Lessons from a Dead Girl

by Jo Knowles

  Leah lets go of my hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. Then she stands and leaves me there by myself.

  I stay where I am, staring at the white spots on my hand until they slowly regain their color and fade away.

  I know at this moment that I will never understand Leah Greene. Maybe no one will. But I also know that Leah isn’t the strong, untouchable person I always thought she was. I’ve seen her weak side twice now, and I know that when Leah feels pain, it goes deep into her soul.

  The following fall, Leah and I get Mr. Mitchell for freshman English. He is surprisingly beautiful, and all the girls love him. Even Leah acts somewhat goofy in front of him.

  He says stuff other teachers don’t. He writes swear words on the board and makes us stare at them until they become meaningless. He tells us stories that make us think. He asks us questions and actually seems to want to hear the answers. Our answers. Not his.

  One day, we’re sitting in class, and he asks us what a true friend is. We all raise our hands, but he motions for us to put them down. “I’ll tell you,” he says seriously.

  “I have this friend, Jake,” Mr. Mitchell says, sitting on the edge of his desk. “One day, I needed a favor. It wasn’t a big favor, but I called him and told him I needed something. Know what he said?”

  We shake our heads.

  “He said, ‘Sure.’ Before he even knew what I was going to ask him. You know why?”

  We shake our heads again.

  “Because he trusted me not to ask him to do something he couldn’t or wouldn’t want to do. He knew that whatever I asked for, he would help me simply because he was my friend and I needed help. That’s true friendship.”

  I’m sitting in the second row, staring at his faded jeans and slightly wrinkled white oxford shirt. The top two buttons are undone to show his tan chest. His hair is messy in a nice sort of way. His olive green eyes smile at us. He really is beautiful.

  “Do you get it?” he asks us. We all nod silently.

  Toward the end of class, Leah passes me a note. I open it carefully.

  Lainey, I need to ask you a favor.

  There’s a smiley face at the bottom, with one eye a line instead of a dot, to show a wink. I grin and write Sure with another winking smiley face. Then I fold up the note, wait for Mr. Mitchell to turn around, and toss it on the floor near Leah’s foot so she can cover it with her shoe and pick it up.

  Leah sits behind and diagonal to me. I hear the paper rustle as she unfolds it, and then the brief quiet as she looks at my response. Somehow I know she’s smiling, and I can’t help feel that I’ve passed a test. Until I start to wonder what she’ll ask me to do.

  As I sit there feeling anxious, I think of Mr. Mitchell’s definition. If Leah’s a true friend, she can’t ask me to do anything I wouldn’t want to. That makes me feel better. Slightly. But is she a true friend? There are lots of things Leah has made me do that I didn’t think I wanted to. But somehow, in the end, I always let them happen without a fight.

  It isn’t long before the friendship test becomes a big joke with the boys. You can’t go to lunch or walk down the halls without hearing someone say, “Would you do me a favor?” Leah says they’re just jealous because the girls love Mr. Mitchell. She says she and I are the only ones who really understand what Mr. Mitchell was getting at.

  The funny thing is Leah never does ask me for that favor.

  About a week after the friendship lesson, we’re in Mr. Mitchell’s class again and Tyler Michelson is complaining about some homework assignment. “I hate algebra,” he says. “Mrs. Gray gives out way too much homework.”

  A few other students start in on Mrs. Gray and how unfair she is and how she never explains anything.

  Mr. Mitchell tells us to quiet down. “We only hate what we don’t understand,” he says matter-of-factly.

  That shuts us all up. A bunch of people start nodding as they seem to go through their secret “I hate” lists and realize he’s right.

  Leah smiles at me, not knowing — or maybe I just don’t think so at the time — what I just thought when I saw her face: She has been on my list.

  She pats her heart, our sign when someone we have a crush on is near. In this case, Mr. Mitchell. He’s Leah’s idol now and the only person I’ve ever known Leah to openly admire. When he says things like this, she writes it down on her textbook cover with little hearts around it. She doesn’t even care if Mr. Mitchell — or anyone else — sees.

  “So what do you hate, Laine?” Leah asks at lunch. We’re sitting at our usual table, with the regular crowd of Leah admirers.

  “Only the things I don’t understand,” I say, proud of my cleverness.

  “Ooh, deep,” Leah says sarcastically.

  “I hate snakes,” Claire Watson says. Poor Claire. She isn’t in Mr. Mitchell’s class, so she doesn’t have a clue what Leah’s getting at.

  “Why do you hate snakes, Claire?” Leah asks, showing mock interest.

  “I don’t know. They’re creepy,” says Claire, brushing her hair from her eyes. “They slither around and they’re real quiet, so you never know when they’re near you. Once I stepped on one, and I didn’t even know it. I was helping my mom hang clothes on the line, and I thought I was standing on part of the rope —”

  “I get it,” Leah interrupts. “Never mind.”

  We’re all quiet. Leah doesn’t usually show her moody side to anyone but me. Claire looks like she’s going to cry.

  “So, did you guys check out Mr. Mitchell’s shirt today?” Leah asks. “I think it’s new.” Leah always knows when to change the subject.

  “It makes his eyes even greener,” I say.

  “He’s a god,” Leah breathes.

  We spend the rest of lunch talking about Mr. Mitchell. We say our first names with his last, imagining what it would be like to be married to him.

  The thing is we all know it’s just a fantasy. He’s way too old for us. All of us except Leah.

  “It could happen,” she says to me when we bring our trays up after lunch. “He could wait for me to get a little older. Sam says lots of older men marry younger girls. They wait for them to turn eighteen so it’s legal.”

  “Yuck,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Just — marrying someone so much older.”

  Leah shrugs. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.” She turns away from me like I said something to offend her.

  A few days later, we find out that Mr. Mitchell got engaged. An eerie darkness comes over Leah.

  It seems like weeks before she snaps out of it. We’re in homeroom, and Mr. Mitchell is taking attendance, like he does every morning. He walks up and down the aisles, saying hi to everyone and making little marks in his red attendance book. As he comes up the aisle behind me, Leah lets out a gasp. I turn around.

  “Leah? Something wrong?” Mr. Mitchell asks. He stops at my desk and turns his head back toward Leah.

  “No,” she says quietly, looking down at her desk. Her cheeks are bright red. I swear she’s trying not to laugh.

  Mr. Mitchell shrugs and walks past me. When he smiles, my heart flip-flops. But as he walks to the front of the room, I notice a piece of toilet paper sticking out of the waist of his jeans.

  I turn back to Leah, whose whole body is convulsing in silent laughter. It’s the first time I’ve seen her laugh since we found out about the engagement. I try to stifle my own laughter, but it’s too much and I start cracking up. Luckily, we both get under control before Mr. Mitchell makes us tell him what’s so funny.

  That seems to be all it takes — a piece of toilet paper — to change Mr. Mitchell from God back to ordinary teacher. After that, Leah never talks about him again.

  God or not, I’m still grateful to Mr. Mitchell for the friendship test. Sometimes I still look at my hand and remember the red F.F. Leah marked there all those years earlier. I think about all the things she’s done to me, and I wonder why I’m still friends with her. Maybe that’s what being real
friends is all about — putting up with the hard lessons — both taught and learned together.

  By the end of freshman year, Leah has definitely moved on from Mr. Mitchell. She still likes older guys, just not quite that old. I catch her checking out the seniors when we walk the halls. She licks her lips and looks down, trying to seem innocent and seductive at the same time. I remember similar looks she gave me in the doll closet. Her face seemed so grown-up. It’s a relief to see her give those looks to boys.

  The week before school gets out, Leah is in full “look at me” mode as we wait in line outside the movie theater. In a halter and short skirt, she looks about five years older than me with my usual jeans and long-sleeve shirt. She seems annoyed to have to be standing with me, like I’m cramping her style.

  “If you won’t hold hands with him, I will,” she says to me as I bite my already chewed-to-the-skin nails. She’s talking about Jeffrey Scotto, who somehow got my IM name and sent me this message two days ago:

  THE ONLY GOOD THING ABOUT SCHOOL THIS YEAR WAS GETTING TO SEE YOU. WILL YOU BE AT THE MOVIES THIS FRIDAY? — JEFFREY

  I love that he didn’t abbreviate any words and used all capital letters, like he wanted to make sure I heard him. I printed out the message and memorized it. A boy likes me. A boy.

  “Laine and Jeffrey sitting in a tree,” Leah starts to sing as we wait in line. That stupid baby song. She sings it in an annoying little-kid voice to make sure I know how childish she thinks the whole thing is. She’s way beyond “I like you” IMs.

  “Are you going to let him feel you up?” she whispers in my ear.

  God, I can’t believe her.

  “What are you talking about?” I say, stepping away from her.

  “C’mon, Lainey. Are you going to let him in your shirt? Or your pants?”

  “No!” My cheeks get even hotter. I feel wet under my armpits.

  She makes it sound so dirty. I suddenly see us in the closet, feel her hand going — I squeeze my eyes shut and block it out.

  “I doubt he’ll even show up,” I say, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. I feel so self-conscious, I’m not sure I can stay standing up. Any slight breeze might make me lose my balance and I’ll fall over.

  Leah looks amused.

  “I bet he’s not coming,” I say. “It was probably a joke.” But I cross my fingers and hope it isn’t. Jeffrey Scotto isn’t even that good-looking, but the thought of a boy noticing me, liking me enough to IM me, is almost too hard to believe.

  “So are you going to let him get in your shirt or not?” Leah asks, loudly enough for the people in front of us to hear.

  “Would you shut up?” I whisper.

  Just then I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I jump and turn to see Jeffrey Scotto standing in front of me.

  Leah bursts out laughing. It reminds me of the laugh when we got caught with my dad’s Playboy, only this time she doesn’t sound nervous. Just spiteful.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks, smiling.

  He seems overly pleased that I’m with Leah.

  “Stand in line with us, Jeffrey, then you and Lainey can sit together.” Leah’s brilliant when it comes to making me feel like an absolute idiot.

  “OK,” Jeffrey says happily, stepping in between Leah and me.

  I don’t dare look at him. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.

  “This movie’s supposed to be intense,” Jeffrey says. His voice cracks a little. When his arm brushes against mine, butterflies take off in my stomach.

  Leah gives him a flirty smile. “We’ll protect you, Jeff,” she says.

  Leah knows no one calls Jeffrey “Jeff,” but of course he doesn’t correct her.

  When we get inside, Leah grabs Jeffrey’s hand and pulls him into the back aisle. “Come on, Lainey. We’ll all sit back here.”

  Leah walks to the end of the aisle, next to the wall. It’s the darkest spot in the entire theater. Jeffrey sits down next to her, then I sit next to him.

  When the movie starts, it gets even darker. I can smell Jeffrey’s freshly washed T-shirt. I move a little bit closer to him, slowly, so he won’t notice. Just enough so that if he moves closer, too, we might touch. But he doesn’t move. In fact, I can’t tell in the dark, but it seems as though, if anything, he’s sitting closer to Leah.

  The second preview comes on. It’s for an action movie with lots of explosives that light up the theater. I try to meet Jeffrey’s eyes, thinking I’ll smile at him as a way to thank him for the note.

  I turn, hoping my bangs look OK. That my breath doesn’t smell funny. But it doesn’t matter. Jeffrey’s staring at Leah. She’s giving him one of her looks. I only see them a second before it gets dark again, but I know I’ve lost him.

  I sink back in my seat and sigh.

  When the movie starts, there’s a tap on my shoulder. My stomach flips. I don’t dare to look at Jeffrey. I think his tap is a nice one. Delicate. I start to convince myself I was wrong about the look I saw pass between him and Leah.

  But as I turn, I realize it was Leah tapping me. She’s reached behind Jeffrey. Her arm is still over the back of his chair.

  “Are you guys going to hold hands?” she asks matter-of-factly. She’s chewing gum. I smell the strawberry flavor when she breathes out.

  I feel myself blush again.

  Jeffrey doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Come on, guys — what do you think movie theaters are for?”

  Still nothing from Jeffrey. I’m sure he can hear my heart beating.

  “Look, it’s easy.” Leah moves her arm from the back of Jeffrey’s chair and takes his hand. “Just put your fingers through mine, like this.”

  Jeffrey seems as tense as I am. He stares straight ahead while she laces her fingers through his.

  “Well, Laine, if you’re not going to hold his hand, I guess I’ll have to,” she says cheerfully. She sits back in her chair, keeping hold of Jeffrey’s hand.

  He doesn’t pull it away.

  “What’s your problem?” Leah says to me after the movie.

  Jeffrey had muttered a “See ya” and fled as soon as we got to the lobby.

  I’m not sure if he wanted to rush off to tell his friends that he’d just held hands with Leah Greene for two hours, or if he simply wanted to get away from us. One thing I’m sure of, though: I won’t be getting any more messages from him. He probably thinks I’m a freak.

  “I don’t have a problem,” I tell Leah. She shrugs and keeps walking.

  “Why did you do that, anyway?” I ask when we get outside to the parking lot.

  She turns away, like she’s scoping out the scene. “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  “Oh, Laine, grow up.” She looks around the parking lot, then at me and my pathetic outfit. She pulls at her halter to show more of her chest. “It’s not like you were going to do anything with him.”

  “How do you know!”

  “He’s a guy.”

  My cheeks burn. “I liked him, Leah. And you ruined it!”

  She laughs. “I didn’t ruin anything. I saved you. If he really liked you, he would have held your hand. Or were you jealous?”

  “Jealous?” I want to scream at her.

  “Did you want to hold my hand, too?” She smiles at me in a sickeningly sweet way.

  I’m so upset, I don’t know what to say.

  “Mommy’s here,” she says before I get the chance to think of something.

  My mother is waiting for us in my dad’s pickup truck. It has a big rust spot on the passenger side.

  “Your dad needs a new truck,” Leah complains before she opens the door.

  “Maybe you should buy him one,” I say.

  The door creaks when she opens it.

  I imagine her falling under the truck and telling my mother to step on the gas.

  Leah holds open the door so I can climb in. She always does that. It makes her look like she’s being polite, but really it’s so she can get in last and sit by the win
dow.

  “How was the movie, girls?” my mother asks.

  “I thought it was pretty good. What did you think, Lainey?” Leah pauses, but not long enough for me to answer. “Or were you too busy watching something else?”

  I glare at Leah.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” my mother asks.

  “Nothing,” I answer. “The movie was fine.”

  I move closer to my mom so Leah isn’t touching me. I clench my teeth together and try to keep my hands from making fists.

  I hate her, I think. I hate her so much. Screw Mr. Mitchell and his stupid tests and theories. Or don’t — so what if I don’t understand Leah? I don’t want to! It’s easier to hate. That’s what Mr. Mitchell told us. That’s why so many people do it, he said.

  OK, Mr. Mitchell. Fine. You figure her out, then. Right now, I’d rather just hate her.

  When school gets out, I wait to see if Leah will call me, but she doesn’t. I don’t call her, either. I spend most of the summer alone or hanging out with Christi when she’ll lower herself to be seen with me. None of the girls from our group call me. I always knew Leah was the only one they cared about. It’s OK, though. I’d rather be lonely than deal with Leah Greene or any of her followers.

  When school starts again, I make a point of keeping my distance from Leah, and since I haven’t run into her, I assume she’s trying hard not to see me, either.

  Then one Friday my mother stops Christi and me as we’re heading out the door for school and tells us that Leah is coming over to spend the night.

  I try to tell my mother that Leah and I aren’t friends anymore, but she won’t change her mind. “Mrs. Greene needs this favor, Lainey,” she says. “She doesn’t trust anyone else.”

  Christi rolls her eyes.

  “Mom, please! Can’t you call her back and make up an excuse?” I plead.

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Lainey,” my mom says. “One night won’t kill you.”

  “But —”

  “Listen,” my mom says, all annoyed. “Mrs. Greene has been having a lot of trouble with Leah lately and doesn’t want to leave her alone. It’s just one night. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not crazy about this, either!”