Backlash (10 page)

“Why should I?!” I shout at her, trying to pull my arm out of her grasp.

Don’t I have a right to be mad? Why does she always shut me down?

“Maybe this was too much, too soon,” she explains to the police, pasting on a warped version of her Politician Smile. Even Mom can’t manage full-watt fakery right now.

“This must be incredibly painful for you, Lara, and I understand that our questions feel intrusive,” Officer Hall says in a calm, gentle voice. “But we want to help you find answers.”

I still.

It’s the hope, however unlikely it might be, of finding an answer that makes me slump back into my seat and answer the question. Trying to understand why Christian turned on me is an obsession.

“Yeah. He sent me that message. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong, why he suddenly changed like that. He went from being so sweet to …”

This is why I don’t want to let any kind of feeling start — because I have no control over the size of it, or how to control it or stop it if it gets too much. Emotion pours over me like a tidal wave, drowning me with primitive force. I lay my head down on my arms on the table and sob until the sleeves of my T-shirt are wet.

Mom flutters around me, panicked by the force of my grief, stroking my back, trying to give me tissues, telling me everything is going to be okay, which I know isn’t true. I know full well it’s a lie, because how can things ever be okay after what’s happened?

When my sobs have slowed to sniffles, Mom sits holding my hand, and I face Detective Souther and Officer Hall with red, swollen eyes.

“Lara, you didn’t do anything wrong to make Christian turn,” Officer Hall says. “The thing is …”

She glances at Detective Souther. He takes over.

“What we’ve learned from our investigation, Lara, is that there is no Christian DeWitt. The profile was deleted a week after you were hospitalized. According to the administration at East River High, there is no student of that name registered. No family by the name of DeWitt lives in the town of East River. And we cross-checked the few profile pictures — they are all of a young man named Adam Bernard who models for Abercrombie and Fitch, the clothing store. We contacted Mr. Bernard and he has no knowledge of anyone named Christian DeWitt.”

I stare at his mouth as the words come out, my mind unable to believe what he is telling me can be true. It can’t be.

This is a dream. A really bad dream. The worst dream ever. I’ll wake up and it won’t be true, just like the one I had where I went to the dance with Christian in the limo and we ended up at my middle school with everyone calling me Lardo.

I start pinching my leg, hard, with my left hand, over and over to try to wake myself up. Mom sees me and takes my hand.

“Lara, stop. You’re going to bruise yourself,” she says, thinking that I care.

And that’s when I know beyond all shadow of a doubt, this isn’t a dream. The horror of this is that I’m awake, and it’s all too real. Even worse, it’s not going to go away.

I thought my world had already shattered when Christian sent me that message, but I realize now that was only the appetizer, the prelude to
this
moment, which is the main course.

Because Christian isn’t even real. He’s fake. I tried to kill myself over a boy who doesn’t even exist. It’s official. I am the stupidest person alive.

And I wish, even more now, that I were dead.

E
VER SINCE
I can remember we’ve had a Sunday afternoon family football-watching ritual. If Mom makes appointments to show a house during game time, Dad gets mad because he says it’s supposed to be our “sacred time” or whatever. Mom’s a bigger believer in the sacred principle of making money and paying the bills — at least that’s what she says whenever they fight about it, which is often.

But today, the sacred gathering around the big screen is on — well, kind of. At least we’re all in the same room, sitting around in front of the television, with the game on, pretending that we’re watching it together. Bree checks her cell phone every few minutes. Mom has her iPad on her lap to check work emails and browse real estate websites, but she’s smart enough to look up and comment about game plays often enough to keep Dad happy.

I don’t know why Dad insists on this whole family football deal. If you ask me, everyone would be a whole lot happier if he just let us do our own thing. But gathering around the TV to watch guys throw the pigskin is Dad’s thing with a capital
T
. So we do it.

The camera focuses in on the cheerleaders, who are totally hot in their short shorts, crop tops, and knee-high leather boots.

“Don’t they get cold when the game’s in, like, November?” I ask. “I mean, they’re not exactly, you know,
wearing a lot
.”

“Is that so?” Dad chuckles, glancing over at Mom. “I can’t say I noticed.”

My mother makes a
pfft
sound and rolls her eyes.

“That reminds me, cheerleading tryouts are this week,” she says to Bree. “Do you want to go through your routine with me before dinner?”

“No,” Bree says right away.

She couldn’t be more obvious about wanting to kill that idea in a hurry.

Still, I don’t blame Bree. Mom’s a frustrated cheerleader. She shows up at all the games with the school colors painted on her cheeks, like she’s trying to live out her regret that she didn’t make the cheerleading squad in high school through my sister. It makes me want to crawl under the bleachers — but if I say anything, she’s like, “Come on, don’t you have any school spirit?”

“Why not, Bree?” Mom persists.

“I just don’t, okay?”

“Bree, I —”

“Can’t this wait till halftime?” Dad says.

I can’t tell if he’s really upset that we can’t hear the commentator, or if he’s trying to shut them down before this turns into World War III, like so many conversations between Bree and Mom do these days.

“Yeah, it totally can,” Bree says, giving Mom a pointed look. “I’m gonna make some popcorn.”

“Don’t forget the butter,” I remind her.

“Not too much,” Mom says. “It’s already butter flavored.”

“But that’s fake butter,” I complain. “Real butter tastes better.”

Bree makes a disgusted noise and escapes to the kitchen to avoid the butter war.

Dad says, “Can we go for five minutes without arguing about something so I can actually watch the game? Timer starting … now.”

He looks at his watch. I turn my attention back to the game. Dad must be feeling lucky today. I’m pretty sure the longest we’ve ever gone without an argument is three minutes, ten seconds.

I
F THE
mayor’s speech goes on much longer I’m going to fall asleep on the stage. And seeing as how there are photographers from local papers and online news sites here, that will
not
go down well with Mom. Or His Honor, Mayor Robinson. But seriously, how many political speeches can one teenager be expected to stay awake for at a single event? So far we’re at eight and counting … Any more have got to count as cruel and unusual punishment.

It would be one thing if they actually said something interesting. But every single speech consists of the politician thanking all the other politicians and the people gathered to listen, before wrapping up with five minutes or more of bland generalizations about how proud they are to serve and democracy is great and blah blah blah God bless our town and the United States of America.

Because we’re in the front row, I can’t even check Facebook or Instagram or even send #Imbored selfies to my friends. I have to try to stay awake and look attentive, like the perfect politician’s daughter.

Syd, who is on the other side of Dad, looks like she’s struggling, too. We exchange a glance of mutual misery. I hope none of the photographers catch it. If they do,
we’re
going to be the ones who catch it from Mom.

When the thing is finally over, Mom makes us go over and say hi to the mayor.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” he says. “Two beautiful young ladies you’ve got there, Kathy.”

Mom gives him her high-wattage smile.

“I know. Smart, too.”

“Just like their mother,” the mayor says.

Gross. Political flirting, and in front of Dad, too.

One of the photographers asks if he can take a picture of us with the mayor.

So we pose with him — the perfect Kelley family. #LOL

“Can I take a picture with you?” I ask Mayor Robinson. I figure if I have to sit through hours of political speeches then I should at least have something to show for it.

Mom shoots me a disapproving look, but the mayor laughs.

“Sure,” he says. “If world leaders can do these cell-phone selfies, then I reckon it’s okay for Mayor Robinson of Lake Hills.”

I stand next to him and take a picture of us with my phone. When I check it, I realize Syd has photobombed it — there’s half of her face with a cheesy grin and one of her hands giving a thumbs-up.

But I can’t yell at her because we’re being a Perfect Family, and Perfect Siblings don’t argue with each other — especially not in front of the mayor and the assembled press, who have just snapped pictures of him and me taking a selfie.

“Thanks, Mayor Robinson,” I say.

“My pleasure,” he tells me, smiling.

We’re all smiling around here. My face hurts from having to smile so much.

While Mom drags Dad around for more political chitchat, Syd and I retreat to a corner and check our phones. I post my pic on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtag #chillinwithMayorRobinson.

And I count the minutes until we can go home.

“W
OW, SHE’S
turned into such a show-off,” I say when I see Lara’s #chillinwithMayorRobinson picture on Instagram.

“Who?” Mom asks.

“Lara,” I tell her, handing her my phone.

She reaches for her glasses, but she can’t find them. I don’t tell her they’re on the top of her head, because it’s kind of funny watching her look for them when they’re right there.

“What does it say?” she asks.

“Chilling with Mayor Robinson,” I say, disgusted.

“Is that Sydney in the background?” Mom asks.

I look closer. “Yeah, looks like she photobombed it.”