ending—he was through with her.
Claire didn’t get angry like a normal girl who’d been dumped; she got scared.
Poor little rich girl, good enough for a roll under the pier if you don’t mind used goods
.
In Claire’s overactive imagination it had already happened. Everyone at Lowry was waiting with a hot branding iron toburn a red “A” into her chest the first day of school. No, a red “F,” she said, because “A” was only for “adulterer,” and she, at least, hadn’t cheated on anyone. It never occurred to her that “rich girl” was the default setting for people who went to Lowry, or that maybe she wasn’t alone in the Brooks Walden Disposable Girlfriend Club.
The last entries before her not-suicide were dedicated to talking herself out of and then back into cutting herself. She’d gotten frustrated enough to break a mirror with her fist, and letting the pain out had made her feel better.
She fell apart and I wasn’t there to help her hold it together (or tell her just to find him at the mall again, dump his Jilly Juice on his head, and give him a swift kick to the crotch).
There was so much in those letters it took me days to get through them, and I’d been coasting on adrenaline and raw fury since that first night I’d found out who had made the most perfect person I’d ever known see herself as so worthless she wanted to disappear. Meeting Brooks in the flesh and making the monster real finally put me over the edge. I was wiped out.
I lay in Claire’s bed, hugging that hideous snow leopard while its voice box purred. I closed my eyes, and all I could see was the macabre light show of LCD displays from the hospital. The beeps and pings echoed in my head, refusing to stop. They morphed into the ringtone I had set to warn me when my mother was calling and I fell asleep, dreaming that the cold water at Freedman’s Point was closing over my head, drowning everything out and pulling me down into sweet oblivion.
13
You know the cartoon version of a teenager clinging to the bed at two o’clock Saturday afternoon, pillow over their head and scooting farther away from the window as the sun moves, until they finally fall off the edge in a tangle of sheets? That’s me. Seriously. I’ve got the scar on my chin to prove it.
I hate alarms. At eight o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, I hate clocks period, but the morning after my recon trip into killer-infested waters, I didn’t even need the alarm. I was up and waiting for Tabs with time to spare before she rang the bell.
“This wasn’t my fault,” she blurted as soon as I pulled the front door open.
I knew that look.
“Who did you tell?”
“No one. At least, not intentionally …”
Grimace sat parked at the base of the stairs in front of the house, and a very familiar, very tall, very thin, and very pale person climbed out of the passenger seat.
Everything about Brucey requires a “very” in front of it; he doesn’t have a lower setting.
“She doesn’t write; she doesn’t call. I was beginning to think our dodo bird had really gone extinct.”
“Tabs!” I’ll admit it, I shrieked. There may have even been slapping involved. “You told Brucey!”
“No?” Whenever Tabs lies, her statements become questions.
“How much does he know?”
“You know, a fella could get the impression that perhaps no one wants him to help destroy the life of the next generation’s social elite. Even though I’ve more than proven myself as an evil genius in training through our countless joint endeavors—”
I stuck my hand over his motor mouth.
“Why is he talking like this?” I asked Tabs. “He sounds like someone rebooted his brain with an upgrade.”
“Technology puns!” Brucey beamed. He lifted me off the ground so we were at eye level and twirled me into the house. “She still loves me! When do I get to see you in your disguise? Is it plaid? Are there knee socks? Barrettes?”
“He’s in one of his weird
Claire didn’t get angry like a normal girl who’d been dumped; she got scared.
Poor little rich girl, good enough for a roll under the pier if you don’t mind used goods
.
In Claire’s overactive imagination it had already happened. Everyone at Lowry was waiting with a hot branding iron toburn a red “A” into her chest the first day of school. No, a red “F,” she said, because “A” was only for “adulterer,” and she, at least, hadn’t cheated on anyone. It never occurred to her that “rich girl” was the default setting for people who went to Lowry, or that maybe she wasn’t alone in the Brooks Walden Disposable Girlfriend Club.
The last entries before her not-suicide were dedicated to talking herself out of and then back into cutting herself. She’d gotten frustrated enough to break a mirror with her fist, and letting the pain out had made her feel better.
She fell apart and I wasn’t there to help her hold it together (or tell her just to find him at the mall again, dump his Jilly Juice on his head, and give him a swift kick to the crotch).
There was so much in those letters it took me days to get through them, and I’d been coasting on adrenaline and raw fury since that first night I’d found out who had made the most perfect person I’d ever known see herself as so worthless she wanted to disappear. Meeting Brooks in the flesh and making the monster real finally put me over the edge. I was wiped out.
I lay in Claire’s bed, hugging that hideous snow leopard while its voice box purred. I closed my eyes, and all I could see was the macabre light show of LCD displays from the hospital. The beeps and pings echoed in my head, refusing to stop. They morphed into the ringtone I had set to warn me when my mother was calling and I fell asleep, dreaming that the cold water at Freedman’s Point was closing over my head, drowning everything out and pulling me down into sweet oblivion.
13
You know the cartoon version of a teenager clinging to the bed at two o’clock Saturday afternoon, pillow over their head and scooting farther away from the window as the sun moves, until they finally fall off the edge in a tangle of sheets? That’s me. Seriously. I’ve got the scar on my chin to prove it.
I hate alarms. At eight o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, I hate clocks period, but the morning after my recon trip into killer-infested waters, I didn’t even need the alarm. I was up and waiting for Tabs with time to spare before she rang the bell.
“This wasn’t my fault,” she blurted as soon as I pulled the front door open.
I knew that look.
“Who did you tell?”
“No one. At least, not intentionally …”
Grimace sat parked at the base of the stairs in front of the house, and a very familiar, very tall, very thin, and very pale person climbed out of the passenger seat.
Everything about Brucey requires a “very” in front of it; he doesn’t have a lower setting.
“She doesn’t write; she doesn’t call. I was beginning to think our dodo bird had really gone extinct.”
“Tabs!” I’ll admit it, I shrieked. There may have even been slapping involved. “You told Brucey!”
“No?” Whenever Tabs lies, her statements become questions.
“How much does he know?”
“You know, a fella could get the impression that perhaps no one wants him to help destroy the life of the next generation’s social elite. Even though I’ve more than proven myself as an evil genius in training through our countless joint endeavors—”
I stuck my hand over his motor mouth.
“Why is he talking like this?” I asked Tabs. “He sounds like someone rebooted his brain with an upgrade.”
“Technology puns!” Brucey beamed. He lifted me off the ground so we were at eye level and twirled me into the house. “She still loves me! When do I get to see you in your disguise? Is it plaid? Are there knee socks? Barrettes?”
“He’s in one of his weird
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