Backlash

by Sarah Littman

  Bree posted a picture of my unconscious sister being wheeled toward the ambulance. As if that weren’t bad enough, it has seventy-seven likes and, although there are some expressions of concern and sympathy, some of the comments underneath are so awful, so cruel, that they make me hate Bree, hate Liam, hate everyone in the entire world.

  Syd?

  I switch off my phone. I don’t care if he’s sorry. I can’t text with him right now. I want to shut off the entire disgusting, mean, insane world.

  And as I think that, I suddenly understand what might have made Lara do it.

  It’s not easy being Lara’s sister. If she weren’t my sister, I probably wouldn’t be her friend. But she is my sister. And nobody, nobody, sister or no sister, deserves what I just saw on that page.

  MY PICTURE of Lara has 104 likes and 15 shares by the time Mom gets home. That’s the most I’ve ever gotten on any picture or status update, ever. Wonder if I should Instagram it? #Call911

  “Tell me everything,” Mom says, putting a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter.

  “How could you stop and wheel a cart around the supermarket like nothing happened?” I ask her. “Aren’t you at all … you know, freaked out by this?”

  Mom has her hand in the bag, starting to unload it, and she stops and gives me an exasperated look.

  “I assume you want dinner, Breanna. And if that’s the case, then someone, namely me, had to get food to make it with.” She takes out a package of chicken. “Unless you have a better idea.”

  Which of course, I don’t, and Mom knows that when I blush and say nothing.

  “Just tell me what happened,” she says.

  “We heard sirens. Like, when I called you. The police car came first. Then the ambulance. All the neighbors were outside the Kelleys’ house watching. Then the medics wheeled Lara out on a stretcher, put her in the ambulance, and drove away with lights and sirens. She tried to … kill herself.”

  “Yeah, and Bree took a picture of her and posted it on Facebook.”

  My brother is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, narrow-eyed, cell phone in hand.

  “You what?”

  When I see my mom’s expression it’s like when you’re at the beach and you see that really huge wave coming toward you, and you don’t know if you should try to ride it or dive under, and if you hesitate too long, you get nailed by it. I wait a second too long to answer and Mom goes nuclear.

  “Breanna Marie Connors, what part of ‘hang tight and stay inside’ didn’t you understand? I told you to stay in the house and make sure Liam did, too. Simple instructions. Not rocket science.”

  It’s so unfair. Liam was the one who disobeyed Mom first, but I get the grief. And she makes out like I’m stupid, as usual.

  “Liam wouldn’t listen! I told him you said to stay in, and he completely ignored me and walked straight out the door! He’s the one who went out first.”

  “Is that true?” Mom turns to Liam, who’s still leaning against the doorjamb.

  He glares back at her defiantly. “Yeah. They’re our friends, right? I thought they might need help. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”

  Mom’s lips purse, and I know he’s got her there. Sure, Lara and I have drifted apart, but at least on the surface my parents and the Kelleys are still friendly.

  “Helping doesn’t mean taking pictures and posting them on Facebook,” Mom snaps.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Liam says, not hiding his disgust with me. He nods in my direction. “That’s Miss ‘I’ll Do Anything No Matter How Sick to Get Likes on Facebook.’ ”

  Mom takes off her suit jacket, slowly and deliberately, and I feel acid in the back of my throat, because I know I’m about to be hit by another wave of her anger any moment.

  “Liam, I need to speak to your sister privately,” she says.

  Here it comes.

  “Wait … before I go, I wanted to tell you … I texted Syd, and Lara’s awake,” Liam says.

  I feel tears well up, but this time they’re ones of relief. “That’s … so great to hear,” I say. “Thanks for letting me know, Li.”

  “Yes, it is,” Mom agrees, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

  “Mrs. Kelley is talking to the police,” Liam adds, like it’s just some random factoid that’s he’s just happening to mention.

  That is so NOT great news.

  “What do you mean, the police?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

  Liam looks at me like I’m some kind of an idiot.

  “The police always ask questions in the event of a suicide attempt, Bree,” Mom says, giving me a hush-up look.

  “Syd says it’s because of some guy named Christian. Did you see what he wrote on her wall?”

  The sound that comes from the back of my throat escapes despite my attempt to stifle it.

  “Don’t tell me you’re friends with that guy, Bree,” Liam says. “What a jerk!”

  “Christian who?” Mom asks. Her voice is calm, almost nonchalant. Like she’s never heard of anyone named Christian, ever.

  “Christian DeWitt. He wrote all this sick stuff on Lara’s page, Mom,” Liam replies.

  My eyes are trained on the point where the wooden table leg meets the floor. It’s where food and dust bunnies collect if you don’t clean the floor enough, which sometimes Mom doesn’t because she’s too busy at work, so she makes me do it. Once, I did a halfhearted job of sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor, and that’s the first place she checked because she knew I’d do a lousy job because “that’s the kind of kid you are.” As in I’m not a “go-getter who makes her own luck” like she is, so I’m “never going to get anywhere in this world.” She knew all that because of two missed Cheerios and a small dust bunny.

  If I keep my eyes focused on that spot, they can’t give anything away.

  “I know this is very unsettling, Liam, but Lara has never been the most stable girl, has she?” Mom says. “Remember what a mess she was in middle school?”

  Mom’s finished unloading the groceries, and she takes out the chopping board and a knife to start preparing dinner.

  “To be honest, I wasn’t that unhappy that she and Bree started drifting apart,” Mom continues. “I was worried it might get unhealthy for Bree to continue to hang around with her so much.”

  Weird. She never told me that. In fact, if anything, I felt the opposite, because Mom has always been so obsessed with Mrs. Kelley. She started copying the way she dressed and the way she spoke. And she always laughed a little too loudly whenever Mr. Kelley told a joke. If Lara and I weren’t going to be BFFs anymore, it gave her less reason to be BFFs with Mr. and Mrs. Kelley.

  “I don’t get it. How does that matter now?” Liam asks. I abandon my table-leg staring to look at him, because he’s taking this so seriously. “Are you saying just because Lara was kind of a head case in middle school it’s okay for all those kids to write that stuff on her wall?”

  “No, but —”

  “Because that’s just wrong.” Liam interrupts Mom before she can even finish her sentence. “Like, ‘to the end of the universe and back’ wrong.”

  “Liam, I’m not saying it’s right for anyone to write things on Lara’s wall,” Mom says. “But let’s face it — a more stable child probably wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital.”

  Liam crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not buying what Mom’s selling.

  “They’re our friends. Dad and Mr. Kelley built the tree fort together. How can you be so …” He trails off, searching for the words to describe the ways he finds Mom and me lacking. Unable to find it, he punches the doorjamb and shouts, “Forget it,” before stomping upstairs and slamming his door.

  And then it’s just me and Mom.

  She glares at me, eyes narrowed almost to slits, and hisses, “What were you thinking?”

  CHRISTIAN SAID I was a loser.

  He said the world would be a better place without me in it.

  And now I
’m a loser at trying to make that happen.

  Everyone expects me to be happy that I failed.

  But I’m not.

  Which is why I can’t have shoelaces. Or a belt.

  And they make me open my mouth after they’ve given me my pills to make sure I’ve swallowed them.

  And they do bed checks every few hours to make sure I haven’t hanged myself with the sheets, so I can’t even get a good night’s sleep.

  And I want to sleep all the time, because when I’m asleep, I’m not here. Not here in this place, where every movement is watched. Where everything I say is being turned over and analyzed, making me want to curl up into myself and say nothing.

  But it’s bad if I say nothing. It means they’ll just keep me here longer.

  So I have to say something.

  I’m searching for the magic words to get out of here … Abracadabra? Alohomora?

  There are get-well-soon cards on the dresser from my family and friends.

  Mom said my friends Julisa and Luis want to visit.

  I told her that I’m not up to visitors yet. Not even them.

  The truth is, I don’t want Julisa and Luis to see me in this place. This prison, filled with crazy people.

  Crazy people like me.

  Luis thought I was crazy enough when I tried out for cheerleading. He must think I’m completely loco now.

  The cheerleading team sent flowers. They’re beautiful — roses and carnations and daisies in cheerful yellows, pinks, and whites. But they’re arranged in an ugly plastic male urinal.

  “I’m sorry, Lara, glass vases aren’t allowed,” the nurse told me.

  I pretend to be excited about the flowers and the cards.

  I pretend that I can’t wait to get out of here to see my friends.

  I have to find the words to convince them that I’m fine. That everything is perfect.

  Maybe I should ask Mom.

  She’s the expert on that.

  “IN CONCLUSION, science, technology, engineering, and math are more important than the arts,” my friend Oliver says. “The future of our country depends on graduating students who are proficient in STEM subjects, so if we have limited resources to spend on education, we shouldn’t waste them on unnecessary subjects like music and art.”

  Today’s debate club topic is “All Public Schools Should Provide Students with Music and Arts Education.”

  I argued the premise.

  Last night, Mom heard me practicing and said, “No one better raise my taxes to pay for kids to waste time finger painting.”

  I closed my bedroom door and practiced in a quieter voice, almost a whisper. I knew there was no point telling Mom about the research I’d found to back up my argument, about how arts education helps kids develop creative-thinking, problem-solving, and communications skills. Mom’s more convinced by dollars and cents than common sense.

  “Liam, your rebuttal,” Mr. Phillips says.

  I go up to the podium. Oliver smirks from the front row. He’s convinced he has this debate in the bag.

  “Those who say that music and arts education is unnecessary don’t recognize that the arts are a language spoken by everyone, reaching across cultural, social, economic, and racial barriers,” I say, thinking of my mother. “They help us learn empathy, to understand how someone else feels and to experience his or her emotions as our own. And in an increasingly global and interconnected world, this is essential to achieve both economic and political success.”

  People clap when I’m done. Yes!

  Not only that, as I sit down, I notice I’ve wiped the smirk off Oliver’s face. We may be friends, but we both like to win.

  I guess I got that from Mom. You know how some parents let their kids win when they’re little so they feel good about themselves? Not my mom. Dad would, but Mom was like, “If you want to win, you have to earn it. All this ‘give everyone a trophy’ garbage is ruining this country.”

  When I finally beat her at Monopoly, I took a picture of the board, and then I never played with her again.

  Mr. Phillips calls for the votes. We’re judged on how we argue the point, how we rebut the opponent’s points, how well our arguments are structured, and our presentation skills.

  As he’s tallying up the scores, I remember when Dad came to my first debate. I was arguing for the death penalty. My team won.

  In the car on the way home, he said, “I never knew you were in favor of the death penalty, son.” He glanced over at me. “Have to say, I’m surprised.”

  I stared at him. “What makes you think I’m in favor of the death penalty?”

  “Liam, you just won a debate arguing in support of it,” Dad said. “Not only that, you did such a good job you almost made me think I’m in favor of it.”

  “Dad, that’s just the side I took for the debate,” I explained. “Mr. Phillips told us we had to start off arguing a position we don’t agree with because it’s harder to do.”

  My father shook his head slowly. “Wow … Smart man, Mr. Phillips,” Dad said. “Teaching you to play devil’s advocate.”

  “I’m not sure Mom agrees,” I muttered.

  Dad laughed. “Maybe not. But remember, you inherited your way with words from your mom, not me.”

  I’m hoping my way with words pays off as Mr. Phillips finishes tallying the points on the voting sheets.

  “We have a winner,” he says. “Congratulations, Mr. Connors.”

  I turn and hold out my hand to Oliver. Mr. Phillips is big on us being gracious when we win — and not being sore losers when we don’t.

  “Good debate, Mr. Steiner,” I say.

  Oliver shakes my hand and says, “Nice work, Mr. Connors.”

  Then we both laugh because it still seems so weird to call each other mister, but we’re supposed to at debate club because Mr. Phillips says it’s a way of showing each other respect. But as soon as the announcement crackles over the loudspeaker that the late buses are here, Oliver fake punches my shoulder and says, “Crush you next time, sucker.”

  “Yeah … in your dreams,” I tell him.

  Guess we can only keep up the respect thing for so long. But that’s okay. We’re just messing with each other. It’s way different from the stuff people have been saying to Lara Kelley.

  We talk about our fantasy football picks on the way down to the front circle.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says as we part ways for our late buses.

  “Not if I see you first,” I retort over my shoulder.

  The late bus is half-empty, as usual. The lucky ones have parents or older siblings who pick them up.

  Even if Bree had her license and use of one of the family cars, I can’t see her going out of her way to do me a favor.

  But today I don’t mind so much, because Syd is sitting on the late bus, staring out the window. I slide into the seat in front of her.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You don’t want to know,” she says. “Nothing too special.”

  But you’re pretty special …

  Stop, I tell myself. Syd needs a friend, not a creeper.

  “I just wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I want to punch everyone in the face.” She sighs.

  It’s so unlike Syd to say something like that that I can’t help putting my hands up to block my face, laughing as I do so.

  Syd swats my arms down playfully.

  “Not you, silly,” she says. “Just … the rest of the world.”

  “Whew!” I breathe an exaggerated sigh of relief. “You had me so scared for a moment there.”

  “Yeah, right,” Syd says. “Because I’m so tough that huge football players have been known to wet themselves when they see me walking down the hall.”

  Being able to make her laugh is even better than beating Oliver. Mom would slap me upside the head for even thinking that, but luckily for me, she can’t read my thoughts.

  “Seriously … is everything okay?” I ask. “I mean … I know that’s a stupid
question but …”

  “Heh … yeah.” She looks out the window, avoiding my gaze, and her lower lip trembles. “No … everything isn’t okay. Pretty much nothing is okay, if you want to know the truth.” Her voice wobbles, like she’s about to cry.

  Crying girls freak me out, because I don’t know what to do to make them stop. Thankfully, Syd turns mad instead.

  “But of course I have to pretend like everything’s fine, because Mom’s running for reelection to city council. I’m just so mad all the time. Like, every time I stay after school for rehearsal and work on crew instead of being in the cast … I was good.”

  “I know,” I agree. “I ran lines with you.”

  “It’s not fair,” she says. Syd’s speaking quietly, so only I can hear over the noise of the bus engine, the driver’s radio, and the chatter of the other kids, but there’s so much anger in her voice I feel like it could drill a hole in the seat back between us. “I didn’t even get a chance to try out. Because Lara’s drama always messes up my life.”

  And then, as if she’s just realized what she’s said, she covers her mouth with her hand and looks at me, wide-eyed with horror.

  “You probably think I’m awful, right?”

  The fingers over her mouth muffle her words. Her other hand grips the seat back.

  I pat that hand hesitantly, gently, with my own.

  “I don’t think you’re awful, Syd. I think you’re … you know … human.”

  Her eyes get all watery, and I’m scared she’s going to start crying, but then she takes a deep breath and smiles.

  “Whew,” she says. “Human, huh? Well, that’s a relief. And all this time I’ve been worrying I was some kind of alien.”

  Who could blame me for crushing on her?

  BEING BUZZED into the psych ward is like being let into prison — not that I’ve been to prison, but I’ve seen movies. I can’t believe Lara’s been in this place for two weeks.

  She’s in her room, sitting on her bed, wearing sweats — the kind with an elastic waist, because she’s not allowed the ones that tie with a string. Her skin is pale, almost gray in color, and her hair hangs limply around her face, like she hasn’t brushed it today. Like she doesn’t care about her appearance — or anything for that matter.