And When I Die, page 39
ERICA
“I don’t understand what your bedtime reading has to do with me,” she said as the detective finished reading selected portions of the psychological profile on Ruthie Stowers, words she would never forget.
“Oh, I’m not quite finished yet, Mrs. Mitchell. Just a few more things.” She shuffled through the stacks again, pulling out a pile of papers bound by a big red rubber band. “Now this … oh, yes, here we are. ‘Ruthie Stowers Released After Serving Ten Years.’” Diehl looked up at Erica. “Sound familiar?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll keep reading. Ruthie Stowers, the quiet introvert who longed to be accepted by her peers, one peer in particular, was released yesterday after serving ten years for the vicious murder of her classmate, Shannon Kendall. She served her sentence, the maximum allowed under state law, in the Texas Youth Commission, after fatally stabbing sixteen-year-old Shannon Kendall in 1986. Stowers was denied parole in 1991, with one parole board member citing the inmate as possessing a trigger temper she has trouble controlling as the reason for the rejection. She said, quote, I strongly believe there is every possibility she—Stowers—if provoked, could very easily do this again. I believe she remains a danger to society. I pray I’m wrong, end quote.”
The detective looked up at Erica. She wondered if the woman could see the crack in her façade, if she could see mousy little Ruthie Stowers cowering inside her.
“Should I go on, Mrs. Mitchell?”
“You’re right, Detective Diehl. A very interesting read.”
“Do you know Emily Kason?”
Despite herself, Erica flinched. “No.”
“What about Melinda Stokes?”
“Should I?”
“Violet Ford?”
“Detective, I have no idea who any of these women are.”
“No?”
“No. No idea.”
Diehl nodded as though she were contemplating this. “Hmm. Well, how about this?”
She laid down two pieces of paper: her most recent DMV photo and her instantly recognizable junior year class photo, her uncomfortable smile poorly masking all of the anxiety and inadequacies twisted up inside of her.
Ruthie and Erica next to each other.
One and the same.
She looked down at the images, the tears no longer having any place to hide. It had been so long since she’d looked at herself at sixteen. She’d tried to forget that ugly, awkward little girl with the greasy hair, crooked teeth, and dumpling bottom. She’d banished ugly little Ruthie Stowers to the trash heap, choosing to be reborn as the glamorous Erica Dane with the slimmed down frame, new teeth, contact lenses, and sleek, shiny hair that billowed in the wind.
The detective tossed another stack of papers onto the table. “Your daughter told me you had her phone because she was on punishment. We got the logs of your daughter’s text messages from the carrier and she was texting with Miss Dean the day of the murder. Except it wasn’t her. It was you.”
Erica fell silent, afraid to speak now.
“You lured Miss Dean out of the house by pretending to be your daughter,” the detective said.
She continued her stony silence.
Diehl picked up her tablet. “I have some video doorbell footage from that day that I’d like you to take a look at,” she said as she swiped and tapped at the screen before coming to stand over Erica, placing the tablet in front of her.
Erica’s eyes flicked down at the sight of her cream-colored SUV pulling into the Dean’s driveway, sheets of rain beating against the roof, her license plate in clear view.
Moments later, Whitney runs out of the house in her yellow rain slicker then does a dead stop. Hesitating. Talking to the driver. Looking back toward her house. Hesitating again. Finally relenting and getting in the car.
“We ran the plates on that car. Registered to Stoneright Global, your husband’s company. We can also see, as this car pulls off, a clear shot of you behind the wheel. We ran your financials. You bought a new car the following Monday.”
Her stoicism imploded, the déjà vu of being confronted with conclusive evidence too much to keep her upright, apathetic to the house of cards crumbling around her in swift and stunning fashion.
It was over. It was all over.
“You killed Whitney Dean,” the detective said, her voice flat. “Just like you killed Shannon Kendall.”
She couldn’t say anything, the tears having their way with her. She sobbed brokenly, but quietly, into the palm of one hand, ashamed and afraid to look the detective in the eye, to admit that yes, just like that lone parole board member had warned all those years ago, she had indeed snapped again.
Instead, her eyes squeezed shut, she nodded, giving in, giving up.
“Okay,” Diehl said. “Tell me about that Saturday.”
SATURDAY
95
WHITNEY
Whitney exited out of her photo gallery and headed outside, the rain pounding against the dark green overhang of Coffee City. She held onto her latte with one hand, maneuvering the hood of her yellow slicker over her head with the other as she prepared to dash out to her car parked a few doors down.
“Whitney?”
She gasped then rolled her eyes when she turned to see a pathetic Carly standing next to the front door.
“What, are you following me now?” Whitney asked as she fiddled in her pocket for her key fob.
“I was coming in for a latte and saw your car,” Carly said. “I wanted to wait for you.”
“I thought because you hadn’t been in school all week you’d transferred or something.”
“I—I was sick.”
“I seriously don’t have time for this today,” Whitney scoffed as she pulled the fob out of her pocket. “Find someone else to bother.”
Carly grabbed her arm. “Wait, please, I just—can’t we be friends again? Please? Whatever I can do to make it up to you about the party, about not having your back with Jordan, I’ll do it. I got so scared and I froze and I didn’t know what to do, but I promise, nothing like that will ever happen again.”
Whitney burst out laughing. “Seriously. Get a hobby that’s not me.”
“Whitney, what do I have to do? Tell me, please, what can I do to make this up to you?”
“You really don’t get it, do you?” she hissed. “We’re done. You’re done. You should stay home another week because there won’t be anything for you to come back to at East Lake Forest. You’re gonna be off pom, you’re gonna have to sit in the library for lunch. You’ll be like Jordan—worse. No one will talk to you, no one will want anything to do with you. You. Are. Erased.”
Tears crawled down Carly’s cheeks, which she frantically tried to wipe away, though they fell faster than she could keep up. “Whitney, please—”
Whitney had nothing left to say, so instead of responding, she darted over to her car, being careful to avoid even looking in Carly’s direction, though from the corner of her eye, she could see her still standing there, looking pathetic. What had Whitney even seen in her? She’d seemed cool, she supposed. Worthy of Whitney’s attention.
How wrong she was.
She hated to admit that the confrontation with Carly had rattled her and she was already a little nervous about driving in the rain, so she’d have to be extra careful. Fortunately, this was a really good car, with every bell and whistle her mother could stick on it. It would probably even protect her against zombies.
Sheets of rain continued sliding across her windshield as she made the short drive home, Carly receding from her mind with each swish of the wipers. Hopefully she’d scared Carly into leaving her alone. Whitney knew she was a lot of things, but a gossip wasn’t one of them. Not like that bigmouth Dionne Cruise. Even though she told Carly she’d ruin her by spreading all kinds of things about her around school, the truth was, Whitney knew silence was deadlier. All she had to do was ice Carly out and be super mysterious about it. The threat would be enough. Let everyone else run their mouths trying to figure out what happened. She’d just smile and say nothing.
The car’s dash read twelve-thirty. She had more pressing things to deal with today than the annoying gnat that was Carly Ewing. Mrs. Trent was going to drop Parker at home by two, then she was supposed to feed him something and make sure he took a bath or a shower, then take him to his sleepover a few blocks away. She and Peyton had talked about going to the mall, but with all this rain and running around, the only thing she was in the mood for now was to chill. Maybe she’d text Peyton when she got home and see if she wanted to come over instead, then she wouldn’t have to rush home for Parker.
Whitney turned left onto her street then her driveway. It would be nice to have the house to herself. Play her music as loud as she wanted, or just sit and read for an hour without her mom or Parker bugging her.
She took a huge slurp of her coffee as she headed upstairs to grab her book and text Peyton about coming over later, when her phone dinged with a new text message.
The sight of Jordan’s face stopped her in her tracks.
Hey, Whit.
96
ERICA
Rain smacked against the bay windows and a crack of thunder shook the foundation of the house. Erica winced as a jagged ribbon of lightening exploded across the purplish-gray sky. The storm had knocked out the Internet, effectively scrubbing all hope of getting any actual work done. At first, she’d thought she’d leave the house to run errands, but had changed her mind, deciding instead to spend the morning organizing her files and making to-do lists. A much more efficient use of her time.
Hunger clawed at her stomach. Erica rubbed her eyes, stretching as she stood and made her way upstairs to grab a magazine from her nightstand to read while she munched on a salad. Jordan’s phone beeped from the nightstand drawer with a low battery warning. She pulled it out, turning it over in her hand. At the rate Jordan was going, she was never getting this thing back. She’d have to talk to her again about apologizing to Whitney. This nonsense had gone on long enough.
She sighed, about to slip the phone back into the drawer when it dawned on her.
The phone. Teenage girls documented every waking minute of their lives on their phones. Whatever was going on with Jordan and Whitney was probably on the phone.
Erica carried the phone downstairs, grabbing her charger from her office before heading into the kitchen to fix her lunch. She plugged in the charger and prepared her salad of romaine lettuce, kale, sunburst tomatoes, cucumbers, black olives, and a handful each of mung bean sprouts and edamame, tossing in a little olive oil and lemon juice. She leaned against the kitchen counter, nibbling on a cucumber slice as she picked up Jordan’s phone, jabbing the screen with the four-digit code to unlock it, the icons for the social media apps bulging with little red dots announcing new tweets, chats, and Instagram posts.
She speared a tomato with her fork and mindlessly scrolled through the text messages, surprised there weren’t that many. Various texts from her and Jay. Benign exchanges with classmates about homework assignments. Some texts with her cousins. Nothing between her and Whitney, the girl’s phone number and whatever texts had existed between them in the past scrubbed clean.
Her daughter’s Instagram feed didn’t reveal much either. Jordan didn’t take many selfies, instead posting funny, irreverent pictures of cats, weird street signs, stupid videos. Nothing of real interest.
Erica’s eyes flicked over the Twitter icon, which indicated Jordan had close to a thousand new tweets. She jabbed the screen.
Her jaw dropped.
@itsJordanBaby Trash
@itsJordanBaby Skank
@itsJordanBaby THOT
@itsJordanBaby you’re such trash
@itsJordanBaby how do you sleep at night? Oh right, you sleep with everyonz man.
HoBag
Trust @itsJordanBaby she will stab you in the back. Just ask @WhitLuv
Erica’s heart stopped as she continued to scroll through the mounds of tweets, each one more revolting than the last. Tears stung her eyes and her fingers shook as she continued to poke the screen, no longer even seeing the tweets, the horrible, awful things these animals said about her daughter.
All she saw was rage.
The phone slid from her hand, smacking against the floor, and she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, her breath ripping through her in short, stuttering bursts. Whitney was behind this. Whitney was the reason Jordan had quit the pom squad, why Jordan was so moody and unhappy.
Because she was upset. Because she was sad. Because she was humiliated.
And it was all Whitney Dean’s fault.
Erica kicked the phone as she paced the kitchen, her mind racing with what to do, how to fix this.
Except all she could see was Whitney’s smiling face. All that phoniness, dripping insincerity. She’d always been so thrilled that her daughter—her daughter—was best friends with the most popular girl in school. All the girls clamored to gain entrée into that exclusive circle and Jordan held the most important spot. Right by Whitney’s side.
And this was how Whitney repaid all those years of loyalty. By smearing her daughter’s good name, humiliating her in front of the whole school.
Jordan was right. No one knew just how awful Whitney Dean was.
A slick trail of snot ran out of Erica’s nose and she bent down to retrieve the phone.
She had to fix this.
Jordan may not have had Whitney’s number anymore, but Erica did. She made it a point to have contact numbers for all of her children’s friends, in case, God forbid, something should happen and she needed to get in touch with someone. Her mother always had the numbers for all of their friends. Why shouldn’t she?
Erica clicked her tongue against her teeth, staring at the seven little letters of Whitney’s name. This girl had to learn you couldn’t say whatever you wanted about people. You couldn’t play with people’s lives like this.
Actions had consequences.
Wrongs had to be righted.
Texting from her phone and saying she wanted to talk wouldn’t do anything. And forget about involving Lauren with this. It was clear the woman had no control over her daughter. Whitney would be all fake smiles and pseudo-sincere apologies that she would renege on.
No, Erica had to deal with this problem directly. Firmly. Put the fear of God into that girl. Erica sniffed back the mucous, taking several short breaths to try to calm herself. Focus. She picked up Jordan’s phone, jabbing Whitney’s number into the text function.
Hey, Whit.
97
WHITNEY
Whitney’s heart pounded as she read and reread the two little words for what felt like a hundred times. Surges of anger rumbled through her as she turned over in her mind why Jordan would even dare to text her now.
The suspense of wondering was too much. She fired off a text.
What the fuck do you want.
Whitney looked at the black screen, daring it to answer, half hoping Jordan responded, because now, she was itching to get into it with her.
The phone pinged with a new message.
J: Everything’s just gone totally nuclear. I don’t know how everything got out of hand.
“What the hell?” Whitney grumbled as another message came in.
J: Maybe we can meet up and talk.
New waves of fury rose inside of her. Jordan was up to something. She was never this cool, this blasé.
W: For what?
Whitney threw the phone down and took a slurp of her latte, her patience with whatever bullshit Jordan was trying to pull wearing thin. She snatched the phone back up, those pictures she’d been afraid to delete now truly on the chopping block, fear and uncertainty no longer saving them from destruction.
J: I wanted to apologize … about the party.
The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She definitely wasn’t expecting that. Jordan never apologized for anything. She was always right, practically daring you to challenge her. Even when you proved her wrong, she’d just roll her eyes and huff and scoff and pretend like the whole thing had never even happened.
W: Seriously.
J: Yeah. I totally screwed up.
She sank down onto her couch. This didn’t even sound like Jordan. At all. Her mom was always saying people can change and that sometimes you had to give them a chance.
Maybe Jordan was finally changing her ways.
W: You so did.
J: So? Can we talk? Like face-to-face? Just for a little while?
Whitney sighed and chewed on her bottom lip, needing once again to slowly absorb the words in front of her. If she was being honest, she really did miss her longtime bestie. Carly was cool, but kind of a kiss ass. She’d never had as much fun with anyone. And if Jordan wanted to apologize, she could come over here and do it. No reason for Whitney to put herself out.
W: Fine. You can come over for a minute. No one’s home.
J: Let’s meet at Coffee City instead.
W: I was just there and it’s packed. Plus, I’m not really in the mood to drive right now.
J: I can swing by and pick you up and we can go? Or we could go to Ferentino's instead. Grab a quick slice? That probably won’t be that crowded. Like ten minutes?
Whitney heaved a sigh. Something was telling her to stick with her original plan and just stay home and chill. But the curiosity got the best of her. Of course she’d meet Jordan.
W: Yeah, okay, fine. Ten minutes.
J: Okay, cool. I have my mom’s car. I’ll see you in a few.
Whitney’s head plummeted to the back of the sofa. She and Jordan. Talking. Making up. Being friends again. It felt weird, like an out-of-body experience. Maybe she’d even apologize for the whole sugar daddy thing. At the time, she thought it was funny, but it was kind of stupid in hindsight. It would have cost her pom if Coach K found out, since they had a zero-tolerance policy on cyberbullying. To be honest, she never expected Jordan would be that pissed about it. Maybe a little aggravated, but not nuclear. Definitely not end a friendship over it.
“I don’t understand what your bedtime reading has to do with me,” she said as the detective finished reading selected portions of the psychological profile on Ruthie Stowers, words she would never forget.
“Oh, I’m not quite finished yet, Mrs. Mitchell. Just a few more things.” She shuffled through the stacks again, pulling out a pile of papers bound by a big red rubber band. “Now this … oh, yes, here we are. ‘Ruthie Stowers Released After Serving Ten Years.’” Diehl looked up at Erica. “Sound familiar?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll keep reading. Ruthie Stowers, the quiet introvert who longed to be accepted by her peers, one peer in particular, was released yesterday after serving ten years for the vicious murder of her classmate, Shannon Kendall. She served her sentence, the maximum allowed under state law, in the Texas Youth Commission, after fatally stabbing sixteen-year-old Shannon Kendall in 1986. Stowers was denied parole in 1991, with one parole board member citing the inmate as possessing a trigger temper she has trouble controlling as the reason for the rejection. She said, quote, I strongly believe there is every possibility she—Stowers—if provoked, could very easily do this again. I believe she remains a danger to society. I pray I’m wrong, end quote.”
The detective looked up at Erica. She wondered if the woman could see the crack in her façade, if she could see mousy little Ruthie Stowers cowering inside her.
“Should I go on, Mrs. Mitchell?”
“You’re right, Detective Diehl. A very interesting read.”
“Do you know Emily Kason?”
Despite herself, Erica flinched. “No.”
“What about Melinda Stokes?”
“Should I?”
“Violet Ford?”
“Detective, I have no idea who any of these women are.”
“No?”
“No. No idea.”
Diehl nodded as though she were contemplating this. “Hmm. Well, how about this?”
She laid down two pieces of paper: her most recent DMV photo and her instantly recognizable junior year class photo, her uncomfortable smile poorly masking all of the anxiety and inadequacies twisted up inside of her.
Ruthie and Erica next to each other.
One and the same.
She looked down at the images, the tears no longer having any place to hide. It had been so long since she’d looked at herself at sixteen. She’d tried to forget that ugly, awkward little girl with the greasy hair, crooked teeth, and dumpling bottom. She’d banished ugly little Ruthie Stowers to the trash heap, choosing to be reborn as the glamorous Erica Dane with the slimmed down frame, new teeth, contact lenses, and sleek, shiny hair that billowed in the wind.
The detective tossed another stack of papers onto the table. “Your daughter told me you had her phone because she was on punishment. We got the logs of your daughter’s text messages from the carrier and she was texting with Miss Dean the day of the murder. Except it wasn’t her. It was you.”
Erica fell silent, afraid to speak now.
“You lured Miss Dean out of the house by pretending to be your daughter,” the detective said.
She continued her stony silence.
Diehl picked up her tablet. “I have some video doorbell footage from that day that I’d like you to take a look at,” she said as she swiped and tapped at the screen before coming to stand over Erica, placing the tablet in front of her.
Erica’s eyes flicked down at the sight of her cream-colored SUV pulling into the Dean’s driveway, sheets of rain beating against the roof, her license plate in clear view.
Moments later, Whitney runs out of the house in her yellow rain slicker then does a dead stop. Hesitating. Talking to the driver. Looking back toward her house. Hesitating again. Finally relenting and getting in the car.
“We ran the plates on that car. Registered to Stoneright Global, your husband’s company. We can also see, as this car pulls off, a clear shot of you behind the wheel. We ran your financials. You bought a new car the following Monday.”
Her stoicism imploded, the déjà vu of being confronted with conclusive evidence too much to keep her upright, apathetic to the house of cards crumbling around her in swift and stunning fashion.
It was over. It was all over.
“You killed Whitney Dean,” the detective said, her voice flat. “Just like you killed Shannon Kendall.”
She couldn’t say anything, the tears having their way with her. She sobbed brokenly, but quietly, into the palm of one hand, ashamed and afraid to look the detective in the eye, to admit that yes, just like that lone parole board member had warned all those years ago, she had indeed snapped again.
Instead, her eyes squeezed shut, she nodded, giving in, giving up.
“Okay,” Diehl said. “Tell me about that Saturday.”
SATURDAY
95
WHITNEY
Whitney exited out of her photo gallery and headed outside, the rain pounding against the dark green overhang of Coffee City. She held onto her latte with one hand, maneuvering the hood of her yellow slicker over her head with the other as she prepared to dash out to her car parked a few doors down.
“Whitney?”
She gasped then rolled her eyes when she turned to see a pathetic Carly standing next to the front door.
“What, are you following me now?” Whitney asked as she fiddled in her pocket for her key fob.
“I was coming in for a latte and saw your car,” Carly said. “I wanted to wait for you.”
“I thought because you hadn’t been in school all week you’d transferred or something.”
“I—I was sick.”
“I seriously don’t have time for this today,” Whitney scoffed as she pulled the fob out of her pocket. “Find someone else to bother.”
Carly grabbed her arm. “Wait, please, I just—can’t we be friends again? Please? Whatever I can do to make it up to you about the party, about not having your back with Jordan, I’ll do it. I got so scared and I froze and I didn’t know what to do, but I promise, nothing like that will ever happen again.”
Whitney burst out laughing. “Seriously. Get a hobby that’s not me.”
“Whitney, what do I have to do? Tell me, please, what can I do to make this up to you?”
“You really don’t get it, do you?” she hissed. “We’re done. You’re done. You should stay home another week because there won’t be anything for you to come back to at East Lake Forest. You’re gonna be off pom, you’re gonna have to sit in the library for lunch. You’ll be like Jordan—worse. No one will talk to you, no one will want anything to do with you. You. Are. Erased.”
Tears crawled down Carly’s cheeks, which she frantically tried to wipe away, though they fell faster than she could keep up. “Whitney, please—”
Whitney had nothing left to say, so instead of responding, she darted over to her car, being careful to avoid even looking in Carly’s direction, though from the corner of her eye, she could see her still standing there, looking pathetic. What had Whitney even seen in her? She’d seemed cool, she supposed. Worthy of Whitney’s attention.
How wrong she was.
She hated to admit that the confrontation with Carly had rattled her and she was already a little nervous about driving in the rain, so she’d have to be extra careful. Fortunately, this was a really good car, with every bell and whistle her mother could stick on it. It would probably even protect her against zombies.
Sheets of rain continued sliding across her windshield as she made the short drive home, Carly receding from her mind with each swish of the wipers. Hopefully she’d scared Carly into leaving her alone. Whitney knew she was a lot of things, but a gossip wasn’t one of them. Not like that bigmouth Dionne Cruise. Even though she told Carly she’d ruin her by spreading all kinds of things about her around school, the truth was, Whitney knew silence was deadlier. All she had to do was ice Carly out and be super mysterious about it. The threat would be enough. Let everyone else run their mouths trying to figure out what happened. She’d just smile and say nothing.
The car’s dash read twelve-thirty. She had more pressing things to deal with today than the annoying gnat that was Carly Ewing. Mrs. Trent was going to drop Parker at home by two, then she was supposed to feed him something and make sure he took a bath or a shower, then take him to his sleepover a few blocks away. She and Peyton had talked about going to the mall, but with all this rain and running around, the only thing she was in the mood for now was to chill. Maybe she’d text Peyton when she got home and see if she wanted to come over instead, then she wouldn’t have to rush home for Parker.
Whitney turned left onto her street then her driveway. It would be nice to have the house to herself. Play her music as loud as she wanted, or just sit and read for an hour without her mom or Parker bugging her.
She took a huge slurp of her coffee as she headed upstairs to grab her book and text Peyton about coming over later, when her phone dinged with a new text message.
The sight of Jordan’s face stopped her in her tracks.
Hey, Whit.
96
ERICA
Rain smacked against the bay windows and a crack of thunder shook the foundation of the house. Erica winced as a jagged ribbon of lightening exploded across the purplish-gray sky. The storm had knocked out the Internet, effectively scrubbing all hope of getting any actual work done. At first, she’d thought she’d leave the house to run errands, but had changed her mind, deciding instead to spend the morning organizing her files and making to-do lists. A much more efficient use of her time.
Hunger clawed at her stomach. Erica rubbed her eyes, stretching as she stood and made her way upstairs to grab a magazine from her nightstand to read while she munched on a salad. Jordan’s phone beeped from the nightstand drawer with a low battery warning. She pulled it out, turning it over in her hand. At the rate Jordan was going, she was never getting this thing back. She’d have to talk to her again about apologizing to Whitney. This nonsense had gone on long enough.
She sighed, about to slip the phone back into the drawer when it dawned on her.
The phone. Teenage girls documented every waking minute of their lives on their phones. Whatever was going on with Jordan and Whitney was probably on the phone.
Erica carried the phone downstairs, grabbing her charger from her office before heading into the kitchen to fix her lunch. She plugged in the charger and prepared her salad of romaine lettuce, kale, sunburst tomatoes, cucumbers, black olives, and a handful each of mung bean sprouts and edamame, tossing in a little olive oil and lemon juice. She leaned against the kitchen counter, nibbling on a cucumber slice as she picked up Jordan’s phone, jabbing the screen with the four-digit code to unlock it, the icons for the social media apps bulging with little red dots announcing new tweets, chats, and Instagram posts.
She speared a tomato with her fork and mindlessly scrolled through the text messages, surprised there weren’t that many. Various texts from her and Jay. Benign exchanges with classmates about homework assignments. Some texts with her cousins. Nothing between her and Whitney, the girl’s phone number and whatever texts had existed between them in the past scrubbed clean.
Her daughter’s Instagram feed didn’t reveal much either. Jordan didn’t take many selfies, instead posting funny, irreverent pictures of cats, weird street signs, stupid videos. Nothing of real interest.
Erica’s eyes flicked over the Twitter icon, which indicated Jordan had close to a thousand new tweets. She jabbed the screen.
Her jaw dropped.
@itsJordanBaby Trash
@itsJordanBaby Skank
@itsJordanBaby THOT
@itsJordanBaby you’re such trash
@itsJordanBaby how do you sleep at night? Oh right, you sleep with everyonz man.
HoBag
Trust @itsJordanBaby she will stab you in the back. Just ask @WhitLuv
Erica’s heart stopped as she continued to scroll through the mounds of tweets, each one more revolting than the last. Tears stung her eyes and her fingers shook as she continued to poke the screen, no longer even seeing the tweets, the horrible, awful things these animals said about her daughter.
All she saw was rage.
The phone slid from her hand, smacking against the floor, and she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, her breath ripping through her in short, stuttering bursts. Whitney was behind this. Whitney was the reason Jordan had quit the pom squad, why Jordan was so moody and unhappy.
Because she was upset. Because she was sad. Because she was humiliated.
And it was all Whitney Dean’s fault.
Erica kicked the phone as she paced the kitchen, her mind racing with what to do, how to fix this.
Except all she could see was Whitney’s smiling face. All that phoniness, dripping insincerity. She’d always been so thrilled that her daughter—her daughter—was best friends with the most popular girl in school. All the girls clamored to gain entrée into that exclusive circle and Jordan held the most important spot. Right by Whitney’s side.
And this was how Whitney repaid all those years of loyalty. By smearing her daughter’s good name, humiliating her in front of the whole school.
Jordan was right. No one knew just how awful Whitney Dean was.
A slick trail of snot ran out of Erica’s nose and she bent down to retrieve the phone.
She had to fix this.
Jordan may not have had Whitney’s number anymore, but Erica did. She made it a point to have contact numbers for all of her children’s friends, in case, God forbid, something should happen and she needed to get in touch with someone. Her mother always had the numbers for all of their friends. Why shouldn’t she?
Erica clicked her tongue against her teeth, staring at the seven little letters of Whitney’s name. This girl had to learn you couldn’t say whatever you wanted about people. You couldn’t play with people’s lives like this.
Actions had consequences.
Wrongs had to be righted.
Texting from her phone and saying she wanted to talk wouldn’t do anything. And forget about involving Lauren with this. It was clear the woman had no control over her daughter. Whitney would be all fake smiles and pseudo-sincere apologies that she would renege on.
No, Erica had to deal with this problem directly. Firmly. Put the fear of God into that girl. Erica sniffed back the mucous, taking several short breaths to try to calm herself. Focus. She picked up Jordan’s phone, jabbing Whitney’s number into the text function.
Hey, Whit.
97
WHITNEY
Whitney’s heart pounded as she read and reread the two little words for what felt like a hundred times. Surges of anger rumbled through her as she turned over in her mind why Jordan would even dare to text her now.
The suspense of wondering was too much. She fired off a text.
What the fuck do you want.
Whitney looked at the black screen, daring it to answer, half hoping Jordan responded, because now, she was itching to get into it with her.
The phone pinged with a new message.
J: Everything’s just gone totally nuclear. I don’t know how everything got out of hand.
“What the hell?” Whitney grumbled as another message came in.
J: Maybe we can meet up and talk.
New waves of fury rose inside of her. Jordan was up to something. She was never this cool, this blasé.
W: For what?
Whitney threw the phone down and took a slurp of her latte, her patience with whatever bullshit Jordan was trying to pull wearing thin. She snatched the phone back up, those pictures she’d been afraid to delete now truly on the chopping block, fear and uncertainty no longer saving them from destruction.
J: I wanted to apologize … about the party.
The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She definitely wasn’t expecting that. Jordan never apologized for anything. She was always right, practically daring you to challenge her. Even when you proved her wrong, she’d just roll her eyes and huff and scoff and pretend like the whole thing had never even happened.
W: Seriously.
J: Yeah. I totally screwed up.
She sank down onto her couch. This didn’t even sound like Jordan. At all. Her mom was always saying people can change and that sometimes you had to give them a chance.
Maybe Jordan was finally changing her ways.
W: You so did.
J: So? Can we talk? Like face-to-face? Just for a little while?
Whitney sighed and chewed on her bottom lip, needing once again to slowly absorb the words in front of her. If she was being honest, she really did miss her longtime bestie. Carly was cool, but kind of a kiss ass. She’d never had as much fun with anyone. And if Jordan wanted to apologize, she could come over here and do it. No reason for Whitney to put herself out.
W: Fine. You can come over for a minute. No one’s home.
J: Let’s meet at Coffee City instead.
W: I was just there and it’s packed. Plus, I’m not really in the mood to drive right now.
J: I can swing by and pick you up and we can go? Or we could go to Ferentino's instead. Grab a quick slice? That probably won’t be that crowded. Like ten minutes?
Whitney heaved a sigh. Something was telling her to stick with her original plan and just stay home and chill. But the curiosity got the best of her. Of course she’d meet Jordan.
W: Yeah, okay, fine. Ten minutes.
J: Okay, cool. I have my mom’s car. I’ll see you in a few.
Whitney’s head plummeted to the back of the sofa. She and Jordan. Talking. Making up. Being friends again. It felt weird, like an out-of-body experience. Maybe she’d even apologize for the whole sugar daddy thing. At the time, she thought it was funny, but it was kind of stupid in hindsight. It would have cost her pom if Coach K found out, since they had a zero-tolerance policy on cyberbullying. To be honest, she never expected Jordan would be that pissed about it. Maybe a little aggravated, but not nuclear. Definitely not end a friendship over it.
