Authors: Eileen Cook
With Malice (10 page)
“Are you okay?” He looked rattled.
I felt like I was going to throw up. Everything hurt, and I was shaking. “Whatâ” I couldn't finish the sentence.
“I am so sorry,” Sam said. “I had no idea there would be reporters here.”
I thought of the stories I'd seen online. I cringed. I could already imagine how I would look in the photos, sweaty, blotchy, my baggy sweatpants likely making me look like a fat lump. As soon as I had the thought, I was embarrassed. How I looked in a picture didn't matter. Simone was dead.
“It was a mistake to go outside,” Sam said. He touched my shoulder, hand, and leg cast over and over, as if he wanted to assure himself that I was still in one piece. It bothered me that he seemed flustered. It was his job to be in control, to make me feel better. I shouldn't have to reassure him. “I just thought the weather was so niceâ”
“I want to go back to my room,” I said, cutting him off.
“Sure,” Sam said. He pushed my chair past the group of people who were standing in the lobby staring at me. Once we were in the room, he helped me into bed. “I'll send an email to the rest of your team and let them know what happened. We'll talk to security and make sure you're not bothered like that again.”
I nodded and willed him to leave.
“Do you want me to see if Dr. Weeks can squeeze you in this afternoon?” Sam offered. “Maybe talk it over?”
I wanted to scream for him to get out and let me be alone, but if I lost it, he would be even more likely to stick around. Hovering. “No. I'm fine. Just tired.”
Sam stood in the door, hesitating. “I really am sorry,” he said.
“It's fine,” I said, my tone implying it was anything but okay. “I'll rest for a bit.” I glanced over at the window and imagined the guy outside with a zoom lens. “Can you close theâ” I concentrated, but it was still blank. “The window coverings?”
Sam leaped into action as if he'd been waiting to be assigned a task. He crossed the room and pulled the curtains shut with a yank.
I made myself count to sixty after he left, just in case he came back in, but he was gone. I spun the combination on the locked drawer next to my bed and pulled out my MacBook Air.
The door flew open, and I almost dropped the laptop onto the floor. Anna rolled in. “Holy shitâI heard the paparazzi attacked you.”
“It was one guy; it wasn't exactly a pack.”
“Stalked by the media. You're like Kim Kardashian, only without the ass.” She held up a hand. “I mean that as a compliment,” she clarified.
“It was scary,” I admitted. I could feel my lower lip shaking.
Anna's face turned serious. “Sorry. I didn't mean to act like a spaz. You okay?”
“I thought the story wouldn't be a big deal anymore,” I admitted. “But if they sent someone to take a picture of me, that's pretty serious, isn't it?” Anna didn't answer. “The reporter made a comment about my dad buying people off to get me out of Italy.”
“Did he?”
I shrugged. “I don't think so, not like in a come-here-and-take-this-envelope-of-cash kind of way, but would he throw some money around and make a lot of noise? Probably. It wasn't like my dad was trying to keep me out of trouble. He just wanted me home.”
Anna glanced at my laptop. “You planning to look up what they're saying about you?”
I hesitated. Dr. Weeks had told me not to, that it was a distraction, and I'd managed to avoid the Internet for the past couple of days. “Is it a mistake?”
“Probably,” Anna said. “Smart thing would be to work on getting better. You know they're not saying anything good. There's nothing to be gained from torturing yourself by reading it.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Anna rolled over to my bed. “Don't let me stop you. It's not like I ever did the smart thing.” She nudged me over and pulled herself up onto the bed using the metal rail.
I flipped the lid open, and the laptop lit up. I paused for a second before typing my own name into the Google bar. Even though I'd been expecting it, I was still surprised to see the list of stories appear. There were way more than there had been last time I'd looked. They kept scrolling down the page. It made me feel lightheaded.
“Click on that one.” Anna's finger, tipped with chipped black polish, picked out the
Justice for Simone
blog.
When the link opened, it took me a minute to recognize myself. There was a large photo of Simone and me. It was from last Halloween. Simone had picked out our costumes. I'd been a slutty nurse. By the time the photo was taken, I'd already ditched most of the costume and was only wearing the tight white dress, not much longer than a shirt. I was holding a fake knife at Simone's throat, and she was making a goofy expression. There had been a party at Sophie's house. You could see a stack of empty beer cans behind us. I hadn't even wanted to go to the party; it had been Simone's idea. I wanted to go back in time and throw a blanket over myself. How had she talked me into wearing that out?
CHILLY JILLY WITH SIMONE IN HAPPIER TIMES
I speed-read through the article. There was no mention of the fact that the picture was taken at Halloween. They'd let the reader think I was the kind of person who dressed like a whore and carried a knife that I brandished at friends. They made it sound like I drank all the time and slept around, and they hinted that I might have been into drugs, too. When I finished the article, I wanted to chuck the computer.
“âChilly Jilly?'” Anna asked. The article made a big deal out of the nickname, implying that I was called that because I was frigid and cold-hearted.
“It caught on in middle school,” I explained. “Simone was always the drama queen and I was always super calm, so people called me that. That's all it meant. It's not that I don't freak out, tooâI just like to do it in private.” I wondered who had even mentioned the nickname to the blog. I didn't like the idea of people I knew talking about me.
“So who is the guy they mention? The one you were crazy for in theory?”
I skimmed the article again, but there wasn't any real information. “I don't know. The reporter outside mentioned a name, but I forgot it.”
Anna pulled the computer back onto her lap and clicked around. “Found him. Damn, he's hot.” She tilted the screen so I could see it better.
Niccolo Landini. The large photo of him looked like a shot from an Italian
Vogue
magazineâslicked-back hair, smoldering eyes. The smaller shot showed him being led inside a police station, his arm up trying to block some of the cameras.
I stared at the photo, waiting to see if the sight of it would bring something back, but there was nothing. It was a picture of a stranger, as far as I could tell. I closed my eyes, and there was a flash, the feeling of someone's hot mouth pressing down on mine. His rough whiskers scratching my skin, marking me. I could feel myself straining toward him as if I wanted to crawl inside him, be a part of his flesh. My eyes flew open. I felt flustered like I'd been caught doing something. Was it a memory or just wishful thinking? I couldn't imagine recording that in my phone to hash over with Dr. Weeks.
He didn't look like anyone I would go out with. He looked like the kind of guy who wouldn't even notice me. I'd only had one boyfriend before, and calling Josh a boyfriend was generous, as it was only a few kisses behind the canoe storage cabin at camp the summer of my junior year. The article said that Simone and I had fought over Nico, that people in the program said we'd had a screaming match about how I was ditching her to be with him.
They always talk about how teens are supposed to be slaves to our sex drive, that we're walking hormones, but I've never been like that. When everyone was falling in and out of love with some random guy they sat next to in history, I never felt swoony or envious. It seemed a waste. Guys, or at least the ones I'd met, didn't seem worth the bother. There were so many other things that interested me more. I wondered at one point if I might be gay, but I didn't feel some huge wave of longing when I thought about girls, either. I found guys attractive, but I just couldn't bring myself to care that much.
I'd cried a few times when Josh and I broke up after camp, but it felt more like what I was supposed to do than actual despair. If I was honest, I felt almost relieved. I wouldn't have to keep that charade going. First love. Check. Dumped. Check. Moving on. Check. The entire situation with Josh felt like something that I had to get out of the way. At least now I wasn't the person who'd never had a boyfriend. Since then, there hadn't been anyone I'd even had a crush on. Post-Josh I went back to my role, which was listening to Simone talk about her love life. I was the observer. I didn't bother with messy relationships. I preferred crushes on unattainable peopleâactors, musicians, or characters in books. Fictional boyfriends were way more satisfying, in my experience. They almost always said the right thing, and when you got bored with them, you just put them back on the shelf.
This Italian guy even had a stupid name. How could I be in love with someone named Nico?
Anna was still clicking around on different stories. I caught a few lines here and there, but I didn't have the stomach to read further. They all implied the same thing: I was a slutty, rich bitch who killed my best friend over a guy, then got my parents to rescue me. There was an interview with a psychologist on the
Justice for Simone
site. She talked about how people described me as aloof and cold. She made it sound like evidence that I could be a psychopath, devoid of any empathy. She also made a big deal of a quote that I had on Facebook from the book
The Talented Mr. Ripley,
implying that “people like me” often have a fascination with those who killed. She didn't mention that the book was on our extended suggested reading list for English. She acted like I had posters of John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, and Ted Bundy hanging in my bedroom, all adorned with lipstick kisses.
“You should have talked to the reporter outside,” Anna said.
“Why?”
“He's going to tell a storyâyou might as well give him one that is favorable to you. If not, he's just going to fill the space with other stuff.” Anna clicked from story to story.
I pulled my sleeves over my hands and thought it over. “It's not worth the risk. They're just as likely to twist my words around, make me sound worse.”
Anna cocked her head. “I'm not sure they can make you sound worse.”
I shook my head. “I'm not good at that stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Making people like me,” I said. Simone was the charmer. She was the one people picked to be team captain, voted for on the prom court, the one people sought out to come to their parties. I was the added bonus. If you wanted Simone, you also got me. Like the tiny bottle of conditioner that came free when you bought a nice bottle of shampoo. I tended to say the wrong thingâsomething I meant as a joke would come out wrong or I'd make a reference that no one else would get and then I'd feel awkward and end up just being quiet. But I didn't care, because Simone got me. We were a team. I didn't need to be popular with a wide group of people.
But I didn't like being
this
unpopular. I shut the lid of the laptop to keep Anna from pulling up any more stories. “It doesn't matter. None of this is true. Once they prove that, it won't matter what people are saying.”
Anna looked at me as if I were delusional. “It doesn't matter what's trueâwhat matters is what people believe.”
I shrugged, pretending I didn't care.
Anna swung herself back into her chair. “Your funeral.”