Sticky Fingers (20 page)

I can’t say anything. My mouth simply won’t move. I cannot even imagine Courtney and Scott having this conversation.

“At that point, we really got into it,” she continues, though she keeps glancing at the door as if she’s afraid of being caught telling me all this. “We weren’t yelling or anything—we were actually pretty
quiet—but it was so intense, I was afraid the guy working the Dunkin’ Donuts counter was going to come over and check on us to see if we were all right. Anyway, Scott finally admitted everything.”

Court’s starting to look more and more pissed off as she talks, but what really freaks me out is that I’m starting to believe her. Even when everything I know about Scott is telling me it can’t be true, everything I know about Courtney—her expression, the way she can tell things about people, the fact she’s been my best friend forever, everything—tells me it
is
true.

“Scott was just so freaking clueless,” she says, brushing cracker crumbs off my hospital bed and onto the linoleum. “When he finally got around to telling me the truth, he said it all came up because he’d told the guy working the dock that he was going out with a girl—you—and that you guys hadn’t done it yet. That you loved each other and had decided to sleep together, but that you just couldn’t relax enough to do it or something. The truck guy told Scott that if it was just a matter of getting you calmed down about it, a roofie—or even half a
roofie—would do the trick. That it would relax you, get you turned on. All that crap. And Scott totally bought everything the slimeball said. He was so unbelievably clueless. And I told him so. I told him how dangerous roofies are and that it was
so
not the right way to get you to relax,
if
that was the only problem. Which I didn’t believe either. I mean, I know we’ve talked about how much you love Scott and all, but—”

“I can’t believe this—”

“Believe it. I told Scott that if I thought he was even
considering
going back to that truck guy and buying any, that I’d personally find a way to kick his ass and I’d tell you without even blinking, even if I thought you’d break up with him.”

“You? Kicking Scott’s ass?”

One side of her mouth jerks up. “You know, I was just so pissed, I probably could’ve. And I wanted to get it through his head that he was being stupid.”

It almost all makes sense. But not quite. “So why didn’t you ever tell me? Especially if you were so pissed off and worried and whatnot?”

“I didn’t think he’d do it once I told him how
dangerous it could be. I mean, Scott’s theoretically
smart.”
She looks past me, toward a cheesy, framed print on the hospital wall. “But that’s not the real reason I didn’t say anything. I mean, I was going to tell you even though I didn’t think he’d do it, because I still thought you oughta be warned. But he threatened to rat me out for shoplifting if I did. He said he’d tell everyone, and that they’d believe him over me, whether I’d actually done it or not.” She stands up and jams her hands into her hair on either side of her head. She’s looking away from me, toward the window.

I try to push myself up to a better sitting position, even though it’s hard. I can’t believe I’m so
tired.
“He accused you of shoplifting?”

She lets her hands fall from her hair, then turns around to face me. “Yeah. And I totally panicked. I wasn’t sure until right that minute whether you suspected I’d been stealing stuff. But when he said that, I realized that you did suspect, and that you’d told Scott about it. It hit me how pissed you had to be after that night at Bennigan’s, and I was scared to death that I’d lost your friendship forever.”

I want to tell her that she’d never lose my friendship, but when I think back, I realize that she was probably right. We hadn’t talked in days at that point, and I was still ticked off.

“Scott knew things were bad between us then,” she says. “He knew you wouldn’t trust anything I said, and he told me so. And just to make sure I wouldn’t tell you, he threatened to tell Mat that I’d stolen the nail polish. And the skirt. And your necklace. He said he knew Mat would believe him over me, and I was afraid he would.”

“So did you?”

“Steal the stuff?”

I just look at her. She inhales sharply, then slowly lets it out. “I stole the nail polish. And another time, when I was alone, I stole a couple packs of gum at Stop & Shop. And the skirt. The skirt was the biggie. But that’s it. I didn’t steal the necklace or anything else.”

“But why?” The question comes out sounding more harsh than I mean it, but it’s because I can barely keep my eyes open. I wonder if it’s an aftereffect of the roofie, or if it’s something they put in my IV.

“I don’t know. Just because, I suppose. The adrenaline rush of getting away with something. Of having a secret. It was stupid. And then I had to lie to cover it up, and it felt awful.” She blinks back tears, then says, “I wish I could explain it, but I can’t. But I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m really sorry. For lying at Bennigan’s, and then at your house when we swapped Christmas gifts, when I lied to cover the Bennigan’s lie.”

I’m completely blown away by all of this. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, you’re telling me you stole stuff, but to forgive you, and that my boyfriend used drugs to try to rape me and that you could’ve stopped it. And that I’m supposed to believe you about everything.”

A tear runs down her cheek, and she swipes it away with the back of her hand. “I would never put it that way, but in a nutshell, yeah. I stole, I’m sorry, and your boyfriend—a guy I really, really liked until a couple weeks ago—is a total asshole. And it’s about time you knew it. Even if you hate me forever for saying it. Even if you don’t believe a word out of my mouth.”

Even though the doors shut, we can hear noises out in the hall. “That’s probably the police,” Courtney says. “I think they were hoping to talk to you about what you remember from Arc’s party.”

“Did they talk to you already?”

Courtney nods. “Yeah. And I told them everything. About the roofies, about Scott. And even about me stealing and him blackmailing me with it.”

My chest suddenly feels like someone’s sitting on it. I can hardly breathe as I ask, “Are they going to arrest Scott? Or
you?”

“I don’t know. They might.” She lets out a sigh, then walks back to my bed and sits beside me. “I had to do it. I had to tell them. It was the right thing to do even if it means you don’t want to be my friend anymore. And if you don’t, I’ll understand.”

She looks at me for a long second, and I try to put my thoughts in some sort of rational order. How can this all be happening? How can I be forced to choose between believing my best friend and my boyfriend?

A memory comes back to me from the party. Of Scott trying to grab my coat from behind the
planter. Of his not wanting anyone else to help me.

And I remember hearing my own voice, calling for Courtney.

She breaks her gaze, then starts to stand up from the hospital bed, but I grab her hand and hold it, waiting until she sits back down.

And when she looks at me again, I remember every word of the conversation I overheard at Stop & Shop. And how Courtney said at the end,
I swear, Scott, I’ll tell her. I’ll tell everyone. And I don’t care what you do to me.

And it all makes sense now.

“You’ll always be my friend. My best friend.” And I mean it.

I can hardly lift my arms to hug her, so I just let her hug me. And I try not to cry. At least too hard.

Or to think about Scott and the fact he might go to jail. The fact that our relationship is all shot to hell. That I’m going to have to tell the police things I never want to talk about again.

And how it’s all going to hurt a lot worse than the friggin’ IV needle, and for a lot longer.

“Hey, I’ve tried to call for three days.”

I can’t believe Scott has the audacity. But I just say, “I told my mom to tell you I wasn’t home.”

“I gathered.”

“You weren’t in economics, either.”

“I rearranged my schedule.”

He’s quiet for a second. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. You have to believe me: I didn’t mean to make you so sick. Or to hurt you at all. I love you, Jenna. I just—”

“Scott, you don’t even want to know what I think about you right now.” That I’m hurt. That I feel cheated and lied to. That all he ever really wanted was to get into my pants, and that when I made him wait too long, he figured he’d get in there one way or another.

That he couldn’t possibly have ever loved me.

“Can’t you forgive me? I know you love me too. Or at least you did.”

I shove my homework aside and fiddle with the pencil cup on my desk. I don’t know what to say to him. I wouldn’t have to say anything to him if my parents had been home, because if his name had
popped up on the caller ID downstairs, they’d have told him to leave me alone. And I wouldn’t have answered if I’d seen his name on the ID.

But maybe it’s good that I did. Maybe I need to get all this out.

“Jenna?”

“You know, I don’t think you ever really loved me, Scott. I think you loved Bridget. And I think when that blew up, you decided to go for a girl who was her total opposite. Someone who isn’t a prom queen, popular type. Someone like me. Because you knew I’d never cheat on you. I was a safety girlfriend for you, nothing more. Because if you really loved me, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”

“That’s not it—”

“Maybe not.” I swallow hard, then shove the pencil cup away. “Courtney’s always told me I’m awful at reading people. But even if my Bridget theory is wrong, I know for a fact that you didn’t love me. And I’m thinking I didn’t know you as well as I thought. And that I couldn’t possibly have loved you the way I thought I did, because the Scott I thought I loved wasn’t capable of doing what you did, whether you
meant to hurt me or not. I thought I could trust you. I thought you understood me, or at least that you wanted to
try
to understand me.”

I hear him sigh. And I think he’s actually crying. “I did. I still do. I just screwed it all up. Please, Jenna—”

“No, Scott. Just let me go.”

I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and I know that I was 100 percent right not to have sex with him that night at the hotel. Even if we had, he would have done something like this eventually. Because the bottom line is that I can’t trust him. I can
never
trust him.

He whispers good-bye and, with a click, he’s gone.

I listen to the phone until the line starts to buzz, and then I put my head down on my desk and cry.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Update on everything

Hey, Mark. Sorry I haven’t e-mailed lately. However, I have many updates:

1. I am coming to see you for spring break. Give me a call and well work out when I should fly down there, etc.

2. You do not need to worry about Scott and sex and all that. We broke up. So I won’t leave you in suspense on that front anymore.

3. Have I told you lately that you’re extremely cool? And that I need to listen to you more often?

Your adoring (though slow to write back) cousin, Jenna

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Update on everything

Hey yourself. Do NOT worry about not writing. And regarding your updates:

1. You passed up the class trip to Disney World, huh? (Betcha don’t remember mentioning it to me forever ago, do you?) Anyway, I’m glad you’re coming to see me instead.

2. You bet your ass you broke up. Your
mom told my parents what happened. That piece of you-know-what better never come within a hundred miles of me or I’ll make sure he never walks again—or even thinks about sex. And, for the record, I’m really, really sorry it happened. You deserve way better, and I hope you’re okay. (I know you’ll be okay in the long term, but I mean okay in the short term. I worry about you.)

3. Of course I’m cool. I’m Super Mark, remember? And of course you should listen to me more often. Everyone should.

Always here for you, Mark