Jagged Little Pill, page 10
The barista must catch me staring, because he pipes up. “That’s our Little Free Library.”
I glance up—ALEX is on his name tag.
“We get a lot of kids in here, try to give them something else to do than . . . well . . .” He nods at a table a few feet away from us: two people on their phones, empty cups in front of them. I laugh a little, and he beams a smile. He’s got a stubbly beard and round glasses that make him look like he’d be perfectly at home as a librarian as much as a café owner.
“What can I get you?”
I glance up at the chalkboard behind him, a wide array of drinks and pastries written in various colors; some look like they’ve been etched into the black surface forever, like just regular coffee, and others appear as if they’ve changed a thousand times, the dust of old writing clouding the surface, like milk in black coffee.
“You can probably guess this, but tea is our specialty,” Alex says. “Particularly the namesake.”
“London Fog?” I ask.
“Yup.” He reaches for a cup. “Earl Grey tea, bit of lavender, steamed milk, dollop of vanilla . . . Feel like trying something new?”
My mind floats to the school. To Frankie and her friends, to the poetry class. To this different town we’re trying to settle into, and I smile.
“Sure.”
• • •
I manage to hole up at a lone table in the very corner of the café, the entire place sprawled out in front of me. I don’t see anyone I recognize from school here, but then again, I’m not sure I would, seeing as I just started last week. I don’t think I can name more than a handful of people, save for Frankie.
Frankie.
Ever since she read that poem in class, since I walked with her down the hall, since I shared my own scribblings while pressed against a locker . . . she’s been all I can think about. And that night after the party, in the park, under all those trees on the swings . . .
It sends my heart racing.
I was more than happy to move here, to help out Mom with Ruby, to navigate this complicated situation we’re in. Because that’s what you do when it’s family. You find a way; you find the joy somewhere.
And I think I’ve found that joy. Maybe. It’s all a bit fast.
I take a sip of the London Fog, and the sigh I let out is louder than expected.
“See?!” Alex shouts across the café, waving at me.
I like it here.
I double-check the time and open my laptop, loading up Google Meet from my writing calendar. When I click the link waiting for me, a handful of familiar faces are already there, excitably talking about something, until all their eyes focus on me.
“Phoenix!” Saundra and Nwayieze both shout, and there’s Patrick, Lisa, and Mitchell, all smiling brightly. God, I’ve missed this bunch. Everybody looks the same, which, well, of course they do. I’ve barely been gone ten days.
“We were just going over one of Lisa’s poems,” Saundra says, and Lisa looks away from the screen, bashful, her blond hair swiping over her screen for just a moment. “Oh, stop it, it’s good.”
Everyone laughs.
“Are you all at Locke and Tea?” I ask, squinting at the backgrounds behind everyone. It kinda looks the same across every screen.
“Almost,” Patrick says. “I’m home, they’re out and about, enjoying the world. Babysitting.”
“You’re barely babysitting,” Mitchell scoffs. “Where is your sister? You’ve been in front of your laptop this whole time. She could have taken the car out by now.”
“She’s four!” Patrick laughs.
“Still.” Mitchell shrugs. “Kids these days are a lot more mature. I’ll let you know if she shows up here.”
“Shut up.” Patrick rolls his eyes but then looks offscreen. “All right, I’ll be back. I’m gonna go check on her.”
Everyone laughs as he leaves the square on-screen, including me.
“How is it?” I ask. “How’s the café, how’s class, catch me up on everything.”
And they do.
Saundra goes on and on about the new substitute English teacher and how she just doesn’t get any of the books she’s teaching. Not that Saundra doesn’t get them. That the teacher doesn’t, and each class feels like a battle between her and the sub. This is entirely unsurprising, as it seemed like she went to war with our usual teacher anyway, sparking debates constantly. Poor Mrs. Rich. Bless her for dealing with us.
Patrick has thrown himself into the school musical, something I’ve definitely known about, as he was doing that before we moved, and he regales me with the latest drama in drama. Someone else really wanted the role of the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors and has been making a fuss about it, even though the performance is just days away. And he’s dating the lead dancer, a girl named Annie I think we all had a crush on at one point or another.
Mitchell’s stepdad got him a motorcycle as an early Christmas gift, which is basically tearing his family apart at home in the most hilarious of ways. His mom doesn’t want him getting that license, his stepdad feels like he’s ready, his younger brother is furious because he wanted a scooter . . . the tension is thick and palpable and absolutely not a real problem, which makes it even funnier. Though having listened to so much of Frankie’s actual problems at home, his rambles send my mind somewhere else. And I wonder how she’s doing.
Lisa and Nwayieze have effectively taken up the positions of writers in residence at our favorite coffee shop, though none of that is official and they keep getting kicked out. But the two of them are determined to finish their poetry chapbooks, with plans to send them around in January. They want to be published before college.
“Have you seen my latest poem on Instagram?” Nwayieze asks.
“Ooh, I haven’t!” I glance down at my phone and back at the screen. She lifts her eyebrows and looks right at me, expectantly. “Oh, now?”
“Thank you.” Nwayieze smirks, crossing her arms.
The crew laughs, and I open my phone, surprised to see a bundle of notifications on the home screen. I swipe over to Instagram and I’ve got a whole mess of private messages, and when I load them up . . .
What . . .
Who is this?
There’s a girl in a bunch of Instagram Stories, shared by these new people I barely know at school and some strange, unnamed accounts without much on them, and she’s got her shirt pulled up to her neck. Her eyes are closed, but . . . I recognize her.
The girl from the party, taking shots with Frankie’s brother and those other kids.
Aren’t they friends? I think? Maybe?
And why am I getting sent this? Why is anyone?
Something is terribly wrong here, and there’s this sinking, awful feeling in my chest. Like I’m peering into someone’s window and witnessing a crime, something I’m not supposed to see, but now that I have . . . there’s no choice but to say something. Do something. You don’t just stand witness to something like this without, I don’t know, finding yourself moving.
“Phoenix?” Nwayieze asks, and I look back up to the screen.
“Hey, are you okay?” Saundra is looking back at me, her eyes full of worry. I can see her looking at the rest of the crew around whatever table they’re at, all of them muttering to one another. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, no, I . . .” My mouth has gone dry, and I reach for the London Fog, taking a long sip, but it just makes me feel thirstier. “Look, I have to go. I’ll . . . I’m sorry, something happened.”
“Oh shit, is Ruby okay?!” Patrick asks, jostling around his laptop, the screen shaking.
“What’s going on?” Mitchell presses.
“No, she’s fine, she’s . . . It’s someone else . . .” I shake my head. “I’ll talk to you all later, I’m sorry. I miss you.”
Saundra starts to say something, but I shut the laptop.
I feel myself breathing heavily, and I look down at my phone, the stories of Bella replaced by whatever played next from the people I follow on here. A park. Some trees. Some flowers.
Like the horrible, shared image was never even there. Like it wasn’t that big a deal that I just saw something I shouldn’t have. That they just shared something they shouldn’t have, whoever all these people are. Classmates, I think. But I don’t really know any of them. I just followed most of these kids a few days ago, mindlessly swiping while looking up Frankie.
I exhale and move to call Frankie, but I can’t quite bring myself to hit the call button. Is she going to want to hear from me right now? Has she already heard about this from a dozen different people? It’s all over social media and she’s a Very Online person. There’s no way she isn’t aware . . .
I rub my forehead and grit my teeth.
I’ll just text.
I wonder: Should I invite her here? Should I maybe try to go see her? I have no idea how to navigate this and be, I don’t know, the best ally I can.
So I just sit here and try to read some poetry, swiping away from all the stories to Nwayieze’s latest piece and focusing on the words of one of my brilliant friends. It offers up a warm distraction. But still, I can’t forget what I saw or stop thinking about the new people in my life who are being affected. Bella. My God.
I’m not sure I can bring myself to write.
Chapter Twelve
Bella
The car ride downtown is mostly silent.
The quiet inside the car is broken only by the occasional sniffle from my mom, her hands gripping the steering wheel like she might break it off. I pray for no more red lights. The first one we stopped at, she let out an exhale for so long that I thought she might deflate like a balloon in the driver’s seat.
The brakes squeak as she slows to a crawl in front of the police station, and I can hear her knuckles crack when she lets go of the wheel. She looks at me, her face weary, the whites of her eyes tinted red from all the crying. Or it could be from a burst blood vessel, with the shouting she and my father did. Not at me, but with each other and on the phone, raising hell with Andrew’s family, who keep denying he did anything wrong.
“Are you sure?” she asks, reaching out to me. Her hand grips my shoulder. “I want you to stand up for what that . . . boy did to you. But this isn’t going to be easy.”
“I know,” I say.
She leans back in her seat. “I’m sorry your father didn’t come.” She shakes her head. “It’s not you. He’s not mad at you. He’s afraid of what he might do if he has to face that family. If Andrew showed up.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I clear my throat, my heart hammering in my chest. “It really is.”
She glances back at me, and I realize she’s crying again.
“My girl. I’m so proud of you.”
Relief washes over me. I don’t know why I expected this to go so much differently. I just saw, I don’t know, the two of them falling to pieces. But instead, ever since I told them what happened, they’ve been bastions of reason and resistance.
I practically throw myself over the center console of the car and hug my mom, who squeezes me tight, sniffling again. When I let go, she wipes at her face, a bit of makeup streaking her cheeks. She laughs, pulling her hands back at the black trails on her skin.
“All right.” She glances at her phone, cheeks slick. “I’ll be here when you’re done. Let me know if they need me in there. Chances are they will.”
“Okay.” I open the car door and hop out, anxiety just rushing through me. “Love you, Mom.”
I make my way toward the police station, and that’s when I notice Frankie and Jo, sitting on the small wall lining the building, shrubs and flowers behind them. The two hop off at the same time and stroll toward me, pensive looks on both of their faces. The last time I was here was . . . I don’t even know. When we were little, I think, and they did this whole “don’t do drugs” talk with our middle school and took us on a tour of the station. It was all smiles and gentle warnings, while at the same time it felt like a “don’t mess up or you’ll come back here” kind of thing was being implied. Felt like forever ago, and now here I am.
Only I’m not the one who messed up.
Frankie and Jo keep reminding me of that. How this isn’t my fault. How that photo floating around our school and among our friends and complete strangers wasn’t my doing. And their words have gone from being this annoying little buzzing to a source of comfort. I’m feeling . . . strangely more determined. Like a reluctant fist that’s getting tighter.
But it’s not lost on me that the people I usually spend my time with, the ones I considered unshakable best friends, are missing in all this. All that laughter in the school halls and at lunch is just . . . silence. A few texts, but no one has really showed up for me. Nick has absolutely vanished. All my messages to him have gone unanswered, which feels particularly brutal. If anyone knows what happened last night, the real story, it would be him. But he can’t seem to be bothered. After years of friendship, years of . . . well, whatever we were feeling, it’s like I don’t exist anymore.
“It would be . . . a lot easier not to go in there,” I say, looking at the doors. It’s an unassuming brick-andconcrete building, a small park across the street. That was one of the few parks in town all our mutual parents would drop us off at as little kids, to run around wildly on our own, saying it was safe because of this building across the street. Poston Park in the middle of town was “dangerous” and “in the middle of some woods,” but we all found our way there anyway, to drink stolen beer and smoke cigarettes we snuck away.
I can see people milling about inside, and the park across the street is empty. Connecticut winter and all.
“People like Andrew know that,” Frankie says. “They know it’s not easy. And that’s why they think they can get away with anything.”
I swallow. “Everything’s going to change once I go in there,” I say, trying to steel myself.
Frankie offers up her hand.
I take it.
“Good,” she says.
Chapter Thirteen
Jo
Frankie practically kicks the door open to Mr. Martinho’s classroom, extra poster board under her arm, a tote packed full of art supplies over her shoulder. She barely even said hi to me when she showed up this morning. She’s wearing her military-style jacket full of patches, same jean shorts from the other day. She settles down at the desk, spreading the poster boards out and sorting through the tote, when I clear my throat in the doorway.
“Hi?” I venture.
She looks up at me, back down at the boards, and up at me again, sucking at her teeth and shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, Jo.” She walks over, gives me the quickest of hugs, and returns to her spread. “I’m just . . .” She pauses, her hands pressed against the surface of the desk, and takes a few big breaths. “It’s all so much.”
“Hey, hey.” I walk over slowly and stand next to her. “It’s okay. You don’t have to carry it all yourself.” I grab a marker and shift a poster board toward me. “It’s a club, remember? We work together. What’s the vision here?”
She looks up at the door and back down. “What’s it even matter?”
“What?” I ask. “What do you—”
“No one’s here,” she says, looking up at me, her eyes a bit frantic. “I thought Nick would maybe show up—finally fucking show up and own up—but nope. Haven’t even seen him at home or at school today, he left so wildly early. Probably to run with the rapist he didn’t even want to stand up to. I practically woke up in an empty house. Who knows where Dad or MJ are.
“And Bella!” she exclaims, slapping the desk. “She can’t be here. Physically can’t. Staying home while the investigation is going on. It’s so unfair. It’s all so unfair.”
“Have you heard anything about Andrew?” I ask.
“Nothing. You?”
“No, he’s gone all dark on social media.” I shake my head. “Lawyers are probably making him do that. Or his parents. Or both. Probably both.”
“So it’s just you and me again.”
“Me and you.” I smile a little.
She exhales through her nose and nods.
“Hey, is this the SMAAC meeting?”
I glance back at the door, surprised to hear another voice, and it’s Lily. Of all the people to show up here, it’s Lily.
She’s got bags under her eyes, like she’s been awake and crying for days, which I imagine she has. Andrew’s her boyfriend and she was at that party. Frankie told me she was handing out drinks and shots. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear, long and strawberry blond, and bites at her lip, a piercing on one end of it.
“Lily,” Frankie says, sounding as surprised as I feel. “I didn’t . . . I mean, well, I didn’t think you’d show up to something like this.”
“Yeah, well”—she crosses her arms—“I didn’t exactly see myself showing up for this either, but . . . I was there. I kept giving drinks to everyone. I kept . . .” She closes her eyes tight; her face looks like it’s about to break like a piece of porcelain. “I should have stopped him. I could have stopped him. But when I saw him chasing Bella around, fawning over her like that . . . I don’t know, all I saw was how jealous I was getting and not what was really happening.”
“You didn’t know.” Frankie walks toward her, and Lily shirks away a little. “It’s okay. I mean, I left the party. I could have stayed. There’s that guilt we’re all carrying.”
“I just feel so complicit.”
“What’s important is that we can all show up for Bella now,” Frankie presses. “She needs us now.”
Lily looks back up at Frankie and nods, then peeks outside the class.
“You guys coming?” she shouts down the hall.
I look over at Frankie; her eyebrows are raised. After a beat, six other girls and one guy hurry into the room.
“I brought friends.” She smiles a little.
