One of Us Is Next(25)
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, suddenly all too aware of the fact that I took my bra off when I got home from school. “What are you doing here? Who let you into the building?”
“Some grandma was coming out when I got here.” Of course. That’s how the world works when you’re Brandon Weber; doors just open up whenever you want them to. He looms over me, way too close, and I step back as he asks, “How come you’re not answering my texts?”
“Are you for real?” I scan his pretty, pouty face for a hint of comprehension, but there’s nothing. “You laughed at me, Brandon. Sean was being a total creep, and you joined right in.”
“Oh come on. It was a joke. Can’t you take a joke?” He moves closer again, putting one hand on my waist. His fingers dig into my thin T-shirt, and his lips curl into a smug smile. “I thought you liked to have fun.”
I push him away, anger buzzing through my veins. I’ve been the bad guy all week: the one who betrayed her sister and deserves whatever she gets in return. It’s almost a relief to be mad at someone besides myself for a change. “Don’t touch me,” I snap. “We’re done.”
“You don’t mean that.” He’s still smiling, clueless as ever. He thinks this is a game, one where he makes all the rules and I’m lucky just to get a chance at playing. “I miss you. Wanna see how much?” He tries to move my hand toward his crotch, and I yank it back.
“Knock it off. I’m not interested.”
His face darkens as he pulls me toward him again, harder than before. “Don’t be a tease.”
For the first time since he arrived, I feel a spark of apprehension. I’ve always liked how strong Brandon is, but right now—I don’t. I’m still angry, though, and use that adrenaline to wrench out of his grasp. “Really? Let me see if I have this straight. If I do what you want, I’m a slut. If I don’t do what you want, I’m a tease. What I want doesn’t count, but you’re the big man at Bayview no matter what. Does that about sum it up?”
Brandon snorts. “What are you, some kind of feminazi now?”
I bite back another angry retort. There’s no point. “Just leave, Brandon.”
Instead, he lunges forward and mashes his lips against mine, sending a wave of horrified shock through my entire body. My hands are up in an instant and I press against his chest with all my strength, but his arms snake around my waist, anchoring me in place. I twist my head and almost spit to get the taste of him out of my mouth. “Stop it! I said no!” My voice comes out as a low hiss because somehow, even though my heart is about to pound out of my chest, I’m still worried about scaring Owen.
Brandon doesn’t listen. His hands and his mouth are everywhere, and I don’t know how to make him stop. I’ve never felt so small, in every possible way.
He forces another kiss on me, moving his body just enough that I can get an arm free. I keep my lips pressed tightly together against his probing tongue, reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair. I pull his head backward, then let go and slap him as hard as I can across the face. He lets out a surprised grunt of pain and loosens his grip. I twist away and shove him with enough force to make him stumble backward. “Get out!” This time I scream, the words scraping raw and rough across my dry throat.
Brandon stares at me, slack-jawed with shock, my handprint seared red across his pale cheek. His mouth twists and I take a step back, poised to run I don’t even know where, when Owen’s door bursts open. “Phoebe?” He pokes his head around the door frame, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Brandon was just leaving.”
Brandon barks out a bitter laugh, his eyes flicking from me to Owen. “What’s up, little man?” he says, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “Nothing to see here. Just your sister being a whore. But I guess your family knows all about that, right? Especially Emma.” I inhale sharply and clench my fist, my sore palm stinging with an almost overwhelming urge to hit him again. Brandon’s eyes gleam, his parting shot landed. He opens the door and lifts one hand in a jaunty wave. “See you around, Phoebe.” Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and backs down the hallway, his eyes never leaving my face.
I slam the door shut and click the deadbolt. After that I can’t seem to move, my hand frozen on the lock. “Phoebe?” Owen asks, his voice small.
My forehead presses against the closed door. I can’t. I cannot have this conversation with my little brother. “Go back to your room.”
“Are you—”
“Go back to your room, Owen. Please.” I hear footsteps and a soft click. I wait another beat until I let the tears fall.
None of this would be happening if Dad were here. I know it, down to my core, that I’d be a better, smarter, stronger person if he hadn’t died. I remember that day like it was yesterday: me and Emma both home sick with the flu, curled on opposite sides of the couch in our old house, covered in blankets. Mom was in the kitchen getting us Popsicles when her phone rang. I heard her harried Hello—we were starting to wear her out at that point—and then she went silent. “Is it serious?” she finally asked, in a voice I’d never heard before.
She appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, clutching her phone in one hand and a half-melted Popsicle in the other. “I have to leave you for a little while,” she said in that same robotic tone. Purple liquid dripped down one arm. “There’s been an accident.”