.

  For a long time the paper didn’t print any of those details; my mom said they probably didn’t want to give the rest of us any tips on how to commit suicide. But obviously now that there’s a big criminal prosecution thing, the whole story is out.

  All of a sudden I see something out of the corner of my eye and nearly jump off the bed. It’s Tommy, standing still and silent in my doorway. I feel like I’ve been caught doing something much worse than what I’m doing. Like by having my laptop open, with Emma’s name all over it, my little brother can see me buying Emma those roses, putting the sign in her yard, throwing my shoes at her and Dylan. Or like he knows what happened that weekend right before everything else happened—that weekend that was so great, until the world just crumbled around me.

  “Hey, bud, what’s going on? Don’t you knock anymore?” My voice is light, or at least trying to be. Tommy doesn’t come in my room at all these days, so I’m not really mad about knocking. I’m happy to see him.

  The feeling doesn’t seem to be mutual. His frown doesn’t shift when he says, “Door was open.”

  “Oh. Okay. You want to come in?”

  “Mom said you’re in charge since you’re home now. She went to the store.”

  God, I’d forgotten all about Mom, and my ride home with Carmichael. The fight at Natalie’s office is still pulsing in my head like a thrumming baseline, but it’s just background noise to everything else. Everything is layers of noise these days—the pain of losing my friends and Dylan, buried under my family going through this, buried under school, buried under the lawyers, buried under . . . I don’t even know. I feel like I’m looking up at my brother from the bottom of a deep, dark well. And even though he’s standing right there, just a few feet away, it’s almost like I can’t really see him. I wonder if he’s at the bottom of his own well, looking up at me.

  “Come in,” I say, patting the bed. I close the laptop and slide it back under my pillows.

  Tommy shrugs and comes into the room, but he wanders over to the desk. My textbooks are stacked up, still shiny and new, and still mostly untouched. The wall over my desk still has its giant corkboard, but it’s not covered in photos of me and Dylan or me and Brielle anymore. I took those down a while ago, and lately I’ve been hanging mix CDs up there. Some are ones I was going to give to Carmichael, but I kept chickening out, figuring he’d think I was being a dumb girl. Anyway, I guess I’ll have to get rid of those now. People are just flying out of my life these days.

  My brother sits down in my desk chair and spins around. That used to be his favorite thing, and I haven’t seen it in a while. When he catches me smiling at him, though, he stops.

  “Mom says everything’s gonna be over soon,” he says darkly.

  “She does?” I ask. This is definitely true, but I’m not sure how he means it.

  “She said you’re going to settle.”

  It’s such a grown-up term, but then, I guess Tommy’s getting to be more of a grown-up by the second. His voice is deeper now, and God knows he’s more of a moody teenager than I ever thought he’d be.

  I can’t help but frown, though. “I guess that’s what she thinks,” I say. “I mean, that’s what Mom and the lawyer want.”

  “But not you,” he says, and it’s not exactly a question.

  “I don’t think . . .” I pause, pulling my knees up under my chin. I’ve been spending so much time trying to not talk about all this with the boys that I’m not even sure where to start. Of course, now I know that Tommy was still hearing about everything, even at camp. But I still try to avoid the subject, try to protect him and Alex.

  Just like with everything else, I’m obviously doing a terrible job.

  I clear my throat a little. “I don’t think I did anything wrong,” I say. My voice sounds small and unsure. I’ve said these words a million times, but for some reason, saying them to Tommy, I’m ashamed of them. I’m ashamed, period. I can’t look at him when I add, “They want me to apologize, in court. To say I . . . that I had something to do with . . . what happened. But I didn’t. Or, I mean, everyone was doing it . . .” I look down, unable to finish the sentence.

  “I know,” Tommy said. He sounds like he means it. The old Tommy, who always took my side in fights with Mom or on game nights at home, would have said the same thing. “But what are you going to do?” he asks. “I mean—I don’t want you to go to jail.”

  His voice breaks on the last word and I look up finally. He’s trying not to cry—he’s staring at my stupid mostly empty corkboard, biting his lip.

  “They won’t send me to jail,” I say. “They won’t. It might be—I mean, you know about those youth home places? At the very worst it might be something like that.”

  His eyes squeeze shut and his shoulders shake, just once, and I hurry to add, “But that’s not gonna happen.”

  I get off my bed and come over to him. I hover behind the chair for a second, knowing he might throw me off if I try to hug him. So instead I kneel down on the floor so I’m looking up at his face. His eyes are still shut, but he’s breathing evenly, and I don’t see any more tears.

  “It’s not going to happen, Tommy,” I say again. “Mom’s right, the lawyer’s right. I’m going to sign the plea agreement thing, and we’re going to settle. It doesn’t matter what really happened—I mean, it does, but not anymore. I don’t want you to worry, okay?”

  He takes a long breath, then opens his eyes and looks down at me.

  “I’m gonna apologize,” I tell him. “It’s all going to be okay. It’s all going to be over soon.”

  For the briefest of moments, I think I might be right. Tommy nods and even smiles a little. He says, “Okay.” We both stand up and I offer to take him and Alex to get ice cream.

  But when he leaves my room to get his brother, I remember.

  It’s never going to be over. And now—now that I know I’m just going to give up, I don’t have any choice, I have to just plead out and hope it’s not comple
tely awful—now no one will ever hear my side of the story.

  March

  “YOU GIRLS SHOULD go now.” Mrs. Putnam’s eyes are cold. Her whole face changed as soon as the words were out of Brielle’s mouth. She obviously recognized us right away, but maybe she thought we were here to apologize or something.

  “We just thought you should know,” I say, but the words get half stuck in my throat. The sky is a cold, dead gray behind us, and my feet are turning to ice in my ballet flats.

  It’s really terrifying to be talking to this woman face-to-face. I hate her daughter so much I can taste it, and that makes me hate Mrs. Putnam, too. But she’s an adult; I’m automatically supposed to be scared of her. And I am. Brielle thinks adults are stupid, but I think they can get you in trouble.

  But I guess Mrs. Putnam isn’t doing anything to get her daughter out of trouble. Which is why we’re standing here. We got out of school early for teacher conferences today, and we happen to know that Emma is out with Dylan right now.

  “What I really think is that you should leave my daughter alone,” Mrs. Putnam says. Her left hand is gripping their front door tightly, keeping it as closed as possible so Brielle and I have to stay shivering on the front porch. “I don’t know how many times I have to call the school about you two before you get the message.”

  “Mrs. Putnam,” Brielle says, and I can hear her best parent-speak tone coming through. That voice that seems to hypnotize everyone, that just flows so easily. “We’ve been joking around, but now we’re really worried about Emma. She’s still new to our school, and she’s already had so many boyfriends, and they’re all so much older than she is, like Jacob, and now Dylan, who’s almost eighteen . . .”

  The magic voice doesn’t seem to be working so well on Emma’s mom. Mrs. Putnam yanks herself back, as if someone pulled her, and slams the door in our faces.

  “Delusional bitch,” Brielle mutters under her breath, her voice back to normal. She spins around and stomps down the porch stairs, leaving me standing there like a frozen idiot. Especially frozen—it’s literally like four degrees out here—and particularly idiotic, with my one whole sentence in this conversation echoing in my cold head.

  We thought you should know. Is that what we thought? I guess that could be true. I mean, I guess Emma really could be in trouble. Troubled.

  And now Mrs. Putnam knows.

  Brielle drives us to the mall, and for a while we don’t talk about anything important. We try on perfumes at Sephora and split a pretzel at Auntie Anne’s. In the food court, I’ve almost forgotten about Emma for two seconds when we see Kyle, Jacob, and Noelle coming toward us.

  “Hey, bitches,” Noelle says, smiling prettily. She sits down next to Brielle. Jacob settles into the seat across from her, and Kyle grabs a chair from the table next to us, turns it around, and straddles it like a cowboy. “What’s up?”

  “You know, plotting to take over the world, the usual,” Brielle says.

  Noelle laughs and I can tell she’s heard this joke before. I squirm in my chair, suddenly hyperaware of Jacob next to me. Over-eighteen Jacob. We’re friends with him, at least sort of. What’s going to happen when he finds out about our visit to Emma’s house? Is he going to find out?

  For a second it occurs to me that maybe Jacob didn’t sleep with Emma. I mean, it’s possible, right? Like when I was little and I’d watch movies where the couple would be kissing and the screen would go dark and I’d think they were just going to keep kissing. I know that’s not usually how it works—usually they’re having sex—but maybe sometimes they’re not, right? What if we’re wrong about Jacob? Or what if Emma—

  “Dude, when’re your parents going out of town again?” Kyle asks Brielle, and I snap back to the conversation.

  “Dude,” she replies, “it’s your turn. Why do I always have to be party central?”

  “Whatever, my house is the worst,” he says, slouching over the chair back. He doesn’t seem bothered by having the “worst” house, though. Then he turns toward me and says, “What about you? It’s just your mom, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. All those weeks dating Dylan and hanging out with these seniors, but I still get awkward around them. So embarrassing. “But my little brothers, too. They’re always, you know, there.”

  Jacob laughs. “Gotta send the baby bros to Vegas or something.”

  Brielle laughs too, and I smile, but I don’t get it. Or maybe I do, and it’s just not funny. At least it gives me a chance to look at Jacob’s face for a second. He’s already looking away, though, at someone else in the food court. I follow his eyes and see Irish O’Irish—Seamus—walking by with some girl I don’t recognize.

  “Whoa, that loser has a girlfriend?” Jacob sneers.

  Brielle looks too, and says, “Ew. Look what the band camp dragged in.”

  The girl isn’t that bad—she’s got that kind of mousy, curly hair that never quite falls right, and her black coat looks old and beat-up, but she’s kind of pretty—and Seamus looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

  But Jacob is already out of his chair, striding up behind them. He puts one arm over each of their shoulders, startling them both. They’re all still walking, but we can hear Jacob bellow, “Little man! Who’s the hottie?”

  Brielle and Noelle laugh, then turn back to each other and start comparing manicures. But I can’t stop staring at Jacob, Seamus, and the girl. Jacob is still talking to them all chummily, turning his head back and forth between theirs. Seamus and his girlfriend look scared. They stop and try to get out of his grip, but only the girl succeeds. Jacob hangs on to Seamus’s shoulders and shakes him a little bit, his mean laugh echoing all the way back to our table. The girl looks like she wants to run away, but what is she supposed to do?

  It’s like I’m watching a movie or something. And it’s, like, freakishly good timing—I was just feeling kind of guilty for going to Mrs. Putnam, so even though I’ve seen Jacob act like an a-hole a million times, today feels like it means something. I mean, I want to get Emma in trouble, or at least I want her to leave Elmwood and never come back. But I always kind of thought Jacob was basically a decent guy, if a little more macho than necessary. I guess there was the cheating on Noelle and hooking up with Emma and . . . well, okay, maybe I don’t think he’s a decent guy.

  And now he’s pulling Seamus’s head down, rubbing his hair in a hard and embarrassing noogie. The girl takes a step backward and for a second I think she’s for sure going to bolt. I would. But she stays.

  Finally, Jacob pushes Seamus away and comes walking back to us, all cool, like nothing happened. Seamus stands there, rubbing his head, not making eye contact with his girlfriend.

  Jacob sits back down at our table and I wonder if anyone’s going to say anything. I glance at Brielle but she’s playing with her straw. Jacob’s already talking to Kyle about something. Finally Noelle rolls her eyes at Brielle and goes, “Boys.”

  “Totally,” Brielle says.

  I look at Jacob again, and for some reason, just for a second, he looks like Tommy to me. I blink and it goes away—but I still feel sick. I’m officially done being here.

  “Brie, I need to get going,” I say. She rolls her eyes at me, like I knew she would, but starts putting on her coat at the same time.

  “Okay, if you guys are all gonna be lame, we can hang at my place Friday,” Jacob says, finally turning back toward us and Noelle.

  “Good plan,” Noelle says to him. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

  “Awesome,” Brielle says. “Text me later,” she says to Noelle, who flashes her a nonchalant peace sign.

  We walk out the other way, so we don’t pass by Seamus, and I’m happy we’ve turned so I can’t even see him on the other side of the food court.

  The cramp in my stomach feels tighter, though. “Do you think Jacob will get arrested?” I ask Brielle. “Like, if Emma’s mom calls the cops or something?”

  “God, no,” she says. “Or even if h
e does, his parents will get him out of it.” I think there’s an edge of worry in her voice, but she’s walking so fast I can’t be sure. “Whatever, guy’s a creep anyway,” she adds.

  I can’t argue with that.

  Brielle and I swing by my brothers’ school to pick them up, and then she drops us all at my car back in the Elmwood lot. It’s mostly empty, except for a few athletes’ cars, like Dylan’s. I wonder where he and Emma went during their free half day. I kind of thought we’d have seen them at the mall, but I guess after that scene at McDonald’s they’re probably lying low. Good.

  Tommy and Alex are beating each other up in the backseat because I wouldn’t let either of them sit up front today. I can’t even hear them over the roar of worry in my head, and when we pull up to the house it just gets louder—it’s not even five yet, but our mom is already home, which just feels like a bad sign.

  I can’t even explain why I keep sitting in the car while the boys and all their crap form a kind of Tasmanian-devil hurricane through the garage and into the house. I’m still out in the driveway—the garage only fits Mom’s car—and staring at the lights inside. It should look warm and inviting and all that stuff. Instead it looks like the mouth of hell. What am I going to do in there? Sit around while Dylan doesn’t call? Text Brielle and hear about whatever hilarious thing Noelle said since we saw her at the mall two seconds ago? Like it’s not bad enough that their names freaking rhyme, they’re practically turning into the same person. It seems like lately I only really talk to Brielle when we’re talking about Emma.

  The scene on Emma’s front porch keeps rolling over and over in my head. Mrs. Putnam’s hard eyes, her sharp fingernails against the door. Brielle standing up for me—for Dylan, for Kyle, for all of us, trying to tell this woman anything that will make her take her daughter away, so she’ll leave us alone—but in the process, also basically telling her to get Jacob arrested, maybe even Dylan, after his birthday. And then I think of Jacob and Seamus, or Jacob and Emma, or Emma and Dylan, and I’m back to where I started.