All Eyes on Us, page 10
“Yeah.” Paulina takes a deep drag, then tilts her head back, blowing the smoke straight up into the sky. “You had to kind of figure she was going to find out eventually, right? No offense, but Carter’s not exactly covert ops material. And you have to think he’s probably done this before.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Cheat, you know? You’re probably not the first. I’m sure Amanda has eyes all over the Northern Panhandle.”
“Shit.” I take back my phone and shove it into my coat pocket. “It’s just I haven’t heard a word from her all this time. I thought, I don’t know. I didn’t think she knew.”
Paulina fiddles with the laces on her clunky brown boots, but doesn’t say anything.
“If she knows about me, she could find out about us. What if she keeps digging? This could be really bad.”
Paulina’s silent for a minute. “So what are you going to do?” she finally asks.
“Write back to her, I guess. Tell her it’s not me with the texts. Start being more careful with Carter.”
Paulina shakes her head. “You can’t keep seeing him; don’t you get it? She’s not going to let this go.”
“You know that’s not an option. We can’t have this same conversation—”
“I know,” Pau cuts me off. Frustration crackling across her skin, her hand flies up in the air between us. A piece of ash soars off the tip of her cigarette, and I flinch.
“Sorry.” Her voice is quieter now, but there’s something hard and biting lodged beneath her words. “But this isn’t okay. We need a new plan.”
My spine starts to tingle, and I wrap my hands tight around my body. I think the words I can’t bring myself to say out loud: There is no other plan.
It’s my third session with Michael, a twitchy, clammy-skinned FOC counselor dedicated to making gay kids straight again. Michael used to be SSA, the church shorthand for same sex attracted; now he’s married to Evie, a nice woman in our congregation. They have a three-year-old daughter. Ex-gay ministry worked for him. He’s going to make it work for me.
We sit across from each other in a small office in the basement of our old church, in our old town. It’s already April, but it’s still freezing down here. I tug at my shirtsleeves, wrap my hands in the soft pink cotton. Our first two sessions were what he called “talk therapy,” but he’s not a licensed therapist. My parents say a regular therapist can’t help me. Not with this. In order to redirect my attraction from girls to boys, I have to trust the church and our methods.
I suck in a sharp breath. Michael’s holding a picture in front of me, something torn from a magazine. It’s a grown-up woman, naked, one long, stilettoed leg wrapped around a tall metal poll. You can see her boobs and everything. She’s staring straight at me with eyes that look half asleep.
“What does she make you feel?” Michael asks. Flecks of spittle collect in the corners of his mouth.
“Um, nothing.” I look down at my lap, embarrassed. She’s old enough to be in college, probably older.
“Does your stomach tingle?” he asks.
“No.” I lift my arms and wrap them tight around my chest. I don’t have boobs yet, not like that. Hers are huge, way bigger than my mom’s. “I just feel weird.”
Suddenly, Michael’s grabbing my hand and plunging it in a bowl of ice water on the desk to my left. I gasp. It’s so cold, my hand feels like it’s on fire. I try to jerk away, but he holds my arm in a vice grip.
“Look at the picture,” he commands. He’s holding it too close, right in front of my nose. I peek over the top of the page and up to his face. It’s red and splotchy. There’s sweat collecting where his forehead ends and hairline begins. I whimper.
“Look at it, Rosalie.”
I stare at the too-close photo until my eyes cross and my hand feels like it’s going to crack off my wrist. Tears leak down my face and drip onto my jeans. Finally, he releases my arm and drops the picture to the floor. I clutch my hand to my chest.
“Here,” he says gently, handing me a soft yellow towel. I wrap it around my hand as Michael holds up a new photo. It’s a black-and-white ad for Wrangler jeans. In it, a man is running across a dirt road at the edge of a wheat field. His shirt is torn open and flaps back in the wind, revealing a muscly chest. His hair is long for a guy and the wind kicks it out in all directions as he runs. I fix my eyes on his hair and wrap the towel tighter around my stinging hand.
“No,” I say to Paulina, my voice firm. “I’m going to handle this. I’ll write to Amanda, explain I’m not sending the texts. I’ll tell her I’m ending things with Carter. And then I’ll talk to him. We’ll find different places to go. We’ll be more careful.”
Paulina’s mouth twists into a deep scowl. She stabs her cigarette butt into the ground like it’s the enemy.
“This girl means business, and she’s got lawyers and shit. If whoever’s bothering her keeps it up, she’s coming after you. What are you going to do if those texts keep coming?”
“I’ll cross that—” I start to say, but Pau holds up her hand again, cutting me off. We never fight like this. The flash in her eyes makes me shiver.
“Cut Carter loose,” she says. “Please. We’ll figure something out with your parents.”
“There’s nothing to figure out with them,” I practically spit. I jump up and grab my backpack, slinging it roughly across my shoulders. “This isn’t about logic or being reasonable. FOC doctrine is nonnegotiable. I’m sorry I can’t be a better girlfriend, but you’ve known the deal since we met. If you can’t handle a few more months like this, then you need to tell me. Do you want to break up?”
“No.” Pau stands and grabs at my arm, pulling me to her. Every nerve in my body lights up. I can feel her breath hot on my face. “You know I don’t want that.”
“Then you need to trust me.”
For a moment, Paulina doesn’t say anything. In the silence, I can hear our hearts beating together: ker-thunk, ker-thunk. I think of Lily, and a little piece of me dies. Soon, there are tears stinging my eyes, and I break her hold to wipe roughly at them with my coat sleeve. “I have to go. I’ll miss my bus.”
“Rosalie, I’m sorry.” Before I can turn back toward the woods, Paulina is pulling me into her again. “I do trust you. We’re going to get through this. We’re pros at that.”
I let her hold me for a minute, breathing in and out into her thick tangle of curls. Paulina’s parents may not be Dan Savage–level supportive, but she’s out at home, and it’s fine. Her older brother Ramon is gay, so he kind of paved the way. She’s lucky in a way I can’t even imagine—and she knows it. For years, she’s been my rock. Without Pau, I’m not sure I’d be even close to okay. I’m not sure I’d still be here at all.
“I really have to go.” I tilt my chin up, and the press of her lips is a reminder that after everything, I’m still me. I’m alive. For a moment, I let myself sink into the kiss. And then I turn into the woods and start jogging toward the parking lot. I have eleven minutes to get to my bus.
• • •
I’m winded in no time. I’m good on a bike, but running is not my friend. I stop to catch my breath. Behind me, twigs crunch. I spin around, and a two-tone blur like piano keys or lane markers on a highway disappears behind a tree halfway back to the clearing. The crunching stops. Images of Pau and me kissing flash across the back of my eyelids.
“Vrdi vrreed vreed.” Even before I finish the call, I know there won’t be a reply. Paulina’s coat is brown.
Part of me wants to go back, and part of me wants to pretend I didn’t just hear footsteps or see a white-and-black streak disappear into the trees. I glance at my phone. My bus leaves in nine minutes. It doesn’t matter what I want. After yesterday’s transgression with Dad, being late to Youth Ministry isn’t an option. I’ll have to sprint.
11
AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 9
When I pull into the student lot, Adele and Trina are standing in the spot next to Adele’s bimmer, saving it for me. I tap the horn twice as I pull up, and they scurry out of the way like I might actually hit them. I’m out of the car with my phone out and email open before they can even say “good morning.”
“Read this.”
“She wrote back?” Trina asks.
“Last night. Here.” I hand the phone over, and we start walking.
“Read it out loud,” Adele insists, struggling to get a view of the screen.
Subject: Re: Fwd: BACK OFF, SKANK
From: Rosalie Bell
To: me
I’m sending this from my regular email because in case you write back, you can’t use my school account, okay? They monitor that shit.
I’m really sorry about Carter, and you have every right to be angry. The truth is complicated. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m going to end things with him. I was never trying to mess with your future. Promise.
About the texting. That’s not me. I’m sorry someone’s bothering you, but I wouldn’t even know how to send an anonymous message.
Take care,
Rosalie
When Trina finishes reading, we’re all silent for a moment. She hands my phone over, and I slip it into my bag.
“Too easy,” Adele says. “One email from you, and she’s just going to roll over?”
“She’s a coward,” Trina says. “Maybe you should have done this two months ago.”
“No, Adele’s right,” I say. “Something’s off. ‘I was never trying to mess with your future’? What else would you call what she’s doing? And anyone can figure out how to send an anonymous text; it’s not rocket science. We Googled four ways in ten minutes on Sunday.”
We push through the main doors to Logansville South, and it’s like walking into a wall of sweaty boy sound. Half the wrestling team seems to be staging an impromptu match outside the auditorium doors, and a group of freshmen clog the hallway mouth, eyes fixed on their phones, too obsessed with completing this week’s Battle Pass challenge to notice we’re coming through.
“Watch it.” I shoulder one of the freshmen out of the way, in no mood for graciousness.
“Anyway,” Adele says when we’ve made it through the press of the main entrance, “I don’t buy it. She’s feigning ignorance on purpose.”
“Don’t buy what? Who’s feigning ignorance?”
Suddenly Ben is walking with us like he’d been there all along. My already thin patience bottoms out.
“None of your business,” I snap at the same time Adele says, “Just some bitch who’s bothering Mandy.”
“Someone’s bothering you?” Ben’s face is filled with concern. He looks like he wants to hug me, but thankfully he thinks better of it and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Why would anyone bother you, Amanda?”
“Don’t worry about it. The situation is under control.”
We turn from the main hallway down the corridor that leads to my locker. I wish he would just leave. I wasn’t done debriefing with Trina and Adele, but I’m definitely not continuing this conversation with Ben Gallagher hovering.
“Isn’t the rest of the debate team waiting for you?” I put on my nicest voice, hoping Ben will get the hint.
He doesn’t. “Huh? We don’t have practice until Saturday.”
“Holy shit.” Trina stops in her tracks and flings out her long, skinny arms, pinning the three of us behind her.
“What the—?”
“Amanda,” she cuts me off, “is that your locker?”
I stare down the corridor toward a group of kids gathered in front of what might be my locker. Then again, it might be any locker in my alcove; it’s impossible to tell from here, especially with so many people milling around. Everyone is whispering and snapping pictures. All I can see for sure is that there’s something bright red on the floor, and everyone seems to be freaking out in a hushed, slow-mo kind of way.
“Wait here,” Ben says. “I’ll go make sure it’s safe.”
I roll my eyes as he runs ahead of us down the hall like he’s acting out some video game. We ignore him and start walking. Whatever it is, it’s probably not a bomb. What does Ben think, he’s going to diffuse it before we arrive?
It’s obvious it’s my locker from the way people stare when I get close. A few people step aside, letting me in.
“What the hell?” My locker door is covered in blood. It’s streaked all down the gray paint and pooled on the floor in front. Resting in the middle are a dozen formerly white roses, now stained a sticky red, and a small teddy bear. Trina digs in her bag for her Canon and starts snapping photos.
“Evidence,” she whispers, forehead scrunched in concentration.
Ben touches my elbow, and I flinch. “I don’t think it’s real blood,” he suggests. “It’s too bright. It looks like corn syrup mixed with red food coloring, like they did in old movies.”
“Thanks, Sherlock,” I spit. Then, I spin around and glare at all the shocked, vacant faces. “Who did this?” I shout. “Who saw something?”
No one says anything. They just stand there like a herd of big-eyed cows.
“Seriously? There are, like, eight hundred people in this school. No one saw who did this?” My locker alcove may be in a low-traffic zone, but this scene is unmissable.
My skin is hot; I can feel bright red blotches breaking out across my face and neck. This is not okay. This is taking things way, way too far. I reach down and snatch up the teddy bear. I need to throw something. I need everyone to get out of my face.
Adele lets out a shriek. The bow tied around the bear’s neck falls to the side, and its head plops down into the pool of fake blood, splashing sticky red syrup on our boots. Yellow stuffing pokes out where its head should be. I’m so startled, I drop the body, and it sprays us with even more syrup.
“Shit.” My hands are shaking.
“Who the hell did this?” Ben shouts into the crowd. No one answers.
“This is sick.” Trina takes me by the shoulders and steers me away from the mess at my locker and toward the main hallway. “Let’s get Ms. Walker, okay? She’ll handle this.”
A trip to the vice principal’s office turns out to be unnecessary, because by the time we’re halfway there, one of the Spanish teachers has noticed the crowd and suddenly all the teachers on the first floor seem to respond to some secret teacher radar, emerging from their classrooms to take charge. Everyone is ushered away from my locker and into homeroom. Ms. Walker is headed down the hall toward us. Someone must have called her.
“Amanda, please wait in my office, honey,” she says. “You can help yourself to some coffee.”
“I just need to wash my hands,” I mumble.
She smiles at me kindly. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
In the bathroom, I turn the water on as hot as it goes. My hands are still shaking as I run them under the stream. The water turns pink and then clear. Trina stays with me, dabbing at my boots with a wet paper towel. At least they’re black; it’s not going to stain.
A minute later, Adele bursts through the bathroom door.
“There you are. I couldn’t find you.”
I ignore her and stare at my face in the mirror above the sink. It’s gone from blotchy red to pure white. I look like I’m in shock, which I guess I am. What was that? Fake blood. Teddy bears with severed heads. It’s like I’m living in some Christopher Pike novel. What’s next, a cow heart pinned to my desk with a butcher knife? Creepy chain letters and graveyard scavenger hunts?
“I thought you should see this.” Adele is holding a little white envelope with my name scrawled across the front. “It was with the flowers. I grabbed it before the janitors came.”
I take the envelope gingerly and flip it over. Inside is a white card, the kind florists use for writing greetings, but this one doesn’t have a store logo. The note is in classic typewriter font, but the card looks laser-printed.
I asked you nicely. I told you he was no good. Now you know I’m serious. Before January 24, you will break Carter Shaw’s heart. Make it public, make it hurt. I know I can count on you to make a scene. End it—or I’ll end things my way.
“What does it say?” Trina asks. I pass the card over. The look on Adele’s face says she read it before she got here.
“ ‘I asked you nicely’? What does that even mean?” Trina hands the card back to me.
“She wants Mandy to break up with Carter. Obviously.”
“Isn’t January twenty-fourth—?” Trina starts to ask.
“Carter’s birthday,” I finish for her. “That’s two weeks away.”
“Wow,” Trina says. “That’s just plain cruel.”
“This bitch is out for blood.” But even as I’m saying it, I have a tiny, nagging doubt that this was Rosalie. I want to rip up the note and flush it down the toilet, but I shove it in my bag instead. This is evidence.
“That email was such bullshit,” Trina says. “She’s all apologies one second and fake blood the next?”
“Maybe she has multiple personality disorder,” Adele suggests. “Doesn’t your mom have a patient like that?”
“It’s called dissociative identity disorder now,” Trina says. “Besides, you shouldn’t casually diagnose.”
I stare at myself in the mirror again. A little bit of color is starting to come back to my cheeks, and I pinch them to speed up the process. Unless Rosalie is truly brainless, which I’m pretty sure she’s not, why would she do something that makes her look like a jealous freak in front of all of South? She’d have to know Carter would suspect her of targeting me. It wouldn’t be a smart play. I smooth down my hair and check for mascara smudges. Then, I’m ready to get out of here.
“I have to go.” I shove away from the sink and start toward the door. “Ms. Walker wants to see me.”
“Do you need me to come with you?” Trina asks.
I shake my head, no. “I’m fine. Really. I’ll handle this.”
Adele and Trina stare at me, unblinking.
“Really.” I raise my eyebrows at them. “I’m totally fine. You’re both late to homeroom.” Then I push open the door into the empty hall. Before I can get to Ms. Walker’s office, my phone beeps. One new message from Private.
