Tease

by Amanda Maciel

  “You can write a dozen drafts of this, a hundred—you can tell them how angry you are, how hurt by what Emma has done.”

  I let the pen drop to my lap, resting on the notepad. “No, I can’t,” I say. My voice is soft but bitter.

  “Of course you can. Why can’t you?”

  “That’s not—that’s not the point, is it? That’ll make the judge hate me. And everyone else. I mean, they already hate me, I guess, but I’m supposed to . . . Like, Natalie says this will maybe make sentencing easier and everything . . .” I trail off, suddenly unsure what I’d been meaning to say when I started.

  “Well, I think everyone agrees that a suicide is a tragic thing,” Teresa says.

  “Yeah, but for them,” I say, a wave of anger bringing my voice back up. “No one cares about me—or Brielle or the guys.”

  “Don’t they?”

  Carmichael’s face pops into my mind, then—his messy hair and his black T-shirt, leaning over toward me in his dad’s truck. And his words—what was it he said? That I could finally say how sorry I am?

  “I just don’t see why I’m the one apologizing!” I blurt. “I’m not the one who ruined everything! Emma did that, and she did it all by herself. She killed herself!”

  Teresa’s gaze doesn’t shift. She looks at me steadily, like I’m a fixed point on the horizon. I can’t look back at her for more than a second before I need to look away again, back at the blank paper on my lap. There’s a long moment of silence.

  “We all make mistakes, though, right?”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I just shrug.

  “Believe me, we’ve all done things we wish we could undo. If there’s anything you wish could be undone”—she waves a hand at the paper and pen again—“this is a very good opportunity to say so. Don’t add silence to your list of regrets.”

  I look down and see my hands uncapping the pen, turning the notepad right-side up on my knees. My mouth is dry, my stomach is in knots, my life is over, my heart is broken.

  I start to write.

  Every morning there’s about thirty seconds, sometimes a little more, when I forget. Or I don’t remember yet. I’m just a little bit awake and my brain is just listening, I guess—wondering if it’s time to get up, wondering if it’s Saturday yet.

  And then I feel the buzz, the low hum of panic that’s always there now. On really bad days I don’t even remember after it starts, not right away, because the buzz feels a lot like excitement. Sometimes it’s the same feeling I used to get on any day I was going to see Dylan. If I wake up when it’s still dark out, I can actually start to feel happy, because my whole body thinks it’s winter and time to pick out a cute outfit because I have a boyfriend and things to do and maybe we’ll—

  No.

  And it comes rushing back.

  The buzz has almost always turned into a full-blown alarm by the time I’m getting out of the shower. I give myself about twenty minutes between waking up and leaving the house, just enough to pull my wet hair up in a bun and throw on some mascara, grab a Pop-Tart, and throw my bag in the backseat of my car while the boys run out of the house. The panic pushes me forward, or maybe I’m trying to outrun it. Either way, I don’t pause. If I stopped for a second, I’d throw up. And then I wouldn’t ever be able to move again.

  Today I have a strawberry toaster cake, still in the aluminum wrapper, clamped between my teeth, and my wet hair is still resting on my shoulders, getting my shirt wet. Of course I wore the gray T-shirt; it’ll be all splotchy now. I picked it because it was nondescript, like everything I wear these days—something to be forgotten in. Dumping my bag on the driveway next to my car, I hurriedly pull my hair back and rub at my shoulders, hoping the shirt dries before I get to school.

  “Front seat!” Alex yells, as always, careening out of the house with his own crappy breakfast.

  And as always—these days, this school year—Tommy is strolling out behind him, going, “Whatever.” He’s too cool for the front now.

  Alex bounces on the seat as we drive the fifteen minutes to his school. He still talks about what’s going on that day, which today is some project about American government that I remember doing with the same sixth-grade teacher.

  We drop off Alex first, now that Tommy’s in junior high. He jumps out, slamming the door behind him, and I glance at the rearview mirror. “Don’t you want to move up?” I ask Tommy. We’re still idling in the crowded Pleasant Hill driveway, my hand hovering over the gearshift just in case. “I feel like a chauffeur with you in the back all the time,” I tell him.

  “Nope,” he says, and I sigh. “You sound like Mom,” he adds under his breath.

  “What? I can’t hear you back there,” I say loudly, trying to turn it all into a joke. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll be at your destination in just a moment.” My attempt at a British accent is extra lame, and it doesn’t cheer either of us up.

  It’s only another five minutes to the junior high, and then Tommy’s out of the car, meeting his new friend Liam at the low wall in front of their school. I pause to wave, but they don’t look back at me. Liam’s wearing yet another hugely oversize T-shirt with baggy jeans and giant sneakers. The rest of Tommy’s school is pretty preppy, and they’re not allowed to wear baseball caps or anything, but Liam has one on, a crisp White Sox hat that I’m pretty sure he just thinks looks tough. I watch them shuffle into the building like a couple of baby thugs and try not to worry about my brother.

  But the other anxiety, the Big Fear, comes back like a wave then, washing over me as I put the car back into drive and crawl toward Elmwood. When it was Dylan making me nervous, there’d be a moment when I finally saw him, and the awful buzz would turn into a happy pulse. Like tuning an old radio from static to music. But now I’m stuck. It’s just static.

  From the student parking lot at Elmwood all the way to my locker, no one even looks at me. The static fills my head, my stomach cold and hot and tense. Down the hall I see Carmichael, but I can’t tell if he sees me.

  The one person who didn’t hate me, and I pushed him away. I think of how Hamlet treated Ophelia so badly and then she was dead, gone, like Emma, like everyone I used to have in my life. I see Beth talking to Megan Corley and I have to bite my lip. I’m going to throw up. We’ve been back at school almost three weeks, but it’s not getting easier. Next week—in six days, actually—I go before the judge. I see Jacob and Brielle. I say I harassed Emma Putnam. I accept the charges.

  I apologize.

  Carmichael is walking toward me now, but only because he needs to get to the classroom at this end of the hall. But still, there he is, a few feet closer, and I move forward like there’s a magnetic pull coming from his flannel shirt.

  “Hey, Carmichael,” I say. From the corner of my eye I see Megan’s head whip around, but I can’t worry about that now.

  Carmichael meets my eyes but he doesn’t smile. He looks like he did at the beginning of the summer, like I’m a stranger.

  “I just—” Someone bumps into me, shoving their way into homeroom. I don’t know if it’s on purpose or not, but it shuts me up. The impact literally snaps my mouth closed, and that’s good, because it gives me one more second to think before I say something stupid. I don’t even know what I was going to say, but when I catch my breath I manage a quick “I’m really sorry.”

  “What for?” Carmichael says. Not exactly cold, but not warm either. Tepid.

  “For—you know, for everything on Saturday. For making you give me a ride. I—I really appreciate it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. And . . .” I pause. What else do I say? “And I want to make it up to you. I want to . . . um, we could have coffee? Again? Or I could—” Someone else bumps into my shoulder and this time I’m pretty sure it was on purpose. I step a little closer to the wall, trying to shield myself, but stay close enough to Carmichael that he knows I’m trying, close enough that he doesn’t turn and walk away.

  “Look, Sara, it’s no
big deal. You needed a ride. I don’t need any coffee.” And then he does start to leave and I reach out, grabbing his wrist, the one with the tattoo.

  “Please,” I say. I sound pathetic but I can’t stop. “I don’t have anyone else. I didn’t mean to be mean, I just—I’m just scared—”

  He gently twists his arm so my hand falls away. “I know,” he says. “But I’m not here to make you feel better about everything. I have my own problems.”

  I look up into his eyes and I just want to die. Of course he has his own problems, I know that. Don’t I? I mean, no one’s problems are as bad as mine . . . or maybe they are.

  He waits for another minute, but I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t even know what I’m asking him for, really, except to not leave me alone, not to abandon me when I’m already so lonely.

  “I gotta go,” he says, and then he’s walking away. And I was wrong—he wasn’t on his way to class. He’s walking out the door.

  The last bell rings and I’m still standing in the hallway, watching Carmichael’s back getting smaller through the glass doors of the school, turning the corner outside toward the bike racks. I don’t know where he’s going. I don’t know him very well at all. And I need him so much. But he doesn’t need me.

  I have to run to Mr. Bastow’s room, sliding into my seat just before the bell, but once I’m in it I can’t get a deep breath. I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, never being able to relax or breathe or feel okay at all.

  “Took them long enough,” I hear Estrella Santos saying.

  She’s talking to Chris Black, but for some reason I think it’s about me.

  “Everyone knew he didn’t do anything,” Chris says. “They just messed up his whole life for no reason.”

  “He’s going to the U in the spring, I heard,” Estrella says, and that’s when I know—Dylan. They heard about Dylan.

  “Yeah, but baseball . . .” Chris shakes his head. “The whole thing was stupid. I mean, she was his girlfriend.”

  “I know. He must be so sad.” Estrella shakes her head too, her ponytail swishing and bouncing.

  I sink a little farther into my seat.

  “He was always so sweet. He wasn’t like them,” Estrella adds. She glances over her shoulder and I look down. My hands are wrapped around my stomach, trying to hold it in. I think of the breakfast I forgot in the car, still in its foil wrapper, probably melting on the dashboard right now. I don’t even have anything to throw up.

  Finally Mr. Bastow comes through the door in a rush of polyester and papers and “Calm down, everyone.” But I don’t look up again. Maybe if I don’t move, I can finally just disappear completely.

  March

  “YOU LOOK HOT, okay? Jesus, Sara, I tell you this every time we go out! Would you stop? Just—oh my God, stop doing that!”

  “What?” I drop my hair, which I’ve been trying to pull into a messy knot on my head, and look at Brielle. She’s driving, eyes on the dark road ahead, and waving her right hand frantically in my face. I bat it away, yelling, “What? What?”

  “That!” she yells back. “That updo business! You always try that and it’s always a disaster!”

  In the backseat, Noelle laughs, and I can’t keep the whiny, defensive tone out of my voice when I say, “I don’t always try it. I was just—I just wanted to pull it back for a minute, I—”

  “Ugh, hopeless,” Brielle insists. She’s teasing me, I know, but she’s also showing off in front of Noelle, pointing out how lame I am. But I can’t help it—I’m crazy nervous. Every time I know I’m going to see Dylan, especially if Emma’s going to be there, I get nervous. Going to school is like getting up onstage—I want him to see me, but my hands are sweaty and my mouth is dry and it’s just scary. I don’t know. Sometimes yelling at him or Emma, like at McDonald’s, makes me feel better. But then by the time I see him again I’m like this—a walking ball of panic.

  Brielle used to understand, I think, but now she’s over it. She and Noelle are talking about the weed that Jacob, or Jacob’s cousin or something, is supposed to have tonight. Brielle’s always wanted me to smoke with her, but I never have. So now I’m feeling nervous and totally third wheel. Perfect.

  Jacob lives in an older part of town, where the houses aren’t fancy but the trees are tall. We have to park on the street but it seems to be like Jacob said—just a few people—and immediately I notice Dylan’s SUV. And then as soon as we walk inside, he’s the first thing I see. I haven’t been here before, and you’d think I’d be distracted by the oversize photos of Jacob and his sister over the fireplace—really embarrassing posed shots from a cheesy portrait studio, taken a few years ago when Jacob had total Bieber hair—but all I see is Dylan, sitting on the couch, talking to Kyle, drinking a beer.

  And then he looks up and sees me, and he smiles. Like a Hey, what’s up smile, an easy smile.

  “Yo, Crazytown,” Brielle says behind me, poking me in the back. “You gonna let us in the door?”

  I’ve stopped in the doorway, I realize, and I jump out of the way like a spaz.

  Jacob walks up to Noelle and kisses her. Then he looks at us and goes, “Coats in my room, right?” It’s weird to see him being all party host. It’s a nicely non-douchey look on him.

  “Come on, I’ll show you guys,” Noelle says, and we follow her down a narrow hallway, covered in more family photos.

  “This is seriously embarrassing,” Brielle says, laughing and pointing at another soft-focus picture of Jacob.

  “Don’t even get me started,” Noelle says. “His mom wants to hire someone to take our prom photos.”

  “Ew! No!” Brielle shrieks.

  “I’m like, ‘Get an iPhone, lady,’” Noelle goes on, opening a door at the end of the hall.

  Not surprisingly, Jacob’s room is plastered with those porny girl posters they sell at the mall. There’s a really old Pamela Anderson Baywatch one, and some Rihanna posters, and then I have to basically stare at the floor because the walls are just a boob festival. I wait for Brielle to say something about the posters, but I guess she’s not surprised, either. Or maybe she thinks it would hurt Noelle’s feelings to make fun of Jacob’s personal decorating.

  I suddenly remember how Dylan’s room just has a few college football posters, the rest of the room decorated really tastefully by his mom. This room feels like no one’s mom has ever been inside it, or ever should be.

  We drop our coats on the bed—which is at least made, with a Green Bay Packers bedspread—and Noelle goes, “You want to stay in here to smoke? We can open the window, it’s cool.”

  Brielle looks over at me like we haven’t had this same conversation a hundred times. “You wanna?” she asks.

  I hate that I have to say no again, but I’m also glad she asked—I still feel left out, but a tiny bit less than I would have if she’d just ignored me. I’m starting to shake my head when Noelle adds, “It’s good stuff, totally mellow.”

  “I’m cool, thanks,” I say.

  Jacob and another guy I don’t know come into the room behind me and I can tell that this is where I’m supposed to leave, so I do. I’m barely out the door before the other guy has shut it behind me, and I hear them all laughing. Not at me, I know. Or I’m pretty sure.

  Brielle doesn’t understand why I don’t smoke weed, and sometimes I don’t either. There’s something about the thought of staying in that room with them that just scares the hell out of me. Like, in this house I don’t know, with people I don’t really know—even with Brielle there, it just feels scary and lonely. Like being driven out into the woods and left there. At night. Brielle says it’s better than doing prescription drugs or something, which is what the real dropouts at school do. But whatever, it’s all too much for me.

  I stare at one of the photos in the hallway, an airbrushed shot of Jacob when he was maybe five or six, posing with a toy fire truck. My only option now is to go back to the front of the house, where Dylan and Kyle and Noelle’s friend
Amy are hanging out. I still don’t really know Kyle that well, and I’ve only talked to Amy maybe once ever. And I don’t know Dylan anymore.

  At least Emma isn’t here. I take a deep breath and force my feet down the strip of plush carpeting.

  The first thing I see when I walk back into the living room is Dylan’s face, smiling at me. My whole chest swells, like it’s being inflated, just because of that smile—pointed at me again, after all this time. I almost can’t stand it.

  He’s obviously a little drunk, but I don’t care. When he pats the couch beside him, the universal Hey, sit here gesture, I glide across the floor and take a seat. It’s dangerous and sexy; I’m dangerous and sexy. Never mind the me that wouldn’t smoke weed a second ago—this Sara is accepting a can of beer from Kyle and smiling at Amy.

  “You guys are so cute,” Amy slurs, smiling back at me and Dylan. I think maybe she’s being sarcastic, but I can’t tell. I decide I don’t care about this, either.

  “Dylan looks good with everything,” I say boldly and, I think, cleverly. Like Brielle’s voice is coming out of my mouth. “He’s just got one of those faces.”

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, teasing. “What’s wrong with my face?”

  “That’s my point, dummy,” I say, poking him playfully in the arm. “Nothing’s wrong with your face. It’s a great face.”

  I’m looking right in his eyes and grinning like an idiot. I was never this obvious with him when we were actually dating—I never talked like this, flirted so openly. For some reason I feel like I can now, now that he’s not my boyfriend. Now that he’s dating a stupid slut, a girl everyone laughs at. I’m doing him a favor. I’m rescuing him. He could be with me instead. It’s not too late.

  “Where’d Tex go?” Kyle asks Amy. I figure he means the other guy I saw in Jacob’s room, which is confirmed by Amy’s response. She just holds her fingers to her mouth in an imitation of smoking pot and Kyle goes, “Oh, right.”