Life Unaware (Entangled Teen) (5 page)

Chapter Five

The bell rang, signaling the end of third-period contemporary literature.

My heart hung in my chest as if strung from a line of tenterhooks. In class, sitting by a window, as close to freedom as I could possibly be, I was safe. Despite the hissed whispers and glares, the other students couldn’t shout names at me, couldn’t corner me or slam into my shoulder as they pushed past. In the hall, I was vulnerable, swimming in a sea of piranhas wanting to devour me whole.

“Miss Flay?” I looked up to find my lit teacher, Mrs. Lochte, standing beside my desk with her hands on her hips. “Where were you today?”

Two girls giggled to each other before walking out the door. The only student remaining in the class was Nolan, and he made a show of putting his books away with exaggerated slowness. For the first time, I regretted my decision to take a class a grade level above my own, my reputation as my mother’s daughter be damned. It wasn’t so bad back when we were content to ignore each other, but now the last thing I wanted was to be stuck in a classroom with him for an hour every day.

“Miss Flay?” Mrs. Lochte repeated.

I licked my lips. “Um…” I wasn’t sure what she meant. Did she somehow find out about my first-period trip to the nurse’s office? Even if she did, why would she care? “I was here.” No lie there.

She frowned, and I knew I wasn’t off the hook yet. “Were you, Miss Flay? Because every time I looked in your direction, you were staring at your shoes. Shoes don’t teach contemporary literature, Miss Flay. I do. I expect your attention focused on me during class, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered in my most sincere voice. Another thing I’d learned from my mother—politeness and sincerity, even faked, went a long way when it came to getting out of trouble.

“Really?” Nolan asked. “How will you have time to concentrate on something as mundane as English class when you have reputations to ruin?”

Before I could respond, Mrs. Lochte turned her viperlike gaze on him. “Mr. Letner, am I to assume you don’t have somewhere to be? If that’s the case, I could always use help organizing my bookshelves.”

To my pleasure, his smile withered. “Nope. I definitely have somewhere to be.”

“Then
be
there,” she said.

He gave a salute and sauntered out the door.

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Lochte redirected her attention to me. It was all I could do not to flinch. “Now, Miss Flay, are you clear as to what I require from you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She gave a curt nod. “Now you’re excused.” She returned to her desk and began typing on her laptop.

I slid out of my chair and snagged my backpack off the ground. While part of me couldn’t wait to get away from Mrs. Lochte, another part was equally terrified of what awaited in the hall. I shuffled to the door, hoping if I lingered long enough, an invitation for shelf organization might be extended my way, but it never came. I had no choice but to enter the hallway. So I sucked in a deep breath, opened the door, and left.

I only managed five steps when someone bumped into my shoulder.

“Fuck.” Whatever small part of me still cared about appearances crumbled. I dropped my backpack and whirled around, my fingers curled into fists. I’d never been in a fight before, and I’d probably get my ass kicked, but I knew I couldn’t continue on like this. “Watch where you’re fucking—”

The words died on my tongue.

Payton stood before me, her eyes filled with a hurt I didn’t understand. “It’s you…”

“Of course it’s me.” Gradually my shoulders loosened and my fingers uncurled. “Why haven’t you answered my texts? Do you have any idea what’s happened to me today?”

She pressed her lips together, her eyes shimmering with tears that refused to fall. “I know, all right? Amber told me everything.”

Dread pooled in my belly. “What
exactly
did Amber tell you?”

She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Amber appeared at her side and looped an arm through hers. “Yeah, um, sorry, Regan, but we can’t be seen talking to you. It’d be social suicide.”

I blinked, trying to make sense of her words. “I don’t understand.”

Students slowed as they passed, their necks craned for better looks.

Amber shook her head in mock sympathy. “You can drop the innocent act now. I told Payton what you told me—that you thought she was annoying and you were only friends with her because she was good at digging up dirt.”

I reeled back as if I’d been slapped. “That’s a lie.”

“I told you to be careful, didn’t I?” Amber continued. “I knew you’d get exposed eventually if you kept stirring up shit. I just honestly had no idea how far you’d fall. You’ve got to understand we have ourselves to look out for. We can’t take the plunge with you.”

My mouth dropped open. “But this is as much your fault as mine. You can’t just
abandon
me.”

She made a face. “Sweetie, think of it as self-preservation. It’s not forever—just until this nastiness passes. Even animals know to steer clear of their own kind when one is wounded.”

“You’re such a bitch,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Amber’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. “What did you call me?”

Payton slipped free from Amber’s grip and glanced behind her at the growing crowd. “Guys, do we have to do this right here? Right now?” A look of panic flashed across her face, and she slowly inched along the lockers away from us.

Amber ignored her. “Better to be a bitch than a two-faced, backstabbing fake. At least with me, people know exactly what they’re getting.”

I looked at Payton. “You don’t honestly believe I’d say those things about you, do you? We’re best friends.”

“How could she not believe it?” Amber responded. “You’ve talked shit about everyone else in the school. Why wouldn’t you do it to your so-called best friend?”

Anger boiled through my veins. Why was Amber doing this? Why abandon me and lie to Payton about things I never said?

And then it hit me.

“
You
posted the messages.” How had I not seen this coming? I’d kept her close, but obviously not close enough. Had she been cozying up to Payton all this time? I turned on Payton, the anger morphing into pain. “Why are you listening to her? You know what kind of person she is.”

Before she could answer, the crowd shifted and Nolan pushed through with his cell phone in hand. A blond girl named Blake stood by his side. “What’s this?” he asked. “Friends turning on friends?”

“Nolan.” Payton’s voice held an edge of warning. “Stay out of this.”

“Stay out of it?” He turned the camera on her. “What’s happening needs to be documented. Years from now, you’ll wonder how a lifelong friendship disintegrated. I mean, it must’ve been something really bad, because if something trivial broke you apart, how good of friends were you in the first place?”

“Nolan,” Payton said again, “get a fucking life and stay the hell out of mine.”

He ignored her and swept the lens over Amber and me. Amber raised her middle finger. I, on the other hand, froze like a rabbit caught in a rifle’s crosshairs.

Nolan put the phone away, then he and the blonde turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“Fucking douche,” Amber muttered. After a few seconds, she shrugged. “C’mon, Pay, let’s go.”

Payton stared at the ground, unblinking. I silently willed her to remember the fact that we were
best friends
. I’d never do this to her. Never.

“Come
on
.” Amber huffed impatiently before turning and pushing through the crowd.

Payton wadded a fistful of her skirt. She glanced at me before quickly averting her gaze and hurrying to catch up with Amber, who was already halfway down the hall.

How good of friends were you in the first place?
Nolan’s words circled through my mind like buzzards over a carcass. Instead of a body, the dead thing was the friendship between my best friend and me.

If I didn’t have Payton, I didn’t really have anyone.

To my horror, tears pricked the corners of my eyes. But I couldn’t cry—not in front of everyone. Wasn’t that my mother’s number one rule? Never show them you are weak.

I tried to hold back the tears, but I was too late. All I could do was scoop my backpack off the ground and run for the nearest bathroom.

When I reached the door, I pushed against it with my shoulder while wiping my cheeks with my palms. It didn’t help. A sob clawed through my chest. I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle it.

I headed for the stall farthest against the wall and locked myself inside. I heard the outside door squeak open and the sounds of several girls talking and laughing as they entered. I climbed on top of the toilet seat, praying they wouldn’t try to push open the locked door.

“Oh my God, did you see her face?” a girl asked.

Several giggles answered.

“I think she was about to cry,” the girl continued.

“Not like she doesn’t deserve it,” another girl replied.

“Totally had it coming,” a third chimed in.

“It sucks to be her,” the first girl admitted. “Her life is totally ruined.”

The other girls murmured their agreement. I heard the whine of the bathroom door open. A second later, their voices faded, then disappeared entirely after the door swung shut.

Once I was sure they’d gone, I climbed off the toilet and leaned my back against the stall door. Did I have it coming? Maybe. But why now? Why Amber? And why was Payton going along with it?
Why, why, why
. The word played on repeat in my head until I was wrung out, hollow and empty.

Eventually, I left the graffiti-covered stall and shuffled to a sink.

I stared at the red-eyed, defeated girl in the mirror. If my mom were here, she’d tell me to stop wasting my time with the pity party. I should be implementing a plan—trying to figure out how to rebuild my reputation that was taken from me. But the only plan I did have involved friends.

Something I didn’t have anymore.

So I racked my brain for a new plan, something I could put into action on my own. But as I stared at my reflection for several minutes, nothing came to me. The longer I stood there, the more the possibility of salvaging my life felt like it slipped through my fingers like threads of sand.

How the hell did I fix this? I had no freaking clue.

So I did what I did best. I popped another pill.

Once the numbness settled through me, I left the bathroom and ventured into the hallway. Lunch was almost over, so I made my way through the scattering of last-minute students to class.

No one sat with me. No one talked to me. The silent treatment would normally freak me out, but after the hellish morning I’d had, being ignored was kind of a relief. It meant they were getting bored. At least, that was what I hoped it meant. The alternative was too ugly to think about.

When seventh-period Spanish let out, I pretended to be confused over the homework assignment so I could stay inside the classroom for an extra twenty minutes, just to be safe, while Señor Batey translated the noun list
twice.
When he finished, I glanced up at the clock, satisfied that the building and parking lot would be empty enough for me to make my escape.

In the hall, I fished my car keys out of my purse and headed for the exit. I needed my history book from my locker, but I was going to have to make do and prayed I’d pass the quiz without studying. No way was I going to stop long enough to be confronted. Besides, if anyone else had decided to “decorate” my locker, I didn’t want to know about it.

The hallways were relatively empty as I walked, my footsteps echoing hollowly against the stained linoleum. An occasional student passed on his or her way to a club, but luckily, no one paid me any attention. I reached the front doors and breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped outside and into freedom. When I wasn’t immediately assaulted by an angry mob, I figured the worst was behind me.

And then I saw my car.

It was parked behind a large truck so only the bumper was visible at first. When I passed the truck, I skidded to a halt. My backpack slipped from my shoulder and fell to the ground with a
thump
.

Empty soda bottles, chip bags, and wadded-up pieces of paper covered the hood and roof. The words “liar,” “backstabber,” and “two-faced” had been scribbled more than a hundred times in several different shades of lipstick on all of the windows. As I approached, I saw that a large scratch—most likely made by a key—had been gouged across the driver-side door.

I sank to the ground beside my backpack. I had a therapy appointment in twenty minutes that I wouldn’t make if I didn’t leave right then. But how could I? I’d have to go through the car wash at least ten times to get all the lipstick off. I knew because Payton, Amber, and I had lipsticked a girl’s car last year after she hit on Payton’s boyfriend. It had been Amber’s idea, of course. We’d hid in Amber’s car and laughed every time the girl went through the car wash then burst into tears when she pulled out and the pink and red letters remained.

Maybe Christy was right. Maybe I was finally getting what I deserved. I’d played my cards with karma and this was my payout. The only question was, after everything I’d done, did I ever deserve to be happy again?

That sounded like a question for my therapist, but talking about what was going on was the absolute
last
thing I wanted to do. Words were just that, useless sounds passed through lips that faded as soon as they were spoken.

Unlike texts, which could be captured, copied, forwarded, and saved.

There was no way out.

Chapter Six

It took more than fifty dollars and a half an hour’s worth of car washes to get off all the lipstick. Every time I pulled out to check, I half expected to look up and see Amber and Payton laughing at me from Amber’s car. Maybe Christy would be there, too. I hadn’t been able to go home afterward on the off chance Dad left the office early. He’d know I missed my therapy appointment, and I couldn’t risk his calling Mom.

There was nothing my therapist could do for my mental state that some time with my horse couldn’t do twice as well, so I went to the barn instead.

I unbuckled the girth and lifted the sweat-soaked saddle pad and saddle from Rookie’s back. Rookie was a thirteen-year-old ex-racehorse I’d adopted straight off the track when he was seven. After only a couple years of training, he’d become an amazing hunter/jumper, and together we’d won enough ribbons and trophies to fill an entire wall. On weekends, the two of us worked in the barn’s therapy program for children with special needs.

The volunteer work was actually—surprise—my mom’s idea. After all, what was the point of doing anything if you couldn’t use it to improve your image? For once, I didn’t mind. Unlike building houses and picking up trash in the state park in the sweltering heat, horse therapy was something I actually looked forward to. I never got over the feeling of seeing a kid sit on top of Rookie, grabbing fistfuls of his black mane and grinning so broadly, it was like nothing existed but him and the horse. That was what made horses magical.

I leaned out the stall door to place my saddle on the wall rack while Rookie pressed his velvety muzzle to the back of my head. He chuffed softly, tickling the fine hairs along my neck. I smiled, but even alone with my horse, it felt forced. I wondered if I’d ever really smile again.

I twisted around and leaned my head against Rookie’s, my forehead brushing the white star between his eyes. I combed my finger through his wind-tangled mane. Earlier, we’d spent an hour cantering around in the outdoor arena. As a former racehorse, Rookie would sometimes strain against the reins in my hand, and I could feel the desperation of his muscles beneath me, his desire to run farther than the fence allowed.

Before today, I’d never understood his urge. I’d always thought it was safer in the arena, where people were nearby and watching. But now, for the first time in my life, I wondered what it would be like to unlock the gate and fly with him, as fast and as far as he could go, without looking back.

My phone rang, pulling me from my fantasy.

“Sorry, boy. I’ll be right back.” Hope swelled through me as I ducked beneath the chain hooked across Rookie’s stall door. Maybe Payton was finally returning my calls. Maybe she’d realized how stupid it was to be mad at me for something she did, too. Maybe she’d already figured out how to get back at Amber.

Ignoring Rookie’s nickers of annoyance, I ran for the wooden picnic table outside the tack room where I’d left my phone and keys. I snatched the phone off the weathered wood and read the screen. My shoulders slumped. With a sigh, I answered. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, honey,” he said. “I just got home. Therapy go long?”

“No.” My head throbbed, and I rubbed my fingers against my temples to ease the building migraine. “Sorry for not calling earlier. I decided to stop off at the barn after my appointment.”

“How’s my second mortgage doing?”

“Rookie’s the same as he always is—hungry.”

Dad laughed and then fell quiet. A couple seconds later, he cleared his throat. “Listen, Regan, when are you going to be home? I think we need to have a chat.”

My stomach clenched into a knot. “Does this have anything to do with today?”

“The nurse called me at work.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed past the lump in my throat. I so did not want to have this conversation right now. I needed to work on fixing my problems, not adding to them. And if Dad became involved, he’d bring Mom with him, and it would snowball from there. “It’s not a big deal, Dad. I had a minor freak-out over a test.”

“Regan.”
I could hear the worry in his voice. “The nurse said you hyperventilated.”

“It was a really intense test.”

Dad was silent. I could picture him sitting at his desk in his blue scrubs with the little crease pinched above his nose that he got whenever he frowned. Finally he said, “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to it than that?”

“There’s not,” I said, maybe a little too quickly, because he didn’t reply. I was sure he knew I was lying, and since I had no other choice, I decided to use another of Mom’s techniques—throw him off the trail with a half truth. “Okay, maybe there is something else going on.”

“Okay,” he prompted.

“Payton and I kind of got into a fight at school.”

“Really?” The concern in his voice shifted to surprise. “You two have been friends forever. What started the fight?”

I was certainly not going to tell him about the notes with all the horrible things I’d said about people being plastered all over the school. While my mind raced for a possible explanation, it hit me. Another one of Mom’s tricks—throw your opponent off with a topic that made him uncomfortable. And I knew
exactly
how to make Dad uncomfortable. “You see, there’s this boy—”

“A boy?” Panic laced Dad’s words. “Since when have there been any boys? You’ve never mentioned a boy before. Who is he? Do I know his parents? What are—”

“Relax, Dad. It’s nothing that serious. But I thought he liked me and it turned out Payton likes him and there was all this tension and—”

“You know what?” Dad cut me off. “This might be a topic better suited for your mother.”

Thank God.
I quietly exhaled so he couldn’t hear my relief over the phone. “Okay. If you think that’s best.”

“I do.” He paused. “Maybe you should give her a call tonight.”

My mouth went dry at the thought. Talking wasn’t exactly something you did with Mom. All of our “conversations” consisted of her lecturing me and not listening to a thing I had to say. “This can wait until Mom gets home. I don’t want to bother her while she’s in session. You know how stressed she gets.”

“You’re her daughter,” he replied. “You always come first.”

I was glad he couldn’t see the face I made over the phone. “Yeah, okay. Look, Dad, I have to get Rookie cleaned and fed before I can leave. Can we talk about this later?”

He sighed. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I have to head back into the office—emergency oral surgery. I won’t be home until after dinner. There are leftovers you can reheat in the fridge.”

“Sure,” I said, masking my disappointment. While I was happy to avoid family talk, I wasn’t crazy about spending the evening alone in our large, empty house. Normally on nights when Mom was out of town and Dad worked late, I’d call Payton and Amber to come over and hang out. Didn’t look like that was going to happen ever again.

“All right, Pumpkin. Just try to take it easy for the rest of the night, okay?”

“Okay. I will.”

We said good-bye and hung up. I was about to slip my phone inside the pocket of my riding breeches when I noticed I had an email. I clicked on it to discover a Facebook notification alerting me I was tagged in a post—Amber’s post. A sinking feeling slithered through me, and I dropped onto the nearby bench. My thumb hovered over the Facebook link as I reached for my necklace with my free hand and slowly slid the pendant along the chain. Whatever Amber had written about me, it wouldn’t be good.

I chewed on my bottom lip, my feet tapping against the ground. I knew I shouldn’t click on it, that I was better off not knowing, but I couldn’t let it go. I had to know what I was up against.

I held my breath and clicked on the link.

My Facebook app opened and directed me to a fan page—at least that was what I thought it was until I read the title: The Regan Flay Abuse Support Group. The profile picture was of my face, though someone had altered it with one of those “turn yourself into a zombie” apps. My eyes were sunken and my skin rotted and peeling. Cracked lips stretched wide to display rotted and broken teeth. The announcement below said:
This is a page for anyone who’s ever been abused by Regan Flay. Tell your story and find support.

I wasn’t sure how long the page had been live, but it already had more than a hundred likes and at least a dozen comments. While the page claimed to be a support group, given the nature of the comments, it was anything but. One commenter posted that I was so ugly she needed a support group for the trauma of having to look at me in the hallway. Her comment was liked by Amber and thirty other people. There were more, but tears blurred the words.

I pressed a button and the page disappeared. I jammed the phone into my pocket and dried my eyes on my shirtsleeve. I thought I’d be safe at the barn—that my problems wouldn’t be able to find me here. Turned out I was wrong—I wasn’t safe anywhere.

A wave of dizziness swept over me, but I shoved it back. I wouldn’t have an anxiety attack over this. I
refused
.

The whole thing was so hypocritical. Like the people calling me names and throwing shit at me had never spoken an unkind word about someone else? They were just persecuting me because I got caught.

It wasn’t fair.

Rookie snorted at me from his stall. I leaned across the chain and reached for him, desperate for a little of that horse magic to rub off on me. He stared at my hand but didn’t bridge the gap between us. Great. My horse had turned against me, too? It was like he knew I wasn’t the same little girl who used to climb on his back and braid his mane while he munched on grass. I was broken, and I didn’t know how to fix me. And for the first time, I didn’t think Rookie could fix me, either.

And so it happened. This was the day horse magic finally stopped working.

“It’s okay,” I told him. I withdrew my hand and used it to wipe my tear-streaked cheeks. “I’ll go get your grain.”

Later that night, after taking a shower so scalding it left my skin red and numb, I crawled into bed and pulled the covers to my chin. I wasn’t really sure why I bothered. Sleep was the last thing I wanted. Sleep would only bring morning, and morning was something I never wanted to come.

Before crawling into bed, I’d made the mistake of checking Facebook one last time. I’d discovered a new comment on the Regan Flay Abuse Support Group page. That comment churned inside my chest like a ball of razor blades, ripping and shredding everything in its path.

Regan Flay should just do the world a favor and kill herself.

It wasn’t so much the comment that hurt as the fact that it had seventy-six likes.
Seventy-six
. More than two football teams’ worth of people agreed the world would be a better place if I didn’t exist.

I glanced at the bottle of pills on my nightstand.

They were right there. All I had to do was reach for them, and then everyone would be happy. If I were gone, I couldn’t possibly ruin any more lives. If I were gone, I wouldn’t have to endure their hatred.

And it would be easy. So damn easy.

Panic jolted down my spine like an electric current. I snatched the pill bottle and flung it across the room, where it bounced off the wall and landed on the floor. Sure, it would be easy, but it wasn’t what I wanted. The pills would only be a way out, and I wanted a way through. Out was final, but through at least held possibilities. These people couldn’t hate me forever—and even if they did, I’d be done with high school in another year. If I could just hang in there and try not to draw any more attention to myself, things had to get better, right?

Not that they’d ever been great to begin with.

I curled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms tightly around them. I honestly had no idea what would make me happy anymore. My mom certainly thought
she
knew. But what if she was wrong? What if all the things she said would make me happy—admittance to an Ivy League school, a suitable husband, a successful career—left me feeling as empty and hollow as I did right now?

When I was younger, everything had been so much easier. Happiness was jump ropes and cotton candy. But now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d truly felt happy. When did I lose it? And why had it become so difficult to find again?

Worse still, what if I never did?