But on the other hand, I don’t want to end up in juvie over a stupid joke. I’m not the kind of girl who goes to juvie. Isn’t juvie for really screwed-up bad kids? Definitely not for girls like me.
Badge Guy introduces himself as Detective Souther. Uniform Guy is Officer Timm.
“We’re looking into the Lara Kelley incident,” the detective says.
“Oh, I know, isn’t that terrible?” Mom says. “That poor girl.”
It strikes me then what a seriously awesome liar my mother is. I guess maybe that’s a quality she needs to be the real estate queen of Lake Hills. “Everything I touch turns to sold.”
Maybe that’s why she’s so disappointed with me. Everything I touch seems to turn to dog crap.
“The two of you were close friends at one time,” he says to me.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “In middle school.”
“Speak up, Bree,” Mom snaps.
“In middle school,” I repeat more loudly. “Not so much now.”
“Was there a specific fight, or did you just drift apart?” Officer Timm asks.
“They drifted apart,” Mom says. “Poor Lara has always been … troubled. It became a little too much for Bree, having to act as therapist as well as friend. She needed to have a life of her own.”
“Understandable,” Detective Souther says. “How long ago was that, would you say?”
I open my mouth to say a little over a year ago, when we started high school, but Mom is there first.
“They started drifting apart the summer before high school. And of course once Bree got to high school, there were so many new faces, it was only natural she’d want to spread her wings and make other friends.”
These guys are going to think I can’t speak for myself. Mom couldn’t make it more obvious if she tried that she doesn’t trust me to say the right thing.
“I have a teenage daughter,” Officer Timm says. “These things happen. One minute they’re best friends forever, the next week it turns out ‘forever’ meant until they had a fight.”
“We didn’t fight,” I say. “It wasn’t like that. It was more … just … gradual.”
“So has there been any antagonism between you and Lara Kelley at the present time?” Detective Souther asks.
What is this, the PSAT or something? Antagonism?
“No, we weren’t pissed off at each other, if that’s what you mean.”
Mom gives me a look and I get it. Cut the attitude, Breanna.
“Do you know a young man by the name of Christian DeWitt?” the detective asks.
I’ve never actually been punched in the stomach, but I imagine this is how it feels. Like all the air is suddenly sucked out of your lungs and there’s a second of total panic because you can’t breathe and you wonder if this is it and you’re going to die before you pull yourself together and manage to inhale.
I stand on the edge of the cliff, poised — this is the moment where I either listen to Mom and lie to the police, or I tell the truth.
I only hesitate for a moment before I decide to jump into the chasm. Because despite the fact I’m fifteen years old, and I’m supposed to be learning how to become my own person, when have I not done what my mom tells me?
“No,” I say, but I can’t help the slight tremor in my voice. “Never heard of him.”
“Are you sure?” the detective asks, looking me straight in the eye.
I know if I look away, he’ll think I’m lying, so as much as it’s wigging me out to maintain eye contact, I do.
“Totally sure,” I say.
I am going to burn for eternity for this. But I obeyed my mother, and honoring my mother is one of the Ten Commandments, so does that give me points for something?
Even though it’s not that hot in the living room, I feel myself start to sweat in the brief, awkward silence that follows. I surreptitiously rub my hands against the side of my jeans, but don’t break eye contact, determined to win the game of blink.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Officer Timm says. He takes a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket and opens it up. Then he walks over and holds it out in front of me. “Because you were friends with him on Facebook.”
It’s a printout of Christian’s friend list. And there, among them, with a big red circle around it, is my profile picture.
But I deleted his profile! He’s not there anymore. How did they get that? And now what do I do?
I stare up at Officer Timm, tongue-tied with panic.
My mother doesn’t miss a beat.
“You know how these kids are,” she says, her voice as calm and smooth as a lake on a still summer’s day. “They all friend people they don’t know. I’ve warned Bree and Liam about it more times than I can count, but they still do it.”
Mom looks at me sternly.
“I’m sure Bree didn’t even remember she’d friended him. She has so many friends on that site. I’ll have to go through them with her and make sure she cuts back.” She smiles at the policemen, shaking her head. “You can’t be too careful these days, can you?”
Wow. I take it back when I said Mom was a good liar. She’s a FREAKING EPIC LIAR. Like, Super Liar of the Universe.
Just then, her cell phone rings. She looks at the number.
“Excuse me, I have to answer. These clients are about to make an offer on a big property. Let me see if I can call them back.”
She answers with her “Everything I touch turns to sold” voice.
“Mary Jo Connors. Yes, hi, Ralph — any chance I can call you back? I’m in the middle of something … Oh. I see … Okay, hold on a minute.”
Mom presses Mute and says, “I have to take this now. I’ll be out in the hall. It won’t take long.”
On her way out, she purses her lips, reminding me to zip it.
And then I’m left there, alone with the two policemen, scared that I’m going to say the wrong thing.
“So here’s the thing, Breanna,” the detective says. “We’re pretty sure the person who created the Christian DeWitt profile lives in this house.”
I can’t stop the panicked look that crosses my face before I realize what I’ve done and try to arrange my features into what I hope is an “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective” expression.
“How?”
“Do you know what an IP address is?” Officer Timm asks.
“It’s something to do with the Internet,” I say, twisting the silver-and-onyx ring I’m wearing on my right hand. Now that I think about it, Lara gave it to me for my birthday in middle school.
“It’s the numerical label assigned to computers on a network,” Officer Timm explains.
I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what that means.
Detective Souther must see the look on my face because he says, “We know from an IP search that the person who contacted Lara lives in this neighborhood.”
I swallow hard.
“We had to get a warrant to find out from the Internet service provider exactly which house it was,” he continues. “And I’m going to make a bet that when we get that information, it’s going to show that it’s yours. If you tell us it was you, it’ll go a lot easier for you than if you deny it and we find out anyway.”
I hear Mom’s voice in the hallway, talking to her client about their bid. She tells them they should go in slightly under asking, but not so far that they’ll think it’s insulting.
I don’t know what to do. Mom wants me to lie. But it feels wrong to lie to the police. And what’s the point of lying if they’re going to find out it was me anyway?
My head is throbbing, and I feel sick to my stomach.
“Just because it was someone in this neighborhood, doesn’t mean it was me,” I say, picking at a cuticle on my thumb.
“You posted a picture of Lara being taken out of the house on a stretcher on your Facebook profile,” Officer Timm says. “Why would you do that to someone who was your friend?”
He sounds just like Liam,
but he’s not my younger brother, someone I can ignore. He’s a policeman, wearing a uniform, with a gun in his holster and handcuffs attached to his belt. This is real life. This is serious business. I never thought about any of this when I posted that picture.
I never thought, period.
And now I’m terrified.
“How do you k-know that? I d-deleted that picture!” I stammer.
“Ever hear of something called a screenshot?” Detective Souther says with no small amount of snark. “Lara’s father took a whole bunch of them the night Lara tried to kill herself. He wasn’t a happy man when he saw what people were doing to his daughter. Can’t say I blame him.”
“I … don’t know why I did it …,” I say. “I thought it would … you know, get a lot of likes.”
I see the looks on their faces. They hate me. They think I’m a really awful person.
Officer Timm mutters something under his breath, shaking his head.
“You might as well tell us, Breanna,” the detective says. “We know it was you.”
Mom! Get off the phone and get back in here! What should I do? THEY ALREADY KNOW!
But my mother is still out in the hallway, arguing with her clients over a five-thousand-dollar increment in their bid. Doesn’t she realize my whole life is at stake here? For once, I’d just like to feel more important to my mother than the next deal.
“It will go much better for you if you’re honest with us, Breanna,” Detective Souther says. “No matter what anyone might have told you.”
I feel tears well up, even though I’m trying to will them back because I know they’ll make me look guilty.
“If you tell us the truth, we can work with you,” the detective continues.
He’s the good guy. The police are the good guys. I’m not a bad guy. I’m a good person. If I keep lying to him, I’ll be the bad guy. It’s better if I tell the truth.
My face feels like it’s five-hundred-degrees hot. The first tear boils over and trickles down my cheek.
Mom’s commiserating with her clients about how long it’s taking the city council to not pass the tax incentives. At least she doesn’t mention Mrs. Kelley by name.
“You can be honest with us, Breanna,” Officer Timm says, and he doesn’t sound like he hates me now. He sounds nicer, more friendly, like he’s trying to help me do the right thing. “It’s okay.”
More tears fall, and I taste salt on the corner of my mouth. I wipe the tear away with the back of my hand, and despite Mom telling me to zip it, to tell them nothing, nada, zilch, I say quietly, “It was me.”
And even though I’m scared about the trouble I know I’m going to get into, about the punishment I know I’m going to face, it feels better than continuing to lie when they already know the truth.
“Did your mother know about this?” Detective Souther asks.
It’s one thing to admit to them that it was me. I can’t tell them that Mom did it, too. But to cover for her means lying. I stare down at my hands and say nothing.
Hang up, Mom. Hang up and come back. I need you more than your clients do right now.
I glance toward the door. My mother is still on the phone. She’s telling the clients if they’re really worried about the five grand, to split the difference but go up to $2,575, because that sounds better to the seller. “It’s all mind games,” she says.
“Breanna? Did your mom know about the fake profile?” the detective repeats.
I look back at the policemen and decide that if she’s leaving me here by myself, I get to make my own decisions. And I decide to keep on telling the truth.
“Yes. She did,” I say in a low voice so Mom doesn’t hear.
“You’re doing the right thing by telling us the truth,” Detective Souther reassures me.
“My mom’s going to be really mad at me,” I say quietly, wiping away tears with my sleeve as I throw another nervous glance toward the door.
“Just how involved was your mother?” Officer Timm asks.
Come on, move over. I want to be Christian for a while … Oh, come on, Bree. It’s just a little fun.
“I … she …”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. Mom’s in the hallway talking about how if only they had those tax breaks.
That’s when I crack.
“She p-pretended to be Christian a few times,” I admit. “So did Marci. My friend … Marci Liptak.”
It looks like this was something they didn’t know, because they look at each other, and Officer Timm, who doesn’t have as good of a poker face as the detective, seems shocked and even … angry.
“What made you do it?” Detective Souther asks.
“Do what?” Mom says sharply, walking into the room. “Made her do what?”
“Breanna told us the truth, Mrs. Connors. That she created the Christian DeWitt profile, and that both you and she — and another teenager named Marci Liptak — engaged Lara Kelley in conversation as DeWitt.”
My mother turns to me, her face already flushing red with fury.
“Can’t I trust you to do anything right, Breanna?” Mom says in a voice as cold as her anger is hot, completely unmoved by my tears.
I’m used to disappointing my mother. It feels like I’ve done it all my life. And I realize in that moment that maybe I am as stupid as she always tells me. Because deep down, I’d had this small shred of hope, some sick deluded fantasy, that she’d say I did the right thing by telling the truth.
I’M IN my bedroom doing my homework with the headphones on when I get a text from Spencer.
Dude, why’s there a cop car outside your house? Saw it when I was walking the dog.
Wait, what? I text back.
I take off my headphones and look out the bedroom window. Sure enough, there’s a Lake Hills police car parked on the street in front of our house.
IDK. Gonna go check it out.
As I get to the bottom of the stairs, I hear Mom say, “Can’t I trust you to do anything right, Breanna?”
When Mom yells, you know she’s mad, but when she speaks in that cold, quiet voice, you know she’s really mad. Like “stay out of her way if you know what’s good for you” mad.
And then I hear Bree sobbing, so I detour to the kitchen. As much as I want to know what this is all about, going into the living room doesn’t seem like a smart move right about now.
Instead, I call Dad.
“Where are you?” I ask him. “Are you on the way home?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Do we need milk?”
“No,” I say. “The police are here talking to Mom and Bree.”
“WHAT?” Dad exclaims. “What about?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
He curses. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Hurry,” I urge him before hanging up.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Spencer.
So? What’s going on?
I ignore it, waiting for Dad to get home. And then I hear Bree come out of the living room bawling, and her footsteps as she runs up the stairs to her room.
Figuring it’s the quickest way to find out what’s going on, I head back upstairs and knock on her door.
“Go away!” she cries.
But I don’t. I slip into her room, closing the door behind me.
She’s curled up on her bed, with her knees up to her chest, clutching Bertie, her worn, old teddy bear.
“I t-told you to g-go away,” she hiccups between sobs.
My sister and I aren’t super close like some siblings, but it’s clear something pretty bad has just gone down.
“What happened?” I ask. “Why are the police here?”
My questions just make her start crying harder again. I don’t know what to do. Bree’s totally freaking out about whatever happened in the living room, and I have no idea what it is.
I sit down on the bed and squeeze her ankle.
“It’ll be okay,” I say, even though I have no idea if
that’s true. It’s just what people always say when someone is freaking out to make them stop.
“No it w-won’t,” she says. “N-nothing is g-going to be o-okay.”
“What’s this all about?”
“M-Mom’s right. I am s-stupid. B-But I had to t-tell them the t-truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“About L-Lara.”
Lara? What could the police have to do with Bree and Lara? I mean, they were friends and they aren’t now, but that’s not a crime. That’s just girls, from what I can tell.
And then I remember the night Lara was taken away in the ambulance …
“Is this about that picture you posted? The one the night Lara tried to kill herself?”
Bree uncovers her face and gives me a look like I’m the stupid one. She swallows, like she’s trying to get a grip, and says, “No, Liam. It’s not about that. The reason the police are here … the reason why everything isn’t going to be okay is because … I’m the reason that Lara tried to kill herself.”
I stare at her, trying to understand what she means. How can my sister be the reason Lara tried to kill herself?
“What are you talking about? She did that because she was upset about that jerk Christian guy.”
“I’m ‘that jerk Christian guy.’ He never existed. He was fake, right from the beginning.”
The horror of what Bree’s just said crawls over me like I’ve just stepped onto a nest of fire ants. I stand up and back away from her bed, my breath catching in my chest.
“You mean … that awful guy … who wrote all that stuff about Lara … was you?”
My sister nods slowly, staring back at me with eyes red from weeping, her face stained with tears.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask just above a whisper. “Why would you do that?”
Bree doesn’t answer. She just puts her head down and starts crying again.
I realize that I’ve grown up with Bree and I have no idea who she really is. Because the sister I thought I had wouldn’t do something that sick to anyone, especially someone who used to be her best friend.
I leave Bree to her crying and head for my room. And then I’m hit with a wave of nausea that sends me toward the bathroom instead. Because I’ve just imagined Sydney’s reaction when she hears about what my sister did.
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