You'd Be Home Now (74)

I point to the recliner. Liza leans over and picks it up, scrolls through it.

“Wow, a lot of our classmates actually can spell,” she says mildly. “Color me surprised.”

I giggle.

“Did you see all of these?” she asks.

“No. I just kind of went to bed after yelling at my mother about how unloved I felt. It was that kind of night.”

Liza puts the phone down. “You know, Emmy, I was mad at your mom, and you, for a long time. More your mom. If she hadn’t butted in, my parents would still be with me. That’s what I thought, anyway.”

She picks at the cream-colored throw rug on the hardwood floor.

“But if they were still with me, where would I be right now? Would I be getting straight As? Would I still be hiding food from them so they wouldn’t trade it for drugs? Did you know I did that?”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t know it was that bad. We were kids.”

“Well, there was a lot I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t know how. The truth is, your mom kind of did me a favor, if I look at it in a certain way. By trying to protect you, she might have saved me.”

She folds up a pink cardigan, lays two white socks on top of each other.

    “My parents got freaked out by her and left. A neighbor finally called the police. My grandmother came to take care of us, and she does a good job, and I love her. I didn’t know how nice it was to have someone kiss you good night before bed and not just yell at you to go to bed, or even remember you should be in bed. Your mom isn’t all bad. Her execution may be faulty, but her intentions are good.”

She pauses. “I think, anyway.”

She cocks her head at me. “Don’t you have to pee or something? I always have to pee right when I get up. Go pee. Then we’ll get to work.”



* * *



—

In my bathroom, I pee, wash my face, and brush my teeth. My face looks pale and tired in the mirror. From my room, I hear my phone ping again and again and Liza murmurs, Shut up, you. I’ll deal with you miscreants in a minute.

I’m glad she’s here. I’m glad to have her back.



* * *



—

“Okay,” she says when I come back out. “The first rule of Slut Club is to create a diversion.”

“Slut Club?”

“Slut is basically what everyone is calling you. Among other things.”

“Oh.” I sit on the bed and hold a pillow against my stomach, like it’s going to protect me from whatever Liza is about to say.

“But you didn’t do anything wrong.” She pauses. “I wouldn’t have placed bets on you hooking up with Gage Galt, of all people, but the heart wants what it wants. Kudos on the window photography, but it was consensual, yes?”

    I nod. “Yeah, but I did ask him to delete them and he didn’t.”

“Do you…do you think he was the one who shared them?”

I think for a long time about that. “No, I don’t. I don’t think he would do that. Principal Patterson said someone turned the phone in to the office and that it was unlocked. Whoever found it probably saw the pictures and shared them.”

“How great it must feel that our principal has seen you naked.”

“Not exactly something I ever thought would happen, no.”

She picks up her backpack and digs out a notebook and pen. “Well, anyway. Teenagers are creatures of the moment. They like to pile on. Half of them don’t even care what happened between you and Gage, or even that his arm is messed up. They just want any excuse to join the crowd if it means they can bring somebody down and feel better about themselves. Not slagging our colleagues, that’s just the way it is. So we have to give them something new to think about.”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” I say. “I’m kind of confused.”

“The way I see it, we give too much leeway to boys. Why isn’t anyone calling Gage a slut for hooking up with you? Why was Patty Bailey harassed out of school last year because she got pregnant and decided to keep the baby, but Rick Braverman got to stay? What was all that business about his life being ruined by her poor decision? Remember that?”

I shake my head. “I was kind of busy last year. Trying to keep Joey afloat. I didn’t really keep up with a lot of stuff.”

Liza regards me. “You can’t fix him, you know.”

“I know.”

“You can’t fix him because he isn’t broken. He’s just Joey. He has a disease. It’s management and care, like cancer. You hope for the best. But, for the record, you should tell your parents he got high and then let whatever happens, happen.”

    She gives me a long look.

I tear up a little. “Can we get back to the thing you’re planning? I don’t feel up to talking about Joey right now.”

“Okay. But we’re going to talk about Joey at some point, all right?” She tosses me my phone. “Read out the names or numbers of the people who texted you.”

I hold the pink phone in my lap. “Why?”

“I’m going to find out who they are. I worked in the office last year a few hours a week with Mrs. Tisby as part of communications work-study. I still have access to the student directory with names and phone numbers because Mrs. Tisby isn’t smart enough to change the password. And then I’m going to use the power of social media.”