Tease(65)

I nod, still mute.

“And I’m proud of you for doing this. I’m not—I don’t like what happened, you know. I don’t like everything I’ve heard about in Natalie’s office. I remember high school, I know how brutal it is. And I know Brielle. She’s got a strong personality. She’s exciting to be around. I know how you can get pulled into all that . . .”

I swallow. Mom’s said all this stuff before, though not often since, like, ninth grade. For a while she wanted me to not hang out with Brielle so much, but after a year or so I think she finally gave up. At the time I was just happy she wasn’t bitching about Brielle’s “influence” on me anymore.

But I don’t remember her ever saying what she says next.

“I’m on your side. I’m your mom, I’ll always be on your side. The idea of you ever wanting to kil—of ever doing something like what Emma did . . . I just don’t know how I’d be able to go on. I’m just—I’m just so glad it wasn’t you.”

I feel numb, but she’s looking at me so intently, I nod.

“And I’m glad you agreed to do this, to talk in court. Because no matter how hard this has been on us, I can’t imagine how much worse it is for them. I think if I were Emma’s mom, it would mean a lot to me.”

She presses her lips together, pursing them to the side a little, like she’s wondering whether to say something else. But she doesn’t. She just smiles, kind of sadly, and quietly closes my door behind her.

And I sit there, the corner of the notepad digging into my back from under the pillow. Waiting.



Overnight, everyone at school figured out what’s happening next week. They even all know the word allocute suddenly, like it was on a test or something. Many of them have loudly declared their opinions on the subject. Unfavorable would be the word. “You should go to jail for the rest of your life” is the longer-winded version that most people seem to prefer.

By lunchtime I still haven’t seen Carmichael, though I’ve been looking everywhere. I’m afraid he’s skipped the whole day, but when I walk out the back doors to eat my sandwich in my car—I haven’t set foot in the cafeteria all year—I finally spot him with his bike. I take a deep breath and go over to him.

“Hi, it’s me again,” I say, ignoring the fact that I sound like a moron. “Can we talk?”

He looks like he was just about to take his bike lock off the rack, but he stands up and turns to me and puts his hands in his jeans pockets. “Sure,” he says.

“I acted like an *,” I say. I push my shoulders back slightly, trying to be taller, braver. More confident. “I’m really sorry.”

“Okay,” he says. He’s looking at me like he doesn’t really know what to think, or hasn’t decided yet at least.

“Maybe you could let me take you out to dinner this weekend,” I go on. “I mean, if that’s good for you. I just—I’m not sure where I’ll be next weekend. So this weekend would be good, if you can.”

He nods slowly, his face softening a little.

“I didn’t say that to make you feel sorry for me.”

“Okay,” he says again.

“But if you feel sorry enough to say yes and go out with me, that’s cool.”

Finally, like a miracle, he smiles. I’m so happy and relieved that I smile back instantly. I almost laugh out loud, but I resist.

Carmichael takes a step, closing the space between us, and touches me, feather-light, on the nose. Just the tip of his finger, just for a moment, but it makes my head buzz and my heart pound. “Thank you for that,” he says, his hand back in his pocket.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper. We’re still standing too close, and I’m dizzy from having his hand on my face like that, like when your eyes are closed but you can tell someone is nearby. I remember learning why that was in biology at some point, something to do with survival instincts. I don’t remember exactly—that was another science class I shared with Brielle, so mostly I recall that every time I’d close my eyes after that day, she’d hold a pencil up to my forehead or wave her hand in front of me, laughing hysterically when I would jump.

That’s just how Brielle was. That’s what no one gets, I think—she would tease you even if she did like you. Especially if she liked you. And then if someone was mean to her, or to one of her friends, she’d turn that teasing on to them. It would be a lot less nice, of course. It was pretty tough sometimes. But—and suddenly I know this, standing here with Carmichael, in the middle of passing period, in the middle of nowhere—that was her survival instinct. That’s just how she deals.

And without her, I can’t deal. Because my instinct is to just disappear. Thanks to Emma Putnam, I’ll never be invisible again, no matter how hard I try. With Brielle, I could’ve turned into a yearbook girl, a popular girl, a confident girl. Emma turned me into a mean girl.

Right? Didn’t she? Or did Brielle do that, too?

I wouldn’t have been so mean all on my own, would I?

I blink, refocusing on Carmichael’s face in front of mine. He steps back again and says, “Yeah, I’m around this weekend. Maybe I should take you out, though. More traditional.”

“You don’t seem that hung up on tradition,” I point out.