Tease

by Amanda Maciel

  “Okay,” I say to her. “I don’t know what we’re going to talk about, but sure.”

  “Oh, I think we both know that there’s more to talk about in high school than any other time in your life,” she says with a little laugh.

  “I don’t do anything, though. Especially not now. I don’t even have any friends.” I feel a blush creep up to my cheeks at the thought of Carmichael, but I don’t want to tell Teresa about that right now.

  She gives me one of her looks, one of those long, studying stares. “Sara, you do realize how much adult responsibility you’ve taken on?”

  I think of what Dad said to me at Natalie’s office and laugh, short and bitterly.

  “No, really,” Teresa says.

  I nod, not laughing anymore, not wanting to explain why what she’s said seems ironic right now. “You mean, like, my brothers and everything?” I say. “That’s not really so much. I just drive them places.” I’m still wearing my sweatshirt, and now that my parents aren’t around I can tuck my knees up under it. Mom would yell at me for stretching out the material, and Dad for putting my shoes on Teresa’s couch. But I know she doesn’t care about the couch. And the hoodie sort of pulls my knees up so I’m kind of balancing on my butt, anyway, and not really touching anything.

  “Your brothers, yes, that’s a lot,” Teresa says. “But your relationships with your peers, too. Your friendship with Brielle. Your sexual relationship with Dylan. These are very intense situations.”

  “I don’t—I mean . . . everyone has sex,” I stutter, embarrassed.

  “Not everyone does in high school.”

  I snort. “Well, they’re supposed to.”

  She tilts her head. “I know it’s hard to see it now,” she says softly, “but this is a lot to take on, to process. You have very adult feelings, but everything you’re experiencing is for the first time. There’s a tremendous weight on all of it.” She holds up the hand holding her pen and turns it palm up, pulsing it up and down, as if she’s holding something heavy, weighing it. “These are complicated feelings, complex relationships, for women even in their twenties and thirties. Even older.”

  I’m tipping a little to the side, and I have to pull my legs down, out of my sweatshirt, sitting like a normal person. Like an adult. Who has complicated feelings and relationships.

  “If that’s true,” I tell Teresa, “then everyone at school needs a therapist.”

  I’m joking, but she doesn’t laugh, or even smile. She just shrugs one shoulder and says, “Maybe so. But you’re here now. Let’s talk about you.”

  My stomach lurches. “I haven’t finished the letter, if that’s what you mean.”

  She tilts her head to the other side. “Why did you think I was talking about that?”

  My eyes practically roll themselves at this—of course we’re back to Twenty Questions.

  “Because it’s Saturday?” I say. “And I just went to see the lawyer with my parents, and I’m supposed to be ready to go to court on Tuesday?”

  “And you’re not ready?” Teresa asks.

  “No,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  I drive home the long way. The very long way. Somehow I end up in Emma and Tyler’s neighborhood, which is only on the way to my house if you’re trying not to get to my house anytime soon. But it’s as if my car just goes where it wants now, like how it still seems to be able to find Dylan’s SUV. Well, used to.

  I turn onto Emma and Tyler’s block and immediately have to slam on the brakes. TV reporters, with their network-logo-antenna-topped vans, are lined up along the curb. I couldn’t drive past if I wanted to. It’s not like we’re such a big town that we have so many TV stations or something—but it looks like maybe there are some national ones here too. Great.

  Only a couple of them seem to be actually set up; it’s not like there’s anything going on right now. Emma’s house sits, as always, at the top of its sloping lawn, the line of columns across the front looking austere and dignified. This neighborhood is old enough that the trees are big and stately, too, and the leaves are all starting to turn and fall. It’s a pretty scene, I think, and then I figure: That’s what the news is going to say. “What a pretty place. You’d never think something like this could happen here.”

  Creeps.

  There’s a driveway to my left that isn’t blocked, so I pull into it and turn the car around. I head for home, for real this time.

  “Hey. You look nice.”

  I stare at Carmichael. “So do you. Your shirt has a . . . a collar.”

  Carmichael looks down at his dress shirt. “I clean up pretty good,” he says modestly.

  I can’t help but smile. Because it’s true—it’s just a navy button-down, nothing earth-shattering. But it’s not a black T-shirt. And it looks terrific on him, with his clean, combed hair and a nice pair of dark jeans. The evening sun is all glowy behind him, and I realize this is probably the first time a boy has come to my front door to pick me up on a Saturday night. This just wasn’t Dylan’s style at all. I never would have thought it was Carmichael’s style either, but he is full of surprises.

  I look down at my own outfit, a merino sweater and jeans. Normally this ensemble would make me twice as dressed up as Carmichael, but now I’m not sure. “Should I change? I should go change,” I say, backing into the house.

  “Nah,” he says, but I’m already on the stairs.

  “Be right back!” I call, hurrying to my room. I have a skirt here somewhere, and a cuter pair of shoes, and . . .

  And for the first time ever, I get to do that thing of walking down the stairs while a boy waits at the bottom, looking up at me. It’s not the prom or anything, but I’ll take it. He’s even talking to my mom, and they both smile when they see me. Like it’s just a normal night, like I’m allowed to be this regular girl.

  It’s fully dark outside by the time Carmichael turns us onto Harney Street, scanning the rows of cars for somewhere to park. We’re downtown, and there’s a big weekend crowd I’ve never really seen before. Actually, the last time I was here was—

  “Hey, um, we’re not going to the diner, are we?” I ask him quickly.

  “No, why, you want to?” he asks. I shake my head, but his eyes are still on the sides of the street. “It’s not really worth getting dressed up for,” he adds.

  “I want to go—wherever we’re going.”

  He turns at the corner and, magically, someone is just pulling out. “Excellent,” he says, either about the parking space or what I’ve said, I’m not sure. Both, maybe.

  This part of the city has been kept the way it’s been since the 1800s, with cobblestone streets and old brick warehouse buildings still standing. Inside them are little boutiques, shops, and fancy restaurants. When Carmichael leads me to one of the nicer Italian ones, Vermicelli, I get another small wave of nausea. This is too nice. It’s too much. I don’t deserve this. My parents used to go here sometimes, for special occasions—I’ve never even been inside. This is the kind of place I would’ve gone before prom with Dylan. If that had, like, been able to happen.

  And now, Carmichael is holding the door open, and here I am. The ceilings are tall and dark; the brick walls have candles set in sconces here and there, and the back wall is open to the kitchen with a big wood-burning stove. It’s like the cellar in an old castle or something. Romantic.

  “This okay?” Carmichael asks.

  “Yeah, of course,” I say.

  The hostess puts us at a tiny table near the back, close enough that we can watch the kitchen, and hands us menus the size of poster boards. I look at Carmichael, tempted to make a joke about how huge they are, but he’s just studying his seriously. So I do too, and by the time our waitress comes, I’ve found the cheapest pasta so I can order that.

  We don’t talk about Emma, or the trial, or anything, really. I ask Carmichael questions about stuff, trying to keep my promise to get to know him better. He tells me about the BMX competition he has
the next weekend. And his older sister, who goes to college in Denver. And he asks me about my brothers, about where I might apply to college. We’re in a different world, a parallel universe.

  By the time the waitress asks if we want dessert and Carmichael says no, I feel comfortable enough to say, “Why, you think I’m getting fat?”

  “Obviously not, no, I wasn’t—” Carmichael shakes his head, and I realize my little joke has thrown him, made him flustered. But then he finally lets out a small laugh and says, “We’re going somewhere else for dessert.”

  It’s gotten colder outside, and when Carmichael takes my hand leaving the restaurant, for a second it almost feels like he’s just trying to keep me warm. It works—a shot of heat races through my whole body, up my neck and into my cheeks. He walks us toward a popular ice cream place, one where they hand-mix whatever candy you want into your order, and keeps talking about nothing, like nothing unusual is happening. I love every minute of it. I love being someone, something usual. I love that tonight feels so special but so normal at the same time.

  But when we reach the door to the ice cream parlor, I pull Carmichael past it, on toward the park that lines the edge of the marketplace. There are lots of people out, and most of the benches are taken, but we find one and sit down.

  “I’ve had a really nice time,” I tell him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry it’s too cold for ice cream.”

  “That’s not it. I just . . . I mean, thank you for all of this. But you don’t . . . you don’t know . . .” I stop. We’re still holding hands, and I can’t look down, can’t acknowledge my fingers wrapped in his. But I can’t look him in the face, either.

  “I do know,” he says softly, but I’m shaking my head. I can feel tears coming but I take a deep breath, swallow them back down. I want to just say this.

  “I want you to know—I just, if this is the beginning of something, and I don’t know if it is, but I should tell you—I did so many horrible things,” I say in a rush. “I hurt so many people. I still think what Emma did . . . I think it was really selfish. I don’t understand why I have to take the blame for something I never wanted to happen.”

  Silence hangs between us. Our bench sits at the top of a little hill, overlooking the sidewalk that follows along a creek. A few people, on dates like ours, walk by, stroll over the footbridges, stare at the city lights reflected in the water. Above us the sky has turned a clear, deep black, the stars just visible beyond the glow of downtown. A few blocks north of us there’s a skate park, and I can just barely hear the sounds of wheels on the pavement, rolling, then up, that break in the noise, that moment of held breath before they come crashing back down, rolling forward again or stuttering to a stop.

  Finally a tear escapes, falling fast and landing on my sweater sleeve. Then another. Carmichael is still silent but I keep going.

  “I’ve been talking about her, about everything we said to her, for so long,” I go on. My chest is tight and I try to breathe in again, but I can only take little gasps of air. “And I’m trying to figure out how to . . . how to apologize. I have to say something in court, or at least I have to try. At least they’re letting me talk. But how do you apologize for this? I know what I did, I know it was bad, some of it was really bad. But how am I supposed to fix anything now? What do I—” But I have to stop talking again because the tears are coming faster, so hot on my face it feels like they’re burning me.

  Carmichael picks up my hand and holds it against his lips. The rush of feeling distracts me and I start calming down, breathing more evenly. The crying slows. He covers my fingers with his other hand and holds it there, in the air, like an offering.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, finally. “I don’t know if anything you say now is really supposed to fix anything. But I don’t think it can hurt, either. You have a chance. I think Emma—” He pauses. “She didn’t give herself another chance, you know? Maybe she didn’t think she deserved one. Maybe she thought it wasn’t possible.”

  He stares at the water, then up at the sky, my hand still in his hands.

  “Does that make sense?” he asks, almost a whisper.

  I don’t say anything for a second, a minute, a year.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It does.”

  March

  “YO, IT’S D, do that thing.”

  “Hey, Dylan, it’s me—it’s Sara. Sorry, I sent you a couple texts, I was just wondering . . . Um, you must be busy, but if you get a sec, can you call me back? Thanks. Uh, okay. Bye.”

  I hit the End button and sit back on the kitchen stool, staring at my phone. Dylan wasn’t at his house. He hasn’t answered my texts. He’s not answering his cell.

  The pit of dread in my stomach just gets bigger and bigger. It’s the Grand Canyon right now. Things are not good.

  I wander around the house, wishing I could drive Tommy and Alex somewhere. Or fight with my mom. Anything to get my mind off of this—this whole stupid weekend. Where is Dylan? Is he breaking up with Emma? Does he know about Tyler?

  I start to send a text to Brielle, then stop. I walk toward the door, reaching for my car keys, then stop again.

  I go upstairs. I open my laptop. Without even a pause, I open up Emma Putnam’s Facebook page and post a new comment.

  Why are you such a slut?

  Then I go to Tyler’s wall.

  Enjoy that herpes you got last night.

  The knot in my stomach tightens, but it feels better, too. It feels like I’m doing something.

  Back to Emma’s page.

  So, let me get this straight: You steal my boyfriend and then CHEAT on him? Nice.

  I click on the Post button and wait a second, then add:

  What’s it like being a skank?

  Suddenly another post pops up, not from me. From Brielle!

  I hear the weather’s nice in slutsville this time of year.

  I laugh out loud, sitting alone in my room. I click in the comment box below Brielle’s post and write: Warm with a chance of STDs.

  Then there’s a post from Noelle: Who farted? Oh, that’s just Emma. Someone has tagged Emma’s name.

  Then Kyle is there, too. Thanks for banging all my friends, he writes, and then, Gotta go take another shower.

  The four of them keep writing, trying to top one another. Brielle posts on Tyler’s wall too. She opens up a chat window with me separately, but we mostly use it for saying HAHAHAHA.

  I look at the corner of my screen and see that an hour has gone by, but it feels like no time at all. With a jolt I realize that Dylan still hasn’t called me back. I guess he’s probably not going to . . . I mean, I promised to be nice to Emma. Didn’t I? I don’t even remember. I don’t even care. Fine, let him be with that loser. Screw them both. I’m the one with friends—he and Tyler can just fight over who gets to be with the girl who everyone hates. The girl who’s definitely going to transfer schools now—I mean, how’s she gonna come back to Elmwood after this?

  That gives me an idea, and I post one last comment to her page.

  You’re gonna have to move to Canada now. You’ve slept with everyone in the U.S.

  I can’t quite bring myself to type the F word, but I think this makes my point anyway.

  Downstairs I hear the garage door opening, so I sign off with Brielle and close my computer. I go downstairs, feeling light and relaxed. I’m okay now. If I can just not think about Dylan, I might be okay for a little while.

  He doesn’t text. He doesn’t call. On Monday I forget my shyness around the guys and walk right up to Jacob, blurting out, “Where’s Dylan? Have you seen him?”

  Jacob does this big flinch, like I’m acting crazy, but he goes, “No, man, I heard he called in sick.”

  Kyle has just walked up to Jacob’s locker too, and he laughs loudly. “Yeah, he’s sick, all right.”

  “Sick of dealing with Emma’s bullshit,” I say, and both guys look at me, surprised.

  “Uh, yeah,” Jacob says.

&nbs
p; “Is Tyler here?” I ask, and now they look less surprised, and more like they don’t understand why I’m still bothering them.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Kyle says.

  Jacob slams his locker and shrugs at me. “See you,” he says, and he and Kyle walk away.

  I scan the hallway and find Brielle. With Noelle, of course, but at least Noelle gives me a little wave as I make my way over to them.

  “What up,” she says, but it’s not really a question.

  I turn to Brielle and say, “Did you hear Dylan stayed home sick today?”

  She snorts, like I knew she would, and goes, “God, are we still talking about that douche? Seriously, Sara, you need to move on.”

  Noelle nods knowingly. I start to say something, even though I have no idea what to say, but then Alison Stipe walks up and goes, “You guys, that stuff this weekend was hilars. Stupid Emma.”

  “Yeah, whatever, we were just killing time,” Brielle says, sounding like she couldn’t care less either way.

  “I heard she’s gonna transfer to Central,” Alison says.

  “You did?” I ask, surprised Brielle didn’t already hear this.

  “Well, I mean, she should,” Noelle says. “Right? Who the hell wants her here?”

  “Tyler, I guess,” Alison says, but Brielle and Noelle both laugh at this so loudly that she looks embarrassed, like she wishes she hadn’t said anything.

  “Oh my God, Tyler did Dylan a favor. He did everyone a favor,” Brielle says. “I don’t know how they all missed the skank memo, but now they know. But Tyler wanting to hang out with Emma now? I really don’t think so.”

  The bell rings and Alison races away, throwing us a little wave but looking relieved at the same time. Noelle and Brielle roll their eyes at each other, and Brielle says, “Back stairwell?”