Tease(36)

“It was true that Emma was a . . . slut?”

I can tell it hurts Teresa to say the word out loud, but I’m relieved she seems to finally get it. “Yes,” I say.

“For having a few different relationships?”

“Pfft,” I sputter. “A few? Yeah, she had a few. In the span of a few months.”

“But why should that make you angry?”

“Because one of them was with my boyfriend!” God, maybe she isn’t getting it, after all.

“Weren’t you already angry with her before she . . . ‘hooked up’ with Dylan?”

“I already knew she was a slut,” I say, ignoring her awkward use of teen-speak. “I don’t know why you keep saying I was angry.”

“You seem angry now,” Teresa says gently.

“Yeah, well, now I am! She completely ruined my life!”

“But her life is over,” Teresa points out. Her voice is very quiet and measured, but she’s staring at me like I’m a bug under a microscope. One that’s trying to escape.

And I do shift on the couch, suddenly feeling hot instead of cold, wanting to get out of here.

“Emma’s life is over because of Emma,” I say. “I didn’t kill her. Brielle didn’t kill her, the guys didn’t kill her. Maybe someone should blame her parents for making her transfer schools a million times. Or just being crappy parents, or whatever, I don’t know. I just wanted her to stay away from me and my boyfriend, and she wouldn’t.”

I’m panting a little bit, feeling like I just ran around the block at top speed. I can’t look Teresa in the eye, though I know she’s still giving me that stare, but anywhere I look all I can see is Emma’s hair. All that red hair, hanging from the garage ceiling. I wasn’t there, of course, and I’ve tried so hard not to even think about it for a second. And now I feel like I’m standing in that garage, I can’t stop seeing that hair, just hanging down, lifeless but bloodred, obliterating her pretty face.

Her stupid, stupid, pretty face. What the f*ck, Emma? I think. If I had been there, if I had been anywhere—for months, that’s all I wanted to say to her. What the f*ck? What is wrong with you? What the f*ck are you doing?

My breathing is even faster now, and I feel kind of numb. There’s a whirring sound coming from somewhere, and the cold garage in my mind shifts into a smooth cold cloud, a white, freezing cloud where my head should be, floating away from the rest of me. It seems like Teresa is beside me on the couch, smoothing her hand on my back, like she’s always been there. Through the tunnel of fuzzy noise I hear her say, “Lean over,” but her voice is coming from a long time ago. I mean, a long way away. I mean, it’s a far sound . . . a long distance . . . a . . .

I think my eyes were closed. I’m not sure, though. All I know is that I’m staring at the ceiling and it’s suddenly in focus.

I’m lying down on the couch, but my feet are still on the floor. My hands are folded on my stomach. I feel them out of nowhere, like the view of the ceiling, something that wasn’t there a second ago. Teresa is putting something wet on my forehead and talking quietly.

“Don’t worry, you’re okay, you just fainted for a minute, you’re fine now,” she’s chanting.

It’s a wet cloth on my head, and when I reach up to pull it off, my arm feels heavy and watery.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Teresa asks. “I think I have some cookies at my desk, stay here . . .”

She moves away and I go to sit up, but the rest of my body is cold and watery too. And heavy. So I stay down. I stare at the line of paint, at the turning point from the wall to the ceiling.

I never faint. I’m not a fainter. I always kind of wanted to—it’s such a girly, old-fashioned thing to do. To swoon. Some guy is supposed to catch you. I mean, it would be better if it happened that way. This way is just stupid.

It’s the stupid heat, I think vaguely. Or maybe Teresa just said that?

She comes back and I eat one of those Pepperidge Farm fruit cookies, still lying down. I think I must have crumbs all over my face and in my hair, and it kind of tastes like dust, but I eat it fast. When I’m done I’m able to sit up and say, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Teresa says. She’s back in her chair, but she’s leaning over her knees, not holding her pad and pen like always. “Why don’t we call it a day? I’ll leave you here to rest for a few more minutes, all right?”

I nod, though I don’t feel like staying.

“I’ll step out, and I’m going to call your mother,” she says, standing up.

“No,” I say, my voice suddenly loud. “Don’t.”

She looks down at me and I know she wants to ask another damn question. But for once she just nods and says, “Okay. I’ll be back in about five minutes to get you.”

I close my eyes as she shuts the door. For a second the image of Emma flares up again, red and white and cold and hot, and I think I’m going to throw up the cookie.

I open my eyes again and Emma disappears. It’s just the old wooden coffee table with the box of tissues. Teresa’s worn-out chair. My knees are still pale after this long, long summer spent inside, talking about my feelings, talking about a girl I barely knew who didn’t want to live.