Getting to sleep is almost impossible. I toss and turn, worrying about what is going to happen, how people are going to react.
When I finally get to sleep, my dreams are filled with nightmares of me being chased by enormous black microphones, all asking, “Why, Bree? Why would you do this?”
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?”