by Kara Thomas
Was he just nervous, having me in proximity of his girlfriend? Or does he know I talked to Allie last week, and he’s panicking because I asked her about Carly Amato?
Rach, Alexa, and I head straight upstairs when we get to the Santiagos’. I park myself on the edge of Alexa’s bed, peeling off the glittery flats I wore to the dance. We’re staying here tonight; Alexa’s mom is always saying that she knows we drink, and if we’re going to do it anyway, she’d rather we have a safe ride home. Rachel and I don’t have chill moms; they think we’re sleeping at the Santiagos’ tonight and braiding each other’s hair or whatever.
Tom gave me a look and a sigh when I told him and my mom I was staying here.
While Rachel strips off her homecoming dress, replacing it with skinny jeans, I get my phone out of my purse. I have a missed text. I recognize the number as Brandon’s.
I try to control my breathing as I type out a response.
“I can’t wear this.” Rachel is studying herself in Alexa’s full-length mirror, running her hands over her glittery black tank top. “My boobs are falling out.”
“It’s that stupid juice cleanse.” Alexa is winding a lock of hair around her wave iron. My phone vibrates.
I pocket my phone, feeling sick. He knows I talked to Allie. If she told him everything, he may have put the pieces together. He might know I’ve been looking into the murders.
“Here. Wear this. It’s going to be freezing by the lake anyway.” Alexa tosses Rach a boatneck sweatshirt. She tugs it over her tank top. Examines herself in the mirror.
“Just don’t let anything happen to that one,” Alexa says, turning back to freshening up her waves. “I like it.”
Rach’s face darkens, no doubt thinking of the dance team sweatshirt she borrowed from Alexa and lost.
I shrug out of my dress, almost positive Rach and Alexa can hear my heart racing. I want to talk to Ginny, but I’ll have to tell her why Brandon Michaelson has my phone number.
I just won’t respond to him. He can’t push it, can’t try to corner me at school on Monday. Not without having to answer uncomfortable questions about our relationship. The thought soothes me enough to laugh as Mrs. Santiago and Rachel taunt Alexa about Joe on the car ride to the Gabriels’ house.
Kelsey lives on a secluded estate on the north side of Osprey Lake. It’s one of those houses that have a driveway with a gate. Her back deck overlooks the lake and has a hot tub.
Almost everyone is inside, because it’s forty degrees out—probably the coldest night of the season so far. A few brave morons are in the hot tub.
The party is a shitshow. Rachel is drunk within fifteen minutes of our arrival, and Alexa is stuck to the beer pong table like a barnacle. I leave her and make myself a vodka cranberry in the kitchen. Drain it in two gulps, hoping it will loosen me a bit, before I’m dragged into a group of dance team girls.
“We’re doing a shot together,” one of them crows. I don’t fight it; when we’re done I do a lap around the house for Rachel. Unable to find her, I pour another drink and head back to the garage.
Alexa is still at the beer pong table. I watch her play against Joe Gabriel and another senior guy.
“Hey.” Jimmy Varney sidles up next to me, a can of Diet Coke in hand.
“Is there rum in there, at least?” I’m surprised at the effort it takes to get the words out. I look down at the dregs of my vodka cranberry. My head is fuzzy, and I can’t remember if it was my second or third. No, definitely second. I always stop after two. The shot I did, though—that was a mistake.
Jimmy smiles. “Driving,” he says. “Rachel Steiger is looking for you.”
Disappointment needles me. Is that the only reason he sought me out? I’m immediately disgusted with myself. My pathological need for attention from guys is why I’m in this mess with Brandon.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll go find her I guess.”
Jimmy nods to the beer pong table. “Partners next game?”
Before I can respond, my back pocket vibrates. I set my drink down and scramble to get my phone out, my fingertips numb from the cold garage.
I turn away from Jimmy so he can’t see the message from Brandon.
My heart comes to a full stop. The noise in the garage dulls; I lean against the wall for support.
Jimmy rests a hand on my upper back. “Mon, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. I need to get something from inside.”
I head up the stairs into the house at the same moment Rachel is stepping down into the garage, wobbling on her heels like a newborn giraffe. Her eyes, mascara already smudged, lock on me. “Babe! Whatcha doing?”
“I have to go somewhere for a minute,” I say, sidestepping her. “I’ll be right back.”
Rachel pouts. “But where are you going?”
“Outside for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“Can I come?”
“No.” It comes out more forceful than I intended. “Jesus, Rach, I’ll be right back.”
Rach takes a step back at the forcefulness of my voice. Her cup sways with her, splashing cranberry juice down Alexa’s sweatshirt.
“Nooooo.” She screws up her face like a toddler who dropped her ice cream in the dirt. “No no no!”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Ask Kelsey if she has seltzer.”
“Alexa is going to kill me! I’m always borrowing her shit and losing it or ruining it.”
That’s when something in me snaps. “Rachel. You need to get a grip.”
She bursts into tears. Alexa, who has been watching us from the pong table, looks at me like I’m a monster. I’ll have to apologize later, but right now, I need to get the hell out of here before anyone sees Brandon’s Jeep.
How the hell could he come here? Does he realize how stupid that is? If he’s caught near a high school party—
My gut clenches at the sight of Brandon’s Jeep parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, his lights off. I rap on the window. He lowers it. “Door’s unlocked.”
“I think I’ll stay out here.” I wrap my arms around my midsection.
Brandon sighs. Turns his engine off. “Fine.”
I take a step back as he gets out of the Jeep. He rakes his hair off his forehead and looks at me. “You talked to Allie. What the fuck, Monica?”
“It wasn’t even about you. I didn’t know you two were together.”
“Still,” he says. “Do you realize what could happen if she finds out?”
“I’m not going to tell her anything. Are we done here? Good. Bye.” I suddenly realize that I am drunk and need to remove myself from this situation. When I turn to leave, Brandon grabs my wrist.
“Wait. Why were you asking Allie about Carly Amato?”
My knees are quaking beneath me. I press my legs together to still them. “You and Allie were together when she was the cheerleading coach, weren’t you?”
Brandon is quiet. “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“Just answer the question, Brandon.”
“You’re obviously wasted,” he says. “Why don’t you let me take you home?”
It occurs to me that he’s still holding me by the wrist.
“Get the hell away from me.” I yank my arm away from him so forcefully that I pull a muscle in my shoulder. Brandon takes a step back. Holds his hands up. “Jesus, Monica.”
“Don’t ever come near me again,” I say.
He gets back into the car, and I start crying. I collapse on the lawn of the house Brandon parked outside. And I call my mom.
* * *
—
My mother looks deeply unamused as she pulls up outside Kelsey’s house. I yank open the passenger door and stumble in.
Mom sniffs. “How much did you drink?”
“Two vodka cranberries and a
shot.”
She sighs and pulls away from the house. I lean back in the seat, eyes closed, tears pooling under my lids.
Once we’re home, she turns off the engine, but she doesn’t move to get out of the car. Finally, she speaks. “Just tell me what to do. I’m out of ideas.”
My throat is dry and scratchy. I swallow, but I can’t find any words. The sobs come out of me like violent dry heaves. “I hate myself.”
I don’t know what she was expecting me to say, but that wasn’t it. She flinches like I’ve cursed at her. I can’t stand looking at her, so I cover my face in my hands and cry. It’s an ugly, awful sound—any louder and Tom and Petey could probably hear from inside the house.
“Monica. Listen to me.”
I hiccup. Gulp for air. My mother says my name again; she grabs me and holds my head to her shoulder. She rocks me like a child and lets me cry.
“I hate who I am. I hate myself so much.”
“Monica,” she says, still cradling me. “Even at your worst, I love you more than life itself.”
* * *
—
Mom makes me drink a full bottle of water before I go up to bed. I eye my bathroom, but I’m not ready to throw up yet. I stumble to my bed and text Ginny.
My phone starts vibrating moments later. She’s calling me. I hit accept.
Ginny’s voice is soft in my ear.
“Monica? I couldn’t understand your texts. Are you drunk?”
“Yes,” I say. “Brandon came to Kelsey’s party. We argued and I told him to stay away from me.”
“Monica, hold on. Brandon Michaelson?”
“Yes. Allie’s boyfriend.”
“How did he— What was he doing showing up at Kelsey’s party to talk to you?”
“He…We…I fucked up so bad,” I whimper, and hiccup, and Ginny cuts me off by saying my name.
“Monica, look, it’s not your fault. He’s so much older…Monica, you understand what happened to you, right?”
“I know. I think I have to tell Tom everything.”
“Is he awake now?”
“No. I think I should wait until the morning. He…he’s not going to believe me when I’m like this.
“Ginny,” I say. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”
I don’t know what she says in response, because the room around me spins into darkness.
* * *
—
I wake up ready to throw up and stumble into my bathroom. Not much comes out. I flush the toilet and lie back against the vanity, not ambitious enough to stand just yet.
Finally I’m ready to drag myself back to bed. Before I get comfortable, I check my phone. It’s only two in the morning; I must have passed out briefly after ending my call with Ginny.
I have a text from Rachel, time stamped almost an hour ago.
I text her back, my eyes tight, cheeks stiff with tears:
I wish I were piled onto Alexa’s bed with my friends. On a normal night, we would be laughing by now at Rach’s lack of ability to give us back anything she borrows. Earrings, sweatshirts, books. We don’t know where it all goes, but we keep lending her shit anyway because that’s what friends do.
I jolt, sitting up straight and banging my head on my headboard. A single thought crystallizes. Something is wrong. Why can’t I figure out what’s wrong?
Brandon and Carly. Brandon was not cheating on Allie with Carly. Allie said the guys shouldn’t have been hanging out with a high school girl. Not girls.
Allie didn’t know about Juliana. Brandon didn’t want her to know about Juliana.
I cover my mouth. Whimper, tasting bile coming back up my throat.
I made myself delete the picture a few weeks ago. I took it at work this summer. Brandon on the lifeguard stand, sticking his tongue out at me playfully.
I fumble for my phone. My trash bin stores deleted pictures for thirty days.
I zoom in on Brandon’s tan and muscular legs. It feels like my bed is bottoming out.
Just above his right ankle, on his calf, is a crescent-shaped white scar, the size of a bite from a large dog.
I wake up facedown on my bed, still in the outfit I wore to Kelsey’s party. My phone tells me it’s almost noon. I head downstairs, every step rattling my brain. I want to die.
My brother is on the living room couch, watching an Avengers movie. An explosion on-screen makes the throbbing in my head quicken.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Dad is at the range, and Mom is at her play, duh.”
A fresh wave of panic hits me. My parents left Petey and me alone—of course they did. It’s broad daylight on Sunday, and we’re not infants. They don’t know what happened last night. Maybe Ginny was right, and I should have woken Tom up to tell him everything.
“They said you have a hangover and I shouldn’t wake you up but if you do, I’m supposed to tell you not to set one foot outside this house,” Petey says.
“Got it.” I massage my temples.
I plod into the kitchen, wincing at the light coming in through the window over the sink. Water. I need to rehydrate, maybe force some food down so I can take a Tylenol.
The sound of a car door shutting makes me freeze. Maybe Tom, back from the range already. I look out the window, but the driveway is empty.
There’s a knock at the door leading from the kitchen into the garage. Tom must have left the garage door open when he left.
I swallow back the urge to vomit. I creep over to the door, opening it the slightest crack.
Brandon stares back at me. My stomach plummets.
“I just want to talk,” he says.
I have a flash of him at Susan Berry’s back door. “You need to leave before I call my stepdad,” I say. “Did I mention he’s a cop?”
“And tell him what?” There’s panic in Brandon’s voice. “You have the wrong idea about everything.”
I think about my brother, lounging on the couch. Mango curled at his feet, unable to hear the knock at the door because of the volume of his movie.
I angle myself so Brandon can’t see me and fumble until I find the sound recording app on my phone and hit START. I slip my phone into my pajama pants pocket and step into the garage, pulling the door shut behind me.
“What do you want, Brandon?” His name tastes foul in my mouth, but I need some way to prove it’s him on the recording.
“I’m sorry about last night. I was out of line.” His eyes are pink around his pupils, the skin underneath them gray and shiny. “But we need to talk about why you care so much about Carly Amato and Allie.”
“You know why I care about them.” I think of the security cameras Tom never got. Did anyone see Brandon come here? Will it even matter if he drags me out of here and gets me into his car? My brother won’t hear my scream over the movie, and if he does, I have no idea what Brandon will do to him.
“Monica, whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong.”
“So you didn’t cheat on Allie with Juliana Ruiz?”
His reaction to her name is all the confirmation I need. He flinches, and his expression hardens. The lightest twitch in his jaw. I almost buckle over. I’m right—the earring, Carly’s earring—
“I met her through Carly,” Brandon says. “It was stupid of me. I ended it quickly.”
“The night she was killed, right? Someone saw you outside Susan’s house.”
Brandon’s lips part. I’m shaking so hard. His eyes drop to my pocket, from which I’ve forgotten to remove my hand. Realization dawns on his face. “Are you recording this?”
He takes a step toward me at the same moment the kitchen door opens.
I whip around; Petey is standing in the doorway. He looks from Brandon to me. “Who is that?”
“No one. Go back inside, Petey.”
I pull Brandon aside by the arm, my pulse ticking in my ears. “He knows you were here. What you look like. You’re not a kid killer, Brandon. Please just leave and I’ll pretend you were never here.”
Brandon’s eyes flick from me to my brother, who hasn’t moved.
“Please,” I say quietly. “You didn’t think this through. He’s just a kid. And if you take me, he’ll be able to lead the cops straight to you. You won’t get away with it.”
A bead of sweat crops up on Brandon’s lip. I’ve gotten through to him. He’s not a kid killer.
When I feel the tension leave his body, I knee him in the balls and scream for Petey to run. “Go straight to Ginny’s house. Number eighty-four. Call the police there.”
Brandon doubles over and yelps with pain. He stands up straight as I’m stumbling toward Tom’s workbench and grabs me by the shoulder.
He’s hurting; I can hear it in his labored breathing. I could probably fight him off, but I need to give my brother a head start. I struggle against Brandon, keeping my eye on the open garage door; as soon I spot Petey running down the street, I twist and elbow Brandon in the face.
When I start to scramble away from him, pain sears the back of my head. He has me by the ponytail; I scream as he yanks me to a stop. He covers my mouth with one hand. I bite him, hard. While he recoils, I grab Petey’s baseball bat off the rack next to the workbench. I use one hand to keep the bat pointed at Brandon.
“You move, I bash your head in. Hands up.”
Brandon complies. The hand where I bit him is pink, blood drops forming where my teeth met his flesh. I think of Susan Berry’s dog, trying to stop Brandon from smothering her. I tighten my grip around the bat.
“Sit there.” I nod to the rack where we keep our dirty shoes. Brandon obeys.
“Okay,” I say. “You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”
He winces, from the pain in his groin, his hand, or both. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”