Tease(43)

Then Natalie says, “Now, on March first you visited Miss Putnam’s home, is that right?”

“Yes,” I say. I feel Mom sit up a little straighter. She hasn’t heard this before, I don’t think.

“With Miss Greggs?”

“Yeah. She drove,” I add, since Natalie likes to point out anything that makes Brielle look more guilty. Obviously I feel like a total bitch doing this, but it’s too late now. My whole life depends on how guilty Brielle is. Or anyway, that’s what I tell myself. There’s got to be someone to blame.

“Okay. And why were you and Miss Greggs visiting the Putnam home?”

“To . . . um.” I clear my throat. “We wanted to tell Emma’s mom, Mrs. Putnam, that Emma had been . . . you know, hooking up with, um, some guys who were . . . who were older.”

“You wanted Mrs. Putnam to know that her sixteen-year-old daughter was having sex with young men who were over the age of consent?” Natalie says smoothly.

“Yeah. I mean, I guess so.” My mouth feels dry again. I grab the bottle of water on the table in front of me and gulp some down. A little bit spills on my chest, the part that’s not covered by my tank top. It’s so cold it burns.

“You were concerned about Emma’s well-being,” Natalie says. Not a question.

“Definitely,” I lie.

Natalie nods crisply, and from that point on, I don’t think either of us says anything that’s true. After another hour we’re finally done for the day, or I think we are until Natalie looks at my mom all seriously and goes, “We really should revisit our talk about a settlement.”

“I want Sara’s name cleared,” Mom says.

“I understand that,” Natalie replies, and I can hear in both their voices how many times they’ve already had this conversation. Like, more than I’ve heard it.

Natalie goes on. “After she turns eighteen we can work to have her record expunged. But for now—I am very concerned. These are serious charges, and I’d be very surprised if the other defendants go through with the trial.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. I mean, we went over this, right?” I look over at Mom. Her face is set, her mouth pinched. She doesn’t look so sure anymore.

Natalie pushes back in her chair and says, “Please just keep thinking about it. It’s a compromise, but everything could be over. I think we could get a pretty good deal. You could have your lives back.” She looks at me for a second, like she wants to say something else.

But Mom jumps out of her chair like it’s got springs, and almost too late I realize we’re leaving. I’m surprised I even catch up to her in time to share an elevator ride back downstairs.

We’re alone on the elevator, but if anyone was with us they wouldn’t even guess we were together. Mom’s still in her work clothes and I’m in jean shorts, but it’s more than that. She won’t look at me. I guess she’s scared too. Or probably just freaked out about all the details we just went over. Every time we come here, it seems like there’s something she hasn’t heard before. Every time she gets a little more distant.

I want to say something to her—or really, I want her to say something to me. I mean, I’m freaked out too. We’re supposed to settle? That means I admit to being guilty. Which I am not. Doesn’t she still believe that?

“This is a nightmare,” Mom says, but her voice is a whisper. Maybe I didn’t hear her right.

But either way, it’s true. This is a freaking nightmare.

On Friday afternoon I’m driving really slowly past Albertsons, wondering what I’m doing on this side of town instead of going to see Teresa and then picking up the boys. This is not on the agenda.

But my car almost magically turns itself in to the grocery store parking lot and finds Dylan’s SUV in the last row. There’s an empty spot next to it, and without really thinking, I pull in, shutting off the car but not taking the keys out, so I can roll my windows down and keep listening to High Violet. The song that goes “Sorrow found me when I was young” starts, and by the time it gets to “I don’t want to get over you,” I’ve got my head on the steering wheel and I’m crying. The tears just gush out in big, heaving sighs, shaking my whole body but not making much sound.

I don’t have to be alone right now. There are people I could be with. But I don’t want any of them. I want Brielle, I want Dylan. For half a minute there, my life had actually made sense—I had a best friend, and friends, and a real boyfriend. I was pretty, kind of, or at least I knew how to act pretty. Being with Brielle made me pretty, made me belong. Made me laugh. Being with Dylan made me a real person—people could see me. I could go to the mall and see a bunch of seniors and, like, hang out with them. Even after Dylan and I broke up, I still had Brielle, and we had fun.

But maybe now that I think about it, no one really saw me that much, even with Dylan. I was never tagged in his Facebook photos. I was the jealous ex-girlfriend for, like, a minute. And then I was the girl who was there when things with Emma got really messy. I mean, at that point, I was kind of the girl who made the mess—but Emma has to take some of that blame. She didn’t have to go after my boyfriend. She didn’t have to flirt with Brielle’s boyfriend last fall, she didn’t have to be friends with Tyler and Dylan and Jacob, she didn’t have to walk around like a huge victim and sleep with every guy in school at the same time. Most of all, she didn’t have to kill herself. I mean, who doesn’t feel like killing themselves at least once a week? It’s gotta be easier than this, than high school. It’s definitely easier than being blamed for someone else’s suicide.