Tease(84)

Jacob’s statement is even shorter than Brielle’s, and his voice wavers like he’s going to cry. You can tell he wrote it himself. He just says, “I’m really sorry about all of—all of this. Emma was such a sweet girl. I really miss her. I’m really sorry. I’m—I’m just really sorry.”

I swear, if the whole room could get up and give him a hug, they would. I would, and I remember what a jerk he always was. I can hear Emma’s mom really crying now as I watch him walk back to our table, head down, his gray suit looking a little too big for him, like he’s a kid at his cousin’s wedding. Jacob’s lawyer has his hand on his shoulder. I don’t know if he’s trying to say, “Hey, look, this guy is just a kid,” but that’s what I think of.

Suddenly I wonder if the lawyer told Jacob to wear that suit, because he knew it would make him look younger. If he wrote that speech for him, like Brielle’s lawyer obviously wrote her speech for her.

God, I’m an idiot. This whole thing is rigged. We’re not even on trial anymore, but everyone is still playing the game. Playing the system. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t even know.

But the little glimmer of anger quiets my stomach, so when the judge says, “Sara Wharton and counsel, please come to the stand,” I don’t throw up all over the table. I follow Natalie to the podium, and my legs are shaking, but I’m still standing on them.

Because it hits me, right then, all of a sudden. I’m the only one who’s actually sorry about all this. Not just about being in trouble, not just about Emma ruining my life. I’m sorry about that, too—I still wish to God she’d just held on another day, switched schools, tried to just get along like the rest of us have to get along. Tried to get up and make the best of it, like we all have to do, even when things are horrible and painful and pointless.

But while Natalie talks to the judge and they call on me to accept harassment charges, one minor assault charge, and one count of stalking, I keep my head up. I say I understand, I say I accept. And when the judge asks if I have a prepared statement, Natalie steps aside and I smooth my stupid, unprofessional piece of printer paper on the podium, lay it flat, hope the sweat from my palms hasn’t smudged the ink. I stop for a minute. I take a breath.

“Emma and I weren’t friends. For a long time, I thought we were enemies. I thought she’d done things to hurt me—and I did things to hurt her back.”

I take another breath. Natalie doesn’t touch me, but she has her hand on the podium, and I look at it for a second. It’s like she’s holding it down, holding me in place. My hands are shaking and so is my voice, but Natalie’s hand is still. I look back at my notes.

“But I see now . . . I know now that she was in a lot of pain. More pain than I’ll ever really understand, though I definitely understand better now.”

I look up at the judge as I say, “I don’t think that pain is anyone’s fault, exactly.” And then I look over at the Putnams’ table, finally. Mrs. Putnam’s eyes are red, and to my surprise, so are Mr. Putnam’s. They look small and sad. I keep looking at them and say, “But I made that pain worse. For no good reason. I was thoughtless and cruel and I never meant for any of this to happen, but it did, and I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life. I’m so, so sorry—” I stop, afraid I’m going to start sobbing, and I don’t want to sob. They deserve to hear this. I want to say this, I want them to know. I’m not even looking at my notes anymore, because I know what I want to say.

“I’m so sorry that I made that pain worse, that I made Emma’s life harder. I know I did. I know I hurt her. And I hurt you. I can’t forget that, I won’t ever forget that. I promise you I won’t ever forget. I wish I could—I wish I could do more. But I swear, I’ll always remember.”

We stare at each other for a moment, the Putnams and I. I’m shaking but I stay standing, gripping the podium, hoping they believe me, hoping they understand. I think about what my mom said, about if she’d lost me. I think about my dad, how I can’t imagine him crying about me ever—but he probably would. Of course he would.

My heart is pounding and my last words come out as barely a whisper, because I want to say them just to Emma’s parents.

“I’m so sorry for what you’ve lost,” I say softly. “I wish I could take it all back.”

I swallow. There’s nothing else on my piece of paper, I don’t have to look at it to know that, but this doesn’t feel like enough. There should be more.

The room is still silent, but I can hear people starting to shift in their seats, like they think I’m done. I turn back to the podium and blink at my written statement, my hands, Natalie’s hand. The judge leans forward, about to say something, but right before she does I look up and say, “Just one—just one more thing.”

She stops. Everyone stops. For that minute, I realize I’m not nervous anymore, my mouth isn’t dry. I’m not scared of talking right now—because this is important. I want people to hear me. I want Emma to hear me. So I say one more thing.

“Emma, if you’re out there . . . I just want you to know I’m sorry. I wish there was something more I could say. But I really mean it. I’m really, really sorry.”

And then I fold my paper, and Natalie’s hand is on my shoulder, and we sit back down. Tears roll down my face, one after the other, fast, falling, falling. And I let them.