“Lara!” Mom exclaims. “Calm down!”
She grabs my wrist and tries to pull me back into my chair.
“Why should I?!” I shout at her, trying to pull my arm out of her grasp.
Don’t I have a right to be mad? Why does she always shut me down?
“Maybe this was too much, too soon,” she explains to the police, pasting on a warped version of her Politician Smile. Even Mom can’t manage full-watt fakery right now.
“This must be incredibly painful for you, Lara, and I understand that our questions feel intrusive,” Officer Hall says in a calm, gentle voice. “But we want to help you find answers.”
I still.
It’s the hope, however unlikely it might be, of finding an answer that makes me slump back into my seat and answer the question. Trying to understand why Christian turned on me is an obsession.
“Yeah. He sent me that message. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong, why he suddenly changed like that. He went from being so sweet to …”
This is why I don’t want to let any kind of feeling start — because I have no control over the size of it, or how to control it or stop it if it gets too much. Emotion pours over me like a tidal wave, drowning me with primitive force. I lay my head down on my arms on the table and sob until the sleeves of my T-shirt are wet.
Mom flutters around me, panicked by the force of my grief, stroking my back, trying to give me tissues, telling me everything is going to be okay, which I know isn’t true. I know full well it’s a lie, because how can things ever be okay after what’s happened?
When my sobs have slowed to sniffles, Mom sits holding my hand, and I face Detective Souther and Officer Hall with red, swollen eyes.
“Lara, you didn’t do anything wrong to make Christian turn,” Officer Hall says. “The thing is …”
She glances at Detective Souther. He takes over.
“What we’ve learned from our investigation, Lara, is that there is no Christian DeWitt. The profile was deleted a week after you were hospitalized. According to the administration at East River High, there is no student of that name registered. No family by the name of DeWitt lives in the town of East River. And we cross-checked the few profile pictures — they are all of a young man named Adam Bernard who models for Abercrombie and Fitch, the clothing store. We contacted Mr. Bernard and he has no knowledge of anyone named Christian DeWitt.”
I stare at his mouth as the words come out, my mind unable to believe what he is telling me can be true. It can’t be.
This is a dream. A really bad dream. The worst dream ever. I’ll wake up and it won’t be true, just like the one I had where I went to the dance with Christian in the limo and we ended up at my middle school with everyone calling me Lardo.
I start pinching my leg, hard, with my left hand, over and over to try to wake myself up. Mom sees me and takes my hand.
“Lara, stop. You’re going to bruise yourself,” she says, thinking that I care.
And that’s when I know beyond all shadow of a doubt, this isn’t a dream. The horror of this is that I’m awake, and it’s all too real. Even worse, it’s not going to go away.
I thought my world had already shattered when Christian sent me that message, but I realize now that was only the appetizer, the prelude to this moment, which is the main course.
Because Christian isn’t even real. He’s fake. I tried to kill myself over a boy who doesn’t even exist. It’s official. I am the stupidest person alive.
And I wish, even more now, that I were dead.
EVER SINCE I can remember we’ve had a Sunday afternoon family football-watching ritual. If Mom makes appointments to show a house during game time, Dad gets mad because he says it’s supposed to be our “sacred time” or whatever. Mom’s a bigger believer in the sacred principle of making money and paying the bills — at least that’s what she says whenever they fight about it, which is often.
But today, the sacred gathering around the big screen is on — well, kind of. At least we’re all in the same room, sitting around in front of the television, with the game on, pretending that we’re watching it together. Bree checks her cell phone every few minutes. Mom has her iPad on her lap to check work emails and browse real estate websites, but she’s smart enough to look up and comment about game plays often enough to keep Dad happy.
I don’t know why Dad insists on this whole family football deal. If you ask me, everyone would be a whole lot happier if he just let us do our own thing. But gathering around the TV to watch guys throw the pigskin is Dad’s thing with a capital T. So we do it.
The camera focuses in on the cheerleaders, who are totally hot in their short shorts, crop tops, and knee-high leather boots.
“Don’t they get cold when the game’s in, like, November?” I ask. “I mean, they’re not exactly, you know, wearing a lot.”
“Is that so?” Dad chuckles, glancing over at Mom. “I can’t say I noticed.”
My mother makes a pfft sound and rolls her eyes.
“That reminds me, cheerleading tryouts are this week,” she says to Bree. “Do you want to go through your routine with me before dinner?”
“No,” Bree says right away.
She couldn’t be more obvious about wanting to kill that idea in a hurry.
Still, I don’t blame Bree. Mom’s a frustrated cheerleader. She shows up at all the games with the school colors painted on her cheeks, like she’s trying to live out her regret that she didn’t make the cheerleading squad in high school through my sister. It makes me want to crawl under the bleachers — but if I say anything, she’s like, “Come on, don’t you have any school spirit?”
“Why not, Bree?” Mom persists.
“I just don’t, okay?”
“Bree, I —”
“Can’t this wait till halftime?” Dad says.
I can’t tell if he’s really upset that we can’t hear the commentator, or if he’s trying to shut them down before this turns into World War III, like so many conversations between Bree and Mom do these days.
“Yeah, it totally can,” Bree says, giving Mom a pointed look. “I’m gonna make some popcorn.”
“Don’t forget the butter,” I remind her.
“Not too much,” Mom says. “It’s already butter flavored.”
“But that’s fake butter,” I complain. “Real butter tastes better.”
Bree makes a disgusted noise and escapes to the kitchen to avoid the butter war.
Dad says, “Can we go for five minutes without arguing about something so I can actually watch the game? Timer starting … now.”
He looks at his watch. I turn my attention back to the game. Dad must be feeling lucky today. I’m pretty sure the longest we’ve ever gone without an argument is three minutes, ten seconds.
IF THE mayor’s speech goes on much longer I’m going to fall asleep on the stage. And seeing as how there are photographers from local papers and online news sites here, that will not go down well with Mom. Or His Honor, Mayor Robinson. But seriously, how many political speeches can one teenager be expected to stay awake for at a single event? So far we’re at eight and counting … Any more have got to count as cruel and unusual punishment.
It would be one thing if they actually said something interesting. But every single speech consists of the politician thanking all the other politicians and the people gathered to listen, before wrapping up with five minutes or more of bland generalizations about how proud they are to serve and democracy is great and blah blah blah God bless our town and the United States of America.
Because we’re in the front row, I can’t even check Facebook or Instagram or even send #Imbored selfies to my friends. I have to try to stay awake and look attentive, like the perfect politician’s daughter.
Syd, who is on the other side of Dad, looks like she’s struggling, too. We exchange a glance of mutual misery. I hope none of the photographers catch it. If they do, we’re going to be the ones who catch it from Mom
.
When the thing is finally over, Mom makes us go over and say hi to the mayor.
“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” he says. “Two beautiful young ladies you’ve got there, Kathy.”
Mom gives him her high-wattage smile.
“I know. Smart, too.”
“Just like their mother,” the mayor says.
Gross. Political flirting, and in front of Dad, too.
One of the photographers asks if he can take a picture of us with the mayor.
So we pose with him — the perfect Kelley family. #LOL
“Can I take a picture with you?” I ask Mayor Robinson. I figure if I have to sit through hours of political speeches then I should at least have something to show for it.
Mom shoots me a disapproving look, but the mayor laughs.
“Sure,” he says. “If world leaders can do these cell-phone selfies, then I reckon it’s okay for Mayor Robinson of Lake Hills.”
I stand next to him and take a picture of us with my phone. When I check it, I realize Syd has photobombed it — there’s half of her face with a cheesy grin and one of her hands giving a thumbs-up.
But I can’t yell at her because we’re being a Perfect Family, and Perfect Siblings don’t argue with each other — especially not in front of the mayor and the assembled press, who have just snapped pictures of him and me taking a selfie.
“Thanks, Mayor Robinson,” I say.
“My pleasure,” he tells me, smiling.
We’re all smiling around here. My face hurts from having to smile so much.
While Mom drags Dad around for more political chitchat, Syd and I retreat to a corner and check our phones. I post my pic on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtag #chillinwithMayorRobinson.
And I count the minutes until we can go home.
“WOW, SHE’S turned into such a show-off,” I say when I see Lara’s #chillinwithMayorRobinson picture on Instagram.
“Who?” Mom asks.
“Lara,” I tell her, handing her my phone.
She reaches for her glasses, but she can’t find them. I don’t tell her they’re on the top of her head, because it’s kind of funny watching her look for them when they’re right there.
“What does it say?” she asks.
“Chilling with Mayor Robinson,” I say, disgusted.
“Is that Sydney in the background?” Mom asks.
I look closer. “Yeah, looks like she photobombed it.”
“Let me see,” Liam says.
He studies it intently. “I wonder if Syd posted anything,” Liam says, pulling out his phone to check.
“Hand it over here,” Dad says, dragging his attention away from the game. “I want to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Why does she always have to brag about hanging out with the mayor?” I say. “She’s always posting pictures of them at the grand opening of some new restaurant or whatever.”
“It’s part of being a political family,” Dad says. “I bet you anything Pete Kelley would rather be hanging out watching the game than listening to speeches.”
“Maybe …,” Mom says. “But Kathy’s gotten pretty full of herself since she got elected to the city council.”
“She seems the same to me,” Liam says.
“That’s because you don’t have to deal with her in business,” Mom says. “I’ve been lobbying her about the tax breaks that would benefit my clients since I worked my butt off to help get that woman elected. Now that she’s in office does she help me, her friend and constituent? All I get are excuses about ‘balancing developer interests with environmental concerns.’ ”
Dad and Liam aren’t close enough to hear her when she mutters “The two-faced …” Her voice fades away before I can hear the end of that sentence. But it shocks me to hear her say something so horrid about Lara’s mom.
Still, at least she’s stopped nagging me about showing her my cheerleading routine.
I forward the picture to Marci and Jenny. #whoyouchillinwith #notthemayor
Jenny sends us back a selfie of her and her dog. #chillinwithBailey
Marci sends a picture of herself with a mannequin at Victoria’s Secret. #chillinwiththePinkdummy
Making a joke out of it makes me feel better. Like I don’t have to be jealous of Lara anymore.
WHEN BREE tells Mom she’s thinking of skipping cheerleading tryouts at dinner Tuesday night, you’d think Bree announced she’d killed someone by the way Mom reacts.
“What do you mean you don’t want to try out for cheerleading?”
Mom sounds like her head is about to explode. She’s been sending Bree to cheerleading camp since she was practically old enough to walk. When Bree was on JV last year, Mom was at every game taking pictures and video.
“I was just thinking … maybe I want to try something else,” Bree says, but now she sounds a little less sure. “Like dance team.”
“When you have the chance to make varsity cheerleading?” Mom nearly shouts. “Why would you do that?”
Bree looks to me for support, but I’m not about to stick my neck into this fight. Mom’s like one of those crazy stage moms, except it’s about cheerleading. And it’s not like she even made the squad herself.
“I’m bored of cheerleading,” Bree whines. “I’ve been doing it forever.”
“You want to give up because you’re bored?” Mom says. “You’re never going to get anywhere in life if you drop things the minute you get bored, Breanna.”
Uh-oh … Here we go … We’re in for another lecture about how we have it so easy and we need to get some grit, otherwise we’re not going to succeed at college, jobs, life, you name it. We might as well just give up and die because we’re so freaking soft and lazy. Okay, maybe she doesn’t go that far, but the whole time Mom’s on one of these rants you start feeling worse and worse about yourself. You just wait for it to be over so you can escape to your room, put on headphones, and listen to music that lifts you up again.
Except now I’m stuck at the dinner table and Dad’s working late tonight, so he’s not here to cut Mom off, which he does when she starts getting out of hand. So thanks to Bree, I have to listen to the full-length tirade.
Bree stares at her plate, picking at her food with her fork.
“Colleges and employers don’t take kindly to quitters, Bree,” Mom continues. “I want you to think about that before you make an irrational decision.”
If Dad were here, I could ask him if people really look at what you did after school in high school when you apply for a job. He’s okay with those kinds of questions. But Mom takes it badly when you dispute her Truth. Very badly. So I don’t.
But I kind of wish that Bree would. I mean, this is her life. Her fight. If she really wants to try out for dance team, then why doesn’t she speak up instead of letting Mom lecture her out of it?
Whatever. I eat as fast as I can and ask to be excused, leaving Bree to fight her own battles. Or not.
I’M SO nervous the morning of cheerleading tryouts I can barely eat.
“Are you sure this is a good idea if it’s making you so stressed you’re losing your appetite?” Mom asks.
“I’m fine!” I snap at her, and shove a few more spoonfuls of cereal I’m not really hungry for into my mouth just to prove it to her.
Syd slams her cereal bowl down on the table.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asks.
“Nothing,” Syd says. She pours her cereal and milk and starts eating with quiet determination, ignoring Mom and me.
My sister is such a drama queen. But at least Mom’s annoyed at her now, so I manage to finish breakfast and get out the door to catch the bus without her giving me any more grief about trying out for cheerleading.
Bree is waiting at the bus stop when I get there. She nods hello as I walk up. There was a time when we would have started talking nonstop the minute we saw each other, even though we’d been texting and chatting for hours the night before. But that was before we
got to high school, and she decided I wasn’t worth being friends with anymore. She started hanging out with Marci Liptak and Jenny Cole, two “cool girls” who had gone to the other middle school. Bree made it very clear I wasn’t invited when they went to the mall or the movies.
That wasn’t the best time of my life. But I’ve moved on, too.
“Hey,” I say. “You going to cheerleading tryouts after school?”
Bree looks surprised that I’d ask. I guess it is kind of a dumb question, because she was on JV cheerleading last year, and she’s been doing cheerleading practically since she could walk.
“Yeah,” she sighs.
“Me too,” I tell her.
Her look of surprise turns to shock.
“You’re trying out for cheerleading? Why?”
“Why not?” I say. “I’ve always wanted to do it. I just wasn’t in good enough … you know, shape to do it before.”
What I mean is that Lardosaurus would never have been allowed on the cheerleading team. But I’m not her anymore. I’ve changed.
“But it’s not like you know any moves or anything.”
“That’s not true. You taught me, remember?”
Bree shrugs, because it’s true. Back when we were friends, the minute she’d get home from cheerleading camp, we’d get together and she’d show me what she learned that day. I begged my parents to send me to the same camp, but they wouldn’t. They thought I should be more “well rounded.” But I think the real reason was because Mom was afraid I was too rounded.
“Well, good luck,” she says as the bus pulls up. She doesn’t sound like she means it.
“You too,” I tell her, but it’s to her back because she’s already getting on the bus. She goes to sit in the back with someone else, making clear that our mutual cheerleading tryout isn’t something to re-bond over.
Whatever. I tried. I guess you can’t repair some friendships, no matter what.
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