And When I Die, page 8
“So, so, sorry, Jordan,” Kennedy chirped as she carried her bowl to the sink. “Jordan is so sorry.”
“Shut up,” Jordan hissed as Kennedy stuck out her tongue.
“Kennedy, wait in the car for me,” Jay said. “Now.”
The little girl giggled then kissed Erica’s cheek before picking up her bag and running outside, slamming the door behind her.
Jordan pursed her lips and took a deep breath before resuming. “I was thinking, and you’re right. You and Mrs. Dean did a really nice thing and … I should go and celebrate with Whitney.”
Erica gasped and turned to Jay, who smiled and winked at her as he took a sip of coffee. She pulled Jordan back into her arms, hugging her tightly. “Sweetie, I’m so glad to hear that. Listen, we’ll go shopping this afternoon and I’ll make you an appointment with Delia at the salon and she can do something extra special with your hair and makeup.”
“I thought I’d wear the dress you bought me for my birthday a few months ago.” Jordan smiled. “I haven’t had a chance to wear it yet and since it’s for a special occasion, I thought this would be perfect.”
“Oh, honey, I think that’s wonderful. Just wonderful.” Erica beamed. “And we could get manis and pedis and go to lunch after. How does that sound?”
“That all sounds great, Mom.” Jordan slung her book bag over her shoulder. “I should get going. Don’t want to be late.”
Jay came over and kissed Jordan on her forehead. She smiled before hugging Erica and heading out the door.
“Can’t say I saw that one coming,” Jay said as he finished the last of his coffee.
“I told you I knew what I was doing,” Erica said, wiping a tear away with her fingers.
“Maybe now we can get some peace around here,” he joked, pulling her into another quick kiss. “I was starting to think I’d have to move.”
“No such luck, sailor,” she said, patting his shoulder as she hopped off the bar stool. “You’re stuck with us.”
“Apparently,” he said, leaning down to kiss her goodbye before he slammed out of the house to take Kennedy to school before his trek into the city. Erica couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she finished cleaning the kitchen and throwing in a load of laundry before heading into her office at nine on the dot. There was so much to do. Call the salon to make the appointment, a reservation for a light lunch at The Gallery, and of course, their mani/pedis.
She couldn’t wait.
13
JORDAN
Jordan adjusted her sunglasses as she slammed the door of her cherry red BMW. A warm breeze rippled through the filmy material of her black and white striped shirt dress. She cracked her gum as she made her way to the main building, ignoring the titter of whispers as she approached. Trish Sellers, who she totally couldn’t stand because of how fake she was, who actually still braided her brown hair into short pigtails, thinking it ironic somehow, was chatting animatedly with her crew, stopping when she saw Jordan, before bursting into a suppressed giggle and leaning over to whisper something to Dionne Cruise, who also started laughing. The hairs on Jordan’s neck stood up and she came close to stopping, ready to whirl around and go off.
But she kept going. She had a mission to complete.
The furtive whispers, sneaky glances, and embarrassed laughs continued as she stalked down the hallway toward her target. Not one person said hello to her, not one person said good morning. They just stared and whispered and laughed.
Whitney and her little minion, Carly, stood in front of Whitney’s locker, their heads bent together, frantic whispers passing between them. Whitney’s eyes went wide once she saw Jordan approach and she straightened up. Jordan could feel everyone around them hold their breath as they waited for the inevitable showdown between the two girls.
She cleared her throat and reached into her book bag. She could see Whitney tense and she wanted to laugh. Did she think she was going to pull a gun or knife on her or something?
“Happy birthday, Whitney,” she said, handing her the pink envelope she’d picked up at Walgreens before school.
Whitney exhaled and everyone else seemed to do the same, although they couldn’t take their eyes off the two, ready and waiting for it to pop off.
“Really,” Whitney narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t have.”
Jordan smiled sweetly. “It was no trouble. Believe me. I want you to have this.”
Whitney handed the card back. “No, thanks. I’m not accepting any presents for my birthday.”
Jordan shoved her hands in her pocket as she leaned closer to Whitney and lowered her voice. “Hope you enjoy your little party tomorrow night.”
“You fucking nasty skank—”
“Come on, girl,” Jordan said, getting in Whitney’s face. “You got something to say to me now? Huh? Huh?”
“Get out of my face.”
“Jordan, you should totally roll out of here,” Carly said.
Her head whipped around at the squeaking sound of that mouse, Carly. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, you should back up,” Carly said, before taking a noticeable gulp and shrinking away a little. “Don’t start any trouble.”
Jordan laughed. “Wow, the thirst is so real.” She turned her attention back to Whitney. “So now you’ve got this little kiss ass doing all your dirty work, huh?”
Whitney rolled her eyes. “Please, bitch, nobody’s worried about you.”
“Keep talking shit, bitch, keep talking.” Jordan pointed her finger in Whitney’s face. “I will fuck your shit up and you know it.”
Some of the color drained from Whitney’s face. “You better keep your finger out of my face,” Whitney said, backing up a little, her voice sounding a little less confident.
“What are you gonna do, huh? Huh? Spread some more lies about me, huh? Talk some more shit about me on Twitter?”
“I didn’t say anything about you, bitch.” Whitney smiled. “But if it walks like a duck and acts like a duck, it’s a ho.”
“What’s going on here, ladies?”
Everyone stopped and turned at the sound of Mr. Byrne’s voice from the doorway of the classroom, his hands on his hips, brow furrowed. The crowd scattered, a few of them filing into the classroom. Whitney and Jordan scowled at each other, while Carly’s gaze fluttered around everywhere but on the two girls.
“Come on, everyone, let’s get to class.” Mr. Byrne clapped his hands together twice rapidly.
Jordan glared at Whitney as she slowly backed away from her.
14
WHITNEY
Whitney’s father, a former college football player, always said pros played hurt. Coach K said the same thing. Whitney had never felt it more than tonight during the game against St. Edwards as she did her best to perform the routines she’d been practicing diligently for weeks, to get lost in the frenetic roar of the crowd and the insistent brassy boom of the marching band’s fight songs, as she frantically tried to scrub Jordan from her mind.
But she was always there, waiting to lower the boom over her head, waiting to ruin her life.
She should have played it cool with Jordan that morning. She should have stayed calm and let that girl look like the lunatic instead of taunting her, calling her a ho, since that was only going to make her more mad. She had to admit though, she kind of liked seeing Jordan get trashed all over Twitter. After the way she’d treated her over the summer, she had it coming.
But the other part of her was scared, because now Jordan was all riled up, which meant she was coming after her. The match had been lit and it was only a matter of time before everything exploded.
She had to figure out a way to stop her.
Whitney still couldn’t believe how screwed up everything was. Junior year was supposed to be her year of years. She was turning sixteen, getting the car of her dreams. She was practically a shoe-in for pom captain next year. She and her mom had been planning her Sweet Sixteen since she was twelve and it was going to be the event of the year. She was starting to think about colleges. She and Jordan had planned to go somewhere on the East Coast, where she’d always figured she’d meet a cute boy from some super rich, old money family who’d take her to Cape Cod on the weekends or something and eventually, put a big rock on her finger that came from his ninety-year-old grandmother’s safe.
Everything was supposed to be golden.
And then one mistake, one stupid, stupid mistake. Actually two. First, doing what she did and two, telling Jordan, who’d been holding it over her head since. Every. Fucking. Day.
To her, it hadn’t been that big a thing. But she also knew if it got out, she’d be in major trouble. With everyone. Honestly, she figured Jordan would be the one to back her up by agreeing it really wasn’t that big a deal.
Instead, she turned on her. A complete and total one-eighty. Instead of being her girl, her ride or die—like Whitney would have done if the roles were reversed—she said she didn’t want to be her friend anymore, told her how disgusting she was. And just like that, Jordan was out of her life. She quit pom, requested a new locker on the other side of school so they no longer had adjoining lockers like they’d had since junior high, blocked her on social media, and stopped calling and texting her. Whitney had been stunned, the knife of betrayal twisting in her gut every time she thought about Jordan icing her out. There were times she still couldn’t believe it.
Jordan had never threatened to tell anyone what she’d done and Whitney didn’t think she would. She couldn’t hate her that much.
And then everything with the party and their mothers. And now suddenly, the one thing Whitney stupidly believed Jordan would never do—betray her—was exactly what was about to happen. Her best friend in the whole world was threatening to blow her out of the water.
Jordan was going to tell everyone what she’d done and totally ruin her life.
From the corner of her eye, Whitney spotted Mr. Byrne walking down the bleachers, a Coke in one hand, a red and white striped box of popcorn in the other, his long-sleeved navy and white striped polo and cargo shorts so much better looking than the rags he wore to class every day. She knew she was in trouble with him, that he was super mad at her, but she wasn’t too worried about it. The next time he kept her after class, she’d calm things down. She could sweet-talk her way out of just about anything with anyone.
“You okay, Whit?” Carly asked for at least the tenth time in the last five minutes.
God. She’d been asking her that all damn day.
“I’m fine.”
“I wanted to ask you something.” Carly looked over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “What was Jordan talking about earlier?”
“What?”
“This morning, by class. What did she mean when she said she was going to fuck your shit up. Was she … was she threatening you?”
“Forget about it,” Whitney said.
“What did she mean?” Carly pressed.
“Okay, you’re getting really fucking weird. Just shut up, all right?”
Carly shrank away from her and for a moment, Whitney thought she was going to cry. She rolled her eyes and looked away, not feeling all that sorry about knocking the girl down a peg. She could be so fucking annoying sometimes.
“I—I just wanted to say I’ve got your back, Whit. I’ll always have your back.”
Whitney sighed and looked back over at Carly, a twinge of regret replacing her irritation. “Thanks,” she murmured.
“I’m so psyched for tomorrow night,” Carly said. “Seriously, it’s going to be the best night ever.”
“Yeah. Totally.”
“And I wouldn’t worry about Jordan.” Carly’s leg jiggled. “I bet she won’t have the nerve to show up tomorrow night.”
“Yeah.”
Carly sighed, playing with the glittery plastic strings of her pom-poms. “Listen … if Jordan has something, or thinks she has something on you … maybe I can help.”
Whitney scoffed. “Can you make her go away?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Whitney shook her head, turning her attention back to the game. They’d just tied the score and the entire stadium was on its feet, thundering with elation. They were going for the field goal and as the kicker’s foot smashed into the ball, sending it sailing into the air, for just a moment, she pictured Jordan’s face on the receiving end of her own vicious kick.
15
RON
It had started innocently enough, as these things usually do.
She was a marvel of a student, the kind he wished he could have been, the kind he puzzled over every year when he got one. Often (always) unprepared in class. Incessantly attempting to bullshit him when she didn’t know something. Monotone answers to his queries about the text he’d assigned. Endless bored doodles in a notebook or folder. A sheen of tedium coating her skin, draped across her eyes. Several times he’d held her after class to admonish her for her flat-footedness. She’d smile, laugh, tell him he was right, she should take her studies more seriously. And then the next day, she’d be back to scribbling in her notebook during class, popping her gum, giving stuttering, nonsensical answers to his questions. And yet, the one paper and two tests he’d given were near perfect. Crisp analysis, insightful observations, inspired use of quotes and passages from the text. It was like two different girls. The one droopy with boredom during class. The other, an underrated source of literary and academic brilliance who could have held her own with graduate students in the upper echelons of the finest universities.
It occurred to him she might be cheating. She had to be. That she’d purchased tests and papers. Of course. He’d be stupid to think otherwise. So, he’d done his due diligence and checked all the usual suspects and then some for evidence of plagiarism and had found none.
It seemed she was just that good.
It made him squirm to realize that it heightened her appeal.
That she was gorgeous didn’t hurt. He’d have to have been blind not to notice the glossy dark hair and the careless tosses of those smooth strands over her shoulder every few minutes, the light catching a silky swell. The doe eyes outlined by long, luscious lashes. The full lips, always sparkling with something pink and shiny. The strawberry shampoo wafting over to him whenever she entered the classroom.
Forging a relationship with a student had never crossed his mind. Ever.
But she was hard to ignore.
And then, that night. He and a few buddies at a local restaurant, one of those with arcade games and pool tables. She stumbling in with her friend, another student. It was all laughs and OMGs (the girls) when they realized they were running into each other outside of school. Comfortably uncomfortable. The game of pool in the back room, everyone laughing, shooting, sipping beers (his friends), and pop (his two students). During a quiet moment, she asked him about his ethnicity, fascinated by the combination of Irish and Puerto Rican. He teased her about deceiving him with her disinterest in class. She laughed, twisting one of those dark strands of hair around the tip of her finger. Purring that she was full of surprises.
The horror at realizing they were flirting.
And yet against his better judgment, he didn’t stop.
Nor did he stop when they were pressed against each other in the tiny hallway between the bathrooms, out of sight of everyone, advancing hesitant and tender at first and later, aggressive and needy kisses toward each other.
He didn’t stop her from giving him her phone number.
He didn’t stop himself from calling her.
He didn’t stop himself from meeting her on the beach that night.
He didn’t stop any of it. Ever.
Mistake after mistake after mistake.
16
AVA
Ava tapped her tablet to turn the page on the book she was reading and took a long swig of her papaya, banana, kiwi, kale, and cucumber smoothie as she glanced at the time. Every few minutes, the jaws of the gym café’s monster blenders pulverizing fruits and vegetables drowned out the clank of weight machines and muffled hip-hop from the cardio class upstairs. She’d had her pick of tables after her early morning circuit training class and to sit by herself, uninterrupted with her book club book and a smoothie—a rare occurrence in her world—was akin to a mini-vacation. She’d have to leave soon, as it wouldn’t be long before the café was overrun with the late morning Saturday crowd in search of wheatgrass shots and fresh-squeezed green juices. Ava still needed a minute before she went home to face the madness of Whitney Dean Turns Sixteen.
The whole thing was driving her nuts, as if she was the one with the daughter at the center of the biggest party of the century, which considering Carly and Whitney were glued together these days, may as well have been the case. Carly’s anxiety over the looming event was all-consuming, threatening over the last couple of days to gobble her whole. Yesterday morning before school, she dove headfirst into the tailspin, crying that the red dress wasn’t good enough after all, her shoes were stupid, in between moaning about the seeming emergence of what she predicted would be a monster pimple on her chin. The tirade continued when she got home from the game last night. Nothing was right, Whitney would hate her for looking so hideous, her life was over. A befuddled Kyle could only stand in the kitchen, feeble offerings of strawberry ice cream the only weapon in his arsenal, muttering to Ava it had always worked when she was six. Ava rolled her eyes at Kyle and behind Carly’s back, dispensing mildly weary assurances that the party would be great and she should concentrate on having fun.
In the light of day this morning, the dress was gorgeous, the shoes were amazing, and the overnight dab of toothpaste had obliterated the looming pimple. She would make Whitney proud.
Ava glanced at the clock again. Fifteen more minutes of enjoying her book and smoothie before heading home to greet one of the Three Faces of Carly. Hopefully, Excited Carly would be the one waiting for her.
