Backlash

On her way out, she purses her lips, reminding me to zip it.

And then I’m left there, alone with the two policemen, scared that I’m going to say the wrong thing.

“So here’s the thing, Brea

I can’t stop the panicked look that crosses my face before I realize what I’ve done and try to arrange my features into what I hope is an “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective” expression.

“How?”

“Do you know what an IP address is?” Officer Timm asks.

“It’s something to do with the Internet,” I say, twisting the silver-and-onyx ring I’m wearing on my right hand. Now that I think about it, Lara gave it to me for my birthday in middle school.

“It’s the numerical label assigned to computers on a network,” Officer Timm explains.

I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what that means.

Detective Souther must see the look on my face because he says, “We know from an IP search that the person who contacted Lara lives in this neighborhood.”

I swallow hard.

“We had to get a warrant to find out from the Internet service provider exactly which house it was,” he continues. “And I’m going to make a bet that when we get that information, it’s going to show that it’s yours. If you tell us it was you, it’ll go a lot easier for you than if you deny it and we find out anyway.”

I hear Mom’s voice in the hallway, talking to her client about their bid. She tells them they should go in slightly under asking, but not so far that they’ll think it’s insulting.

I don’t know what to do. Mom wants me to lie. But it feels wrong to lie to the police. And what’s the point of lying if they’re going to find out it was me anyway?

My head is throbbing, and I feel sick to my stomach.

“Just because it was someone in this neighborhood, doesn’t mean it was me,” I say, picking at a cuticle on my thumb.

“You posted a picture of Lara being taken out of the house on a stretcher on your Facebook profile,” Officer Timm says. “Why would you do that to someone who was your friend?”

He sounds just like Liam, but he’s not my younger brother, someone I can ignore. He’s a policeman, wearing a uniform, with a gun in his holster and handcuffs attached to his belt. This is real life. This is serious business. I never thought about any of this when I posted that picture.

I never thought, period.

And now I’m terrified.

“How do you k-know that? I d-deleted that picture!” I stammer.

“Ever hear of something called a screenshot?” Detective Souther says with no small amount of snark. “Lara’s father took a whole bunch of them the night Lara tried to kill herself. He wasn’t a happy man when he saw what people were doing to his daughter. Can’t say I blame him.”

“I … don’t know why I did it …,” I say. “I thought it would … you know, get a lot of likes.”

I see the looks on their faces. They hate me. They think I’m a really awful person.

Officer Timm mutters something under his breath, shaking his head.

“You might as well tell us, Brea

Mom! Get off the phone and get back in here! What should I do? THEY ALREADY KNOW!

But my mother is still out in the hallway, arguing with her clients over a five-thousand-dollar increment in their bid. Doesn’t she realize my whole life is at stake here? For once, I’d just like to feel more important to my mother than the next deal.

“It will go much better for you if you’re honest with us, Brea

I feel tears well up, even though I’m trying to will them back because I know they’ll make me look guilty.

“If you tell us the truth, we can work with you,” the detective continues.

He’s the good guy. The police are the good guys. I’m not a bad guy. I’m a good person. If I keep lying to him, I’ll be the bad guy. It’s better if I tell the truth.

My face feels like it’s five-hundred-degrees hot. The first tear boils over and trickles down my cheek.

Mom’s commiserating with her clients about how long it’s taking the city council to not pass the tax incentives. At least she doesn’t mention Mrs. Kelley by name.

“You can be honest with us, Brea

More tears fall, and I taste salt on the corner of my mouth. I wipe the tear away with the back of my hand, and despite Mom telling me to zip it, to tell them nothing, nada, zilch, I say quietly, “It was me.”

And even though I’m scared about the trouble I know I’m going to get into, about the punishment I know I’m going to face, it feels better than continuing to lie when they already know the truth.

“Did your mother know about this?” Detective Souther asks.

It’s one thing to admit to them that it was me. I can’t tell them that Mom did it, too. But to cover for her means lying. I stare down at my hands and say nothing.

Hang up, Mom. Hang up and come back. I need you more than your clients do right now.

I glance toward the door. My mother is still on the phone. She’s telling the clients if they’re really worried about the five grand, to split the difference but go up to $2,575, because that sounds better to the seller. “It’s all mind games,” she says.

“Brea

I look back at the policemen and decide that if she’s leaving me here by myself, I get to make my own decisions. And I decide to keep on telling the truth.

“Yes. She did,” I say in a low voice so Mom doesn’t hear.

“You’re doing the right thing by telling us the truth,” Detective Souther reassures me.

“My mom’s going to be really mad at me,” I say quietly, wiping away tears with my sleeve as I throw another nervous glance toward the door.

“Just how involved was your mother?” Officer Timm asks.

Come on, move over. I want to be Christian for a while … Oh, come on, Bree. It’s just a little fun.

“I … she …”

I feel like I’m going to throw up. Mom’s in the hallway talking about how if only they had those tax breaks.

That’s when I crack.

“She p-pretended to be Christian a few times,” I admit. “So did Marci. My friend … Marci Liptak.”

It looks like this was something they didn’t know, because they look at each other, and Officer Timm, who doesn’t have as good of a poker face as the detective, seems shocked and even … angry.

“What made you do it?” Detective Souther asks.

“Do what?” Mom says sharply, walking into the room. “Made her do what?”

“Brea

My mother turns to me, her face already flushing red with fury.

“Can’t I trust you to do anything right, Brea

I’m used to disappointing my mother. It feels like I’ve done it all my life. And I realize in that moment that maybe I am as stupid as she always tells me. Because deep down, I’d had this small shred of hope, some sick deluded fantasy, that she’d say I did the right thing by telling the truth.