Tease(86)

I bite my lip and look at my brother and Carmichael, suddenly self-conscious. I haven’t said this out loud before, and they’re both studying me pretty closely, waiting for what I’m going to say next. I’m not really sure yet, but it’s true—we were in court a month ago, and afterward the papers all printed our statements and I made the mistake of reading the articles online . . . and the comments. People were not happy at all. Apparently making plea agreements wasn’t punishment enough, and I guess no matter how sorry I am, people still hate me.

I know I can’t be sorry enough. But I can’t go back in time, either. Mom says I have my whole life ahead of me, and that I deserve a chance to make something of it. Technically I think she’s right, but some days my “whole life” feels too long. That’s a long time to feel like it’s too late to fix the past.

But maybe I don’t have to just hide, just wait for people to change their minds or give me a second chance. Maybe I don’t even have to apologize to everyone or explain myself. Maybe I can try to do something good.

“What if I started a website where people could write to people, like this essay, people they might not be able to talk to in real life? Does that sound dumb?” I ask Tommy.

“No,” he says. “What kind of site?”

“I mean, maybe someone’s gone but you want to apologize to them, or you just have something you need to say,” I go on. Tommy nods. “Or maybe someone who’s still around, but you’re too embarrassed to talk to them in person.”

“Like the opposite of Facebook,” he says.

Carmichael laughs, and so do I.

“Right,” I say. “You’d say nice things. But anonymously, maybe. If you wanted to.”

It feels kind of cheesy, but the idea makes me excited. Maybe there are other people like me, people who said all the wrong things and just want a chance to apologize, or to try to apologize. Or just to say something—but maybe it’s too late for them.

Even when it’s not too late, sometimes it’s really hard to admit that you’ve been bad to someone. That you’ve said bad things. Been a bully.

“Then what about your essay?” Tommy asks.

“I have an idea for that, too,” I tell him. “Don’t worry.”

At the front of the house, the garage door starts rumbling open. Tommy jumps up; the sound means our mom is home with Alex, and he wants to get to the video games first. Alone at the table again, Carmichael and I look at each other.

“I was thinking maybe I’d write to Brielle,” I say quietly.

Carmichael reaches across the table, past the application form and the laptop, and holds my hand. “Is she really not coming back to school?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“And you miss her.”

I look down at our hands. Carmichael’s is covered in dark ink, doodles from being bored in class that haven’t worn off. But they’re proof that he goes to class now. He doesn’t skip. He won’t be in summer school—he’ll graduate, with me. He’ll go to UNL with me too, maybe. Hopefully.

“I did,” I say. “This summer and everything—I missed her a lot. It’s like . . . sometimes it’s like it was Brielle who died, you know?” I hold my breath. It feels like a terrible thing to even say, to even think. But now that I’ve said it I realize it’s true, that’s how I feel.

We’re allowed to talk to each other now, but we don’t. It took me all summer and half of the fall to notice that I feel better when I’m not around Brielle Greggs. I was someone with her, I guess—I was popular, or close enough to it. But I was toxic. We were toxic. We hated on everyone. I don’t think she even liked Dylan. She gave everyone a mean nickname—everyone was a loser if they weren’t someone she needed or wanted to be with right then. Even toward the end of last year, she only wanted to hang out with Noelle, and she barely even talked to me except when we were going after Emma.

I thought I needed Brielle. It was definitely better to be her friend than her enemy. Because those were the only two choices.

And since that day in court, she hasn’t even texted me. So I figure, maybe it’s for the best that it’s over.

But still. She was my friend for a long time. I know she’s lonely, deep down. I know she needs people. I know she lashes out because that’s what she does. I know her pretty well, actually, and I do miss her. But I can’t talk to her anymore.

I’m still looking down at the table, at the line where the laptop intersects the grain of the wood, but I can feel Carmichael’s eyes on me. His hand on mine. Mom and Alex are banging into the house now, and Carmichael gives my hand one last squeeze before letting go and sitting back in his chair again.

“Hello?” Mom calls. She comes into the kitchen and sees us, sees Tommy in the den with the TV on. “Oh, good, everyone’s here,” she says. “We’re having tacos! You know what that means!”

I groan, but I get up and help her unload the groceries she’s carrying. Tacos means I’m cooking—because they require practically no cooking at all. Mom’s actually making good on her promise to spend more family time, though I gotta say, spending every Saturday night learning to steam broccoli or not burn rice is already getting a little old. But tacos are easy, at least. And you can put lots of cheese on them.