Through our teeth, p.14
Through Our Teeth, page 14
My chest heats up like an incinerator, and I’m pissed at it for betraying me. After everything, the thought of Brendan flirting with another girl gives me heartburn. Even after he fell in love with my best friend. Even after he was accused of murdering her. Even after he’s shown multiple shades of asshole tonight. I should be focused on who’s out to get us, but my heart is still hardwired to feel something for him. To question if he meant the things he said and planned for me earlier tonight, or if this was all part of his schtick. Was I just another toy for him?
“News flash: Brendan Jean interacts with skanks and hoes.” Kizzy’s voice drips with sarcasm.
“And,” Brendan interjects, “I laughed.”
The rest of us wait for an explanation.
“Dayvon found out first. About . . . Hope,” he continues. We all knew that. Dayvon lives down the street from the Jacksons. He was over there all the time for cookouts and dinners or any other occasion where he could grab a plate of food. He was practically another son to the Jacksons. Yet another reason why Brendan and Dayvon’s friendship always included an asterisk. Brendan knew that Dayvon was the son the Jacksons always wanted, and no amount of NBA buzz could truly replace that.
“When he hit me up about her death, I laughed.” Brendan shakes his head and gathers himself. “I mean, not actually laughed. I sent a GIF of guys falling out on the floor laughing.”
“The fuck?” Kizzy asks, stealing my exact words.
“I thought he was joking. I wanted him to be joking. I didn’t know what to say, so that’s what I sent.” Brendan slaps his fist into his palm, over and over. More skittish than scary. “I was going to delete it, but I knew Dayvon wouldn’t delete it on his end. And then if he had that when I didn’t, people would wonder what I was trying to hide.”
“That was a lot of calculating for someone who claims to be innocent,” Kizzy says.
I agree. This whole night I’ve been on a seesaw. Earlier, I was up in the clouds. Seeing the old Brendan. The guy who was my best friend. The guy who could make my palms sweat with a simple quirk of his eyebrows. But the night has evolved and painted a different person. Someone with a wicked streak. Someone menacing. Someone with enough rage to bruise Hope’s face, or worse. The majority of tonight have been full of lows—but this? Sharing our phone’s dark secrets? This won’t add any levity.
“Yeah, well, I knew there were a lot of assholes out here like you,” Brendan shoots back at Kizzy. “There. I’ve shared. What about you?”
Kizzy shifts from foot to foot, like she’s prepping herself before leaping out of a plane. “Fine. I’ve talked a lot of shit about you to Hope.”
Brendan scoffs. “You talk a lot of shit about me to me.”
“I pride myself on being transparent,” Kizzy says. “But I guess if you look at my texts, it was a lot of me convincing Hope to dump you. And a lot of accusations that something was going on . . . between you two.” She looks between me and Brendan.
She might as well have punched me with that look.
“What?” I demand.
“I told Hope she needed to keep an eye on both of you because you two flirt. A lot. You think it’s some cute, secret language you share but it verged on verbal humping. And . . . I may have mentioned to her that y’all hooked up at the Cupid Dance.”
Asher lets out a surprised laugh as Brendan cusses to himself.
“That’s a lie!” I shout over Asher’s cackles. “I went to that dance with Dayvon. Hope’s the one who set us up.”
Kizzy sighs, exhausted. “You know you weren’t into Dayvon like that.”
“Um, he wasn’t into me like that.” I pound my chest to prove a point, but only hurt myself in the process. “He’s the one who . . .” I don’t drown out. I sink. I know what I saw. Dayvon knows what I saw that night. But it doesn’t feel right putting him on blast. Not while he’s not in the room to defend himself.
“I had to take a piss. When I went out in the hall, I saw you two up against the lockers,” Kizzy continues.
“We were arguing,” Brendan barks. “I was telling her to stop being weird.” He refuses to look at me. Not wanting to see the hurt across my face from hearing those words again. But just like that, it’s eight months ago and I’m in the school’s hallway. Me pushing against his chest. Him grabbing my wrists. Both screaming “Let me go” even while we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
But we didn’t kiss. We didn’t cross any lines. We were both devoted to Hope.
“You know what happened after that, right?” Brendan’s tirade snaps me back to the dark bedroom. “You know that your reckless mouth created a domino effect, right?” His voice cracks.
It’s true. After the dance, Brendan and Hope had their final breakup. The breakup. A month later, when she wouldn’t take him back, Hope took pictures of her black-and-blue face. All from Brendan, she said—and she posted them. She went online instead of to the cops. She knew the cops wouldn’t believe her, but she thought she’d have the public on her side. She thought a tarnished reputation would be punishment enough for Brendan. But the public turned against her. Hailed Brendan as a prince and her a wicked witch. A few weeks later, she was dead.
“You asked me what’s the worst thing on my phone, so there it is,” Kizzy says. She works hard to show that she doesn’t feel guilty. Arms still crossed. Chin lifted with indignance. But she can’t keep still. She bounces from foot to foot like she’s avoiding a land mine. Only thing, though, is that her actions already blew up our world.
I shake my head in disappointment. “Why didn’t you just ask me what happened? Why did you run off and tell Hope before you got my side?” Hope seemed distant right before her death, especially with me. Every interaction with her felt like a test. As though I needed to prove that I’d always stick around. But all her actions did was push me further and further away—or made me want to push her. Especially that last night. That awful, awful night.
Kizzy shrugs. “Hope was my friend.”
With those four words, she ripped out my heart and took a bite out of it. “I thought we were friends, too.”
She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then two more moments. Then three. I wonder if she’s running through the stages of our friendship, just like I am. Evaluating the reality and the fiction. Trying to remember what we actually meant to each other before Hope’s death. Maybe I’m seeing rainbows when all she’s experienced were storms. It’s like our friendship is an optical illusion and I see two faces, but she only notices a candlestick.
“Thanks for sharing your dark secret that destroyed a thousand relationships,” Asher says, always the tactful one. “I believe there’s only one person left for show-and-tell.” He and Brendan look at me. They haven’t forgotten about me.
My mouth feels incredibly dry, so I lick my lips. Prepping them to move and say something. Anything. “Okay, as you all know, after Hope died, I had that incident at my last track meet.”
“You mean when everyone thought your heart gave out, but it was only a wimpy-ass panic attack—and your team had to forfeit a potential championship?”
I stab Asher with my eyes. That’s like the hundredth inappropriate comment he’s made about mental health tonight. “Panic attacks are nothing to joke about. And maybe if you were a bit more mindful about your mental wellness, you’d be less of a jerk and people could stomach being around you.”
“But then you’d have to share me, Liv. We all know how well you do with sharing.” He nods toward Brendan.
Brendan and Kizzy both whip out a “Shut up, Asher,” and Kizzy waves her hand to continue.
“So anyways,” I say, and take a breath. “I started seeing my therapist, and one of the things we discussed was for me to start journaling. That way I didn’t have to bottle up my feelings. When I hold everything in all the time, it comes out like . . . well, like what happened to me at the championship meet. I started journaling in between my sessions, but I didn’t trust having a physical copy of anything. My parents have been high-key snooping on me. I think they’re worried that I’m going to follow behind Hope because we’re . . .” I wince and try again. “We were so close. So yeah, I started journaling in my Notes app. Most of it is incoherent except to me but still, there’s a lot of my private thoughts in there.”
I finish, and something lifts off my shoulders. The phone feels dense in my pocket, but at least I can breathe a lot better in this room. Brendan steps closer to me, and for a moment, I think he’s about to hug me. My heart races at the thought because, what am I supposed to do? Hug him back? Push him away? I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel about him right now.
“Bullshit,” he says.
My laugh comes out as a hiccup. “Excuse me?” I ask.
“You don’t want to hand over your phone because of diary entries?”
“It’s journaling,” I correct. “And it’s private. I don’t even tell my therapist everything I write, and she doesn’t make me.”
“Yeah, but she might if you’re a suspect in a murder,” Brendan says. “And if she doesn’t, the police will subpoena you and all your shit is going to be out in the open anyways.”
“I’ll take my chances if the time comes, then.”
“Liv, I fucking know you!” Brendan’s voice cracks again, and I can’t tell if it’s from the sheer volume or frustration. “You’re not going to go against everyone else just because of some random thoughts about crushes, or how your parents are getting on your nerves. If that was it, you would’ve been the first one to put your phone on the table. Never mind, you would’ve been the second.”
I frown. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re a fucking follower.” His breath is on my forehead now, and it’s scorching with anger. “You thought you were hot shit. That the world revolved around you, but the only reason it did was because Hope was next to you. The only thing I believe that came from your mouth is your parents think you’re going to kill yourself, too. You would hold in your piss until Hope announced she had to go to the bathroom. That’s how it’s always been.”
My hands ball into fists, and I ram them both against his chest, hoping to crack something. “Shut up,” I practically scream.
“Then give me your phone.”
“No!”
Brendan whips his hand toward my pockets. I push him away again, and Kizzy pushes him a third time before he can make his way back to me.
“Don’t touch her. Ever,” she warns him.
“She’s hiding something, Kiz.” Brendan waves a hand at me. “You and I both know it.”
“All I know is if you start getting handsy again, there’s going to be a problem.”
Brendan sucks at his teeth. “Kill that noise.”
“Try me, Brendan. I really want you to try me.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Asher gets in between them. “Let’s turn down the temp in here, okay?”
Brendan and Kizzy continue sparring, their accusations and name-calling blurring together so much that they seem like they’re speaking another language. But they’re distracted. All of them. So, I leave.
I don’t just leave. I run.
I sprint out the bedroom and down the dark hall. I don’t use my phone light. If I do, they’ll see me. I’m in the loft and a few steps from the stairs by the time I hear Asher cry out: “She’s gone, guys!” Fuck.
The stairs are the obvious choice. Not only will they hear me, but they’ll see me, too. That’s the thing about grand staircases. Too much space to make a quick getaway. I dash into the bedroom closest to the stairs when the idea hits me: the dumbwaiter.
I thought it was the stupidest fucking thing when my mom told me about it. This is a luxury home, not a plantation. Nobody needed to send a tray of hominy grits and freshly squeezed orange juice upstairs to their massa. Mom went on to list the benefits of installing one. Not just for food but for laundry. Which is why she made sure that she’d install one to go past the laundry room on the main level.
I squeeze into the bedroom closet as I hear footsteps out in the loft behind me. I feel for the wall and pray I don’t have to pull out my phone light. Finally, I feel the small handle poking out of the wall panel. I breathe a sigh of relief as I yank open the hidden door. An empty cabin waits for me. Thank God the contractor didn’t install the shelves inside yet, or I may not be able to squeeze in. I fold myself into the dumbwaiter and reach for the button then remember . . . no power. Shit.
“You see her?” I hear Brendan ask from the loft.
I can’t just hide in here forever. Someone’s bound to find me. So I grab the manual pulley outside the cabin and pull. And pull. I feel like I’m pulling an anchor out of water, but I don’t stop. This is my only way down. It actually might be a good thing. If the power were on, they would hear the motor. They would find me in no time. And I need more time.
“Come on,” I urge under my breath, begging for my arms to be stronger. Work harder. I slide past the laundry room. Good. Just one more floor. I grunt and feel my hair curling up at the roots. The sweat working its way through my kinks. It’s okay. It’ll be worth it.
Just when I think my muscles are about to burn through my skin, the cabin stops with a thud, and there’s no more leverage in the pulley. I made it. I’m at the basement level. I breathe a sigh of relief and rest against the back wall of the cabin. It’s so quiet that it sounds like I’m breathing into a microphone. But if that’s the only thing I’m hearing, then I must be alone.
I pull out my phone, realizing it’s safe enough now to shine a light. I need to. The darkness is suffocating and equal to what I assume being buried alive feels like. I open my Photos app and click on Albums. I scroll down past all the usual ones—friends, family, and favorites—until I reach the Utilities section and click on the Hidden option. The one that only opens with my Face ID.
Even with just the phone screen as my lighting, it recognizes my face. The folder opens, and I stare at a picture of Hope. Face down on the pavement a few feet from her pool. A pond of blood surrounding her head like red mist.
With shaky thumbs, I press Delete. Go to my Recently Deleted album and press Delete again. Poof.
Fifteen
EIGHT MONTHS AGO
They all want a piece of us.
The DJ’s in the pocket, sliding in one hit song after the other. Feeding from the energy of the crowd. The school’s gym has morphed into Cupid’s house party. Red, pink, and white gossamer streamers are strewn across the walls, and plastic hearts dangle from the ceiling. A disco ball hangs from the center of the room, reflecting heart patterns over our skin. In the thick of it all, there’s me and Hope. Hope and me. Writhing our bodies to the music. Holding hands and shouting lyrics to each other with everyone watching. Everyone’s trying to join our private party, but only our inner circle gets the invite. Kizzy twirls around us, bumping her hips against ours to the beat. Sherie floats like she usually does, arms moving toward the ceiling as though reaching for the song lyrics. Coko and Sy’rai slip in and out, wrapping their arms around my and Hope’s waists occasionally to add to the groove. Forget Cupid’s house party. This dance belongs to us.
The music leaks into something with a slower tempo, and Hope fans herself.
“Girl,” she says to me. “I need to sit. Plus, somebody’s antiperspirant has expired, and I’m not trying to walk around smelling like onion rings.”
“I told Sy to stop buying the store-brand deodorant,” Coko says, still pulling Sy’rai close to her to get her to slow dance.
“Girl, bye. My shit’s clinical strength,” Sy’rai insists.
I laugh and link my arm through Hope’s and lead her back toward our table. The crowd parts for us and makes a clear path. I can’t even remember the last time either of us had to say “Excuse me.” Everyone just knows to get out of the way.
Brendan and Dayvon sit at our table, looking toward the dance floor and laughing at something or someone. Dayvon notices me, and his eyes basically flicker. He stands and pulls out my seat. I give him a polite smile as I sit, and he helps to scooch me under the table. He’s been taking this date thing seriously all night. He rented out a stretch Hummer, bought me a corsage. About two weeks ago he wanted to know my dress’s exact shade of green so his tie could match. He’s a keeper . . . except I’m not sure if I want to hold on to him.
“What were y’all laughing at?” Hope’s on Brendan’s lap, rubbing the nape of his neck with her fingertips. He has both arms around her waist. They’re always like this. Hands on each other at all times. It would be annoying if it seemed forced, but they just naturally fall into that rhythm. Interlocking fingers, palms on lower backs, chin on top of head. They’re like puzzle pieces snapping into place when they’re next to each other.
Brendan and Dayvon exchange a look and laugh again.
“Nothing. Just Ash, man,” Brendan says, shaking his head. “That dude’s a nut.” He looks out onto the dance floor again, and I follow his eyes. I spot Asher, wearing a powder-blue tux just like one of those idiots in that Dumb and Dumber movie. He’s behind Tia Shepherd, thrusting his hips in her direction as she bends over and twerks to the beat. He looks over at our table again and holds up devil horns in one hand.
I turn back around, and Brendan’s still chuckling. “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why the blue tux?”
Brendan shrugs. “I don’t know. Because he’s Ash.”
“Ash is going to Ash,” Dayvon adds.
Now it’s my and Hope’s turn to exchange a look. “They’re not laughing at his tux,” Hope says to me. Then pinches Brendan’s neck.
“Ow! Babe, what the hell?”
“Why’s he dancing with Tia?” Hope demands.
“It’s a dance, bae. That’s what people do.”
Hope points a warning finger. “I swear to God, B, if y’all are planning on messing with that girl—”
“We’re not. I promise.” Brendan holds up both hands. “Asher’s just being stupid. I didn’t put him up to anything.”
