Tease(57)

“Hey, you weren’t supposed to see that movie, either!” I say, grabbing the remote from him and hitting the Info button.

“I know,” Tommy says sheepishly. “Duncan had it. We watched it at his house.”

“Hmm,” I mutter. “I never did like that kid. . . . Oh, hey, I’ve heard of this movie. Point Break. It’s supposed to be funny.”

“It is?” Alex asks incredulously. “I don’t think it’s funny at all . . .”

“No, I mean, it’s supposed to be so bad it’s funny. Like, you laugh at it, not with it.”

“That’s mean,” Alex says.

“Everybody does it,” Tommy informs him, in his older-wiser-brother voice.

“No, not everybody,” I’m quick to say. But as we turn back to the TV I’m thinking, Not everybody. But pretty much.





September


“GUESS OUR LAWYERS have us on different schedules, huh?”

I look over, startled. Brielle is walking up to the elevator bank with her parents. I’m waiting here alone. I see my lack of adult supervision register on Mrs. Greggs’s face. Her mouth goes all pinched and disapproving, but then, it usually did that even back when Brielle and I were allowed to hang out.

“Brie,” her mom says warningly.

Brielle rolls her eyes, not even turning back to her mom to respond. “After that day in the parking lot I thought I’d run into you again,” she says.

My eyes dart to Brielle’s parents, but they’re staring straight ahead now. I wonder what she means. Was I supposed to try to, I dunno, meet up with her secretly? I guess that would have made sense.

“Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s weird. That we, you know—um . . .” I can’t form a sentence but Brielle is nodding like I am. She seems even softer around the edges than she did this summer.

Ding. The elevator doors whoosh open in front of us and we file inside.

“Where’s your mom?” Brielle asks. Her parents still aren’t talking to us, but her dad reaches past me to hit the tenth-floor button. I wait a second, then press 8.

“She had to work,” I say. Mrs. Greggs sniffs, maybe disapprovingly, maybe just because she had to sniff. I keep staring at the elevator buttons, feeling shy and weird next to Brielle. “How’s, um, the—what is it, like, homeschool?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s so lame,” Brielle says easily.

“Brie,” her dad says, his voice a low growl. I wonder if her parents just walk around all day saying her name in threatening tones of voice. It’s working on me—I’m counting the seconds until we reach Natalie’s firm and I can get away from them.

“Whatever, I guess it’s better than Elmwood,” Brielle adds. “But so is, like, prison—”

“All right, that’s enough,” Mrs. Greggs goes, but just then we finally reach the eighth floor and I scramble to get myself on the other side of the doors.

“See ya later,” Brielle says to me. “You know, at the plea thingy.”

I turn back, surprised, and see her giving me a little wave as the doors shut again behind me.

So we’re all accepting plea deals, I guess. And everyone knows what’s going on with everyone else, except me. As usual. I mean, Brielle always knew everything about everyone. Some things, at least, haven’t changed.

As soon as Natalie’s secretary lets me into the office I practically shout, “Brielle got a deal, too? So there’s, what, no trial at all anymore? What’s going on?”

Natalie doesn’t even look up from her papers. “Hi, Sara,” she says. “Have a seat.”

I look around. There’s a chair with only one document box on it, so I move that and flop down.

“What the hell?” I say, still trying to get her attention. “Brielle’s lawyer is upstairs, you know. She said I’ll see her at the settlement thing? Are we all going in at the same time?”

Natalie’s writing something down, but she nods. “Yes, just like it would’ve been if we were going to trial. You’ll each be read your charges, allocute, and deliver your statements. Which is optional, but I still highly advise—” She finally looks up and then stops. “Where’s your mother?”

I sigh. “Where is she always?”

“Jesus,” Natalie mutters. “Well, I guess it’s fine, this is going to be quick.” She takes off her reading glasses and squints at me a little. “You don’t have to give a statement. But I think it would be a good idea. This will be the judge who’s going to sentence you, and while I’m not expecting more than a year’s probation, you never know. It’s an inflammatory case. The judge is a mother. You don’t want to risk it.”

I nod. She told me all this last time. I’m pretty sure Mom knows about it too, since they do at least talk on the phone now and then.

“It could also help with down the road, when we go back to expunge your record. So. Have you written anything yet?”

“No.”

She pauses. “But you’re going to?”

It’s my turn to pause. I still don’t want to do this. It feels phony, and kind of pointless. Hasn’t the worst already happened? What can I say that will make anything better for any of us?