Jagged Little Pill, page 8
“What?” he asks, his eyes searching around, looking anywhere but at mine. They settle on his parents, fighting in the middle of the church, and he shakes his head, staring down.
“Nothing, just . . .” I look behind me, for my mom, for his parents, for anyone. “I just want you to know that I see you. And other people will too. This . . .” I gesture around. “It’s not forever.”
He smiles a little and, with a quick sniff, nods and continues walking out of the church.
I watch him leave, turning into one of the silhouettes on that book as the bright sunlight shines against him when walking out the doors.
It’s like a time machine, watching this happen. That was me there, once upon a time, and in some ways, it still is.
And I just hope I didn’t lie to him.
“Joanne!” My mom’s voice echoes through the empty church like a thunderclap, and I turn around. She’s standing by the stairwell entry, crossed arms holding both our jackets. She storms toward me, and I can feel the last few remaining eyes in the church staring at us. “Do you just need attention?” she snaps. “Is that what this is all about?”
“I actually would like less, Mom. You won’t leave me alone.”
“You’re just going to make your life harder!”
“Trust me . . . it’s hard enough as is.”
“You’re going to come back downstairs with me, and we’re going to have a talk with Father Colt.”
“Mom, come on—”
“No, we’re going to have a chat about . . .” She’s looking right at me and just waves her hand around. “All this. Let’s go.”
She turns on her heel like someone in the military, and I follow.
She doesn’t have to say it.
All this just means me.
• • •
When I was little, there were these routines after church. Mom, Dad, and I, and sometimes a random family they’d become pals with at a recent event, gathered up in a restaurant. More often than not it was a local diner not too far from the church, where I’d order the same platter of chicken fingers and curly fries every single time, but sometimes we’d head to a chain restaurant—a TGI Fridays or a Ruby Tuesday—where once again, I’d find chicken fingers.
But the more I changed, the more these routines shifted. Though I still want chicken fingers no matter where I go.
When I started asking questions about church and about religion, the diner with new families and church friends became a thing of the past. It was the chain restaurants all the time and just us. A booth in the back. Or sometimes a drive-through run at whatever fast food was on the way home. The faster, the better. When I began dressing in ways that made me feel more myself and started fighting against Mom’s image of me, we went to later sermons—in the afternoon, with the church half empty.
These days, she mercifully drops me off at Amy’s after church, a café that’s not too far from home. Frankie always meets me there, to decompress, to bullshit, to just be us. I’m not sure why I still go with Mom to church in the first place, really. I know I could probably get away with staying home by making an entire scene. But as furious as she makes me and as much as I hate all of it, I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe, she’ll figure out that it’s not me who changed.
It’s just the routine that did. The way she’s used to things.
I’ve always been this way. It’s who I am.
I step out of the car onto the mostly empty Sunday afternoon sidewalk. I close the door and peer inside the passenger window. Mom is staring ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes focused on something I can’t quite see. And that’s the problem, I think.
“Mom, look, I’ll—”
“Just be home by dinner,” she says, shaking her head a little. The car juts forward and I stagger back, watching as she disappears down the street, past all the boutiques and tiny eateries that dot the small downtown strip. All places she won’t go with me. There used to be weekend trips to the ice-cream joint and after-school runs to the bakery to get the last batches of doughnuts or cupcakes before it closed—dollar desserts that were a tiny bit stale but still tasted sweet.
I scratch at the ugly dress and turn to duck into Amy’s. It’s a small place with a quirky, vintage feel on the inside. Large plush couches and enormous pillows on the floor, where students at the local college just sprawl out like cats. The owner, Amy, used to be a dancer once upon a time, and this café was her studio. You can make out the large floorto-ceiling mirrors along the walls, hidden behind bookcases and vintage picture frames. The cracks between shelves and tables make it look like there’s maybe a hidden, bigger world beyond them. Retiring to a life of coffee, tea, and whatever music you want on the café stereo sounds spectacular to me.
Frankie sits at a table alone, fussing with her phone. She’s got on another messy sweater, so old that I can see the pearls of fabric and string bunched up on the surface and shoulders. I walk over, smiling. I love picking those little balls of lint off her sweaters, and I think she knows it, saving them just for me. Her eyes flit up and she puts her phone down on the table quickly.
“Oh?” I grin, nodding at the little brick on the table, the surface patterned in an artificial stonework print. “Texting your other girlfriend?”
“What? No.” Frankie snorts, sputtering a laugh. She’s so cute when she’s flustered, my God. I press my hands down against the table in front of her and lean over, kissing her on the forehead, her hair smelling richly of vanilla. I just want to disappear into her arms right now, in the quiet warmth of this café.
I pull a chair over and sit down.
“So how was the party?” I ask, inching closer. “It sounded like a blast from everyone on social media. Kelsey texted me, said you bailed early. You know I need you there to give me all the details.”
“Sorry.” She laughs a little and grabs her phone. “It was just the typical teenage ratfuck.”
“Well, probably better than what I just dealt with. Another church social hour after the sermon, and I get thrown to the wolves for talking back to some homophobic mom,” I grumble, leaning back. “Do you know that God will forgive your ‘gay feelings’ as long as you don’t act on them? Thanks, Father Colt.” I snort out a laugh. “Father Colt. He sounds like a high school football player who couldn’t make it and decided to try to make touchdowns for the Lord.” I cross my arms, and Frankie is still staring at her phone. “Hey, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry,” she says, putting her phone back down.
“Was that guy there?” I ask.
“Guy?”
“Come on, that new kid. What’s his name?” I squint, trying to remember. “He’s clearly super into you. I saw him doting on you in the hallway on Friday.”
“Oh!” she exclaims. “You saw that?”
“It was cute,” I say. “What, did he read you a letter or something? Poor guy.”
“Yeah.” She laughs a little. “Yeah, he was there. I don’t know, I left early.”
“Well, let’s see what happened, load up the social media highlight reel.” I get up and sit next to her on the big plush bench, our backs against the wall. I nuzzle up closer to her, and she leans against me. I feel my whole body sigh, with her close like this. Like everything that just happened at the after-church bullshit is leaving as I sit here being my true self—save for the clothes.
Frankie pulls back up and reaches out, scratching the fabric of the dress with a finger. Her mouth turns down in a scowl.
“Yeah, it’s not exactly snuggling friendly.” I laugh a little. “I really should try to sneak a change of clothes sometime. Or you could bring them!” I rub my hands together, scheming a little, and she grins. I’m over at the Healys’ house enough that it wouldn’t be terribly suspect for me to just leave a few outfits over. “But on to more important things.”
I pull my phone out and swipe over to Instagram, and I glance at Frankie doing the same. My feed is full of the usual this morning: some ads, some artfully taken photos of coffee, a few celebrities and photos of their wildly beautiful homes. A handful of my favorite authors complaining about writing, and they all remind me of Frankie, who seems to love it so much while also hating it.
But I suppose that’s the thing about fighting to have a voice. It’s work, even when using it brings you joy.
And then something flashes across my screen, and I stop scrolling and drop my phone onto the table, not sure what I just saw.
Did I . . .
I pick it back up and drop it again, the image hitting me like a jolt of electricity. Like I just touched my tongue to a nine-volt battery.
“What is it?” Frankie asks, reaching for my phone.
“Don’t,” I say, grasping her hand. “I . . . It’s bad.” I swallow.
“Jo,” Frankie presses, looking up at me, her face awash in worry. “What’s going on?”
I let go of her hand and slide my phone over. She turns it around, her eyes on the screen, silent. She takes a sharp breath and puts it down . . . and then turns it back around, taking a screenshot. I hear the camera sound of it without looking down, and it jolts me again.
“What are you doing?!” I snap, pulling the phone away. “You can’t—”
“Someone is going to delete that,” she says grimly. “And it’ll be like it never happened. Proof is important.”
I clear my throat. “Proof?”
“That was Bella,” Frankie says, and her face is full of fury. “And I recognize that room. That’s Andrew’s house, that’s Andrew’s bedroom.”
“I-I know it’s Bella, but . . .” I stammer out. “Shit.”
Frankie takes my phone again and flips back to Instagram. I can barely look at the photo. It’s Bella Fox, looking very passed out on a bed, her shirt pulled up to her shoulders. Her phone is beside her, the sheets all rumpled around her. Was she reaching for her phone when she fell asleep? When she . . .
“People are such assholes.” I feel like I’m about to cry and wipe at the corners of my eyes.
“Nothing about this is okay,” Frankie says, shifting about in her seat. She grabs her tattered backpack full of enamel pins and hefts it up onto the table, before pulling her phone out again.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Writing down the handles of everyone who commented on the photo,” she says, angrily scratching odd screen names with strings of numbers onto her notepad. The original account looks like some sort of burner name. I don’t recognize it, but the people who shared it . . . those accounts I know. We tap through their respective stories—some of them drew pictures on top of her. These are not friends of mine by any means, but people I’ve seen in classes and in the halls.
“We’re going to need to call these people out,” Frankie continues, taking screenshots of her own. “And we need to go check on Bella.” She gets up and reaches for her coat. “Let’s go see if she’s okay, let her know we have her back, that she’s supported.”
“Wait, what?” I ask. “Right now?” I edge out of the seat.
“Remember our mission statement that we wrote for SMAAC? Protect the voiceless, be proactive about reaching out?”
“Frankie, come on.” I sigh. “We’re the only ones in the club.”
“That’s because we’re the only ones who care,” she presses. “This isn’t just some high school drama or party gossip, the kind that we can sit around and laugh at and enjoy. This is wrong. Something terrible happened, and to someone we know.”
Frankie moves around the table and spins to look at me. I haven’t moved, but I feel like I can’t.
“What is it?” she asks.
“You’re just . . . so amazing. I love how much you care about other people. I love . . . goddamn. I love you.”
She smiles in a way that looks like she might cry.
“I love you too.” She steps forward and grabs my hands in hers. “Now, let’s go show Bella how much we love her.”
Chapter Eight
Nick
The chain basketball net sings as Andrew sinks another free throw, and I groan, looking up at the morning sky. My head is throbbing impossibly hard, my stomach keeps churning, and I’m starting to think our usual routine of jogging the neighborhood and shooting hoops on Sunday was . . . a poor decision today. Perhaps, just perhaps, I should have taken this morning off.
“Boom!” Andrew smiles, his teeth bright white, his blond hair shining in the sun. It’s as though powering through endless shots and bottles of craft beer has zero effect on him and his body. “You’re up.”
He bounces the ball on the black asphalt, and I nearly miss it. I fumble to grab it as a bit of bile rises up the back of my throat. I wince and swallow it back. Ugh.
“Well, well.” He grins, hands on his hips. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing your first hangover. Feels like a real friendship milestone. We’re bonded, bro.”
“Shut up.” I groan and walk over to him. I shoot and the ball bricks loudly off the metal rim and bounces off into some nearby overgrown grass. The parks department doesn’t exactly maintain things in the winter, and it doesn’t take into account teen jocks going on runs and playing H-O-R-S-E on Sunday mornings.
“You should be proud,” he says as I fetch the ball. “You only threw up twice on our jog.”
“I hate you,” I grumble, walking back with the ball.
“It was such an insane night,” Andrew says. I throw the ball angrily at him, hard, and he catches it, the rubber making a knnng! sound in his palms. “I’m glad you were there. I hope there’s . . . you know, no hard feelings.”
I glare at him.
I was hoping we wouldn’t even talk about this. I can barely remember most of the evening anyway, but one part is clear:
Him disappearing with Bella.
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing the words out.
“I mean, Bella was just all over me. What was I supposed to do?” he says, a smug little smirk on his face.
“You seemed pretty all over her too.” I cross my arms. I watched the two of them all evening. Any time I thought I was going to get a second, just a second, to talk to Bella, there was Andrew, swooping in like a damn vulture. His arm around her, drinks in his hand, getting her whatever she wanted.
“I guess.” He shrugs. “Such a wild night.”
He shoots, the ball sinking right through the net.
“Better make that one in, or you’re out.” He grins.
“Right.” I chase after the ball as it once again finds its way into the grass. “You know . . .” I pause, picking up the ball. “I’m just a little beside myself here. You know how I feel about her, how she feels about me—”
“Well, I mean, does she?” He smirks.
A flash of heat hits me in the chest as he just looks at me, that smug little smile still on his face, and I throw the ball out of the basketball court. It sails over the fence and into the street outside the park.
“Fuck you, Andrew,” I growl, and grab my jacket off the nearby rusted-over bleachers. I can picture the two of them still, making their way up the stairs. How he highfived someone on the way up, and how Lily bolted out of the house into the night. He was just on an emotional rampage, hurting everyone close to him . . .
Why am I even here with him?
“Come on, man!” he pleads, walking toward me. “I was just messing with you. Bros before h—”
“Don’t say that. Don’t you fucking say that about her,” I snap, stomping toward him. He shirks back, his hands up in the air. I exhale, anger flowing through me, and I can see my breath in the sharp winter air.
“Chill, man,” he says, lowering his hands. “It didn’t even mean anything.”
I walk away from him, hurrying toward the exit to the court.
“Nick!” he shouts after me. “Nick, come on, man!”
I don’t ever want to see his face again.
Chapter Nine
Bella
Shit.
I lost count after the tenth text this morning, so I’m not even sure what this one is. But my notifications on social media are still a complete, lit-up disaster, from people direct messaging me to the . . . photo. Me. Passed out on Andrew’s bed. My T-shirt up. Just sprawled out for the entirety of our high school and God knows who else to see, like a knocked-over department store mannequin, there to be played with by anyone strolling by.
All the messages on social media are the same—“I don’t know if you’ve seen this but . . .”—while my texts are full of invites to go out, get support, and the like. Most are from people I haven’t really spoken to in forever or just studied with once or twice. My cousin Chris somehow saw it, which sends me reeling. I just need this to pass over before Mom or Dad see it.
Ugh. Andrew. I was there to talk to Nick. How could I have . . .
There’s a jab in my skull. This headache is unbelievable. I like going hard at parties. I do. I cut loose, I dance, but . . . I always remember everything. All the little details, the laughter and the joy and the drama. That’s the point of it all, right? Making memories, being light and full of life. But this feels different. Something is different. Like someone took the night away from me in their fist.
And the texts and direct messages won’t stop coming. Like everyone has to make sure I’ve seen this. Like they’re the first ones to break the news.
I wince at Lily’s message. I’m . . . not sure why I would do this to her. I don’t know her terribly well; we’ve hung out a few times at lunch and on trips, but that’s really it. Ugh, but I knew how much Andrew was smitten with me. I try to shake her hurt out of my head, and there’s that throbbing still. I wouldn’t do that to her. To anyone, really. I wouldn’t do anything with Andrew for that matter. I’m not into him, it’s not like that.
I’ve been hungover before. Plenty. But nothing like this. Nothing at all like this.
