Famous in a Small Town(53)

“It’s okay.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s all right.”

Headlights appeared down the street, and suddenly the Cutlass was pulling up. It wasn’t Dash, though—Brit hopped out of the driver’s side.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” she demanded. “Why did you leave the chat?”

I couldn’t lose the thread of the conversation. “I wouldn’t text her back,” I said, and more tears pricked my eyes. “For so long, I went so long—”

“It’s all right.” August’s voice was gentle. “She’s here now.”

“Not Brit.” I shook my head again. Not Brit. I had Brit, even when I didn’t. “Ciara.”

Brit’s face turned sad.

“Here. Come on.”

And she was opening the car door and guiding me into the back seat.

“I wouldn’t answer her,” I said. “For ages.”

“It’s okay, Sophie,” Brit said.

“It’s not. It’s not okay.” I was crying in earnest now.

She cupped my face, wiped her thumbs roughly under my eyes. “You’re drunk. It can make the bad things feel worse, if you’re not careful.”

Brit didn’t know what she was talking about—nothing could make this feel worse. Being drunk didn’t magnify it—it just gave it a way out.

“What’s she talking about?”

I closed my eyes on the drive, every bump making my stomach lurch. Brit must’ve thought I was asleep, or passed out, because I heard her eventually telling August, softly, the same sort of way I had described the story of Tanner Barnes and Luke, that night on the porch—

“Her sister passed away,” she said, and it never sounded any less painful, never ceased to jolt, like a carnival ride turning you upside down and right side up again too fast. It never didn’t cut through me. There was always a second where it sounded unbelievable, like a thing that couldn’t have actually happened in real life.

“What? When?”

“At the start of our freshman year. She was in a car accident.”

“Fuck,” August said softly, and I guess Brit and I were both just people who told him things, unbidden, or maybe he was a person you were just compelled to tell stuff to. “I didn’t know. She talks about—I thought that …”

I blinked once, twice, but they didn’t notice me stirring. I could see Brit’s hands gripping the steering wheel, her jaw tight.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and a wave of nausea swept through me.

I thought of Teen Zone 2.



* * *



We didn’t call it that back then, the summer before ninth grade—it was just the Cunninghams’ pole shed, with a Ping-Pong table in it, and the lawn chairs we pulled in from the porch, the old couch from the side of the road with lumpy throw pillows that we all sewed in home-ec class. The coffee table that Dash and Terrance made with their dad.

I had gone into the house to use the bathroom, and when I came back, I flopped down on the couch next to Flora. My phone sat on the table in front of us, and it buzzed once.

It was a message from Ciara:

I know. I miss you too. Like so much

I frowned.

And opened the chat window, where now, above Ciara’s newest message, there was text on the right side of the screen. Three bubbles containing my only response for weeks, since the phone call where she told me she wasn’t coming back:

I’ll come

I’m sorry

I’m only mad cause I miss you so much

I looked up.

Brit and Dash were both holding Ping-Pong paddles, balancing a ball on each. Flora was hugging one of the lumpy pillows, looking at the ceiling. Only Terrance met my eyes.

Little seventh-grade Terrance. The shortest kid in his class, big brown eyes, hair shaved close. He looked closer to ten than thirteen—that’s how it was until high school, when he started stretching out, inching up on Dash little by little.

“Who sent this?” I said.

Nobody replied.

“Who sent it?”

Nothing.

“It’s none of your business!” I exploded. Brit’s paddle dipped, the ball tipping off and bouncing away across the floor. “It’s nobody’s business, you guys can’t just go in my phone and send stuff like it was me!”

“Sophie, listen—” Terrance began.

“That’s not okay. How could you think—it’s totally messed up! It’s totally violating my privacy and my—consent—how could you—” I couldn’t even finish. I stormed out.

I was trying to extract my bike from the tangle with Brit’s and Flora’s bikes on the ground when Terrance approached, alone.

“It was my idea, so don’t be mad at everybody,” he said. “I typed it out and everything.”

I didn’t speak, yanking my bike to disengage its pedals from Flora’s.

“It’s just …” His face twisted with concern. “I was just thinking like, if I were you, and it was Dash … I just …” He shook his head. “I get how you feel, but, like, this isn’t helping. You’re mad because you don’t get to see her, because you miss her so much, so you totally ignore her instead? It makes no sense.”