One of Us Is Next: Part 1 – Chapter 8

Phoebe

Friday, February 28

I send the texts to Jules rapid fire on Friday afternoon, one after the other.

You’ve been busy huh?

Feel like doing something tonight?

I have to work but only till 8.

Want to meet me there?

Then I sit on the edge of my bed, gazing around the room I share with Emma. It’s smaller than the bedroom I had to myself in our old house, and crammed with twice as much stuff. Mom got a worker’s comp settlement from Dad’s company when he died, and while she never talked about how much it was, I thought it was enough. Enough that she wouldn’t have to go back to work unless she wanted to, and we could stay where we were.

Now Mom works at an office manager job she hates, and we live here. When we moved last summer, she told us that downsizing to an apartment was about convenience, not money. But nobody except Owen believed her.

I get up and wander to Emma’s side of the room, which is pristine compared to mine. Her bed is neatly made, every wrinkle smoothed away from the scalloped white coverlet. There’s nothing on her desk except the laptop we share, a coffee mug filled with colored pencils, and a notebook with a Monet print on the cover. I have a sudden urge to open the notebook and scrawl a message in the most apologetic color I can find. Pale pink, maybe. Emma, I miss you. I’ve been missing you for years. Just tell me how to make this up to you and I’ll do it.

Emma is at the library, and even though we’re barely speaking the emptiness of our room almost tempts me to knock on Owen’s door and offer to play Bounty Wars. I’m saved by the chime of my phone and glance down in surprise to a return text from Jules. She’s been cool toward me ever since the Derek reveal, and I wasn’t expecting a quick response.

Is that thing tonight? With Cooper Clay and everybody?

Yeah, around 6. It’ll be packed, though. You probably want to avoid that scene and just come at 8 when I get off.

The pre–Ashton’s bachelorette party get-together at Café Contigo started spiraling out of control once people heard Cooper might be there. Dozens of Bayview students who don’t even know him are saying they’re going now, and I’m not sure the Santoses are ready for that kind of crowd.

Will Nate be there?

I sigh as I text back, Probably. Guess I’ll be seeing her a lot earlier than eight o’clock.

My phone rings, startling me. Jules wants to FaceTime. I hit Accept and her face fills the screen, grinning expectantly. “Heyyy,” she says, sounding like her usual self. “Do you have time for a wardrobe consult?”

“Of course.”

“Which of these says, I’m way more fun than your ex and I live right here? This…” Jules holds up a plunging sequined tank top and waves it for a few seconds, then drops it and picks up a black ruffled halter. “Or this?”

Ugh. I don’t want to encourage Jules in her Nate Macauley obsession. Even if Bronwyn weren’t still in the picture, I’m pretty sure he and Jules would be a terrible pairing. Jules likes to be joined at the hip with whoever she dates, and I don’t think that’s Nate’s style at all. “They’re both gorgeous,” I say. Jules pouts, so that’s obviously the wrong answer. “But if I had to choose, the black.” It’s a little less revealing, anyway.

“All right, the black it is,” she says breezily. “I’m going to watch some makeup videos and try to nail a smoky eye. See you tonight!” She waves and disconnects.

I toss my phone onto my rumpled comforter—it’s balled up in the middle of my bed because I’m such a restless sleeper, especially lately—and grab an elastic from my end table. I pull my hair into a ponytail as I stand and cross to the bedroom door. When I yank it open, Owen almost tumbles inside.

“Owen!” I pull my ponytail tighter and narrow my eyes at him. “Were you eavesdropping?” Rhetorical question; he totally was. The longer my cold war with Emma goes on, the worse of a snoop Owen becomes. As though he knows something isn’t right, and he’s trying to figure out what it is.

“No,” Owen says unconvincingly. “I was just…” A loud knock sounds on the front door, and he gets a total saved by the bell look on his face. “Going to tell you that someone’s at the door.”

“Sure you were,” I say, and then I frown when the knock sounds again. “Weird. I didn’t hear the intercom.” I’m assuming it’s some kind of delivery, but normally we have to buzz people through the front door before they can come upstairs. “Did you?”

“No,” Owen says. “Are you going to answer it?”

“Let me see who it is.” I cross the living room and press one eye against the peephole. The face on the other side is distorted, but still irritatingly familiar. “Ugh. You have got to be kidding me.”

Owen hovers beside me. “Who is it?”

“Go to your room, okay?” He doesn’t move, and I give him a gentle shove. “Just for a few minutes, and then I’ll come play Bounty Wars with you.”

Owen grins. “All right!” He scoots away, and I wait to hear the click of his bedroom door before undoing the deadbolt.

The door swings open to reveal Brandon Weber in the hallway, a lazy smirk on his face. “Took you long enough,” he says, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, suddenly all too aware of the fact that I took my bra off when I got home from school. “What are you doing here? Who let you into the building?”

“Some grandma was coming out when I got here.” Of course. That’s how the world works when you’re Brandon Weber; doors just open up whenever you want them to. He looms over me, way too close, and I step back as he asks, “How come you’re not answering my texts?”

“Are you for real?” I scan his pretty, pouty face for a hint of comprehension, but there’s nothing. “You laughed at me, Brandon. Sean was being a total creep, and you joined right in.”

“Oh come on. It was a joke. Can’t you take a joke?” He moves closer again, putting one hand on my waist. His fingers dig into my thin T-shirt, and his lips curl into a smug smile. “I thought you liked to have fun.”

I push him away, anger buzzing through my veins. I’ve been the bad guy all week: the one who betrayed her sister and deserves whatever she gets in return. It’s almost a relief to be mad at someone besides myself for a change. “Don’t touch me,” I snap. “We’re done.”

“You don’t mean that.” He’s still smiling, clueless as ever. He thinks this is a game, one where he makes all the rules and I’m lucky just to get a chance at playing. “I miss you. Wanna see how much?” He tries to move my hand toward his crotch, and I yank it back.

“Knock it off. I’m not interested.”

His face darkens as he pulls me toward him again, harder than before. “Don’t be a tease.”

For the first time since he arrived, I feel a spark of apprehension. I’ve always liked how strong Brandon is, but right now—I don’t. I’m still angry, though, and use that adrenaline to wrench out of his grasp. “Really? Let me see if I have this straight. If I do what you want, I’m a slut. If I don’t do what you want, I’m a tease. What I want doesn’t count, but you’re the big man at Bayview no matter what. Does that about sum it up?”

Brandon snorts. “What are you, some kind of feminazi now?”

I bite back another angry retort. There’s no point. “Just leave, Brandon.”

Instead, he lunges forward and mashes his lips against mine, sending a wave of horrified shock through my entire body. My hands are up in an instant and I press against his chest with all my strength, but his arms snake around my waist, anchoring me in place. I twist my head and almost spit to get the taste of him out of my mouth. “Stop it! I said no!” My voice comes out as a low hiss because somehow, even though my heart is about to pound out of my chest, I’m still worried about scaring Owen.

Brandon doesn’t listen. His hands and his mouth are everywhere, and I don’t know how to make him stop. I’ve never felt so small, in every possible way.

He forces another kiss on me, moving his body just enough that I can get an arm free. I keep my lips pressed tightly together against his probing tongue, reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair. I pull his head backward, then let go and slap him as hard as I can across the face. He lets out a surprised grunt of pain and loosens his grip. I twist away and shove him with enough force to make him stumble backward. “Get out!” This time I scream, the words scraping raw and rough across my dry throat.

Brandon stares at me, slack-jawed with shock, my handprint seared red across his pale cheek. His mouth twists and I take a step back, poised to run I don’t even know where, when Owen’s door bursts open. “Phoebe?” He pokes his head around the door frame, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Brandon was just leaving.”

Brandon barks out a bitter laugh, his eyes flicking from me to Owen. “What’s up, little man?” he says, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “Nothing to see here. Just your sister being a whore. But I guess your family knows all about that, right? Especially Emma.” I inhale sharply and clench my fist, my sore palm stinging with an almost overwhelming urge to hit him again. Brandon’s eyes gleam, his parting shot landed. He opens the door and lifts one hand in a jaunty wave. “See you around, Phoebe.” Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and backs down the hallway, his eyes never leaving my face.

I slam the door shut and click the deadbolt. After that I can’t seem to move, my hand frozen on the lock. “Phoebe?” Owen asks, his voice small.

My forehead presses against the closed door. I can’t. I cannot have this conversation with my little brother. “Go back to your room.”

“Are you—”

“Go back to your room, Owen. Please.” I hear footsteps and a soft click. I wait another beat until I let the tears fall.

None of this would be happening if Dad were here. I know it, down to my core, that I’d be a better, smarter, stronger person if he hadn’t died. I remember that day like it was yesterday: me and Emma both home sick with the flu, curled on opposite sides of the couch in our old house, covered in blankets. Mom was in the kitchen getting us Popsicles when her phone rang. I heard her harried Hello—we were starting to wear her out at that point—and then she went silent. “Is it serious?” she finally asked, in a voice I’d never heard before.

She appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, clutching her phone in one hand and a half-melted Popsicle in the other. “I have to leave you for a little while,” she said in that same robotic tone. Purple liquid dripped down one arm. “There’s been an accident.”

A horrible, impossible, nightmare of a freak accident. My dad used to work as a supervisor at a granite manufacturing plant in Eastland, directing workers as they maneuvered giant slabs of stone to be cut into countertops. A forklift carrying one jammed at exactly the wrong moment—and that was all the detail I ever wanted to know. Nothing else mattered, anyway, except the fact that he was gone.

“I miss you,” I say against the door. My eyes are squeezed shut, my cheeks wet, my breathing ragged. “I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.” The words are a drumbeat in my head, still steady after three years. I don’t think they’ll ever go away. “I miss you.”

It’s a relief to be at work that night, surrounded by people. And I do mean surrounded: I’ve never seen Café Contigo so crowded. Not only is every table full, but Mr. Santos brought out all the extra chairs that are usually stored in the basement and it’s still not enough. People are standing in groups against either side of the wall, shuffling back and forth as I weave through them with a drink-laden tray for Addy and her friends.

I push through the beaded curtain that separates the back room from the main restaurant. There’s only one large table here, more than half-filled with familiar faces: Addy, Maeve, Bronwyn, Luis, and Cooper. A handsome, dark-haired boy gets up from beside Cooper as I approach the table and stretches his hand toward my tray with a questioning look. “Can I help?” he asks. “Will it mess you up if I start taking these off?”

I smile at him. I’ve never met Cooper’s boyfriend, Kris, but I recognize him from press photos, and I like him instantly. He must have waited tables himself at some point, if he knows the importance of a balanced tray. “From the middle is great,” I say.

The room is supposed to be private, but as Kris and I pass drinks around, people keep trickling in and craning their necks at Cooper. Most of them duck right back out, but a group of girls linger beside the entry, whispering to one another behind their hands until they dissolve into near-hysterical giggles.

“Sorry this is so weird,” Cooper murmurs as I hand him a glass of Coke. I haven’t seen Cooper in person since he graduated last year, and I can’t fault the entryway girls for being star-struck. His hair is longer and attractively tousled, he’s very tan, and he fills out his white Cal Fullerton T-shirt impossibly well. Looking straight at him is a little like staring into the sun.

“Well, you’re Bayview’s favorite boy,” Kris says, settling himself back down beside Cooper. Cooper takes his hand, but his expression is preoccupied and a little tense.

“Now, maybe,” he says. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”

I don’t blame him for not trusting all the adoration. I remember how some people treated him when they learned he was gay—not just kids at Bayview High, but adults who should’ve known better. Cooper’s been keeping most of the asshole comments at bay since spring training by being almost perfect every time he pitches. The pressure must be unbelievable. Eventually he’s going to have to lose, because nobody can win forever. What happens then?

The boldest girl in the group of gigglers approaches Cooper. “Can I have your autograph?” She hands him a Sharpie, then puts one foot on the bottom rung of Cooper’s chair and turns so her thigh, bare beneath a short skirt, is angled in front of him. “Right there.”

“Um.” Cooper looks completely flummoxed as Addy stifles a laugh. “Could I just…sign a napkin or something?” he asks.

I’m in and out of the room as it fills up, bringing more drinks and snacks that seem to disappear as soon as I put them down. “How’s everyone doing back there?” Addy asks when I’m on my fifth trip from the kitchen.

“Great, except Manny’s dropped, like, three orders of empanadas so far,” I say, setting a plate between her and Bronwyn. “Here’s the lone survivor. Enjoy.”

Maeve is seated on Bronwyn’s other side, wearing a scoop-neck black T-shirt that’s more fitted than what she usually goes for, and really flattering. It has a cute design that looks like a bouquet of flowers at first but is actually a bunch of cartoony little monsters. I can’t stop checking it out. Neither can Luis, although I’m pretty sure our reasons are different.

But Maeve doesn’t notice either of us, because she keeps staring at the entryway. I follow her gaze as the beads part once again and Nate Macauley walks through. The only empty chair remaining is all the way at the other end of the table, until Maeve jumps up. “You look like you could use some help, Phoebe,” she says, moving quickly to my side. I don’t, but I let her grab a random assortment of silverware off the table anyway.

Nate sits in Maeve’s vacated chair, brushing his knuckles against Bronwyn’s arm. When she turns, her entire face lights up. “Hi,” she says, at the same time Nate goes, “Hey,” and then he says, “You look—” while Bronwyn says, “I was hoping—” They stop and smile at one another, and all I can think is that Jules has no shot whatsoever. Nate leans closer to Bronwyn to say something in her ear, and she turns her entire body toward him when she laughs in response. She brushes at his jacket like there’s something on it, which is the oldest trick in the book. It totally works when he catches hold of her hand and wow, that did not take long at all. I’m about to turn away and give them some privacy when another voice rings out.

“Whew, it is packed in here!” A nerdy-hipster-looking boy in an ice-blue polo shirt stands beside the beads, fanning himself as he glances around the room. It’s Evan Neiman, Bronwyn’s ex-boyfriend, who as far as I know wasn’t invited to this little get-together. Evan spots the last empty chair and drags it as close to Bronwyn as he can manage. “Hey, you,” he says, leaning across the table with a moony grin. “I made it.”

Bronwyn freezes like a deer in headlights, eyes wide behind her glasses. “Evan? What are you doing here?” she asks. All the animation leaves Nate’s face as he drops her hand and tips his chair backward. Bronwyn licks her lips. “Why aren’t you in Pasadena?”

“I couldn’t miss the chance to see you again before you leave,” Evan says.

Nate returns his chair to the floor with a bang. “Again?” he asks, with a pointed look toward Bronwyn. He doesn’t look mad, exactly, but he does look hurt. Bronwyn’s eyes dart between him and Evan, who keeps beaming like there’s no tension in the room whatsoever. I can’t tell if he’s clueless or diabolical. “Besides, you left your sunglasses in my car,” Evan adds, holding up a bright blue rectangle like a trophy.

Maeve is standing beside me, frantically wiping a napkin across a clean knife. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she mutters.

I tug the knife from her hand. “They do that in the kitchen, you know.”

“Please take me there,” she whispers. “I can’t watch.”

I give her my tray and we move toward the door, but pause when a hand whisks the beads to one side and a girl enters. I don’t recognize Jules at first; she’s really rocking whatever smoky eye tutorial she watched. Her dark hair is flat-ironed and she’s wearing the sequined tank top with a pair of skintight jeans and high-heeled sandals. Objectively, I have to admit that her boobs look amazing in that shirt. “Hey, Ju—” I start, but she puts her finger to her lips.

She crosses a few feet to the table. Nate has pushed his chair away like he’s about to get up, but Jules stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Before he can move, she straddles him so that she’s sitting on his lap, her chest pressed against his, and then she grabs his face between both of her hands and kisses him. Hard and deep, for what feels like ages although it can’t be more than a few seconds. I hope. A light flashes at the other end of the room, and I catch sight of Monica holding up her phone as she leans through the beaded curtain.

Nobody reacts until Jules gets up as quickly as she sat down, flipping her hair and turning toward the exit. Then Nate slowly wipes a layer of Jules’s lip gloss from his mouth with a bemused expression. Cooper looks worried, and Addy looks furious. Bronwyn looks like she’s about to cry. And Evan Neiman is grinning like he just won the lottery.

I let out a yelp of pain as Maeve drops the serving tray she was holding onto my foot. Jules catches my eye, and before she slips through the beads she gives me an exaggerated, triumphant wink.

Always take the Dare, she mouths at me.

Friday, March 6