What Happens Next (8 page)

I stretch out on the floor and look up at it. After a few moments, I get this floaty feeling in my stomach, and I can feel myself being pulled upward, like I’m being lifted into the sky. But something inside me hesitates. I squeeze my eyes shut to block the feeling out. It hurts to look at this forest and sky somehow, because deep down, I know they’re not real. Before the tears come, I sit up and go to find Liam for real.

When I get to the pantry, I hear him shuffling around inside, trying desperately to be quiet, but, being six, completely incapable of it. I stomp over extra loud.

“Well, this is the last place I can look! I sure hope he’s in there, or he might be lost forever!”

I try to open the door, but it’s stuck. Or locked. I rattle it.

“Liam, you in there? Open the door, I found you.”

My voice is getting a nervous high pitch to it. Liam says nothing; instead, he just laughs.

“No, seriously, Liam, open the door.”

“Sid?” he says.

“Yeah, Liam, it’s Sid, open the door.”

I feel him turning the knob, but the door will not budge.

“I can’t open it. It won’t open,” he says with a calmness that I find unsettling. If it were me in this closet, I would be clawing at the door, trying to kick it in, and screaming my head off.

“Don’t worry, I’m right here, I’m gonna get it open.”

I’m shaking and rattling the door like a maniac. A hysteria has come over me, as if Liam were in some life-threatening situation. Like this thin door, separating us by two inches, is some kind of serious danger to him. Danger tantamount to a car dangling over a cliff with him inside the trunk or a tornado bearing down about to swallow him up. A predator leading him away with a kind word and some candy…

Magically, the door just opens out of nowhere.

I fall to my knees, grab Liam, and smash him into my chest, hugging him tight.

“Oh, Liam, that scared me. I’m so sorry. Were you scared?” I say, pulling back to look at him.

“Don’t cry,” he says. “It’s okay, I wasn’t scared. I knew you’d get me out.”

“Yeah. I did,” I say, wiping my eyes and smiling.

He looks at me, concentrating closely, his eyes zoning in on my left cheek. Like there’s something on my face. I pause and start to raise my hand to my cheek, to see what’s wrong, when he smacks me hard across the chops and yells, “Tag, you’re it!” before running out of the room squealing.

This is a gag I taught him, sort of like when you say, “There’s something on your shirt,” and the person looks down and you run a forefinger up their face and say, “Made ya look!” Only I zone in on someone’s face, preferably the forehead, and then thwack them a good one, scream, “Tag! You’re it!” and take off running.

He has gotten me good; I have never fallen for my own gag until now.

“Oh, little boy! You better ruuun!” I yell, and I can hear him squealing through the house, running to find Mom’s legs so he can hide behind them.

I find the two of them stretched out in a huge, empty, marble tub in the master bath. Mom’s notebook and camera are on the window ledge and she’s singing “Some Day My Prince Will Come,” schmaltzy and overblown, like poor, pitiful Snow White. Liam is clinging to her chest, smiling at me sideways with one eye. I lean on the doorframe and look at them. He whispers into her ear and she listens hard, smiling at whatever it is he’s saying. It makes my throat ache to look at them.

I look at my mother’s familiar face, smiling and listening to Liam’s secret, and it makes me wonder how I could have sold her so short. How could I have not told my mom what happened to me when I’d had the chance? My mother could have handled it. The horror, I mean. If I’d told her, she would have felt it, certainly. The horror would have driven her to her knees.

But not forever.

She would have grabbed on to that anger she knows so well and hauled herself up, then grabbed onto me and pulled me up with her.

I think about this. And I almost,
almost
start to tell.

I mean if you can’t tell your own mother, who on earth can you tell? My jaws are tight and locked and I am concentrating so hard. I open my mouth just a little bit and almost get the words to come out…
Mom, I need to talk to you about something later when we’re alone. I need to tell you something about the ski trip…

But they don’t come. The words won’t come.

She glances up and notices me looking at her so hard. Our eyes meet and I am hoping so much that she heard my thoughts and that she’ll pull me aside later and ask me what’s wrong.

But she can’t hear my thoughts; she misreads my expression and bursts out laughing.

“The owners are out of state and no one has the combination but us! Don’t look so tense, silly girl! Climb on in, the water’s fine!”

The moment passes. I force a bent smile and climb in with them. I snuggle up to my mom and brother. I join in when they start singing along to the music that is seeping up through the floorboards. We sing “Can’t Buy Me Love” at the top of our lungs.

8

On the way down
the steps to web page development, Tate Andrews sidles up next to me. “So you’re coming to Hunter’s, right? I’ll pick you up around six.”

He is so eager and sure of himself. Like rejection by Sid Murphy is not even a possibility.

“Uh, no. I can’t,” I say, speeding down the steps and rounding the corner.

He speeds up, too.

“If it’s about Starsha, don’t worry. She and I, we kind of have an agreement. Besides, she’s going to Toronto with her parents for the weekend, so it’s cool.”

I glance over at his perfect jawline. At his trademark hair, sitting perfectly styled in that messy-on-purpose-I-use-man-product kind of way. I look at this dumb jock who’s never given me the time of day. He thinks he’s going to take Sid Murphy to some island in the middle of Lake Erie in the dead of winter and pour a six-pack down her throat. He’s gonna screw himself a ginger, then tell everyone on Monday how much bigger her boobs are up close. I almost go nuclear on him but decide against it. I don’t need more drama. I’ve had enough drama to last me a hundred years.

“Sorry, I have this family thing.”

I screw up my lips, raise my shoulders, and try to appear bummed that I am unable to attend the festivities. His expression tells me that he is unmoved by thoughts of Murphy family bonding.

“Well, get out of it,” he says. “You just got invited to a party at Hunter’s beach house. By me.”

I fantasize briefly about punching him in the balls.

And that’s when Starsha, who clearly heard Tate’s last remark, comes waltzing up to join us. And then, because God hates me, Kirsten strolls by, too.

Starsha, Tate, and I are standing right outside the computer lab just as she passes. She sees the three of us huddled together, and a look of disgust flickers in her eyes right before she heads inside. She thinks I’m chumming it up with Starsha and Tate now.

“Tate, what are you doing?” Starsha says. “Hunter’s party is not a Callahan Kegger, it’s exclusive. TBP only.”

Yes, they call themselves that. TBP—which is short for
The Beautiful People
. An überpopular, Starsha/Tate–led faction of Lakewood High clones. This unforeseen bit of theatrics forces me to recount my history with Starsha, and the Sid/Starsha film of nostalgia plays on fast-forward in my brain. The primary years spent taunting me about my hair and height; the middle years spent taunting me about my premature boobs and ever-expanding rear; and then, finally, the fit she threw last year when I made it for cheerleading and Cameron Fitzpatrick, cheerleader since fifth grade, did not. I remember the campaign of terror designed to make me quit so that Cameron, relegated to first alternate, could be reunited with her beloved pom-poms. How Starsha called me fat at every practice and declared that cheerleading was for girls size three or smaller, that red hair was ugly, kinky red hair was super ugly, and I wasn’t just fat, I was obese. I remember cheer camp last summer when I had to stay in a dorm room by myself because Starsha wouldn’t let anyone bunk with me and forced everyone to treat me like a piece of breathing shit all day, every day for a solid week. I remember how my real friends, Kirsten and Paige, sent me a bouquet of sunflowers for moral support with a note attached:
For the best cheerleader ever! Keep on kicking!
I remember the relief when, after camp, Starsha finally threw in the towel, accepted the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere, and started rationalizing my usefulness by sticking me at the bottom of all the pyramids.

It’s not glamorous, being the brawn at the bottom of the pyramids, but at least she didn’t break me. At least I didn’t quit. And things have cooled off somewhat. Mostly it’s just catty, harmless banter, the two of us being immature and thriving off our lifelong repartee. It’s been one of my fondest high school pastimes, actually, fighting with Starsha. When you’ve got best friends like Kirsten and Paige, it makes the shitty part of high school almost fun… the fighting with mean girls and not being popular, I mean. Well, it used to make it fun.

Tate looks at Starsha. “What do you care, anyway? It’s not like you’ll be all busted up about it, sitting in Toronto with your dickhead boyfriend,
Bradley
.”

“Really, Tate? You want to do this here? He’s my parents’ friend’s son. You’re being a child.”

Then she points for him to go into the lab. He lets out a snort and slumps inside. Starsha turns and finally addresses me directly.

“You’ll have to excuse Tate,” she says. “All that football has damaged his already fragile brain functioning.”

“Whatever,” I say, turning to walk inside. Barbie and Ken are making my skin itch.

“Wait. I wanted to talk to you,” she says, following behind me. “It’s important.”

I sit down at my cubicle, turn on my computer, and pray she’ll wrap it up quick. My appetite for sparring with Starsha has reached its limit. It’s dried up, really. I haven’t slept in days, and I’m just too tired to deal with her.

“Well. I just thought it was my duty to inform you of a few things,” she says.

I sigh.

“Great. Go. Talk.” I roll my chair back, crossing my arms and looking up at her.

She sits a little on my desk, blocking me from my keyboard. Her hair and outfit and makeup are so perfect that she looks counterfeit, like she’s a Photoshopped version of herself.

“You know, your little ski trip escapade made you, for once in your life, kind of interesting,” she says, looking up and away, ankles crossed, arms crossed, like she’s pondering her own existence and not actually talking to someone.

“Such a blatant disregard for authority was almost impressive. And then dumping Kirsten and that other girl, that little book-mouse, whatever her name is… that was a smart move. Really lightened your load. So much so that in a matter of days, you were able to bypass a few rungs on the ladder and secure an invite to an exclusive gathering. Of course, I’ve rescinded that offer, but—”

I interrupt her with a loud yawn, saying, “Are we done here?”

She looks down at me and smiles. “Almost.”

I muscle in and push her bony ass off my keyboard. I punch in my user name, pretending to be busy and completely bored with her.

“Bottom line, Siddy, I don’t think it’s working out, so we’ve decided to let you go.”

This makes me laugh. I feel a little fight in me after all. “What? Let go from TBP?” I say, feigning disappointment while typing and clicking, pretending to scan for nonexistent files. “But I just got hired. I haven’t even started yet, and The Backstabbing Posers are firing me already? Where will I go? How will I live?”

“Cute,” she says. “The Backstabbing Posers, that’s clever.”

Then she sighs and continues.

“Anyhow, I’m not talking about TBP,” she says. “I mean, you might have climbed a few rungs, but our group has standards. Pedigree. If we let in every dog who wins a ribbon at the fair, we’ll be overrun by mutts. See, no, what I was talking about is your spot on the Golden Bullets. We’re letting you go.”

The bell rings and people start settling into their cubicles. I roll my eyes, busying myself with pulling up more nonexistent files.

“Yeah, okay. You may think you run things around here, but you’re not the cheerleading coach. You can’t fire me from the Bullets. Besides, you’ve already tried getting rid of me once, and you failed, remember? So I guess you’ll have to put up with this mutt a while longer. Because this bitch—”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” she says, interrupting me. She leans in close, like we’re best friends sharing a secret. She’s smiling, and her eyes are twinkling like stars.

“Hear what?” I groan,
tap, tap, tapping
away at my keyboard.

“Coach wants your uniform by the end of next week. No delinquents allowed.”

My fingers freeze and I look at her.

“You’re lying,” I say, staring at her.

“Really?” she says, getting a little more fiery, whipping out a yellow booklet from her bag. “See, this is called a code of conduct manual. And it’s all right here.”

She thumbs through the pages and points.

“Section B, paragraph 3: Any student receiving an at-home suspension will be dismissed immediately from all sporting teams and intramurals for the remainder of the semester.” She lowers the booklet and leans into my face. “In layman’s terms, that means, ‘So long, Ginger Bitch, welcome back, Cameron.’ ”

She walks away, her hips swaying, smiling and blowing a kiss over her shoulder. I sit in my chair, my mouth open like a fool.