Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (2 page)

No, I think. I'll ask Carly about Aidan later. School's over. We've both got tomorrow off from Jitters. It's supposed to be nice. We'll sit out in the backyard and Carly can tell me all about it then. Have a good, old-fashioned purge. For now, I just need to get her up and dancing.

I open the cubicle door next to hers and climb onto the toilet. I lean my elbows on the wall separating us and peer over at her. “Your hair looks pretty damn good from here.”

She looks up. She's holding a damp little wad of toilet paper that's smeared black and mauve like a bad bruise. Her eyes are red and puffy. (I know I'm going to have to skate around that one before I can get her out on the dance floor.) She seems sort of disoriented or something.

She doesn't answer. She just looks back down at the toilet paper and wipes at the makeup smudges with her thumb. I presume she's making the same calculations I did—
how much do we want to get into right now?
Then she puts her hand up and pats the back of her hair.

“I look like a country and western singer.”

“You like country.”

“Not this kind of country.”

“Oh, c'mon, Carly. Who cares what your hair looks like?”

“I do.”

“Why? No one's even going to notice. They'll all be looking at your boobs.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her hand and sort of laughs but keeps staring at her Kleenex.

“I'm right, aren't I?” I say. “Why else would you buy that dress?”

She pulls it closed a bit in the front but not enough to keep breasts from oozing out all over the place. I remember what my brother said about them being like the Great Wall of China, how astronauts could actually see them from space. I think of telling her that — Hank's a fifteen-year-old
boy, he meant it in a good way—but it might be pushing things.

“Can I put this into perspective for you?” I say. “Get a load of these.”

I flash my boobs at her. They're covered in plastic, as if I got them caught in the office laminating machine or something. She gasps out a laugh and I think I'm getting somewhere.

“This cleavage is brought to you by the Ooh-la-la C-Thru Bra without whose support this show would not have been made possible.” I click my nails on the plastic. “Sexy, no?”

“No.”

“My point exactly. So quit whining about your hair, would ya? Let's get going.”

She doesn't move and I can't wait any longer. I heave my waist up to the edge of the wall, then tip over into her cubicle. She flattens herself against the toilet tank, flapping her hands and going, “What the …”

I stretch down just far enough to undo the lock and push open her door. I wobble on the edge of the wall like a toddler playing airplane on her dad's feet.

“Help me,” I squeak. I'm just trying to be funny but it throws my balance off and next thing I'm screaming for real, “Help me!”

I can just see me smashing head first onto the bathroom
floor. I don't know if I'm more worried about knocking out my front teeth or getting a face full of germs. (A bit of pain, I can handle. Germs are another thing.) Carly manages to pull herself together enough to get her cold little hands under my shoulders and push me back up. I groan and I squeal and my ribs make this weird
thunk
as they catch on the cubicle wall, then my feet thump down again onto the rim of the toilet.

“The things I do for you,” I say, laughing and holding my heart.

“Nobody asked you to.” She's sounding feisty again, but when I come out of the cubicle, she's staring into the mirror like she's just come face to face with her undead self. This isn't good.

“Car-ly.” I grab her shoulder and turn her around. “Look what you went and did. Your eyes are all smudged.”

I find her makeup in her purse and dab some concealer over the purple blotches. I try to re-line her eyes but do a total crap job. (I can never get it as straight as she does.) Before I can fix it, she twists away from me and takes another look at herself in the mirror. Even blotchy and smudged, Carly's really, really pretty. She doesn't have to worry about Sidra. If she wanted Aidan, he'd take her back in a second.

I figure she's going to grab the pencil from me and redo it herself. That's what she'd normally do. She'd normally mention how much I suck at it too, but instead she
just says, “Fine,” and shrugs. “Whatever. Let's go.”

It's almost too good to be true. Is Carly actually showing signs of maturity—or is she even more upset than I thought?

I'm definitely going to have to talk to her tomorrow — but for now, I just thank my lucky stars and drag her back into the ballroom. A big blond ringlet falls out of her hair while we run and I can see what she means about looking kind of country. I decide to save that little observation for another time.

A slow song is just starting up when we get in. A little much for her and Kevin right now, all things considered. Nick is standing beside the principal's chair, talking about something serious. (I can tell by the way he's got his head bent.)

I drag Carly over and take Nick with the other arm. “Sorry, Mr. Bottomley. I'll bring him right back,” I say, then pull them both up on to the dance floor. They're saying, “Betsy!” and, “What are you doing?” and “No, no!” but I'm going, “Yeah. Yeah. C'mon.” I find an opening in the crowd. I clasp their hands together. I put Nick's hand behind Carly's back and Carly's hand behind his neck and say, “There. You're made for each other!”

I wrap my arms around them and get them moving in time to the music. My two best friends. Together. The disco ball sprinkles them with little silver squares. I'm so happy.

I'm just so friggin' happy.

*

Three days after the prom, I caught them kissing at Jitters.

D
ad eventually took the bathroom door off the hinges and got me to bed. I didn't move for days. Even when my sheets got wet and sticky with tears and spit and snot, I just lay there, face down like some drunk who'd been thrown out of a bar onto the street. I thought about the thing at Jitters, but it was prom night that I relived over and over again. I'd been so happy then—that's what kept killing me—and so stupid.
How could I have been so stupid?

I had no intention of moving, ever, but then one afternoon my phone started up again. I could ignore the street sounds and the music from Hank's room and Mom calling me for supper or even Dad sitting on the edge of my bed all awkward and miserable with his hand on my hair, but I couldn't ignore that phone any more. Something about the sound just made me so crazy-anxious that I was afraid I was going to blow apart if I didn't stop it.

For the longest time, I couldn't even figure out how my phone got there in the first place. I'd heaved the stupid thing down the stairs ages ago. Hank had laughed at that, but only for a second and maybe more in shock than anything. Even he knew this wasn't funny. Nothing was funny any more.

I lifted my head. My cell droned again—another text—and sort of shimmied across the nightstand. I thought of Mom saying, “Call your friends, sweetie.” “Your friend called, sweetie.” “I wonder who's calling. Probably for you, sweetie.”

Mom.

It had to be Mom who'd put it there. No one else would have had the nerve. I could just imagine her sneaking in while I was pretending to sleep and nonchalantly leaving it on my nightstand, all recharged and ready to go.

What was the matter with her? I told her I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want to see anyone, I wanted to be left alone. After a while, Dad figured that out. He stopped knocking on my door to say that Brianna/Fiona/whoever was here. He stopped delivering the flowers, cards, and candy-grams that kept arriving at our house as if I was dying of some dread disease. He cancelled my tryouts for summer league soccer. He even had a little chat with Nick on our front lawn when he showed one Tuesday evening. (Through my open window and over my pounding
heart, I couldn't actually hear the words Dad used. I could, however, hear how little it took to convince Nick to turn around and leave. My humiliation was total.)

“Give her time,” I heard Dad tell Mom more than once in the hall outside my room. But would she? No. She had to sneak in and put the phone on my bedside table. Let it torment me. I squished my eyes and lips into a tight little knot and choked back a scream.

Then another text came through and that was that. I lost it. I grabbed my cell.

Brianna
.

I scrolled through the messages.

Henry. Tyleisha. Sophie. Carly. Kirsten. Carly. Nick. Carly. Carly. Nick
.

We have to talk
.

We never meant to hurt you
.

We didn't mean this to happen
.

Call me, Betsy, please
.

Please
.

Please
.

Please
.

Who do they think they are? I glared at the phone, then I slammed it over and over again into the mattress. It just kept droning at me. I considered the nightstand and its nice hard edge, but I could hear Mom, hovering outside my door, all worried again and far too curious.

I waited until she headed downstairs, then got up and walked into my bathroom. I had to hold the walls to keep them from wobbling. Little sparkles flitted at the edges of my vision and I realized that's why cartoonists draw birds around someone's head when they get clobbered. I got clobbered good.

I turned on the water. I looked at my face while the sink filled up. No wonder he doesn't love me.

I turned off the tap, plunged my phone into the water and watched it die.

M
om pulled over to the curb and said, “Sure you don't want me to come in with you, sweetie?”
Never been more sure of anything in my life, thanks
. I didn't say that.

“Too hard to park,” I said, and jumped out of the car before she could see the van leaving across the street. “I'll be fine. Really.”

I checked to make sure no one was watching, then beelined up to the Medical Arts Building. I turned and bent my hand back in a little wave. It meant
you can go now
, but Mom was pretending she didn't read sign language. She just kept peering at me through the passenger window with this bizarre smile-like hole in the middle of her face. She wasn't going to be satisfied until she saw me walk in the building.

That wasn't part of my plan, but okay. I didn't have much choice. I went inside.

A lady with a double stroller looked up when the door gasped open. People.

People looking at me.

My brain screamed,
Danger!
and I froze, one tiny squirrel in a world full of big, hungry dogs.

I didn't have a tree to hide behind or hole to burrow in or whatever it is squirrels do when confronted with predators. I couldn't just scamper back out and let the big, bad (but well-meaning) wolf get me either. I put my hand over my face and hoped it looked like I was scratching my forehead. Everyone was watching the elevator numbers light up. The lady didn't seem to recognize me. Maybe no one else had noticed me either.

The middle elevator pinged. People started shuffling toward it. I glanced out at the parking lot. Mom's silver Audi was still idling away beside the “No Idling” sign. She flashed her teeth at me again.

Don't tell me I'm going to have to get on the elevator now too.

I held the door so an old guy with a bad foot and the lady—whose babies were both crying now—could get on. These were the type of people who needed doctors. I followed them, then turned and watched as the elevator door closed me in.

What did I need a doctor for? My heart was still
beating. I usually remembered to breathe. I was a little on the skinny side maybe and my face was kind of mauve in places, but that was to be expected. Hermits get that way. What was Dr. D'Arcy going to do about it? Tell me to eat more? Cry less? If I'd wanted to, I could have figured that out myself. Unless she could surgically remove Nick from Carly's face and drug him into loving me again, Dr. D'Arcy couldn't help me.

The man said, “What floor would you like?”

I looked at the panel. It went up to 12. “Twelve, please,” I said. I wanted to give Mom time to get back on the road and start fretting about something else.

I'd had no intention of coming here. “Why?” I'd said the first time she suggested it. (Or at least my face had said
why?
I hadn't actually bothered opening my mouth. Like a lot of other things in my life, speech had recently become irrelevant.)

Mom used a voice she usually saved for conversations with our cat and said, “Betsy, honey. You're just not yourself.” She'd made it sound like that was a bad thing.

The elevator stopped at the third floor and I held the door again so the man and his cane could inch out. He smiled like I was some shining example of today's youth. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so sad.

I'd had a chance to do a lot of thinking during the week I spent sucking on my sheets after the “incident” at
Jitters Coffeehouse. I didn't accept visitors. I didn't go on Facebook. I didn't have pesky things like boyfriends or best friends or work or parties or food or sleep to distract me. I only had my thoughts. I didn't manage to come up with solutions to all my problems, but I did figure one thing out.

I knew I didn't want to be myself any more.

Who would? Who in their right mind, after that, would want to be Betsy Wickwire?

The lady and her howling babies staggered out at the fifth floor. One of the kids clearly needed a diaper change. It dawned on me that if someone got on the elevator now, they'd think I was to blame for the odour.

Ironic, really. It was probably the one stinking mess I wasn't responsible for these days. During my little exile, I'd tried to blame Nick for the state of my life. I'd tried to blame Carly. I'd even tried to blame the manager for waking me at five-thirty in the morning to fill in for Marybeth. (I mean, if Jerry hadn't asked me to work on my day off, I'd never have caught Nick and Carly. And if I'd never caught them, I could have just carried on in blissful ignorance. Would that really have been too much to ask?)

But this wasn't their fault. I knew it. It was mine. I was the one who got myself into this predicament. I was just so in love with being Nick Jamieson's girlfriend— and everything that went along with it—that I let myself
be an idiot. I'd honestly thought we were perfect together. I'd really tried to be perfect.

The door opened again on 8 and I covered my eyes as if I had a migraine. “Going down?” someone said.

I pointed “up” with my thumb. The door closed and I carried on alone.

Well, not really alone. As always, I had Nick and Carly with me. I was spending more time with them since they'd nuked my life than I had in all the years I'd known them. The weird thing was that I saw them more clearly now in my mind than I'd ever been able to see them in real life. Why was that?

Had I really thought Nick offered to drive Carly home all those times just because he was a good guy?

Had I actually believed it was a coincidence they'd both shown up so late to Carolyn Fitzgibbon's party?

And honestly. What did I think they were talking about in the chemistry room that entire afternoon? Nobody else needed that long to get their labs done. Nobody else needed to stand that close.

But the real kicker was Nick's green hoodie. I'd seen it months ago in Carly's bedroom.

Her
bedroom
.

What kind of crazy mind games did I have to play to convince myself that that was a-okay?

Carly said I must have borrowed it and left it there
myself, but I knew that wasn't true. It seemed weird even at the time. So why hadn't I suspected anything?

God had been looking out for me then. He'd left that hoodie there as proof—as irrefutable evidence —but I just refused to see it for what it was.

Now, of course, I couldn't
stop
seeing it. I kept picturing it on Carly's floor and just the way it lay there—all unzipped and sprawling—practically killed me. I kept imagining Nick throwing it off, Carly pulling it off him, everyone pulling everything off, and I felt like such a moron. How could I have been so naive?

The elevator opened on the twelfth floor. Long seconds passed. No one got on. I looked up. I was worried someone would be standing there, staring at me, but, other than a dusty fake tree in a plastic pot, the hall was empty.

That's when it hit me.

The multiplex.

I had to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from sobbing. Carly.

I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to breathe.

Standing beside that fake tree. Whispering in his ear. Her perfect little hand lined up against his perfect dark whiskers. The smile just starting to bloom on his face.

I'd run into the theatre lobby late because I'd been working. Nick and Carly had both been off that day.

They'd spent it together.

My heart slammed head first into my chest.

They must have spent it together!

I suddenly knew why Carly kept agreeing to trade shifts with people. She wasn't helping them out. She wasn't being sweet, bubbly, everybody's-little-best-friend Carly. She was helping herself. As long as I was busy working and they weren't, she and Nick could be busy doing other things.

My teeth started chattering. The elevator door slid shut.

Not this again.

It's the little stuff that always sets you off. You think you're okay. You think you're almost handling it. Then you see a fake tree or hear the first three notes of “Nowhere with You” or catch a whiff of Crest Midnight Mint on someone's breath and you just lose it. And all because, once, you saw them whispering by a fake tree. Or danced to that song with him. Or tasted Midnight Mint when he kissed you.

And realize that's what she's tasting now.

Next thing you know, you're heaving and gulping like you're drowning. You can't even pretend you're okay any more. Your mother has a doctor's appointment set up before you've even uncurled your toes.

I slumped against the metal rail on the elevator wall and tried to shake all that out of my head but it didn't
do any good. Toothpaste, plastic trees, banana muffins, white T-shirts, whiskers, hands, feet, water, air—pretty much everything made me think of Nick and/or Carly. Nothing had been spared. These days, even my good memories had turned to crap.

Anything I'd ever seen them do or not do was suspicious to me now. Everything was either proof that they were in love and
couldn't
hide it or proof that they were in love and
had to
hide it.

The elevator started to move. I threw myself on the stop button. What if someone got on and saw me like this?

That was almost the worst part of this whole thing. In my room, alone, it wasn't so bad. Even when I was sobbing, it was sort of bearable. It was only pain. But the thought of other people seeing me? People talking about me? People knowing? It felt like someone had my heart in their hand and was squishing it through their fingers.

I leaned my face against the cold, metal wall. The cramp eventually went away, but the thought didn't.
Everyone must have known all along
.

That's why everyone was always laughing. Mrs. Rubin outside the auditorium when I asked her if she'd seen Carly. Kirsten MacMillan and Sarah Giacamantonio going, “Oh, nothing!” The guys from Nick's hockey team collapsing on top of each other. Suzy Crocker in the cafeteria with blue Gatorade spraying out her nose.

How was I ever going to be able to show my face again?

And now Mom wanted me to tell the doctor about it too. Let another person in on the joke? That was going to help? It was like handing people cream pies to smush in my face.

I'd gotten in the car this morning planning to skip the appointment. I had figured I'd just wait in the Medical Arts Building until a reasonable amount of time had passed, then I could go home acting like I was more or less cured. I figured that would take the heat off for a while.

But standing here, counting up all the people who knew about Nick and Carly, or were just hearing about it now, or were bound to find out about it sooner or later, I realized that skipping a doctor's appointment wouldn't be enough. I needed to do more than that.

I needed to escape.