I turn on her. “What are you talking about?”
Jessa beams. “Im, you just talked to your mother for, like, the first time ever. You really did it, you found her! We thought she was a wreck or something, but it sounds like she’s fine. Isn’t that a good thing? Maybe now she can help us out with your dad.”
I study my friend, so cool in her skinny jeans and hot-pink one-shouldered sweater, her nails newly French manicured. My beautiful, perfect friend, with her beautiful, perfect body, surrounded by her beautiful, perfect family, in her beautiful, perfect home. While eighth-grade me was teaching myself to cook mac ’n’ cheese and trying to convince my father he couldn’t live off clove cigarettes and PBR and three a.m. infomercials, the Prices were “fine.” And god, they always will be.
I cross my legs to hide the ragged hole in the knee of my jeans. “Just do me a favor. Fuck off.”
Jessa’s lips part, then press together. “I’m trying to help you. So is Chad.”
“Like he wanted to help me out with prom? Yeah, no thanks. You shouldn’t have even told Chad, or your asshole boyfriend. That was unbelievably stupid.”
“First, we’re not even going out.” Jessa’s blue eyes ice over as she tilts her head sharply to the side. “And you’re saying I’m stupid?”
It’s too late to go back now—all my misery is boiling into this sick, hot rage that makes me want to tear down the plaster walls, smash the picture frames, shatter the chrome vases on their little tables—crash, kick, destroy, ruin. Why did I think this girl could help me? Jessa has never had to search for anyone or anything, ever. She’s never had to worry, or hope, or wonder. Any mysteries in Jessa’s life have been solved as easily as finding her missing lip gloss in the bottom of her fourth-favorite purse. I let this feeling fill me up, and it’s so much better than feeling pathetic. I shrug. “Should I say it slower?”
“You know what? Whatever.” Her face is almost calm except for one dangerously arched eyebrow. “I’m always trying to help you. I stay home from parties ’cause you’re too scared to go.”
“I’m not—”
“I totally blow off Jeremy to hang out with you so you won’t spend all your time moping. I even share my parents with you when your own dad can’t take care of you.”
“Don’t talk about my dad,” I snap, my fists clenched at my sides.
“Then don’t call me stupid.”
“You’re the dumbest dumbass in the world if you think you know anything about me or my family.”
She’s smiling now, so cold you could catch frostbite. I’ve seen this smile turned on those second-floor-bathroom girls, but never on me. Every word in her oversweet voice is like an icicle shattering on the hardwood floor. “You should probably go home, then. Lindy’s, like, a genius, right? Maybe she’ll be a better only-friend.”
So I leave. As soon as I numbly wave good-bye to Mr. Price and Dr. Van Tassel, who are busy in the kitchen, pretending they didn’t hear a word of our fight, I’m out the door and running, hot-faced, sweating through my stupid puffy coat even in the bitter, damp cold, past lit yellow windows and fancy gated lawns. I don’t stop till I’m slamming in through my own front door. I don’t even have time to shed my bag and coat before Lindy’s in my face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I try to snap. It comes out more like a gasp, my breath shredded from the brief sprint, from force-swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Imogene,” she says desperately, following me through the living room.
“Leave me alone, Lindy,” I warn her.
“Immy, I can’t do that.” She swoops in front of me. “Something’s obviously going on with you. I know you’re scared.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I know how worried you are about your dad. Lord knows I am.” She grabs for my stiff fingers. “But I’m asking you not to shut me out. Not now, when we’re depending on each other. Josh would want us to—”
“I don’t need a fucking therapist, Lindy.” I tear my hand away. “Nobody in this house does!”
The corners of her carefully painted poppy-red lips wobble. “That’s all that I am to you?”
As Lindy’s face blurs in front of me, I can’t stop myself from saying what I know I shouldn’t say: “That’s what you are. I don’t need your stupid talks, and I don’t need you, and neither does my dad!” I reach out and push, and my thin-boned stepmother stumbles into the wall at the foot of the stairs.
Lindy’s whisper is a whip crack between us. “Please go to your room, Imogene.”
“You can’t—”
“Yes, I can. Maybe I’m not the parent you want, but I’m what you’ve got. So go to your room.” She no longer seems on the verge of tears, and if she would look me in the eye, I suspect I’d see nothing but careful composure.
Except she won’t look at me.
Why should she? Not only am I pathetic, I’m mean. And I’m the dumbass for truly believing that just because my real mother didn’t want me, she needed saving.