Tease(48)

I don’t understand any of it. I don’t want to.

Dylan takes a step back and goes, “That’s what I wanted to say, okay? That I’m sorry. And you should really leave Emma alone now. She’s just . . . she’s really sensitive. You guys are pretty harsh.” He lifts up his hands and looks like he’s about to say something else, but then shakes his head a tiny bit. Finally he just says, “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

And then he walks away. And I just stand there.

“I was always around!”

“You were. You were totally there for him. He’s a moron.” Brielle’s voice is sympathetic, but her eyes are fixed on her reflection in the girls’ bathroom mirror.

We’ve been in here for at least half an hour, even though she’s supposed to be in Language Arts and I have French. I’ve told her everything about the Dylan conversation except the part about him thinking I spend too much time with her. Obviously he and Emma agree on that, so they’ve probably been talking about me. Or definitely. Which makes me feel like I’m naked, like everyone’s looking at me and laughing and I can’t do anything to stop it.

So I don’t mention that part. But I tell her everything else, and of course now—now that it’s a hundred years too late—I’m thinking of all the things I should have said to Dylan in the library.

“I went to every single one of his games,” I say, though of course Brielle already knows this. “I gave him my virgini—”

Brielle holds up her hand before the word is even out and goes, “Stop. Stop, okay? We’re gonna fix this.” She finally turns her back to the mirror and pulls herself up to sit on the counter. Brielle is always sitting on counters, and somehow she never gets her pants covered in water like I always do. She smooths her hair back and up in one swift motion, knotting it in a perfect updo while I just stand there, waiting for the plan.

More than ever, I need Brielle’s plan.

“Dylan is just confused,” she declares. “More importantly, Emma Putnam is confused. She seems to think she actually belongs at this school, with us and our friends and our boyfriends. But she is wrong about that.”

“I know, but what are we supposed to do?” I can’t stop myself from whining.

“God, Sara, don’t be an idiot. The girl has been kicked out of, what, four schools already?”

“Actually I think she just transferred, like two ti—”

“Details. Fine, transferred. Well, Bitchy Bitch can just transfer her ass again.”

I nod, finally getting what she’s saying.

“We’ve been thinking too small,” Brielle says, jumping back off the counter as the bell starts ringing to change periods outside the bathroom door. “Obvs the girl is not getting the message with flowers.”

Brielle sneers as she says this, and for a minute I want to argue with her—the flowers were her idea, but she sounds like she’s blaming me for them being lame or not working or something. But maybe it was my idea? Or maybe I should’ve come up with a better one, argued with her at the time? Not that I’ve ever talked her out of anything before.

We grab our bags from the windowsill, leaving the bathroom just as a group of seniors is coming in. One of them is Noelle, and she and Brielle hip-check each other, like it’s an old routine they’ve done a million times. I blink, surprised by the move and the sharp pang of jealousy that sticks in my throat.

“Hey, girl,” Brielle says casually. We’re about to go through the door when she turns back on her heel and points at Noelle. “How old is that boyfriend of yours?”

“What?” Noelle asks. Her friends are at the mirror and she’s digging through her purse for something, not really looking at us.

“I mean, is he eighteen?” Brielle asks. “His birthday was just in December, right? Was it his eighteenth?”

Noelle looks up from her bag and wrinkles her nose. “What is it, weird question day?”

“It’s just this thing,” Brielle says, waving her hand dismissively. “I thought I remembered something from his party, but I wasn’t sure.”

Noelle looks like she wants to ask Brielle another question, but then her face clears and she shrugs. “Yeah, he turned eighteen. He got me into a club over break, actually.”

“Badass,” Brielle says. And with an ironic finger-gun at Noelle—which Noelle returns—she finally turns back to me and pushes me out the bathroom door.

“What the hell was that about?” I ask as we join the between-classes crowd in the hall. “You guys are friends?”

“Duh,” Brielle says. “And it’s just research. You’ll see.”

That afternoon, we follow Dylan’s car to McDonald’s. It’s like a sting operation—Brielle stays a safe distance away, and we wait in her car until they’ve gone inside and ordered and everything. Then we walk in, like it’s all a coincidence. But we walk right past the counter and over to their table.

“Isn’t he a little young for you?” Brielle asks Emma.

She looks up from the small packet of fries and puddle of ketchup in front of her. Her eyes have that soft, sad look they always get when a boy is around. Why can’t any of these guys see that she’s just using them?

“Jesus, Brielle, give it a break already.” Dylan looks at me pointedly, like We talked about this, but I just stare back. This isn’t the school library. We’re allowed to be here, it’s a free country, and Emma should know we’re gonna say whatever we want.