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If you think I’m going to apologize, I’m not.
Look, I’ve never hated Delilah McPhee. Her existence just sort of bothers me, and can you really blame me? She dresses like a hipster lumberjack and her hair is just…ew. Way too much frizz. She would have been off my radar if she hadn’t chosen to break both my kneecaps on the first day of junior year, but it’s not like I can just ignore that she was the one who did it. When you’re in my position, there are expectations, and I couldn’t just let her slide.
It was actually pretty easy with her because she was the new girl. She just silently took everything I gave her, and the Instagram posts with her were the ones that helped to keep engagement up on my account. It’s nothing personal, really, it’s just smart business. And what can I say? I love the attention.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten her mother fired, because she was probably the best housekeeper we’ve had in a while. But it’s not like I can allow someone that low on the food chain to hit me over some stupid book for kids. We all have to make sacrifices to survive, and sometimes that means playing dirty. Am I proud of it? No…not all the time. How was I supposed to know her dad wasn’t helping them pay for their house and they were close to being homeless?
We wouldn’t have even been caught if someone hadn’t snitched. People started whispering about how the account had been suspended. And yeah, it had, because the snitch had reported it for violating the TOS. It didn’t take long for things to come back to Martin and Janice, and both of them caved when cornered, so of course that meant they threw me under the bus.
Then there was an anti-bullying assembly about a week after Delilah came back from her mental health break (whatever the hell that is), and I could feel everyone turning to look at me. As if they hadn’t been involved, liking and sharing all my posts. Pathetic. I didn’t even give them the satisfaction of making eye contact. Let them try to scare me into confessing, I could easily make life for them just as miserable as I’d made Delilah’s.
I underestimated the dregs of the student body when it came to the flowers, and honestly Delilah should have taken them with her or thrown them in the trash, not left them in the middle of the library for anyone to find. A shot of them started circulating, the note I’d handwritten right in the center: Dear Delilah, Sorry you jumped off your roof and lived. Love, Allie McAndrews. It didn’t take long at all for me to be called to the principal’s office, both my parents sitting there staring at me like I was some kind of disgusting monster.
The whole jumping-off-the-roof-and-living thing was probably way too dark, but she failed at suicide, isn’t that kind of funny, like a tiny bit? I don’t see what the big deal was, but that note alone was enough for teachers to investigate everything I’d done since the start of the school year, and each and every instance was suddenly laid out before me. The first post I’d made about her breaking my kneecaps. The Alexander McQueen sweater. The chemistry incident. The post I made about her life being a curse. Everything had been documented on Instagram, screenshotted before the account had been suspended. Hard, concrete proof that I’d been a complete and total alpha bitch.
My mom insisted it was my friends who had gotten me involved, that it was their fault, that Delilah had been an instigator and pushed me to my limit. It was as if the evidence didn’t exist, or it had been manipulated somehow to make her sweet little Allison look bad. She threatened to sue for defamation, to pull me out of school and enroll me somewhere else, anything to keep the blame from landing on me. My dad was eerily quiet when he refuted her. Every. Single. Time.
I’m closer to my mom than my dad, but seeing him actually try to argue against me stung. “You care more about some loser you don’t even know than your own daughter!” It had come tumbling out, and that was enough to find me guilty, in his eyes and the school’s.
It was too difficult to weed out everyone who had passed around my posts - too many friends turning on each other, too many accounts to sift through for the truth - so only a handful of us were punished. We were all suspended for two weeks, with detention every day following our return, and those of us involved in extracurriculars were excused from participating until further notice. Ryan finally clued in that things were serious when he realized he wouldn’t be playing football the rest of the season, and of course this meant that I forfeited my spot as captain of the cheerleading squad.
The funny thing is, the school didn’t even seem to care to uphold their new social media crackdown. Plenty was being spread about me and my friends, every nasty thing anyone had ever thought of us, people only having the guts now that they felt like they were in control. I kept my head high and ignored it, or I tried to; it’s difficult, when someone trips you or knocks you into lockers or calls you “bitch” as you walk by. I ate lunch by myself, seeing that the rest of my friends were still banding together without me. Which was whatever, because like I’d want to hang out with people who ratted on me when I needed them most.
I was fully expecting Delilah to come after me, because there was no way she didn’t hate me for everything I’d done to her. But she kept to herself, only hanging out with that other loner Jules and a few other kids who decided they weren’t scared to be friends with her, now that I’d been taken down. I almost wish she’d at least do something, like hit me again or write an essay bashing me or whatever. She didn’t even seem to like all the attention she got from people apologizing and being nice to her. It was all wasted on her, if you ask me.
A shiver shakes me out of my thoughts as I sit in my car, and I blast the heat, my toes numb from the December cold. It’s the night of our winter formal, something that I was supposed to head this year, but that obviously never happened due to my “unacceptable transgressions”. It also goes without saying that I wasn’t allowed to even go, but here I am, on a Saturday night, sitting in my joggers and cropped hoodie, spying on my classmates.
Our gym has a wall of windows I can easily see through; there isn’t even a theme aside from generic snowflakes and sparkles. Ugh, who thought that was a good idea? Does no one in this school have any kind of creativity? The DJ isn’t even playing anything good, the deep bass unable to mask that everyone’s dancing to “Party Rock”, something that’s been overplayed at, like, every dance ever.
This was so not worth the gas I’m wasting trying to keep warm. I’m about to pull the gear shift when the door near the wall of windows opens, someone stepping out onto the sidewalk and pulling her arms through an oversized cardigan. I try not to roll my eyes when I realize it’s Delilah McPhee, because of course it is. Her hair’s been curled and she’s wearing a floral dress that looks like a tacky Oscar de la Renta knock-off, but I guess she doesn’t look that hideous. For once.
All my anger from the past few months is suddenly pushing to the surface the longer I stare at her hugging herself in that stupid sweater. I turn off the car and I’m out the door in seconds, marching right up to her and folding my arms. Her eyes widen behind her glasses when she sees me approach.
“Hi, Allie,” she says, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t think you were supposed to -”
“Well, you thought wrong. I didn’t want to come, but I had to see for myself how lame it was.” I wrinkle my nose. “Nice to see you brought your grandma’s sweater with you to cover up your dress. Who made it, a six-year-old?”
Back in September, saying this would have reduced her to tears. Right now she just stares at me, jaw slightly clenched. “I’d like to get some fresh air in peace. Please.”
I snort. “You think you deserve peace? After everything you’ve done?”
“Allie -”
“My knees had just healed enough for me to go back to cheerleading. But I can’t do that anymore. The only time anyone talks to me is to call me something derogatory. I’m stuck at home, in my room, doing nothing, because I have no friends. My life is over.” I glare at her. “Because of you."
For a second, a deep, dark inner thought pops up that I almost say out loud: Go jump off a roof and do it right this time.
Delilah takes a deep breath, her eyes hard. “I’m really sorry, Allie, but I haven’t done anything. All of that is on you.”
I take a step back. “Excuse me?”
“I’m done feeling like I owe you something: an apology, my clothes, my dignity - I’m done. You’ve taken so much from me -”
“Oh, I've done that to you?”
“Do you know how many times I’ve actually thought about jumping? How many times I’ve wondered if anyone would miss me if I just disappeared?” I open my mouth, but she talks over me. “I’m slowly working on building myself back up, because I hadn’t realized how hard you’d torn me apart until you were sorry I hadn’t gone through with taking my own life.
“But here’s the thing, Allie: you can’t take anything else from me.” She’s on the verge of crying, her hands fisted in the sleeves of her cardigan. “I don’t want to keep playing your games, because no one wins. Not even you.”
I can’t even form a response to that, my head spinning from anger. There are too many things I’d like to throw her way, but they’re all jumbled together the faster I try to think. I don’t even have time to answer, anyway, because the door opens behind her and someone steps out.
“Delilah? You okay?” It’s a boy I haven’t seen before; he’s tall, with neatly-combed dark hair and a fitted suit. “Jules just requested the Electric Slide, and they’re insisting they won’t dance unless we’re both there.”
I tune him out and study him. He looks a little like one of the illustrations in Delilah’s stupid book, but that’s not surprising. She would go out of her way to find someone just as weird as she is, even if he is cute.
“I’m fine, Edgar.” (Because of course his name is Edgar.) She turns to him, taking his hand. “I was just about to come back in.”
He glances over at me, and I can tell the moment he recognizes me; he tugs Delilah a little closer, gaze hardening. We may not have met before, but it’s not hard to imagine just how awful she’s painted me out to be by the way he’s trying to shield her, like a knight in shining armor. God, they’re annoying.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asks, his free hand coming up to cradle her face.
She nods. “I promise.” She’s blushing, and if I didn’t hate them so much, I’d almost be jealous. I haven’t gotten a text from Ryan in weeks, and I miss his undivided attention.
Delilah turns to me, her smile cold. “Have a nice night, Allie,” is all she says before Edgar leads her back into the gym, pulling her to his side and kissing her forehead as the door shuts behind them.
I stand there for a moment, seething. Delilah’s wrong if she thinks she can talk to me like that and get away with it. I spin on my heels and storm back to my car, slamming the door hard and screaming as loud as I can.
What does she know, anyway? She’s still a loser who needs a reality check. A slew of ideas start to form, each one more humiliating than the last, and my fingers itch to write something that I know will make her never want to show her face at school again.
But as soon as I open Instagram, there’s a picture of me standing over Delilah, holding one of her books out of reach, laughing as she looks close to tears. #AllieMcAndrewsIsOverParty is the caption.
I don’t want to keep playing your games, because no one wins. Not even you.
I throw my phone aside and start my car, peeling out of the parking lot and cranking the radio as loud as I can stand it.