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I take the ball and glance at Dave, whose chest is puffed up like a rooster’s. Sean follows my line of sight and shakes his head ever so slightly, then keeps moving down the hall toward his class. I want to chase after him, but I’m frozen. Thankfully, the warning bell rings, so the crowd thins. Grayson’s locker mate, Lily, reappears with a massive garbage bag, and the three of us spend the remaining time gathering tennis balls.
“Thanks for your help, you guys,” I say as I lean over to grab the last one.
“It’s no big deal,” Lily says, nodding to the bag. “Where do you want to put that?”
“I’ll drop it off in the gym. I’m sure they can use them.”
“Probably not this one,” Grayson says, handing me the pink tennis ball that says WITH.
DANCE WITH DAVE?
As the final bell rings, I look over to where he was standing: He’s gone. He made me, Grayson, and Lily late to class, but he didn’t even stick around long enough to get my answer. God forbid he’d be late, too.
It was a gesture for the crowd that watched, not for Elizabeth Best.
Not for Ella.
Not for Betsey.
Not for me.
“I think we should break up with Dave,” I say flatly during a commercial break that night. I haven’t talked to Sean since our fight and I’m in a surly mood. We’re eating ice cream in the rec room and Ella keeps looking over her shoulder, probably because we’ve been talking about Petra and Mom and Sean and other secrets, but it’s bugging me. Everything’s bugging me.
>“I know!” Bet whispers excitedly. “I mean, I didn’t tell her anything really, but—”
Her words drop off. “Bet?”
“Shh!”
I glance at Sean, who’s looking at me with amused curiosity. I realize then that I’m hunched over and clutching the phone like it’s precious. Before I can say anything to him, Bet’s back.
“I have to go,” she says. “Mom’s lurking around: I’m hiding in the closet. I’m going to write Petra back later and see if I can get more information out of her.”
“Maybe you should become a detective when you grow up,” I joke.
“Why do I have to wait until I grow up?” Betsey asks, laughing at herself. “Anyway, see you later.”
I hang up, then relay the call to Sean.
“Does this mean that you’re finally going to do something about it?” he asks.
“About what?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m being an idiot. “Lizzie, your mom is borderline abusive—you get that, right?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m five,” I snap. “And I know my mom… a lot better than you do. She may be one hundred and fifty percent overprotective, and she may have more than a touch of OCD, but she’s not abusing us.”
Sean sighs and scrunches up a taco wrapper.
“I think you have Stockholm syndrome,” he mutters.
“I think you’re making this more dramatic than it needs to be,” I say. “I mean, yeah, I hate it. I want out of the arrangement as it stands. And yeah, my mom’s wacked. But I’d appreciate you toning it down a bit.”
“Just trying to help,” Sean says.
“Well, stop.”
“Fine.” He’s clearly annoyed. “But you said yourself, you get used to things to the point where they don’t seem weird anymore. And you’re used to this… but, Lizzie, believe me when I tell you: It’s still weird.”
