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.
She marches to the bus stop by my side, wielding the broom like a weapon, ready to use it on anyone with a camera or a mic who dares comes too close.
“Thanks, Mrs. G.,” I say.
My words come out damp and wobbly. Having this tiny old lady with her flyaway hair and her housecoat ready to fight for me, armed with only a household cleaning tool and her personality makes me feel more like the real Sydney and less like the beef jerky one.
The other kids at the bus stop give me a strange look when I get there, but I don’t know if it’s because of the news or because of Mrs. G. marching beside me with her broom and her purple Crocs.
Liam isn’t here. I don’t know if he was here yesterday. I didn’t see him in school. Maybe his parents are willing to drive him.
Mrs. G. keeps up a steady stream of conversation, telling me about how her daughter who lives in Cleveland is coming to visit with her one-year-old grandson this weekend and how she can’t wait to see him and she wishes they lived closer. Even though I’m only half listening, I’m grateful because it means I don’t have to answer any questions or wonder what the other kids are thinking. In fact I’m so grateful that when the bus pulls up, I hug her before I get on.
“Hang in there, bubbeleh,” Mrs. G. says, embracing me with her bony arms. “All this mishegas will be over soon, and they’ll move on to the next thing. You’ll be okay. Trust me.”
I don’t have a clue what bubbeleh or mishegas mean, but I want like anything to believe her when she says that I’ll be okay.
Two stops past our normal one, Liam gets on the bus, and it suddenly goes quiet. Then kids move to the aisle so that even though there’s an empty space next to them, he can’t sit down.
He quickly covers the flash of hurt on his face with a mask of indifference. But I know. I can tell by the way his skin flushes under his freckles. I can tell by the way his jaw is set. I’ve known Liam Connors long enough to tell.
Even though I’ve got every reason to be mad at the Connorses, more reason than any of the other kids on this bus to hate Liam, I don’t. He can’t help being Bree’s brother any more than I can help being Lara’s sister. We’re both stuck in this sucky situation by accident of birth. In that brief instant before the mask came up, he looked as tired, angry, and miserable as I feel. So I slide over to the window and gesture to the seat next to me.
I hear muttering. “What the?” … “Why would she do that?” … “Isn’t that Lara Kelley’s sister?” but I try to tune it out. They don’t know our history. They don’t know what it’s like to be me — or to be Liam.
Liam looks surprised, but he plops down next to me in the seat.