The Cheerleaders(85)

Brandon is quiet. “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“Just answer the question, Brandon.”

“You’re obviously wasted,” he says. “Why don’t you let me take you home?”

It occurs to me that he’s still holding me by the wrist.

“Get the hell away from me.” I yank my arm away from him so forcefully that I pull a muscle in my shoulder. Brandon takes a step back. Holds his hands up. “Jesus, Monica.”

“Don’t ever come near me again,” I say.

He gets back into the car, and I start crying. I collapse on the lawn of the house Brandon parked outside. And I call my mom.



* * *



—

My mother looks deeply unamused as she pulls up outside Kelsey’s house. I yank open the passenger door and stumble in.

Mom sniffs. “How much did you drink?”

“Two vodka cranberries and a shot.”

She sighs and pulls away from the house. I lean back in the seat, eyes closed, tears pooling under my lids.

Once we’re home, she turns off the engine, but she doesn’t move to get out of the car. Finally, she speaks. “Just tell me what to do. I’m out of ideas.”

My throat is dry and scratchy. I swallow, but I can’t find any words. The sobs come out of me like violent dry heaves. “I hate myself.”

I don’t know what she was expecting me to say, but that wasn’t it. She flinches like I’ve cursed at her. I can’t stand looking at her, so I cover my face in my hands and cry. It’s an ugly, awful sound—any louder and Tom and Petey could probably hear from inside the house.

“Monica. Listen to me.”

I hiccup. Gulp for air. My mother says my name again; she grabs me and holds my head to her shoulder. She rocks me like a child and lets me cry.

“I hate who I am. I hate myself so much.”

“Monica,” she says, still cradling me. “Even at your worst, I love you more than life itself.”



* * *



—

Mom makes me drink a full bottle of water before I go up to bed. I eye my bathroom, but I’m not ready to throw up yet. I stumble to my bed and text Ginny.





My phone starts vibrating moments later. She’s calling me. I hit accept.

Ginny’s voice is soft in my ear.

“Monica? I couldn’t understand your texts. Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” I say. “Brandon came to Kelsey’s party. We argued and I told him to stay away from me.”

“Monica, hold on. Brandon Michaelson?”

“Yes. Allie’s boyfriend.”

“How did he— What was he doing showing up at Kelsey’s party to talk to you?”

“He…We…I fucked up so bad,” I whimper, and hiccup, and Ginny cuts me off by saying my name.

“Monica, look, it’s not your fault. He’s so much older…Monica, you understand what happened to you, right?”

“I know. I think I have to tell Tom everything.”

“Is he awake now?”

“No. I think I should wait until the morning. He…he’s not going to believe me when I’m like this.

“Ginny,” I say. “I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

I don’t know what she says in response, because the room around me spins into darkness.



* * *



—

I wake up ready to throw up and stumble into my bathroom. Not much comes out. I flush the toilet and lie back against the vanity, not ambitious enough to stand just yet.

Finally I’m ready to drag myself back to bed. Before I get comfortable, I check my phone. It’s only two in the morning; I must have passed out briefly after ending my call with Ginny.

I have a text from Rachel, time stamped almost an hour ago.





I text her back, my eyes tight, cheeks stiff with tears:





I wish I were piled onto Alexa’s bed with my friends. On a normal night, we would be laughing by now at Rach’s lack of ability to give us back anything she borrows. Earrings, sweatshirts, books. We don’t know where it all goes, but we keep lending her shit anyway because that’s what friends do.

I jolt, sitting up straight and banging my head on my headboard. A single thought crystallizes. Something is wrong. Why can’t I figure out what’s wrong?

Brandon and Carly. Brandon was not cheating on Allie with Carly. Allie said the guys shouldn’t have been hanging out with a high school girl. Not girls.

Allie didn’t know about Juliana. Brandon didn’t want her to know about Juliana.

I cover my mouth. Whimper, tasting bile coming back up my throat.

I made myself delete the picture a few weeks ago. I took it at work this summer. Brandon on the lifeguard stand, sticking his tongue out at me playfully.

I fumble for my phone. My trash bin stores deleted pictures for thirty days.

I zoom in on Brandon’s tan and muscular legs. It feels like my bed is bottoming out.

Just above his right ankle, on his calf, is a crescent-shaped white scar, the size of a bite from a large dog.





I wake up facedown on my bed, still in the outfit I wore to Kelsey’s party. My phone tells me it’s almost noon. I head downstairs, every step rattling my brain. I want to die.