Chapter 35

alyssa

I wake up to sunlight filtering through Dusty Springfield’s windows, bathing my bare legs in warmth. They’re red, stinging, and irritated, but honestly, I’ve seen them worse. My whole body aches, but it’s quieter now, more subdued. The usual numb yet irritable soreness that I’ve grown accustomed to is gone.

I’m able to lift my head up. I vaguely remember Elliot helping me out of my clothes before I fully fished out, but honestly, that easily could have been some sort of pain-induced fever dream. My ears feel fuzzy, and I can literally feel how stuffy my sinuses are.

But there she is, scrunched awkwardly in the driver’s sweat, her lanky legs pulled up tight against her chest as she browses her phone. She glances back and jolts when she sees I’m awake.

And then she smiles, and my heart skips several beats.

“Hey,” she says, “you’re awake.”

“Are you okay?” The panic of last night, along with the puke-inducing upset wrought by those disgusting Instagram posts, is fresh in my mind.

“I’m fine,” she assures me. “It’s taken care of.”

“Taken care of?”

Elliot doesn’t answer my question. “Are you okay? Last night—early this morning—was bad, Alyssa.”

She shouldn’t be asking how I am. This is my normal. “I’m fine. Also, I thought we agreed I was Fishsticks.” I want her to get back to telling me how she’s feeling.

She smiles again, her forehead wrinkling. It reminds me of her dad in a strange way. “You’re Fishsticks, yes. But, are you sure you’re fine?”

Okay, so I haven’t tried moving-moving to see if I’m actually fine. I’m prepared for a complete non-response from my leg closest to the edge of the seats, but it moves … just fine.

I can hardly believe it as I lift both of my legs. It hurts when I pick them up too high, yeah, but this isn’t the complete paralysis I was bracing myself for. The complete paralysis I was expecting.

The backs of my eyes prickle. I blink to fight off tears. “I can move.” It comes out this hoarse, choked whisper.

Elliot weaves one of her impossibly long arms back behind the driver’s seat and gives my shoulder a tight squeeze. It aches, yeah, but I can move. I can move.

“I’m okay,” I sigh and settle my head against the seats. “Fuck.”

“I’m so happy for you,” she says. She drops her hand, leaving it resting against the center console. “God, I’m so fucking happy for you.”

I don’t respond for a minute. We both just bask in comfortable, elated silence. Then I ask, “Just how is last night taken care of?”

“So.” She sighs. “Chlo called.”

“What? Seriously?”

Elliot’s breath feels heavy. It weighs down the van when she sighs once more. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“We had a … very serious talk. About Brooklin and Taffy, mainly.”

The mention of their names makes my skin crawl. I don’t think I’ve yet comprehended how angry I am. Not just at them, but at the human race in general. How can people like them exist, seemingly only to tear down people like Elliot? It’s disgusting, and cruel, and I hate that this is something that requires wrapping one’s mind around.

“The Instagram posts are deleted.”

I wince from trying to raise my head too fast. “What?”

“It was her.” Elliot’s breath is shaky. I hold up my hand, and she takes it, giving me a hard squeeze. She focuses her gaze on the orange-pink-lit beach outside the window.

Her palm is hard and smooth all at once, sweaty and clammy and warm. “She says she started the account a while back, and that Taffy and Brooklin took it over. She wanted out after how they attacked Jace, but she thought it was them sticking up for her?”

“That’s still fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. But, uh, she still had the password. And it was her email. She says she still wanted to be friends with me and Jace, and she didn’t like the homophobia but was loyal because she thought it was harmless, but tonight … tonight proved pretty fucking otherwise.”

I feel like this is winding down into an apology. And don’t get me wrong—Elliot deserves an apology. More than anything. But, she also deserves more. This was a lot. Like, even though this wasn’t violent, it was still damaging. Isn’t this shit supposed to be illegal? And for Elliot, this has been going on for who knows how long. Why do these girls get to scrape by with some stupid apology?

“She still took part.”

“Yeah, but this time, she did something.” Elliot sighs heavily. “So, this was a hate crime, Neema says. She did some digging, and yeah, it’s harassment and libel, although she says the libel part isn’t really important.

“She sent me this pamphlet from the state of California on hate crimes. It talks about ‘hate incidents,’ where someone calls you names or shit. But this is harassment, Neema says, and a bunch of websites say you can get lawsuits from this. Chlo deleted all the posts and uploaded a big apology, and locked the girls out. She says she has all the receipts. DMs, texts, Snaps. Everything.”

“Neema is … Neema is sure this is a hate crime?”

Hollow-cheeked, Elliot nods.

“Do you want to go to court or whatever with it, then? Could you? Would Chlo stand up and—”

“I don’t want to go to court.”

It feels like somebody’s sat on my chest. “You—what?”

“I don’t want to go to court,” she repeats. “They’re not worth my time.”

“Okay but, look at the havoc they caused tonight.” My breath is short. I’m trying to think of an eloquent way to say ‘they fucked up our first time and they fucked up our night and they fucked up everything.’ Nothing comes to mind.

“They deserve some kind of punishment, I agree. But a legal case is just too much. I think I’m going to talk to my parents and see what they think. My mom works with Taffy’s mom. And my dad is friends with the swim coach and the superintendent.”

“So what, you’re going to keep this small and do nothing?”

Elliot takes her hand back and drums her fingers against her knees. “I’m going to do something. But I’m in no rush. I think I just need to breathe for a moment. It’s all there. The receipts. The witnesses. Even them. I mean, it’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

“Well.”

“What are we expecting?” She gives me that goofy smirk of hers. My heart squeezes. “They’ll pull an ‘O’Doyle rules’ from Billy Madison, driving over a banana peel and soaring off a cliff?”

“You deserve some kind of justice,” I tell her.

She shrugs and takes my hand. Lightly this time, no squeeze. “I guess I just don’t need it. They showed me that I wasn’t crazy all these years. They really were terrible. And, I’m not crazy.” Her laugh is breathless, a little wild. “I’m not crazy.”

This is when she starts crying. When she clambers back into the back seats, I hold her for as long and as hard as I can. It does hurt a little, but it makes me hold her even tighter.

My nose pressed into her soft hair, I whisper, “You were never crazy, Elliot.”

A/N – Okay we’re seriously nearing the end here. Wtf.

I’m just going to try and pump all this out – wish me luck!!