Backlash (22 page)

That’s when I crack.

“She p-pretended to be Christian a few times,” I admit. “So did Marci. My friend … Marci Liptak.”

It looks like this was something they
didn’t
know, because they look at each other, and Officer Timm, who doesn’t have as good of a poker face as the detective, seems shocked and even … angry.

“What made you do it?” Detective Souther asks.

“Do what?” Mom says sharply, walking into the room. “Made her do what?”

“Breanna told us the truth, Mrs. Connors. That she created the Christian DeWitt profile, and that both you and she — and another teenager named Marci Liptak — engaged Lara Kelley in conversation as DeWitt.”

My mother turns to me, her face already flushing red with fury.

“Can’t I trust you to do
anything
right, Breanna?” Mom says in a voice as cold as her anger is hot, completely unmoved by my tears.

I’m used to disappointing my mother. It feels like I’ve done it all my life. And I realize in that moment that maybe I am as stupid as she always tells me. Because deep down, I’d had this small shred of hope, some sick deluded fantasy, that she’d say I did the right thing by telling the truth.

I
’M IN
my bedroom doing my homework with the headphones on when I get a text from Spencer.

Dude, why’s there a cop car outside your house? Saw it when I was walking the dog.

Wait, what? I text back.

I take off my headphones and look out the bedroom window. Sure enough, there’s a Lake Hills police car parked on the street in front of our house.

IDK. Gonna go check it out.

As I get to the bottom of the stairs, I hear Mom say, “Can’t I trust you to do
anything
right, Breanna?”

When Mom yells, you know she’s mad, but when she speaks in that cold, quiet voice, you know she’s
really
mad. Like “stay out of her way if you know what’s good for you” mad.

And then I hear Bree sobbing, so I detour to the kitchen. As much as I want to know what this is all about, going into the living room doesn’t seem like a smart move right about now.

Instead, I call Dad.

“Where are you?” I ask him. “Are you on the way home?”

“Uh-huh. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Do we need milk?”

“No,” I say. “The police are here talking to Mom and Bree.”

“WHAT?”
Dad exclaims. “What about?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

He curses. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry,” I urge him before hanging up.

My phone buzzes. Another text from Spencer.

So? What’s going on?

I ignore it, waiting for Dad to get home. And then I hear Bree come out of the living room bawling, and her footsteps as she runs up the stairs to her room.

Figuring it’s the quickest way to find out what’s going on, I head back upstairs and knock on her door.

“Go away!” she cries.

But I don’t. I slip into her room, closing the door behind me.

She’s curled up on her bed, with her knees up to her chest, clutching Bertie, her worn, old teddy bear.

“I t-told you to g-go away,” she hiccups between sobs.

My sister and I aren’t super close like some siblings, but it’s clear something pretty bad has just gone down.

“What happened?” I ask. “Why are the police here?”

My questions just make her start crying harder again. I don’t know what to do. Bree’s totally freaking out about whatever happened in the living room, and I have no idea what it is.

I sit down on the bed and squeeze her ankle.

“It’ll be okay,” I say, even though I have no idea if that’s true. It’s just what people always say when someone is freaking out to make them stop.

“No it w-won’t,” she says. “N-nothing is g-going to be o-okay.”

“What’s this all about?”

“M-Mom’s right. I
am
s-stupid. B-But I had to t-tell them the t-truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“About L-Lara.”

Lara?
What could the police have to do with Bree and Lara? I mean, they were friends and they aren’t now, but that’s not a crime. That’s just girls, from what I can tell.

And then I remember the night Lara was taken away in the ambulance …

“Is this about that picture you posted? The one the night Lara tried to kill herself?”

Bree uncovers her face and gives me a look like
I’m
the stupid one. She swallows, like she’s trying to get a grip, and says, “No, Liam. It’s not about that. The reason the police are here … the reason why everything isn’t going to be okay is because … I’m the reason that Lara tried to kill herself.”

I stare at her, trying to understand what she means. How can my sister be the reason Lara tried to kill herself?

“What are you talking about? She did that because she was upset about that jerk Christian guy.”

“
I’m
‘that jerk Christian guy.’ He never existed. He was fake, right from the beginning.”

The horror of what Bree’s just said crawls over me like I’ve just stepped onto a nest of fire ants. I stand up and back away from her bed, my breath catching in my chest.

“You mean … that awful guy … who wrote all that stuff about Lara … was
you
?”

My sister nods slowly, staring back at me with eyes red from weeping, her face stained with tears.

“What is
wrong
with you?” I ask just above a whisper. “Why would you
do
that?”

Bree doesn’t answer. She just puts her head down and starts crying again.

I realize that I’ve grown up with Bree and I have no idea who she really is. Because the sister I thought I had wouldn’t do something that sick to anyone, especially someone who used to be her best friend.

I leave Bree to her crying and head for my room. And then I’m hit with a wave of nausea that sends me toward the bathroom instead. Because I’ve just imagined Sydney’s reaction when she hears about what my sister did.

I’
M BOTH
excited and nervous about Luis and Julisa visiting today. Ashley and a few girls from cheerleading came by last week to drop off fashion magazines and flowers, but I was taking a nap, and to be honest I was glad Mom let me sleep, because I wasn’t ready to see them yet. But Julisa and Luis are different. I know them better.

Even so, it’s hard. Julisa bursts into tears when she sees me and hugs me so tight I think my ribs will break.

“Don’t you dare scare me like that again,” she says, her tears dampening my shoulder.

“I won’t,” I tell her, hoping that I mean it.

Luis stands behind her, uncharacteristically awkward, clutching a bunch of bright yellow tulips. He smiles tentatively as I look at him over Julisa’s shoulder.

“Hey, Lara,” he says.

Julisa releases me from the bear hug, and he hands me the tulips. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you right now,” Luis says.

“Thanks. Tulips are my favorite,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says, looking down at the carpet.

“
How
do you know?” Julisa asks the question I am wondering.

Luis looks straight into my eyes. “You told us last spring. When we went to the concert in the park.”

I can’t believe he remembered. A group of us went to a free concert in the park downtown last spring. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday, and they’d set up a stage under a tent. The daffodils and tulips were out, and the leaves were back on the trees and everything seemed hopeful again — especially for me, because I’d made new friends after Bree dumped me.

That he cared enough to remember something so small about me makes me cry.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, worried, as tears stream down my cheeks. “I’m sorry — I thought they would make you happy.”

“Th-they d-do,” I sniff. “I j-just c-can’t believe you r-remembered.”

Luis looks totally confused. “I will never, ever understand girls,” he says with a sigh.

Julisa puts her arm around me. “
Tontito
, all you need to understand is that Lara likes the flowers, okay?”

“But if she likes them, why is she crying?” Luis asks, running his hand through his thick, dark hair.

The poor guy is so bewildered I can’t help giggling, despite my tears. I’d probably be confused, if I were him.

“It’s complicated,” I say, glancing at Julisa, who starts laughing, too.

Luis finally throws up his hands, says something in Spanish I don’t understand, and joins in the laughter.

I realize how happy I am to see them. And that it’s the first time I’ve really laughed like that since … since that awful night.

Later that night, I’m in bed trying to think of a third thing for my Gratitude List when the phone rings. I’d already written the first two:

1. Luis remembered I like tulips and brought me some.

2. Mom was so busy with work that she didn’t bother me for an entire hour and a half. I got to be alone, even if she could watch me out of the kitchen window.

I’d gone outside to read — luckily the visual problems I had after the overdose turned out to be temporary — but instead I ended up just listening to the leaves rustling, as the breeze blew them from the branches to meet their fallen comrades below, and to the geese honking as they flew south from Canada in a perfect V. I also listened to the thoughts in my head, the whats and the whys and the hows and the whos, and even though they made me sad and mad, at least I could just sit there with them and have them go through my head without anyone trying to “process” them. They were just there.

But I’m stuck on the third thing. My life is very limited at the moment. I go from home to Linda’s office and back home again. I’m not allowed on the Internet, except to do the schoolwork my teachers send home, and when I do that, Mom is in the same room and constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not on Facebook or chatting with anyone. What she doesn’t understand is that now that I know that Christian wasn’t real, I’m afraid to start all that up again. Because what if I make the same mistake again?

I miss my cell phone more than Facebook or Instagram or anything else. My parents haven’t even let me have that back yet, because I might go online with it, so I can’t even text my friends. I said they could turn the data off, but they said there’s always Wi-Fi and, besides, I have to “earn the privilege.”

I’m a lab specimen under constant observation. It’s as irritating for Mom as it is for me. She’s really resentful about how time keeping an eye on me is taking away from her work and the campaign. She’s trying to be a good mom so she doesn’t come straight out and say it, but it comes out in lots of little ways.

Sometimes, she takes me for a walk around the neighborhood to “get some fresh air,” but really so I get some exercise. I’ve already done enough damage to her campaign by being mentally unstable. I can’t compound it by getting fat again.

I wonder if Mom will ever stop thinking of me as her “problem child.”

I wonder if I’ll ever stop being one.

When I hear the phone ring so late, I’m afraid that someone is in the hospital. Or worse, has died. That’s what those calls usually mean. Late-night calls are never about good news.