All Eyes on Us, page 14
I wrap my bathrobe around me and walk back into my room. The new message indicator is flashing, Private Number.
The first message is the same horrible photo of Rosalie and Carter, a digital copy, as if I didn’t have enough. The caption reads, Wake up and smell the truth, Princess.
The second message is also from Private.
You think it’s over between Rosalie and Carter, but they’re both lying to you. Send the photos to her father, and put Rosalie in her place.
My stomach clenches, acid pooling where there used to be butterflies, and I know I’m going to be sick. I run back to the bathroom and crouch over the toilet, gagging and gasping until I’m trembling all over and there’s nothing left inside. When I can move again, I stagger into the shower and stand under the hot stream until I finally stop shaking.
Trina took those photos, but she doesn’t have any reason to hurt me. More likely, she lied about deleting the shots—sent them to someone or loaned out her camera. I should be furious with her, but right now, I’m too wrecked to be angry. Somehow, Private is everywhere. I start sobbing again, the water streaming down my face, mixing with the salt.
My heart is splintering into a thousand tiny pieces, but admitting how much this is getting to me means letting Private win. And that’s not going to happen. Tonight, I’ll curl into bed with Huggie and let the heartbreak wash over me. Tomorrow, when I have my shit back together, Trina and I need to talk.
16
ROSALIE
FRIDAY, JANUARY 12
I get through the day on a thermos of coffee and pure adrenaline. Amanda’s email came in late last night, the pictures of Pau and me flashing across my screen like three little daggers poised to strike. For the second night in a row, I didn’t sleep. I kept hearing noises outside, getting up to check the windows and locks. I know what I saw in the woods, and these photos are the proof. That I’m not imagining things, but also that I’m teetering on the verge of exposure. Three more threads, snap, snap, snap. The only tiny consolation is that whoever took those pictures can’t be acting on behalf of my parents. There’d be no Amanda in the middle, and I’d be grounded by now, or much worse.
But I’m not out of the allegorical woods, not even close. Just because Amanda didn’t send my dad the photos doesn’t mean she won’t change her mind. Or that the photographer, whoever it is, won’t still take matters into their own hands.
After school, I take the bus home, then ride my bike to O’Malley’s, the catch-all discount store about halfway between Culver Ridge and Logansville. I’m supposed to be at the movies with Elissa tonight, an excuse I can use about once a month. As I pedal, each house I pass holds watching eyes. Each car window conceals a camera lens. Flash.
The knowledge that I’m about to see Pau, that somehow she’s going to help me get through this, is literally the only thing keeping me together. She knows the basics—that someone’s been following me, that the clearing’s not safe—but aside from texts and a few hushed conversations in the halls, I haven’t gotten any alone time with her since Monday. I need her.
When I coast into the lot, it’s packed with Friday shoppers, but no Paulina. I prop my bike against a post and wait. The sooner she gets to our designated meeting spot, the sooner we can get back on our bikes and get out of here. Meeting in Culver Ridge definitely isn’t safe, and O’Malley’s is borderline. If they ever spotted us together, my parents would look right past Pau’s long, curly hair, mascara, and pink lips and zoom in on her cuffed jeans, collared shirts, and plaid blazers. They might not be able to pinpoint one particular thing that screams lesbian, but they’d just know.
I keep my helmet on and push my chin down into my scarf. A few minutes later, Paulina rides up. In place of her winter coat is an oversized blazer layered over a sweater vest and plaid button-down. The sneakers and cargo pants she was wearing at school have been swapped out for dark wash denim and tan loafers. She looks amazing, and suddenly I feel scrubby in the same jeans and sweater I wore to school. But at the same time, I’m a little pissed. Someone is threatening to destroy everything we have, and Pau took the time to change into a cute outfit?
“Hey.” She’s grinning big, and my anger dips. Paulina is the last person I want to be fighting with. I need her on my side. “I found a place. We’re going into Logansville.”
I raise my eyebrows. Logansville is Carter and Amanda territory.
“Don’t worry,” she says, reading my mind. “We’re not going anywhere Carter Shaw would hang on a Friday night. It’s open access at the museum. We’ll debrief and see some art.”
I frown. Debrief and see some art? Someone is following me. They took pictures. They showed up at my house. I haven’t slept since Tuesday.
“This isn’t Harriet the Spy, Pau. Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”
She sighs. “I am, I promise. I’m freaked out too. But wallowing in the O’Malley’s lot isn’t helping anyone.” She juts her chin toward the faded red awning that’s probably needed replacing since before 9/11 and the sign announcing a sale on tractors, toothpaste, and fish tackle. “I promise we can still talk things through with Matisse in the background.”
“Fine,” I give in. We’re halfway to Logansville anyway, and Pau’s right—an art museum is probably the last place Carter will be tonight.
• • •
When we arrive, the museum is packed. Unsurprisingly, the elite of Logansville love getting something for free. We’re not the only teenagers, but the crowd is mostly under ten or over thirty. I’m sure there’s a preparty underway somewhere for whatever boozy event will be entertaining the Logansville South it-crowd tonight.
“Let’s start in the Egypt room,” Paulina suggests. “It was my favorite as a kid. I haven’t been in there in ages.”
I let her lead me through the French Impressionists and a special exhibition on Picasso’s early drawings that look like they belong in New York, not Logansville, and into the room that houses the Ancient Egypt collection. We’re greeted immediately by a display of alabaster vases and bowls, a tray carved with images of bread and vegetables, and several small human figurines that the sign says are called shabtis, representations of people who assist the deceased in the afterlife. The main event—a coffin holding the mummified body of a child—is surrounded by parents and toddlers.
Paulina motions me around the room, her face lighting up at each new artifact behind a glass case. I can see what she’s doing. This is supposed to be a distraction, a little bit of fun. She wants to take my mind off the pictures, and my heart swells just a little because I appreciate it. It is nice to be here, surrounded by art and artifacts dating back hundreds and even thousands of years. It strikes me how good Logansville’s collection is. The Museum of Fine Arts is like a mini Met. Really mini, but there’s an impressive permanent collection and the exhibitions are always big-name artists. I’m no expert, but a museum of this caliber must be rare for a city of Logansville’s size. Despite everything, it’s fun to be here with Pau. Someday, I imagine we’ll have nights like this all the time—only then, we’ll be touching, holding hands, not holding anything back.
Pau wants to move on to the Impressionists, but I usher her upstairs to the cafe. We’re here for a reason; it’s time to talk. She gets a coffee and we find a little round table overlooking the museum lobby.
“You haven’t even asked to see the pictures.”
Pau shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I guess I already imagined the worst.”
“There’s one of us kissing.” I lean across the table, keeping my voice to a whisper. “You get what would happen if my parents saw it, right?”
She doesn’t respond, just takes a long sip of coffee and stares at the table. I hand her my phone.
“I don’t get it,” she says after she’s finished reading Amanda’s email. “Why tell Amanda to send the photos to your dad? Why wouldn’t they just do it themselves, cut out the middle-woman?”
“Whoever it is wanted Amanda to see. Maybe they thought she’d show Carter. I don’t know. They’re trying to ruin her life as much as mine.”
Pau sits quietly for a moment, chewing on the cardboard lip of her cup. “Or maybe it’s Carter they’re really after. He must have enemies, right? Star athlete, superrich family. If I wanted to get at Carter Shaw, I’d go for his weak spots. It’s messed up, but you and Amanda are probably just collateral damage.”
I let her words sink in. If my dad saw these photos, it wouldn’t just mean the end of Pau and me. My life would be over—including the part involving Carter.
“I need to do something. If Amanda finds out I didn’t really break up with Carter, she has the photos, and she doesn’t strike me as the forgiving type. We need to talk.”
“Like face to face? You and Princess Amanda?” Paulina drains the rest of her coffee in one gulp and sends the cup flying into the nearest garbage can, basketball style. We get a few glares from surrounding patrons.
“Exactly. She could have sent the photos to my dad, but she didn’t. She has a soul. And once she meets me, I become a real person. It’s a lot easier to hate someone you don’t even know.”
“So what are you going to tell her?”
“Everything. The truth.”
“That’s a pretty big risk, Lee-Lee.”
“It’s a bigger risk not to.” I stand and grab my coat from the back of my chair.
“You’re right.” Pau’s words freeze me in my tracks. I look down at her, still seated at the cafe table.
“You’re right,” she says again. Her face is soft, and this time, there’s a hitch in her voice. “It’s a good idea, talking to Amanda. I just wish you didn’t have to keep putting yourself through all this. I wish I could fix it.”
I slouch back down, wanting more than anything to reach across the table and take her hands in mine. “Thanks for tonight,” I say. “I needed a little distraction.”
She smiles. I love you. Her lips form the words, soundless. “Now let’s get out of here,” she says out loud.
The whole ride home, I go over and over my options. Talking to Amanda is definitely risky, but what other choice do I have? This isn’t the movies. No one’s going to swoop in to bop the Bad Guy on the head. I could move into Paulina’s brother’s room and get myself Ecclesiastically Extradited. I could run away. I could sink my entire college fund into hiring a detective to find this creep, but then where would I be? No fairy godmother is sending me to college or reuniting me with Lily. They’re not very good options.
Amanda’s email is evidence she doesn’t actively hate me, at least for the moment. And I know she’s freaked out too. I can see the panic beneath every bitchy word. All I need is fifteen minutes of her time. If we’re going to shut this creep up, we’re going to have to work together.
When we get back to O’Malley’s, Pau and I promise to text later tonight, then she stays in the parking lot to light a cigarette while I bike ahead into Culver Ridge. When I’m home and locking up my bike in the shed, my phone beeps. The caller ID reads Private Number.
I’m watching you, Sweetheart.
A lump forms in the back of my throat.
Who is this?
Think real hard. You know who this is.
You’re the same person who’s been texting Amanda.
Bingo. I knew you had some brains in that tousled head.
I grimace. The thought of this person knowing what I look like makes my stomach turn. But of course they do. They took those pictures, after all.
What do you want?
So thoughtful of you to ask. You have until January 24 to tell Carter all about your tryst with the brunette. Don’t even think about sparing any of the details.
And under no circumstances can you tell Carter about me. He needs to think this is your idea, got it?
One more thing: record the conversation and send it to me as proof.
I almost drop my phone into the sink. I don’t write back. Instead, I go calmly downstairs and eat dinner with my family. When I’m done putting the dishes away, I close myself in my room and email Amanda.
17
AMANDA
SATURDAY, JANUARY 13
The bed lurches below me. I smash my face into my pillow and breathe in, trying to grasp hold of last night. We were at Bronson’s. Adele was pouring shots, some mixture of vodka and Frangelico that went down like chocolate cake. I must have had five. More. The bed lurches again, and I pull my knees into my chest.
When I drink at all, I am the two-drink queen. One to get the party started, a second halfway through the night, and done. When you live with my mother, you pay attention to your alcohol consumption. But last night, I was drinking to forget. The pinging against my windows. The avalanche of photos in the rock garden. The texts. You think it’s over between Rosalie and Carter, but they’re both lying to you.
I cornered Trina at the party, between shots two and three. She swore up and down she’d never sent the photos to anyone, that they’d all been deleted. “A few days after I showed them to you, promise.”
I glared at her. A few days? That was a lot of time.
She also swore she never loaned out her camera, and I believe her on that. The thing cost as much as last season’s Birkin bag, and it’s pretty much never out of her sight. But someone could have taken the memory card.
“What about in Aiden’s?” We usually left our bags piled in a corner in studio art. “Or at the diner that Friday?”
Trina considered. “I guess someone could have swiped the card, then replaced it later? It really could have happened anywhere.”
I groaned and looked around for Adele. I needed another one of those shots.
Trina chewed on her lower lip. “Fuck, Amanda, I’m sorry. It was two months ago. I just don’t remember.”
Trina was officially on my shit list, but what else could I say? I couldn’t expect her to remember something she’d never seen in the first place.
Unless she was straight up lying.
I swore Trina to secrecy about the rock garden incident, then found Adele. After chocolate cake shots three, four, and five, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
As the night wore on, I found myself wandering aimlessly through Bronson’s parents’ massive basement, avoiding Trina, avoiding Carter, weaving in and out of conversations at the pool table, the vintage jukebox, the restaurant-style bar. By two, I was ready to go home, but Trina was DD and I wasn’t in the mood to ask her for a favor. Instead, I slipped through the sliding glass doors onto the pool deck and plopped down in one of the loungers. The plastic cushion was ice against my legs, and I curled them into my chest, tilting my head back to watch a massive American flag whip from the balcony. Snap, snap, chilly ribbons of red, white, and blue in the night. My thoughts flickered to Bronson’s dad, an air force general with a lot of glistening stars on the shoulder strap of his uniform, away overseeing something classified in the Arizona desert. Nights there were probably freezing too.
“Hey.”
I spun around to face the dim figure sprawled across a lounger by the deep end. The blocky pool house cast a dark slice of shadow from his face down to his chest.
“Alexander?”
“It’s warmer over here. Trust me, you want to be by the heat.”
I made my way over, scooting another lounger beside him. Up close, I could see that he had the door to the pool house propped open. Heat poured out against our backs.
“It’s fine. Bronson does it all the time in the winter.” He sounded entirely sober, and the lounger’s built-in cup holder was empty.
“You’re not drinking?” I asked.
“I never drink.”
“Huh.” My mind reeled back across all the Friday nights, the house parties and fetes, the endless social functions where Alexander had been present since he and Bronson got together in June. Half a year’s worth of parties, and I’d never noticed.
“I don’t either.” I could taste the thickness of my words, how they wanted to stick to my tongue. “Not much, anyway. Not usually.”
“What changed tonight?” he asked. Not pushing, just curious.
For a moment, I was silent. It hit me that I’d never had a real conversation with Alexander before, barely even knew Bronson in a below-the-surface way. Bronson was lacrosse and skydiving and daredevil stuff—stuff Carter liked. I’d only learned this year that he’d lived in nine different states and had two little half sisters—twin redheads—who lived with his mom. And I liked Alexander, a lot actually. But he’d always just been Bronson’s boyfriend. That he went to a different school put him somewhat on the outside, maybe in a good way. He probably didn’t even know about the vandalism at my locker.
“Do you ever wonder if you see yourself one way, but everyone else, they see something different?” I asked. “And you’re the only one who can’t see the real you?”
Alexander smiled, lopsided and toothy. “All the damn time.”
“And maybe,” I went on, “if people really cared, they’d tell you the truth. About yourself. About how they really feel. But no one likes to tell the truth.”
Alexander tilted his head to one side and looked at me closely, as if for the first time. “Is someone lying to you, Amanda?”
“I don’t know.”
• • •
I force my eyes open, letting in the harsh morning light, and drag myself out of bed. My phone says 11:53. By the time I’m showered and dressed, I feel slightly more human. I take a long sip of coffee as my browser opens to its usual tabs: Gmail, Facebook, Atlantic-Pacific, and Weather.com, ’cause a girl’s got to be prepared. I spend some time scrolling through Blair Eadie’s latest posts, a winter-in-the-Cape-themed series complete with a gorgeous cashmere shawl and snow parasol, and then click over to my Gmail. Rosalie again. The email is from last night, probably thanking me for Thursday’s act of goodwill. Not that she deserved it, apparently.
