“Listen, I’m not saying you’re ugly or anything, you’re totally cute enough, but you’re so not the prettiest girl in school,” Willow says, by way of greeting, when I march into the Pizza Palace, and as expected they are all gathered around a laptop reading from David’s notebook. No one seems to care that this is his private journal or diary or whatever. Justin and Gabriel and Jessica-Willow-Abby are here. Annie and Violet too, though they are sitting in a separate booth.
“Shut your piehole. Kit’s beautiful,” Annie says, and I want to high-five her for defending me, for still being on my team, despite the fact that I suck lately. Not that I disagree with Willow. Despite David’s delusions, I am in no way one of the more attractive girls at school. I don’t know who David sees when he looks at me—if he has fun-house-mirror eyes—but it’s certainly not the same me everyone else sees. He’s right about the other stuff, though, and it’s sweet of him to have noticed: I do sit cross-legged on most chairs, and I have a nervous habit of covering my fingers with my sweatshirt sleeves, which annoys my mom because I always stretch them out.
His writing down my license plate number? All right, fine. That’s borderline creepy.
“I think you’re the one who needs to do that,” Willow says to Annie. “Did you read what David Drucker said about your jeans being too tight?”
“Obvi you’re going to stop being friends with him, right?” Jessica asks, and I try to remember what notes David made about her, but the only thing I can come up with is her hair. It is too bright. Hair color should not be viewable from space.
I’m still not sure why he described each member of our class, but the entries read like the shorthand I sometimes use when I’m programming the number of someone whose name I’m not likely to remember into my phone: Eyebrow-piercing boy from Model UN. Redheaded girl from PSAT class. Maybe David has a problem with names?
“Why would I do that?” I ask, but then realize I’m getting distracted. I’m not here to deal with these girls. I don’t want to dip my toes into their smallness. Why do they care what David has to say about them, anyway? They’ve all said so much worse about him over the years.
No, I’m here to see Gabriel and Justin, who have both opened their arms out wide to me for a hug. The cheap feels, Violet calls it, when the boys try to touch us for no good reason. Arms over shoulders. A squeeze of our sides. Even sometimes a yank of a ponytail like we are kindergartners. It’s not sexual. It’s more like how people grab a handful of free mints from a bowl as they’re leaving a restaurant. Greedy.
David doesn’t do any of that. Just holds my hand like it’s something delicate.
“Did you do it?” I ask Justin, trying to look tough. Which is silly, since I have never looked tough, am just too goddamn normal to look tough. David’s list of Notable Encounters with Justin was five pages long, going all the way back to elementary school.
Justin’s plans to humiliate David were ambitious. I’ll give him that. And perfectly tailored to his adversary’s weaknesses. Why would someone want to so utterly destroy someone else? Is Justin a sociopath? And how come we were all so willing to stand next to him and laugh? I had forgotten about the time in middle school he tortured David in the bathroom. What did I say when I heard? Did I laugh too? I hope not, but I can’t be sure. It was a long time ago.
I know I didn’t call him shithead like lots of people did afterward. Not just then too. But for years.
At least I didn’t do that.
Still, small solace.
The truth is David wasn’t a real person to me until he was.
“What are you talking about?” Justin pats the seat next to him, with two fingers, like I’m a puppy who takes directions via pointing. Like Jessica’s hair, how have I never before noticed his cruel streak? How did I ever find him amusing? I’ve been overly impressed by the fact that he’s smart and athletic and occasionally witty, stupid distractions that somehow kept me from realizing he’s actually a big asshole.
“The…The ‘Guide to Mapleview.’ You guys posted it, right?” I hate that I pose it as a question. Give them room to say, No, sorry, didn’t do it.
“Nope,” Justin says, right on cue, though the corners of his mouth lift and betray him. He’s proud of himself. “Wasn’t us.”
“Dude, your boyfriend’s weird,” Gabriel says, and my first instinct is to say, He’s not my boyfriend. But I don’t. Not because David is my boyfriend, but because it feels disloyal. Like I’m embarrassed to be associated with him now. I really don’t care what they think; I’m disgusted by these people, which is perhaps the only upside I can think of to what has happened to me in the past month. My life will be better without Justin and Gabriel and afternoons like this one.
Sure, David is even more awkward than I realized. Okay, not just awkward, but deeply different. So unaware of social norms that he has to keep a notebook to learn them, like an exchange student from Mars.
Who cares?
If someone published the pages of my journal—which I will burn the second I get home, come to think of it—there’d be some weirdo stuff in there too. I think about my dad’s favorite expression: People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
What is my house made of?
Paper, I decide. Like in a pop-up book. Easily collapsible.
“You guys really are such douches,” I say. “I bet you’re enjoying this.”
“It’s kind of funny,” Gabriel says.
“Whatever, it’s, like, so rude that he said all that stuff about us,” Willow says, pouting, though she doesn’t actually look upset. More like she’s posing for a selfie. Do any of them have real human emotions? Why do I suddenly feel like I’m surrounded by actors cast as teenagers? Like I’m the only one with a real and messy life. I realize that can’t be true. I’ve heard that Abby goes to an outpatient eating-disorder clinic, and that Jessica has experimented with cutting, which suggests that despite their shiny exteriors, they’re also fighting their own demons. Willow, I’m not so sure. It’s entirely possible she truly believes she’s starring in her own reality show. “I mean, he’s clearly so not a nice person.”
“I like your elbows,” Jessica says.
“And I like your hair,” Willow says.
“You ladies are all beautiful in my book,” Gabriel says, though he is only looking at Willow, and I wonder if he has always been this patronizing. When did we decide that these people would be our friends? What if we took the time to get to know some of the kids in the other cliques, like the artsy types or the theater dorks? What if we all jumped out of our boxes and chewed up our stupid labels? Who would we discover?
Gabriel’s not going to ask Annie to the prom, I realize with a sick feeling, even though she is ten times cooler than Willow and the rest of them. He’ll be afraid she’ll wear something outrageous. That she’ll be too Annie.
I try a different tactic. I sit down next to Justin. Close. Put a hand on his arm.
“Please. Pretty please. Tell me,” I say. “I just want to know.”
My tone reminds me of the kind of girl I’ve never been: needling, faux cutesy, hyperflirty. I came here for one reason and one reason only, and I will not leave until I’ve fixed this for David. I feel like I owe him one, maybe because I abandoned him in the snow with his tape measure. Or maybe because I understand just how much this whole thing will suck for him. I know what it’s like to walk down halls with your back the target of a million eyeballs. Hearing the ripple of echoes you leave in your wake: Did you hear? Her dad died her dad died her dad died.
“Darling, we don’t know what you’re talking about,” Justin says, and Jessica laughs, maybe at his condescending darling. I want to smack them both across the face. Hard.
“Come on. I know you guys stole his notebook.” My tone shifts again. Back to anger. I consider standing up one more time.
“Seriously, chillax, Kit,” Abby says. “It’s so not a big deal. We’re not saying you’re not pretty.”
“I’m going to Principal Hoch.” I barely even register Abby and her hybrid word and yet another unsolicited comment on my appearance. For a while there, when Justin and Jessica were hooking up, everyone called them Justica and I would think, every single time, I can’t wait to go to college. “I’ll tell her I saw you take it.”
I look to Violet and Annie for backup here, though I’m not sure if I’ll get it. They are not exactly on #teamdavid.
“Why would you do that?” Justin asks me. “We’re your friends.” He sounds both surprised and hurt. Like he’d never expect me to turn on him like that. I think back to what David said, about how the coincidence of landing in the same school at the same time wasn’t enough for him to fit in here. Did Justin used to be my friend? I mean, for real? He came to my father’s funeral, told me he was sorry afterward, just like everyone else, and then he and Gabriel hung around the parking lot for a little bit, doing their headlock-and-tripping-each-other thing. I have sat with them more times than I can count in this very booth, gossiping and watching YouTube videos on each other’s phones. But do we know each other at all? Have we ever had a real conversation? I don’t think so.
No one except David has asked me what I think about God, or an afterlife, whether I place my trust in science or religion. No one except David knows about the accident playing each night on my ceiling. I trusted him enough to tell him about my mother’s betrayal. It would never occur to me to be honest with Gabriel and Justin, to lift that muzzle of self-consciousness and share. To let them see me cry.
No, we are not friends. We are placeholders. But I was not as strong as David. I couldn’t go it alone. I probably still can’t.
“Because it’s cruel. Because he is a good person. Because,” I say.
“I wouldn’t risk it, guys. If you get caught that could really hurt your college applications,” Violet says, and stands up, as if to join me in my protest. I notice she’s untucked her shirt, which makes me ache.
“Kit’s right. Take it down, and if you don’t, I’m going to tell on you guys too,” Annie says, and I see she’s wearing a fitted denim jumpsuit over a tie-dyed peasant blouse and big seventies disco ball earrings. She looks ridiculous and so much like herself that I want to hug her. Now we are three strong. “That was his private journal, or whatever. Posting it wasn’t cool.”
“It was just a joke,” Justin says.
“Now,” I demand, and point to the computer.
“Seriously? It can’t wait till I get home? It’s not like taking it down does anything. Everyone’s seen it already.”
“Now,” I say again, and for once I actually sound tough. Maybe it’s because I know Violet and Annie have my back. That my squad hasn’t totally dissolved. Justin moves his fingers over the keyboard and poof, just like that, the link is disabled. Too bad he’s right. It doesn’t really matter. The harm has already been done, and no doubt there are a zillion screenshots everywhere. Nothing ever really gets deleted from the Internet. “And give me the notebook.”
Again, to my surprise, he does. It has a plain blue cover and a spiral edge and the name David Drucker written in small block print at the bottom. Charmingly retro, like something a fourth grader would carry. I’m tempted to flick it open and look at his drawings.
I love how he made my neck look like something worth looking at.
“Honestly, Kit, I can’t believe you’d pick shithead over us,” Justin says, leaning over for a high five from Gabriel.
“Oh man, that was classic,” Gabriel says. “Classic.”
A few minutes later, I’m standing outside with Violet and Annie.
“Thanks for defending me back there,” I say, staring at my feet. “You guys are the best.”
“Yeah, well, Gabe asked Willow to the prom. So screw him,” Annie says, and though she makes it sound like no big deal, I know it is.
“I’m sorry. That sucks.” I wish I were more surprised by this information. I wish we could all see each other more clearly.
“David’s right: He really does have a clown mouth,” Violet says, bumping her elbow against Annie’s. “You don’t really want to go to the prom with a guy who looks like the Joker.”
Annie doesn’t laugh. Just blinks a few times to suck back the water in her eyes.
“You don’t want to go to prom with a jerk,” I say. “What he and Justin did was really wrong.”
“Yeah, maybe. Still, there’s some weird shit in that notebook,” Annie says, fiddling with her giant earrings. “Be careful around that guy, Kit.”
“Come on, out of context everyone’s journal is weird,” I say, not sure why I feel the need to defend David, even to Violet and Annie. He’s not mine to defend. “But I didn’t read the whole thing. Just enough to get the gist.”
“Really?” Violet asks, her eyebrow cocked in surprise.
“It just didn’t seem right.”
“You should,” Annie says. I shrug. Before everything with my dad, I didn’t really understand the need for privacy, for the desire to be free of other people’s questions. Now I do.
“What’s the Accident Project?” Violet asks, in a voice that’s soft, tentative. Almost a lullaby. Like she’s asking something easy. Like what’s my favorite food or television show or if she can borrow my Spanish notes. “Is that why you keep skipping classes and didn’t go to the newspaper meeting? Because you are working on that?”
“What?”
“The Accident Project. What. Is. It?” Annie asks, with none of Violet’s gentleness. “We have almost all the same classes, so I know it’s not for school. What are you doing with David?”
“That’s…that’s, um, in there?” I ask, wondering how much David has written down. Did he expose me to all of Mapleview? I try to remember how I’ve even framed the question for him. I want to know the exact last second my dad’s accident could have been avoided. When the brakes needed to have been pressed. If the whole thing could have been stopped in the first place. I want to make mathematical sense out of the inexplicable. Now it just sounds insane.
“Like I said, you should read it. See who you’re ditching us for,” Annie says. “So you’re not going to tell us? About the Accident Project.”
“It’s nothing. Really. And I’m not ditching—” Annie shakes her head at me, gives me the palm of her hand, and before I can finish speaking she’s already halfway toward her car. I turn to Violet. “I’m not ditching you guys. It’s not like that.”
“She’s just, you know, pissed about Gabe,” Violet says. “And we miss you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. This hurts, I want to say. Even just standing here talking to you. It all hurts more than you could possibly imagine. I want to show her my watch, how time barely moves forward. How I don’t much care for this version of me either. I stay quiet.
“Do you really like him? David, I mean,” Violet asks, and her voice is hopeful, as if my liking him will excuse everything else, like the fact that I no longer want to hang out with her and Annie. I don’t deserve her forgiveness or her understanding. If things were the other way around, if Violet suddenly ditched me for some random guy without much of an explanation, I’d have no sympathy.
“I don’t know. He’s really easy to talk to,” I say. “I like being around him.”
What I don’t say: I can tell him things that I can’t tell anyone else. Like about my dad and my mom. Maybe one day about me. He weighs information honestly.
What I don’t say: He moves time forward.
Violet nods, but she looks sad.
“You used to like being around us too.”
It’s bad enough that I get a guilt trip from Violet and Annie, but then a few minutes later, as I sit in my car and garner up the courage to put the keys in the ignition and head home, I get a text from my mom. Awesome.
Mom: I know I’m not your favorite person right now, and my timing isn’t great, but I really don’t think you should hang out with David Drucker anymore.
Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Mom: Saw that “Guide to Mapleview” link. Annie’s mom sent it to me.
Me: How dare you. THAT WAS HIS PRIVATE JOURNAL.
Mom: I’m just worried about you. That’s all.
Me: Leave me alone.
Mom: Sweetheart, what’s “the Accident Project”?
Me: Screw you.