by Vicki Grant
Betsy Wickwire’s
Dirty Secret
VICKI GRANT
Dedication
For Gene-Marie MacDonald, an extraordinarily dedicated
librarian and gifted teacher of English at Citadel St. Pat’s and Queen
Elizabeth High Schools in Halifax. Many, many students love
reading because of you.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Carly was leaning against the counter. Her hands were behind her back and her hair was swept over to one side. She was looking up at Nick. He was going to kiss her.
Betsy understood that immediately. It yanked her to a stop. She stood in the kitchen doorway like a cardboard cut-out of herself—flat, motionless, feeling absolutely nothing except the roots of her hair, which suddenly ached like thousands of tiny bruises.
She closed her eyes. No way. This couldn’t be true. She was just thinking crazy things.
She opened her eyes and formed her mouth into a smile. Her teeth were so dry they caught on her lips.
“Oh, hi,” she said, taking her Jitters apron off the hook by the door.
Carly’s hand flew up to her mouth. Nick leapt back. Betsy dropped her apron and ran.
She ran with that painful fake smile still quivering on her face. She ran out of the kitchen, through the coffee shop, onto the street. She didn’t stop to get her purse or to pick up the tray of blueberry scones she’d sent flying or to tell the manager, who was just coming in himself, that she wouldn’t be at work that morning after all. Betsy didn’t think to do any of that. She couldn’t think. All she could do was run.
Betsy played basketball and soccer. Normally, she was a pretty good runner, but now she was out of control. She looked like she’d caught her toe on something a few steps back and hadn’t quite managed to get her balance again. She was pitched forward at the waist and doing that frantic outstretched-arm thing people do just before a face plant.
Any other time, had she seen a video of herself running like that, she would have laughed. She would have posted it on Facebook, sent it to all her friends, made jokes about it. That was one of the reasons Betsy was so popular. It wasn’t just that she was pretty. She was a lot of fun too.
She wasn’t laughing now. In fact, she wouldn’t even have been aware of how ridiculous she looked if an older man walking his dog hadn’t put out his arm and said, “Are you all right, dear?”
She stumbled to a stop. She stood there panting and confused, staring at him. Why was he looking at her like that? Who was he? Why was he even talking to her?
He put a hand on her shoulder and looked directly into her eyes. “Do you need help, honey?”
Betsy more or less understood the words but somehow the sentence didn’t quite make sense. She realized this was weird. Still, her confusion seemed to bother the man more than it bothered her. Betsy could see from his forehead just how concerned he was.
“Can I call someone for you?”
He said it very slowly but he didn’t have to. Call—that one word—was all it took. Everything became horribly clear.
Call someone?
Tell someone what happened?
Betsy pulled herself up straight, flicked the tears off her cheeks and tried to sound reasonable. “No. No,” she said. “Why? I’m—I’m just out for a jog.”
The man looked at her face. He looked at her sandals. He rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb and said, “Well, okay. If you’re sure.”
She nodded until he took his dog and walked away.
Despite everything else going on in her head right then, Betsy couldn’t help feeling sort of insulted. She wasn’t the type of person who’d lie. Why did he assume she was lying? It was six-thirty in the morning. Lots of people were out jogging.
As if to prove her point, Betsy started jogging— rhythmically, not too fast, at what her old gym teacher used to call “a nice easy trot.” She sensed that she looked fine or, if not fine, at least normal. No one was going to stop her again to see if she was all right.
That calmed her for a second. She realized that all she needed to do was blend in for a while until she could find someplace to …
To what?
She kept jogging but her heart burst into a sprint. To hide? To escape?
The truth erupted from her in a big honking sob. To die.
It was the only thing that would work. She needed to die. She wanted to die.
She found herself running again. She couldn’t see for the tears but everything else was in sharp focus. She knew she’d lost a sandal. She knew her mascara was all over her face. She was even aware enough at some level to realize that her howling sounded a lot like the animatronic dinosaur she’d seen on a junior high trip to the Museum of Natural History.
Betsy recognized she was making a scene. She just didn’t care. Why should she? She had nothing left to care about.
She ran and ran until she was finally on her street, at her house, up the stairs, down the hall, in her bathroom. She slammed the lock into place, then threw herself face down on the cool, dewy floor.
In seconds, the whole family was up, scrambling for their glasses, their housecoats, calling to her, banging on the door, rattling the handle. What? What’s the matter? Is she crying or laughing? Bets! Open up! Did you hurt yourself? Is that blood on the stairs or dirt? Does anyone know what happened? Betsy, sweetheart, please! Talk to her, Mike. Tell her to come out. Betsy!
Betsy closed her eyes, covered her ears and bit down on the bath mat to keep herself from sobbing.
The last thing she heard was her mother saying, “Someone call Nick. Call Carly. Find out what’s going on!”
*
Betsy Wickwire’s life ended there.
It took her the whole summer to realize it was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Chapter 1
It’s like I was watching my life on Blu-ray. It was all there, exactly as I lived it, only sharper. (Sharper’s a funny word. I meant it as in clearer but it works the other way too. Sharper the way a knife is.) I could slow it down, zoom in, zoom out, replay. I could do everything, except make it stop. I didn’t have a clue any more what was going on in the outside world, but in my room it was always prom night.
The ballroom at the Lord Nelson is dim but it doesn’t matter. I see every little detail, even thoug
h there’s no way I actually could have at the time. From across the room, I see the pin nosing out of Leila’s up-do. I see Connor palm the flask to Ziad. I see the pale milky pink of Allegra’s nail polish and feel a little ping of something I don’t want to admit is envy. She got the colour exactly right.
We’ve just walked in the door. I’m holding Nick’s arm and knowing people have noticed us. I think how weird it must feel to be a bride.
Nick says, “It’s already too hot in here.” He sounds annoyed but his face doesn’t show it. I’m the only one who’s supposed to hear.
I say, “You can take your jacket off.”
He says “Yeah” without moving his lips, and keeps scanning the room. I squeeze his elbow but don’t let him see me smile. We both know he’s not going to do it. His hair is slicked back to go with the prom’s Great Gatsby theme. He’s wearing a tuxedo shirt with a winged collar. He bought special patent-leather shoes. No way he’s going to take his jacket off and ruin the look. It’s one of the reasons I love him. That—I realize all of a sudden—and the way his whiskers form this really precise curve down the side of his cheek.
I get a little unexpected heart-flip like the ones I used to have when he’d lean across his desk and ask me about history assignments, or library hours, or my perfume.
Those whiskers. There’s not one other guy in school who can grow whiskers that thick and dark and—I don’t know—masculine or something. Put Nick in a white towel and he could star in a Gillette commercial.
I know he knows I’m looking at him. That makes it even harder not to smile. He’s funny about stuff.
I picture the photo Mom just took of us in front of the rosebush beside our house. He’s looking at me this time and smiling. The sun makes his black hair shine almost white in places. The shadow he’s casting over me intensifies the colour of my dress and eyes. I decide right then to use it as my profile picture, even though it kind of feels like cheating.
He jerks his chin up and goes, “Hey!” One side of his face grins. Stephan and Cory are across the room, waving us over to the baccarat table. Nick starts pulling us toward them.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I laugh. “Watch the dress.”
He stops, lifts his foot. I let go of his arm and brush a dusty beige V off the red silk. I’m aware that I’m flashing cleavage, cleavage that doesn’t rightly belong to me. I feel like a movie star version of myself. I expect to look up and see Nick wiggling his eyebrows at me suggestively, but he’s turned away. Something else has caught his attention. He takes two steps forward, then slow-mo rams his right shoulder into Mr. Colpitt’s chest as if he’s checking him into the boards. So much for Stephan and Cory.
So much for cleavage.
I have a little laugh about that, adjust my straps and stand up. Mr. Colpitt’s girlfriend/wife/date/whatever crosses her arms and shakes her head. Boys will be boys. I shake mine too. It’s a bonding moment.
“Love your dress,” she says. “Mills Brothers?”
“All Dressed Up.”
She nods as if she should have known, then we turn and watch the guys tussle some more.
Mr. Colpitt says, “Don’t make me laugh, Jamieson,” and pretends to push Nick away.
“Just you wait.” Nick smooths his hair into place with both hands like he’s some Mafia hit man. “I was only easy on you this year ‘cause I was sucking up for marks.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right. If I were you, tough guy, I’d spend less time on the books and more time on the ice.”
They’re laughing and pointing and backing away from each other. The girlfriend and I give little girly waves from the hip and move off too. I take Nick’s arm. I want to tell him I need to find Carly, see what the matter is — but before I can say anything, Bolek just sort of materializes out of nowhere. Not easy for someone Bolek’s size.
“Yo. Lookink hot, Bets,” he says and gives me a sleazy once-over.
The guy kills me. He hardly spoke any English six months ago and now he’s Mr. Smooth. “Thanks, Bobo. Where’s Fiona?”
Bolek might have learned to speak English but he still shrugs Polish. Poor Fi. I’d be surprised if those two make it through the night.
He clamps a big sausagey hand around Nick’s neck and whispers something in his ear. They both turn and look at the guys from the rugby team, milling around in front of the stage. Bolek says, “Well, my friend?”
Nick looks at me. I put my hands on my waist and pretend to be mad. I feel good in this dress. I give this phony sigh —”Fine” — and lean over to kiss Nick on the cheek. His head jerks back as if he wasn’t expecting it, and we do this awkward face-bumping fumble. It’s kind of a buzz-kill.
“You okay?” I whisper. Nick smells of aftershave and toothpaste and something else. Hair gel maybe. I like it.
He laughs, as in why would you say that?—and I mentally screech to a stop. He’s upset. I search his face. Come to think of it, he’s been a bit weird all night, been awkward around me or something. I have no idea why.
Then, suddenly, I do. The shoes. Why did I go and wear these shoes? No wonder he’s pissed.
I think of Mom’s GPS going “Recalibrating, recalibrating.” I can hardly apologize. That would only make it worse. No way would he ever admit to being mad just because I look taller than him in these heels. My mind goes sort of cold and blank for a second, then I think: I’ll take them off before the dancing starts, tell him my feet hurt.
I relax. He’ll be okay. “I’m going to find Carly,” I say.
Nick shrugs. “Sure.” I bend my knee to lose a few centimetres and kiss him for real this time.
“Get a room,” Bobo says.
I stick my tongue out at him, swing around to give them the back view, then head off.
I spot Carly by the food table at the far side of the room. Her dress is red too, but deeper than mine. I don’t care. We talked about it. She chose hers, she said, because it’s Citadel’s school colour. I chose mine because Nick loves red—and cleavage, or at least I thought he did.
I wave but I guess she doesn’t notice. That’s okay. Gives me a chance to check out her hair. (I like to have a few appropriate comments ready. Five years with Carly has taught me to be prepared.) Looks from here like a sort of modified, semi-messy French roll, just like we’d decided. So what was all the fuss about, then?
I weave through the tables, trying to get to her. People are saying hi … yo … hey. Mrs. Luke gives me a hug and asks me to stay in touch. Henry makes me promise him a dance. He looks at my boobs the whole time, although to be fair, he’s no doubt as surprised to see them as I was. I share a few mutual squeals over dresses with some girls from Junior Achievement, then I pull myself away and say, “Be right back. Just got to grab Carly.”
Carly’s back is turned to me now. She’s filling her plate. Danger. Danger. Carly only eats in public when she’s really upset.
I swallow a little lump of annoyance. How bad could her hair be? I mean, we planned this all year. We were going to get ready at my place. Take some pictures. Shoot a little footage. Maybe even have some champagne. Then she calls me half an hour before the limo’s supposed to arrive, crying to say she can’t make it. Hair problems. Hair problems?
I think of Dad, rolling his eyes and muttering “Hurricane Carly” in his I’m-only-joking-but-not-really way. That’s exactly what she is. A tiny, perfect but powerful emotional storm front, blowing straight in from Belmont Avenue.
My mother could have fixed her hair. Better than her mother could, that’s for sure. (At least Mom and Carly wouldn’t be screaming at each other.)
Brianna Hoyt stumbles into me.
“Wick. Wire.” She makes it sound like the answer to a really tough question.
“Bree,” I say, as in wow. She’s wasted. One of her lashes has come unglued and is dangling precariously in front of her eye. It looks suicidal, as if it decided to jump, then chickened out at the very last minute. I consider getting out my phone and taking a few pictures but I’m not sure Bri
anna would appreciate it right now.
“You are one of my best friends.” Her mouth is moving really slowly but her eye with the lash is blinking like crazy. No way she could do that sober. “I mean, best friends. You. Me. Like that.”
It’s going to be one of those conversations.
She starts talking about something that happened in Mrs. Hughes’ English class last year and why she’s never trusted Emily since. I nod and do my best to keep her from swaying too conspicuously, but all I’m really interested in is seeing where Carly went. She’s not at the food table any more.
I can’t help thinking this isn’t about her hair. It couldn’t be. Even by Carly’s standards, that would be an overreaction.
Brianna’s still talking. I murmur, “Yeah … yeah,” and look past her. The song changes to something everyone recognizes and people start stampeding for the dance floor.
I spot Aidan and Sidra at the edge of the crowd. The disco ball spins and Aidan’s red hair flashes like the light on the top of a cop car. (He’d hate that if he knew.) A girl in front of them moves and I get a better look at Sidra’s dress. It’s bronze and backless, almost to her hips. She looks amazing. He puts his hand on her bare back and their faces meet.
Brianna leans her forehead against my arm and it hits me. This isn’t about Carly’s hair. She’s jealous. She dumped Aidan and now she’s jealous because he’s going out with Sidra and is actually happy.
I look around and see Kevin, sitting at an empty table, his legs splayed out in front of him, his hand tapping the back of a chair, his tie already undone. It’s enough to break your heart. Carly should never have said she’d go with him. Kevin’s a nice guy and he’s available. That’s all I need. Those were her exact words. So how about what he needed?
For some reason, Brianna is saying “Don’t hate me,” and I have to respond.
“I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”
She starts in on some long rambling story about a shirt she bought that was practically exactly like mine and how she left it in the Halifax West dressing room after a game and then she saw me wearing my shirt and she thought …
I just nod and nod and let her run with it. I feel bad for Kevin but I’m worried about Carly now too. I’m worried she’s crying in the bathroom or curled up in some deserted hallway or, worse, sneaking out the back door and on her way home. This is the prom. She can’t leave the prom.