Letter Six
After the birthday discussion, you stopped greeting me when I got home from school.
I made an effort to spend time with my dad again and even ate dinner with you guys, but you and I didn’t speak unless it was absolutely necessary.
(Me: “Will you pass the salt?” You: “Sure.”) Occasionally, you sat with me and Garland, but you didn’t talk then, either.
Just scrolled on your phone or read a book or stared blankly at the TV, looking bored—or maybe just resigned to being there, stuck with me.
I hated your silence more than I wanted to, which pissed me off.
One day after school, on my way upstairs, I noticed your bedroom door ajar, the room empty, your silver laptop sitting open on the desk.
And you know me—never one to pass up a good opportunity to snoop—so I slipped inside and peered at the screen.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure you weren’t near, then scrolled to the top of what appeared to be a form.
The heading read, “First-Year Application.”
Below that, you’d filled out your personal information. Legal Name: Casey Rhys Anderson. Home Address: same as mine. Off to the side, something that made my heart skip.
Birthday: 19 April, followed by your birth year.
You were nineteen. Just five months older than Michael.
“What are you doing?”
I twisted around, meeting the furious expression on your face. “Is this a form for school? Are you applying somewhere close?”
“That’s none of your business,” you said, brushing past me to slam the laptop shut. “How often do you sneak in here to go through my things?”
“I—I don’t.”
“Right,” you said, arms crossed over a white t-shirt and heather brown cardigan. Clearly you’d been shopping, because Michael had never owned a cardigan in his life. “So I suppose my clothes walked out of the closet all by themselves and met you in the hallway, then?”
I moved closer to the doorway, dropping my gaze to the floor.
Voice scary low, you said, “I don’t want to catch you in here snooping around again.”
I swiveled around. “Or what? You’ll be mean to me some more?”
“Oh, I’m being mean? I am?”
“You barely talk to me now.”
“Well, Elliot. You don’t get to treat people like shit without there being consequences.
I tried with you, I really did, and you made it clear you want nothing to do with me.
So here we are. This is your doing. If you want to start over, you’ll have to apologize.
You’ll have to be nice. You’ll have to stop playing these childish games and giving me such a hard time. ”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I said, incensed by the word childish. “Screw you.”
Dark rage bubbled to the surface as I marched upstairs to my room. It made me want to break things. I snatched a pencil off my desk and snapped it in half.
A few days later, I sat at the kitchen island with a bowl of cereal while you rinsed out your teakettle across from me.
“Listen,” Nic said, tossing his briefcase onto the counter, “I need to make a last-minute trip out of town, so I won’t be coming home tonight.
Casey’s in charge. Have Tinsley over if you want, but everyone needs to get along.
Don’t give him any trouble.” To you, he said, “Are you sure you’re okay with this? ”
You nodded. “Of course.”
“Okay.” Nic gripped your shoulder, then walked over and kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” He pointed at me as he backed away. “I mean it, Elliot. Be good.”
Our eyes met over the island, Casey, before you dropped your gaze back to the sink. I hated what Nic had said to me in front of you: “Be good.” Like I was a kid. “Don’t give him any trouble.” Like you were there to watch me.
Enraged, I finished my cereal, then rounded the island and dropped the bowl into the sink, splattering milk all over your clothes.
Arms tossed out wide, you said, “What the—?”
You couldn’t see, but I wore a satisfied grin on my face as I sauntered out of the room.
Later that morning, I stewed over the whole thing in class. Nic had made some infuriating choices over the years, but leaving some random hot guy, who couldn’t even make it off a college waitlist, in charge of me overnight? That topped the list.
When we got our quizzes back in Algebra 2, I heard Willoughby Asher, who sat next to me, talking to the guy next to him. “My dad’s gonna kill me over these grades, man.”
His friend—a boy named Rory Hamilton—flipped Willoughby’s quiz face-down. “So what, dude? Tonight, we’re going to party.”
Remember your good friend Willoughby, Casey? (Picture me laughing here.)
Willoughby Asher. Just your typical rich kid: absentee parents, big house, zero supervision.
No one kept tabs on him. He threw wild parties while his parents were off skiing in Vermont or sailing the Mediterranean in their yacht.
Tinsley had attended several over the last year while I remained locked in my gilded cage—no parties, no boys, no freedom for me.
As I listened to the boys discuss their party, an idea sparked. “Hey,” I said, sliding my chair closer to Willoughby’s the second Rory walked off.
Willoughby glanced around. “Are you talking to me?”
“No, I’m talking to that guy over there,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Of course I’m talking to you.”
“We’ve known each other a few years now,” Willoughby said, “and I can count on two hands the number of things you’ve ever said to me.”
While he eyed me suspiciously, I decided that Tinsley had been right: Willoughby was cute. Hot, even. Vaguely reminiscent of a young Zac Efron—back in his Disney days—only Willoughby’s eyes were a rich golden brown instead of blue.
“Well, today’s your lucky day,” I told him. “Listen, what if you move your party to my house?”
“What?” he asked, dark eyebrows shooting up. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“To Nic Bancroft’s house? I don’t think so. Your dad’s scary as shit.”
“He won’t be there. He’s out of town.”
“Still,” Willoughby said, swiping a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable putting my life in jeopardy like that. What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll tutor you in algebra. Help pull your grades back up.”
“Okay,” he said, drawing out the word. “And how will this party benefit you exactly?”
“My dad moved this total stranger into our house. He’s there to keep an eye on me and I want him gone.”
“Is this the hot British dude Tinsley’s always talking about?”
“Yes.”
“And he’ll be there tonight? At your house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how big is this guy?”
“You know Michael Harris?”
“Everyone knows Michael Harris,” Willoughby said.
“About like him.”
“So—six-two?”
I waggled my hand. “Thereabouts. But you don’t have to worry about this guy.”
Willoughby winced. “I don’t want to fight anyone.”
“Please. I doubt this guy’s ever fought anyone in his life. He’s super straight-laced. He drinks hot tea. He wears cardigans, for crying out loud.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t kick someone’s ass,” Willoughby said.
I won’t lie, Casey. At the time, I laughed pretty hard at this—laughed so hard I started coughing. Willoughby shot me a concerned look. “Trust me,” I said, clearing my throat. “He’s the least threatening person you’ll ever meet.
As I said it, though, I wasn’t so sure. A spark of something had come off you in response to my threat that night we’d shared the cigarette. But beating a guy’s ass over a house party? No way.
Willoughby considered my proposal. “I need a B+ in this class.”
“Done,” I said. “You help me? I’ll help you.”
Willoughby whipped out his phone. “I’ll start spreading the word.”
“Good. But you’ll need to bring your own alcohol. My dad keeps only one bottle of scotch in the house.”
“No problem,” Willoughby said. We hammered out some details and shook on it.
During history class, I filled Tinsley in on the plan. She didn’t love the idea of getting you in trouble, but she also wanted to have a little fun.
First, I convinced Bree to let us snoop around Michael’s apartment after school, conveniently leaving out my plan to swipe his alcohol for a party.
She’d try talking me out of it—or worse, tattletale to her parents.
The last thing I needed was John or Libby rushing down the street to shut the party down.
Second, I convinced Hal to drive us by Michael’s new apartment. I told him Michael would be there (he wasn’t) and wanted to show us around (he obviously did not).
Third, I texted you: Staying late to meet with a teacher. Be home by 3:30. You quickly replied: Any later than that and I’m coming after you. To which I replied with the middle finger emoji.
Inside Michael’s apartment, it didn’t feel nearly as wrong for me to go through his stuff.
I used to snoop through his things at the Harrises’ all the time.
Michael knew I did it. He fussed about it, in fact, but that sure as hell never stopped me.
I skimmed a finger over the surfaces in his bedroom, too modern and bare, too minimalist for my liking. It screamed bachelor pad.
“Gross,” Tinsley said, trailing behind me, kicking a red thong out of her walking path. “Sienna’s underwear.”
I opened Michael’s nightstand drawer, expecting to find the entire bottom covered in a sea of metallic condom packets, and it was. Along with something else I’d never seen there before: a flat leather rose on the end of a fancy stick. I picked it up. “What’s this?”
Tinsley winked. “A paddle. For spanking.”
Bree came up behind us. “Disgusting. There are things about my brother I’d rather not know, and this is a pretty big one.”
I dropped the paddle and slammed the drawer shut, which the girls took as their cue to leave.
But I stayed back, wandering into his bathroom, eventually locating a small pair of scissors in the vanity.
I chopped up that bitch’s red panties, along with a matching bra I found hanging on the door.
I chopped Sienna’s fancy underwear to bits and scattered that shit like confetti all over his bathroom floor.
Maybe next time, she’d think twice before accusing me of having a crush on anyone.