I think about going around the long way and sneaking in the gym entrance to avoid finding out. But then Jenny turns and sees me. She waves, so I’m trapped. I walk over, slowly, waiting and dreading.
“It’s Bree Connors, our local celebrity!” Marci says really loudly so everyone standing nearby can hear. “Hey, bestie! Can I have your autograph?”
I swallow the Cheerios back into my stomach with relief. I guess the police haven’t spoken to her yet. And I should have figured that Marci would think being the bestie of a nationwide TV story was a better gig than ragging on me. She puts her arm around me.
“How are you doing, Bree?” she asks. “Are you, like, totally freaking?”
“It’s not a whole lot of fun at the moment,” I admit.
“Can you believe that video of Lara’s dad losing it on your front lawn in his pj’s?” Marci says. “I was dying!”
“It was pretty surreal,” I say. “Especially when the cops showed up.”
“Maybe that’s where Lara gets it from,” Marci says. “Being crazy, I mean.”
Jenny’s just been standing there, not laughing, not saying anything. But then, unexpectedly, she speaks up.
“I don’t blame him,” she says. “I’d go crazy, too, if you and your mom did what you did to my kid. If I had a kid, that is.”
“Who are you, getting so judgmental all of a sudden?” Marci asks.
Jenny ignores her and instead looks straight at me. “I’m sorry, Bree, but what you did was terrible. Lara almost died. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Jenny’s always been so quiet and mild, more of a follower than a leader. But now her blue eyes flash with an angry, indignant fire, and it’s directed straight at me.
“Of … course … it bothers me. I … never expected her … to, like … try to kill herself.”
“What did you expect, exactly?”
“Jeez, Jenny, lighten up!” Marci says. “It was a joke, okay? It’s not Bree’s fault Lara is a psycho who couldn’t take it.”
Jenny stares at Marci, as if she’s seeing her, really seeing her, for the first time. Then she turns on her heel and stomps away into the building.
“Wow, what got into her?” Marci says. “It must be that time of the month or something.”
I don’t respond, because deep down I’m pretty sure Jenny is the one who’s right about me, and I wish I had the courage to say so.
When I see Jenny coming toward me in the hallway after second period, I’m about to turn the other way and escape to the bathroom to avoid her, but she calls my name.
“Bree … have you heard your outgoing voice mail message?” she asks.
There’s a strange look on her face that makes me get that unCheerio feeling again. “Um … no. Why would I? I don’t call my own cell,” I say.
Jenny takes out her phone. “I called you to apologize about this morning. I wanted to leave a message instead of texting because … well … I know things must be rough for you with everything that’s going on, and well … I was kind of harsh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
Hearing her say that brings a lump to my throat.
“You were honest,” I tell her. “But … thanks. I didn’t get your message yet. I leave my phone off in class.”
“Then I think you better hear this,” she says.
She dials my cell number and hands me her phone, her face creased with concern. Instead of my usual “Hi, it’s Bree, you know what to do, so do it after the beep,” my outgoing message says something else. Something that makes my blood run cold.
It says, “I’m Breanna Connors, the sociopath who almost killed my best friend. Leave me a death threat,” in a voice that isn’t mine.
My hands are trembling as I hand the phone back to Jenny. I dig my own cell out of my bag and turn it on. There are seventy voice mails. I push Play and put it on speaker so Jenny can hear. “I’m coming for you, sicko. I know where you live” is the first one. I go to push the button to delete it, wanting it off my phone, out of my life, out of existence, but Jenny pushes my finger away.
“No, Bree! You have to keep it for the police!”
I know she’s right, but I don’t want to carry my phone around with that on it. It’s so scary. What if it’s true? What if someone’s really out there, waiting and watching, wanting to hurt me for what I did to Lara?
By the third message, I’m crying. By the fifth one, I’m completely hysterical.
“Don’t listen to any more of them, Bree,” Jenny says, gently wrestling the phone out of my grasp. “Let’s go to the principal.”
She puts her arm around me and helps me walk down to the office. My legs are shaking so bad I can hardly walk, and it’s hard to see through my tears, but Jenny’s arm is solid and strong, and she keeps repeating that the adults will know what to do, that they’ll call the police and everything is going to be okay and no one is going to hurt me and that I shouldn’t worry about what those crazy messages say and I’ll be safe and so will my family.
I don’t believe for a second that everything is going to be okay, but I need to hear her say the words. I don’t believe her, because if they can find out my cell number and figure out how to change my outgoing message to tell people to leave me death threats, how can I ever be really safe again?
I WANTED Mom to drive me to school today, but of course she had to stay with Lara, who didn’t sleep well last night because of the press attention, and Mom doesn’t want Dad to drive me like he did yesterday because he almost punched out a photographer who tried to take a picture of us. He has to keep away from the press in case he does something stupid and messes up her campaign even more.
So I have to fight my way through the savage media hordes all by myself. They stick these big black microphones in my face and ask me questions about Lara and Bree. I push their mics away, saying, “Leave me alone, you’re going to make me miss the bus!”
But they keep surrounding me like a pack of rabid dogs, until Mrs. Gorski comes out of her house with a broom and yells at them.
“Leave the poor child alone!” she shouts, waving her broomstick at them like some crazy old witch. She’s wearing a flowered nylon housecoat and a pair of purple Crocs, which look ginormous at the end of her thin chicken legs. But Mrs. G. has never looked better to me, even in her Barney Crocs with her white hair sticking up in all directions.
She marches to the bus stop by my side, wielding the broom like a weapon, ready to use it on anyone with a camera or a mic who dares comes too close.
“Thanks, Mrs. G.,” I say.
My words come out damp and wobbly. Having this tiny old lady with her flyaway hair and her housecoat ready to fight for me, armed with only a household cleaning tool and her personality makes me feel more like the real Sydney and less like the beef jerky one.
The other kids at the bus stop give me a strange look when I get there, but I don’t know if it’s because of the news or because of Mrs. G. marching beside me with her broom and her purple Crocs.
Liam isn’t here. I don’t know if he was here yesterday. I didn’t see him in school. Maybe his parents are willing to drive him.
Mrs. G. keeps up a steady stream of conversation, telling me about how her daughter who lives in Cleveland is coming to visit with her one-year-old grandson this weekend and how she can’t wait to see him and she wishes they lived closer. Even though I’m only half listening, I’m grateful because it means I don’t have to answer any questions or wonder what the other kids are thinking. In fact I’m so grateful that when the bus pulls up, I hug her before I get on.
“Hang in there, bubbeleh,” Mrs. G. says, embracing me with her bony arms. “All this mishegas will be over soon, and they’ll move on to the next thing. You’ll be okay. Trust me.”
I don’t have a clue what bubbeleh or mishegas mean, but I want like anything to believe her when she says that I’ll be okay.
Two stops past our normal one, Liam gets on the bus, and it suddenly goes quiet. Then kids move to the ai
sle so that even though there’s an empty space next to them, he can’t sit down.
He quickly covers the flash of hurt on his face with a mask of indifference. But I know. I can tell by the way his skin flushes under his freckles. I can tell by the way his jaw is set. I’ve known Liam Connors long enough to tell.
Even though I’ve got every reason to be mad at the Connorses, more reason than any of the other kids on this bus to hate Liam, I don’t. He can’t help being Bree’s brother any more than I can help being Lara’s sister. We’re both stuck in this sucky situation by accident of birth. In that brief instant before the mask came up, he looked as tired, angry, and miserable as I feel. So I slide over to the window and gesture to the seat next to me.
I hear muttering. “What the?” … “Why would she do that?” … “Isn’t that Lara Kelley’s sister?” but I try to tune it out. They don’t know our history. They don’t know what it’s like to be me — or to be Liam.
Liam looks surprised, but he plops down next to me in the seat.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving me a quick, grateful glance, but then he keeps his eyes trained on the backpack resting on his knees as if he’s afraid to let the mask slip.
“How’s it going?” I ask, and then curse myself for asking because it’s a seriously stupid question.
“Oh, everything’s just swell,” he says, dripping sarcasm. “Someone posted our phone number online at two o’clock in the morning, and it started ringing off the hook with people leaving obscene messages and death threats for Mom and Bree. Dad finally ripped all the plugs out of the wall.”
As mad as I am at Bree and Mrs. Connors, as much as I want them punished for what they did to Lara, death threats are pretty extreme. Especially when Liam didn’t do anything wrong.
“That’s horrible,” I say. “Are you … you know … scared?”
Liam shrugs. “I don’t know. The policeman who came by at four this morning said the obvious thing to do is change our phone number and just be vigilant. They’ll investigate to see if any of them are really credible, but even if they can arrest someone, they can’t protect us twenty-four seven.”
He gives me a sideways look and, despite everything, manages a weak smile. “You’re not planning on bumping me off, are you, Syd?”
That he can still joke with me, while crazy people are threatening to kill his mom and his sister, tugs at my heart. He’s my friend, no matter what’s happening in the world around us. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
“Not this week,” I say. “But I’ll have to check my assassination schedule for next week.”
And then I get a real Liam smile, one that goes all the way to his eyes. “I’ll watch my back, then.”
I don’t want to take away his smile, but I have to ask. “How’s Bree doing?”
The light disappears immediately, and he starts picking at a loose thread on his backpack strap. “She’s a disaster. Especially after what happened with her cell yesterday.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone hacked it and changed her outgoing message, asking people to leave her death threats, then posted the number online. When she turned it on after second period, there were already seventy messages. She got totally hysterical and Dad had to go to school and pick her up.” He pulls hard at the loose thread and rips it. “They were seriously nasty — at least the few I was allowed to listen to.”
I can’t help myself. “Worse than the stuff that people wrote on Lara’s Facebook wall?”
Liam stiffens. “At least people weren’t threatening to kill her.”
I know he’s her sister, but it’s like he’s forgotten that Bree’s the one who started it all. If it weren’t for her, none of us would be living through this nightmare. Dad wouldn’t have a citation for disorderly conduct, Mom’s reelection campaign wouldn’t be on the rocks, Lara would be cheering at football games and getting on with her life instead of being such a mess, and I’d have had the chance to audition for the eighth-grade musical and maybe have gotten a lead instead of just being on crew and once again being reduced to playing a bit part in my sister’s drama.
If his life sucks right now, well, so does mine. And so does Lara’s. And Mom’s. And Dad’s.
“Maybe not, but people — no, not people, Bree — basically told Lara to kill herself,” I tell him. My voice cracks, as I try to hold back angry tears. “And she tried to do it.”
Liam stares at me, his green eyes dark and wounded. What does he expect? That I should feel sorry for Bree?
I feel bad for him, because he’s caught up in this just the way I am, but Bree’s different. She brought this on herself the moment she created that fake profile and started messing with my sister’s head.
“She’s my sister, Syd.”
I look away from him, out the window, the scenery blurred as the first tear trails down my cheek. “Well, Lara is mine.”
We don’t speak to each other the rest of the way to school.
Maddie and Cara are talking about Beauty and the Beast at lunch, because that’s mostly what they talk about these days. Cara ended up getting the part of Belle. I’m really happy for her, but whenever they talk about the musical — I can’t help feeling left out, even though I’m doing crew. It’s just not the same.
I also can’t help wondering what would have happened if Lara hadn’t tried to kill herself. If I hadn’t been stuck at the hospital. If I’d been able to go to auditions instead of being caught up in Lara’s drama.
Maybe it could have been me. It’s not like I’m mad at Cara — if anyone other than me had to get the lead, I’m glad it was her.
But the thing is … I wanted the role sooooo badly. Even if I didn’t get the part, at least I wanted the opportunity to try out. All that practicing for weeks leading up to auditions. And because of Lara — no, because of Bree — I didn’t even get that chance.
It makes me mad at Bree all over again. And at Liam. Is he crazy? How can he expect me to feel sorry for Bree? I mean, it’s not like I want people to make death threats. That’s going totally overboard. But she deserves something bad to happen to her because of what she did. She shouldn’t just get to keep on going on with her life like nothing ever happened. Because we don’t have that option. Not Lara. Not me. Not anyone in my family. Especially now.
“Ohmigosh, did you see the latest about Bree and her mom on the news?” Maddie says between bites of carrot.
Jeez, Maddie, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?
“You mean Monster Mom?” Cara giggles. “Wouldn’t that be a great new reality series?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “If it weren’t actually my life at the moment.”
The smiles fade from my friends’ faces.
“I’m sooooo sorry, Syd — I … just spaced,” Cara says. “I’m not used to stuff on the news having anything to do with people I actually know. You know … real people.”
“Trust me, this is all too real. For my family and the Connorses,” I say.
They both gape at me.
“Wait — are you sticking up for Breanna Connors after what she did to Lara?” Maddie asks. “Because that’s messed up.”
“Totally messed up,” Cara agrees.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been confused every minute of every single day since we found Lara unconscious in the bathroom. I alternate between being confused and mad. Mad at everyone and everything. Mad about why everything in our family always revolves around Lara. Confused about why life is so freaking unfair all the time. Wondering why people have to be jerks instead of being nice to one another.
“No … I’m not sticking up for her … exactly. It’s just … I don’t know.”
How do I explain that as much as I hate Bree and Mrs. Connors for what they did, the person who probably understands what I’m going through the most is Liam? Or at least was Liam. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t think anyone would. It’s hard enough to accept it myself right now.
“Never mind. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.” I get up and clear my stuff.
“I’m sorry if I upset you, Syd,” Cara says. “Really, I am.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Things are just … you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says.
But the thing is, Cara doesn’t know. Neither does Maddie. Neither of them have the faintest idea what it’s like. How can they?
The only person who really understands is the brother of the one who started all this. And now that I’m mad at him, I feel absolutely and totally alone.
It’s not till I reach the nearest bathroom that the realization hits me: I’m turning into my sister, Lara — a walking, talking buzzkill.
I’m working on my homework later that afternoon when I get a text from Liam.
Need to talk. Can u meet me in the tree fort?
My thumbs hesitate over my phone. Part of me is still mad at him and wants to stay that way, because it’s easier than trying to figure out the mess of feelings I have for him if I’m not. Also, if there are any press people lurking around, and they catch a picture of us together … I can’t even think about that.
But the other part of me, the one that feels so incredibly alone in this insanity — that part wins out.
K. Be there in 5.
I finish the problem I was working on, then go brush my hair and put on lip gloss, even though it’s only Liam and I’m just meeting him in the tree fort. So why am I bothering?
Slipping out the back door, I check for camera people, but they seem to be congregated around the front of the house. Still, I keep to the back of the yard and detour around the rusting swing set that none of us use anymore, just in case.
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