And When I Die, page 11
“Whitney, please, please don’t say that—”
“You know, I thought you were going to be totally different than Jordan. I thought you were going to be a true friend. I thought you were one hundred.”
“But I am, Whitney, I swear it.” Carly sobbed. “You know I am—”
Whitney rattled the doorknob in her hand. “I am so fucking serious right now. Get the hell out.”
“But, Whitney please you’re—you’re my best friend. I love you—”
“Call your Uber or whatever from outside. Just get the hell away from me, you fucking crazy creeper.”
Carly’s face melted in anguish as she raced outside, and Whitney slammed the door behind her.
20
AVA
Ava pulled the curly black strands of her hair into a ponytail as she examined her face in the mirror, frowning at the ugly black spiral of chin hair that had sprung up overnight. There weren’t many things Ava was vain about, but the hair—the hair!—would drive her to drink if she didn’t already. This was the third in as many weeks. At this rate, she was going to have to start shaving.
She winced as she plucked the protruding stubble, instant relief flooding through her at the release and the sight of the wily coil, a white bulb of root bulging at the end. She rubbed the stinging spot on her chin and dotted it with some peroxide before heading for the stairs, glancing hesitantly down the hall toward Carly’s closed door.
It had been a miserable twenty-four hours, starting with Carly’s frantic phone call last night for a ride home, coupled with agitated babblings that even a UN translator wouldn’t have been able to decipher. Then today’s drama of the traumatic visit with Whitney, followed by frenetic bawling about how her life was over because the most popular girl in school didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. The girl had been locked in her room since she ran sobbing into the house after her fight with Whitney. She was probably cycling between sobbing uncontrollably and watching Lifetime movies.
She flipped through her own memories of sixteen, searching the pages of her mind for any over-the-top, end-of-the-world meltdowns with her girlfriends. The closest she could find was the vicious argument she and Tammy Butler had senior year over Calvin Swank. Even though he was two-timing them both, the girls traded nasty barbs until her brother, Frank, stepped in and told her to calm down because he knew for a fact the guy was a dog. Ava realized her brother was right and told Tammy she could have him. Turns out she didn’t want him either and also kicked him to the curb. The whole thing lasted about three weeks and they kissed and made up by going to McDonald’s for Shamrock Shakes. There’d been no tears, no hair pulling, no earring ripping.
Ava shuffled into the kitchen, mentally starting to make the grocery list for dinner tonight. Her eyes continually flipped skyward in the direction of Carly’s room as she stood at the kitchen counter scribbling ingredients on her notepad. Her plan was to cook Carly’s favorites in order to coax her downstairs for dinner. The squeak of the bedroom door pulled Ava’s gaze up again as Carly emerged, plodding down the stairs, her face puffy with tears, eyes pink and swollen. Ava watched in silence as she headed straight for the fridge, extracting a tub of hummus and some string cheese.
Ava cocked her head to the side. “Carly.”
“What?”
She gestured to the kitchen table, indicating Carly should sit. Carly shuffled over, her shoulders hunched, and plopped down in the chair, her eyes pinned to the table.
“What?” Carly repeated.
“Baby, this isn’t going to last forever,” Ava said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “This whole thing will be forgotten in no time.”
“Whitney doesn’t forget things. Once she’s done with you, she’s done with you.” Carly shifted in her chair, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Mom, she said she was going to tell the whole school that I was crazy and belonged in a mental hospital.”
“And that was a totally unnecessary thing to say and I’m going to talk to her mother—”
Carly jumped out of her chair. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare say anything to her mom, to anyone—”
“All right, calm down, Carly, calm down.” Ava sighed. “Baby, you—listen, you can’t wrap up all your self-worth into Whitney Dean, or anyone.”
“Don’t make me go to school tomorrow. Besides, you’re not even going to be here, so why do you care?”
“Excuse me?”
“Mom, please, don’t make me go. I can’t face it, I can’t—”
“Listen, you can’t hide from Whitney or anybody. You’ve got to go and hold your head up high. Don’t let anyone push you around.”
“This is all Jordan’s fault. If she hadn’t come to the party and started the fight, none of this would be happening. God, I hate her—”
“Jordan’s mother can deal with her. Right now, I’m more concerned with you.” Ava exhaled. “Look, you’re going to school tomorrow. And don’t worry about Whitney—”
“God, you just don’t understand.” Carly burst into a fresh round of tears as she bolted from the table and back upstairs. Ava wanted to run after her then thought better of it, sinking back into her chair and groaning, wondering if she should postpone her trip tomorrow. Kyle came in from the living room, frowning.
“What’s all that, then?”
“She is having a complete meltdown about Whitney and wants to stay home from school tomorrow and I said no.”
He joined her at the table. “Would that be so bad? Even a day or two?”
“Look, she’s already got shaky self-esteem. If we let her curl up in a ball every time something bad happens or things don’t go her way, she’s never going to learn how to cope with life.”
“She’s just so sensitive,” he said. “We don’t want her to tip over the edge, right?”
Ava picked up her grocery list and gave it a quick scan. “Jesus, English, Carly will be fine. We shouldn’t baby her.”
“I guess you’re right, Mate.” He came over and kissed the back of her neck. “Oh, wait, you always are.”
She scoffed. “Seriously, stop acting like you’re new here.”
21
CARLY
They were supposed to reminisce about the party Monday morning.
That had been the plan.
Monday morning, she and Whitney would meet up at her locker with the rest of the girls to relive the glory of Saturday night. They would talk about the food, the searchlights with Whitney’s name. Whitney’s dress. All the songs they danced to. The cake being wheeled out. Mr. and Mrs. Dean presenting Whitney with a brand-new car.
Instead, everything had completely and totally gone wrong and now, Carly was down at the other end of the hallway peeking around the corner at Whitney’s locker, hiding.
She saw Peyton, Lexi, and Madison pass by Whitney’s locker, the confused swivel of their heads at not finding her there and eventual shrug as they scattered to their own first periods. Seconds later, she saw that miserable skank Jordan wander down the hall with the huge, hard-to-miss white bandage plastered over her right ear. Like Carly, today Jordan had traded her standard jeans and flowy tops for a drab hoodie and baggy sweats, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She ducked into class and Carly licked her lips, wondering if maybe Whitney’s mom, unlike her own, had been cool enough to let her stay home today.
She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she’d make it into class just before the bell.
Then again, she could just skip altogether.
Carly took a deep breath, fighting the urge to run out of the building. In the end, her good girl tendencies told her to sprint down the hall to class. She arrived breathless, her butt in the seat just as the bell rang. One second later, Whitney strolled in.
It felt like the entire class held its breath as Whitney scanned the room for a seat.
Carly’s heart dropped at the sight of the still fresh bruises and scratches on her skin, though the simple short-sleeved black dress that flared out around her knees meant Whitney had put in a little more effort than either Carly or Jordan. And she wasn’t afraid to show the evidence of the brawl.
Whitney flicked a scowl at Carly and rolled her eyes at Jordan. Carly sank down in her seat, tears burning in her eyes at the humiliation, the rejection. Did everybody see? Did they all know?
“You’re late, Miss Dean,” Mr. Byrne said.
“Sorry,” she mumbled as she took a seat in a far corner of the room, a bank of windows on one side of her, Perry Hoffman, the string bean of a student with thick glasses and blotchy acne who nobody sat next to if they could help it, on the other.
Carly’s gaze scurried around the room as Mr. Byrne started the lesson by pulling out a tattered copy of The Scarlet Letter. She could see everyone staring at her, Whitney, and Jordan. Trish Sellers whispered something to Rachel Clark, who turned to look at Whitney, who stared straight ahead at the board, while Carly locked eyes with Trish before glancing away, ashamed because she knew what Trish was thinking.
Why wasn’t she sitting with Whitney?
“All right guys, today we’re going to be diving deeper into The Scarlet Letter.” Mr. Byrne cleared his throat and wrote the book’s title on the board and the word, ‘outcast’ underneath. “As we’ve seen in the book so far, Hester is an eternal outcast in puritanical society. So, here’s my question for you. Should the sin of one be the sin of the entire community?”
A few uncomfortable coughs broke the silence and some shifted in their seats, as though they were afraid to speak. The shuffling hiss of papers and click and hum of the air conditioner kicking on filled the room. Carly looked down at her notebook, while Whitney scoffed and shook her head and Jordan stayed hunched over her notebook, staring, doing nothing.
Trish Sellers’s hand shot up in the air. Carly could see Mr. Byrne’s eyes skip over her in search of someone else to answer the question.
“Miss Dean,” he said, causing the girl’s head to flip up. “What do you think? Did Hester deserve to be an eternal outcast or were her sins forgivable?”
She rapidly tapped her pen against her desk before clearing her throat and crossing her legs as she straightened up in her chair.
“I say if you’re an outcast …” She rolled the tip of her tongue across her front teeth. “You probably deserve it.”
He nodded slowly as the rest of the room tittered uncomfortably. “Okay. Could you elaborate some more on that?”
Whitney’s words triggered a flood of metallic saliva in Carly’s mouth and churning in her stomach. Whitney meant that for her. She wanted Carly to know she was done. She was icing her out. Her days as number one companion to the queen were through.
She was going to be sick.
“Mr. Byrne?” Carly feebly held up her hand, her voice weak.
“Is there something you’d like to add, Miss Ewing?”
“I need to go to the nurse.”
“Why?”
She clutched her stomach, afraid to open her mouth, afraid of what would come out. “I think—”
Her fears were well founded, because she spewed all over Jessie Tate’s head as Patty Ford, Roberto Gimenez, and China Maxwell jumped out of the way of the splatter. The entire class gasped, one student yelping, someone else yelling out, “Yo, that is fucked up.” Whitney wrinkled her nose and Jordan snickered even as she hunched even further into her desk.
“I’m sorry,” Carly sobbed as she dragged the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her mouth, feeling the rank wetness slide across her chin. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re excused to go to the nurse,” Mr. Byrne said as he rushed to open the classroom door.
Carly grabbed her books, carefully stepping around the pool of vomit spreading across the floor, and ran toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated as she rushed past him, tears streaming down her face as she bolted for the hallway. “I’m so sorry.”
22
ERICA
The house shook with thunder and the lights blinked off for a millisecond before blazing back to life. Erica winced as she wiped down her kitchen counters and finished loading the breakfast dishes before hitting start on the dishwasher. It had been one week since the birthday brawl, as she’d come to think of it. Video of Jordan and Whitney yanking extensions and screaming profanities at each other briefly went viral before Steve Dean had them all yanked off social media, threatening a bevy of lawsuits. If he hadn’t, she was prepared to have Jay step in. Jordan spent her time locked and sullen in her room, going to school and coming straight home. Erica had left several apologetic voicemails for Lauren this week, but the woman had yet to call her back. She’d put it on her to-do list to call her again. Maybe she’d just show up at Lauren’s house with a bottle of wine or something to smooth the way. Always have a plan.
Jordan galloped down the stairs, her book bag slung over her shoulder. “Where’s Dad?”
Erica snapped open the trash bag she’d taken from the pantry to line the garbage can. “Upstairs.”
Jordan slumped down into a chair. “When can I get my car back?”
“I want you to apologize to Whitney.”
“No way.”
“All right then.” Erica shrugged. “I guess I keep the car keys, phone, and laptop for an extra week.”
“This is so stupid.”
“Jordan, you have to take responsibility for your actions.” Erica leaned against the counter. “Now, after the library, you’re going to walk to the Zindels’ to babysit and then Mr. Zindel will bring you home, right?”
Jordan picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her pants. “Yeah.”
“So, what time should we expect you?”
“I don’t know, nine-thirty, ten.”
Jay came bounding down the stairs in his seven-days-a-week uniform of Chuck Taylors, khakis, and long-sleeved button-down, the top two buttons undone to reveal a white t-shirt underneath. He kissed Erica’s forehead before glancing at Jordan. “You ready to go?”
She pushed back from the table, the bottom legs of the chair scraping across the marble. “So ridiculous.”
“Keep it up.” Erica washed and dried her hands on a kitchen towel. “Every day that you stomp around here is another day of no privileges.”
In defiance, as if to prove her point, her daughter stomped outside to the car while Jay looked after her, exasperated. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with her.”
“Oh, she’ll get tired of this eventually and get it together.”
“I’m going to drop her off at the library, run some errands, then I’ll be in that meeting with Charlotte Morgan in Lake Bluff for a few hours.” Jay stopped short. “We should have her and her husband, Rex, over some time.”
“Sure, darling, you tell me when. Just not tonight.”
“Hmm. No, not tonight. Okay, anyway, I’ll be home around six-thirty.”
“Sounds good.” She curled into him, running her hand up the length of his arm. “Since Kennedy has a sleepover tonight and Jordan will be babysitting, why don’t we meet in the hot tub for a little time alone?”
They laughed the naughty, knowing laugh of a couple who can’t wait to be alone together. “You bring the burritos.”
They kissed before he headed out to the car. Within seconds, she heard him and Jordan pull out of the driveway, her shoulders loosening somewhat at having the house to herself for the day. It would give her a chance to get a jump start on a few upcoming projects.
Another bang of thunder slammed into the house and the lights flickered once again as Erica ambled into her office. She frowned as she flipped open her laptop, perturbed that the Wi-Fi seemed to be as intermittent as the electricity. For the next hour, she kept resetting the router, knowing it was futile, but unable to stop herself from at least trying. Finally, she sighed, looking forlornly around her office. Maybe this was the day to run a few errands she’d been putting off throughout the week, since it didn’t appear she would be getting any work done today. She sighed again and headed into the kitchen for her purse and keys.
23
LAUREN
Lauren’s cheeks burned with her realtor smile, plastered across her face since she’d raced out of the house at eight that morning for a grueling day of back-to-back showings from Highland Park to Evanston and every suburb in between. Saturdays during the buying season were always punishing and today was no exception. Fortunately, the season was ending soon, and though it had been exceedingly lucrative—one of her best ever—Lauren was ready for the slowdown so she could catch her breath.
Her stomach growled as she showed them the kitchen, the hasty pack of peanut butter crackers at two that afternoon a distant memory. Despite the insistent rain pelting the picture windows and the electricity falling victim to the storm, she ran through her spiel about natural light, open kitchens perfect for entertaining, spacious closets, and stunning views for the young couple looking to upgrade from their condo in the city in anticipation of starting a family soon, reminding her of when she and Steve had made that leap. He’d been perfectly happy for them to continue living in the Lincoln Park condo he’d bought a year before they met (at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day, of all the ridiculous things), with his ten-minute commute and favorite pub around the corner. She’d been desperate for the status of the North Shore and what it represented, spurred by the lingering scar of a childhood with skinflint parents.
In addition to giving up his city life, Steve worried about the cost of living in the high-rent North Shore. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t made it to the NFL, though fortunately, he’d majored in architecture and had that to fall back on when the pros didn’t throw themselves at his feet. Despite the success he was having with his burgeoning career, he still felt they needed to be more settled, have more zeros in their bank account. He inexplicably worried that living in the suburbs meant they’d have to give up their weekly Mary Jane habit, which Lauren found especially funny. Who did he think was lighting up every chance they got?
