Scarlett Epstein Hates It Here(52)

He glances around wildly, his face bright red, as if we are in a scandalous French sex farce where he is a common waiter and I’m a married duchess who just took my boobs out.

“Why . . . dude, why are you bringing this up now?”

“This has been going on for too long,” I hiss.

“I don’t even know how to feel about any of this.” He gestures at his computer screen, where the last chapter of the thing I wrote glares mercilessly at me. “You don’t see how this is weird for me? At least I try, Scarlett. I mess up, but I try to talk to people and be open and see where they’re coming from.”

“By making fun of the losers and the fat kids, right? Wow. That’s amazing.”

“As opposed to you? You just cross your arms and judge everybody else and just—sometimes it’s like you suck the air out of the room.”

I look down, pushing my hand against my forehead, feeling like my brain could explode at any moment.

He lowers his voice. “How could you write that stuff about me? About my family? I just—I can’t believe you’d do something like that.”

He’s shaking his head, horrified, like I’m Frankenstein’s monster, refusing to even look at me.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t—”

“It’s like you’re always testing me or something.”

“I don’t mean to.” My voice comes out small.

“Well, if it matters now, I, um . . . I thought I did like you. Or, I think I do. I don’t know. You just make it so hard.” He X-es out of the browser and stands up, grabbing his book bag and storming off.

“What makes it so hard?” I ask as he walks away.

He comes striding back and gets really, really close to me and says, “You can’t have an inferiority complex and a superiority complex. Just pick one.”

Then he does actually storm off.

I feel the tingling in my arms and legs that I know means the beginning of a panic attack, and I barrel into the girls’ bathroom by the band hallway. I brace myself against the sink and stare into the mirror, trying to tell the anxious girl reflected back at me that everything’s going to be fine. The more I freak, the weirder I’ll act, and the worse it’ll be.

I’m reaching for the emergency Xanax I keep rolled in a plastic bag in my pencil box when I hear a sniffle from the handicapped stall. I glance over and see a plume of smoke drifting from above the chipped iron walls. I clear my throat.

A familiar, tearful whine: “Who’s out there?”

“Ashley? Is that you?”

Silence.

“Go away, you bitch,” she snaps, choking up. I walk over and stand outside the stall, leaning my ear toward the door. I hear the little crinkly burns from the end of the cigarette as she inhales deeply.

“I wanna talk to you. Come on, let me in.”

“No.”

“Listen. I really didn’t mean for anybody to read that thing.”

“What!” she gasps, then starts sort of laugh-crying. “You didn’t write it in your little freak diary under your bed. You put it on the Internet.”

“Yeah, I did, it’s this website for—stories you can write for people to read, and I have some friends on that site, and it’s just, like, something I do for fun. Please just let me in. I’m really sorry.”

I hear a rusty click, and she kicks the stall door open with her Frye boot, leaving her leg stretched out so it’s hard for me to come in. A neat pile of menthol butts are lined up in a row on top of the toilet paper dispenser.

Her eyes are puffy and red. She looks right up at me. “Why do you think I’m so dumb? And don’t lie. I’ll know.”

“Because you’re mean to me.”

Perplexed, she wrinkles her nose, like I’ve put a rip in the space-time continuum. “You’re mean to me.”

“What? I’ve never said one mean thing to you.”

She holds out the pack of Camels, offering me one with sort of a challenging attitude. I take one, grab the lighter from the top of the toilet bowl, and inhale as she watches me closely. My eyes water, but I refuse to cough.

“You don’t hold it in like weed. Just exhale,” she says, smirking.

I do, making my chest burn like hell, and then I double over coughing.

“I wasn’t dancing on that divider,” I croak.

She rolls her eyes. “What are you even talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. How you always call me ‘Divider’ and treat me like nothing because I’m poor and my mom is single and cleans your house. And for some reason, for the past seven years, you have thought all that’s totally hilarious.”

“Um, yeah,” she sniffles, “because you think I’m a f*cking moron.”

“I—”

“And you convinced Avery I am too. She’s my sister! When you’re not around, we’re really close. But whenever you’re there, she acts different. You have your smart, special club, and I’m just a dumb Fembot idiot. Right?” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her gold shadow.

“Even my parents like you more than me, even though I get straight As and your grades suck. They always talk about how shitty your mom is and how you deserve better, and what a smart, great kid you are. You come over for dinner, and they talk to you about books and stuff more than they ever talk to me about anything. And he likes you more too.”