The Other Me Part 24

When we get home, I scoot straight to my bedroom and lock the door. JP shouts his good-byes an hour later. This weekend has been h.e.l.l. I shouldn't have gone to Treasa's: the scrutiny from her father, the third degree from her mother, and Treasa's adoring eyes when she doesn't know the truth, doesn't know I lied to all of them about my mom. It's too much.

Without Jean-Pierre here, the house is back to its regular morgue-like state, with my father pa.s.sed out in a beer coma. For the past three days I've watched my father come alive. He and JP talked about rugby and Mich.e.l.le, they pottered around the garden together, they shared beers, and Dad even laughed. I haven't touched the piano once. Maybe I should've been the one who left.

My brother might be gone, but his words ricochet around my head. I put on Immortal, hoping to drown out everything he's said to me since Thursday. Charging around my room headbanging to the relentless ba.s.s isn't enough. Guilt settles like an anvil in the pit of my stomach, the despair nauseating. This is all my fault. I'm the reason Mom was in the car that night, I'm the reason JP couldn't wait to get out of the house, and I'm the reason Dad can barely even look at me, let alone listen to me play.

I totally get where Treasa's coming from. More often than not, I wish I was someone else too.

Why did she ask me to the dance? I wanted to take things slow. The last thing I need is the pressure of some school dance, all fancy suits and ball gowns and inevitable disappointment when the night isn't the dream event it should be. I don't know why I didn't just say no. Such an idiot. Now she'll think there's still a chance I might say yes. This is a lose-lose situation: say no now and hurt her feelings, or say yes to the dumb dance and disappoint her then, hurting her even more. Either way, Treasa gets less than she deserves.

I retrieve the lighter from my drawer and thumb the spark, watching the flickering flame. Once the metal's hot, I press it into my thigh and hold it down. My flesh sizzles. With my leg smoldering and tears blurring my vision, I thumb the spark wheel, wait for the metal to heat up, and do it again... and again....

Treasa

WHAT'S WRONG WRONG with me that he can't bear to call me his girlfriend or even say yes to a stupid dance? I knew I shouldn't have asked about that alien stuff. He must think I'm a total freak. with me that he can't bear to call me his girlfriend or even say yes to a stupid dance? I knew I shouldn't have asked about that alien stuff. He must think I'm a total freak.

After a.s.sembly-in which the sports prefect gave a heartfelt speech about why Hansie Cronje was a hero and wouldn't ever be involved in anything nefarious-I make a beeline for history, wis.h.i.+ng I could generate a force field like Resa to protect me from the skiff looks. One minute I'm walking, the next my face smacks linoleum and I taste blood. Gillian and crew stand laughing at my expense, my skirt flipped up revealing my ultranerdy Star Trek Star Trek boxers. boxers.

"Now I know why Hannah calls you Scotty," Gillian snickers.

"Aren't those boy's undies?" Gillian's BFF Tanya makes the observation as I struggle to regain composure. My lip is split along the inside where flesh made contact with my metal braces. I pick myself off the floor and glare at them, struggling not to cry.

"Hannah was right." Gillian's face crumples in disgust. "Freak."

Candyce hangs back, and there's pity in her eyes I wish wasn't directed at me. I want so badly to be an alien right now, to distance myself from the human race, to be able to say I'm not one of them. I don't have Resa's superpowers either, so there's no rewinding time or erasing Gillian's memory. Leaving my dignity in shards on the floor, I shoulder my backpack and slink into the bathroom, their laughter echoing down the corridor. Having double-checked the lock on the bathroom door, I sit on the closed toilet and wrap my arms around my legs. I sob. Not dainty little tears that can be rather endearing, no, these are gigantic, shoulder-shaking, snot-spewing convulsions.

I'm so far gone in my saline-soaked misery that I don't hear anyone else in the bathroom until someone knocks on my door.

"Go away," I gasp.

"Treasa, please let me in. I want to help." What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l? It's Candyce.

"Yeah, right." I get my sobs under control and use half a roll of toilet paper to dry my face.

"Please, Treasa."

"Not interested."

I think she'll go away. Instead she walks into the stall next door and closes the toilet lid with an audible clink before sitting down. I glance at her shoes: black baby dolls with scuffed toes.

"I'm sorry about this whole thing with Hannah and Gillian."

"What?" My brain is still fuzzy from crying. My ears must be blocked.

"Truly, this is sort of all my fault. I'm really sorry."

"I don't understand." This must be some cruel joke.

"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?"

"I guess." d.a.m.n, now I'm curious.

"I'm trusting you not to spread more stories."

Ouch, I deserved that. "I promise."

She's quiet for several long moments before she takes a deep breath and starts talking. "That story about Jordan and me fighting over some boy is a total lie. The truth is...." Her feet s.h.i.+ft as if she's squirming. "The truth is that I kissed her at that social in grade seven. It wasn't that I kissed a boy she liked. I kissed her."

My brain goes supernova. All other thoughts have just been obliterated.

"I was too young to really understand, and it just kind of happened. She seemed into it, but then she wasn't." Candyce's voice cracks with emotion I didn't think she possessed. "Later that night, I saw Jordan grabbing some random boy, and she made sure I saw. I was hurt and confused, and that's when all this nonsense started."

I unlock the stall and follow my feet until I'm standing in front of Candyce. Her face is pale and streaked with tears.

"You could've stopped it."

"By what? Admitting I kissed a girl and don't ever want to kiss another boy?"

"You're lesbian?" I stare in disbelief.

"I hate that word. It's like a scarlet letter or a brand or worse."

"I've kissed Jordan." I clamp my mouth shut too late.

She blinks at me a few times before an almost smile tweaks up the corners of her lips. "So you two are together."

"No, oh no. I very much like boys, but we... well, she taught me how to kiss."

Candyce makes frothy noises that are half crying, half giggling, and smoothes back blonde hair from her face. "You learn from the best." She stands up, and I join her at the basin. We both splash water on our faces before I peel back my lower lip to inspect the damage. It's not so bad.

"Hannah doesn't know?" I ask.

"She'll never know." Candyce dries her hands and fixes me with a stare. "Right?"

"I'm not telling anyone. Promise."

"Thanks."

"Are you in love with her?" I ask.

"Jordan?" She considers. "I don't know. I was definitely infatuated for a while, but now I really don't know. I don't know what I feel or should feel." She hangs her head, so sad I almost reach out and hug her, telling her I understand, when a grade eight barges into the bathroom and Candyce departs without another word.

RESA'S HAND HAND left a burning trail down Tristan's chest as his long fingers popped open the b.u.t.tons of Tristan's s.h.i.+rt. Resa gazed at him, a seductive smile playing on his lips. "You're beautiful." left a burning trail down Tristan's chest as his long fingers popped open the b.u.t.tons of Tristan's s.h.i.+rt. Resa gazed at him, a seductive smile playing on his lips. "You're beautiful."

"So are you." Tristan reached a hand toward Resa and tugged him down into a kiss. Resa's hands glowed as they ignited every nerve ending beneath Tristan's skin. Tristan moaned and grabbed Resa's bottom lip with his teeth. Resa chuckled and continued his ministrations, his fingers meandering ever lower toward Tristan's zipper.

I hit save and take a deep breath. My face is burning, and my whole body feels hot. My own fingers wander down to the elastic band of my boxer shorts. In my mind, I'm Tristan staring up at Gabriel, and it's his hand slowly inching between my legs. The fantasy fizzles as I think about Gabriel and what he said about the nonexistent us. He's SMSed me twice since Sunday, both fairly bland messages that might as well have been about the weather, for all they conveyed about the state of our union.

Tuesday night, eight o'clock. Mom's at book club-dop and skinder night, Dad calls it-and it's time for my weekly fix of aliens and Liam St. Clare. Already in pajamas, I make myself some tea and grab a box of Romany Creams, preparing to settle in for an hour of entertainment. Dad's glued to the TV, remote clenched in his fist. Images of a distraught Hansie Cronje fill the screen, and my heart goes out to my dad.

I sit beside him and watch the minutes trickle past eight o'clock. Alien Resa has probably thwarted several government agencies by now. I don't say anything about changing the channel.

"That's it, Resa. It's all over." Dad stares at the screen as the footage replays. Hansie Cronje sacked. Hansie Cronje admits to match fixing. Hansie Cronje dishonored. I might not be the biggest cricket fan, but I can't help feeling upset for the Proteas and for our country. It hurts, watching an idol fall. I never knew the guy personally, and yet I can't help feeling a little betrayed and a lot disappointed.

I offer Dad a Romany Cream, and we crunch through chocolate, not caring about the crumbs.

Leaving Dad with the biscuits, I head back into the kitchen to make him coffee. He probably needs a Scotch.

For two hours, I sit in silent commiseration with my dad as team members, commentators, Ali Bacher, and every other sports authority take their turn speculating on Hansie's motives, on the future of SA cricket, and on the role others might've played in the debacle. I think this has officially been the worst week ever, and it's only Tuesday.

It's late by the time Mom gets in, and I hand over consoling Dad to her. I'd call Jordan, but Sheryl has refused to let me speak to her since Friday. Joining Riker on the duvet, I dial Gabriel instead.

Gabriel

THE BURNS BURNS are healing, but I don't let them, using the edge of my nail to rip off the scabs. The pain is sobering, bringing clarity to my quagmire thoughts. I'm considering adding a new smiley to my burgeoning collection when my cellphone rings. Treasa. The last person I want to talk to or think about. She looks at me with stars in her eyes, and I don't want to be the one to snuff them out. She calls three times before I finally answer, just to end the incessant shrill. are healing, but I don't let them, using the edge of my nail to rip off the scabs. The pain is sobering, bringing clarity to my quagmire thoughts. I'm considering adding a new smiley to my burgeoning collection when my cellphone rings. Treasa. The last person I want to talk to or think about. She looks at me with stars in her eyes, and I don't want to be the one to snuff them out. She calls three times before I finally answer, just to end the incessant shrill.

"Sorry for calling so late," she whispers.

"I wasn't asleep."

"Did you watch tonight's episode?"

"I totally forgot." Too busy marinating in self-pity. I should've watched; it might have been distraction enough to save my skin. I'm an idiot. The burns are going to be a b.i.t.c.h under school pants tomorrow. I hop into the bathroom in search of Germolene and gauze.

"My dad was watching the news. You heard about Hansie getting sacked?"

"But I thought he wasn't involved?" I grit my teeth and smear my thigh with antiseptic cream.

"He admitted it to Ali Bacher, so now he's been fired, and the whole future of SA cricket hangs in the balance."

"He'll be banned from cricket for life." I'd be more upset if I wasn't feeling so drained. We all have to live with the consequences of our actions.

"That seems harsh," she says.

"Life is harsh." When a national hero falls from grace, there's no forgiveness, no second chance. And does he even deserve one? Do I?

"I think everyone's been really quick to judge, and it's not like I knew the guy personally. Anyway." She pauses for breath. "How are you doing? Did you enjoy time with your brother?"

"Sure." The lie is bitter on my tongue, and my leg stings as I wrap it up with a bandage.

"Thanks again for Sunday."

There's an awkward silence. I'm spent, with nothing left to give her, although I think she's looking for an answer to the dance question.

"I'll see you Thursday at choir, but I can't stay for the piano lesson. Got a huge math test on Friday." I could spare half an hour for her out of my study schedule, only I'd prefer to avoid her eyes this week.

"Okay." She sounds disappointed, and a second round of guilt needles my heart. I squeeze my leg over the bandage, pain robbing me of a breath for a minute as I consider my options. The sooner Treasa sees I'm not perfect, the better.

"Dirk's band is playing a gig this Friday at the skate park. Want to go?"

"Cool." There's excitement in her voice. "Just let me know the details and I'll check with my folks."

We finally hang up, and I limp back to my bedroom. I haven't worked on my sonata since last Thursday. Treasa's melody has plagued me since then, demanding its place on the stave. With a sigh, I pull out my notebook and start notating the music. Treasa hummed in a major key. This tune dreams of being in a minor, so I modulate and let the music turn melancholy. The music bleeds out of me for fifteen pages before I draw the final double-bar line. The second movement is complete.

Treasa

WEDNESDAY MORNING MORNING, they call my name over the intercom, telling me to go to the princ.i.p.al's office. I leave the cla.s.sroom with everyone's eyes boring into my back. The walk down the corridor has never been so long and unnerving. Even vacant-stare Virgin Mary seems to have a diabolical glint in her eye for me today. This must be about Jordan. they call my name over the intercom, telling me to go to the princ.i.p.al's office. I leave the cla.s.sroom with everyone's eyes boring into my back. The walk down the corridor has never been so long and unnerving. Even vacant-stare Virgin Mary seems to have a diabolical glint in her eye for me today. This must be about Jordan.

My palms are slick with sweat, and my internal organs are playing Twister by the time I reach the office. The secretary ushers me in, and I perch on a brown leather armchair in front of Mrs. Owen's desk. She turns from her computer screen and levels me with her predatory stare.

"Did you write this note?" She nudges a sc.r.a.p of paper across her desk. It's the one about Hannah's nipples. My throat constricts, and I think I may pa.s.s out. I nod, too afraid to lie.

"This sort of behavior is not tolerated at St. Bridget's." Her severe eyebrows meet in a crease above her aquiline nose. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

I swallow the p.r.i.c.kly pear lump in my throat and open my mouth, explaining the feud between Jordan and Hannah, and that my note was an attempt to deflect Hannah's enmity. Mrs. Owen leans back in her chair and folds her arms. Mom will skin me alive if I get expelled.

"Treasa, given the circ.u.mstances surrounding the unfortunate event at the art exhibition, I am compelled to take disciplinary action."

Can this week get any worse?