And I shouldn’t be kissing Cody, of all people. No matter how much I might want to. God, what if Mikaela finds out? She doesn’t even think this is a possibility. But I’m still kissing him, aren’t I? No. I pull away, my face hot.
Before I can say anything, he leans back and says, “I mean it. I won’t forget this.”
“Okay.” My mind spins, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me again. I want him to and I don’t at the same time. But he’s already opening the door and getting out of the car.
At school the following Monday, I manage to act like everything’s normal. Cody acts like his old self. Mikaela doesn’t seem to think anything’s weird.
I’m not about to tell her that Cody kissed me, even though it’s not like I did anything wrong, because he kissed me. And it hasn’t happened again.
Still, I didn’t stop him. I kissed him back. And I can’t help thinking about it.
A lot.
From Shiri Langford’s journal, August 29th
Such a relief to be back at school, away from THAT. Except of course THAT follows me wherever I go. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do. So I stopped taking those stupid antidepressants. I’m not convinced they help me anyway.
(Later)
I did something terrible.
I tried to tell Brendan about the things I hear. What a mistake. What a disaster. I’m
so stupid. The other times it’s happened while we were together, I passed it off as side effects from my medication. Now he knows I’m not taking my medication any more. He asked what was wrong. I started to lie, and then I just couldn’t stand keeping it inside anymore and I told him.
He didn’t say anything at all, just clenched his hands around the edge of the table. He turned kind of red, his eyes cold, and he got up and walked out of my apartment.
I don’t know why he was so angry.
I haven’t been able to get hold of him for the past two hours. I keep calling and calling.
twenty-three
The early February air is crisp and dry. A breeze cuts under the open zipper of my jacket as I rush out of my last-period class and into the bathroom along with about eight million other girls.
I retie my ponytail, craning my neck to see around a girl who’s hogging the mirror as she applies lipstick. Then I duck into a stall. The swirl of noise and voices echoes around the room for a minute, and then dwindles as the restroom empties out.
I flush the toilet, unlatch the door, and as I’m washing my hands at the sink I hear the clop-clop of high-heeled boots. And who walks in but Cassie, tottering a little on her fancy designer shoes, and Elisa.
Great.
I knew I should have avoided the bathrooms in the social science block.
I don’t meet their eyes. I just nod noncommittally and try to dry my hands as quickly as possible.
The electric dryer seems to be operating excruciatingly slowly. I’m about to wipe my hands on my cargo pants and leave when I notice that Elisa is crying.
Against my better judgment, I go up to the two of them where they’re standing over in the far corner. I mean, Elisa was my friend. And it’s not like she did anything to me directly. She just kind of followed along. Like I used to. When I see her crying it’s like we’re all struggling through freshman year again, and I can’t just leave.
“Lise, are you okay?” My voice is tentative. “What’s wrong?” Cassie is murmuring comfortingly in Elisa’s ear, but when she hears my voice, her head whips up and she glares at me.
“It’s none of your business,” Cassie says. “Like you care about us anymore anyway. Go back to your new friends.”
“I’m fine,” Elisa says, her voice hoarse. “It’s—don’t worry about it.” She turns away from me, toward Cassie.
“Okay,” I say, hurt. “I’m not going to pretend I have any idea what’s going on, but here.” I fish a tissue out of my purse and hold it out to her.
“Oh, come on,” Cassie says. She rips the tissue out of my hand almost violently and throws it in the trash can. “You have to know. Everyone does. You’re on there, too.” She stares at me challengingly, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“On what?” I sneak a sideways glance at the defaced bathroom wall, half-expecting to see our names and phone numbers listed along with “for a good time, call.”
“On the blog, stupid.”
“I’m not on any blog,” I protest. “I haven’t even been on- line in a week.”
“I’m talking about that Voice of the Underground thing. It got emailed to everyone on the school list. You seriously don’t know?” Cassie rolls her eyes and flips her hair over one shoulder. She’s looking at me like I’m beyond idiotic.
“I seriously don’t know,” I tell her, bewildered. I shift my gaze to Elisa, but she’s not looking at me. She’s still dabbing at tears with her sleeve.
“Yeah, right,” Cassie says. “Just check your email.”
I stand there for a minute, wondering what the hell is going on, wondering if I should offer Elisa another tissue, but they ignore me. The atmosphere feels brittle, like a dead leaf. So I go. Obviously they don’t want me around. I should never have stopped to talk to them in the first place. I shove aside my worry about Elisa and leave.
I have better things to do. I have better friends to see.
First, though, I call home, slowly walking across campus as I hit the speed-dial button and wait for our old answering machine to pick up.
“Auntie Mina? Are you home? This is Sunny.” I wait a minute, and she answers.
“Yes, Sunny? How are you? How was school?” She sounds tired.
“Fine,” I say. “I wanted to let you know, I was invited to my friend Cody’s house after school. I should still be home before Mom and Dad. Will you be okay until I get there?” It’s like I’m the adult and Auntie Mina is the child. But I’m worried. Uncle Randall hasn’t come over since that last time, but he’s been calling a lot ever since they started talking again. Sometimes two or three times a day. That’s why we told her not to pick up until whoever it was talked into the machine. She doesn’t have to talk to him all the time.
There’s been a lot of hang-up messages. Click, and then a dial tone.
“Oh, sweetie, I’ll be fine,” she says, but her voice sounds artificially cheerful. “You deserve some time with your friends.”
I feel a stab of guilt. “Well, call me if you need me.”
“Pshht. Go enjoy yourself,” she says, and hangs up. But I don’t feel any better. Especially since there’s absolutely nothing I can do.
Mikaela and Cody are already waiting for me by the gate to the back parking lot, and they fall into step on either side of me as I head for my car. As we walk, I can’t help feeling extra-conscious of Cody on my right, of the warmth of his skin as his bare arm brushes mine for a second.
“So why do girls take so long in the bathroom?” Cody asks, with fake earnestness.
“It wasn’t me,” I start to explain; but Mikaela pats me on the head.
“It’s okay; we won’t tell anyone about your secret girly makeup obsession. Your hidden collection of Cover Girl stuff. The perfume bottles stashed in your locker. The eyebrow pencils in your pencil case.”
I start laughing, letting myself be distracted. “Okay, seriously, who carries a pencil case? Name one person.”