I freaking hate Emma Putnam. I wish she’d never been born.
The surge of anger gives me the energy to yank my keys out of the ignition and stomp into the house, but as soon as the inside garage door slams behind me, I know my first instinct—to pull the car back out of the driveway and speed away—was dead on.
“Why did I get a call from a Valerie Putnam today?” my mom asks. Her voice is as scary as Mrs. Putnam’s was. Scarier.
“I don’t know,” I say. I throw my bag on the kitchen table. The boys have disappeared into the house, obviously not worried that Mom is home so early, even changed out of her work clothes already and starting dinner. Not that I’m looking at her that closely. I don’t actually look her in the eye at all as I reach into the fridge for a water, like nothing’s wrong, like this is a totally normal day.
“You don’t know, huh?” she repeats after me.
Well, great. Apparently she knows, and this is one of those Tell me the truth and you won’t get in trouble deals. Which are really not deals at all, as everyone with parents has already learned the hard way. Even Alex doesn’t fall for that one anymore.
I grab a bottle of water and turn back to her slowly, letting the fridge door slam shut behind me. “What,” I say, not even bothering to pretend it’s a real question.
“Have you been threatening her daughter? Is there something going on I should know about?”
By now, she probably should know about it, but if she doesn’t, I’m not gonna be the one to fill her in. “I don’t know,” I say. “But her daughter’s a bitch, did she tell you that?”
“Sara, that is ridic—”
I’ve ripped the cap off the water bottle and now I throw it across the room, momentarily shocking both of us into silence. But after a second I spit out, “Little Miss Perfect Emma Putnam is going out with Dylan now. So if she wants to complain about me, that’s just fine. That’s perfect.”
My mom looks at me like I’m not making any sense, but also like she’s sorry for me, or sorry I’m upset at least. She liked Dylan, I know, and I never actually told her why we broke up. Another thing she should’ve known by now, but whatever.
“Her mother says you’ve been hassling Emma,” she says quietly, almost whispering. “For a while?”
I just stare at her, my lips clamped shut. If she can’t see that Emma’s the one bothering me, not to mention half the school, I really can’t explain.
Mom pauses for an extra minute before seeming to realize I’m not going to say anything else. She lets out a sigh. “Listen, maybe just leave her alone. I know you’re not a mean person, but they’re obviously taking it the wrong way. And I’m sorry about Dylan. I know it feels like the end of the world, but I promise, it’s not.” She reaches out to touch my arm, but I flinch, stepping out of reach. She lets her hand drop. “He’s graduating anyway, right?” she adds. “So maybe this is even for the best. Long-distance relationships are so hard, especially when you’re so young—”
She’s still talking, but I just leave the kitchen. I cannot talk to her. Obviously I already have a long-distance relationship with my own mother. If only it was literally long-distance, everything would be way better.
“So I guess you’re gonna need another plan to get Little Miss Loser off your boyfriend.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Nothing really happened with Jacob. Or anyway, that’s the story he’s sticking with.” Brielle jerks her head to the side, throwing her hair over one shoulder. A couple of strands don’t make it, but she can’t use her fingers because the manicurist is spraying them with the antibacterial stuff. “Noelle believes him, which, you know, whatever.”
“But I thought—so, wait, they didn’t have sex?” I lower my voice, embarrassed, and bracing myself for Brielle’s reaction to this almost definitely stupid question.
She just shrugs. “Probably everything but,” she says. “Noelle says Emma called Jacob in a big panic, so I guess it could’ve worked. Who knows, maybe they’ll still pull Emma out of school. You could get lucky.” The manicurist is massaging fancy lotion onto Brielle’s hands now, and Brielle stares at them absentmindedly. “But of course, Jacob’s parents are crazy litigious, so maybe they just made it go away. Remember that pool their neighbors were going to put in?”
I shake my head a little, trying to keep up. It hadn’t been my plan to get Emma in trouble for hooking up with Jacob. That had all been Brielle—though, I mean, I’d wanted it to work. But she’d really come up with the whole thing. And now she’s acting like it’s not a big deal at all.
“Pool?” is all I can manage to say. My own manicurist is faster than Brielle’s, and she’s already applying bright yellow polish to my nails. I stare at the paint; it looks like each nail is being lit up, one at a time. Like candles.
“You know, Ronny Davidson’s parents? Wanted to build a pool in their yard? Next door to Jacob’s house? Anyway, it was back when Jacob’s sisters were really little, and apparently the fence was too low and they said it was, like, a drowning hazard. So they couldn’t build it.”
I still have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m afraid to set her off again, so I nod like I get it.
She can always tell when I’m lying, though, and she rolls her eyes at me. “So my point is, even if he’d, like, gotten her pregnant or something, Jacob’s parents would’ve slapped the whole thing down in a second. It’s, like, a hobby for them.”
I nod again. I actually feel a little better, knowing that no one’s getting arrested. “Her parents should still put Emma in another school,” I say. “An all-girls’ school.”
“I know, right? She’d probably just sleep with one of the teachers, though.”
“Totally.”
“Anyway, what are you wearing tonight?” Brielle asks, flipping her hair again.
My nails are done, but I stay in the chair next to hers, describing the tank top and jeans I have picked out for the thing at Jacob’s. It’s not really a party, so I’m trying to not look like I’m trying too hard. But Dylan will probably be there, so I want to look better than Emma.
I don’t say that, but Brielle gets it anyway. When our nails are dry she pays, and then we go to Forever 21 to look for better shirt options. By the time we leave the mall I have a new top with aqua sequins and pretty yellow nails and a smile on my face. Brielle and I haven’t spent this much time together, just the two of us, in forever. It’s nice not to have Noelle or the senior guys around.
I wish we could stay out until it’s time to go to the party-hang-thing, but I’m already in enough trouble at home. Mom wanted me back in time to take Alex to practice, and when I called to tell her I wouldn’t make it, she hung up on me. Clearly she’s gonna be mad about Mrs. Putnam’s call for a while. When Brielle drops me off I just stand outside the door for a minute, wondering if there’s a way to sneak off in my car. But I hear yelling inside, and I figure I should go in to make sure the boys aren’t being punished just because Mom’s mad at me. Besides, I need my gas allowance from her. It’s really for driving the boys around, but I’ll need it before tonight.
I step through the door and the volume of the yelling goes way up. “A couple hundred dollars to fly out here is not too much for your daughter!” Mom’s shouting. There’s a pause. “I work too, Doug, don’t give me that crap. She’s our daughter. There’s obviously a prob—” Another pause.
Great. She’s on the phone with Dad again.
For another minute I just stand there, still holding my bags and wearing my coat. Mom’s in the kitchen but she can’t see me from here. I look down at my new nails and wonder how they can be so damn cheerful.
“It’s on Wednesday afternoon,” Mom says into the phone. “I’m leaving work early and—” Pause. I guess he keeps interrupting her. “Yes, she’s going to be there, she—”
I look up. Wednesday afternoon? She? What the . . .
“I’m worried, okay?” I hear my mom’s voice drop from a ye
ll to a tired, pleading tone, and my throat seizes up. “I’m just worried. I just think you should come out. You can stay here for the night. The principal really wants us both there, and the other girl’s parents are definitely going to be—”
There’s another pause and my mind goes wild trying to figure out what’s happening. My parents, together, having some kind of meeting at my school? That I have to go to, it sounds like. With . . . who? Not Emma’s parents? If my dad is actually coming out for it, during a workweek, I must be in a massive amount of trouble. Right? What else could they be talking about?
I wiggle out of my coat, dropping it and my bags on the main stairs, and practically run down to the basement. Tommy and Alex are sprawled on the old sectional couch, in the dark, watching a movie on TV. One look and I can see it’s not something they’re supposed to be watching—even if I hadn’t glanced at the screen and seen guns, I’d know from the way they both sit up guiltily, Tommy grabbing the remote like he was just about to change the channel.
“Whatever,” I say, waving my hand at him. “I won’t tell Mom. I think I’m in trouble, anyway, so it’s probably easier if you are too.”
Alex’s eyes are wide. “What were you watching?” he asks.
I surprise myself by laughing. Then I go over and ruffle his hair, which he hates, and scoot in between the boys. “Don’t worry about it, little A,” I tell him. Turning to Tommy I say, “What is this? Isn’t there, like, a Kardashian episode on?”
“Ewww,” both boys groan at once. We’re not allowed to watch those shows, either, even if they’re not violent. I secretly do, though. Mom has a lot of TV rules for someone who’s put a television in the basement and computers in her kids’ rooms. Though I guess we follow a lot of those rules anyway.
“It’s kind of dumb,” Tommy says, pointing the remote at the TV. Two guys in masks are holding up a bank. “They’re surfers, but they rob banks? And they wear costumes, like the Joker in that Batman movie?”
“Hey, you weren’t supposed to see that movie, either!” I say, grabbing the remote from him and hitting the Info button.
“I know,” Tommy says sheepishly. “Duncan had it. We watched it at his house.”
“Hmm,” I mutter. “I never did like that kid. . . . Oh, hey, I’ve heard of this movie. Point Break. It’s supposed to be funny.”
“It is?” Alex asks incredulously. “I don’t think it’s funny at all . . .”
“No, I mean, it’s supposed to be so bad it’s funny. Like, you laugh at it, not with it.”
“That’s mean,” Alex says.
“Everybody does it,” Tommy informs him, in his older-wiser-brother voice.
“No, not everybody,” I’m quick to say. But as we turn back to the TV I’m thinking, Not everybody. But pretty much.
September
“GUESS OUR LAWYERS have us on different schedules, huh?”
I look over, startled. Brielle is walking up to the elevator bank with her parents. I’m waiting here alone. I see my lack of adult supervision register on Mrs. Greggs’s face. Her mouth goes all pinched and disapproving, but then, it usually did that even back when Brielle and I were allowed to hang out.
“Brie,” her mom says warningly.
Brielle rolls her eyes, not even turning back to her mom to respond. “After that day in the parking lot I thought I’d run into you again,” she says.
My eyes dart to Brielle’s parents, but they’re staring straight ahead now. I wonder what she means. Was I supposed to try to, I dunno, meet up with her secretly? I guess that would have made sense.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s weird. That we, you know—um . . .” I can’t form a sentence but Brielle is nodding like I am. She seems even softer around the edges than she did this summer.
Ding. The elevator doors whoosh open in front of us and we file inside.
“Where’s your mom?” Brielle asks. Her parents still aren’t talking to us, but her dad reaches past me to hit the tenth-floor button. I wait a second, then press 8.
“She had to work,” I say. Mrs. Greggs sniffs, maybe disapprovingly, maybe just because she had to sniff. I keep staring at the elevator buttons, feeling shy and weird next to Brielle. “How’s, um, the—what is it, like, home school?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s so lame,” Brielle says easily.
“Brie,” her dad says, his voice a low growl. I wonder if her parents just walk around all day saying her name in threatening tones of voice. It’s working on me—I’m counting the seconds until we reach Natalie’s firm and I can get away from them.
“Whatever, I guess it’s better than Elmwood,” Brielle adds. “But so is, like, prison—”
“All right, that’s enough,” Mrs. Greggs goes, but just then we finally reach the eighth floor and I scramble to get myself on the other side of the doors.
“See ya later,” Brielle says to me. “You know, at the plea thingy.”
I turn back, surprised, and see her giving me a little wave as the doors shut again behind me.
So we’re all accepting plea deals, I guess. And everyone knows what’s going on with everyone else, except me. As usual. I mean, Brielle always knew everything about everyone. Some things, at least, haven’t changed.
As soon as Natalie’s secretary lets me into the office I practically shout, “Brielle got a deal, too? So there’s, what, no trial at all anymore? What’s going on?”
Natalie doesn’t even look up from her papers. “Hi, Sara,” she says. “Have a seat.”
I look around. There’s a chair with only one document box on it, so I move that and flop down.
“What the hell?” I say, still trying to get her attention. “Brielle’s lawyer is upstairs, you know. She said I’ll see her at the settlement thing? Are we all going in at the same time?”
Natalie’s writing something down, but she nods. “Yes, just like it would’ve been if we were going to trial. You’ll each be read your charges, allocute, and deliver your statements. Which is optional, but I still highly advise—” She finally looks up and then stops. “Where’s your mother?”
I sigh. “Where is she always?”
“Jesus,” Natalie mutters. “Well, I guess it’s fine, this is going to be quick.” She takes off her reading glasses and squints at me a little. “You don’t have to give a statement. But I think it would be a good idea. This will be the judge who’s going to sentence you, and while I’m not expecting more than a year’s probation, you never know. It’s an inflammatory case. The judge is a mother. You don’t want to risk it.”
I nod. She told me all this last time. I’m pretty sure Mom knows about it too, since they do at least talk on the phone now and then.
“It could also help down the road, when we go back to expunge your record. So. Have you written anything yet?”
“No.”
She pauses. “But you’re going to?”
It’s my turn to pause. I still don’t want to do this. It feels phony, and kind of pointless. Hasn’t the worst already happened? What can I say that will make anything better for any of us?
But I think of my little brothers, and what I said to Tommy the other day. I think of the reporters who have started calling again. The reporters who will almost definitely be at the hearing, and the articles that will end up online alongside the “Poor Emma Putnam was so abused by her classmates she just couldn’t go on” articles. At least I’ll get to say something. At least something I say will be heard, maybe, and maybe even written down.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Good. I should read it first, you know.”
“Really?” I ask her. “Why?”
She lets out a little chuckle. “Because, Sara, I’m your lawyer. Remember?”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Great. How’s the end of the week? You can just email it over. Now, I’m sorry to have dragged you in here, I keep thinking your mom will be coming too and we can get some things done . . . but it’s fine, I’ll be in touch with her.”
&
nbsp; She turns back to her papers, glasses forgotten as usual, sitting on the table beside her. I hesitate for a second before I realize this means we’re done. Basically I came all this way to accidentally run into Brielle and her parents. And get a lecture about my statement.
Whatever. I guess I wasn’t doing anything today, anyway.
“Here, why don’t you try writing something down now? We can talk about what comes up.”
“It’s fine, I’ll just do it at home.”
“No, no trouble, I have a whole stack of notebooks. . . . Ah ha! Here you go. Use this.”
Teresa hands me a legal pad and a pen. She smiles but I just stare at her for a second, wishing this wasn’t happening. I know I have to do this, but now? Here?
The notepad sits sideways on my knees and the pen is still capped, in my left hand. I feel frozen like this, like I’m a doll someone wants to pretend is doing her homework.
“Now. What is it you think you’d like to say?” Teresa asks.
I look at her.
“You don’t have anything to say?”
“Besides that I wish Emma hadn’t killed herself?”
“Good! That’s an excellent place to start.” Teresa smiles and sweeps her hands toward me and the notepad, as if she can bring me to life, set this whole story in motion.
“But, I mean—no one wants someone to kill themselves. It’s not, like, some big revelation.”
Teresa tilts her head to the side. She’s wearing a sort of normal peasant-y blouse today, but it’s in this intense shade of orange. I feel like I’m squinting back at her.
“Do you think Emma’s parents feel that you wanted her to commit suicide?”
I pause. My mouth opens, then shuts again, without any words getting out.
Usually Teresa would just wait me out, but today she leans forward and adds, “I can see that it might look that way to you. Just as it might seem obvious that you did not intend for Emma to do such a thing. This letter is your chance to clarify all these feelings, Sara.”
I look down at the pen in my hand and blink. The orange of Teresa’s shirt stays behind my eyelids, making me tear up.
Tease Page 17
