Backlash

So I have to fight my way through the savage media hordes all by myself. They stick these big black microphones in my face and ask me questions about Lara and Bree. I push their mics away, saying, “Leave me alone, you’re going to make me miss the bus!”

But they keep surrounding me like a pack of rabid dogs, until Mrs. Gorski comes out of her house with a broom and yells at them.

“Leave the poor child alone!” she shouts, waving her broomstick at them like some crazy old witch. She’s wearing a flowered nylon housecoat and a pair of purple Crocs, which look ginormous at the end of her thin chicken legs. But Mrs. G. has never looked better to me, even in her Barney Crocs with her white hair sticking up in all directions.

She marches to the bus stop by my side, wielding the broom like a weapon, ready to use it on anyone with a camera or a mic who dares comes too close.

“Thanks, Mrs. G.,” I say.

My words come out damp and wobbly. Having this tiny old lady with her flyaway hair and her housecoat ready to fight for me, armed with only a household cleaning tool and her personality makes me feel more like the real Sydney and less like the beef jerky one.

The other kids at the bus stop give me a strange look when I get there, but I don’t know if it’s because of the news or because of Mrs. G. marching beside me with her broom and her purple Crocs.

Liam isn’t here. I don’t know if he was here yesterday. I didn’t see him in school. Maybe his parents are willing to drive him.

Mrs. G. keeps up a steady stream of conversation, telling me about how her daughter who lives in Cleveland is coming to visit with her one-year-old grandson this weekend and how she can’t wait to see him and she wishes they lived closer. Even though I’m only half listening, I’m grateful because it means I don’t have to answer any questions or wonder what the other kids are thinking. In fact I’m so grateful that when the bus pulls up, I hug her before I get on.

“Hang in there, bubbeleh,” Mrs. G. says, embracing me with her bony arms. “All this mishegas will be over soon, and they’ll move on to the next thing. You’ll be okay. Trust me.”

I don’t have a clue what bubbeleh or mishegas mean, but I want like anything to believe her when she says that I’ll be okay.

Two stops past our normal one, Liam gets on the bus, and it suddenly goes quiet. Then kids move to the aisle so that even though there’s an empty space next to them, he can’t sit down.

He quickly covers the flash of hurt on his face with a mask of indifference. But I know. I can tell by the way his skin flushes under his freckles. I can tell by the way his jaw is set. I’ve known Liam Co

Even though I’ve got every reason to be mad at the Co

I hear muttering. “What the?” … “Why would she do that?” … “Isn’t that Lara Kelley’s sister?” but I try to tune it out. They don’t know our history. They don’t know what it’s like to be me — or to be Liam.

Liam looks surprised, but he plops down next to me in the seat.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving me a quick, grateful glance, but then he keeps his eyes trained on the backpack resting on his knees as if he’s afraid to let the mask slip.

“How’s it going?” I ask, and then curse myself for asking because it’s a seriously stupid question.

“Oh, everything’s just swell,” he says, dripping sarcasm. “Someone posted our phone number online at two o’clock in the morning, and it started ringing off the hook with people leaving obscene messages and death threats for Mom and Bree. Dad finally ripped all the plugs out of the wall.”

As mad as I am at Bree and Mrs. Co

“That’s horrible,” I say. “Are you … you know … scared?”

Liam shrugs. “I don’t know. The policeman who came by at four this morning said the obvious thing to do is change our phone number and just be vigilant. They’ll investigate to see if any of them are really credible, but even if they can arrest someone, they can’t protect us twenty-four seven.”

He gives me a sideways look and, despite everything, manages a weak smile. “You’re not pla

That he can still joke with me, while crazy people are threatening to kill his mom and his sister, tugs at my heart. He’s my friend, no matter what’s happening in the world around us. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

“Not this week,” I say. “But I’ll have to check my assassination schedule for next week.”

And then I get a real Liam smile, one that goes all the way to his eyes. “I’ll watch my back, then.”

I don’t want to take away his smile, but I have to ask. “How’s Bree doing?”

The light disappears immediately, and he starts picking at a loose thread on his backpack strap. “She’s a disaster. Especially after what happened with her cell yesterday.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone hacked it and changed her outgoing message, asking people to leave her death threats, then posted the number online. When she turned it on after second period, there were already seventy messages. She got totally hysterical and Dad had to go to school and pick her up.” He pulls hard at the loose thread and rips it. “They were seriously nasty — at least the few I was allowed to listen to.”

I can’t help myself. “Worse than the stuff that people wrote on Lara’s Facebook wall?”

Liam stiffens. “At least people weren’t threatening to kill her.”

I know he’s her sister, but it’s like he’s forgotten that Bree’s the one who started it all. If it weren’t for her, none of us would be living through this nightmare. Dad wouldn’t have a citation for disorderly conduct, Mom’s reelection campaign wouldn’t be on the rocks, Lara would be cheering at football games and getting on with her life instead of being such a mess, and I’d have had the chance to audition for the eighth-grade musical and maybe have gotten a lead instead of just being on crew and once again being reduced to playing a bit part in my sister’s drama.

If his life sucks right now, well, so does mine. And so does Lara’s. And Mom’s. And Dad’s.

“Maybe not, but people — no, not people, Bree — basically told Lara to kill herself,” I tell him. My voice cracks, as I try to hold back angry tears. “And she tried to do it.”

Liam stares at me, his green eyes dark and wounded. What does he expect? That I should feel sorry for Bree?

I feel bad for him, because he’s caught up in this just the way I am, but Bree’s different. She brought this on herself the moment she created that fake profile and started messing with my sister’s head.

“She’s my sister, Syd.”

I look away from him, out the window, the scenery blurred as the first tear trails down my cheek. “Well, Lara is mine.”

We don’t speak to each other the rest of the way to school.

Maddie and Cara are talking about Beauty and the Beast at lunch, because that’s mostly what they talk about these days. Cara ended up getting the part of Belle. I’m really happy for her, but whenever they talk about the musical — I can’t help feeling left out, even though I’m doing crew. It’s just not the same.