My Life in Black and White (21 page)

“
Goaded
you?”

Ruthie ignored me and kept going. “You’re always doing that. Putting yourself first. Like whatever I’m doing—whatever I’m interested in—doesn’t matter. Band is a waste of time. Classical music sucks. My friends are geeks. How could
I
possibly have
plans
on a Saturday night? Well, let me tell you something that may shock you…. Are you ready for this? … I actually have a
life
, and it doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Well, that’s … I know
that
,” I said, stumbling on my words, feeling my face grow hot.

Ruthie kept going. She was on a roll now, pounding the steering wheel for emphasis. “Every time you come to me with one of your petty little problems, what do I do? I
listen
. I give
advice
. I try to make you feel
better
.”

“Petty little
problems?”
I sputtered. “You think my problems are
petty
?”

“Yeah, Lex. I do. On the scale of things that actually matter, I think your problems rank pretty low.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. You just can’t look past yourself long enough to see it.”

She then proceeded to hop in her time machine and fly back to August, where her college tour got interrupted by my accident—and to tell me how disappointing that experience was for her.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You think I ran into a tree on purpose, just to ruin your trip?”

Ruthie shook her head. “No.”

“Because that’s sure what it sounds like. It sounds like you think I
deliberately
rammed my face through Jarrod’s windshield,
deliberately
shattered my own bones just to—”

“No,”
Ruthie said, more fiercely. “That’s not what I’m saying. You’re twisting my words.”

“Well, untwist them then.”

“I
will
… Jesus … if you could stop interrupting me for one second…. I
know
you didn’t hurt yourself on purpose. Of course I know that. I was scared shitless when it happened. I prayed for you—literally
prayed
, on my knees, in the middle of the hotel bathroom, that you would be okay. And I don’t even believe in God! … But that’s not the point…. The point is that ever since you got home, Lex, you’ve been front and center. Everyone comes to your rescue, and I just get left in the dust. ‘Oh, don’t worry about Ruth. She’s so smart. She’s so competent. She can handle it.’”

I opened my mouth to say something, but my sister kept ranting, through traffic circles and stop signs and blinking yellow lights. “After the accident, I thought you might open your eyes a little, gain some perspective. But you know what? You’re more self-centered now than you ever were before.”

“That’s not true,” I murmured, only half believing myself.

“Do you realize you never once asked me about my trip? Never once asked which colleges I’m thinking of applying to?”

I got a little snarky then, telling Ruthie I’m sorry, but I was a little busy getting jacked up on enough pain medication to stun a buffalo, and, you know, having my
ass
stapled to my
cheekbone
.

“Lex. No offense—because I don’t want to minimize the pain you felt in the hospital—but that was over two months ago. The victim act is getting old.”

“Easy for you to say!”

“No,” Ruthie said, pulling into our driveway and cutting the engine. “Not easy for me to say … and Dad’s going to kill me for saying it because he asked me to cut you some slack, which I have, for a long time. But I’m sick of this shit, Lex. I’m really sick of it. I’m sick of you lambasting Mom and Dad when all they’re trying to do is help. I’m sick of you barging into my room whenever you feel like it, and putting on my clothes without asking—”

I started to defend myself, saying that I hadn’t worn her clothes in days. Not since my new jeans and sweatshirts arrived in the mail.

But Ruthie just kept ranting. “Clothes which, for your information, I happen to
like
, even if you’re wearing them to make some kind of statement about how little you care what people think. Which is a joke because it’s so obvious how much you care.”

“No, I don’t,” I said weakly.

“Whatever your ‘Rules’ are,” Ruthie continued, scratching quotes in the air with her fingernails, “you’re obsessed with your face, you’re obsessed with how people perceive you, and you’re obsessed with Taylor and Ryan, to the point that your life has become … well … pathetic…. I mean, why did you even go to the dance tonight?”

An image of Rob popped, unbidden, into my head. Had I really imagined leading him into an empty room and sticking my hand down his boxers? Had I really thought that hooking up with him would hurt Taylor? It didn’t even make
sense
. How would she find out what I did unless I told her? And then, why would she believe me?

“Well?” Ruthie said.

A hot flicker of shame licked at my chest. I couldn’t tell my sister about Rob, so I mumbled a half-truth. “I wanted to feel like me again.”

“By dressing as
Catwoman
?” Ruthie looked at me like I’d just sprouted horns.

I shook my head miserably. “I don’t know.”

“Lex,” she said, no longer sounding like Cruella de Vil. “Do you really think you’re so different now?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I stared at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“I have no friends … and Ryan’s completely moved on.”

“Ken doll?”
I could tell from her voice that she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“I loved him,” I said pitifully.

“Well,” my sister said, sighing and unbuckling her seat belt—a sign that she might finally be finished tearing me to shreds. “As far as I can tell, Ryan has never done much of anything to deserve your love. Taylor’s been your friend forever, but Ryan?…” She shook her head. “Whatever. You can make your own judgment about those two. I’ve said my piece.”

Then she announced that she was going inside—her car smelled like a barf factory, and she couldn’t breathe through her mouth anymore.

After Ruthie left, I sat in the car for a long time, wearing my rancid cat suit. Licking my wounds. Replaying her tirade over and over, trying to make sense of what she’d said.

Finally, it hit me. This whole time, I’d been wrong about my sister. Ruthie wasn’t jealous of me, not even close.

I’d Rather Be Cleaning
Litter Boxes

I WOKE AT five in the morning with an unsettled feeling—the kind you get when you know something bad happened, but you can’t remember what it is. Then I remembered.

Taylor on the wrestling mat.

The grim reapers.

The look on Mr. LeFevre’s face.

Ruthie’s litany of insults.

Taylor again.

I checked my cell: nothing.

Without even thinking, I found myself walking down to the living room in the dark. Sitting at the computer, logging on to MyPage. I used to MP every day—write on people’s blackboards, update my news flash—but this was the first time since the accident. I felt like I was opening a time capsule, or walking into Jenny Albee’s brother’s bedroom. Even a year after the funeral, Mrs. Albee didn’t touch a thing. Teddy bears still on the bed. Tonka trucks littering the floor. She left everything exactly where Caleb had left it the day he died.

The picture on my page was like a relic from another life. Smiling, scarless Lexi, face pressed up against smiling, rosy-cheeked Taylor. Both of us have our pointer fingers raised in the air, signifying to the world that we are number one, having just beaten New Canaan 3–2 in double overtimes.

We looked so young and happy it made my stomach ache. It made me remember a simpler time—a time before Ryan, before parties where people started drinking beer and tearing each other’s clothes off, before everything got so messed up.

There were a bunch of notes on my blackboard from the days following the accident. I scrolled down to the bottom and worked my way up.

OMG, Lexiiii!!!! What happened last nite?
(Kendall)

R u ok??? R u really in the hospital?
(Rae)

Y r u not ansring ur cell??? We have 2 talk!
(Taylor)

R u getting my texts?
(Ryan)

We r all thinking of uuuuu! Call ussss!!!
(Laurel)

The most up to date was from Meagan O’Hallahan on September 1.
R u not on MP anymore? Wazzup w/ that??? Coming 2 ur BBQ on Sat. Cant wait 2 c uuuuuuu!

There was nothing on my board from last night. There were no new messages in my in-box. For a second, I thought about calling Heidi or Kendall and Rae, but then I changed my mind. They’d probably say, “Why are you calling so early?” or worse, act all fake and thrilled to hear from me.

So I clicked
NEWS FLASH
. That is the beauty of MyPage. You can see what people are doing without them even knowing.

If only you could un-see something after you’ve seen it.

If only you could wave a magic wand and erase a single night from collective memory.

That’s what I wanted to do as soon as I saw Jason Saccovitch’s post. He and Kyle Humboldt were legendary for their perverted links. Usually, I ignored them, but this time, when I saw
You have to check this out
, I clicked it. The realization that I couldn’t delete what popped up—that Taylor and her rainbow underpants were on display for the whole world to see—made me nauseous.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone because someone behind me gasped. “What in the
world
…?”

I jumped a foot in the air. “Oh my God! Are you
spying
on me?”

My mother gasped again, leaning in for a closer look. “Is that
you
?”

“No!” I made a crazy attempt to cover Taylor with both hands before realizing all I had to do was press a button and the window would disappear.

“Well, are you … was that…” My mother grasped for words. “What I mean to say is … it’s perfectly natural for you to be curious about—”

“Oh my
God
,” I moaned, realizing what she was getting at. “You think I’m looking at
porn
? … Gross! It’s Taylor, okay?”

“Taylor?”

“I told you last night, she got a little drunk at the dance. That’s why I called Ruthie.”

The bare minimum. That’s what I’d given my parents when I got home. Just enough to get them off my back.

Now my mother was folding her arms across her chest, waiting.

“Okay,” I conceded. “She wasn’t a little drunk. She was a lot drunk. She passed out, and a bunch of guys took pictures of her and now someone posted them on MyPage. You can’t tell it’s her because she’s wearing a mask, but I know it is because I saw it happen and … I can’t believe I’m telling you this!”

My mother’s expression changed from shocked to disdainful. “I knew something like this would happen … with the amount of alcohol in that house … and the irresponsible parenting….”

“What are you
talking
about?”

My mother sighed. “Let’s just say that Bree LeFevre is not exactly a role model when it comes to drinking. And with Taylor’s poor judgment, not to mention poor self-esteem, something like this was bound to—”

“Oh my God!” I stared at her. “Are you blaming
Taylor
for what these guys did to her?”

My mother wrapped her bathrobe more tightly around her waist. “Of course I’m not
blaming
Taylor. I’m just making the point that—”

“Well,
don’t
, Mom. Okay? Don’t make points about things you know nothing about. You don’t know these guys. You don’t know anything!”

With that, I sprang to a stand, roughly pushed the swivel chair back under the desk, and marched out of the living room. Because there’s nothing like your mother getting on her high horse to suddenly inspire you to defend your ex-BFF and her stupid choices.

Later, when my mother came up to my room to apologize and to bring me my freshly laundered cat suit, I was still mad. But I had to bite my tongue. I’d promised my father I would make an effort.