Between (22 page)

“No, I’m not,” she says, smiling right back at me. “You’ve been absent for three days. We’re working in groups. Richie and I are partners.”

“What?” My voice is flat. “Richie, is this true? You’re partners with her?”

He nods. When Beth isn’t looking, he gives me an apologetic shrug and mouths, “Sorry.”

I turn on the ball of my foot—despite my injuries, I’m still wearing three-inch heels that undoubtedly pinch the hell out of my toes—and walk to the front of the room, where our teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, is sitting at her desk, paging calmly through a copy of the
New Yorker
, paying absolutely no attention to her class.

“Mrs. Cunningham,” I say, “I know I’ve been absent for a few days, but I don’t have a partner for the assignment now—I mean, I don’t even know what the assignment
is
—and I was really hoping I could work with Richie.” My voice is confident, head held high. “We’re always partners.”

Mrs. Cunningham barely looks up from her magazine. “Yes, Liz, I’m aware of who your partner usually is. But we paired off on Monday, and today is Thursday, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to do the assignment by yourself.” And she looks at me with a wide smile. “Once you read your syllabus and figure out what the assignment
is
. Which,” she adds, “you would have known already, had you taken the time to look over the syllabus before today.” Then her tone softens just a bit. “I know you’ve been sick, Liz. But you have to do the project like everybody else. Okay?”

“You’re saying I’ll have to work all by myself, when everyone else is working in pairs?” I ask.

She nods. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m sorry, but there isn’t anybody left for you to be partners with.”

I spend the rest of the period sitting alone at a desk near the front, first reading the syllabus, and then getting started on a sheet of questions about Shakespeare’s
Titus Andronicus
—which I obviously haven’t read, even though I was supposed to have finished it over a week ago. When I’m not pretending to do work, I spend most of my time glowering in my seat, staring at the blank paper, doodling in the margins. I can guess exactly what I was thinking: it doesn’t matter if we’re not partners in class. Richie will help me do all the work later.

When the bell rings, I gather my things quickly. I wait just outside the door, in the hallway, until Beth leaves the room.

Alex and I follow her to the girls’ bathroom.

I wait for her to finish up in the stall. Aside from the four of us, the bathroom is empty.

“This is nothing special.” Alex sounds disappointed, looking around the bathroom.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I always thought there were, like … sofas in here, or something like that.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. Wait—watch.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t remember, Alex. That’s why I want to watch.”

When Beth comes out, before she even has a chance to turn the corner and face the sink, I reach out with a swift arm and grab her
by the hair
, yanking her close to me.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, staring at myself. “What the hell am I doing?”

Alex is wide eyed, obviously stunned. He doesn’t respond.

“Listen to me, you little brat,” I say to Beth, my voice low and threatening. “Maybe you’re partners with Richie today, but you aren’t going to be his partner tomorrow. Got it?”

“Ow!” Beth is almost crying—panicked, genuinely afraid of me. “Liz, you’re hurting me! Let go!”

But I only yank her closer. I seem absolutely livid. “When you get to class tomorrow, tell Mrs. Cunningham that you changed your mind. Tell her you don’t want to be partners with him anymore. And if I ever see you so much as glance in his direction—let alone ask him to dance or try to get close to him—I swear to God, you’ll be sorry.” And I let go of her hair.

She stands there, trying to blink away her tears, rubbing her head, shocked by my display of anger. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t even pick him. We were assigned to each other.”

“Don’t lie,” I say, taking a step closer to her.

She steps back, shrinking against the wall. Her gaze darts to the door. I can tell she’s desperate to get away from me. “I’m not lying. I’m sorry. But Liz, the project is over. It’s done. I’m not his partner anymore, okay?”

“Okay.” I nod. My breath is heavy; my hands are shaking with anger. “Good. Then we don’t have anything else to say to each other.”

Beth hurries toward the door. But just as she’s about to leave the bathroom, she stops. For a moment, she is completely still. Then, slowly, she turns to face me. Her gaze is steady and suddenly unafraid.

“I remember eating dinner one night at Pasqualino’s with my parents when I was a little girl,” she says calmly. Pasqualino’s is an Italian restaurant in Noank.

“So?” And I smirk. “You had enough money to eat out?”

“Your father was there with your stepmother.” She swallows. “I remember my parents talking about what a shame it was, the way the two of them were so obviously running around together. See, Liz, your mom wasn’t dead yet. Your dad was just out with his girlfriend, having a good old time, letting the whole town see what was going on.” She takes a step backward. “My family might not have a lot of money, and my parents might not be together anymore, but at least I have a mother. Your mother starved herself to death. Your dad had an affair while she was dying. Everyone knows that.”

“Shut up,” I say. “You’re poor. You’re poor and you’re ugly.”

“You’re ugly, too.” Beth smiles at me. “You’re so ugly inside, and you don’t even know it.” She’s practically beaming. “And you’re starving yourself. Just like your mother. But you know what? I’m glad.” She puts her hand back on the door, preparing to leave the room. “The world would be better off without you, Liz.”

And she’s gone.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring after her.

“Wow,” Alex breathes. “That was really … something.”

I can’t even find my voice to respond; that’s how horrified I am by what we’ve just seen. I almost can’t process how cruel I was to Beth. Beyond that, I am humiliated by the idea that
everyone
in our town seemed to believe, without a doubt, that my dad and Nicole were having an affair. Everyone. Even Beth Follet’s parents.

As I continue to watch my younger self, I manage to speak up. “Wait,” I tell Alex. “Look. What am I doing?”

For the last few seconds, I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror. Now I’m touching the bruises on my face, wincing when I make contact. I turn on the water in the sink and watch as it swirls down the drain. I lean over and take a few deep breaths, and then I turn off the water. When I straighten up, there is a fierce, intense look in my eyes.

“She’s right. You’re ugly,” I say to my own reflection. “Everybody knows.”

I begin to cry. The tears trickle down my cheeks, smearing my makeup, destroying my mascara.

“Ugly,” I repeat, almost as though I’m embracing the word, trying to convince myself that it’s true.

I follow my younger self around the corner as I lock myself in a stall and sit on the closed toilet, pulling my knees to my chest. I sit there, sobbing without making much sound at all, until the bell rings, signaling the beginning of second period. But I don’t get up. I continue to cry.

And then, just when it looks like I’m never going to stop, I suddenly stand up. I smooth the wrinkles from my outfit. I take a deep breath. I step out of the stall, open my bookbag, and stand in front of the mirror. Carefully, calmly, I reapply mascara, lipstick, and loose powder.

I smile at my reflection. “Okay,” I say, under my breath. “Let’s go, Liz.”

There are still a few stragglers in the hall, students dawdling in between classes, and almost immediately I spot Josie and Richie next to his locker, talking. Richie has his back to me and is leaning against his closed locker, cool as usual. When Josie sees me, she raises her arm in a wave.

“Hi there,” I say, beaming at them breathlessly. There is no trace of the Liz I just saw in the bathroom; in almost an instant, I’ve gone from a sobbing mess to calm, collected, and smiling. “We should get to class, guys.” I look at Josie. “What are you doing down here? Don’t you have Spanish upstairs second period?”

“Do you think she and Richie were fooling around already?” I ask Alex. I can feel the jealousy welling up inside of me, uncontrollable. “Right under my nose like that?”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t she say it only started a few months before you died?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “and this was the fall … it was a long time before I died. So what were they talking about?”

Alex can only shrug. “Beats me. Let’s watch.”

“We just saw Beth crying,” Josie says to me with a giggle. “Did you have something to do with that? Richie told me about the scene you made in English.”

The hall is empty now except for the three of us, lingering like we don’t have any place else in the world to be, even though we’re officially late for class.

I widen my smile. “That would be correct.” And I place my arm on Richie’s, squeezing it possessively. “She was trying to weasel in on my turf.”

“Oh God, Liz. As
if
,” Richie says, sighing. “You didn’t go all psycho on her, did you? It was just a class project. It’s over.”

Josie narrows her eyes. “Liz is right, Richie. Beth should know her place. She has a lot of nerve even talking to you.”

I smile at Josie, but when I speak I can detect the slightest hint of shakiness to my voice. “That’s right,” I tell Richie firmly. “You’re mine. She should have known better.”

My boyfriend seems to be used to our attitude. He gives me a lopsided grin. “I’m yours, okay?” He rests his forehead against mine, gives me a kiss on the nose. “How are you feeling, anyway?” With the back of his hand, he lets his fingers graze the bruise on my face. I wince.

“Still swollen?” he asks.

“Yeah. A little bit.”

Josie bites her lip, tilting her head in concern. “She has a concussion, you know.” To me, she says, “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck falling down those steps. We could be at your funeral right now.” Her gaze drifts down the length of my body. I can tell she’s concerned about how thin I’m becoming.

As I stand with my stepsister, I ignore her comment—but Alex and I, watching, exchange a wide-eyed glance.

“Creepy,” Alex says. “Don’t you think?”

I shudder a little bit. “Yes. Very creepy.”

My younger self stands up a little straighter, as if I’m gathering my confidence for something. Glancing around the hallway to make sure there’s nobody coming, I lower my voice. “Richie?” I ask tentatively. “I was wondering—I have all this homework to catch up on, and I just can’t focus.”

“Yeah?” He’s hesitant, like he knows what I’m about to ask.

“Do you have anything? Like … anything to help me get my work done?”

Richie tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer me at first.

“Richie?” I ask again. “Seriously. I can’t think straight. It would really help me out.”

“Why can’t you think straight? Because of the concussion?”

My gaze flickers to Josie—for just a second, but it’s enough. There’s more going on here, and she knows it. I can tell that much just from watching us together. But I have no idea what it is.

“Yeah,” I say, “because of the concussion.”

“And you’re on painkillers?” he continues.

I nod.

“What kind?”

“Um … Percocet.”

“How many milligrams? How many times per day?” He’s like a walking reference book on prescription drugs.

I shrug. “I don’t know how many milligrams they are, Richie. They’re big and white. I can show you the bottle after school today.”

“And you want me to give you—what? Something to help you concentrate? Like Adderall?”

I nod. “Yes. Would you?”

“Liz, no.” He shakes his head firmly. “No way. I’m not hooking you up with prescription drugs just so you can catch up on homework. You can’t mix painkillers and stimulants like that. It’s not a good idea.”

“What’s Adderall?” Alex murmurs.

“It’s for ADD,” I tell him. “But it’s an amphetamine. People use it to help them concentrate.” I pause. “They use it to control their appetites, too. It keeps you from getting hungry.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods. “And how do you know all this? Do you have ADD?”

“No.” I look at the floor. I’m so embarrassed that he’s seen me act this way—toward Beth in the restroom, and now here, with Richie, asking him for drugs. Why would I want Adderall? Aside from a little pot from time to time, I do
not
do drugs—not powders, not pills, nothing. “I must know what Adderall is because Richie sells it. To students, you know—he used to get like twenty bucks for a single pill. I have no idea where he got them.”

But there’s something else, too. There’s another reason why I know about drugs for ADD. And as much as I hate admitting it to Alex, I believe that he wants to help me figure out my past, which for the most part is still such a blank slate, only now being peppered with memories that are illustrating so clearly what a reprehensible person I was capable of being when I was alive.

“My mother used to go to all these different doctors,” I explain, still staring at the linoleum tile in the hallway. “She was what they call a drug seeker. Aside from the cold medicine, she’d take just about anything to keep herself from getting hungry.” I swallow. “Including Adderall, when she could get her hands on a prescription for it.”

Alex doesn’t respond. He just listens. I’m grateful for the momentary silence.

Then Josie says, “Richie? Do you
have
any Adderall?”

Richie grins again. “Who are you talking to, Josie? Do I have any Adderall?” He winks. “Of course I’ve got some stashed away. Why?”

“I’m really stressed, too,” Josie tells him. “We’ve got midterms coming up, and I have like three projects that are due. Plus, I have to build a freaking
diorama
for history class.” She lets the sentence dangle with possibility for a moment. Then she scoffs and says, “I bet you won’t let
me
have any either, will you?”