Page 12 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

She was wide-eyed and guileless. Maybe she really cared. Maybe she actually wanted to know about my stupid, hopeless crush. And after days of the silent treatment, of blaming myself for her having to drop out of the Olympics, her interest in me felt like putting frozen toes in hot water: painful at first, but ultimately soothing. So, I sat and we talked.

I told her that Neal and I had been lab partners and we'd shared some inside jokes, that he’d noticed when I’d gotten my hair cut, and how he’d confided in me about a fight he was having with his girlfriend. Jo Beth was an intent, non-judgmental listener, and at the end of the night, when she asked to hold on to my poetry journal, I said okay. My sister wanted access to my innermost thoughts and I was happy to give her the key.

I fell asleep next to her in her bed. In the morning, after my shower, I went to my room to get dressed and found my poetry journal on top of my computer. Oh good, I thought. She returned it without my asking. I was running late so I hurried to school without checking my phone. But it didn’t take me long to figure things out. The snickers and the pointing were my first clue. I stood at my locker, trying to convince myself I was paranoid, that the laughter and whispers were at someone else’s expense. Then Neal approached. His face was grey and he clenched his jaw.

Like someone had died. Like he wanted to kill me.

“What were you thinking?” His voice seemed purposefully loud, inviting the whole school to overhear.

Instantly I realized I was cornered. My heart flung itself against my ribcage, desperate for escape. “I don’t know what you mean…”

“There is NOTHING between us, okay? Stay away from me, freak!”

He stormed off to people’s applause and high fives. I slammed my locker door shut, made a beeline for the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and whipped out my phone. One look at Facebook confirmed my worst fears.

Jo Beth had posted three of my most passionate poems about Neal on his wall, using my account.

Two girls entered the bathroom, laughing. “I can’t believe it,” one said.

“I know, right?” said the other. “It’s so ridiculous.”

I flushed the toilet and exited the stall in a rush, before they could name me as the subject of their conversation. They did not give me a second glance as I washed my hands and left the bathroom, but I was sure they were laughing at me.

EVERYONE was laughing at me.

I made it through the day by keeping my head down and saying nothing. The moment the afternoon bell rang I raced home, a million thoughts racing through my head. But they were all variations on the same theme: what I was going to say to Jo Beth. I found her on the living room couch watching TV. I stormed past her and the Pottery Barn apothecary table where she rested her feet. Then I flicked off the huge flat-screen television mounted to the brick wall.

“Excuse you,” she said. “I was watching that.”

I spun around so I was both facing her and standing over her. “Do you hate me or something? Why would you hurt me like that?”

Jo Beth twisted her mouth into a neutral position before answering. She blinked a couple of times, but otherwise, her face stayed passive. “You’re talking about the poems?”

“Of course I’m talking about the poems! The whole school saw them. Neal yelled at me and called me a freak! It was like…” my voice cracked. “It was the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me and it happened because of you. Why did you do it?”

She sat up straight, flinging her shoulders back, but avoiding my eyes. “It was a truth. I called truth.”

“Truth only works if I’m the one saying it. You can’t say it for me.”

She shrugged. “Well, this time I did. I changed the rules, just like you did last week.”

“That’s completely different.”

Jo Beth raised her voice. “I thought he should know how you felt about him. If you don’t let him know, then you’re giving him all the power.”

“You’re lying!” I shouted. I took a step forward, menacingly close to where she sat. “You blame me for the accident. You’re pissed that I got down that slope and you didn’t. You’re worried that I might be as good a skier as you, so you wanted to hurt me. That makes you vindictive, petty, and the most unlikable person in the world!”

It wasn’t that I was yelling at her for the first time ever; no, I mentioned the possibility that my skiing skills might compare to hers. Such an unforgivable statement was like puking up hot coal. My throat burned, but my stomach felt a hell of a lot better. Jo Beth didn’t lash out like I thought she would. Instead she retreated into herself, becoming smaller as her body sagged into the couch. Her voice was quiet, almost inaudible. “You’ll never be as good as me, Sky. You’re not strong enough for my kind of success.” She kept her eyes down, using her right index finger to trace a polka dot on her flannel pajama pants. “If that makes me the most unlikable person ever, I don’t care.” She forced a tiny laugh. “I mean, I’m not more unlikable than Hitler, or Stalin.”

“They’re both dead.”

“Are you saying I’m the most unlikable person alive?”

“I’m saying that right now, I wish you were dead too.”

Jo Beth’s mouth dropped open and she met my eyes. Her own eyes widened as she waited for me to take it back, to apologize. I ought to have. Because it was my own death I’d been wishing for all day, not hers. Yet for once I could not utter the word sorry.

“You’ll regret this,” she said softly.

I already did.