Walk the Edge
Page 39
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“No.” Cyrus sobers up. “It’s not, which is what makes it sadly hilarious.”
“Someone want to fill me in?” I ask.
Eli abruptly stands. His chair rocks, then hits the floor. “It means Mom’s mental stability was more fragile than we thought in those last few months.”
His hand hammers the screen door as he leaves and the door comes back and slams into the wood. I glance at the bylaws. Olivia was a lot of things toward the end and one of them was lucid. Eli’s hiding something, and when I peer over at Cyrus, the pensive stare in my direction confirms he’s hiding something, too.
Breanna
THE WORLD HAS an unusual fuzziness to it. A haze I can’t escape. The bell rings, I get up, go to class. My teachers talk. My friends talk. People around me talk. I stare at the desk. The bell rings again. It’s an endless cycle until the day ends.
I’m grasping for some sense of normal. Anything that happened before eight this morning. Before Kyle sat in the seat across from me in the library. Before he slid his phone in my direction. Before I saw my entire life crumbling.
Whore.
Slut.
My privacy is being completely and utterly violated. That picture—it violates me. It’s taking a private moment and exposing it to the world. It’s painting pictures that people will gossip and laugh about forever.
A Reign of Terror biker between my legs and my skirt riding up. I was smiling. He was smiling. Nothing happened, but that photo suggests something entirely different.
It’s my fault. I threw out into the universe that I wanted to be seen. That I wanted to be more than the quiet friend of Reagan and Addison. That I wanted to be known as more than the freakishly smart girl in seventh grade. I wanted to be seen and the entire world is going to see me in a way that causes me to slowly wither and die.
“You okay?” Liam comes to a rolling stop at the intersection near our house.
“Yeah.” But I’m not. “Why did Mom send you to pick me up?”
“She said you needed a ride. I’m guessing what she really needs is for me to drive someone someplace.” There’s an edge to his voice. He’s been angry since he saw me climbing into Reagan’s car. The stink part of this is that he’s mad at me and I’m not the one who dragged him out of bed after he worked third shift at the distribution warehouse.
Mom calls Liam when she requires extra help. One day, he’s going to snap or leave.
“I should have never let them talk me into community college,” he mumbles. Community college is still an hour’s hike from here. Yep, he’s definitely going to move away and never return. Like our oldest sister and brother have done.
“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not that you aren’t normally quiet, but this time you’re quiet and heavy. Plus with the way you’re gripping it, you’re going to poke a hole in that backpack.”
I stretch my fingers. “I need to talk to Mom and Dad.”
“Leave Dad alone,” says Liam. “Work is killing him.”
He’s right. Either Dad wins over this new client or the company falls into bankruptcy. Half the town works for Dad’s employer. There’s no pressure there.
All day I’ve run through the countless possible ways I can make what has happened okay. So, Mom, I lied and I’m sorry and I need you to be okay with what I’ve done because there’s this boy and he’s blackmailing me. He’s going to show everyone a picture if I don’t write his papers and I need help because I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to fix any of this...and please don’t tell anyone. Not Reagan’s parents and definitely not Addison’s.
Addison. My breath catches in my throat and my hand settles at the hollow of my neck in an effort to halt the choking sensation. If I beg my parents for help, will they tell Addison’s parents what we did? And if they do, what new bruises will appear because I’m weak?
My chest hurts as I try to inhale. This situation isn’t fixable. None of it is. I’ll miss any chance to attend college. To win a scholarship. Mom and Dad will be disappointed. They’ll be angry. Addison and Reagan will pay for my sins.
But I don’t know what to do. This problem...this picture...Kyle...this is bigger than me.
“Is it true that once something’s on the internet, it remains on the internet?” I ask. Liam likes computers. He’s the one who prevents our household from plummeting into the dark ages.
“Once it’s out there, it never goes away,” he says.
“But what if you delete it?”
Liam pulls into our drive. “The moment it’s on the net, it’s cached someplace. Doesn’t take anyone with half a brain to find it.”
“Even pictures?”
“It’s worse if it’s a picture. People copy stuff all the time. It’s like ants at a picnic. You can kill one, but fifty of them are right behind.”
He shifts the car into Park, then his face wrinkles as if he realized he was strolling in a thunderstorm without an umbrella. “Why?”
If I speak, I’ll cry, and if I cry, I’ll lose my courage. Mom. I need Mom.
I’m out of the car, leaving my backpack in the seat and the passenger door gaping. I burst into the kitchen and my heart stalls. The floor is littered with luggage and cardboard boxes of Clara’s stuff. What bothers me is that Mom’s suitcase is in the mix.
The swinging door from the living room opens and Mom rushes in like she’s fleeing out-of-control flames. Her arms are filled with various items on the verge of spilling onto the floor.
“Someone want to fill me in?” I ask.
Eli abruptly stands. His chair rocks, then hits the floor. “It means Mom’s mental stability was more fragile than we thought in those last few months.”
His hand hammers the screen door as he leaves and the door comes back and slams into the wood. I glance at the bylaws. Olivia was a lot of things toward the end and one of them was lucid. Eli’s hiding something, and when I peer over at Cyrus, the pensive stare in my direction confirms he’s hiding something, too.
Breanna
THE WORLD HAS an unusual fuzziness to it. A haze I can’t escape. The bell rings, I get up, go to class. My teachers talk. My friends talk. People around me talk. I stare at the desk. The bell rings again. It’s an endless cycle until the day ends.
I’m grasping for some sense of normal. Anything that happened before eight this morning. Before Kyle sat in the seat across from me in the library. Before he slid his phone in my direction. Before I saw my entire life crumbling.
Whore.
Slut.
My privacy is being completely and utterly violated. That picture—it violates me. It’s taking a private moment and exposing it to the world. It’s painting pictures that people will gossip and laugh about forever.
A Reign of Terror biker between my legs and my skirt riding up. I was smiling. He was smiling. Nothing happened, but that photo suggests something entirely different.
It’s my fault. I threw out into the universe that I wanted to be seen. That I wanted to be more than the quiet friend of Reagan and Addison. That I wanted to be known as more than the freakishly smart girl in seventh grade. I wanted to be seen and the entire world is going to see me in a way that causes me to slowly wither and die.
“You okay?” Liam comes to a rolling stop at the intersection near our house.
“Yeah.” But I’m not. “Why did Mom send you to pick me up?”
“She said you needed a ride. I’m guessing what she really needs is for me to drive someone someplace.” There’s an edge to his voice. He’s been angry since he saw me climbing into Reagan’s car. The stink part of this is that he’s mad at me and I’m not the one who dragged him out of bed after he worked third shift at the distribution warehouse.
Mom calls Liam when she requires extra help. One day, he’s going to snap or leave.
“I should have never let them talk me into community college,” he mumbles. Community college is still an hour’s hike from here. Yep, he’s definitely going to move away and never return. Like our oldest sister and brother have done.
“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not that you aren’t normally quiet, but this time you’re quiet and heavy. Plus with the way you’re gripping it, you’re going to poke a hole in that backpack.”
I stretch my fingers. “I need to talk to Mom and Dad.”
“Leave Dad alone,” says Liam. “Work is killing him.”
He’s right. Either Dad wins over this new client or the company falls into bankruptcy. Half the town works for Dad’s employer. There’s no pressure there.
All day I’ve run through the countless possible ways I can make what has happened okay. So, Mom, I lied and I’m sorry and I need you to be okay with what I’ve done because there’s this boy and he’s blackmailing me. He’s going to show everyone a picture if I don’t write his papers and I need help because I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to fix any of this...and please don’t tell anyone. Not Reagan’s parents and definitely not Addison’s.
Addison. My breath catches in my throat and my hand settles at the hollow of my neck in an effort to halt the choking sensation. If I beg my parents for help, will they tell Addison’s parents what we did? And if they do, what new bruises will appear because I’m weak?
My chest hurts as I try to inhale. This situation isn’t fixable. None of it is. I’ll miss any chance to attend college. To win a scholarship. Mom and Dad will be disappointed. They’ll be angry. Addison and Reagan will pay for my sins.
But I don’t know what to do. This problem...this picture...Kyle...this is bigger than me.
“Is it true that once something’s on the internet, it remains on the internet?” I ask. Liam likes computers. He’s the one who prevents our household from plummeting into the dark ages.
“Once it’s out there, it never goes away,” he says.
“But what if you delete it?”
Liam pulls into our drive. “The moment it’s on the net, it’s cached someplace. Doesn’t take anyone with half a brain to find it.”
“Even pictures?”
“It’s worse if it’s a picture. People copy stuff all the time. It’s like ants at a picnic. You can kill one, but fifty of them are right behind.”
He shifts the car into Park, then his face wrinkles as if he realized he was strolling in a thunderstorm without an umbrella. “Why?”
If I speak, I’ll cry, and if I cry, I’ll lose my courage. Mom. I need Mom.
I’m out of the car, leaving my backpack in the seat and the passenger door gaping. I burst into the kitchen and my heart stalls. The floor is littered with luggage and cardboard boxes of Clara’s stuff. What bothers me is that Mom’s suitcase is in the mix.
The swinging door from the living room opens and Mom rushes in like she’s fleeing out-of-control flames. Her arms are filled with various items on the verge of spilling onto the floor.
