Backlash

“Mom always does.”

“Well, that’s another thing we need to change around here,” Dad says. “Calling people names.”

I pull away and ask him the question that plagues me every moment of every day.

“Did I mess up my life forever? I mean … will people ever forget about this?”

Dad’s the one who is most likely to tell me the truth.

His hesitation in answering tells me the most.

“Things will get better. I can’t tell you how, or when. It might take a very long time. But we’ll get through this.”

He doesn’t know. None of us do. The future, once so full of possibility, is now a dark and scary place. But hopefully, like Dad says, maybe with help we can get through it, however long it takes.

TO SAY life is back to normal would be a lie. It’s probably more accurate to say we’re living the “new normal.”

Mom is still trying to get Lara Laws passed in the state legislature and is using the notoriety of our case to lobby for similar laws across the country. She and Dad are still furious that Mrs. Co

Healing for me is still a work in progress. Before I went back to school, Dad kept nagging me to look at the list of people who’d liked Christian’s mean post on my wall or had made awful comments. I didn’t want to, any more than I had in the hospital. In the end, I compromised by taking the list to therapy and looking at it there — away from the house, away from my parents, in a place where I could just feel whatever I needed to feel about it.

What did I feel when I finally let myself look at the names on that piece of paper?

Betrayal. Anger. Disgust.

But that was a positive sign, according to Linda. Because I was starting to feel angry, instead of sad. Because I was getting mad at the people who were behaving badly toward me, instead of directing the feelings toward myself and feeling sad and suicidal. Because gradually, I was learning not to let those people have control over me anymore.

When I finally did go back to school, I was glad I knew those names. Some of the same kids who’d liked the picture of me on the stretcher, who’d written things like “Corpse Girl” and “Is Lardosaurus dead?” came up to me and acted so genuinely friendly and concerned that if I hadn’t seen Dad’s list I would have believed they really cared. Just like the same trusting idiot I was before this all happened. Like I was with Christian.

People can be so two-faced.

Or maybe there’s another explanation. Maybe they really do feel bad about what happened. That’s something Linda brought up when we talked about it. Maybe, after I ended up in the hospital, they thought about what they’d done. Maybe they hadn’t realized that the words they’d typed so casually caused me so much real pain.

The problem is, I can’t read their minds, and that’s what scares me the most — that I don’t know how I’m supposed to trust anyone ever again. Linda keeps reminding me that it’s a process. Ugh, the dreaded P word again. I keep asking her why someone can’t just give me a pill to cure this — I’d even take an operation. Why does everything have to be a long, drawn-out “process”? People always say, “It gets better.” What I want to know is when?

And then the person who bullied me got bullied, too. You’d think I’d be happy about the poetic justice of that, but the weird thing is, I wasn’t. I mean, sure I was mad at Bree. I still am. But knowing that people were being so cruel to her didn’t make me feel any happier. As strange as it seems, it only made me feel worse.

It was as if the whole thing took on a life of its own that had nothing to do with me anymore. People who wanted “vengeance” on my behalf were as mean to her as she was to me. Did it make it better, any less cruel because they didn’t know her, because they hadn’t been her best friend once upon a time?

Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, everyone ended up hurt. She hurt me and they hurt her. Liam got hurt. Syd got hurt. Our parents were hurt. Did any of it help in the end, other than all of us hurting?

Even though I’m relieved that I don’t have to see Bree every day, I still see her going to and from her house once in a while — it’s hard to completely avoid someone when you live right next door. I have frequent, imaginary conversations with her in my head. They’re always short conversations. I ask her, Why? What did I do to make you hate me so much? Why did you do it?

The conversations are short because she never answers. Because even when I try to imagine reasons why she would hate me enough to trick me with Christian, to write the things she did, I come up blank. Even a year later, after all this therapy, I still can’t figure it out.

That, more than anything, is what still makes me crazy and prevents me from moving on.

“Come on, Lara,” Dad shouts. “We’ve got to leave if we’re going to get to the game on time.”

It’s the big Lake Hills versus West Lake football game today.

Liam and Syd are both freshmen at Lake Hills now, although Liam told us the Co

I take a last look in the mirror, adjust my purple-and-gold hair ribbons, and head downstairs. Syd and Dad are already in the car.

“Hurry up!” Mom says, handing me my pom-poms.

We pull out of the driveway and just as we pass the Co

“Is Bree going to the game?” Mom asks.

“Yeah,” Syd says. “She’s on the dance team. They’re performing at halftime with the West Lake band.”

My mom glances back at me, her forehead furrowed with the “worried about Lara but don’t want to say anything to upset her” look.

“Mom, we live next door to each other. I already see her once in a while without totally losing it, so I think I can handle her dancing on the football field without having a relapse,” I say.

Syd gives me an encouraging grin.

“I wasn’t thinking you were going to have a relapse, Lara, honey,” Mom says. “You’ve made such good progress. I just … don’t want you to be upset.”

I try to imagine how I’ll feel if Bree and I actually come face-to-face — like if we bump into each other randomly in the crowd. Will I ask her why, or just act like nothing ever happened because what’s the point? Will I say hello or walk straight by her like we never met?

Until it happens, I’m not sure how I’ll react. Maybe today’s the day I’ll find out. Or maybe not.

When we get to school, my parents and Syd go to sit in the stands, and I head down to the sidelines to meet the rest of the squad. We start doing crowd warm-ups, even though the stands are still half-empty and not everyone on the team is here yet. It gets people psyched up, and moving keeps us warm.