Sloth (2 page)

“Haven High!
 Haven High!
  Haven High!”

Beth Manning did her best to hold back a sigh at the roars of the crowd. When she’d volunteered to organize Senior Spirit Week, she hadn’t taken into account the fact that it
would require so much ... spirit. That meant mustering up some kind of enthusiasm for the place she was most desperate to leave.

But that was her penance, right?

She forced herself to smile as she handed out the carefully crafted info packets to the rest of the Senior Spirit team. Too many tasks and not enough people meant Beth had been up for two days straight pulling things together; despite a morning espresso and a late-morning Red Bull, her energy level was still in the toilet.

“Lets hear it for the senior class!” she shouted now into the microphone, tossing back her long blond hair and aiming a blazing smile out at the crowd. She pumped her fist in the air, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping over her. So she sounded like a cheerleader. So what? “Are you ready for an awesome end to an awesome year?” she cried.

College apps were in. Decisions were pending. Grades were irrelevant. And, as tradition dictated, the senior class was treated to a whirlwind of activity: a senior auction, a community service day, a school spirit day, student-teacher sports challenges—day after day of celebration, kicked off by this inane afternoon rally. An official Haven High welcome to the beginning of the end, capped off by a very unofficial blow-out party.

There’d be a lot of hangovers in the next couple weeks.

And a lot of girls weeping and guys manfully slapping one another on the back as the realization began to sink in: High school came with an expiration date.

It couldn’t arrive soon enough, Beth thought, as she announced the schedule of upcoming activities in the perkiest voice she could muster.

Once, she would have enjoyed all of this. Even the marching band’s off-key rendition of the school song. Even the cheerleaders firing up the crowd and the jocks preening under the spotlight. Especially the jocks—one of them in particular. Beth had been eager for college; she’d spent half her life preparing—studying, working, saving, dreaming—but she hadn’t been eager to leave behind everything and everyone she knew. She would have mourned and celebrated with the rest of them, cheered and shouted and wept and hugged until it was all over.

But that was before.

As she stepped away from the microphone to let the student council president make his speech, Beth’s gaze skimmed across the crowd—until, without meaning to, she locked eyes with Harper. Only for a second. Then a lock of curly auburn hair fell across Harper’s face, hiding it from view, and Beth looked away.

One glance had been enough to confirm it: The queen was back. Her lady-in-waiting Miranda hovered dutifully by her side, and in the row behind them, fallen courtier Adam, angling to get back into his lady’s good graces. It was as if nothing had ever happened, and from the self-assured smile on Harper’s face, Beth could tell that was just the way she liked it. Surely it would only be a matter of time before Harper and Adam picked up where they left off—

Stop,
she reminded herself. She was done with all that bitterness, anger, and—she could admit it now—jealousy. She was better than that. And she owed Harper the benefit of the doubt, even if her former rival could never know why. She owed everyone the benefit of the doubt; that’s what she had decided on that day last month. When
you’ve screwed up everything, not just stepped over but set fire to the line, you needed all the good karma you could get. When you can’t apologize for what you’ve done, and you can’t fix it, all you can do is forgive others, and try to make everything better. And Beth was trying, starting with herself.

Even when it was hard; even when it seemed impossible.

After the accident, things are strange for days. Silent, still, as if a loud voice could break through the fragile frame of reality that they were slowly trying to rebuild. Eyes are rimmed with red, hands tremble, empty spaces sprinkle the classroom—absent faces who couldn’t bear to stare at the chair that will stay empty forever.

Beth wants to stare at the chair in French class, but she sits in the front. So all she can do is tune out the substitute and imagine it behind her. And in her imagination, the seat is filled.

I’m not responsible,
Beth tells herself. It has become her mantra.
Not my fault. Not my fault.

But that feels like a lie. A comforting lie, supported by cool logic and endless rationales, but a lie nonetheless. There are too many what-ifs. What if Harper had been in the school, rather than in the car? What if Kaia had gone inside, rather than drive away? What if Harper hadn’t had such a reason to escape?

Step one to being a better person: Forgive. She sees Adam every day at her locker, and on the fourth day, she talks to him.

”I’m not angry anymore,” she says, wishing that it were true. “I don’t hate you. Life’s too short.”

And it is. But when she looks at him, all she can think about is his bare body on top of Kaia’s, the things they must have done together. And when he beams and hugs her, she can’t forget that he pledged his love, then betrayed her. He slept with Kaia. She can’t forgive that, not really.

Of course, she forgives Kaia, she reminds herself Of course. Next up is Kane.

”Apology accepted,” she says, although he never apologized. He wrecked her life—tricked Adam into dumping her, fooled her into turning to Kane for comfort, trashing her reputation when the truth came out—and he walked away unscathed. Kaia helped. Not because there was anything in it for her; just for the fun of it. Just to see what would happen.

”I hope we can be friends,” Beth says, hoping she never has to speak to him again.

Kane nods and walks away. He knows a lie when he sees it.

Beth smiles as she closes her locker. She smiles as she waves at someone across the hall.

She should start smiling more, she decides. Being a better person is supposed to feel good; she should look the part.

A round of applause snapped Beth back to the present, and she realized it was time to step up to the mic and wrap things up. “Welcome to senior spring,” she announced, her voice nearly lost amid the cheers. “Let s get ready for the best time of our lives!”

“Is everything okay?” Miranda asked again.

Harper nodded, shifting her position on the narrow metal bench. The bleachers couldn’t be very comfortable for her, Miranda suddenly realized, feeling like an idiot. Her leg was still healing, and with a sore neck and back ...

“Do you want to take off?” Miranda asked. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t—”

“I’m fine,” Harper said quietly. She stared straight ahead, as if mesmerized by Beth’s ridiculous speech. A few months ago, the two of them would have been soaking up
every absurd word, adding ammunition to their anti-Beth arsenal. Later Miranda would have them both cracking up over her Beth impersonation, complete with bright smile and frequent hair toss.

Or more likely, they would have skipped the rally altogether, snuck off campus to gossip and complain, then drunk a toast to their high school days drawing to a party-filled close.

Instead, Harper had insisted on attending. It was her first day back, and maybe she’d been looking forward to the crowds and excitement, or maybe she’d just wanted to get it over with; Miranda didn’t know. She hadn’t asked.

“Do you need anything?” she asked instead. “I could get us something to drink, or—”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Miranda, I’m
fine
” Harper snapped. “Can you give it a rest?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No, I’m sorry.” Harper shifted in her seat again, rubbing her lower back. Miranda successfully resisted the urge to comment. “Really.” Harper smiled—and maybe someone who hadn’t been her best friend for almost a decade would have bought it. “I’m just... can we talk about something else? Please.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

No problem; Miranda was used to talking about something else. It’s all they’d been doing since that first day, when Harper had finally agreed to visitors. Miranda had been on her best behavior; and she’d stayed that way.

Among the questions she knew better than to ask:

How do you feel?

What’s it like?

Do you miss her?

What were you on, and why, when you humiliated yourself in front of the whole school?

Why did you get into the car? Where were you going? What really happened?

It had been a long month of unspoken rules, and Miranda was almost grateful for them, as if they were bright flags dotting a minefield, warning her where not to step.

They never spoke Kaia’s name.

They never talked about the fight, the betrayal that Miranda had forgiven the moment her phone rang with the news.

It made things easier. Like now—Miranda knew better than to mention the last time she’d been in this auditorium, shivering in an upper row of the bleachers while student after student somberly spoke of Kaia’s grace and fortitude. Her beauty, her wit, her style—they never mentioned her cruelty or her penchant for causing misery, the way she thrived on other people’s pain. They never mentioned the rumors swirling around her relationship with a certain former French teacher, lying in a hospital bed of his own, Kaia’s fingerprints found at the scene of the apparent crime.

A wreath of flowers had lain at the center of the court, right where the Haven High mascot was currently doing cartwheels to rally the crowd. An enormous photograph of Kaia, bundled up in cashmere with windblown hair and rosy cheeks, had stood behind the podium, where Beth now raised her hands and clasped them in triumph. Kaia’s father had already left town, maybe for good; Harper was
still in the hospital. Miranda had sat alone, trying to force her mind to appreciate the tragedy of wasted youth, to force herself to weep or shake like all those girls who’d never even spoken to Kaia, who knew her only as the newish girl with the Marc Jacobs bag—unlike Miranda, who’d shared drinks with Kaia, shared a limo with Kaia, shared a best friend with Kaia.

Kaia, who was now dead.

That should mean something. It should be a turning point, one of those moments that make you see the world in a new way.

But everything had seemed pretty much the same to Miranda, except that now the second-tier girls had a new strategy for sneaking onto the A-list; they’d been unable to befriend Kaia in life, but now there was nothing to stop them. It was still the same game, and it didn’t interest her.

She’d thought instead about Harper, who, she’d been told, was in stable condition and recovering well. No visitors allowed, patient’s orders.

She’d thought about how strange it was to see her math teacher cry.

She’d thought about whether her chem test that day would be cancelled.

And that was about it.

“So I’ve decided I hate all my clothes,” Miranda said now, plucking at her pale blue T-shirt that had been washed so many times, she could no longer tell when it was inside out. “We’re talking serious fashion emergency—and you know what that means. ...”

Harper didn’t say anything.

“Shopping spree,” Miranda chirped. “You, me, Grace’s
finest clothing stores, and, of course”—she patted her purse—”mom’s gold card.”

A faint smile crept across Harpers face. “I could use some new . . .”

“Everything?” Miranda prompted.

“You know it.” She rolled her eyes. “Not that anything in this town would be worth buying—you know Grace.”

“It s a total fashion—” Miranda cut herself off just in time.
Train wreck,
she’d been about to say. “Wreck” was too close to “collision.” Accident. And that was another thing on the list of what they couldn’t discuss. “Wasteland,” she said instead. “I guess if you want, we could drive down Route 53 and pick up some swank duds at Wal-Mart. . . .”

Harper laughed, and it actually sounded real. “I’ll pass, thanks. Hopefully Classic Rags will have some good stuff, and we can check out—oh.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.” Harper glanced off to the side. “It s just, I’m supposed to go to physical therapy this afternoon . . . but it’s totally stupid. I can just blow it off.”

“No!”

Harper’s eyes widened, and Miranda softened her tone. “I just mean, no, you should go. We can shop anytime. You have to take care of yourself.”

“It’s really no big deal,” Harper argued. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the bleacher seat.

“But you really should—”

“I guess, maybe. . . .”

“Unless there’s some reason you actually want to—”

“Forget it.” Harper stood up, wincing a bit as she put
weight on her left leg. “You’re right, we can shop another time. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Where are you going?” Miranda jumped up from her seat. “I’ll come with you.”