Mom shifted in her seat, a little line between her brows. "She said she was concerned about you."
"So she goes and gives some interviews?" My headache was back, better than ever. "No, she had to know I didn't want this, not that she bothered to ask. And she doesn't even know what she's talking about. God, John's going to think I believe that crap."
Nothing from Mom.
"How could she have done this?"
Even if I'd wanted to cry, I couldn't. It might be cathartic, a release. But the wall between me and my feelings allowed only the worst of the worst to get out. Terror and angst and all of their friends were just waiting to party hard in my head. Best to keep on aiming for numb. Who knew? Eventually, it might work.
A day later when Georgia finally did call, I didn't answer. I tried not to miss her, but it was hard. Next she texted me and I ignored those messages too; after reading them, of course. It was all such bullshit. Any media outlet who'd give her the time of day, she'd talked to, sharing her insights on me and the situation. Giving them pictures of us together and all sorts of personal information I'd entrusted her with. True or not, she'd already said it all. There was nothing left for me to say.
Generally, at home, things were better. People left me alone. Mostly. We had to call the cops on some overzealous reporters sneaking through our garden and loitering out front. I dropped all of my social media accounts and sure as hell didn't answer the phone. But at least there were no doctors or nurses constantly checking on my condition. Though I did miss the good pain meds.
After a few days of me assuring Mom of my well-being, she went back to work. Mom managed the front desk at a resort near the lake. Over a year ago when I turned sixteen, she started doing the night shift. It paid better, apparently. Though I think she also liked it being quieter. Given the new circumstances, she offered to change over to working during the day so I wouldn't be in the house at night on my own. But I told her it was fine.
At home, I could eat what I wanted, or I could freak out for no reason. Generally no one was around to judge. Just in case, I avoided TV and the internet unless Mom and I were doing our Sunday TV-series together time. Last year we'd watched Nashville; this year it was The 100. I honestly didn't miss social media, given what a clusterfuck it had turned into. I lacked the care and the energy to deal with it. Besides, who needed it? I had my bed, perfectly positioned beneath my bedroom window for staring up at the sky. When I couldn't sleep, or didn't want to sleep, there were stars to count and a moon to stare at. Bet it was quiet on the moon. Peaceful with no people. The one downside to the situation was my focus had been shot to shit. Pun intended. I couldn't seem to concentrate on reading. My books sat on their shelves, staring at me accusingly. Every single damn time I tried to read, the words would blur and my mind would wander. Surely it was enough that my best friend had betrayed me, without my books deserting me as well? It sucked.
All of the pictures of Georgia had been taken down and thrown away. Years of friendship, gone. I felt angry and bereft, completely and utterly alone. Loving someone sucked.
Interestingly enough, it turned out that I now mostly used my phone to hang up on anyone who called. Easily done, since there was no one I actually wanted to talk to. If someone stopped by to visit, I feigned sleep or didn't answer the door. Mom found some therapist for me to talk to, and I found excuses not to go. With me barely managing to keep my shit together as is, a therapist might drag up all sorts of horrible truths.
Gradually, my bruises faded to yellow and green. Man, did my ribs take their sweet time healing; in the meantime, any kind of movement hurt. Turned out little could be done for cracked ribs; you just had to wait while they healed. An ugly pink line dissected my right eyebrow, reaching another couple of inches up toward my hairline. Courtesy of Chris pistol-whipping me.
Despite doing my best to ignore the world, time passed. School was looming, God help me. The new school year would start again in a couple of weeks. In life, unless you're willing to run away and live in the woods and risk being eaten by bears, some things just were unavoidable.
"Edie, hurry up," called Mom.
"Just a minute," I yelled back, doing up the zip on my gray school skirt. Yay for uniforms. Not.
Toothpaste on and I cleaned my teeth, working the brush back and forth with great zeal. A little concealer and a lot of foundation hid the remaining bruises along with the shadows under my eyes. I'd tied my hair back in a low ponytail, leaving a bit at the front to sort of sweep over my forehead and tuck behind my ear. If this style didn't cover the scar, I'd cut myself some bangs. Lack of sunlight during the last while had left me sickly pale, but whatever. I'd done my best to look presentable.
"Edie, you're going to be late!"
I paused in the process of giving my molars a scrub to bellow my reply. Froth from the toothpaste slid into the back of my throat and my gag reflex kicked in. Just that easy, my heartbeat hammered, sweat breaking out all over my body. God, it was just like that night, having the gun in my mouth.
I coughed into the sink, spitting out the toothpaste. My breakfast of coffee and Pop-Tart followed straight after, stomach heaving. Going, going, gone.
Dammit, my ribs hurt. Not good.
I turned on the cold tap, washing out the sink, sipping a little water to wash the taste of acid from my mouth. So gross. The bathroom stank of sick. A slow breath in, then out. Everything was okay. I wasn't at the Drop Stop gagging on the barrel of a gun. No one stood behind me; no one was even in sight. It was just a random accident involving too much toothpaste, for heaven's sake.
"Calm down, you idiot," I told myself. "You're fine."
"Edie-" Mom appeared in the doorway, then stopped cold. "What's wrong?"
I swallowed hard. "Nothing."
Worry lined her face. I hated that.
"Seriously," I said. Mouth rinse was what I needed; I'd give the toothbrush a pass for now. I swished the minty goodness around with my tongue, then spat it out. "All ready."
"Are you sure? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine."
"Do you want me to drive you?"
"No. I'm fine." I squeezed past her, a fake smile on my face. "See you this afternoon."
She followed me out, eyes boring holes into my back.
"Your hair looks lovely," she said.
"Thanks, Mom." I gave my ponytail a nervous tug. Ouch. My scalp still hadn't fully healed from Chris taking a chunk out of it. At least it wasn't anything visible, like the scar above my eye. "'Bye."
We lived in a one-story wooden bungalow on a quiet street. Lots of trees. It was nice. I gave Mom a wave as I climbed into my sensible eight-year-old white hatchback, inherited from my grandma. Edith, my namesake, lived in Arizona and was apparently going through a late-life crisis. There could be no other reason for her suddenly requiring a sexy sports car. It worked out well for me, though, so whatever made her happy.
Grandma also footed the bill for me to attend private school. I think the "My granddaughter is on the Honor Roll at Green" bumper sticker probably cost her almost as much as the sports car she stuck it on. Once upon a time, she'd been a teacher. She strongly disapproved of girls and boys being in the same classroom. Apparently our raging hormones wouldn't allow for learning and all would be perversion and anarchy. From what I saw, the gay students at same-gender schools were doing fine. They weren't having sex on the cafeteria tables, at any rate.
Eyes on the road, my focus straight ahead. I couldn't afford any distractions. Ridiculous, how a random person on the sidewalk could spook my stupid nerves. Any cop with a gun could be Chris; my overactive imagination swapped them out with scary efficiency.
I drove extra slow, but it did no good. The bell hadn't rung, I wasn't late, and swarms of girls in gray uniforms filled the hallways. Never mind. Crowds were good for hiding in. This might work out even better.
Head down and bag on my back, I made for my locker. So much noise and people pushing. But I could handle it. Deep breaths, calm thoughts, and all that crap.
My hands were wet with sweat as I entered my locker combination and opened the door. The material under my arms was damp. Eventually I'd have to deal with Georgia, and frankly, she could kiss my ass. Her betrayal stung as fresh today as it had when it happened.
"Hey, Willy," came a noxious voice from behind me. I didn't turn around, didn't need to. Kara Lamont. "I hear somebody tried to take your freedom."
Free Willy, as per the movie, was apparently the only whale Kara knew about. Original and well educated didn't describe the girl. I finished grabbing my English notebook, taking my time. A crowd had gathered, more than her usual posse. I could hear them all whispering and giggling, feet impatiently shifting, eager for action. There were always a few ready to see an uncool student get served her daily recommended dose of humiliation.
But this level of curiosity went well beyond that. Awesome. The Drop Stop had made me famous, unfortunately.
"Is your face really all fucked up?" she inquired, voice full of glee. "Poor you, Willy. Though I guess it's not like anyone wanted to look at you anyway."