Rhymes with Witches - Myracle Lauren - Страница 30

“Mary Bryan, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She looked annoyed, as if she wanted to call me on it. But I was telling the truth. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Keisha’s careful about who she picks,” she said. “And so am I.”

“To steal from, you mean?”

Mary Bryan’s eyes flew to Ms. Cratchett, who was now nudging the cat’s haunches in a series of tentative jabs. The cat regarded her with lids at half mast.

“Shhh,” Mary Bryan said.

“She’s not paying attention,” I said. I waved my hands, went “la, la, la” in a medium-loud voice. “See?”

Ms. Cratchett looked up. Her expression was frazzled and a little wild. “Girls. Keep it down.”

I blushed. The cat swished its tail.

In a whisper, Mary Bryan said, “The three of us can band together, you and me and Keisha. We’ll tell Bitsy that she has to rotate around. And that she has to pick people who are already popular, like we do, so that it doesn’t matter so much. It’s only fair.”

My stomach went rock hard, because I suddenly knew where she was heading. And I didn’t want to hear it.

“I know,” Mary Bryan said, reading my face. “It’s terrible. Because with Camilla, it’s like she doesn’t even have any popularity left to be taken. At this point it’s probably more like anti-popularity. Going deep into the negatives, or something like that.” She squeezed my knee. “That’s why it’s so important that you’re on our side.”

Something foul rose in my throat. I’d seen what taking Alicia’s lip balm had done to Alicia—and that was just one time, with Alicia being allowed to bounce back after the fact. At least, hypothetically, although I’d yet to see much improvement. But Camilla was never allowed to bounce back, because Bitsy stole from her every single week. That’s what Mary Bryan was talking about. Sometimes she even enlisted assistants.

“Jane, are you okay?” Mary Bryan asked.

“I need to go. I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh. Oh! Okay, sure.” She slid back her chair. “So … you’re not going to bail on us?”

I stumbled past her, noting as if from far away her look of concern.

“Jane?”

I pushed down my nausea as best I could and told the truth. “God, Mary Bryan. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

Keisha’s appeal came as an e-mail:

Jane,

I know you’re going through a hard time right now. You’re questioning all sorts of stuff, and maybe you’re even wondering what’s right and what’s wrong. That’s okay. It just means you’re a good person.

But there’s something you should know. The other girls need us—and I’m not talking about Bitsy and Mary Bryan. I’m talking about everyone else. Even your friend Alicia. Even Camilla.

We’re their royalty. We make their lives special.

I know it’s hard sometimes, but that’s why we have each other.

Keisha

I rested my forehead on the base of my palm and closed my eyes.

The whole thing made me so tired.

I lifted my head and typed in, “Got your message. Thanks.” I hit the send button, then deleted her name from my inbox.

Out of all three, Bitsy was the most straightforward. She must have sweet-talked one of the administrative assistants into giving her my combination, because on Tuesday I found a black VHS tape in my locker. It was unlabeled, but I knew what it was.

I didn’t plan on watching it. I was going to throw it away unviewed. But when I got home, I pulled it from my backpack and turned it over in my hands. It looked harmless, like the cassette on top of our television labeled “Jane’s Tacky TV Tape,” on which I recorded episodes of The Gilmore Girls and Survivor: Senior High.

I knew the tape from Bitsy wasn’t harmless. But some fatalistic part of me made me walk across the room and pop it into the VCR. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think, I reasoned.

There was Kyle’s living room, just as I remembered it. There was Sukie Karing, laughing with Pammy Varlotta. And there was me, horrible in that peasant blouse that definitely was too see-through, despite Mary Bryan’s assurances. Heat pricked my scalp as I watched myself edge up to group after group of glossy partiers, only to slink away like a scolded puppy.

“Yo, dude,” Stuart said at one point, catching me on film after swinging away from a shot of Bitsy and Brad. “Check out Freaky Freshman. Where you going now, Freaky Freshman?”

Freaky Freshman—that was me—was sneaking into Kyle’s kitchen. Glancing around, then darting past the counter. Ducking behind the island. Gone.

“Holy shit, she’s hiding!” Stuart crowed. “I gotta tell Bitsy!” I punched the off button, shame washing over me in scalding waves. Punched the button again to eject the cassette, then yanked it from the VCR and dug at the shiny tape. It spun loose and pooled in my lap.

She’d known I was there. She’d known I was there and had never said a word.

I ripped at the tape, but it wouldn’t tear. It only stretched and ruffled at the edges.

“Dammit,” I cried.

“Jane?” Mom said. “What’s going on?”

My eyes flew to Mom, who stood in the doorframe with a chubby manilla envelope in her hand. My heart beat crazily in my chest.

“Wild guess. VCR troubles?”

I lowered my hands, still twined with tape. I tried to clump the whole jumble into a pile.

“It’s been a little temperamental,” she said. “One of these days I’ll take it to a fix-it guy.” She came in the room, put down the package, and squatted beside me. “Here, let me help.”

“No!” I said. “I mean, no, that’s okay. It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

She looked at me. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m great. I’m super.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I laughed. “Mom. Quit staring at me.”

Mom put her hand on my cheek, cupping it. “I love you so much, Jane. Sometimes it feels overwhelming, did you know that?”

“Gee, Mom. Thanks for sharing.”

Her shoulders dropped, and I felt guilty. Then she groaned and creaked to her feet. “Oh, I’m getting old.”

“No, you’re not.”

She gestured at the package on the coffee table. “That’s from your dad. From an island in the South Pacific.”

I sank further within myself. “Terrific. Maybe it’s a VCR repair kit.”

A ghost of a smile graced her face. “Guess I better put together some dinner. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

When she was gone, I gathered up the wrecked cassette and carted it out to the big green garbage can in our garage. I shoved it under a plastic shopping bag and a stray egg carton. I dumped some potting soil on top for good measure, then banged shut the lid.

Back inside, I opened Dad’s gift. It was a Polynesian vest made of quilted cotton, with cheerful yellow sunshines stitched across the chest.

On a card was a scrawled message. “Saw this and thought of you,” it said. “Hugs and kisses, Dad.”

Thursday morning Sukie Karing showed up wearing jeans like mine and a T-shirt identical to the one I’d worn the day before. It was white with red ribbing around the neck and sleeves, and on the upper left corner it read THE ADVERTISEMENT IS ON THE BACK. The back showed a cartoon gunslinger twirling two guns. Above him, a banner read DIRTY DAN’S SALOON.

“I had it specially made,” Sukie confided. “We’re like twins, even though you’re not wearing yours today. Maybe next week we can coordinate!”

I should have been flattered—and okay, I was—but I felt weird, too. Sukie could play twinsies with me, and her stock would go up. But if Camilla wore that shirt, would everyone think she was adorable? No.