Liars and Losers Like Us(35)

It feels like smoke billows around me, like a cloud trying to suffocate me. Ms. Selinski escorts us to the door and shakes Mom’s hand again. “If either of you need anything, please, please let me know.”

Walking through the main office, things get foggier. I feel like I’m walking through water, but I’m all the way in. Over my head. Immersed in it. Everything is hazy and sounds are faded echoes in my ears. I watch in a daze as Mom signs me out and smiles politely to the staff.

I follow her voice to her car in the parking lot but I can’t make out what she’s saying. The words are so muffled. Is she talking too fast or too slow? I try to focus, and slow down my breath. Maybe I can’t hear her because my heart’s beating so loud in my ear. It’s fast, too fast. It’s moving up in my chest. The ba-dum, ba-dum, bad-dum gets closer and closer together until it catches in my throat and I can’t breathe. Can’t. Breathe. Pushing myself against the car, I grasp the door handle. It’s not opening. I tug harder.

Slow down. Slow down. Stop freaking out. Calm down. Dad isn’t dead. I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine. Aunt Jen is still here. Mom’s okay. C’mon, relax. Count to ten. One, two, three … four … You’re not even friends with her … five … six.

My body sinks to the ground in a heap next to the car. Then Mom’s pulling me into her and cradling my head to her chest. I’m shaking, heaving, and sobbing. The tears pour out of my eyes and my heart is a fist trying to break out of my chest. I’d let it out if I could.

****

Mom backs out of Maisey’s driveway. Even though I’d convinced her I wanted to get it over with, as soon as Mom knocked on the Morgans’ door, I wanted to run. I could literally feel pangs of their torment as I stood next to my own mother in their doorway. The way Maisey’s parents looked at me, stoic, searching, and still in shock.

A scene from Stand By Me flashed through my head. The part where the dad tells Gordy that he wished he would’ve died instead of his older brother. It shoulda been you, Bree. I tried to shake the thought out of my head as soon as it arrived, but it hung around for a few more minutes, taunting me. Maybe Maisey’s parents aren’t in that kind of place. But I am. I feel guilty. Guilty for not being some kind of savior. Like in the movies, the girl who takes the unpopular girl under her wing, gives her a makeover, the one where I’d convinced her to be on Prom Court, and she’d win. Not as a joke, but because everyone would be so amazed at her transformation. She’d stand tall and proud instead of gangly armed and slouchy, her tiny sunken eyes would pop with the right shade of eye shadow and a thick coat of mascara. Instead of laughing when she’d get her crown, everyone would cheer and pat themselves on the back for realizing the errors of their ways. And they all live happily ever after, smiling, shopping. Alive. The End.

Hindsight and regret suck the breath out of me, leaving me empty and motionless.

Mom grips the steering wheel and shakes her head. She mimics my thoughts, “I felt guilty for even standing there, with my daughter. My living daughter.”

I felt it too. Mrs. Morgan was in her own house, but she seemed so lost. It felt so intrusive to show up with nothing to give and asking for a letter I didn’t want. I couldn’t even say I was sorry, because that felt too small. I was squeezing mom’s hand so tight, lest I were to disappear down the same dark hole Maisey did.

My mom, taking her hand off the steering wheel to wipe a tear and pat my leg, asks, once more, if I’m okay.

Silence. I grip the envelope I wish wasn’t addressed to me, haunted by the sad smile her mom had when she said, “She didn’t reach out, but she still wanted to say good-bye. We had no idea she was still hurting.”

I’d sat in their foyer while Maisey’s mom and mine spoke in low hushes in the den. Her dad’s eyes were glossy and vacant, his tie loosened around his neck, his beard the same shade of burnt red as Maisey’s hair.

“Take it easy,” he said, disappearing upstairs with a can of beer.

I strained to hear the conversation I wasn’t asked to join. The details or backstory that Mrs. Morgan assumed I was too young for. Words jumped out of the hushed tones.

Devastated.

Abused.

Prison.

So long ago.

Happy.

Friends.

Released.

We didn’t realize.



My mom’s voice is a little clearer. Her “I’m so sorrys” ended with a trailing off of “If there’s anything I can do.”

Mom pulls me back into the present with a quick pat on my knee. “So, I texted your dad. He’s meeting us at the house.”

“What? Mom, really? Why?”

“This is a big deal, Bree. You were so upset at school that you could barely breathe. You need us. You just lost your friend.”

“Mom, she wasn’t my friend. Don’t you get it? If I was her friend, maybe … maybe …” I trail off. I don’t even know how to finish.

“She had a lot going on, things a kid shouldn’t have to deal with. Whether she was your best friend or your worst enemy, it’s not your fault. Suicide is tragic and hard to comprehend for most people. You’re pretty shaken up and you’ve been going through a lot lately too and I’m sorry. I think I forget sometimes that you’re still a kid too.”

“A kid? Oh God, Mom. Come on. And what’s Dad gonna do? Sit there and lecture me about not calling him? Sounds fun. Thanks.”