Tragedy Girl

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  “Oh, right,” I say haltingly. “He’ll pick up Jamie and me, then we’ll swing by your house, and—”

  “Perfect,” Melanie says, discreetly slipping the note back into her backpack just as Natalie walks past us. “Well, gotta go. If I get to my fourth-period class early, I’ll have time to study for my quiz.”

  Lauren and I follow her lead, standing up and collecting our trays. After we put them on the conveyor belt, I lean closer to Lauren.

  “Sorry again,” I say in a lowered voice. “I’m just a little freaked out by this.”

  She gives me a level gaze. “I get that. But Mel and I … we go way back. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  I nod, my eyes oozing remorse.

  “Hey, no harm, no foul,” Lauren says, then offers a smile.

  As I smile back, I see Blake and Jamie heading into the cafeteria. Melanie sidles playfully up to Jamie, taking his hand as she looks at him coyly, her chin tilted down. Blake approaches me and kisses me on the cheek. “God, you look gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear.

  I smile, but then shiver as I notice a pair of eyes boring into mine from the lunch line.

  Natalie is staring at me, a cold, hard stare. My lashes flutter for a second, but she’s still holding her gaze.

  “What is it?” Blake asks.

  I shake my head and say, “Nothing,” but he’s already looking around. When his eyes lock with Natalie’s, he sets his jaw and tenses his muscles.

  “It’s nothing, Blake,” I say, but he’s giving her a steely glare.

  Only then does Natalie turn away and finish filling her tray. But she sneaks one last glance at me as I walk out of the cafeteria.

  I duck my head and rush off to class, shuddering as my mind subconsciously matches Natalie’s expression with the words on the note:

  Rethink your love life. Your life may depend on it.

  Twelve

  “I’m waiting.”

  I glance up at Blake and smile shyly. “Sure,” I say. “I’d love to.”

  Only a day has passed since Natalie shot me her death glare in the cafeteria, and I’m still a little rattled. Blake’s just asked me to join his family this Sunday for dinner (“Your turn for twenty questions,” he gleefully informed me), and I feel terrible that my hesitation might have suggested a lack of enthusiasm.

  “That sounds great,” I continue, feeling slightly perkier after a quick scan of the hallway indicates Natalie is nowhere in sight. But then, the day is young …

  “It’s Natalie, isn’t it,” Blake says in a tight voice.

  “No.”

  “I saw the way she was looking at you yesterday,” he says, hitting his locker door with the side of his fist.

  “It’s nothing, Blake. It’s fine … ”

  Blake notices his brother walking by and takes him by the arm. “Hey, Garrett.”

  Garrett slows his stride. “Yeah.”

  “That psycho Natalie? She’s still messing with Anne.”

  Garrett’s eyes study mine. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I assure him, shaking my head briskly. “She hasn’t said a word to me since the bonfire. I guess she kinda gave me the evil eye yesterday in the cafeteria, but it’s totally—”

  “What’s so weird is that I’ve never even given her the time of day,” Blake says. “That girl means nothing to me.”

  Garrett eyes his brother warily. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  Blake huffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Garrett shrugs. “Remember how she was always visiting you in the hospital when you were sick? Always bringing you things? She even made that scrapbook for you … ”

  Blake tosses his head back and moans. “Who gives a crap?” he asks. “Lots of people did nice things for me when I was sick. Am I supposed to marry all of them?”

  Garrett looks at me, and my eyes skitter away. I feel so awkward being pulled into this drama. Sure, I understand Blake’s point—Natalie certainly wouldn’t be my first choice of a friend, no matter how many brownies she baked for me—but my heart feels a slight stab as I imagine how much she must really care about him, and how his indifference must cut like a knife. Yes, she’s a world-class flake, but Blake—Blake of all people—could certainly muster a bit of compassion for someone who’s been so nice to him … couldn’t he? I’m just not sure how I feel. Am I being hopelessly naïve, or is Blake being a bit harsh? All I know is that it’s hard looking Blake or Garrett in the eye right now.

  “I’m not saying you should marry her,” Garrett tells his brother. “I’m just trying to sort out why—”

  “Sorry, guys, but Anne and I have to go.”

  We all look at Melanie, who has just speed-walked to my locker and is now pulling me insistently away, her lips pinched into a taut straight line.

  “What in the world … ” I murmur as she leads me down the hall, huddling close to my side as we walk.

  She leans into my ear to deliver the news:

  “I got another note.”

  Melanie shushes me when I gasp.

  “What does it say?” I ask as we round the corner toward our first-period class.

  “I’ll show it to you when we get to our desks.”

  Our shoes click on the tile as we rush inside.

  Melanie scans the room as we enter. “Good. We’re the first ones here.”

  Even the teacher isn’t here yet; the bell won’t ring for another seven minutes or so. As we take our seats, Melanie reaches into her backpack and pulls out a piece of paper.

  She hands it to me somberly. I hesitate for just a beat, then take it from her and begin reading the neat, slanted cursive in dark-blue ink:

  Melanie,

  I’m sorry I freaked you out by writing you an anonymous note, and I’m sorry it had to be anonymous. If you understood the circumstances, you’d know why I can’t sign this one either. I really do hate that. It’s not my style.

  I was hoping a minimum of words would get my message across the first time, but I see you didn’t take my advice. I’m thinking of nothing but your best interests as I beg you to reconsider. Stop dating Jamie. I’ll repeat what I said in the last note, because it’s true: your life may depend on it. He’s bad news. Worse news than you can know. The only reason I’m going out on a limb to tell you this is because I, unlike Jamie, care about people. Even though I don’t know you, I don’t want any harm to come your way. I vowed I would share this warning with anyone Jamie dated, so now I’m sharing it with you. Please listen this time so both of us can get back to our lives and I can stop freaking you out.

  I slowly lift my head. Melanie is wide-eyed.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask.

  “It was in my locker this morning,” she whispers, then presses a finger against her lips as she nods toward the handful of students filtering into the room.

  “Natalie … ?” I whisper.

  Melanie nods. “It has to be.”

  “But whoever wrote this says she doesn’t know you.”

  “So you think Natalie’s above lying?”

  “I don’t know what to think … ”

  “Lauren has second period with her,” Melanie says. “She’s going to pass her a question in a note so she can get a sample of her handwriting.”

  I’m tempted to protest—isn’t there enough game-playing going on?—but I learned my lesson the day before. I don’t get to call the shots in this deal. They’re Melanie’s notes, as Lauren so pointedly emphasized. We’re clear now about that, if nothing else, since the writer calls both Melanie and Jamie by name. This really doesn’t have to concern me at all … does it? I mean, of course I’m concerned for Melanie and Jamie, and of course I’m curious, but this is about them … right?

  So why do I feel such a thud in my stomach?

 
Lauren shakes her head. “They don’t match at all.”

  Melanie and I lean closer to the two notes on the cafeteria table and peer intensely at them, our eyes darting from one to the other and back again.

  “Make sure you keep them covered,” Melanie tells me nervously, and I tighten the boundary of my arm.

  We squint at them a few more moments, then I say, “Lauren’s right. There’s no way the same person wrote these two notes.”

  “But all she says in her note to Lauren is Tuesday at 10:30,” Melanie says. “That’s not nearly enough of a sample to compare the letter to.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Lauren grouses. “Ask her if she could write the first chapter of War and Peace from memory? Somehow it seemed less suspicious to ask when our French test is.”

  “It’s enough to tell the handwriting doesn’t match,” I say.

  We sigh and lean back in our chairs, Melanie slipping the notes back into her backpack.

  “It has to be her … ” Melanie says, more to herself than to Lauren and me. “People can fake their handwriting, you know.”

  “Was your locker locked?” I ask her.

  “Please. That lock’s probably been busted since my mother went to school here.”

  “So anyone could have put it there … ”

  “But who else would have wanted to?” Melanie asks.

  “Why would Natalie want to?” Lauren says, clicking her fingernails against the table. “It’s like we’ve said all along: she’s into Blake, not Jamie. Hasn’t she made that painfully obvious by now?”

  “She just likes to stir things up in general,” Melanie says. “And messing with Blake’s best friend would be kind of like messing with him … by proxy.”

  “She doesn’t want to mess with Blake, she wants to marry him,” Lauren reminds us. “Anne’s the one she’s messing with—and in very non-subtle ways. She’s not making any secrets of her feelings. Why sneak around?”

  “But she overheard us yesterday when we were talking about going out this weekend,” Melanie say. “She was walking right past us when we were talking about it. Bingo: she has new information, so time to swoop in again … right?”

  “Let me see the note again,” Lauren says, “the second one.”

  Melanie digs it out of her backpack, glances around surreptitiously, and hands it to her under the table.

  Lauren studies it, then says, “It’s folded like it was in an envelope.”

  Melanie nods. “It was. A sealed envelope.”

  “Was anything written on the envelope?”

  Melanie shakes her head.

  A moment passes, then Lauren asks me, “What are you thinking?”

  “Who, me?”

  “You look like you’re thinking something important,” she says, and I realize I’ve been peering into space.

  I shrug. “I’m just starting to wonder if we’re asking the right questions.”

  “What do you mean?” Melanie says.

  “I mean, we’re spending all this time wondering who wrote the note. Maybe what’s more important is knowing why. We sure are giving the letter-writer a lot of attention. Maybe the person we should be focused on … is Jamie.”

  Thirteen

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Melanie crosses her arms. “They’re my notes, Anne,” she reminds me, “not yours.”

  She holds an even gaze for a moment, then softens ever so slightly. “I didn’t mean to sound snotty,” she tells me, squinting into the late-afternoon sun as students amble toward their cars or buses in the school parking lot. “I know this is creeping you out too.”

  Still, Melanie was clearly stung when I suggested in the lunchroom that Jamie, not the letter-writer, was the person we should really be worried about. She’s been kind of cold all afternoon, and now she’s floating an idea that she knows I won’t like: showing the notes to Jamie. Jamie, of all people.

  I feel terrible that I’ve cast aspersions on him—yes, I get that the letter writer is probably full of crap—but how can we not at least consider taking the notes at face value?

  I tug on my backpack strap. “It’s just … I hate to give those stupid notes so much power. The writer is obviously trying to get a rise out of us … well, out of you. If we start showing the notes to other people, it’ll just fuel the flames. Why give her the satisfaction?”

  “Her,” Melanie repeats pointedly. “So you think it’s Natalie too.”

  I sigh. “Okay, let’s say it is Natalie. We already know she’s a flake, so, duh, now we have more evidence. Big whoop. The important thing is that we also know she’s harmless.”

  “Do we?” Melanie says, a hint of urgency in her voice.

  I give her a level gaze. “She’s the kind of person who brings brownies to guys in hospitals,” I remind her. “She’s insecure, not vicious.”

  Melanie sucks in her lips. “The things she said to you at the bonfire were pretty vicious.”

  I shake my head, a muggy breeze rustling through my hair. “Still, I don’t think she’s going to bring an Uzi to school if you don’t break up with Jamie. She’s just trying to create drama. Wouldn’t we be playing right into her hands if half the school was suddenly talking about her ridiculous anonymous notes?”

  A steady stream of students walks past us on the sidewalk.

  “I’m not talking about showing the notes to half the school,” Melanie says, whispering now. “I’m talking about showing them to Jamie. He deserves to know somebody is ragging on him.”

  My shoulders droop. “But if Jamie knows, then Blake will find out, and he’s already upset about Natalie, so … ”

  Melanie observes me coolly. “Jamie doesn’t tell Blake everything.”

  My eyebrows knit together. “Doesn’t he?”

  “It’s so insulting. Everybody acts like Jamie is just an extension of Blake. He’s his own person, you know. An awesome person.”

  I look at her quizzically. “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “Our whole lives don’t revolve around you guys, you know.”

  I hug my arms together. “What do you mean?”

  She gives me a sly smile. “I mean we kinda hooked up last night.”

  My jaw drops.

  “Why are you so stunned?” Melanie asks. “We are dating, after all. It’s not like we signed a contract to only hang out with you and Blake. Not that we don’t like hanging out with—”

  “Where did you see him?” I ask, my stomach muscles tensing as I mentally review the messages from the notes.

  Melanie tosses her head jauntily. “I called him. I told him I didn’t want to wait until Saturday to spend more time with him, that I’d been thinking about him since our pool game and couldn’t get him off my mind. I really like him, Anne. I’m going for it this time.”

  “So … he came to your house?”

  She nods. “He picked me up and we went out for ice cream. Then we sat in his car in my driveway for … a very long time.”

  I bite my bottom lip lightly.

  Melanie seems to be gauging my reaction. “I don’t hook up with just anybody,” she tells me defensively. “I mean it, Anne. I really like Jamie.”

  I nod, feeling my heart beat against my blouse.

  “But we didn’t even really … do anything last night. I mean, we kissed—he’s a great kisser—but when it got heavier than that, he … ”

  A distant rumble of thunder churns in an otherwise sunny sky. “He what?” I prod.

  Melanie’s lashes flicker. “He … started crying.”

  I shift my weight, slipping a hand into my jeans pocket. “Oh.”

  “He cried for a long time,” Melanie says, a faraway look in her eyes. “I kept asking him why, but he wouldn’t tell me. He just … held me really tight. Like, clutched me,
almost. It broke my heart to see him cry, but it was so touching. It was like he knew he was safe with me, knew he could let down his guard. I’ve never felt so close to a guy.”

  Melanie studies my face, then says, “Whoever wrote those notes is just messing with me, Anne. There’s nothing dangerous about Jamie. He’s the most gentle, sweet guy in the world. And he deserves to know somebody’s spreading rumors about him.”

  Another rumble of thunder rolls, this one closer. “Are you going to see him tonight?” I ask her.

  Melanie shakes her head. “He’s going out of town overnight with his family. I’ll show him the notes on our date tomorrow. And I think Blake should see them too. If it’s Natalie, he’ll know better than any of the rest of us how to handle it. He’s the one she’s obsessed with, after all.”

  I swallow hard, then nod reluctantly. “Okay,” I say, wishing I could untangle the knot in my stomach.

  I guess it gives me some reassurance to know that Melanie thinks Jamie is the world’s sweetest guy. But I barely know him, and I have a nagging suspicion that Melanie might not know him as well as she thinks she does.

  That letter writer might be unhinged, but she—she, he, whoever—definitely knows something about Jamie that we don’t.

  I can’t help wondering what it is.

  I smile as I see my head bobbing out of the water, Mom and Dad on either side of me.

  I’m about eight in the photo, and frothy waves are splashing all around us.

  I smile wistfully as my finger traces the picture, the clock on my bedside table ticking in the stillness. I’m having a hard time falling asleep tonight—another friggin’ note, for crying out loud—so for the first time since the accident, I’m lying in bed thumbing through a photo album, one of several Aunt Meg stacked on the bookshelf when I moved in.

  The picture I’m gazing at was taken right here on Hollis Island during high tide. I always loved high tide the best, when the waves can sweep you ten feet in the air, then either carry you to the shore or crash mercilessly over your head. Part of the fun was never knowing whether you were going to be whisked along with the wave, feeling like you were flying on a magic carpet, or unceremoniously dunked into the sea, thrashed about like a hand towel in a washing machine. I was up for either scenario, and I always went back for more. The bigger the waves, the better. I loved the rough-and-tumble dance with the ocean.