Page 152 of Mad Girl

“Wait,” I said. “You talked to Casey about her? When?”

“Before Christmas,” Bree said.

“Before Christmas? But that was months ago. Where was I?”

“You were doing homework. I went downstairs for a snack, and he was there, so I showed him our text history and asked what he thought. He’s really easy to talk to.”

“Easier than I am?”

“Well, Ellie,” Bree said, fingering the B pendant around her neck. “You were going through a lot at the time. And then that stuff happened with Sienna…”

“By stuff, you mean the messed-up apology routine my dad makes me do.”

Bree nodded. “It takes you a while to come out of that.”

“Does Michael know about this girl?”

“Of course.”

“And your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“So just me, then.” The realization hit me like a punch between the ribs. “I’m the only one who didn’t know.”

“Elliot,” Bree said. “You’ve been preoccupied with your own stuff lately. You barely text unless I reach out to you. And I get it—you’ve had a lot to deal with this year—but when was the last time you cared about what’s going on in my life?”

“A lot to deal with? You realize someone assaulted me, right?”

“And I kept trying to talk to you about that, but you kept brushing me off. You didn’t even notice when I stopped trying. When was the last time you asked me to hang out, Elliot?”

“You know what, Bree? It sounds like you kept your girlfriend a secret because I wasn’t interested in being your girlfriend, and this was your fucked-up way of getting back at me—so you could see how hurt I’d be when you finally told me.”

“That’s not true,” Bree said.

“Yeah? You think I don’t know why you snuggle up close to me when you sleep over? Or why—summer before last—you wanted to practice kissing one night?”

“Whoa,” Tinsley said. “What?”

Here’s one whopper of a truth for you, Casey: I lied to you—both in person and in writing—about my first kiss. It actually wasn’t that one you witnessed between me and Willoughby at the dining table that time.

Bree was my first kiss, and I was hers, too.

The summer before you entered our lives, she called it practicing, and we practiced the hell out of it. We kissed in the dark, mouths eager and minty fresh, her bare legs tangled with mine against the cool fabric of my sheets.

I assumed it was a harmless practice kiss between friends. Until Bree found Michael and I snuggled up to each other in his bed two days later and told our parents. They called it inappropriate and said it shouldn’t happen again.

I got angry with Bree for tattling, that dark rage bubbling to the surface. “So the actual sleeping that goes on when I climb into Michael’s bed is a problem,” I’d said to our parents, “but Bree sticking her tongue in my mouth when she climbed into my bed a couple of nights ago is okay?”

All the adults—plus Michael—had gaped at me, rendered speechless.

And there I was, running my mouth again. In front of Tinsley.

Bree scowled, none too happy about that. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy kissing me, Elliot, because you got really into it. You want to know the real reason I didn’t tell you? Because I’ve watched you go after Michael’s girlfriends for years, and I didn’t want you doing the same to Amber. You want everyone’s life to revolve around you. You can’t stand it when someone else shows up and steals some of that attention you’re used to getting. That’s why you gave Casey such a hard time when he first moved in, why you kept doing the lip thing to Michael in front of Sienna, and why your poor dad hasn’t been on a single date since your mom left. God only knows what kind of torture you’d inflict on any woman who dares to enter his life. I hear my mom’s friends talking about it all the time—what a shame it is that someone as handsome as Nic is still single. How lonely he must be. How unfortunate it is that his whole life should revolve around the one child he has because she has to be watched constantly and won’t allow him to have anything for himself.”

“Bree,” Tinsley scolded. “Can we please drop this before someone says something they really regret?”

“Don’t worry, Tinz,” I said, grabbing your cardigan from my desk chair. “I’m done here. Don’t wait up for me.” I tiptoed downstairs, shoving my arms into the sleeves and fighting back tears.