One of Us is Lying(55)
Detective Mendoza presses a key on the laptop. “We won’t keep you long. Always better to talk face to face, in my opinion. Bronwyn, are you aware Simon used to have a companion website for About That, where he’d write longer posts?”
Robin interrupts before I can speak. “Rick, I’m not letting Bronwyn answer any questions until you tell me why she’s here. If you have something to show or tell us, please get to that first.”
“I do,” Detective Mendoza says, rotating the laptop so it faces me. “One of your classmates alerted us to a post that ran eighteen months ago, Bronwyn. Does this look familiar?”
My mother moves her chair next to me as Robin leans over my shoulder. I focus my eyes on the screen, but I already know what I’m about to read. I’ve worried for weeks that it might come up.
So maybe I should have said something. But it’s too late now.
News flash: LV’s end-of-the-year party isn’t a charity event. Just so we’re clear. You’d be excused for thinking so, though, with frosh attendance at an all-time high.
Regular readers (and if you’re not one, what the hell is wrong with you?) know I try to cut the kids some slack. Children are our future and all that. But let me do a little PSA for one new (and fleeting, I’m gonna guess) arrival to the social scene: MR, who doesn’t seem to realize SC is out of her league.
He’s not in the market for a puppy, kid. Stop with the following. It’s pathetic.
And, guys, don’t give me that poor-little-thing-had-cancer crap. Not anymore. M can put on her big-girl panties like anyone else and learn a few basic rules:
1. Varsity basketball players with cheerleader girlfriends are OFF THE MARKET. I shouldn’t have to explain this, but apparently I do.
2. Two beers are too many when you’re a lightweight, because it leads to:
3. The worst display of awkward kitchen table dancing I’ve ever seen. Seriously, M. Never again.
4. If that one beer makes you throw up, try not to do it in your hosts’ washing machine. That’s just rude.
Let’s card at the door from now on, okay, LV? At first it’s funny, but then it’s just sad.
I stay still in my chair and try to keep my face impassive. I remember that post like it was yesterday: how Maeve, who’d been giddy from her first crush and her first party, even though neither had gone exactly as planned, folded into herself after she read Simon’s post and refused to go out again. I remember all the impotent rage I’d felt, that Simon was so casually cruel, just because he could be. Because he had a willing audience that ate it up.
And I hated him for it.
I can’t look at my mother, who has no idea any of this happened, so I focus on Robin. If she’s surprised or concerned, she doesn’t show it. “All right. I’ve read it. Tell me what you think the significance of this is, Rick.”
“I’d like to hear that from Bronwyn.”
“No.” Robin’s voice cracks like a velvet whip, soft but unyielding. “Explain why we’re here.”
“This post appears to be written about Bronwyn’s sister, Maeve.”
“What makes you think that?” Robin asks.
My mother chokes out a furious, disbelieving laugh, and I finally sneak a look at her. Her face is bright red, her eyes burning. Her voice shakes when she speaks. “Is this for real? You bring us here to show us this horrible post written by a—I have to say, a boy who quite clearly had issues—and for what? What are you hoping to accomplish, exactly?”
Detective Mendoza tilts his head in her direction. “I’m sure this is difficult to read, Mrs. Rojas. But between the initials and the cancer diagnosis, it’s obvious Simon was writing about your younger daughter. There’s no other current or past student at Bayview High who fits that profile.” He turns toward me. “This must have been humiliating for your sister, Bronwyn. And from what other kids at school have told us recently, she’s never really participated in social activities since then. Did that make you resent Simon?”
My mother opens her mouth to speak, but Robin puts a hand on her arm and cuts her off. “Bronwyn has no comment.”
Detective Mendoza’s eyes gleam, and he looks as though he can barely restrain himself from grinning. “Oh, but she does. Or she did, anyway. Simon unpublished the blog more than a year ago, but all the posts and comments are still recorded on the back end.” He pulls the laptop back and presses a few keys, then spins it toward us with a new window open. “You have to give your email address to leave a comment. This is yours, right, Bronwyn?”
“Anybody can leave another person’s email address,” Robin says quickly. Then she leans over my shoulder again, and reads what I wrote at the end of sophomore year.
Fuck off and die, Simon.
Addy
Monday, October 15, 4:15 p.m.
The road from my house to Jake’s is a pretty smooth ride until I turn onto Clarendon Street. It’s a major intersection, and I have to get to the far left without the help of a bike lane. When I first started riding again I used to head for the sidewalk and cross with the light, but now I whiz across three lanes of traffic like a pro.
I cruise into Jake’s driveway and push the kickstand down as I dismount, pulling off my helmet and looping it across my handlebars. I run a hand through my hair as I approach the house, but it’s a pointless gesture. I’ve gotten used to the cut and sometimes I even like it, but short of growing it a foot and a half overnight, there’s nothing I can do to improve it in Jake’s eyes.