Tease(4)

“Uch, yeah,” she says. She tilts her head to the side and shrugs, her perfect beach hair falling over her shoulders in its perfectly highlighted, slight messy waves. I resist the urge to touch my unintentionally messy ponytail.

She looks like maybe she’s put on a little weight, though, and she isn’t as tan as I would’ve expected for this far into the summer. The Greggses have a huge pool in their backyard, so usually Brielle and I are both pretty dark by the time school starts in the fall. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been spending all her time inside, watching TV or sleeping.

“This whole thing is such bullshit,” she says. She doesn’t actually sound worried. Just tired. Or maybe . . . Is she stoned? I actually open my mouth to ask before thinking better of it. “Oh,” she goes on, waving her hand like she’s daintily chasing away a fly, “I guess we’re not supposed to talk.”

When she says that her voice gets an edge to it, like it was my idea not to talk and she’s mad at me. “I—” I start to say, then stop. Suddenly I miss my best friend so much—so much it feels like a physical pain, like the heat that’s still trapped in my hands after grabbing the sunbaked steering wheel. “How are you?” I finally manage.

“Well, I’m fat,” she says with a dry laugh. She’s not fat, of course. I’m shaking my head and she adds, “No, I totally am. I can’t, like, go to the gym anymore, my parents are being total Hitlers. God, Emma really f*cked everything up, right?”

She rolls her eyes in that dramatic way she always has and I nod, totally agreeing. God, what a relief, after all this time, to know she’s still there, she still gets how hard this is, she doesn’t hate me—

I want to walk around the car, to reach out and just hug her—even though we never really do that—but I haven’t moved an inch before her face changes completely, goes totally back to that casual, not-a-care-in-the-world expression.

“Blah blah blah,” she says, shaking out her hands at her sides, shaking it all off. She’s definitely stoned. “You look skinny, you whore.”

I look down, trying not to smile or be too flattered. “Thanks,” I say, but my voice is too quiet. A little louder I add, “You look great, really. It’s nice to see you.”

“Yeah, right—so nice you almost hit me with your car!” she says with a laugh. The edge is back in her voice, and I don’t know what I said wrong. “Anyway, you’re leaving, I just wanted to say hi. So, you know, hi. And bye! Ha!”

And just like that, before I can even say “Hi”—or “Bye”—back, Brielle has disappeared into the rows of cars.

When I get back into my car, I just turn the AC off. It feels better to be too hot. I feel like I’m suffocating, anyway, and what difference does it make if it’s hard to breathe? It’s always hard to breathe now. I haven’t had a good, deep breath in months.





January


“I’M TELLING YOU—SHE must’ve gotten his number from someone else’s phone. Like probably Tyler—”

“Bullshit. Jesus, Sara, you are so naive when you want to be.”

I pull up my chemistry book protectively, as if covering my boobs will make what Brielle is saying not true. As if I could just curl up and pretend that my boyfriend, Dylan, who is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, isn’t getting texts from another girl. And that I don’t know this because I didn’t find one.

“You don’t have to whip out the vocab words,” I tell my alleged best friend, but she’s rolling her eyes at me.

“Okay, fine, you’re a dumb bitch—is that better?” She starts walking toward Chem and I trail after her. She struts past a group of senior guys and they all nod hello, turning to keep watching even after she’s nodded back. “You know they’re in Language Arts together,” she’s saying to me, “and you know she keeps hooking up with Jacob and Tyler, and you know she’s a dirty skank. Don’t assume she’s not creeping up on your man.”

“But he doesn’t even know her!” I hate the squeak in my voice. I hate the tears that choke up behind my eyes. I already cried about this last night; I don’t need Brielle and the whole world to see me break down now, in the middle of the hallway.

But suddenly Brielle turns and looks so sorry for me that I really do almost cry again.

“Oh, honey,” she says kindly. “It’s not Dylan’s fault, I know that! He’s just a stupid boy. Of course he loves you. But boys don’t know how to deal with sluts like Emma Putnam. He’s used to nice girls like you!”

She gives me a lightning-quick hug, crushing my textbook to my chest, then holds my shoulders for a second before letting go. I give her a little smile, trying to seem like I’m not falling apart over this.

“It’s Emma,” she goes on, leading the way into Chem lab. “Trash needs to be taken out, for reals. Who knew a sophomore could be such a freaking pain in my ass?”

I grunt in agreement as we sit down at our table. Our lab partners, Jeff Marsh and Seamus O’Leary (Brielle calls him Irish O’Irish), are already perched on the stools across from us, and we smirk at them. They aren’t exactly the coolest guys in school, but they usually do most of the work in this class and let us copy their answers. I’m actually better at chemistry than either one of them—or I was at the beginning of the year, anyway. I only have two classes with Brielle this semester, so we need to spend the whole time talking. I don’t think my grades are gonna be so hot in Chem or PE this term, but at least Jeff and Seamus will keep me from failing this class.