Backlash (25 page)

The TV trucks are still there the next morning.

I beg Mom to drive me to school so I don’t have to walk through them to take the bus.

“I can’t. I’ve got a showing,” she snaps. “At least
this
one hasn’t canceled.”

“People are canceling showings because of …” I trail off, not wanting to actually call her the name I’m sure she’s being called behind all the doors in our neighborhood. Behind doors all across America.

“Because people don’t want Monster Mom as their broker.”

“I’ll take you,” Dad offers. “How about you, champ? Do you want a ride?”

“Nah … I’ll take the bus,” Liam says.

“Are you sure?” Dad says. “You don’t want to have to walk through that mob outside.”

“I’m sure. I’m going to leave early and cut through the Nunns’ backyard. I’ll get on the bus at the next stop down.”

I know why he’s doing it. He’d rather be anywhere that I’m not, because he wants to avoid being known as Monster Bro.

“How’re you holding up, Breenut?” Dad asks me when we’re alone in the car. “This is all pretty insane, huh?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, looking out the window.

“I had a bunch of really nasty voice mails on my cell when I woke up this morning,” Dad says. “There are some sick people in this world.”

“The news made it sound like Mom’s the one who’s sick. And me.” I look at him and ask the question that’s been haunting me all night. “Am I, Dad?”

My father doesn’t respond right away, and I turn to look at him, wondering if he thinks I’m some kind of sicko, too. He’s biting the side of his lip, the way he always does when he’s gearing up to tell Mom something he’s afraid might set her off.

“I wouldn’t say you’re sick, Breenut. You’re a teenager who made some …” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Very
foolish decisions
.”

He means
bad
decisions. Because he thinks I’m bad.

Dad’s the one person in my family who even slightly understands me, and even
he
thinks I’m a screwup.

“As a result, we’ve decided to take away your computer privileges. From now on, if you need the computer to do your homework, you’ll have to wait till I get home from work to supervise.”

“But, Dad —”

“There’s no negotiating on this, Bree.”

I want to ask him what Mom’s punishment is going to be, but I know that’ll just make him angrier. Still, the unfairness of it means I have to fight the lump welling in my throat to get out the next question.

“What do you think’s going to happen?”

Dad glances away from the road to look at me for a second.

“I wish I knew, honey. We’re in uncharted territory here.”

I wanted him to reassure me, to say everything is going to be okay, even if he had to lie. But Dad’s never been a fibbing kind of parent. Like when Grandma died, he didn’t say she “went to heaven” or was “with God now” or any of the stuff people normally say to kids so they can avoid saying the
D
word. He just cuddled Liam and me on either side of him and told us that she died. Flat out. She died, but she loved us and it was okay to feel sad because we were going to miss her. That he was feeling sad because he missed her, but we should also remember all the fun things about her, because that’s what she’d want us to do.

And then he told us all these funny stories about things Grandma did when he was a kid, which got Liam and me remembering stuff, too. I still cried later that night when I went to bed, but that was okay, too. Dad held me, my tears soaking into his shirt, and his eyes were wet, too.

“The one thing I do know is that things are going to get worse before they get better,” Dad continues. “With all this press coverage … the voice mails … emails … just since the news last night I’ve had over a thousand emails through my website. None of them … pleasant.”

“Daddy, I don’t want to go to school. I don’t feel well.”

“Here’s the thing, honey: You made a big mistake. You did something that was pretty stupid and very wrong. And now there are consequences.” He looks at me with such sadness and disappointment in his eyes that it’s much worse than if he were shouting. “I wish you’d taken a little time to stop and think about the consequences before you did what you did, but you didn’t.”

He sighs. “And neither did your mother, unfortunately.” He reaches over and pats my leg. “Be strong, Breenut. You’ll get through this.” He pauses. “We all will. Somehow.”

It’s like he’s trying to convince himself, as well as me, which tells me how totally screwed I am just as we pull into the school parking lot. My stomach turns over and I’m afraid the Cheerios I had for breakfast are about to come up in a totally uncheery way.

“Please … can’t I just come to work with you? I can help in the stockroom or something.”

Dad pulls up next to the curb and puts the car in park. “Honey, no problem, big or small, gets solved by running away from it. When you make mistakes, the only way to face them is head-on.”

He reaches over, pulls my head toward him, and kisses the top of my hair, despite my reluctance. “Hang in there. See you later, alligator.”

I get out and slam the car door. I have this half-regurgitated-Cheerio feeling that meeting mistakes head-on is how people end up with brain damage.

Marci and Jenny are sitting in the usual place on the wall. Marci’s mouth is moving as she watches Josie Stern walk by, and I bet you anything she’s making fun of her purple hair. If I were standing there, I wouldn’t tell her to stop, even though I think it suits Josie. It’s just easier to agree — to disagree would risk Marci turning her sharp tongue on me, which I’m afraid she’s going to do anyway now that I’m the Monster Spawn of Monster Mom. Does Marci know that I told the police about her? Does she realize I gave them her name because I was scared? If she’s mad at me, I don’t blame her. It’s becoming more and more obvious that I’m a horrible friend to everyone.

I think about going around the long way and sneaking in the gym entrance to avoid finding out. But then Jenny turns and sees me. She waves, so I’m trapped. I walk over, slowly, waiting and dreading.

“It’s Bree Connors, our local celebrity!” Marci says really loudly so everyone standing nearby can hear. “Hey, bestie! Can I have your autograph?”

I swallow the Cheerios back into my stomach with relief. I guess the police haven’t spoken to her yet. And I should have figured that Marci would think being the bestie of a nationwide TV story was a better gig than ragging on me. She puts her arm around me.

“How are you doing, Bree?” she asks. “Are you, like,
totally freaking
?”

“It’s not a whole lot of fun at the moment,” I admit.

“Can you believe that video of Lara’s dad losing it on your front lawn in his pj’s?” Marci says. “I was
dying
!”

“It was pretty surreal,” I say. “Especially when the cops showed up.”

“Maybe that’s where Lara gets it from,” Marci says. “Being crazy, I mean.”

Jenny’s just been standing there, not laughing, not saying anything. But then, unexpectedly, she speaks up.

“I don’t blame him,” she says. “I’d go crazy, too, if you and your mom did what you did to my kid. If I had a kid, that is.”

“Who are you, getting so judgmental all of a sudden?” Marci asks.

Jenny ignores her and instead looks straight at me. “I’m sorry, Bree, but what you did was terrible. Lara almost
died
. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Jenny’s always been so quiet and mild, more of a follower than a leader. But now her blue eyes flash with an angry, indignant fire, and it’s directed straight at me.

“Of … course … it bothers me. I … never expected her … to, like … try to
kill herself
.”

“What
did
you expect, exactly?”

“Jeez, Jenny, lighten up!” Marci says. “It was a joke, okay? It’s not Bree’s fault Lara is a psycho who couldn’t take it.”

Jenny stares at Marci, as if she’s seeing her, really seeing her, for the first time. Then she turns on her heel and stomps away into the building.

“Wow, what got into her?” Marci says. “It must be that time of the month or something.”

I don’t respond, because deep down I’m pretty sure Jenny is the one who’s right about me, and I wish I had the courage to say so.

When I see Jenny coming toward me in the hallway after second period, I’m about to turn the other way and escape to the bathroom to avoid her, but she calls my name.

“Bree … have you heard your outgoing voice mail message?” she asks.

There’s a strange look on her face that makes me get that unCheerio feeling again. “Um … no. Why would I? I don’t call my own cell,” I say.

Jenny takes out her phone. “I called you to apologize about this morning. I wanted to leave a message instead of texting because … well … I know things must be rough for you with everything that’s going on, and well … I was kind of harsh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Hearing her say that brings a lump to my throat.

“You were honest,” I tell her. “But … thanks. I didn’t get your message yet. I leave my phone off in class.”

“Then I think you better hear this,” she says.

She dials my cell number and hands me her phone, her face creased with concern. Instead of my usual “Hi, it’s Bree, you know what to do, so do it after the beep,” my outgoing message says something else. Something that makes my blood run cold.

It says, “I’m Breanna Connors, the sociopath who almost killed my best friend. Leave me a death threat,” in a voice that isn’t mine.

My hands are trembling as I hand the phone back to Jenny. I dig my own cell out of my bag and turn it on. There are seventy voice mails. I push Play and put it on speaker so Jenny can hear. “I’m coming for you, sicko. I know where you live” is the first one. I go to push the button to delete it, wanting it off my phone, out of my life, out of existence, but Jenny pushes my finger away.

“No, Bree! You have to keep it for the police!”

I know she’s right, but I don’t want to carry my phone around with that on it. It’s so scary. What if it’s true? What if someone’s really out there, waiting and watching, wanting to hurt me for what I did to Lara?

By the third message, I’m crying. By the fifth one, I’m completely hysterical.

“Don’t listen to any more of them, Bree,” Jenny says, gently wrestling the phone out of my grasp. “Let’s go to the principal.”

She puts her arm around me and helps me walk down to the office. My legs are shaking so bad I can hardly walk, and it’s hard to see through my tears, but Jenny’s arm is solid and strong, and she keeps repeating that the adults will know what to do, that they’ll call the police and everything is going to be okay and no one is going to hurt me and that I shouldn’t worry about what those crazy messages say and I’ll be safe and so will my family.

I don’t believe for a second that everything is going to be okay, but I need to hear her say the words. I don’t believe her, because if they can find out my cell number and figure out how to change my outgoing message to tell people to leave me death threats, how can I ever be really safe again?

I
WANTED
Mom to drive me to school today, but of course she had to stay with Lara, who didn’t sleep well last night because of the press attention, and Mom doesn’t want Dad to drive me like he did yesterday because he almost punched out a photographer who tried to take a picture of us. He has to keep away from the press in case he does something stupid and messes up her campaign even more.

So I have to fight my way through the savage media hordes all by myself. They stick these big black microphones in my face and ask me questions about Lara and Bree. I push their mics away, saying, “Leave me alone, you’re going to make me miss the bus!”

But they keep surrounding me like a pack of rabid dogs, until Mrs. Gorski comes out of her house with a broom and yells at them.

“Leave the poor child alone!” she shouts, waving her broomstick at them like some crazy old witch. She’s wearing a flowered nylon housecoat and a pair of purple Crocs, which look ginormous at the end of her thin chicken legs. But Mrs. G. has never looked better to me, even in her Barney Crocs with her white hair sticking up in all directions.