Backlash

For some reason this a

“Well, she’s not my type,” I said, trying to cover up my a

We were in luck. The weekend before Thanksgiving there’s the East River High homecoming parade, football game, and dance. That gave us plenty of time to string Lara along with the hopes of a fake date.

So do you have any big plans the weekend before Thanksgiving? Marci (as Christian) asked Lara.

Not really. I think we march in the homecoming parade. The cheerleaders, I mean.

You don’t have a dance?

Well, there’s a dance, but I doubt I’ll go.

Why not?

Oh, you know. Not my scene.

So … if we had a dance at East River, that wouldn’t be your scene?

Marci and I laughed as we watched the cursor blink, picturing Lara completely freaking in front of her computer as she tried to figure out how to respond. It took her long enough.

I guess that would depend … on who I was there with.

So, hypothetically, if you were there with someone like … me?

“I wish I could see her face right now,” I said. “I bet she’s peeing herself.”

“I know, right?” Marci said. “Come on, Lara, tell your boyfriend what he wants to hear!”

“I’m not her boyfriend yet,” I said. “Don’t rush things.”

“You’re not her boyfriend at all!” Marci said.

She had a point. But I’m the real Christian. He’s my creation. I wanted to be the one in control, the one setting the pace.

If it were … hypothetically someone like you, then it would definitely be more of my scene. : )

“Look! She went smiley face on him!” Marci said.

“DON’T ASK HER YET!” I said frantically. “Tell her you’ve got to go.”

Marci looked at me like I’d flipped.

“Why? We were just starting to have fun.”

“It’s more fun to string her along,” I said. “That’s what Christian would do if he were a real guy, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Marci sighed as she typed, Talk soon, gotta go.

I could just imagine Lara’s disappointment as Christian logged off so abruptly after teasing her with the idea of the dance.

A few years ago, my phone would have been ringing right away, and we’d have dissected every sentence of the chat for meaning. But that’s the beauty of this whole thing. I know exactly how Lara thinks.

Two days later, I tell Marci she has to come with me to the media center during our open period because I’ve got something to show her.

“This better be worth it,” she says. “Because Taylor Goodhew is in the student center, and no offense, but he’s a lot cuter than you are.”

Marci’s one of my best friends, but when she’s pursuing a hot guy, she’ll dump Je

“You’ll have time to go to the student center afterward,” I tell her. “Trust me, you want to see this.”

I find a free computer that isn’t close to other students and go to Wanelo. I know Lara’s screen name from back when we were friends. And I show Marci the “Cute dresses for the Dance” list she’s set up.

“Oh. My. God,” Marci says so loudly I have to tell her to shush before the librarian does. She lowers her voice. “The girl is, like, totally delusional. She’s making lists of dresses to go to a dance with a guy that doesn’t even exist!”

“I know! Isn’t it hysterical?” I tell her. “And look at the dresses!”

“This one just screams loser,” Marci says.

“What about this one?” I say. “It’s like she wants to be Ariel from The Little Mermaid but in tenth grade.”

We go through the entire list, shredding all of Lara’s choices. Marci’s having so much fun dissing Lara, she spends the whole open period with me and doesn’t even care that she missed going to the student center to hang out with “way cuter” Taylor Goodhew.

NOT A-FREAKING-GAIN. I am so sick of this! Every time I need the computer to do homework, Lara’s on it. I thought since she made varsity cheerleading she’d be out of the house more and getting a life.

To be fair, she is out of the house more at practice and stuff, but the problem is when she comes home, she’s glued to the computer. And judging from how she’s all smiley and smug, I’m betting you anything she’s not doing homework all the time she’s on it, even though whenever I say I need to get on she swears she is.

Type, type, type.

Plink!

That’s Facebook chat. She so isn’t doing homework, the giggling, lying dork.

That’s it. It’s my turn.

“Lara, I need the computer now. I’ve got homework to do. You’re just messing around.”

“I’m not,” she says. “I’m chatting to someone about my homework.”

Seriously, I can’t understand why God doesn’t just strike her down with a lightning bolt. It’s so obvious she’s telling great big whopping lies.

“I’ll give you twenty minutes, and then I’m calling Mom,” I say, furious that, as usual, I’m the one who ends up giving in and letting Lara get her way.

Being the younger sister stinks. Especially when your older sister has “issues,” and everyone expects you to tiptoe around her in case she loses it again.

Especially when she’s completely fine now. But everyone got so used to her not being fine that my parents still treat her like a piece of fragile porcelain.

Me? I’m their beef jerky kid. As far as Mom and Dad are concerned, I’m a nonperishable item, tough as old boot leather.

I’m going to ask for my own laptop for my birthday. I don’t care what the stupid police chief says. And if my parents say no, I’m just going to save up the money my grandparents give me for birthdays and Christmas and whatever until I can afford to buy one for myself. Then I can do my homework whenever I want to, instead of having to work around my faking-it fragile sister.

I have to get away from Lara and her a

The sun is sinking behind the trees, and I see the silhouette of the old tree fort, the one my dad made with Mr. Co

I spot movement in the shadows beneath the tree, a faint rustle of the dried leaves piled around its base. And then I see a person climbing up the wooden rungs nailed to the trunk. Liam.