Page 140 of Mad Girl

Red. Of course. There definitely had to be something psychotic about her weird obsession with red.

Pieces of her cluttered the room. A tube of lip balm on his nightstand. A discarded phone case—sparkly red—on his dresser. A pair of wide-leg jeans slung over his chair.

I considered cutting a slit in the crotch of those jeans. Destroying them. Possibly embarrassing her. Payback, for sure, but not quite what I had in mind.

In the bathroom, I grabbed her toothbrush and considered scrubbing the toilet with it again. But how would she know? I wanted her to know I’d been there. To heed my warning.

Her makeup bag sat on the bathroom counter, a tube of red lipstick peeking out. I pocketed that. Beside the bag, I spotted a bottle of contact solution—which had to be hers, because Michael didn’t wear contacts. I picked it up.

That’s when an idea took shape.

Under the sink, I found what I needed. One of those household items everyone keeps in a cabinet somewhere: hydrogen peroxide. During a science experiment in sixth grade, the teacher had warned us to avoid getting it in our eyes. Said it would sting.

You should know, Casey: I definitely hesitated. For about thirty seconds, I held onto that brown bottle and reconsidered cutting the slit in her jeans or destroying her expensive makeup. Both seemed a bit juvenile, though, compared to what she’d done.

Not only had she threatened to out you if you didn’t sleep with her, she’d had the audacity to laugh about it.

Shouldn’t her actions have consequences?

Besides, the peroxide wasn’t blind-you-forever dangerous. It might be uncomfortable for a moment. Sharp. Memorable. A temporary little sting. But then she’d rinse it out, and everything would be just fine.

Hands shaking, I unscrewed the top off her contact solution and poured it down the drain, then refilled the bottle with hydrogen peroxide. My hands continued to shake long after I’d put it back.

Back at home, I found Michael exactly where I thought he’d be: hanging out with you and Garland, a Celtics game playing loud on the TV. Michael stared at the screen, rapt, yelling obscenities about the referee, while you leaned forward over your lap and said, “What a shit call.”

“I know,” Michael said to you, tossing both hands in the air as if to say, Can you believe this?

You gave him this baffled look, Casey, like you couldn’t.

My heart burst at how fucking adorable that was. When I tossed a knowing grin your way, you rolled your eyes.

Desperately wanting out of my school clothes, I disappeared upstairs to change. Just a little while later, I found Michael sitting on the sofa all alone. A quick glance at the game told me it was halftime.

“Where’s Casey?”

“Making tea,” Michael said, raking his gaze down my body as I plopped down next to him with a book.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re so full of shit,” he said, head shaking.

I paused, holding my bookmark mid-air, the book cracked open in my lap. “What?”

“You wear his sweater.” He flicked his eyes down my body a second time, because I happened to be wearing your cardigan over my leggings with a tight white tank top. “Gave him that bracelet for Christmas. Flipped out when Sienna came onto him a few weeks ago.”

“She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Don’t pretend that’s the only reason you kicked her out of here—you did it because you like him. You’re jealous. At Christmas, you looked like you wanted to kill her.”

“You realize I’ve always looked at her like that, right? Even when I thought you were the only one who’d ever been with her, I wanted to claw her face off. Do you not remember what I did to her red underwear? Or that picture of you two?”

Michael turned back to the TV, his shoulders tense, jaw working hard. He wasn’t buying my lie.

“Casey lets me borrow his cardigan because it’s so drafty and cold in here this time of year—you know that. And this morning? He fussed at me for taking my time coming downstairs and letting my eggs get cold. Then he fussed at me again when I wouldn’t let him make me more eggs, which caused us to be late getting out the door for school. He talks to me like I’m a child, and it’s annoying as fuck.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I bet it is. I bet you hate that. I bet you’d like him to talk dirty to you instead.” His gaze held mine, intense. “For all I know, he does that, too, and you’re hooking up with him when no one’s here. I bet you sneak into his bed at night, don’t you?”

“I don’t think of him like that. He’s more like the really irritating big brother I never had.” Lies. Both lies. “And, anyway, my dad’s bedroom is right below his. If I’d ever snuck into his bed at night, my dad would’ve heard us through the ceiling, and Casey wouldn’t still be here.”