And When I Die, page 10
“Oh, no, Jordan, that would be your mom. I know that’s why you didn’t have a Sweet Sixteen, because who would come without Daddy’s big fat checkbook?”
“Keep it up, Whitney. Keep. It. Up.”
“You can’t come in here and ruin this for me. This is my night. Mine!”
“You should have thought about that before you came after me,” Jordan sneered. “I am going to make you wish you never met me.”
Whitney narrowed her eyes. “Trust me, I wish that every day. Know that.”
“Same here, you stupid little—”
Jordan didn’t finish the sentence before Whitney wrenched Peyton’s Whit-tini from her hand and threw it into a stunned Jordan’s face, the red liquid cascading down the front of her dress. Whitney held up the empty glass and let it drop to the floor, smug triumph smeared across her face.
Jordan stared down at her dress, her mouth a dumbfounded ‘O.’ Her head flipped up as she threw daggers at Whitney.
“You fucking bitch,” Jordan screamed, her nostrils flaring, her face red. “You’re going to pay for this—”
“I’m not paying for anything—”
“I swear to God, Whitney, I will fuck your shit up,” Jordan shouted. “You just wait, because I’m going to tell everyone what you did, you nasty lying bitch—”
Once again, Jordan didn’t finish the sentence as Whitney leapt toward her, tackling her to the ground, shrieking, tearing at her ponytail, her dress, anything she could get her hands on. Everyone screamed and phones were immediately whipped out to film the melee as Whitney and Jordan rolled around on the floor, yelling and pulling at each other’s clothes and hair. Carly wanted to jump in, defend Whitney, get Jordan away from her. Except she was paralyzed. All she could do was stand there, alternating between staring at the tangled mess in front of her and frantically looking around for someone—anyone—to parachute in and bust up the fight.
Finally, Whitney’s dad, two of the servers, and the bartender jumped in to pull the brawling girls apart. Whitney and Jordan continued shouting and kicking as they attempted to hold on to each other, each with smeared lip gloss and mascara, hair flying out in a million crazy directions, and blood. Whitney’s mouth was puffy, her cheeks scratched, while the lobe of one of Jordan’s ears was split in two, blood dripping from the tear, one of her earrings missing. The DJ finally stopped playing, as the chants and horrified screams of the crowd, comingled with Whitney and Jordan’s shrieks, filled the room.
“I hate you!” Whitney shrieked as her father finally managed to extricate her from Jordan’s frenzied grasp. “I hate your fucking guts!”
“I hope you die! I hope you fucking die!” Jordan raged as she scratched and clawed against the servers trying desperately to control her.
Finally, Jordan was dragged outside, while Whitney’s dad pinned her in a corner by the bar. She was crying hysterically, tracks of black mascara running down her face, her hair a broken nest of extensions and hairspray. Whitney’s mom rushed over, her own tears running down her face as she tried to soothe her frenetic daughter. Carly wrung her hands for a few seconds, not sure what to do, before running over to a hyperventilating Whitney and her parents.
“Why did you have to let her in?” Whitney sobbed to her mother, who was rubbing her daughter’s shoulder. “Why did you have to invite her? This is all your fault.”
“Whitney, sweetie, calm down, calm down.”
“Do you want some water, Whitney?” Carly offered.
“Go away!” Whitney screeched, and Carly blanched.
“Some water would be nice,” Mrs. Dean said to Carly. “Thank you.”
Carly ran to the bar and grabbed a bottle of water. Everyone was still standing around and staring before the event planner pointed frantically to the DJ, indicating he should start playing. The music scratched back to life, though the dance floor remained empty.
Mrs. Dean whispered something to Mr. Dean and he nodded as she lifted up a still sobbing Whitney and took her in the direction of the bathroom. Whitney’s dad ran outside and through the doorway, Carly could see him talking to whoever had dragged Jordan from the dance floor. She was hunched over on a curb, holding her bleeding ear and rocking back and forth. He bent down to talk to her, placing a hand on her shoulder as she too continued bawling.
Carly bit her lip and fought her way to the bathroom. People were still standing around, everyone’s face buried in their phones as they replayed the fight over and over again.
She opened the door to find Mrs. Dean dabbing Whitney’s face with wet paper towels. Whitney had calmed down, but was still crying.
“I brought the water,” she said as she held out the bottle in their direction.
“Thanks, Carly,” Mrs. Dean said, taking it from her. “You’re very sweet.”
“Do you need anything else?” Carly asked. “What can I do?”
“Whitney, honey, how about we go out there and cut the cake, huh? That’ll take everyone’s mind off everything.” Mrs. Dean stroked her daughter’s hair, smiling.
“I want to go home,” she sobbed.
“But sweetie, it’s strawberry with lemon buttercream filling, your favorite—”
“I said I want to go home!” Whitney screamed as she burst into a fresh wave of tears and shoved past Carly, flinging open the bathroom door. Mrs. Dean ran after her, Carly following. The party had reignited, with quite a few kids back on the dance floor. As Whitney sprinted toward the front door, it was like the music screeched into silence as everyone stopped and stared at her.
Carly couldn’t see Jordan anywhere and Whitney was pleading with her father to take her home. He nodded, looking at his wife, who kept trying to talk to a weeping Whitney. Mr. Dean said something to Mrs. Dean and she sighed and nodded, her head hung down in defeat as Mr. Dean took Whitney over to his car and put her inside. Carly walked over to Mrs. Dean, who stood staring after Whitney and Mr. Dean, her face lined with worry.
“Whitney’s just too upset to go on so I think the party’s over,” she said.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dean,” Carly said.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s nice of you to say, but you didn’t do anything,” she said, stroking Carly’s shoulder.
“Do you want some help cleaning up everything?” Carly asked.
“Oh, no, honey, I’ll—the event planner will make sure that gets taken care of. It’s her job.”
“Really, I don’t mind,” Carly said, following behind Mrs. Dean as she made her way back inside. “I mean it, I’m happy to help.”
“I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I think you should give your mom a call, have her come and pick you up.” Mrs. Dean grabbed Carly’s hand and squeezed it. “Thanks again for coming.”
She smiled one last time before heading inside, leaving Carly to stand there, fear and anger welling up inside her. Damn Jordan for ruining everything.
Carly hated her.
18
ERICA
Erica held up her hand to knock on Jordan’s bedroom door, hesitating for a moment. She was still reeling from the shock of getting a teary, hysterical call last night from Jordan that she was too upset to drive home and needed a ride then pulling up and seeing her sobbing, bloody daughter huddled in her car, rocking back and forth, her dress in shreds, her earlobe torn in two.
A glum-sounding Jordan told her to come in. She was curled up on the bed, her laptop on the pillow on her lap, the stitches in her ear the ER doctor had sewn in at two this morning hiding beneath a thick white bandage.
Erica sat down on the king-sized bed. Jordan made no moves, her eyes glued to the laptop. “Jordan, we need to talk.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
Erica slammed the lid of the laptop down, startling her daughter. She shot up, her eyes ready for a rumble, but Erica was not having it today. “Tell me what happened last night.”
Her daughter sank against the pillows, scowling. “I told you, Whitney and I got into it.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a bitch, that’s why—”
“Jordan, I’m warning you.”
Her daughter shrank back, seeming to rethink her defiance. “She got mad that I came to the party before she threw a drink on me and then we got into it.” She touched the bandage on her ear and winced. “That’s when my earring came out.”
Erica ran her tongue across her teeth. “Did you say something to her?”
Hesitation. “No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jordan.”
She continued to sulk and Erica crossed her arms, waiting.
“Okay, I might have called her a nasty, lying bitch. And then she screamed at me to leave.”
Erica closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Oh, Jordan.” She sat still for a moment. “You didn’t go there to be the bigger person. You went there so you could start something with her, didn’t you?”
Hesitation again. “No.”
“Jordan.”
Her daughter sighed, tears welling up in her eyes. “All right, I might have been mad at the way she’s been acting and I wanted to mess with her a little bit.”
Erica frowned. “How’s she been acting? Is it something specific?”
Jordan heaved a big sigh and punched her pillow, dragging it across her stomach. “She’s just a horrible person. Everyone thinks she’s so sweet and innocent. But you have no idea how awful she is. No one does.”
“So, she didn’t do anything specific, you’ve just decided you think she’s a horrible person and because of that, you went to her party to antagonize her and basically ruin her night.” Erica pursed her lips. “Do I have it right?”
The girl said nothing as tears rolled down her face. She wiped them away with the sleeve of her faded blue hoodie.
Erica stood up, grabbing the laptop. “Give me your car keys.”
“What?”
“Your car keys, now,” she said, holding her hand out.
“Are you grounding me?” Jordan asked, surprisingly incredulous.
“For starters.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Oh, I can and I am. Car keys. Now.”
Jordan sobbed and jumped off the bed, stomping over to her purse crumpled on the floor and digging out the key, handing it to her.
“Phone too,” Erica said.
“What?”
“Now, Jordan.”
Sobbing, the girl handed over the phone and flopped down on the bed. “This is so unfair.”
Erica shoved the phone and car key into the pocket of her skinny black pants. “You should have thought about that before you went storming over to Whitney’s party to cause trouble.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“You’re grounded until further notice, so no car, no phone, no social media, no laptop—”
“Mom, I need my laptop for school!”
“They have a computer lab. Better yet, use the computers at the public library.”
“You’re being so ridicu—”
“Keep it up,” Erica said as she scooped up the Mac Book from the bed and stood up. “I can go all day.”
“Oh my God—”
“Actions have consequences,” Erica said as she slammed the door behind her.
19
WHITNEY
Whitney winced as she turned over in bed. She had a cut lip, scratches up and down her arms, an ugly purple bruise on her thigh, one broken acrylic, ripped extensions, and a ruined party dress. Not that she ever planned to wear it again, but looking at it now at the foot of her bed, the silver tatters taunting her, she’d have to throw it in the trash because she damn sure never wanted to look at it again. Even her parents waking her up to present her with the brand-new Range Rover wrapped in a huge red bow that she was supposed to get last night hadn’t been enough to make her feel better.
Twitter and Instagram were lit up with hundreds of videos of her and Jordan going at it. What kind of bullshit was that? Nobody jumped in to help her. Not one person. Even Carly, who was always saying she had her back, that she was a hundred percent ride or die for Whitney, just stood there acting as helpless as a baby.
She scrolled through the comments, her eyes tearing up at how everyone thought it was the most lit thing they’d seen all year. It was going to go viral. She just knew it.
Disgusting.
There was a knock on her door and she said to come in, knowing it was her mom.
“Are you feeling any better, honey?” her mother asked softly from the doorway.
“No.”
Her mom sighed and came over to sit next to her on the bed. She gathered her in her arms and despite herself, Whitney started bawling all over again.
“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay,” her mom said, rocking her gently.
“Jordan totally ruined my birthday,” Whitney sobbed into her mother’s arms. “She ruins everything.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“You should be,” Whitney said. “This is your fault too. I told you I didn’t want Jordan at the party, and you invited her anyway—”
“Whitney—”
“God, at least apologize—”
“I—all right—I apologize, okay? I’m sorrier than you could possibly know. I shouldn’t have invited her. Okay? I’m really, really sorry.”
Her breath slowed a little, though her ears still pounded with the anger. She flopped back onto her pillows. “Thank you.”
Her mom reached out again to hug her, not saying anything for several minutes. It actually felt good to have her mother hold her like she used to when she was a little girl.
“Whit, I need to ask you something,” she finally said.
“What?”
Her mom was quiet for a few moments, just kept stroking her hair. “What did Jordan mean when she said she was going to tell everyone about what you did? What was she talking about?”
Whitney’s heart did a somersault. “Huh?”
“Honey, your dad’s trying to get these videos pulled down, but we both heard Jordan say she was going to tell everyone about you. Did—” Her mom pulled back to look at her. “Is there something you want—need to tell me?”
Whitney blinked back her tears. It would be so easy to tell her mom everything, all the stuff that Jordan was taunting her with. It might even feel good.
Instead, she shook her head. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“Are you sure? Because, you know, whatever it is, you can tell me. Daddy and I will love and support you no matter what. I hope you know that.”
She held her breath. The words were right there on her tongue. All she had to do was open her mouth and let them fall out.
Except, she couldn’t do it.
“Jordan Mitchell is a liar,” she said instead. “She makes stuff up all the time.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she looked at her, almost like she was deciding whether or not to push her. Finally, she clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Okay, honey.”
“I want to be alone for a little while,” Whitney said.
The doorbell sounded from downstairs. Her mom rolled her eyes. “Oh, jeez, who could that be?”
Her dad’s voice raced up the stairs, letting them know it was Carly. Whitney wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I don’t want to see her, Mom.”
“Come on, Whitney, Carly’s your friend. A good friend. You know last night, she offered to help me clean up everything. She brought you some water. I’m sure she just wants to see how you’re doing.”
“Mom, no—”
“Just for a minute,” her mom whispered. “Let her check on you, then tell her you’re not feeling well, but thank her for coming by.”
“Fine,” Whitney said, groaning as she slid off the bed. “Just for a second.”
She stomped downstairs to see a pale, fidgety Carly making awkward small talk with her father.
“Hey, Whit,” she said, seeming relief spreading across her face. “I’ve been texting you all day. How are you?”
Whitney folded her arms across her chest. “Fine.”
“We’ll leave you two girls alone to talk,” her mom said. “Thanks for coming by, Carly.”
Her parents both smiled then crept out to the kitchen. Whitney waited until she knew they were out of range before whirling around.
“What the hell, Carly?”
“What?” She blanched.
“I thought you had my back. I thought you were ride or die.”
“I—I am, Whitney, I am—”
“Jordan was beating the shit out of me and you just stood there. You didn’t do anything,” Whitney hissed. “I can’t believe you didn’t do anything, not one thing to help me. What about having my back? Huh? What about that?”
Carly grabbed at Whitney’s arms, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Whitney, you know I would do anything for you. You know that.”
“Well, then why didn’t you do anything?”
“I, I just—I was—”
“So weak. So pathetic.”
“Whit, please, please don’t say that. You know how much I love you.”
Whitney stomped over to her front door and flung it open. “You know what? Get the hell out of my house.”
Carly shook her head, the tears streaming faster down her face. “Whit, no, please.”
“No, seriously, get out and don’t come back. Don’t talk to me, don’t text me, don’t do anything. Just leave me alone.”
“Don’t do this, please, don’t.”
Whitney lowered her voice and leaned down. “If you don’t get away from me, I’m going to tell everyone you’re a total wackjob. Like, a serious cuckoo clock.”
“What?” Carly sobbed.
“You know, one of my dad’s little sisters, my aunt, is seriously cracked in the head.” Whitney sniffed. “You totally remind me of her. Complete fruit loop.”
“But, you know that’s not true, you know—”
Whitney’s eyes grew wide, her face moving closer to Carly’s. “You know she’s in a mental hospital? Because she’s batshit crazy. She walks around talking to herself all the time. And every time they let her out, she has another breakdown. Maybe that’s where you belong, in a padded cell somewhere.”
