Tragedy Girl (6 page)

Ten

“Then I blew out my knee during the third game of the season last year, so that was the end of football for me.”

Uncle Mark and Aunt Meg nod as they take bites of their lasagna.

“That’s a shame,” Aunt Meg tells Blake, “but it’s incredible you’ve been so active. I mean, in spite of your health problems.”

I swallow hard. I really have embraced Dr. Sennett’s advice since meeting with her two days earlier, trying to make more room in my life for my aunt, but it’s moments like this that make me cringe. Aunt Meg seems to have an unerring knack for putting her foot in her mouth. I’m mortified Blake thinks I go around blabbing about his past. But he pushes past the awkwardness good-naturedly.

“You mean my cancer?” he asks.

Aunt Meg nods, her eyebrows an inverted V. “I hope you don’t mind that I mentioned it … ”

“No, no,” he assures her, his blue eyes sparkling. “Yep, I had cancer, and yep, it was touch-and-go for a while. But once my doctors gave me a clean bill of health, I moved forward full steam ahead and never looked back, other than volunteering for cancer causes every chance I get. I’d spent enough time on the sidelines in hospital beds hooked up to IVs. I wasn’t about to waste another minute.”

“Very admirable,” Uncle Mark says softly, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“Absolutely!” Aunt Meg agrees, hoisting her wine glass in the air. “You’re obviously a very resilient young man. That, and overcoming your loss this summer … ”

I grit my teeth. But again, Blake is unflappable, game for whatever Aunt Meg wants to lob his way.

“That made cancer seem like a walk in the park,” he says solemnly. “I pray for Cara’s family every day. And I take flowers to her mother every Sunday. I guess that might sound a little corny, but … ”

“It’s a lovely gesture,” Aunt Meg says. “You know, I work with her aunt.”

Blake’s eyebrows crinkle. “Really … ”

“Cathleen Wexler?” Aunt Meg says, nodding. “Her mother’s sister?”

“Right, right,” he says, gripping his fork a little tighter. “Aunt Cathleen. Give her my love, won’t you?”

Aunt Meg rests her chin on her folded hands. “Wow. You really
are
close to the family.”

Blake holds her gaze, an enigmatic smile on his face. “I just tend to be very loyal to the people I care about.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it lightly. I glance at Uncle Mark, who is peering at our enfolded hands. When he notices that I’m looking at him staring at our hands, he shakes his head lightly and looks away.

“So,” Uncle Mark says. “Anyone up for dessert?”

“You’re sure?”

The crickets chirp as Blake and I sway gently on the front-porch swing after dinner. “I’m sure,” I insist. “I’ve barely even passed her in the hall. I promise, Natalie is
not
harassing me.”

And it’s true. Maybe she was embarrassed enough by her scene at the bonfire to abort her campaign to keep me away from Blake. Or maybe she knows Melanie and I suspect her of writing the note—which would mean, of course, that she
did
write the note, or at least know about it. Yes, all signs are pointing to Natalie as the culprit, which gives me a huge sense of relief. It eliminates the creepy unknown factor, and it makes Natalie’s behavior outrageous enough that maybe she’s decided she went too far. The upshot is that she’s leaving me alone. At least for now …

“I want you to let me know if she bothers you,” Blake says firmly. He stops the swing with the heel of his foot, then places his palm against my cheek. “I couldn’t stand it if I thought our relationship was causing you pain.”

Our relationship.
When I used the word “relationship” during my phone conversation with Sawyer, I immediately wondered if I was delusional. Blake and I had only had two dates, for crying out loud. But now, as we’re finishing up our third date, Blake’s called it a relationship too.

Dr. Sennett’s words echo in my head:
I think that’s what a real relationship is about … getting to know somebody
.

And when both parties agree it’s a relationship, well …
that makes it pretty official, right? I mean, he’s just voluntarily had dinner with my aunt and uncle. And he’s already made plans for Saturday night, another double date with Jamie and Melanie, without really even asking if I was free, because it was just kind of
implied
. When your weekend plans are implied, well …

Blake laughs at me, his eyes sparkling.

“What?” I say.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his palm still caressing my cheek. “I can just see those wheels turning in your head a hundred miles an hour.”

I consider saying something witty or self-effacing, but opt instead for authenticity as our eyes study each other in the gauzy moonlight. “A relationship,” I say softly. “You called our friendship, or whatever it is … you called it a relationship. I guess I’m wrapping my brain around having a relationship with somebody I just met. Is it possible to feel this strongly about somebody you didn’t even know existed a mere two weeks ago?”

He leans in and kisses me, a tender, languid kiss. “You’ve taught me the answer to that question,” he says as he pulls ever-so-slightly away, our lips still touching. “I’m falling in love with you, Anne.”

“ … almost
too
smooth.”

Uncle Mark and Aunt Meg blush as I walk into the kitchen, clearing my throat to signal my arrival yet still catching them off guard.

“Who’s too smooth, Uncle Mark?” I ask him, genuinely intrigued to see my laid-back uncle suddenly seem so intense.

He tosses the dish towel to Aunt Meg, who busies herself threading it through the refrigerator handle.

“So Blake’s already left?” Uncle Mark asks, shifting his weight.

I nod. “He just left.” I bite my lower lip. “Is that who you were talking about? Blake?”

After a couple of seconds of watching Uncle Mark cast about for a response, Aunt Meg jumps in. “Blake is
wonderful
,” she assures me. “Your uncle and I are both very impressed. It’s highly unusual for a guy his age to be so …
poised
, I think is the word Uncle Mark was looking for. It just caught us off guard, I guess. In a good way, of course.”

She nods vigorously, apparently pleased with her word choice.

But Uncle Mark isn’t nodding. He’s just standing there looking … concerned. Aunt Meg’s spin notwithstanding, he definitely wasn’t giving Blake a compliment when I walked into the room.

Too smooth.

That’s what he said.

Eleven

“Oh, you should come too!”

Lauren gives Melanie a level stare. “Right. There’s nothing pathetic about
that
.”

“You wouldn’t be a third wheel,” Melanie insists. “You could invite Garrett.”

Lauren raises a hand. “You. Must. Stop.”

Melanie picks up a chicken nugget and gives an exaggerated pout before popping it into her mouth. “I think he really likes you,” she says, her mouth full.

“Based on how many times he’s called me since the bonfire?” Lauren says. “Let’s see … hmmmm, wait a second, I’m counting … Okay, got it: he’s called me zero times. Go on your little double date. I’ll sit home and crochet.”

“So Blake ate dinner with your family last night?” Melanie asks me as people rustle around us carrying their trays to or from their tables.

I pause for a minute.
Your family
. Yes, idiot. That’s who Uncle Mark and Aunt Meg are. They’re family.

“Yep,” I say. “They wanted to meet him, and he was free, so … ”

“Wow,” Lauren says. “Dinner with the fam. This is heating up pretty quickly.”

I narrow my eyes quizzically. “
Too
quickly?” I ask them, genuinely interested in their opinions. “Is this weird?”

Melanie offers a breezy smile. “What would be weird about it?”

I ponder the question, then shrug. “He and Cara were so close. I think she’s the only girl he ever dated, and only a few months have passed since she—”

“Hey, life goes on,” Lauren says, then sips her iced tea through a straw. “I mean, I feel terrible about the girl, but you can’t expect a guy to stay in mourning the rest of his life.”

“Still,” I say, “they were incredibly close. He takes flowers to her mother every Sunday.”

“Well,
that’s
adorable,” Lauren says drolly, and my stomach clenches as I wonder what she’s insinuating. I guess she sees the anxiety etched on my face.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she assures me. “It
is
adorable. It’s very … Blake-like. He’s … quite a guy.”

I purse my lips. I’ve been hearing these things about Blake a lot, but the compliments always seem tinged with a little, I dunno … sarcasm? What’s that about? Is it that noteworthy for a guy our age to be so mature? Is decency so extraordinary that people don’t really quite buy it? That’s totally unfair. So Blake’s not a typical shallow high school airhead. Sue him, for chrissakes.

“Truly, Anne, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I feel my neck grow warm. “It’s fine,” I murmur.

A tense moment hangs in the air, then Melanie leans closer. “I told Lauren about the note.”

What? We’d decided, that morning in her bedroom, to keep the note a secret. The last thing we wanted to do was fan the flames, intensify the drama, drag out the childishness—at least that’s the last thing
I
wanted to do. We even floated the idea that Lauren might have
written
the note, though that’s clearly a long shot. Yes, I know it’s hard to keep a secret, but I’m cringing right now. What is Melanie
thinking
?

I stare at Melanie with my jaw dropped.

“Sorry, Anne,” she tells me, “but it’s too creepy not to talk about.”

She reaches into her purse and takes out the note, smoothing the paper on her lap. I instinctively reach over and try to grab it, but Melanie moves it beyond my reach.

Lauren presses her lips together. “Uh, in the
first
place,” she tells me in a steady voice, “I’ve already seen the note. Remember? And in the
second
, it’s Melanie’s note—not yours. Plus, Mel and I have been best friends since fourth grade, so … there’s that.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm. Lauren’s message is clear:
You’re the newcomer to the group. Back off, bitch.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you … and I know it’s not my note. I’m just really nervous about people being in my business …
our
business, I guess.”

Lauren holds her frosty gaze. “Mel’s business.”

“Right,” I murmur. “Mel’s business.”

“Oh, girls, let’s all kiss and make up,” Melanie says briskly. “Don’t we have enough enemies without you two going at it?”

Lauren is still staring at me. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat in barely a whisper.

Melanie snaps us to attention. “Okay, let’s focus,” she says impatiently. “The question is, why would Natalie write the note when it’s Blake she has a crush on?”

My eyes widen as I see Natalie approaching us as she makes her way to the lunch line. I hold my index finger to my lips. Melanie follows my line of vision, spots Natalie herself, then hastily refolds the note.

“So Blake will pick us up Saturday night around seven?” she says, aiming for nonchalant.

“Um … ”

She shoots me a get-with-the-program glance.

“Oh, right,” I say haltingly. “He’ll pick up Jamie and me, then we’ll swing by your house, and—”

“Perfect,” Melanie says, discreetly slipping the note back into her backpack just as Natalie walks past us. “Well, gotta go. If I get to my fourth-period class early, I’ll have time to study for my quiz.”

Lauren and I follow her lead, standing up and collecting our trays. After we put them on the conveyor belt, I lean closer to Lauren.

“Sorry again,” I say in a lowered voice. “I’m just a little freaked out by this.”

She gives me a level gaze. “I get that. But Mel and I … we go way back. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

I nod, my eyes oozing remorse.

“Hey, no harm, no foul,” Lauren says, then offers a smile.

As I smile back, I see Blake and Jamie heading into the cafeteria. Melanie sidles playfully up to Jamie, taking his hand as she looks at him coyly, her chin tilted down. Blake approaches me and kisses me on the cheek. “God, you look gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear.

I smile, but then shiver as I notice a pair of eyes boring into mine from the lunch line.

Natalie is staring at me, a cold, hard stare. My lashes flutter for a second, but she’s still holding her gaze.

“What is it?” Blake asks.

I shake my head and say, “Nothing,” but he’s already looking around. When his eyes lock with Natalie’s, he sets his jaw and tenses his muscles.

“It’s nothing, Blake,” I say, but he’s giving her a steely glare.

Only then does Natalie turn away and finish filling her tray. But she sneaks one last glance at me as I walk out of the cafeteria.

I duck my head and rush off to class, shuddering as my mind subconsciously matches Natalie’s expression with the words on the note:

Rethink your love life. Your life may depend on it.

Twelve

“I’m waiting.”

I glance up at Blake and smile shyly. “Sure,” I say. “I’d love to.”

Only a day has passed since Natalie shot me her death glare in the cafeteria, and I’m still a little rattled. Blake’s just asked me to join his family this Sunday for dinner
(“Your
turn for twenty questions,” he gleefully informed me), and I feel terrible that my hesitation might have suggested a lack of enthusiasm.

“That sounds great,” I continue, feeling slightly perkier after a quick scan of the hallway indicates Natalie is nowhere in sight. But then, the day is young …

“It’s Natalie, isn’t it,” Blake says in a tight voice.

“
No.
”

“I saw the way she was looking at you yesterday,” he says, hitting his locker door with the side of his fist.

“It’s nothing, Blake. It’s fine … ”

Blake notices his brother walking by and takes him by the arm. “Hey, Garrett.”

Garrett slows his stride. “Yeah.”

“That psycho Natalie? She’s still messing with Anne.”

Garrett’s eyes study mine. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I assure him, shaking my head briskly. “She hasn’t said a word to me since the bonfire. I guess she kinda gave me the evil eye yesterday in the cafeteria, but it’s totally—”

“What’s so weird is that I’ve never even given her the time of day,” Blake says. “That girl means
nothing
to me.”

Garrett eyes his brother warily. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Blake huffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Garrett shrugs. “Remember how she was always visiting you in the hospital when you were sick? Always bringing you things? She even made that scrapbook for you … ”

Blake tosses his head back and moans. “Who gives a crap?” he asks. “Lots of people did nice things for me when I was sick. Am I supposed to marry all of them?”

Garrett looks at me, and my eyes skitter away. I feel so awkward being pulled into this drama. Sure, I understand Blake’s point—Natalie certainly wouldn’t be my first choice of a friend, no matter how many brownies she baked for me—but my heart feels a slight stab as I imagine how much she must really care about him, and how his indifference must cut like a knife. Yes, she’s a world-class flake, but Blake—
Blake
of all people—could certainly muster a bit of compassion for someone who’s been so nice to him … couldn’t he? I’m just not sure how I feel. Am I being hopelessly naïve, or is Blake being a bit harsh? All I know is that it’s hard looking Blake or Garrett in the eye right now.

“I’m not saying you should marry her,” Garrett tells his brother. “I’m just trying to sort out why—”

“Sorry, guys, but Anne and I have to go.”

We all look at Melanie, who has just speed-walked to my locker and is now pulling me insistently away, her lips pinched into a taut straight line.

“What in the world … ” I murmur as she leads me down the hall, huddling close to my side as we walk.

She leans into my ear to deliver the news:

“I got another note.”

Melanie shushes me when I gasp.

“What does it say?” I ask as we round the corner toward our first-period class.

“I’ll show it to you when we get to our desks.”

Our shoes click on the tile as we rush inside.

Melanie scans the room as we enter. “Good. We’re the first ones here.”

Even the teacher isn’t here yet; the bell won’t ring for another seven minutes or so. As we take our seats, Melanie reaches into her backpack and pulls out a piece of paper.

She hands it to me somberly. I hesitate for just a beat, then take it from her and begin reading the neat, slanted cursive in dark-blue ink:

Melanie,

I’m sorry I freaked you out by writing you an anonymous note, and I’m sorry it had to be anonymous. If you understood the circumstances, you’d know why I can’t sign this one either. I really do hate that. It’s not my style.

I was hoping a minimum of words would get my message across the first time, but I see you didn’t take my advice. I’m thinking of nothing but your best interests as I beg you to reconsider. Stop dating Jamie. I’ll repeat what I said in the last note, because it’s true: your life may depend on it. He’s bad news. Worse news than you can know. The only reason I’m going out on a limb to tell you this is because I, unlike Jamie, care about people. Even though I don’t know you, I don’t want any harm to come your way. I vowed I would share this warning with anyone Jamie dated, so now I’m sharing it with you. Please listen this time so both of us can get back to our lives and I can stop freaking you out.

I slowly lift my head. Melanie is wide-eyed.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“It was in my locker this morning,” she whispers, then presses a finger against her lips as she nods toward the handful of students filtering into the room.

“Natalie … ?” I whisper.

Melanie nods. “It has to be.”

“But whoever wrote this says she doesn’t know you.”

“So you think Natalie’s above lying?”

“I don’t know what to think … ”

“Lauren has second period with her,” Melanie says. “She’s going to pass her a question in a note so she can get a sample of her handwriting.”

I’m tempted to protest—isn’t there enough game-playing going on?—but I learned my lesson the day before. I don’t get to call the shots in this deal. They’re Melanie’s notes, as Lauren so pointedly emphasized. We’re clear now about that, if nothing else, since the writer calls both Melanie and Jamie by name. This really doesn’t have to concern me at all … does it? I mean, of course I’m concerned for Melanie and Jamie, and of course I’m curious, but this is about
them
… right?

So why do I feel such a thud in my stomach?

Lauren shakes her head. “They don’t match at all.”

Melanie and I lean closer to the two notes on the cafeteria table and peer intensely at them, our eyes darting from one to the other and back again.

“Make sure you keep them covered,” Melanie tells me nervously, and I tighten the boundary of my arm.

We squint at them a few more moments, then I say, “Lauren’s right. There’s no way the same person wrote these two notes.”

“But all she says in her note to Lauren is
Tuesday at 10:30
,” Melanie says. “That’s not nearly enough of a sample to compare the letter to.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Lauren grouses. “Ask her if she could write the first chapter of
War and Peace
from memory? Somehow it seemed less suspicious to ask when our French test is.”

“It’s enough to tell the handwriting doesn’t match,” I say.

We sigh and lean back in our chairs, Melanie slipping the notes back into her backpack.

“It
has
to be her … ” Melanie says, more to herself than to Lauren and me. “People can fake their handwriting, you know.”

“Was your locker locked?” I ask her.

“Please. That lock’s probably been busted since my mother went to school here.”

“So anyone could have put it there … ”

“But who else would have wanted to?” Melanie asks.

“Why would
Natalie
want to?” Lauren says, clicking her fingernails against the table. “It’s like we’ve said all along: she’s into Blake, not Jamie. Hasn’t she made that painfully obvious by now?”

“She just likes to stir things up in general,” Melanie says. “And messing with Blake’s best friend would be kind of like messing with him … by proxy.”

“She doesn’t want to
mess
with Blake, she wants to
marry
him,” Lauren reminds us. “Anne’s the one she’s messing with—and in very non-subtle ways. She’s not making any secrets of her feelings. Why sneak around?”

“But she overheard us yesterday when we were talking about going out this weekend,” Melanie say. “She was walking right past us when we were talking about it. Bingo: she has new information, so time to swoop in again … right?”

“Let me see the note again,” Lauren says, “the second one.”

Melanie digs it out of her backpack, glances around surreptitiously, and hands it to her under the table.

Lauren studies it, then says, “It’s folded like it was in an envelope.”

Melanie nods. “It was. A sealed envelope.”

“Was anything written on the envelope?”

Melanie shakes her head.

A moment passes, then Lauren asks me, “What are you thinking?”

“Who, me?”

“You look like you’re thinking something important,” she says, and I realize I’ve been peering into space.

I shrug. “I’m just starting to wonder if we’re asking the right questions.”

“What do you mean?” Melanie says.

“I mean, we’re spending all this time wondering who wrote the note. Maybe what’s more important is knowing
why
. We sure are giving the letter-writer a lot of attention. Maybe the person we should be focused on … is Jamie.”