Tease

by Amanda Maciel

Carmichael looks back down at his book, at the cover with a bloody guy on it. “It’s that same old story,” he says, lifting his head again but staring at the shelves now. “Crappy dad, never around, gets back in touch, blah blah blah.”

  “So you moved in with him?” I ask. I used to think about going to live with my dad sometimes. In the very beginning, before he had new kids and everything, it was like this perfect fantasy—we’d live in a fancy apartment in Chicago and we’d do stuff together. I’d learn to like baseball or fishing or whatever. I’d be one of those pretty tomboy-type girls, with this cool dad teaching her how to fix cars.

  Obviously it was a completely stupid idea.

  Carmichael nods and finally looks back at me again. “He’s still a crappy dad, so things didn’t work out,” he says. “Not a very good story, I guess.”

  I shake my head. “No, I know exactly what you mean,” I say. “I have one of those.”

  “Does he live in a trailer?” Carmichael asks. I think he’s joking but I just smile a little, I don’t laugh.

  “No, he lives with the new-and-improved family,” I say.

  Carmichael nods again.

  I want to ask him something else—I want to stay in this moment, this minute of having a real conversation with somebody. But I’m pretty sure I’m late, and when I check my phone quickly—“Shit, I have to go.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry,” he says, watching as I scramble to stand back up.

  “God, no, I interrupted you,” I say. “Now you can read about your vampires, I just have to—I have an appointment.”

  “Vampires?” Carmichael clutches his chest like I’ve shot him in the heart. “A palpable hit!” He falls back on the floor, still clutching, and now rolling around and moaning.

  “Zombies, sorry!” I say, laughing. “Calm down! I know they’re zombies!”

  “Ohhhh,” Carmichael groans.

  “C’mon, get up!” I say. “I really have to go!”

  “Just leave me here . . .” He gasps like it’s his dying breath. “I’ll . . . be . . . fine . . .”

  I shake my head, even though he’s not looking at me. “Okay,” I say. “See you later.”

  I turn and start hurrying out of the store. Behind me I hear one last wounded cry: “Vampires!”

  I must look like an idiot, running and laughing all by myself.

  “I really don’t want to talk about that weekend.”

  “I know, Sara. But it’s going to come up, right? At your trial?”

  “I guess.”

  “So you’ve talked to your lawyer about it?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “But did you talk about how you felt?”

  “How I felt?”

  “Yes, how you felt. How did you feel?”

  “That weekend? Or, like, now?”

  Teresa spreads her hands wide, like, Take your pick.

  “I feel like shit.”

  “Now?”

  “Always. And yes, now.”

  “What about that weekend?”

  I blink fast, forcing back the tears that I can’t seem to completely shut off. “Well, that Saturday . . .” I sigh heavily. “That night was great. I felt great, okay? I don’t understand what the big deal is. I don’t understand what the big deal to Emma was. I mean, she had just done the same thing to me! Like, three weeks before that! And did I turn around and kill myself? No.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?”

  Now I throw my hands up, frustrated again by Teresa’s endless Q & A, which never include, of course, any A’s. “Does it matter? Obviously everyone else thinks that’s what happened, or I wouldn’t be on freaking trial for it!”

  She just looks at me, her eyes narrowed in a thoughtful way. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was considering giving me a hug. But people don’t hug me. I don’t think anyone has—my little brothers don’t count—in months. Years, maybe. Does making out count as hugging? Probably not. Especially if you’re making out with Dylan, because his hands are so busy, there’s no real embracing going on.

  In the back of my mind a little image of Carmichael flickers—his arm around me in my kitchen while I cried. I push the picture away.

  And Teresa doesn’t hug me. She and I are just staring at each other. I used to be unable to look right at her, either out of annoyance or embarrassment. Now I’m too worn out to feel annoyed or embarrassed or . . . anything.

  “Fine,” I say. I take a long, shuddery breath. This day is the worst already, but I guess it’s not worse than that weekend turned out to be. “Saturday, right? It was just a hang, you know, not even a real party. I knew Dylan would be there, and I thought Emma would be too.”

  “So you were hoping to see her?”

  “Yeah, kind of,” I say, surprising myself. Seeing Emma and Dylan together had become like a scab you can’t stop picking at—it turned my stomach, but I couldn’t do anything else. Plus, getting through a weekend without seeing Dylan was like torture. Seeing him with his new girlfriend was torture too, but at least I was out of the house on a Saturday night, still hanging out with fun people. I remember thinking that Dylan would see me in my new tank top and think I looked cool and relaxed and way easier to be around than slutty Emma who everyone hated.

  Which I guess is kind of what happened.

  In a way, that weekend was the whole story. Everyone did enough terrible stuff to get sent to jail, or juvie, or whatever. I mean, maybe not technically, but it was a mess.

  But Emma’s the one who got the last word. She’ll always be that face, that pretty school photo in the newspaper. And we’ll always be the monsters who pushed her over the edge.

  I can talk to Teresa or Natalie or my mom—well, I can try—but no one really gets it, no one hears me. No one understands how, when Emma went over the edge, she pulled all of us down with her.

  February

  EMMA AND DYLAN. Dylan and Emma. Just like that.

  For most of the day at school, they’re together. But otherwise, Brielle and I are on a mission to make Emma’s life a living hell.

  Brielle seems to know exactly what to do. We wait for Emma outside school on Monday morning, even though it’s still freezing. When she finally walks by I start to step forward, but Brielle holds my arm. I wait for her to say something to Emma, but she doesn’t, she just waits. As soon as Emma has walked past us, not making eye contact, Brielle lets go of me and follows her into the building. It takes me a second to catch up, but then I see what we’re doing—Brielle walks fast and we circle around so we’re walking to Emma’s locker from the other end. By the time Emma gets there, Brielle and I are standing on either side of her locker, having a conversation, super casual. I just see the red hair and the aqua coat out of the corner of my eye as Emma pauses for a second. Then Brielle looks right at her, staring. Emma holds her gaze for a minute, and I’m almost impressed by her total poker face. But then she turns and walks away.

  Brielle watches her go and says, “God, this is too easy.”

  “Are you kidding?” I ask her. My stomach is a jumble of nerves and butterflies and a million other things. I’m so excited and angry and confused I would sprint down the hallway if it weren’t so crowded. “That was perfect. How did you do that?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and pushes away from the lockers. “Seriously.” Her voice carries over her shoulder as she leaves me behind again, striding to her homeroom while I scramble to catch up. “Give me a challenge.”

  At lunch we sit with Kyle and Jacob and talk loudly about what a loser Emma is, even though she’s sitting one table over with Megan Corley.

  “I heard she’s with Dylan and Tyler,” Brielle announces. “Like, they share.”

  “Dude, that’s disgusting,” Jacob declares, also at top volume.

  Emma and Megan exchange a look, then get up from their table, grabbing their barely touched lunch trays. Brielle high-fives me as they leave the cafeteria.

  Dating Dylan doesn’t help Emma even when we aren’t around�
��the whole school finds out about the Valentine’s party and now everyone thinks she’s gross. Dylan was called a man-whore on Facebook before the weekend was over. I mean, all of his best friends have already hooked up with Emma. So far Tyler’s the only one who’s still talking to both of them, but the thing Brielle says about them “sharing” becomes everyone’s favorite theory by the end of Monday.

  I spent all weekend talking to Brielle about what a slut Emma is, and Brielle comments on anything Emma does on Facebook with “A slut says what?” We’re not friends with her, obviously, but she gets tagged in stuff and it’s easy enough to find her on other people’s pages.

  Still, I don’t feel any better about losing Dylan. At night, alone, I have to admit that he must actually like her. I’m not Miss Universe, but I’m not a social outcast, either—or a desperate transfer student, or a slut who’s been with all his friends. I slept with him, only him. And then I followed him around like a . . . a groupie. A puppy.

  But he wants her.

  And we want her to suffer.

  “Did you see what Emma Putnam is wearing today? What is that?” Brielle says loudly in the locker room before gym on Tuesday. As usual, we are fully aware that Emma is standing two feet away from us.

  “Oh my God, I know,” I practically shout back. “Do you think she knows? Maybe someone should tell her.”

  Emma, who’s wearing a sweater and jeans, no big deal at all, practically sprints out of the locker room.

  “Jesus, she can’t be sick again, can she?” Brielle sneers.

  “I heard she’s been to the nurse’s office every day this week,” Beth offers, eager to get in on the action.

  To my surprise, Brielle doesn’t ignore her this time. “She has such a gentle soul,” she says to Beth.

  “Oh, totally,” Beth says. Her sarcasm is about twenty notches too enthusiastic, but the three of us laugh anyway.

  “Or maybe she’s pregnant,” I say. I don’t know what makes me think of this, but now that I’ve said it, we all realize it could totally be true.

  A few other girls turn toward us, and one of them, Parker, goes,

  “Wow. How’s she going to figure out who the father is?”

  I feel sick and satisfied, all at the same time. Like the other night, when I ate all the leftover Valentine’s candy in one sitting—it was gross, but I’d be unwrapping another piece before I’d even swallowed the one in my mouth. Like I wanted that gross feeling—like having too much was the whole point.

  We’re playing volleyball in gym, and I hit the ball so hard every time, the girls on the other side of the net jump out of the way. Everyone knows I’m in a terrible mood; they all know I got cheated on and broken up with. I mean, there was no official breaking up—screaming at Dylan and Emma on Friday and then leaving with Brielle pretty much took care of it. And now I guess it looks like I want to murder the volleyball and everyone else on the court. But the yelling, the crying, the thwack of the ball on the gym floor—it’s not enough.

  “What do we do next?” I ask Brielle after last period. She drove me this morning and needs to give me a lift home, too. Dylan’s at practice, so I know Emma’s on her own.

  Brielle looks at me. For a second I think she’s annoyed, or maybe she’s not into this anymore—maybe it’s really not a challenge. I get scared that she’s about to back out.

  So before she can answer my question, I go, “Maybe we should follow her home?”

  Something that looks like pride flashes in Brielle’s eyes. “Yeah, okay,” she says, nodding. “Let’s go.”

  I follow her to the Mercedes and climb into the passenger seat, bouncing a little with nervous excitement. Brielle screeches out of her parking spot, barely missing about half the freshman class walking to the bus stop, but instead of heading toward the exit she peels around to the next row of student cars.

  “What the—” I start to say, but then I see what she’s doing.

  Emma is just walking up to her Audi when she sees it, too. Brielle has pulled her SUV up so we’re right behind Emma’s car, blocking her in. It’s colder today than it was this weekend, but Brielle rolls down her window and casually dangles her arm outside.

  “Oh, hey, slutty!” she calls to Emma, waving. If you hadn’t heard the words you’d think she was talking to a friend. “Nice car. I guess Stepdaddy thinks you’re really pretty.”

  Emma has frozen in place, still standing at the front corner of her car, not even on the driver’s side yet. She’s looking at me and Brielle like she doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.

  A few other people are looking at us too, and I see a couple of guys from our class laughing. I turn a little and see Megan Corley walking the other way. I guess she doesn’t feel like being on Emma’s Only Friend Duty this time.

  “What’s wrong?” I say loudly, leaning over the center console so I can see her better. “Didn’t anyone else’s boyfriend want to give you a ride today?”

  Brielle’s laugh is short and sharp.

  And it seems to break Emma out of her trance. Smoothly, as if we haven’t said anything at all, she continues walking around to her car door and beeps it open. Then she looks right at us, her chin lifted a little, and goes, “Actually, I think that’s your problem. But at least you have each other, right? Lez be friends.”

  “Oh, you little—” Brielle is cursing and unbuckling her seat belt and opening her door all at once, but just in time I see Mr. Jansen, the guidance counselor, walking toward us. That explains why Emma thought she could talk to us that way.

  I grab Brielle’s arm and say, “We gotta go.”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy, but I point at the teacher, who definitely sees us now, and she pulls her door shut and puts the SUV in gear.

  “You better watch your ass!” she yells at Emma, and we drive away.

  “Why can’t you just leave her alone?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t be like that. You know who.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on. You and Brielle are being total—” Dylan cuts himself off, his head jerking to the side, his lips pressed tightly together. Keeping the rest of his sentence unsaid.

  “We’re being what?” I demand. “Total what?” I’m trying to keep my voice down, since we’re in a corner of the library during study hall, and Ms. Hillman can hear the slightest whisper anywhere in here. But Dylan started this; he came over to me and started talking. And I know he’s about to call me and Brielle bitches. Which is so completely unfair I can barely see straight.

  “Whatever. Just leave Emma out of this.”

  “You brought her into it,” I snap. “I didn’t want to be anywhere near her, but you—” I throw up my hands. Now I’m the one who can’t finish a sentence.

  A look crosses Dylan’s face. I think it might be regret. He reaches out and touches my shoulder and says, “Sara, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  It’s such a cliché, such a Lifetime movie moment, I don’t even know what to do at first. Tears leap into my eyes and they sting. Everything about this stings. He doesn’t deserve to see me cry. He doesn’t deserve for his apology to be accepted.

  He definitely doesn’t deserve for me to want him to kiss me right now. But that is totally what I want. I want him to wrap his arms around me and lean us into the Earth Science shelves and forget any of this ever happened.

  Instead I say, pathetically, “Don’t you like me anymore?”

  He drops his hand back to his side and looks away again. Guys hate this kind of thing, I know that. Brielle has told me a hundred times, and I know I should just shut up. But I can’t help it; if he can answer this question, maybe I can stop lying awake every night wondering about it. Maybe the knot in my stomach will unwind a little bit.

  “You just . . . I dunno, Sara, did you even like me? It’s not like you were ever around that much.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. I want to scream or cry or something, say anythi
ng, if only to keep him talking. But I can’t figure out how to respond. I hold my breath, literally, hoping he’ll say more.

  Dylan shifts from foot to foot, like he’d really like to run away now, but finally he adds, “I mean, you were always with Brielle. You didn’t really need me.”

  “I needed you to not cheat on me.” The words pop out, angry and hot, before I think better of it.

  The look of regret—or something—comes back to his face. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry about that.”

  We’re both silent again. I don’t know what we’re supposed to be saying. I was hoping he’d say he misses me and wants me back, but obviously that’s not happening. Obviously he expects me to accept this apology, to believe him. And to understand.

  I don’t understand any of it. I don’t want to.

  Dylan takes a step back and goes, “That’s what I wanted to say, okay? That I’m sorry. And you should really leave Emma alone now. She’s just . . . she’s really sensitive. You guys are pretty harsh.” He lifts up his hands and looks like he’s about to say something else, but then shakes his head a tiny bit. Finally he just says, “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  And then he walks away. And I just stand there.

  “I was always around!”

  “You were. You were totally there for him. He’s a moron.” Brielle’s voice is sympathetic, but her eyes are fixed on her reflection in the girls’ bathroom mirror.

  We’ve been in here for at least half an hour, even though she’s supposed to be in Language Arts and I have French. I’ve told her everything about the Dylan conversation except the part about him thinking I spend too much time with her. Obviously he and Emma agree on that, so they’ve probably been talking about me. Or definitely. Which makes me feel like I’m naked, like everyone’s looking at me and laughing and I can’t do anything to stop it.

  So I don’t mention that part. But I tell her everything else, and of course now—now that it’s a hundred years too late—I’m thinking of all the things I should have said to Dylan in the library.

  “I went to every single one of his games,” I say, though of course Brielle already knows this. “I gave him my virgini—”