Be the Girl: a Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “Did she apologize?”

  Jen shakes her head. “She never acknowledged the things she said to me. But she was acting different. Like, over-the-top nice. So, I figured either she grew out of her mean stage, or she’s taking some serious anti-bitch pills.”

  I snort. Even Josie, who has said nothing until now, smiles.

  Jen’s gaze sits on Holly’s table for a moment. “She got a lot of attention right away. I mean, look at her. Miss Popularity almost from day one. She’s smart, too. So, I think she figured out that a guy like Emmett wouldn’t look at her twice if he knew she was a bitch.”

  “Do you think Emmett would want to be with her if he knew what she used to be like?”

  “You kidding? See that guy sitting on the table over there?” With a covert finger, she points to a boy with spiky blond hair and a black T-shirt, sitting three rows over. “That’s Adam Levic. Last year he said something mean to Cassie—I can’t remember what—and Emmett knocked him on his ass. He got suspended for fighting. There was a rumor of him losing his big hockey scholarship because of it. I don’t know if that was ever true but it was serious.”

  “I can’t picture Emmett fighting anyone.” I can’t see him ever getting that angry.

  “He’s not the type,” she agrees. “Not like Adam.”

  I watch as the caf monitor comes by and ushers Adam off the dining table, pointing at the chair. Adam rolls his eyes but drags himself off. Now that he’s standing, I see he’s at least a few inches shorter than Emmett, but he’s stocky, with broad shoulders and thick forearms.

  “Emmett is super-protective of his sister, if you haven’t noticed yet. And Cassie’s the kind of kid that Holly would torment.” Jen’s thin lips purse. “If Holly acted half the way she did in Klemptville, I can’t see how he’d give her a shot, no matter how perfect her boobs are. At least, I have to think so, or it crushes every fantasy I’ve ever had about him.”

  You and me both.

  “Me too,” Josie chirps in a whisper.

  I study that perfect, blonde head attached to that perfect body and that perfect smile for the rest of our lunch period.

  What would Emmett do if he knew it was all a façade?

  * * *

  “The plumber is at Uncle Merv’s,” Cassie announces as we round the bend of our street, toward our cul-de-sac. Sure enough, the battered red pickup truck sits in the driveway. “I wonder what he’s doing.”

  “Fixing something.”

  “Yeah … he’s fixing something,” she echoes, and it sounds like she’s trying to match my tone. “Maybe we could watch a movie tonight? Emmett has a hockey game. I’m not going.”

  Which probably means it’s out of town.

  She says this like it’s a bonus that Emmett won’t be around the house. Meanwhile, it would be motivation for me to go. Normally. But now I have this recording of his girlfriend burning a hole in my pocket and I don’t know what to do with it.

  “I have a lot of homework to do this weekend. But definitely next weekend,” I promise.

  Her head bobs furtively, and I know she’s logging that into her mind. It’s a commitment that she won’t forget.

  “See you later, Cassie.”

  “Bye, AJ.” She trudges off toward her house and I take the walkway up to ours, noting the orange and yellow flowers in pots sitting on either side of the rickety stairs.

  I step through the front door to the high-pitched whir of a drill coming from upstairs, Uncle Merv and my mother bickering in the kitchen, and the smell of chocolate and spice lingering through the air.

  “What do I need with all this damn kitchen stuff, anyway?” Uncle Merv says, waving his hands at the piles of small kitchen appliances, containers, and mismatched dishware hiding the countertop. “Donate it or toss it. I’ll never use it.”

  “We don’t have to keep all of it! I just thought there might be something of sentimental value here and—”

  “Unless I’m gonna be buried with it, I don’t need to keep it! I don’t need a broken blender or a chipped plate to remember Connie.”

  “Fair enough. You’re right.” Mom gives his shoulder an affectionate pat.

  “What’s going on?”

  Mom turns to smile at me. “Hey, hon! I’m doing some cleaning. Figured it was a good time, with Mick repiping the house next week.”

  I frown. “What’s he doing upstairs?”

  “Making a whole damn lot of noise and eating your mother’s zucchini bread,” Uncle Merv complaints.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “He’s replacing the shower faucet and valves.” She nods toward the kitchen table—a slice of said zucchini bread and a glass of milk await. Such a different world from the one in Calgary, where she didn’t step through the door until well after seven, long after I’d found myself something from the store-bought, premade options to heat up for dinner.

  “So? What happened at school today?” She looks at me expectantly.

  I flop into the chair. “Number one: if you don’t go back to work soon, I’m going to be a thousand pounds by Christmas.”

  “What’s wrong with that? It’s a nice, round number.” Uncle Merv rubs a hand over his protruding belly and hobbles out of the kitchen toward the living room where the TV still blares.

  “Three things from your day at school,” Mom reminds me, settling into her seat with one of her high-end collectible china cup-and-saucer sets—that used to sit in the display case, untouched, even on special occasions.

  “Your fancy china, Mom? Really?”

  She lifts it as if in cheers. “No point saving it until I’m dead.”

  “You sound like Uncle Merv.” Who is this woman sitting in front of me? “Nice flowers outside, by the way.”

  “Aren’t they? I saw them outside the grocery store today and figured I’d dress this old house up a bit. I haven’t bought chrysanthemums in years.”

  “Yeah. Not since I’ve been alive.”

  “Quit stalling.” She flutters her fingers at me.

  I sigh. “Number one: I matched my worst time from grade nine at cross-country practice today.”

  “See? Told you. Not bad for a kid who just started running again.”

  “I guess. Number two: I had another surprise math test today and the questions were nothing like from the textbook examples. I think I failed it.”

  Mom frowns with worry. “How much do these surprise tests account for?”

  “Five percent of my total mark.”

  “Maybe there’s a disconnect between the curriculum in Alberta and here. I could talk to this teacher—”

  “Mom.”

  “Exactly! I’m your mother. If you need help, we’ll figure it out. I’m sure you’re not the only one who’s having a tough time.” She breaks off a chunk of zucchini loaf from my plate for herself. “What else?”

  Zucchini in cake doesn’t sound all that appealing but neither does telling Mom that I recorded Holly in the bathroom today. I shove a piece into my mouth, savoring the warm chocolate chips while I stall on my next words. “I told Cassie I’d go to the animal shelter with her next Tuesday after school,” I say instead. There are some things my mother is better off not knowing.

  Mom stares at me as I drag my finger through the melted smears of chocolate on my plate, and I begin to worry that she can tell I’m hiding something. But when I dare look up again, it’s into eyes that shine with pride. “That’s a great idea, Aria.”

  I shrug. “I need volunteer hours anyway.”

  “I was going to mention that. I had lunch with Heather today and she told me that every student needs forty hours of volunteer hours to graduate high school.”

  “Yeah, it was in the paperwork that Ms. Moretti gave me.”

  “So, maybe you should see if you can collect your hours there, too. Cassie goes twice a week to spend time with the animals. Apparently, they all love her there. Not that that’s a surprise. That girl just has a way about her. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  I chew the
inside of my mouth. Not according to Holly.

  “Any big plans for this weekend?”

  “Homework.” I collect my backpack and the laptop. Hiding in my room while I figure out what to do about this recording I have on my phone.

  “Why don’t you start it here while I keep sorting through these cupboards?”

  I give her a flat look.

  “What? I like your company,” Mom says innocently, collecting the dirty dishes and carrying them to the sink.

  “No, you want to monitor what I’m doing, and who I’m talking to, and what’s being said. You don’t need me to sit in the kitchen to do that.” She has a desktop spyware program that’ll give her everything she needs—my location, my texts, my websites visited. Everything. She has become Big Brother.

  She twists her lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But we’ve talked about this already, Aria. I just … I worry, and for good reason.”

  I swallow. “Things are a lot better here, Mom. I’m better. But I can’t become that weirdo at school who’s not allowed to have an Instagram account.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom scoffs. “That doesn’t make you weird.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “I don’t have an Instagram account. Does that make me weird?”

  “You’re not in high school. Even Cassie has an account.”

  “She does?” Mom frowns with amusement. “What does she post about?”

  “Dogs.”

  “Of course.” Mom laughs, then shakes her head. “Fine. If you want to start a new Instagram account—if it’s important to you—then you can. I’m not trying to stifle you, Aria. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “I know. But you don’t have to worry about me like that anymore.”

  “I’m your mother. I will always worry about you.”

  I push my open phone to her, wary that she’ll change her mind if I give her too much time to dwell on the past.

  With a heavy sigh, she wipes her hands on her jeans and then begins punching in keys. “Seeing as I can monitor what you’re doing anyway, I’m going to disable the parental control. Just make sure your account is set to private and don’t use your name on your profile. Or your face.” A year ago, my mother had no idea how Instagram worked. Now she’s well versed in all the ways someone can send hateful messages.

  “I wasn’t going to anyway.”

  She holds up her finger in warning. “And I want the account info. Password and everything.”

  “Of course.” I snatch the last bite of zucchini bread—I hate to confess that it’s good—and head to my room, feeling a small surge of victory.

  * * *

  Dogs, standing.

  Dogs, sitting.

  Dogs, running.

  Dogs, jumping.

  I shake my head as I scroll through Cassie’s profile. There’s even a close-up of a dog’s eyeball with a caption that reads “Bert’s eye,” followed by several laughing emojis. She’s a one-girl publicity department for the Eastmonte Animal Shelter. Of course, she’s only advertising to her circle of thirty-six people. Thirty-seven, now that she accepted my friend request, after I texted to get her handle and to give her mine: therunningllama.

  I spy Emmett’s profile in Cassie’s list of followers—my real motivation for searching out Cassie. His icon is a professional photographer’s action shot of him on the ice. Of course. I click on the link and my stomach tightens with excitement, seeing that it’s not set to private. He has over two thousand followers.

  Curling up in the window seat, I begin to scroll. He doesn’t post often, and when he does, it’s usually something about hockey or his team. Where there is the odd picture of him without a helmet, I linger, my heart rate spiking.

  It’s at least twenty pictures before I come across a picture of him and Holly, taken last Christmas based on their matching Christmas sweaters. There’s another one of them, lying side by side in the snow, laughing.

  I can’t help myself—I click on the tag that takes me to Holly’s profile.

  It’s full of pictures of Holly and Emmett, of Holly alone, and beautiful candid shots of Emmett that make my heart ache, all of them with a slew of hashtags that stake her claim over him.

  He’s all mine.

  That’s what she said in the bathroom today.

  My teeth grit at that wide, toothy smile.

  What a phony.

  A horn honks outside and I peer out the window to see a black SUV waiting in the Hartford driveway. Moments later, Emmett strolls out of the house in a dark-gray suit and silver tie, his stick in one hand, his enormous hockey bag in the other. He rounds the truck to toss his equipment in the back before climbing into the passenger seat.

  They wear suits to games? Hockey is weird.

  I grab a nearby book and pretend to read as the SUV backs out of the driveway. It’s Friday night. Will Emmett feel sorry for me if he happens to look up here and see me alone?

  Did he actually say that to Holly?

  My chest burns with equal parts anger and embarrassment.

  Once the SUV is out of sight, I slide my earbuds in and replay the audio recording for the sixth time tonight, in all its unmistakable glory.

  Proving that the only pretty thing about Holly is her big, fake smile.

  10

  Dear Julia,

  WHAT SHOULD I DO?

  I know what I WANT to do—send that video to Emmett. I have his number. I could do it. But what will he think? Is Jen right? Will he be pissed with Holly? Will he dump her for what she said? She’d deserve it.

  But what if he doesn’t, and he’s pissed at me for recording her? Plus, my mom will KILL me if she finds out I was hiding in a bathroom stall, recording conversations, which means I can’t send this video to Emmett; she’d see it in her spyware.

  So maybe I should just play it for her, and see what she says. Holly’s a horrible person. My mom would see that in a heartbeat.

  Or she could demand that I delete it. Then I don’t have proof. Then Holly gets to keep strutting around being the Queen of Fake while talking trash about Cassie and me, and Jen, and who knows who else, all while pretending she’s this sweet angel and sucking on Emmett’s neck like a damn vampire (I’ve definitely been around Uncle Merv too much).

  See the dilemma I’m in, Julia?

  I know what I want to do. The thing is, I also know why I want to do it, and my reasoning probably isn’t all that noble.

  ~AJ

  * * *

  Eastmonte cross-country team, Practice tomorrow morning (Monday) is cancelled due to inclement weather. Thx, Ms. Moretti.

  I fall back into my bed, surrounded by textbooks, and let the relief swarm my body. Thank you, lightning. Without that forecast, we’d be running in rain tomorrow morning and that is a crappy way to start off a week.

  My phone chirps with an incoming text and my heart skips a beat when Emmett’s name shows up at the top.

  You see Moretti’s email?

  Between hockey and Holly, Emmett was out most of the weekend, which is probably a good thing because I haven’t figured out what to tell him yet, if anything. There’s a good chance that if I show Emmett the video, he’ll break up with Holly, and I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want that. But the thing is, she deserves it for the things she said—not about Jen and me but about Cassie. The more times I listen to it, the more I convince myself that that’s reason enough to out her.

  Sure, Cassie’s one of the most awkward girls I’ve ever met, but, funnily enough, she’s grown on me. I may never be able to have a deep conversation with her, but she’ll always be genuinely happy to see me. And if she heard what Holly said about her? Just the thought makes me want to march across the lawn and play the recording for Emmett.

  But, if this were any other guy, if I’d overheard this conversation in the bathroom, would I care as much? Probably not. I’d probably tell myself to keep moving. I’m not interested in becoming known like that at Eastmonte. I don’t want to bri
ng attention to myself. Attention breeds whispers and whispers breed rumors, and rumors somehow become facts. Usually ugly and untrue facts that people want to believe.

  But Emmett should know who he’s dating. He deserves to know the kinds of things Holly is saying about his sister behind his back. And if he wants to stay with her after that …

  Jen said it best—the fantasy will be crushed. And maybe that would be a good thing for me, because pining for a guy I can’t be with is not how I saw myself starting over in this new life.

  I respond with “Yup. See You at 8,” and then toss my phone and count my stars.

  * * *

  Morning announcements crackle over the PA system and my stomach curls as I watch Holly skate her fingertip over Emmett’s collar, pausing to tickle the spot where the hickey has finally faded.

  “Still not funny,” he warns.

  As if sensing my scalding gaze, she peers over her shoulder at me. “Hey, Aria! Ready for the first meet next week?”

  “Yup.” I struggle to keep the sharpness from my tone.

  Her blue eyes flicker to Jen, to her shirt—a peach-colored, long sleeve with a unicorn wearing a party hat on the front. It’s equal parts hilarious and embarrassing. “I love your shirt, Jennifer. It’s so cute.”

  Jen offers a tight smile, as if she can sense the inauthenticity. “Thanks.”

  Holly catches her friend Lindsay’s eye and they share a secretive smile. Obviously, the catty conversation I overheard in the bathroom isn’t the first of its kind. And, as much as I agree that Jen’s wardrobe choices are an abomination, that Holly is mocking her makes my anger flare.

  “She goes by Jen,” I blurt out. “She doesn’t like being called Jennifer.”

  Holly’s mouth gapes open. “Oh my God! Are you serious?” She presses her hand against her chest, over her heart. “I had no idea! I’m so sorry. I feel horrible!”