Hate List (31 page)

Soon I had ten slashes in my canvas. I painted them red. I surrounded them with a lot of black, dotted with watery droplets
that looked like tear stains.

I sat back and looked at it. It was ugly, dark, uncontrolled. Like a monster’s face. Or maybe what I saw there was my own
face. I couldn’t quite tell. Was the face the image of something evil or the image of myself?

“Both,” Bea muttered, as if I’d spoken my question aloud. “Of course it’s both. But it shouldn’t be. Goodness, no.”

Still, I knew then what I had to do. In a way, Troy was right. I didn’t belong. Not with Jessica, not with Meghan, definitely
not with Josh. I didn’t belong at those parties. I didn’t belong in Student Council. I didn’t belong with Stacey and Duce.
With my parents who’d suffered so much. With Frankie who made friends so easily.

Who was I kidding? I never even really belonged with Nick. Because I totally betrayed him, made him think I believed what
he believed, made him think I would be on his side no matter what, even if he killed people.

Bea was wrong. I was both the monster and the sad girl. I couldn’t separate the two.

And as I dropped the paintbrush, which clattered to the floor, flicking dots of paint all over the bottoms of my jeans, and
slunk out of there, I pretended not to hear the encouragement Bea was shouting to my back.

“You can’t drop out now,” Jessica said. An annoyed little line drew itself across her forehead. “We only have a couple months
left to get this together. We need your help. You committed.”

“Well, now I’m un-committing,” I answered. “I’m out.”

I shut my locker and walked toward the bank of glass doors.

“What is your problem?” Jessica hissed, rushing behind me. For a moment I could almost see the old Jessica shining through—could almost hear her voice echoing
What are you looking at, Sister Death
? Somehow it made what I had to do easier.

“This school is my problem!” I said through clenched teeth. “Your asshole friends are my problem. I just want to be left alone.
I just want to finish and get out of here. Why can’t you understand that? Why are you always pushing me to be someone I’m
not?” I didn’t slow down.

“God, when are you going to get past that ‘I’m not one of you’ thing, Valerie? How many times do I have to tell you that you
are? I thought we were friends.”

I stopped and whipped around to face her. That was almost a mistake. I felt so guilty—I could see hurt in her face—but
knew I had to get away from her. To get away from Student Council. To get away from Meghan. Away from Alex Gold who wanted
me gone so bad he had Josh babysit me and Troy threaten me at his party. Away from all the confusion and hurt.

I couldn’t tell Jessica the truth about what had happened with Troy at the party. She’d already strong-armed Meghan into accepting
me. She would probably go breaking down Troy’s door and put him under citizen’s arrest. I could imagine her making me her
cause, forcing everyone in Garvin to accept me again, whether they wanted to or not. I was sick of being Garvin’s charity
project, always under scrutiny, always in the spotlight. I just couldn’t do it anymore.

“Well, you were wrong. We’re not friends. I was only doing this because I felt guilty about the notebook. They don’t want
me there, Jessica. And I don’t want to be there anymore. Nick couldn’t stand your little crowd and neither can I.”

Her face reddened. “In case you haven’t noticed, Valerie, Nick is dead. So it doesn’t matter what he thinks anymore. And for
the record, I don’t think it ever did except for a few minutes in May. But I thought you were different. I thought you were
better. You saved my life, remember?”

I squinted my eyes and peered right into hers, pretending I had confidence to match hers. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t mean
to save you,” I said. “I just wanted him to stop shooting. You could have been anyone.”

Her face showed no emotion, although her breath started coming in harder rasps. I could see her chest rise and fall with it.

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “I don’t believe a word.”

“Well, believe it. Because it’s true. You can finish your little StuCo project without me.”

I whirled around and continued walking.

Just as I was about to reach the double doors, Jessica’s voice rang out at my back. “You seriously think this has been easy
for me?” she called. I stopped, turned. She was still standing where I’d left her. Her face looked funny, almost writhing
with emotion. “Do you?” She dropped her backpack on the floor and started walking toward me, steadily, one hand on her chest.
“Well, it’s not. I still have nightmares. I still hear the gunshots. I still… see Nick’s face every time I look at… you.”
She had begun crying, her chin wrinkling like a little kid’s, but her voice was steady and strong. “I didn’t like you… before.
I can’t change that. I’ve had to fight my friends to include you. I’ve had to fight my parents. But at least I’m trying.”

“Nobody told you to try,” I said. “Nobody said you had to make me your friend.”

She shook her head wildly. “You’re wrong,” she said. “May second told me. I lived, and that made everything different.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, but my voice was wobbly and uncertain.

“And you’re selfish,” she said. “If you walk away from me now, you’re just plain selfish.”

She got within just a few paces of me and all I could think about was getting out of there, whether that made me selfish or
not. I plunged through the doors and into the open air. I fell into Mom’s car and sank back into the seat. My chest felt heavy
and cold. My chin spasmed and my throat felt full.

“Let’s go home,” I said as Mom drove away.

“Still not talking?” Dr. Hieler asked, settling into his chair. He handed me a Coke. I said nothing. I hadn’t said a word
since he came out into the waiting room to get me. Hadn’t said a word when he asked if I wanted a Coke, nor acknowledged him
when he told me he was going to step out to get us both something to drink and would be right back. I just sat, sulkily, on
his couch, slouched back into the cushions with my arms crossed and a scowl darkening my face.

We sat in silence for a while.

“Did you bring me that notebook? I still want to see your drawings,” he said.

I shook my head.

“Chess?”

I moved from my seat on the couch and sat across the chess board from him.

“You know,” he said, slowly, making his move on the chess board. “I’m beginning to think something’s upsetting you.” He tipped
his eyes toward me and grinned. “I read a book about human behavior once. That’s what makes me so adept at recognizing when
someone’s upset.”

I didn’t return his smile. Just looked back down at the board and made my move.

We played for a while in silence, me promising myself all the while that I wouldn’t say anything. That I’d just go back to
that friendly place of quiet and solitude that had cradled me in the hospital. Just curl up into myself until I disappeared.
Never speak to anyone again. The problem was, it was so hard to be silent with Dr. Hieler. He cared too much. He was too safe.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, and before I could do anything to stop it, a tear rolled down my cheek.

“Jessica and I aren’t friends anymore,” I said. I rolled my eyes and swiped at my cheek angrily. “And I don’t even know why
I’m crying about it. It’s not like we ever really were friends anyway. It’s so stupid.”

“How’d this come about?” he asked, abandoning the chess game and sitting back. “She finally decide you were too much of a
loser to be her friend?”

“No,” I said. “Jessica would never say that.”

“So who did? Meghan?”

“No,” I said.

“Ginny?”

“I haven’t even seen Ginny since the first day of school.”

“Hm,” he said, nodding his head. He looked at the chess board thoughtfully. “So you’re the only one talking then, huh?”

“She still wants to be friends,” I added. “But I can’t.”

“Because something happened,” he said.

I glanced at him sharply. He had crossed his arms and was running his forefinger over his bottom lip like he always does when
he’s ferreting out information on me.

I sighed. “It has nothing to do with why I blew Jessica off.”

“Just a coincidence,” he said.

I didn’t answer. Just shook my head and let the tears roll. “I just want it to go away. I just want all the drama to stop.
Nobody would believe me anyway,” I whispered. “Nobody would care.”

Dr. Hieler shifted, leaned forward in his chair, and leveled his eyes so they looked deeply into mine. “I would. On both counts.”

I believed him. If anyone would care about what happened at the party, about what happened with Troy, it was Dr. Hieler. And
holding it all in, what felt comforting just a week ago, suddenly felt heavy and almost physically painful. Next thing I knew,
I found myself, unbelievably, talking. Like even the silence wasn’t friendly to me anymore.

I told Dr. Hieler everything. He sat back in his chair and listened, his eyes growing more and more vivid, his body growing
more tense as I talked. Together we called the police to report Troy’s threat. They’d check into things, they said. There
probably wasn’t much of anything they could do. Especially if you’re not even positive it was a real gun, they said. But they
didn’t laugh at me for telling. They didn’t say I deserved it. They didn’t accuse me of lying.

When my session was over, Dr. Hieler walked me out to the waiting room, where Mom sat alone reading a magazine.

“Now you need to tell your mom what happened,” he said. Mom looked up, startled. Her mouth made a small
o
shape as she looked from him to me. “And you’re going to work your ass off to get better,” he warned. “You don’t get to just
check out now. I won’t let you. You’ve worked way too hard. You have more hard work ahead of you.”

But I didn’t feel like working hard, and when I got home all I could think about was flopping back on my bed and sleeping.

I told Mom everything in the car, including Dad’s threat on the side of the highway when he picked me up. She looked impassive,
disinterested while I talked, and said nothing when I finished. But as soon as we got home she called Dad. I climbed the stairs
to my bedroom, listening to Mom’s voice ratchet up notch by notch as she talked, blaming him for knowing and not telling.
For picking me up without calling her. For not being at home where he belonged in the first place.

After a while I heard the front door open, followed by Mom’s murmurs again. I opened my door and peeked downstairs. Dad was
standing in the entryway, his hands on his hips, his face lined with annoyance.

I noticed he was in street clothes, which I found odd because it was a work day and Dad never left work before dark. But then
I noticed some splotches of paint on his shirt and realized that he must have been at home today, painting Briley’s apartment.
Making it theirs. I quietly closed my door and paced to the window. Briley was sitting in the car at the curb waiting for
him.

I heard my mother’s anxious voice mumble again. Heard him thunder back at her, “What was I supposed to do?” A pause and then
his voice again, “Send her back to the damn psych ward, that’s what I think. I don’t give a shit what that shrink says about
progress!” And then I heard the front door slam. I paced to the window again and watched him get into the car with Briley
and drive away.

Not long after Dad left, I sensed movement around the door and opened one eye. Frankie stood leaning tentatively up against
the doorframe. He looked somehow older, with his hair buzzed short and glistening with gel and his button-down shirt buttoned
loosely over an Abercrombie T-shirt and his factory-faded jeans. His face looked unnaturally smooth and innocent and he had
these permanent little pink patches over his cheeks that made him look constantly embarrassed. Maybe he
was
always embarrassed. Look at the life he had to deal with.

Ever since Dad moved out, Frankie had pretty much gone to live with his best friend, Mike. I’d overheard Mom telling Mike’s
mom that she needed some time to get things straight with her oldest and sure appreciated Mike’s family for taking Frankie
in. I figured it was this time spent with Mike that accounted for Frankie’s transformation. Mike’s mom was one of those perfect
moms who wouldn’t ever have a kid with spiked hair, much less one who shot up a school. Frankie was a good kid. Even I could
recognize that.

“Hey,” he said. “You ’kay?”

I nodded, sat up. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired I guess.”

“Are they really gonna send you back to the hospital?”

I rolled my eyes. “Dad’s just blowing off steam. He wants me out of his hair.”

“Do you need to go back? I mean, are you crazy or something?”

I almost laughed. In fact, I did chuckle just a little, which made my head ache. I shook my head no. I wasn’t crazy. At least
I didn’t think I was. “They’re just upset right now,” I said. “They’ll get over it.”

“Well, if you go…” he started and then stopped. He picked at my bedspread with chewed fingernails. “If you go, I’ll write
to you,” he said.

I wanted to hug him. Console him. Tell him it wouldn’t be necessary because there was no way I was going to go to some stupid
psych ward. That I’d just stay away from Dad and he’d eventually calm down. I wanted to tell him our family would be repaired—would be better, even.

But I didn’t say any of those things. I didn’t say anything at all, because somehow saying nothing seemed more humane than
giving him all these reassurances. After all, how was I supposed to know anything at all?

He brightened suddenly. “Dad’s getting me a four-wheeler!” he said excitedly. “He told me on the phone last night. And he’s
going to take me out and show me how to ride it. Isn’t that awesome?”

“That’s awesome,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster. It was cool to see Frankie smile and get excited again,
even if I didn’t believe for a minute that Dad was going to buy him anything. That would be so… dad-like… and we both knew
that our dad was totally not dad-like.