Lara’s imitation of Dad makes me giggle, but her expression sobers me up quickly.
“I take it you still don’t want to look at it,” I say, remembering the scene that night in the hospital when Dad tried to force her to do it.
Lara shakes her head no. “It’s too painful. I remember a few names of people who liked Christian’s post from that night before I took the pills, but believe me, it’s not because I want to.”
I don’t want to disagree with her now that we’re finally getting along and she seems to be doing so much better. But I kind of agree with Dad on the list thing.
“But if you don’t … like, if you just try to forget it all, then how will you know who to trust?” I ask her. “I mean, if they were that mean to you once, what’s to stop them from doing it again?”
“I know, I know,” Lara says, dropping her head to her knees. “I’ve heard it all a million times from Dad. Forewarned is forearmed, Lara. You need to know to protect yourself.”
She raises her head and looks me in the eye. “Syd — the names I do remember … they might not have been my best friends, but they were people who I thought at least liked me. Why would they do something like that? Why?”
I don’t have an answer for Lara then. None of us do. And that’s what’s so hard for everyone — especially my sister.
Liam and I keep meeting up in the tree fort, despite the objections of our parents.
“It makes me feel like we’re Romeo and Juliet,” I tell Liam as we snuggle together in the candlelight.
“That’s cool — as long as I don’t end up poisoned and you don’t stab yourself,” Liam says with a wry smile.
“Okay, like Romeo and Juliet but with a happy ending,” I say.
“That would be a story with a different title, I think,” Liam says.
“Liam and Sydney, then.”
“I hope that one has a happy ending.” Liam sighs.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him. “I mean, I know everything isn’t okay, but … you seem upset.”
He runs the hand that isn’t around my shoulder through his hair. “I’m just sick of taking crap for what Bree did. How much more of this do I have to put up with?”
I don’t have any more answers for him than I do for Lara.
“Haven’t a clue.” I sigh.
“I wish I had a Time-Turner or a TARDIS so I could go back in time and tell Bree to think it through before she made that stupid profile,” Liam says. “Dad says I have to find a way to forgive her, but I’m still way too mad.”
“I’ll bet,” I say. I can’t find it in my heart to forgive Bree yet, either. I mean, I feel bad about the death threats and stuff, but I’m glad she had to change schools. Glad for Lara’s sake and, if I have to admit it, glad that she has to suffer in some way because of what she did.
“Mom’s business has crashed to a grinding halt,” Liam says. “So much for being the real estate queen of Lake Hills. No one wants to list property with Monster Mom. Dad’s business is suffering, too. And it’s not like he had anything to do with it.”
No wonder Liam has a hard time forgiving his sister.
“I keep wondering if it makes me a bad person,” Liam says. “Dad says she’s my sister, and family is so important, and we have to support each other, especially because she’s getting so much grief from the outside.”
I feel all his muscles tense with anger.
“But so am I,” he says. “And it’s not like I did anything wrong. And that’s not all. We have to cut to basic cable because we can’t afford the movie channels anymore, and Dad’s talking about all these other ‘sacrifices’ we have to make. All because of Bree.”
As bad as things have been for our family, at least we’re slowly starting to heal. Lara’s back at school and Mom got reelected. And maybe I didn’t get to audition for the fall musical, but I’m going to be first in line to audition for the spring talent showcase.
“You’re not a bad person, Liam. I’d be mad, too.”
I kiss his cheek. It’s soft and chilly from the autumn cold. “It’ll get better eventually,” I tell him. “Remember when the press people were here? At least they’re gone.”
They were camped outside our houses for almost a week until some politician sent an “inappropriate” photo of himself to a woman who wasn’t his wife, knocking “Monster Mom” and “Mother-Daughter Bullying Team” off the front page.
“I hope you’re right,” he says. “And I just hope eventually comes soon.”
THE KITCHEN timer goes off, and I step into the shower to rinse my hair, turning the water as hot as I can stand it. I watch the water swirl into the drain, dark and muddy, as it washes the excess color from my hair. When the water finally runs clear, I comb through the conditioner and wait for two minutes like it said on the instructions, wondering as I wait how I am going to look, what my parents are going to say, whether this is going to make a difference.
After I blow-dry and look in the mirror, I look like me, but different. My hair is inky black, not light brown like Mom’s or chestnut like Dad’s and Liam’s. My skin looks pale in comparison: white and almost translucent under the mirror lights. I like it. It feels more like the me I am now instead of the Bree I’m trying to escape.
If I can ever escape her. That’s the million-dollar question. Transferring schools only helped a little because everyone at my new school knows what happened. When you’ve been a national news story, it’s hard to get a fresh start short of getting into the Witness Protection Program and getting a whole new identity. Important crime witnesses qualify for that, but high school cyberbullies don’t.
So every day I face the whispers, the looks, the cold shoulders when I try to make new friends.
The only light on my horizon is dance team, which makes me feel a part of something. My teammates still don’t invite me to sleepovers or to go shopping with them at the mall, or anything out of school — real friend stuff. But at least they say hi to me in the hall and let me sit with them at lunch, and when we won a competition I was part of the group hug just like everyone else. At least they don’t shun me. It’s a start.
When I transferred to the new school, Mom tried to get me to try out for cheerleading.
“No. I’m done with cheerleading,” I said. “I’m trying out for dance team. I already talked to the coach and she said she’d let me, even though it’s midyear.”
“What do you mean you’re done with cheerleading?” Mom said. “You love cheerleading!”
“No, Mom. I don’t. You love cheerleading,” I said. “I am sick to death of cheerleading. I’m glad I didn’t make the team at Lake Hills. And I’m not going to try out at West Lake.”
My mom opened her mouth to say something, but Dad put his hand on her arm to stop her.
“Mary Jo, it’s okay. Maybe exploring a new activity is just what Bree needs right now,” he said.
Mom closed her mouth and ate the rest of her dinner in stony silence, while Dad tried to keep up the conversation to lighten the atmosphere.
The weirdest thing about that whole night was Liam. He’d been speaking to me only when necessary, barely making eye contact, like he couldn’t stand to look at me because he hated me so much.
But that night at the dinner table, after I said I wasn’t going to do cheerleading anymore, he actually looked me in the eye and grinned. I smiled back, but I don’t know why he did it. It’s not like it lasted — he’s still really angry with me most of the time. But it was something.