Tease(45)

I shake my head. “No, I know exactly what you mean,” I say. “I have one of those.”

“Does he live in a trailer?” Carmichael asks. I think he’s joking but I just smile a little, I don’t laugh.

“No, he lives with the new-and-improved family,” I say.

Carmichael nods again.

I want to ask him something else—I want to stay in this moment, this minute of having a real conversation with somebody. But I’m pretty sure I’m late, and when I check my phone quickly—“Shit, I have to go.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he says, watching as I scramble to stand back up.

“God, no, I interrupted you,” I say. “Now you can read about your vampires, I just have to—I have an appointment.”

“Vampires?” Carmichael clutches his chest like I’ve shot him in the heart. “A palpable hit!” He falls back on the floor, still clutching, and now rolling around and moaning.

“Zombies, sorry!” I say, laughing. “Calm down! I know they’re zombies!”

“Ohhhh,” Carmichael groans.

“C’mon, get up!” I say. “I really have to go!”

“Just leave me here . . .” He gasps like it’s his dying breath. “I’ll . . . be . . . fine . . .”

I shake my head, even though he’s not looking at me. “Okay,” I say. “See you later.”

I turn and start hurrying out of the store. Behind me I hear one last wounded cry: “Vampires!”

I must look like an idiot, running and laughing all by myself.

“I really don’t want to talk about that weekend.”

“I know, Sara. But it’s going to come up, right? At your trial?”

“I guess.”

“So you’ve talked to your lawyer about it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“But did you talk about how you felt?”

“How I felt?”

“Yes, how you felt. How did you feel?”

“That weekend? Or, like, now?”

Teresa spreads her hands wide, like, Take your pick.

“I feel like shit.”

“Now?”

“Always. And yes, now.”

“What about that weekend?”

I blink fast, forcing back the tears that I can’t seem to completely shut off. “Well, that Saturday . . .” I sigh heavily. “That night was great. I felt great, okay? I don’t understand what the big deal is. I don’t understand what the big deal to Emma was. I mean, she had just done the same thing to me! Like, three weeks before that! And did I turn around and kill myself? No.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?”

Now I throw my hands up, frustrated again by Teresa’s endless Q & A, which never include, of course, any A’s. “Does it matter? Obviously everyone else thinks that’s what happened, or I wouldn’t be on freaking trial for it!”

She just looks at me, her eyes narrowed in a thoughtful way. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was considering giving me a hug. But people don’t hug me. I don’t think anyone has—my little brothers don’t count—in months. Years, maybe. Does making out count as hugging? Probably not. Especially if you’re making out with Dylan, because his hands are so busy, there’s no real embracing going on.

In the back of my mind a little image of Carmichael flickers—his arm around me in my kitchen while I cried. I push the picture away.

And Teresa doesn’t hug me. She and I are just staring at each other. I used to be unable to look right at her, either out of annoyance or embarrassment. Now I’m too worn out to feel annoyed or embarrassed or . . . anything.

“Fine,” I say. I take a long, shuddery breath. This day is the worst already, but I guess it’s not worse than that weekend turned out to be. “Saturday, right? It was just a hang, you know, not even a real party. I knew Dylan would be there, and I thought Emma would be too.”

“So you were hoping to see her?”

“Yeah, kind of,” I say, surprising myself. Seeing Emma and Dylan together had become like a scab you can’t stop picking at—it turned my stomach, but I couldn’t do anything else. Plus, getting through a weekend without seeing Dylan was like torture. Seeing him with his new girlfriend was torture too, but at least I was out of the house on a Saturday night, still hanging out with cool people. I remember thinking that Dylan would see me in my new tank top and think I looked cool and relaxed and way easier to be around than slutty Emma who everyone hated.

Which I guess is kind of what happened.

In a way, that weekend was the whole story. Everyone did enough terrible stuff to get sent to jail, or juvie, or whatever. I mean, maybe not technically, but it was a mess.

But Emma’s the one who got the last word. She’ll always be that face, that pretty school photo in the newspaper. And we’ll always be the monsters who pushed her over the edge.

I can talk to Teresa or Natalie or my mom—well, I can try—but no one really gets it, no one hears me. No one understands how, when Emma went over the edge, she pulled all of us down with her.





February


EMMA AND DYLAN. Dylan and Emma. Just like that.

For most of the day at school, they’re together. But otherwise, Brielle and I are on a mission to make Emma’s life a living hell.