This hope is dashed when Mom comes home.
I can tell by the way she closes the front door that something’s up. When you have a family like mine you learn to tune into the tone of their comings and goings. In this case, Mom does not so much slam the door, as very carefully not slam it.
Yikes.
A minute later she’s inside my room and sitting gingerly on the end of my bed.
“I think we should talk,” Mom says in horribly quiet voice, hands clasped in her lap.
“You heard?”
“Heard, yes,” she says, her normally smooth expression pinched. “And saw. So handy, everyone having a phone these days, and access to everything. This way, when your least favorite coworker tells you your daughter has made a spectacle of herself and attacked a pillar of the community for no apparent reason, and you give them a gentle lecture on how they shouldn’t believe everything they hear . . . that person can then come back with a video and prove you wrong.”
Oh boy. I can just picture the scene at work, where my mom has been the sole voice for discretion in a sea of busybodies who think the only reason she doesn’t like gossip is that her husband has so often been the subject of it. (Which may be true and who could blame her?) I only thought about how she might be angry, worried, or disappointed when she found out, but not about how she might be humiliated.
I should have. She and I have been living in the rubble of Dad for years—the rubble of Dad, and then the rubble of Dad plus Jack.
And . . . she’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She doesn’t even duck her head, just swipes angrily at the tears with the back of her hand.
“I’m especially sorry you found out like that.”
“I am sorry,” she says, swiping at a tear and sitting up straighter, “that you caused such a scene. I thought you knew better.”
“I do, but . . .”
“Yes . . . ?”
“People are saying I just flipped out for no reason. But I had a reason.”
“Of course you did,” she says, finally turning to look at me, gaze pointed.
“I—I—” I stop, stumbling over the halted torrent of words I was about to unleash in my defense. “What?”
“Perry Ackerman is a saint in this town, but every woman under seventy-five, and maybe a few over, knows he’s also a sleazebag.”
I just stare at her, mouth hanging open.
“Don’t look so surprised, Libby. Women have been dealing with this forever. You don’t need to tell me what Perry said, or what he did to set you off. That man has done his routine everywhere. He’s a walking boner.”
“Ewww. Mom.”
“You can’t go around having tantrums every time some ridiculous man insults you or hits on you, or both. It’s naïve, not to mention foolish.”
“Foolish!”
“It is,” she says, her tears already a thing of the distant past. “I thought you understood from watching your father the stupidity of that variety of behavior. And the pointlessness.”
“But—”
“You have to think about what you’re trying to accomplish, and whether it’s feasible that you can actually accomplish it when you do something like that. You have to think about the consequences and whether you’re able to withstand them. Yes, it’s unpleasant having to deal with men like Perry, and I’m sorry you’ve had to go through it.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
She’s not, though. Or she is, but she’s actually more upset that I didn’t do a good job handling being sexually harassed than that I was sexually harassed in the first place. This shouldn’t surprise me, shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
“This is the reality, though, Libby,” she continues. “You have to think—every time!—about who you are in the world, and what your position is. About who has the power. Perry employs half the town, owns a ton of real estate, has shares in most of the businesses, including a controlling share of the Inn, which is my place of employment in case you forgot. So it’s not just your job on the line here—it could be mine.”
“You never mentioned . . .” I feel the blood draining from my face. “But, Mom, he’s not your boss, is he?”
“He’s not running things day-to-day,” Mom says. “But in the big picture, yes. He’s the boss of my boss, which makes him my boss. And he could make life very difficult for me, or even have me fired. That’s my point, Libby. Here in Pine Ridge Perry has power. And what you did is just going to make him want to flex it.”
“I know, I just—I couldn’t handle it anymore. What was I supposed to do?”
“Find a way to manage him, hold on to your dignity, and bide your time.”
“Managing him and holding on to dignity are mutually exclusive in this situation, Mom.”
“There’s an art to it, dear.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. What do you think I do at the Inn? Figure out how to calm people down, make them feel special, important, and taken care of. I deal with every variety of person, and all sorts of situations. It’s a skill, and when done really well, an art.”
“There shouldn’t be an art to being sexually harassed. That shouldn’t be a thing.”
“That’s life, Libby. And it always has been. I’m not saying you have to just let it happen. You find ways to protect yourself. You dodge the unwanted hand, play dumb about the comments, and of course you need a signal you can send out to another woman when you really need help. I’m sorry I didn’t instruct you on any of this but I thought you knew.”
“I do now,” I say. “But I shouldn’t have to.”
“But you do,” she says with a resigned shrug.
“The other thing you said—about biding my time. Until when am I supposed to bide?”
“Until you are in a position to do something.”
“That means never.” I drop back onto my pillow.
She reaches over, pats my arm, and says, “Maybe . . . maybe there’ll come a time when it just won’t matter anymore.”
“That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. Mom, it should matter,” I say, sitting back up. “Or do you get to your age and just find you’ve become so tired and disappointed with life that you stop caring when things are wrong? Because I do know that you can’t go around swearing and throwing stuff. I know it doesn’t accomplish anything positive. But what you’re saying is my options are either that, or do nothing.”
“You’re not going to change someone like Perry, dear. That’s what I’m saying. And there will always be someone like Perry. And now your position is worse than it was before. Now you have to fix this, when before there wasn’t anything to fix.”
“How am I supposed to fix it? What if I don’t want to?”
“Then I don’t think you’re going to like the consequences.”
12
BARKING DOGS
Things get more exciting on Tuesday, if that’s even possible.
First thing in the morning I text my friends and let them know that I’m fine to walk to school sans entourage, because I figure the worst is probably over. After a couple of minutes, Emma texts back, suggesting we all meet in front of the school and go in together, which I agree to.
Then Noah texts me separately: How about just me? I’m not an entourage.
True. I’m fine, though. Seriously. It’s a long walk in for you.
My stepmom can drive me. I’ll bring you a coffee . . .
You keep bringing me stuff.
Is that a yes?
My fingers hover over the phone. Noah and a coffee sound like an excellent start to the day. A bit too excellent. If he wants to talk about his relationship with Ava again, I’m not sure I can handle it. It’s so tempting to encourage him to dump her, which makes me such a bad friend. And feeling like a bad fri
end might cause me to go overboard in the opposite direction and convince him to stay with her, which might be the wrong decision for him, which again would make me a very bad friend. Plus, let’s be real—I’d be so mad at myself.
And what if they do break up? Am I a better option for him? My life is a mess right now, and I seem to be some kind of magnet for bad relationships, and I can’t go traveling with him next year either, not that he’s asking. So, no.
But I still text, Yes.
He brings the coffee in a reusable mug with the Ted’s Snowscape logo on the side.
“I put some of that hazelnut stuff in. That’s the flavor you like, right?”
“Yes.” I beam at him with far more enthusiasm than the situation warrants. I mean, he probably remembers how Boris, Emma, and Yaz like their coffee too.
“I made it myself, I’ll have you know,” he says. “In our French press.”
“Ooh, fancy.”
“I even ground the beans.”
“Now you’re just bragging.”
The first part of the walk is comfortable and quiet, with no one else around, but as we get closer to school there are other people walking in the same direction, and I start feeling the stares.
“Wow,” Noah mutters, noticing. “I hate people.”
“You think we wouldn’t do the same?”
“No. No way,” he says, and then adds, “I hope not.”
“There’s nothing I can do about it,” I say, with a rueful shake of my head.
“I hate to think you have to just hide out until this is over, though. I’d go nuts. You should come to my house and do the Stomp.”
“The Stomp?”
“It’s a trail my dad and I made on our property. I named it the Stomp because when I’m upset, or just trying to figure stuff out, I like to get outside and stomp around.”
“Literally?”
“Yeah, it’s a thing, like . . .” He looks sideways at me and demonstrates a hilarious, stomping walk. “Some people run, I go out in the yard and stomp. And I climb the landscaping stuff—the rock heaps and whatnot, and stomp on those too if I need to.”
“How did I not know this about you?”
“Oh, it’s a carefully guarded family secret,” he jokes. “But seriously, we’ve got ten acres and no close neighbors to stare at you, so if you want to come stomp around it’s an open invitation. Actual stomping optional. It’d get you out from under all these eyes, and . . . out of your house, too, in case that’s something you need.”
“I may well take you up on that.”
“Good. Because I don’t make the offer to just anybody,” he says, and then gestures to the small parade of fellow students walking toward school in tandem with us, “certainly not to any of these asswipes.”
I wonder if he’s taken Ava on the Stomp, but we’ve had an Ava-free morning so I decide not to ask.
And then we’re in front of the school and Yaz and Emma are there. We walk in together like we did yesterday, with the three of them sticking close to me and Emma staring daggers at anyone who so much as glances my way.
“Anything I need to know?” I ask Emma in a low tone as we head to our lockers.
“Nothing,” she says. “You really didn’t look?”
“I said I wouldn’t. No chance someone’s caused a new scandal and everyone has moved on?”
“Sorry, hon,” Yaz says. “Not yet.”
“I’ll cause a scandal,” Noah offers from behind us. “What do you want me to do? I could toilet-paper someone’s house, set off some smoke bombs in the park? Oh, we could steal the Fancy Lattes sign and put it on Just Coffee, and vice versa. They’d both be so pissed and it would get the Complainers going with all kinds of conspiracy theories.”
“Let’s not get you arrested,” Emma says, shaking her head. “That would be the opposite of helpful.”
All morning things go quiet every time I walk into a classroom, but it’s not like I’m getting waves of hatred. It’s tolerable. Then on my way to lunch I pass Rod Catena, one of my least favorite people, and he gives me a very deliberate, aggressive smirk.
Ugh.
Two minutes later, as I’m digging my lunch bag out of my locker, I hear barking.
I turn around, half expecting to see an actual dog, but instead there’s a group of boys—Rod and his crew of idiot friends, standing there cackling. Why anyone would want to be Rod’s friend is beyond me. He has no discernible talents or ambitions beyond partying, slacking off, and being the biggest possible jackass. But maybe being the biggest possible jackass is its own special talent.
Rod barks, looking right at me as he does it, and his friends echo him with a chorus of yips and howls. They are just the tiniest bit scary when they’re all together like this, but we’ve all learned the hard way that it’s best not to cower, or show any weakness at all with these jerks, and I’ve had extra practice dealing with them due to my dad’s antics. So I grab my lunch, then slam my locker shut with a purposely loud bang, give them my most withering glare, and say, “Go hump a landmine, Catena.”
The sound of barking follows me all the way down the hall, and I’m relieved to get outside to the picnic table we always have lunch at as soon as it gets warm.
Emma, Boris, Yaz, and Noah are already there, and I set my lunch down and survey them for hints that they know what’s going on. Emma’s peeling an orange, Yaz is eating seaweed, Boris is on his phone, and Noah’s halfway through a massive sandwich.
“Anyone want to tell me why people have started barking at me?” I ask when nobody volunteers any information.
“Barking?” Yaz says.
“Yeah, like dogs?”
“That’s random.” Yaz has never been a good liar—everything shows on her face.
“It doesn’t feel random,” I say, and she’s suddenly concentrating really hard on her seaweed.
Boris and Noah are both staring fixedly at Emma, who grimaces.
“Em . . . ”
“Okay. You know the video? From the Goat, the one of you and—”
“Yes, I know the one,” I say, cutting her off.
“You know how the audio only caught a tiny bit of what you said to Perry after soaking him . . . really just the swear words and the word ‘pig’ I think. Well . . . someone made a doctored version of the video and dubbed in the sounds of a dog barking, exactly in sync with you speaking.”
I wince.
“And there’s a tail involved,” Boris adds. “Uh, on you.”
“She didn’t need to know that part,” Emma says, rounding on him.
“I was just trying to help.”
“How, exactly, does that help?”
“Well, if people start asking her to go fetch she’ll . . . uh . . . know the reason?” Boris says, digging himself deeper.
“I. Am. The Boss. Of. This. Boris,” Emma says, pounding on her chest for emphasis.
“I’m sorry, Em, I . . .” Boris mumbles, and then turns to me. “Sorry, Libby.”
“It’s fine. Being a laughingstock is the least of my worries.”
“Lots of people are actually laughing with you,” Emma points out. “With you, and at Perry. At least . . . they are regarding the original video. Because the look on his face is hilarious, and him sitting there soaked is also hilarious. Now, eat. You need to keep your strength up.”
“Uh-oh, did I also put you in charge of my nutrition?” I say, then grudgingly open my lunch.
“Whoa, what’s that?” Noah says, looking at my overstuffed lunch box that contains a large burrito, guacamole, and a colorful compartment of fruit salad.
“Weird thing—ever since I started working at the Goat my dad’s been making me these crazy lunches. Not every day, but once or twice a week I’ll go in the kitchen in the morning and he’s packed me some massive lunch. He hasn’t done lunches sin
ce I was in sixth grade.”
“Sweet,” Yaz says.
“Well, I think it’s a guilt lunch,” I say. “So that detracts from the deed a bit.”
“Still, yum,” Noah says.
“A guilt lunch will keep your strength up just as well as a normal lunch,” Emma says. “And probably taste just as good since it’s his guilt, not yours. Eat.”
“Who do you think made the video?” I ask, then take a bite of the burrito, which is, in fact, delicious.
“I dunno,” Emma says.
“That maggot-burger, Catena,” Noah says at the exact same time, then throws his hands up when Emma glares at him. “What? Libby hates him already. We all hate him. Now we can hate him more.”
We would hate Rod Catena anyway, as he has always been awful, but we all hate him particularly because of what he did to Yaz. In junior year, before she realized she prefers girls (and possibly hastening that realization), he showed up newly hot-looking after the summer and convinced Yaz to go out with him. Then he got her alone and proceeded to slobber all over her face while trying repeatedly to grab for her boobs and butt, even after she pushed him away. When that caused her to immediately dump him, he told everyone at school that she had “let” him do those things and spread all sorts of gross, false details about their supposed hookup.
“Sorry again,” Emma says, taking in my expression. “These people are not listening to me.”
“Rod’s always been despicable. It’s no surprise.”
“Want me to kick his ass?” Boris says out of left field, like he believes he’s suddenly become some kind of bruiser. “I’ll kick his ass.”
Emma groans at this, Noah laughs, and Yaz looks worried. Because in no way would Boris be able to kick Rod’s ass. I mean, maybe if he came up behind him, and used his trumpet to bash him over the head, and then ran away really fast, but otherwise no.
“I could at least talk to him,” Boris says with bizarre eagerness. “Ask him to take the video down.”
“Oh please, man, let me come along to witness this travesty of a conversation,” Noah says.
Boris, like always, is trying to be nice.
He Must Like You Page 10