“I honestly don’t know what her Greek tragedy is,” Tessa says as she stirs a container of ranch dressing with a carrot stick. “Gigi’s known how to cover up a mark on her neck since the seventh grade.”
“True,” I agree. “But these bruises are a little more intense than a Tommy Murnighan hickey. Besides, it might be the trying to kill her part that’s really got her ticked.”
“Eh, potato, potahto.” Tessa bites into her carrot, and the loud crunch startles the staring freshmen girls seated at the table opposite us. They giggle as they pick up their trays and scurry off.
“I’ve got to give it to you, Sar. I didn’t think you could get any more popular. It’s like, if being a hot, superstar jock made you homecoming queen, being a homicidal maniac added a sex tape.”
“With the football team,” I say.
“And the pom squad,” she coos. Then her smile inverts, and her eyebrows pull together. Quietly, she adds, “Still, I think Gigi’s being way harsh, trashing you around the Quad and banishing us from her table. It’s not like you meant to hurt her. She has to know that.”
I sigh. Tessa’s a good friend. My best, actually. Her determination to support me through the aftermath of this past weekend’s horror is both unsurprising and more appreciated than she’ll ever know. Thankfully, she’s a floater, automatically cool enough to straddle multiple social groups and somehow always remain above reproach. No one’s coming after her for sticking with me. But while I sincerely appreciate her blame-the-victim routine as a kind attempt to boost morale, I’m having a hard time keeping up the que sera, sera façade. It’s been three days since I attempted manslaughter, and my victim has shown no signs of accepting my not-guilty-by-reason-of-nocturnal-insanity plea. Though I know I’m to blame and that Gigi didn’t ask for any of this, part of me is shocked that I’ve been so unceremoniously dumped.
Gigi and I have been friends since our peewee sports days. While we share a passion for free Sephora makeovers, and I’ve no doubt she’d be the first to check an opponent who crossed me in a game, I’m starting to wonder if our BFF status may have been somewhat circumstantial. I mean, when we’re on the field, we’re the dynamic duo, telepathic in mind and body. Our opponents spend half the game trying to break us up. But it never works. Because out there, we’re one.
Off the field, however, there’s no we in clique. In Gigi’s little army, I’m a good and appropriately ambitious soldier. I’ve never considered a coup. Thanks to the skeletons in my closet, I’ve always felt most comfortable basking in the reflective glow of her blinding sunlight, getting just enough heat to maintain my tan without the threat of a third-degree burn.
But I’m also not a pushover or a lackey. Put me on the field, and I’ll murder my opponent. Take me to a party, and I’ll prance-dance just seductively enough to make all the boys take note. I like the sweat and the muscle ache and the burning oxygen that stings my lungs when I push my body further than my own brain thinks it can go, as much as I like the power that comes from staking claim to my feminine mystique.
But if I’m being honest, sometimes I get caught up in the moment and push back against my place in the pecking order. Like winning the AP Latin award Gigi thought was in the bag or dating the Horsemen’s star quarterback. Suddenly, the line between coconspirator and competitor blurs. She forgets to invite me on a weekend trip to the mall, or I’m left out of a group dinner at the Alp. Suddenly, there’s not enough room in the car that’s going to the Saturday night rendezvous in the woods.
When those moments come, I prostrate myself before the queen quick and do whatever I can to reclaim my place in her shadow. Because, with a single mom working multiple jobs to keep my life normalish, a dad who’s hasn’t sent me a birthday card in years, and the really weird stuff I do in my sleep, I have enough drama on my plate. Why would I threaten the most stability I have in my life by crossing Gigi?
I guess that’s the thing about drama though. No matter how hard you try to avoid it, when it finds you, there’s nothing you can do but hope it ends in a marriage and not a death.
As I look across the lunchroom to where Gigi, Amber, and my other former friends ignore me from a slightly elevated counter, I realize the answer to my circumstantial friendship question is yes.
I watch as kids from the upper social syndicates stop by to offer their sympathies—jocks, student council members, even a few of the young teachers seem to be jumping at the opportunity to make it into Gigi MacDonald’s good book. And why shouldn’t they? The poor girl was attacked in her sleep, nearly murdered by someone who was supposed to be her friend.
Meanwhile, the less-than-beautiful people, the silent majority of the IHS student body, smile at me with awkward approval. That my actions were unintentional doesn’t seem to matter. Within hours of the attack, there was an Instagram account revealing details from the stolen police report and leaked photos of a battered, makeup-free Gigi, the fresh bruises on her neck and collarbone red and raw.
While most of the social media response was sympathetic to her, with plenty of people immediately condemning me as a monster, the growing number of likes on the RIPGigi Facebook page and Twitter feeds hailing the #psychoattheslumberparty pointed to a far more disturbing trend. The disenfranchised had finally found their voice. And they were calling me a hero.
Knowing Gigi, it’s this insubordination that enrages her the most. My having challenged her social autocracy might be even worse to her than the actual threat of death.
“You know, Tessa,” I say pathetically. “No one’s mad at you. You weren’t excommunicated. You don’t have to slum it with me.”
“Are you kidding?” she says as she jabs me with a carrot stick, her long, russet-brown fingers contrasting with the ghostly glow of the ranch dressing. “And miss my opportunity to be the inkonsequential Kourtney to your killer Kim? No way, sister. I’m sharing in your interrogation-room spotlight! Besides, we should enjoy it while it lasts. Come college acceptance letter time, some stressed out senior’s bound to off himself and steal your thunder.”
“That’s a little dark, Tessa,” a husky male voice chimes in. “And maybe not the perspective Sarah needs right now.”
Jamie Washington. Star quarterback, student council member, honor roll recipient two years running, and a bit of a savant when it comes to sucking face. Tessa once said that if Michael Jordan had a baby with Michael B. Jordan, it’d look like Jamie. I don’t disagree, which makes being his ex that much harder.
“Hey, Sarah,” he says with such legit concern that my whole body tenses, fearful of the breakdown that’s bound to overtake me if I give in to this kindness. “Okay if I join you?”
I clench my jaw and shrug as he sits. I know Jamie is doing me a favor by being seen with me this morning. His support will bolster the anti-Gigi outliers and make the popular fence-straddlers second-guess their witch hunt, which is bound to drive Gigi nuts. But she won’t ever call him on it because, like Tessa, Jamie is beloved. He’s Switzerland. Solid, loyal, and sincerely kind. He never misses an opportunity to support a friend in need, even if it’s only been a semester since said friend broke both his nose and his heart. The former by head-butting him in all my sleep stalker glory after we accidentally passed out while watching a movie. The latter when I dumped him in the it’s-for-your-own-good aftermath. Though we’ve remained on good enough terms, I’m not his typical lunch date. He’s just a good guy making a very public show of support. God, it would be nice to collapse against his chest right about now.
“Come on, QB1,” Tessa interjects, tactfully filling the silence. “You know what they say. All publicity is—”
“Good publicity,” Jamie dutifully finishes.
She ignores his rolling eyes. “It’s like we share the same brain,” she says and swoons. “Are you sure we’re not related?”
“Only by high school drama,” I say brightly, resisting the urge to play damsel in distress. “As the best friend and compassionate ex of the sleepwalking whackjob, you two officially share my shame.”
“Ooh,” says Tessa. “We’re like that movie my mom rents whenever her latest boyfriend bails. We’re best-friend outlaws Thelma and Louise. And Jamie can be a young Brad Pitt.”
“Wait. Didn’t they drive off a cliff into the Grand Canyon?” I ask.
Tessa smiles and nods.
And with that, my resolve goes splat. I drop my head onto the table.
I’ve spent no more than a millisecond indulging in self-pity when I feel strong fingers weave themselves between strands of my hair as they gently massage my scalp.
“Just give it some time,” Jamie counsels. “Everything will go back to normal soon enough. You’ll see.”
“Right. Just like it did with us,” I grumble, effectively killing the moment.
He pulls his hand back. “It will,” he repeats without looking at me.
I sit up as he takes two squashed tuna fish sandwiches from a beat-up paper bag. Though I should be feeling bad about making a nice moment awkward, I’m suddenly more focused on the fact that somehow, Jamie’s unwavering words have given me a little bit of hope. Maybe he’s right. Maybe everything will be okay. After all, if anyone has a right to hate me, it’d be Jamie, and here he is, rallying me with his support.
He takes a bite of his sandwich, inhaling half of it in a single chomp. With a full mouth, he adds, “You just gotta cut Gigi some slack. She deserves a little space to process.”
I glare at him. Effing Switzerland!
“What?” he asks. “What’d I say?”
“Tessa takes it back,” I snap. “You are so not Brad Pitt. You’re more like that awful husband Thelma has to escape from. Or worse: you’re the cop who makes them think he’s on their side but totally screws them over!” I turn away from Jamie and tightly cross my arms. “You are no longer invited to drive into the sunset with us.”
He looks to Tessa for help, but she’s already on her feet. “Sorry, friend,” she says as she scoops up her tray. “You’re on your own. Sar, I’ll meet you in the hall. I need a hit of caffeine if I’m going to make it through the industrial revolution. Ta, lovebirds.”
Tessa scuttles off, leaving Jamie and me to sit in stony silence. I feel his supersize hand touch down gently on my shoulder. I spin around so fast that I knock it off. “I can’t believe you’re defending Gigi,” I hiss.
Jamie looks like he’s just thrown an interception. “I’m not defending her,” he offers. “I’m only saying that—”
“Gigi. Gigi MacDonald?” I steamroll over him, unable to stop myself from vomiting out all my pent-up frustration at this undeserving target. “You know, the girl who’s torturing me, telling everyone about what an evil freak I am, forcing our friends to choose sides?” I lower my voice. “Did you know she’s giving out details of my disorder? Talking about how I do things in my sleep, saying that I need to be chained up at night. She’s trying to destroy my life, and you want me to just lie there and take it? Well, I’ve never been good at lying still, Jamie. You of all people should know that.” I stare at him, my hands clenched in tight fists.
He holds my squinty glare with soft eyes as he waits for my breathing to calm. “I’m not saying I’m cool with how Gigi’s treating you,” he says. “It just seems like she’s freaked and maybe needs a little time to be okay with what happened.”
“You didn’t need any time to forgive me for hurting you.” I sound like a pouting child, even to myself.
Jamie takes a moment to consider this. “I knew you weren’t yourself,” he says finally. “Gigi will figure that out too.”
I look away, suddenly unable to stomach this kindness, because I know that the reason Gigi will never come to the same conclusion as Jamie is the same reason why I broke up with him. Being unable to control my actions when I sleep is me, and that’s something Jamie will never understand. I’m dangerous, and whenever I forget it, bad things happen.
The night I hurt Gigi, I hadn’t had an episode in weeks. It was the final evening of the New England Indoor Lacrosse Classic tournament, and we’d placed second overall. Gigi wanted to celebrate, and she insisted I sleep over at her house—something I was never allowed to do. When you suffer from REM sleep behavior disorder like me, you act out your dreams while you sleep, like totally, physically. The dreams can be wild, like you’re being chased by wolves or have to fight your way out of a raging mob. You might punch the air or kick the bed. You might even get up and run down the hall at full force, not even waking when you fall down the stairs and bash your head. But the cuts and bruises aren’t the worst part. What truly sucks is that, because you’re asleep, you don’t know when it’s happening, and your conscious mind has absolutely no control to stop it.
The best way I’ve found to deal with my disorder is to literally be tied to my bed while I sleep, which puts a damper on overnight social gatherings. The only friend whose house I’ve ever stayed at is Tessa, and my mom only agreed to that after two years of my best friend staying at our place and after long talks with Tessa’s mom about how exactly I needed to be tied up while I slept.
Though I’d always managed to navigate this Mom-imposed exile well enough, truth be told, it added an extra challenge to holding my place in high school high society. I missed out on so much over the years, simply by not partaking in this most sacred of girl rituals. But tournament week had been amazing, and when I assisted Gigi in her game-winning goal, we were sisters, Venus and Serena, the best of ourselves because we had done what only we could have. Together. I didn’t just want to hang out at a friend’s house. I wanted to be with Gigi that night. There was no question that she was still the bride, but I was being offered an upgrade from bridesmaid to maid of honor. And I wanted to take it.
I was on such an invincibility high that I convinced myself it would be okay to break the rules just this once. Tessa would be there to work my mattress restraints, so I’d be safe—we all would be. And for a while, we were.
Maybe it was the intoxication of the lie—my mother thought I was at Tessa’s—or maybe it was the delicious taste of freedom, but when Gigi suggested we push past our tiredness and stay awake to streak across the football field’s fifty-yard line at sunrise, I heard the warning bells go off and ignored them anyway.
I remember seeing the first hint of a blue-gray dawn and thinking I had made it. We’d been watching a marathon of some British show about teenagers with mutant powers and planned to sneak over to the football field right after the end of the final episode. But we must have all fallen asleep within seconds of each other, because when the unrestrained beast in me came to full, roaring life, no one was awake to see it. Not until it was too late, and Gigi’s life was literally in my hands.
When I’m in that state, dreaming, there are no social norms telling my brain to stop and consider what I’m doing. I act, and I react, and I do not stop until I’ve completed my task. I am all instinct, I am strong, and I am fast. What must it have been like for Amber and Tessa to see me, glassy-eyed and unresponsive but with Buffy-like reflexes? Surreal, I’m sure. But for Gigi, it must have been simply terrifying. She thought I was going to kill her, and had I stayed dreaming for one second longer, I might have.
As I look at Jamie sitting beside me, so faithful, so kind, I am tempted to believe his words. But I don’t, because I know better.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re a good friend. I mean it. But speaking of friends, I should get a move on, or Tessa’ll have my head.”
“Sure,” he says, and he rises from the table, taking his half-eaten sandwiches with him.
“Thanks for upping my social status,” I call after him.
“Anytime,” he says. He looks at me for a moment, then adds, “For what it’s worth, I think that cop just wanted to help Louise.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I smile them away. I wave at him lightly, and then he’s gone.
I stare down at my uneaten cream cheese bagel. This morning, during Tessa’s get-out-of-bed-and-come-to-school pep talk, she tried to assure me that today was nothing in the grand scheme of things; that when I was ninety, it would seem like it only lasted a second. But after four periods of relentless cold shoulders, behind-my-back giggling, and to-my-face glares, all from people I once counted friends, I know she’s full of it. I know, deep beneath my head-held-high, meet-their-eyes persona, that the memory of today will always make me want to puke.
I continue to stare at my food and scream silent commands at my sagging body. Lift your head! Smile like everything is fine! Eat! The words are as hollow as my stomach, but I’m nothing if not a team player, so I manage one action.
The bagel pushes past the barrier of my lips, and I bite off a piece. The cream cheese instantly turns to glue in my mouth, and the doughy bread is like a stopper in my throat. As my gag reflex starts to kick in, I panic. The only thing that could make today worse would be to vomit on myself in front of half the student body. I’m about to spit the bagel into a napkin when I hear it.
An explosion of cackling laughter erupts from Gigi’s table. Are they laughing at me? Of course they are. I know—and have turned a blind eye to—the cruel side of Gigi MacDonald for a long time now. Yes, she could rally the troops to bake a cake for an injured teammate or arrange a girls’-only mani-pedi field trip for a friend who just got dumped. But just ask the Horseman Gazette editor who included a less-than-flattering photo of Gigi in the School Life spread or the girl who gave mono to the guy that gave it to Gigi, and they’ll tell you how nasty words and social media trolling can cripple you. Sure, I may have suggested Gigi tone it down a bit in some cases, but if her withering stare was ever directed at me, I was always quick to shut up. As I’ve said, I’ve got enough on my plate to ever really consider rocking the boat. But now that I’m drowning?
My stomach turns again as the bagel absorbs all my breath. An image of her standing triumphantly over my fetal-positioned body flashes before me. And for a second, I think I might succumb, just like all her other victims that I so pathetically watched cower over the years and did nothing to help.
But then I remind myself of what I just told Jamie: I’m not a lie-down-and-take-it kind of girl. So I do the only thing I can think of that might save me.
I grab the inside of my cheek between my teeth and bite down hard. The metallic taste of blood mingles with the gag-worthy food. It’s horrible, but it’s the kick in the butt I need. Closing my eyes, I swallow.
When I open them again, I catch the attention of a passing freshman, and I wink. He blushes and trips over his own feet, nearly spilling his little carton of milk. Some heat returns to my body, and I smile. Tightening my grip on the bagel, I rip off another bite.
I watch as Team Gigi exits the cafeteria. Though I feel a little better, I’m still smart enough to remain seated until I’m sure they’ve completely cleared out. I look at my watch. Five minutes until the end of the period. Tessa must be going nuclear in the hall. I gather my things and carry the remnants of my bagel to the garbage. It feels like a billion eyes are trained on me, but when I dump my trash and look around, there’s only one person I notice.
I’m being watched from the shadows. Literally. Someone, a guy judging from his size, is staring at me from the far corner of the lunchroom. The fluorescent light above him is out, and he’s too far away to see clearly. He must be able to tell that I’ve spotted him, but he doesn’t look away.
I run my fingers through my hair, loosening it so it falls in front of my face. I’ve been on display enough today. As I hurry out the cafeteria doors, I steal one final glance in his direction. He’s still watching.
I turn away and am outside the cafeteria and halfway down the hall in a matter of seconds. But I feel his gaze on me, even after I’m out of sight.