Populazzi. Part 36

"An ex-friend?" I loathed myself for the way my voice broke over the words and for the tears starting to well behind my eyes. Hadn't I already known that Trista and I weren't really friends?

"It's over, Cara. I have to cut you loose. It was good talking to you about things, though. I really did like it."

"What if I promise not to say anything bad about you?"

Trista shook her head. "You could change your mind. And later there might be people who'd believe you. Good luck with the cleaning."

She had backed me out as she spoke and now shut the door in my face.

Had I just begged her to stay my friend?

I walked to the staircase landing and looked down over the horror of a house. I could see the very beginnings of sunrise through the window. Dad and the Bar Wench were coming back "in the late afternoon," which meant I had to start cleaning now, but even then it was doubtful I'd make enough progress. I collapsed into a chair to think about where to begin......and woke up with the sun glaring in on me. What time was it? I picked my way downstairs and into the family room, stepping lightly over strewn bodies that made the house look like the Normandy sh.o.r.e at D-day. I peered at the clock on the mantel: twelve thirty.

Twelve thirty.

No. Nonononononono.

A million sirens screamed in my head. I was still wearing my dress. Could I get away with it? No. I had lain in G.o.d knows what when I fell asleep, and brown goo smeared down one side. I raced to the guest room, yanked off the dress, and pulled on a cute skirt and top from my duffle bag.

I peeked in the bathroom mirror. My curls were matted down on one side from sleeping on them. Luckily I had an elastic, and I pulled together a ponytail. Makeup had smeared my face into a preschool finger painting. I sopped up the worst with a wet washcloth. No time to shower, but I reeked of alcohol. I scoured the vanity for perfume but found only air freshener. It would have to do. I sprayed it all over my body, then raced downstairs.

My phone. Where was my phone? I ran back up, but I couldn't find it with my stuff. I grabbed one of Dad's cordless phones and called my number, running from room to room and listening for the ring.

When I got to the pub room, I saw my cell sitting on the bar. It wasn't ringing. I hadn't charged it and it was dead. It was amazing I'd even found it. I hoped that was a good omen.

I ran back upstairs. If I murdered the speed limit, there was a chance I'd still make it for Dean Jaffe. Yes, it meant leaving Dad with a filthy house full of sleeping strangers-which was incomprehensible-but at that moment the alternative seemed even worse.

I drove no less than eighty miles an hour the whole way and walked into my house at exactly one o'clock. I wasn't early like Karl had wanted, but I was right on time.

"Hi!" I called.

Karl and Mom were sitting in the family room, all dressed up. Mom looked like she had been crying, which made no sense at all. Maybe her allergies were acting up. Dean Jaffe wasn't there yet. I walked in and stood between them. "Are you guys as excited as I am?"

"Hey, Cara," Karl said cheerily, "how come you smell like boozy air freshener and look like a two-bit prost.i.tute after a rough night?"

"What?"

"Dean Jaffe left a half hour ago," Mom said. "Lunch was at noon. We asked you to be home at eleven."

"No! Lunch was one o'clock! I know it was one o'clock!"

"Noon," Karl said. "But of course being a Northwestern man, Dean Jaffe was here early, at eleven forty-five. By noon he was concerned that you hadn't arrived. By twelve fifteen he suspected this was your way of showing your uncertainty about Northwestern. By twelve thirty he decided that you weren't mature enough to attend his school. Congratulations, Cara. You've officially ruined your life."

The phone rang. Neither Mom nor Karl showed any interest in answering it, until Mom noticed the caller ID. She looked at the phone like it was an alien, then reached over and picked it up.

"Lenny?"

Chapter Thirty-Five.

In one of the Elizabeth George mysteries I'd been reading, a vicar dies by hemlock poisoning. The vicar knew he was dying but was powerless to do anything about it as he suffered forceful seizure after seizure. His tongue swelled to several times its size, filling his mouth and cutting off his air. It succeeded in doing this despite the fact that the vicar had nearly managed to chew it off. He had clawed his face in agony, one of his eyeb.a.l.l.s had burst from the pressure of his asphyxiation, and he was tortured to the point where it must have been sheer, blissful pleasure to surrender to death.

My next several hours were a lot like that.

Not surprisingly, Dad had called because he had come back early from the sh.o.r.e to find Hiroshima in his house. Even across our living room, I could hear the Bar Wench screeching, "My underwear drawer!" in the background.

From the second-hand description I got through my mom, it sounded like the remaining party guests were in no hurry to leave, so the Bar Wench had Dad call the police. That got rid of everyone, though there was still a mess of epic proportions. I of course volunteered to clean it up, but Mom said they were getting a professional cleaning crew. I was no longer welcome anywhere near Dad's house. If I showed up there, the Bar Wench swore she'd get a restraining order. Dad himself wasn't talking about legal action, but he did have Mom tell me that right now, he had no desire to see me ever again.

This was bad enough, but of course the phone call led Mom and Karl to ask a rash of obvious questions. What the h.e.l.l was I doing at my dad's house when I was supposed to be at a party at Trista's, for example. And since when the h.e.l.l was I even talking to my dad at all?

Much as I begged the ground to open up and swallow me whole, it somehow failed to do so, which meant I actually had to stand there and explain everything to them. Every lie, every deception, every intricate, layered ruse.

Mom sobbed. Karl seethed.

And when it was over, they kept sobbing and seething. They didn't scream. They didn't shout. Karl didn't calmly hand down one of his baroque punishments. They just sat there. For ages. Finally Karl turned to Mom and quietly asked, "How come Lenny's the lucky one who doesn't have to see her again?"

"I wish I knew," Mom said.

I stood there, waiting for my punishment, my lecture, something-but nothing ever came.

I went up to my room, but I didn't know what to do with myself. There was no one I could call. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I felt too much. I felt guilty and heartbroken. I felt furious at Trista, at Ree-Ree, at Eddie... but mostly at myself. I hated myself. I loathed myself. I desperately wanted to get away from myself, to disconnect, to shut myself off and escape my own brain.

I grabbed the car keys.

I knew Mom and Karl wouldn't stop me. It seemed I was as dead to them as I wanted to be to myself. Remembering Trista's advice, I eschewed Dunkin' Donuts and went straight for the McDonald's drive-through. I didn't get a burger. I got four thirty-two-ounce Chocolate Triple Thick Shakes and five large orders of french fries. I popped the top on one of the shakes immediately and started dipping and munching as I drove home. It felt good. I didn't have to think. I could concentrate on my favorite mix of flavors: the crispy saltiness of the fries and the sweet, smooth richness of the shake.

When I got home, I noticed Karl's car wasn't there. He and mom must have gone out. Good. Better.

I put the top back on the shake, grabbed my tray of drinks and bag of fries, ran up to my room, and shut the door. I tried to eat slowly so I could savor the taste, but that left too much time to think. It was better, far better, if I just stuffed-dipped and ate, dipped and ate, dipped and ate, breaking it up every now and then with a huge swig of shake.

By the time I was halfway through the feast my stomach felt painfully distended, and I didn't even like the taste of fries and shake anymore, but if I stopped, I'd have to go back to feeling, and that wasn't an option. So I kept going. I wanted the dipping, eating, and swigging to go on forever.

Too soon it was over. I'd finished everything, and I was left with nothing but the feeling of all that food-a thick poison sloshing in my belly. I thought I might throw up without even trying.

I crawled into the bathroom and shut the door. I had never asked Trista how she made herself throw up. I just a.s.sumed she stuck her finger down her throat. I lifted the lid of the toilet. The faint scent of disinfectant filled my nose and made me even more nauseous.

Good. Maybe that would help.

I leaned forward, resting my forearm on the edge of the toilet seat and reaching a finger down my throat as far as it could go.

I gagged. I coughed.

I didn't throw up.

I tried it again and again. My fingernails rasped the back of my throat.

Nothing. Coughing and gagging, that was it.

I began to panic. What if I couldn't do it? What if I was stuck with everything I'd eaten? I could feel the ma.s.s of it in my stomach, large and bulbous and festering. I couldn't keep it inside me. I'd lose my mind if I had to.

I leaned further over the bowl, thrusting my finger deeper and deeper, swirling and scratching and searching for the trigger that would finally end the- Bliss! A waterfall of half-digested shake and French fries poured out of me. Immediately, I dove back in, ignoring my watering eyes and running nose. My body knew what I wanted now, and soon another lava flow erupted. I was purging; purging my sins, triumphantly sc.r.a.ping them out of my body over and over until there was nothing left.

I was empty.

I was also dizzy.

My heart raced and pounded like I was being chased, but I had no energy to run.

I curled up on the oval bath rug and went to sleep.

When I woke up, I couldn't swallow. For just a second, I didn't know why.

Then the rancid sweet smell hit me and I remembered.

I reached up and flushed it away without even looking, My teeth felt mossy. My jaw ached and the glands beneath were swollen like golf b.a.l.l.s. I could smell the sick on my hand. I had to wash it away. I tried to stand, but I was too woozy. I rested on the rug a bit then used the sink to pull myself up. I saw myself in the mirror: Red, watery, and blotchy. I ran the tap and splashed cold water on my face.

I had no idea how this worked for Trista two or three times a week. If she thought she wasn't a "real" bulimic, she was crazy. I felt completely wrecked ... but the worst part was I could already sense every hideous feeling I thought I'd flushed away still lurking, just waiting to pounce on me again.

I tried to put myself back together. I brushed my teeth, sipped a big gla.s.s of water, and popped a throat lozenge. I went back to my room, opened my window, and took another nap to try to clear my head.

When I woke up, I still felt completely lost. I went to my computer and checked my mail.

Trista Camello had invited me to join a new group on Facebook: Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Wh.o.r.e.

So it begins.

I clicked on the link and joined so I could read all the posts. Trista had been busy. She'd already put together a pretty large group. So far seventy-five people believed I was a Great Big Wh.o.r.e.

All the Populazzi were members of the group. Even Eddie, who I thought needed me to be his beard. I guess he now agreed with Trista that my word would be easily discredited. Nate Wetherill was a member. That was quite a coup, since I thought he never used his computer for anything but psychedelic screen savers. He was kind enough to post an MP3 of his "Succubus" song for the group. There were lots of other members, many of whom I didn't know by name, but their profile pictures looked familiar: I'd seen them at my party less than twelve hours ago.

Sorry-I meant Trista's party.

The posts themselves were pretty fascinating. Some were even laughable, like the one from the Jock who said I'd managed to "cheer on" the entire basketball team during a five-minute time-out. Some were practically investigative reporting, like the Scenester who posted, "TheMany Faces of Cara Leonard," along with a frumpy picture of me from the start of the year, a picture of me as emo-girl, and a picture of me looking fabulous at the start of last night's party. Some posts took a grain of truth and ran with it, like one that started with my penchant for odd foods and extrapolated to me being part vampire. That, she explained, was why I did emo so well. Every post ended with "Cara Leonard is a great big wh.o.r.e. "

The most recent post was from Trista. It reached out to anyone who might know people at Pennsbrook, so everyone could find out what I'd really been like before I came to Chrysella.

Time to leave my bedroom. Mom and Karl were back home, I realized. Their door was closed, but I could hear their TV. I went downstairs and heated some chicken noodle soup, which I ate in front of the TV until I was ready for bed. I figured I'd check the Facebook page again in the morning. No sense killing the suspense before then.

Sure enough, by the time I got up on Monday, the legions of people who thought I was a Great Big Wh.o.r.e had grown to one hundred fifty. Some of these were from different states. One was from Germany. Weird. Several new members were from Pennsbrook. None of them were people I knew well, but I recognized the names and faces. Not surprisingly, they dished all they knew about me, which was basically that I was a misfit who had only one friend and peed herself in cla.s.s. Even that story got twisted over the course of several posts, until it seemed like Claudia and I were actually lesbian lovers who had made some kind of weird cultish pact to pee only in our pants and continued doing so right up until the day I left for Chrysella.

I probably should have been upset, maybe screaming for justice. I wasn't. I was numb.

When I walked into school, once again I felt every pair of eyes on me, but it was very different now. I didn't meet anyone's stare. I walked right to my locker. Hanging from its handle was a large diaper, heavy with something yellow I hoped was apple juice.

It didn't smell like apple juice.

The halls were not my friends. It seemed like everyone on every tier of the Tower had nothing more interesting to do than stare at me and laugh or make jokes. Gabe Friedman started singing Nate's "Succubus" song as I walked by, but he added his own touch: a beatbox. Robert was right next to Gabe and didn't join in. He looked at me sadly, then pointedly turned his back. A couple of Genius guys squatted and made ssssss sounds as I walked past. A Cubby Crew of lesbians handed me a pet.i.tion they'd signed begging me to renounce my own lesbianism, since I was giving the group a bad name.

I was thrilled when the bell rang, but cla.s.s wasn't much better. The second I sat, everyone in a five-seat radius shifted away, leaving me a lonely island. I purposely hadn't sat near Archer, so he wasn't one of the people who moved, but I was sure he would have. He'd established long ago that he wasn't a fan of mine. Compared to him, the rest of the school was late to the party.

As for Mr. Woodward, it seemed like for once in his career, he wasn't sure how to handle the situation. I got the sense he didn't want to make things worse for me but didn't know how to make them better. He chose to basically ignore me, but I caught him tossing sympathetic glances my way. It was unbearable.

I didn't even dream of trying the cafeteria for lunch. I hit the vending machine for a Zone bar and Diet c.o.ke and locked myself into my car. I tried calling Claudia, but of course she didn't answer. I'd been calling her since the party-calling, texting, e-mailing, Facebooking ... she wasn't responding.

I wished everyone else was as disinterested in me as Claudia, but by Monday night Cara Leonard Is a Great Big Wh.o.r.e was up to two hundred members. By Tuesday morning it had climbed to 225, and among the newest members were all the Theater Geeks-including Archer Jain.

Every day held another surprise, and every day I'd find more strange things stuck to my locker. Every day people would feel a little braver and jeer a little louder in the halls. And every day I'd at some point catch Trista's eye, and she'd give me a smug smile that left no doubt as to who was in control.

I spent two weeks like this. It helped that the school year was almost over, and I could throw myself into studying. We had SATs, and I also had AP tests in English Language, English Literature, French, Physics, and U.S. History. My great scores on these were originally supposed to help me get into Northwestern. I understood that wasn't an option anymore, but other colleges were, so I wanted to do the best I could.

I tried contacting Claudia every day. Nothing.

I tried talking to Mom and Karl, but Karl wouldn't meet my eyes. Mom just sniffed and said she wasn't ready.

I saw Eddie walking through the halls with a new girlfriend. I hadn't even known we'd officially broken up. The girl was in a Cubby Crew called the Chasti-Tease. They took abstinence vows. Perfect.

Trista had said she'd destroy me, and she had. I suppose it served me right. Fly too close to the sun and you're asking to get burned.

One Monday I saw a small group of people bunched around a sign in the hall. I was curious, so I waited for them to clear away, then checked it out. It was another poster from the junior prom committee. A bunch of signs had been going up lately: information about tickets, corsage sales, tuxedo rentals ... It seemed like there was a new set of flyers every day. Today's was asking for video footage. The committee wanted to edit together a junior year retrospective.

I had some video footage. I remembered stumbling through the party, shooting it with my iPhone. I thought I'd been capturing the greatest night of my life. Had you asked me then, I'd have imagined myself watching the footage constantly, editing it down to maybe five perfect minutes that I'd post on Facebook so everyone could revel in its fabulousness and comment again and again about how amazing the party had been and how amazing I was for throwing it.

As it turned out, I hadn't even looked at what I'd shot. I hadn't exactly been interested in reliving the night.

Yet the more I thought about the footage, the more I wanted to see it. I needed to see it. I'd been a walking callus for so long that I craved feeling, even if it meant slicing myself open and bleeding.

I waited until after school. The minute I got home, I hooked my phone into the computer. Better to watch it on the bigger screen. More potent. I plugged in my noise-canceling headphones to really immerse myself in the experience.

It was even harder to watch than I'd expected but not because of the content. I'd been so drunk when I'd shot it that the picture kept moving and swaying. I thought I might get seasick. The actual stuff I'd shot was pretty innocuous: people hanging out and having a great time at a party. Knowing what happened after made my stomach ache, but the footage itself was honestly pretty boring. At least it would be to anyone not featured in the shot.

I made myself watch anyway and take every bit of it in. It hurt and I deserved to hurt.

The image now was the deck. I'd taken the camera out there and filmed each little cl.u.s.ter of people. I remembered I'd wanted to capture the feel of the night as it was, so I hadn't tried to get people's attention or let them know I was shooting them. It was dark enough that it had worked easily-no one looked at the camera or acknowledged it in any way.

I saw group after group of people I couldn't name if I tried. Then I saw Eddie. He was standing with a Genius. Their heads were bent close, and they spoke in low voices.

"Have you come out to anyone at school?" the Genius asked.

"No, dude, no,"Eddie said. "You?"