Tease(25)

He’s backing out of the parking lot, craning his head over his shoulder to see behind him, when he adds, “Why’s Brielle such a bitch about Emma, anyway?”

I look over at him, startled. The car jerks as he shifts from reverse to drive, and underneath me I feel the heated seat kick in, starting to burn the backs of my legs.

“Brielle’s not a bitch,” I protest, but he laughs.

“Um, yeah, she is,” Dylan says. “She’s, like, the Original Bitch. The O.B.”

My mouth is hanging open, waiting for some words to come out. But I don’t know what to say. I never know what to say. Is my boyfriend really being mean about my best friend?

“She’s cool, though,” he says. “I just think you guys don’t need to get so mad at Emma. She’s a cool girl.”

“To you, maybe,” I mutter.

“Come on, you know what I mean,” Dylan says. He reaches across the car and grabs for my hand. I have it tucked under my legs for warmth, but I let him take it. “And really, Emma’s totally fun when you get to know her. And she’s nice, like you. I think you guys could chill, you know?”

I don’t know. I don’t want to know. What is once you get to know her supposed to mean, anyway? What does Dylan know about Emma being fun? Not just fun—totally fun.

I stare out the front window, blinking fast so I don’t cry. I’m holding Dylan’s hand, I remind myself. I’m his girlfriend. He just said I’m nice and fun.

Just like Emma.

After school I drive to the fancy mall with Brielle in the passenger seat. We’re going lingerie shopping for the dance. It might be fun, or I think it’s supposed to be fun. But Brielle hates my car, which I know because every time I drive she complains nonstop, like she’s doing now.

“What is this?” Brielle asks, not kindly, grabbing my iPod and turning on the screen. Just as I’m opening my mouth she says, “Who are the National? That’s a stupid name.”

“C’mon, they’re my favorite, you should just listen,” I protest. Lately I feel like I’m always playing defense around Brielle, always explaining something. But the explanation is never good enough.

“Whatever,” she says, throwing the iPod back down on the console. “You and your deep thoughts. Blech, I hope you don’t go all emo on me again.”

It’s been forever since my emo phase, but I don’t say that—and I also don’t point out that it seems like she’s the one being all moody. She stares out the window sulkily for a while, then turns back to crank up the heat. “God, it’s like a freaking freezer in here. We should’ve taken my car.”

I swear I’m the only one in our group of friends who doesn’t drive a big SUV. Brielle’s “car” is a silver Mercedes M-Class that probably cost more than my house, and we almost always do take it. But I really like to drive. And I really like to be able to listen to my own music. I mean, singing along to Beyoncé is fun and everything, but sometimes I like to be the one in control for a change.

“Sorry,” I say. “You’ll drive next time. And we’re almost there, anyway.”

We’re pulling into the parking lot, actually, and I don’t even bother to find a spot close to the door; I just pull in at the first open space on the side with the Nordstrom. And for some reason, after we’re parked, I reach over and grab Brielle’s hand. We’re not affectionate like this—there are girls at school who walk around with their arms linked or do each other’s hair all the time or whatever, but we don’t really touch besides the times Brielle does my nails. But right now I take her hand in both of mine, and it is cold, and I give it a friendly little shake. It’s something I’d do with my little brothers to snap them out of a bad mood, and I guess the instinct just takes over.

“Hey,” I say brightly, “let’s go buy some sexy-time underwear!” I grin like an idiot and wait for her to laugh.

Instead, Brielle bursts into tears. Her head falls to her chest and she’s shaking, sobbing.

My heart stops. I’ve never seen this. Brielle is not a crier. Not even when her parents separated for a month back in ninth grade and she thought they were going to get divorced. She’s barely a talker, even—she’s always got a plan, a joke, a designer suit of armor to throw on in any situation. But now she’s full-on ugly crying, her mouth open and turned down like a sad clown doll, snot already starting to come out of her nose.

I reach into the back seat and grab a couple of tissues, grateful that I always keep a box in here and even more grateful that Alex hasn’t used them all. Brielle takes the whole handful and covers her face, then folds herself over, face down on her knees. She’s shaking, and all I can do from here is rub her back. The car is still on, so with my other hand I reach over and turn the heat up full-blast, hoping that will help a little. She’s wearing her puffy white down coat—I have no idea how her hands could even be that cold. I’m also not sure she can feel my hand through the layers of down, but I keep circling it on her back, just quietly waiting for her to sit back up and—I hope—tell me what the hell is going on.

After what feels like an hour, Brielle throws herself back up into a sitting position. I jerk my hand away in surprise and try not to gasp when I see that she’s got mascara all down her cheeks, like the cartoon version of a girl crying. She’s even a little puffy. I cannot stop being shocked by seeing her so upset. And I completely don’t know what to say.