Dad laughed. “Maybe not. But remember, you inherited your way with words from your mom, not me.”
I’m hoping my way with words pays off as Mr. Phillips finishes tallying the points on the voting sheets.
“We have a winner,” he says. “Congratulations, Mr. Connors.”
I turn and hold out my hand to Oliver. Mr. Phillips is big on us being gracious when we win — and not being sore losers when we don’t.
“Good debate, Mr. Steiner,” I say.
Oliver shakes my hand and says, “Nice work, Mr. Connors.”
Then we both laugh because it still seems so weird to call each other mister, but we’re supposed to at debate club because Mr. Phillips says it’s a way of showing each other respect. But as soon as the announcement crackles over the loudspeaker that the late buses are here, Oliver fake punches my shoulder and says, “Crush you next time, sucker.”
“Yeah … in your dreams,” I tell him.
Guess we can only keep up the respect thing for so long. But that’s okay. We’re just messing with each other. It’s way different from the stuff people have been saying to Lara Kelley.
We talk about our fantasy football picks on the way down to the front circle.
“See you tomorrow,” he says as we part ways for our late buses.
“Not if I see you first,” I retort over my shoulder.
The late bus is half-empty, as usual. The lucky ones have parents or older siblings who pick them up.
Even if Bree had her license and use of one of the family cars, I can’t see her going out of her way to do me a favor.
But today I don’t mind so much, because Syd is sitting on the late bus, staring out the window. I slide into the seat in front of her.
“What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Nothing too special.”
But you’re pretty special …
Stop, I tell myself. Syd needs a friend, not a creeper.
“I just wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like I want to punch everyone in the face.” She sighs.
It’s so unlike Syd to say something like that that I can’t help putting my hands up to block my face, laughing as I do so.
Syd swats my arms down playfully.
“Not you, silly,” she says. “Just … the rest of the world.”
“Whew!” I breathe an exaggerated sigh of relief. “You had me so scared for a moment there.”
“Yeah, right,” Syd says. “Because I’m so tough that huge football players have been known to wet themselves when they see me walking down the hall.”
Being able to make her laugh is even better than beating Oliver. Mom would slap me upside the head for even thinking that, but luckily for me, she can’t read my thoughts.
“Seriously … is everything okay?” I ask. “I mean … I know that’s a stupid question but …”
“Heh … yeah.” She looks out the window, avoiding my gaze, and her lower lip trembles. “No … everything isn’t okay. Pretty much nothing is okay, if you want to know the truth.” Her voice wobbles, like she’s about to cry.
Crying girls freak me out, because I don’t know what to do to make them stop. Thankfully, Syd turns mad instead.
“But of course I have to pretend like everything’s fine, because Mom’s running for reelection to city council. I’m just so mad all the time. Like, every time I stay after school for rehearsal and work on crew instead of being in the cast … I was good.”
“I know,” I agree. “I ran lines with you.”
“It’s not fair,” she says. Syd’s speaking quietly, so only I can hear over the noise of the bus engine, the driver’s radio, and the chatter of the other kids, but there’s so much anger in her voice I feel like it could drill a hole in the seat back between us. “I didn’t even get a chance to try out. Because Lara’s drama always messes up my life.”
And then, as if she’s just realized what she’s said, she covers her mouth with her hand and looks at me, wide-eyed with horror.
“You probably think I’m awful, right?”
The fingers over her mouth muffle her words. Her other hand grips the seat back.
I pat that hand hesitantly, gently, with my own.
“I don’t think you’re awful, Syd. I think you’re … you know … human.”
Her eyes get all watery, and I’m scared she’s going to start crying, but then she takes a deep breath and smiles.
“Whew,” she says. “Human, huh? Well, that’s a relief. And all this time I’ve been worrying I was some kind of alien.”
Who could blame me for crushing on her?
BEING BUZZED into the psych ward is like being let into prison — not that I’ve been to prison, but I’ve seen movies. I can’t believe Lara’s been in this place for two weeks.
She’s in her room, sitting on her bed, wearing sweats — the kind with an elastic waist, because she’s not allowed the ones that tie with a string. Her skin is pale, almost gray in color, and her hair hangs limply around her face, like she hasn’t brushed it today. Like she doesn’t care about her appearance — or anything for that matter.
My sister looks kind of like the flowers wilting in the plastic pee bottle on the dresser — she’s seen better days. I wonder why no one has thrown those flowers out. Dropped petals litter the top of the dresser, and the water in the pee bottle is green.
“The doctor tells us you can come home tomorrow,” Mom says.
Wait, what? How come nobody told me that?
This place is so awful that I feel like the world’s worst sister for even thinking this, but I’ve been kind of enjoying being the only child at home these last two weeks. No having to wait to use the computer or the bathroom. No Lara using up all the hot water before I get to take a shower. And best of all, even though my parents still talk about Lara constantly, they seem to notice me more.
“I can’t wait to get out of this place,” Lara says with the most emotion I’ve seen her show since the night in the hospital. “It’s horrible. I hate it.”
I am the worst sister ever.
“But they’re helping you,” Mom says. “And that’s the most important thing.”
Lara opens her mouth, but then shuts it like she’s thought better of what she was going to say. She looks down at her hands and starts picking at her cuticles instead.
“You seem a lot better,” Mom says. “They tell us you’re making progress. Of course, you have to continue with intensive therapy when you come home.”
How exactly does Lara seem better? I wonder. Okay, she’s not passed out in a bathroom, but she still seems pretty miserable to me.
“Should I throw out these flowers?” I ask, walking over to the dresser, because the green water in the pee bottle is really starting to gross me out.
“No!” Lara says with vehemence that startles me.
“Fine! Jeez, chill, will you?” I say, backing away from the dead flowers that for some reason my crazy sister wants to keep.
“Honey, I want you to have a look at these,” Dad says, taking some papers out of his pocket and moving to sit next to Lara on the bed.
“Pete, are you sure this is a good idea?” Mom asks, her brow creased with worry.
“It’s fine, Kathy,” Dad snaps.
Lara flinches slightly at his tone, and she looks from one parent to the other, eyes wide.
I don’t have a good feeling about this.
My father is obsessed with vengeance and has little or no confidence in the competence of our local police force. Having watched a gazillion reruns of Law & Order, he considers himself just as qualified to run this investigation as they are, no matter how many times Mom tells him to back off and let them do their job. He’s been spending every night glued to his laptop, creating a spreadsheet of everyone who commented on Lara’s wall, which he’s cross-referenced with Christian’s friend list. Organizing and systemizing things are his specialty. I think it’s something to do with being an engineer. The problem is, he gets confused and frustrated when we don’t fit into the systems he creates.