Here Lies Bridget

“You’re either going to agree here on who it was, or you’re both going to be punished to the full extent.” She watched us, waiting for one of us to say something.

“I understand,” I said. One of the things I understood was that Brett was going to get in trouble for something he didn’t do. I knew that I would probably be in the same amount of trouble either way, and that I was dragging Brett down with me. I also knew that this was the perfect chance to tell the truth.

But I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why.

And then I made it all worse by remembering the note Brett had passed me. I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to Miss Smithson.

“See? You can see that it’s his, because it’s the corner of the first page on his test.” It was from him. The words were his. The meaning, however, had shifted to suit me.

“See, he said he couldn’t do it, and that I had to do the work. For him.”

Miss Smithson took the piece of paper from my outstretched hand. Lifting her glasses from the chain that hung them around her neck, she read it.

“Did you write this?” she asked Brett, peering at him over the top rims of her lenses, which were scooted down her nose.

I was banking on him starting with the truth.

He did.

“Yes, but—” Brett said, desperately trying to explain what I had done. It was too late.

“All right then,” she finally said, “gather your things and go to the office. Miss Duke, I know it doesn’t feel like you’ve done anything wrong, but you’ll have to go explain what happened to the headmaster. I’ll call to let him know you’re coming.”

On the way to the office, I kept my face pointed purposefully in front of me, terrified to make eye contact with Brett. Not that I would have if I had looked at him, because he wouldn’t look at me either. I didn’t blame him; he must have been disgusted with me. I wanted to fix it, but it was too late. If I said something now, I’d be in even more trouble.

Trouble I couldn’t afford. And something in me knew that I would never have chosen to be noble and do the right thing. There was no taking it back. I always took the self-preservation route.

But maybe I could explain to Brett why I really couldn’t get in trouble right now. Last time I’d gotten in trouble, my father had given me this death stare he’s awesome at, and told me that I didn’t even want to know how much things would change if I got in trouble again at school.

“Listen, Brett—”

“Shut up, Bridget.”

I gasped and resolved to stick to my lie when I spoke to the headmaster. Perhaps even make up some more lies.

CHAPTER THREE

I spent the afternoon trying to forget how awful school had been for the past two days. I tried to forget the meeting in the office about Mr. Ezhno, the conversation with Anna, the test, the consequent second meeting in the office and seeing Liam with Anna everywhere.

They never looked romantic, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be. I knew Liam to be the perfect gentleman, one who would be very cautious not to rush things. Ever again, anyway.

The second meeting with Headmaster Ransic had been awful. It was like I was hypnotized into lying again and again.

Of course, I was not hypnotized, and didn’t have the luxury of having that as an excuse. I was just watching my own back and no one else’s. I had spoken to Headmaster Ransic before Brett, given my story—and it was a story—and agreed that it was true, things really weren’t going my way lately. I then walked out of the office, trying hard not to look anyone in the eyes. I left feeling like if I did catch anyone’s glance, I was sure to be found out. And then, instead of being given any mercy for ultimately telling the truth, I’d get in trouble for the whole thing. I wasn’t exactly on death row, but still. Being expelled from Winchester Prep and not going to college would have been mortifying. Unheard of.

The talk of the town. Especially if it was because of something stupid like this.

I decided I shouldn’t think about it too hard. So after figuring that spending most of an afternoon by myself was enough coping, I decided it was time to move on to bitching.

And that meant calling Jillian and Michelle to come over for Chinese food and, though I didn’t mention it, a bitch-fest.

Michelle said she’d come over, but after dinner. Jillian was all for it, and said she’d be over as soon as she could. I told her to pick up the Chinese, and that it should be on her. I reminded her that she owed me for the pair of Von Dutch jeans I’d given her anyway. I’d given them to her because my father had made some comment about them being tight, and since then I had felt self-conscious in them. Not that I’d admit that. I just told her that I’d never liked them.

When Jillian finally got there, we settled onto the couch with our chopsticks and paper boxes of food and turned on some trashy reality TV show.

I took a bite of my chicken fried rice and glanced at her. She looked down, dipped her dumpling in soy sauce and took a bite. I contained myself for a few minutes as we ate our food and watched the show. Then I launched into what had happened with Brett.

Well, the version of the story she had to hear. That was the biggest problem with Jillian; every word I said to her had to be carefully considered, as if I was shouting it through a megaphone.

It’s not that Jillian went around whispering other people’s secrets into people’s ears like in that old Norman Rockwell painting. She just let everyone in on the secrets through heavy implications, broad hints and, from the experience I had with extracting the best gossip from her, a lot of facial expressions that served as answers to leading questions. I truly believed, however, that she didn’t do it intentionally. You could doubtless hook her up to a lie detector and she would pass with flying colors.

She honestly seemed unaware.

So that was why I was going to have to be careful what I said to her.

“Okay, so are you ready to the hear about the biggest drama of this week?”

“Um, duh?”

I told her everything I had told Headmaster Ransic. Everything from how hard I’d studied to Brett passing me the note during class, to getting caught, feeling bad about having to rat out Brett and going to the office. She drank in every word, gasping in all the right places.

By the time I finished the story, I knew she wasn’t going to need persuading. She was on my side. And if she was, then anyone who heard the story from her would be, too.

After she gushed about how unfair it was that I even had to go to the office, I asked her if she’d heard anything more about the new girl.

“Well, nothing except that she’s way nice and everyone loves her. She’s really popular already. It’s only been like forty-eight hours since she got into town!” she said, chewing on the end of a chopstick.

“Oh, my God! You guys should totally hang out. I mentioned you on her first day, and she didn’t even know who you were yet.”

I almost asked her why she would suggest that when she knew what I’d told her about what Anna had said. Then I remembered the grenade. And then I thought about what had been happening to me.

My popularity was dwindling, and Anna’s was increasing.

Inside, I felt like some kind of worst fear had been confirmed. I had to stop this Anna girl from blowing up my life. And I knew exactly how.

“Jillian?”

“Yeah?”

“How quickly can you tell everyone about the big party tomorrow night?”

“What big party?”

“The one we’re going to have.”

Jillian squealed and started bouncing quietly on her sofa cushion. She was obsessed with parties. Sometimes I’d wake up on the day of one of my parties, wander blearily down the stairs, and spot her outside setting up with Meredith. I was lucky to have them—I rarely had to do much.

A party was the perfect solution. It was time to reassert my popularity. Time to show Anna who wore the skinny jeans in this town. Better too soon than too late.