With Malice (29 page)

I don't think it—I am a good person.
Simone was the one who laughed at people behind their backs, not me. She loved being God, deciding who deserved her approval and who would be a social outcast. My only mistake had been sitting silently by her side. I'd thought being there kept me safe. I'd been a coward.

“You don't know anything about it,” I said. “You don't have to experience something to care about it.”

“You know what you never got? Just because you have an opinion doesn't mean you have to share it. You're always the one with your hand in the air.” Simone mimed me bouncing with my arm in the air, begging to be called on. “You know you have the right answer. You just have to share it in class because you want the rest of us to know how smart you are. It's not about being right; it's about all of us being so freaking impressed that once again the great Jill knows all. That's all your blog was, another chance for you to show off.”

I drew back. “Oh, you'll have to forgive me for caring about something more important than what Kim Kardashian wears to Fashion Week. Or let's see, what else consumes your brain power?” I ticked off reasons on my fingers. “Major life choices like if you should put a streak in your hair, or if your jeans look good, or world events like if One Direction is breaking up—”

Simone jabbed a finger in my face, cutting me off. “See, it's shit like that. You think you're better than me. You always have. You sit there silently judging me, feeling superior.”

My face broke out in hives. “That is not true. Don't make your insecurity my fault.”

“I am not insecure,” Simone said.

I threw my head back and laughed. “That is such a lie. I didn't used to get it, but I do now. Everything about you is insecure. All of your ‘Look at me, look at me' is about misdirection so that no one notices that you're just not that interesting. Maybe you're like your mom and worry that your daddy doesn't love you enough either, or maybe you just need everyone to approve of you all the time. Perfect example—the thing with Nico. You couldn't stand that he picked me and not you.”

Simone shook her head. “I knew you wouldn't be able to forgive me. You can't let anything go. You'll be bringing this up ten years from now. It's always about being right for you. You're always the victim, the one we should feel sorry for. Look at how you're still pissed at your dad. He left your mom, but you were always more angry about how it impacted you. How poor sad Jill got left behind.”

“Do not drag my dad into this,” I said. “And don't try to turn this around. I could have gotten over things with Nico, but not this. I will never forgive you.”

“So your stupid blog meant more to you than your Italian boyfriend?” Simone shook her head. “That is messed up.”

“You know what's messed up? You. You don't even know how to be anyone's friend. All you want are fans. People to follow you around to make you feel better about yourself. That's what I did for years. Trailed behind you, telling you how awesome you are. Our friendship worked as long as I was there to clap for every tiny thing you did and not ask for any attention for myself. You couldn't stand that I was doing something.” I cocked my head as if I were straining to hear something. “Maybe you need all that applause so you don't have time to realize that you haven't done shit with your life and you probably never will.”

“Shut up.” Simone shoved me hard. I stumbled back into the counter, the granite top digging painfully into my back.

“For someone who felt free leaving all sorts of comments about my life, you sure as hell aren't good at hearing a little feedback about your own,” I said. “I guess maybe you're the one who isn't up to any real competition. The truth is you're the pathetic loser, and you can't stand it.”

Simone lashed out to slap me. I went to block the hit, but the knife I'd used to slice tomatoes was still in my hand. The blade slid through Simone's skin, unzipping it from the center of her palm down into her wrist. When she pulled her arm back, the knife slid against her hip. I felt her flesh give away, resistance at first, but then cutting faster. Blood welled up, coming thick and fast. It splattered down onto the tile floor. Thick quarter-size drops. It sounded almost like rain.

Then the dream shifted gears, and we were in a car. I cursed when the side of the car scraped a wall as I rounded a corner.

“Watch where you're going,” Simone barked.

“I
am
watching.” I ground the gears as I eased around another turn. The knife rolled across the backseat, and I wondered why I'd even bothered to bring it. It had seemed important at the time. I braked hard when we came face-to-face with another car, throwing both of us forward against our seat belts. The other driver rolled down his window and started yelling and shaking his hands.

“Jesus, what now?”

“I think I'm going the wrong way—this is a one-way street.” I craned my head around, trying to make sense of the road signs. I could feel my blood pressure rising. More than anything, I wanted to get out of the car and just walk away. Disappear.

The other driver was still yelling. He gestured that he wanted me to reverse down the road I'd come up. I swallowed hard. There was no way I'd be able to do that. The driver honked.

“Do something,” Simone said.

My teeth clenched. I got the car in reverse, but made it only a few feet before there was a crunch as the rear bumper hit the corner of a building. I put it back in first, but then it stalled.

The other driver shook his head and yelled a few more choice comments. He expertly backed up, leaving enough space that we could move past him and then turn right onto another road.

“Do you even know where you're going?” Simone asked.

“This will get us there.” I forced myself to relax my shoulders. “I know where I am now.”

“Go faster,” Simone demanded. She squeezed the towel that was around her wrist, and it gave a wet squishing sound that made me nauseated. There was another towel pressed against her hip, but that was bleeding slower.

“You're going to be okay,” I said. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and tried to focus on the road.

“You're going to be in deep shit,” Simone said. “Everyone thinks you're Mother Teresa.” She pitched her voice high and mimicking. “Jill is
so
smart and kind. Why, that girl is going to change the world.”

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” I said.

“Let's see what everyone thinks of you now.”

Adrenaline flooded my system. “It was an accident—you came at me so fast. I didn't mean—”

“Spare me. You better believe your family is going to pay for me to be better than fine. So I left a few comments on your stupid blog. Look at what you did!” Simone shook her arm in my direction, and a small drop of blood from the saturated towel flew up and hit my cheek. I flinched as if it were acid.

If Simone told on me, I was going to be in trouble. Real trouble. Even in the best-case scenario, Ms. Ochoa was going to send me back. Immediately. I wouldn't be able to finish the program.

Rage washed over me. Simone had ruined the entire trip. I hadn't even wanted her to come. The trip was supposed to be
my
experience,
my
adventure. I was the one who wanted to see Italy. Who actually cared about its history and art. She only came because she hated the idea of me having something she didn't. If Simone hadn't come, everything would have been different. I could have been with Nico—a wonderful, romantic once-in-a-lifetime fling. It didn't matter that we wouldn't have stayed together forever, but it should have been something that I could look back on with affection. I was entitled to have this trip be a great memory, and Simone had ruined every last bit of it. Just like she ruined my blog. Just like I was realizing she'd ruined everything.

And it wasn't just destroying Italy. Simone would make sure everyone at school knew what happened. She'd wander the halls with her arm in a sling. There would be whispering and people nudging one another when I went by.

“Please don't do this,” I said.

“You're the one who stabbed me,” Simone replied.

I bit back my irritation. I had to make Simone see reason. “I know you love drama, but you get this is serious, right?”

Simone narrowed her eyes. “Did you just call me a drama queen?”

I clenched the steering wheel. I shouldn't have used those words. They were the truth, but Simone was in no state to hear them. There was no doubt in my mind that she was already casting herself in the role of tragic victim in a Lifetime movie of the week. “If you tell people this was on purpose, I'm going to get in serious trouble.”

Simone was silent.

“It could keep me out of college. You could ruin my entire life.” I tried to keep my voice even, to make Simone see the situation objectively, but my heart was racing, picking up speed.

“Now who's being the drama queen?” Simone wasn't even looking at me. She stared out the passenger window as if she were on a tour.

“If you tell people it was an accident, I'll make it up to you,” I said. I hated myself for making the offer, but desperation was creeping up on me. Eating away at the corners of my awareness. We would be at the hospital soon. I didn't have time for Simone to have one of her sulks. It was always my responsibility to make things right between us. For years, whenever we had a fight, I was the one who'd had to stitch things back together. To woo Simone, no matter who was really at fault. As if her friendship was a gift that she was bestowing on me.

What was Simone going to want to make this situation go away? I had no doubt that it was going to cost me, and not just money. Simone would bring it up over and over. She'd act like it was a joke, but it would have that undercurrent, that bad taste in the background. She would mention it when she wanted something. She wouldn't have to ask; she would just hint around until I gave her what she wanted.

My hands were gripping the steering wheel, tears running down my face.

“Stop crying,” Simone said. “I'm the one who's hurt.”

“Please don't tell,” I asked again.

Simone shrugged as if she couldn't be bothered to answer. There was a tiny hint of a smile on her face. My breath was coming short and fast.

“Please,” I repeated. The word felt foreign in my mouth. Almost as if it had texture, like sucking on a large plastic Lego brick. Unyielding. Poking.

Our car passed another sign, blue with a large
H
and the letters
OSPEDALE
below. We were closer.

“Please,” I begged. It reminded me of when Simone and I were kids and we would repeat a word over and over until it began to sound like gibberish, shedding its meaning.

Simone still didn't answer.

Either Simone would tell and I would be in huge trouble, or she would keep my secret but then hold it over my head, using it like a weight to push me into whatever she wanted. I'd never be free of her.

Another sign came up, indicating a big curve ahead. I reached for the gearshift to slow the car. The view of the valley opened up in front of me. My heart spasmed. I loved it here. I really loved it.

Screw her. I wasn't leaving.

My foot jammed on the gas; the engine roared and the small car was pushed to its limits.

I heard Simone yell out, her hand reaching, scratching at me, trying to grasp the steering wheel. Scrabbling for purchase.

I didn't look over. I kept my foot on the gas and my gaze straight ahead.

We hit the stone wall at full speed. The car seemed to scream out in pain as the metal was ripped from the side, and then we were airborne.

I gasped. We were flying. It was so beautiful. I could see for miles.

I sat bolt upright, a scream on the verge of tearing free of my throat. I grabbed the edge of the bed to remind myself that I was here in the hospital, not in the car. I looked over at the clock, 3:48 in the morning. Anna was sleeping on her back, the blankets rising and falling on her chest. I made myself match her slow breath until I had the panic under control.

The dream had been so real. I took a sip from one of the water bottles the nursing staff left by all the bedsides, but my hand was shaking so badly I spilled half of it down the front of my T-shirt. Anna snorted, her breath slipping into a snore. She shifted silently and drifted back to sleeping. She was right. Nothing good would come of telling anyone about what I'd learned about Simone, or about this dream.

I shook my head as if to clear the fog. I had to be honest with myself if no one else. Telling people about my dream wasn't what scared me. What scared me was the idea that this wasn't a dream. That it was a memory. It seemed too vivid, to clear to be a dream. But there was no way I could know for sure. I'd learned enough in rehab to know that this could have been nothing more than a nightmare based on my discussion with Anna.

I could talk to Dr. Weeks about it, but that came with risks. She believed in me. This dream might not change anything, but it might. It might stick in her head, needling her, raising questions. She might feel that she needed to talk about it with someone else. Maybe even the police. What if there was some detail in the dream that could be checked out, verified? And things were changing. People were starting to believe I was innocent. Not everyone, but more and more. Perhaps enough to tip the balance.

It was possible I never knew Simone had been my troll. Heck, it was possible Tomas was completely wrong about the whole thing. Nothing against Anna, but it wasn't like she had trusted this question to a professional computer engineer. This guy most likely learned his technical skills by taking apart stolen Xboxes and stealing school computers. He could be wrong. It wasn't like I could take the information to anyone else to verify—but that didn't mean I had to take it as fact.