Read Last Summer for Free Online Page B

That was sick. Rosie had pulled Meg into her nightmare.
    And so, that day in downtown Yorktide, Meg had found herself walking toward the girls who had been making Rosie’s life, and Meg’s life, miserable for months. It was like some other Meg had taken over her mind and was operating her feet as she approached Mackenzie and her crew. She felt helpless to stop. She felt as if she were watching herself from a great distance, crying out, “No! Don’t!” It was a terrible few moments.
    And then she was standing in front of Mackenzie, Courtney, and Jill. She remembered Mackenzie sneering. “What do you want?” she had demanded, the emphasis on “you.” Meg Giroux, loser friend of loser Rosie Patterson.
    And then the words were coming out, almost but not entirely against her will. “Rosie Patterson used to wet her bed. Until, like, fifth grade.”
    The moment, no, the split second after she had spoken, Meg felt as if she were going to throw up.
    “So?” Mackenzie had answered, looking to her cohorts and then back to Meg. “Why would we care?”
    There was nothing Meg could say to that.
    With a laugh to show just how pathetic they found her, the girls had walked away, leaving Meg standing rooted to the spot and still fighting nausea. How she made it home after that without getting hit by a car she couldn’t recall. She did remember praying that nothing would happen as a result of her misconduct, that Mackenzie would just forget what she had told her and leave Rosie in peace. Once she was safely in her bedroom she actually got down on her knees like in church and begged God to hear her prayers.
    But if God had indeed heard her prayers, He had chosen not to answer. The very next afternoon it seemed as if the entire school—at least, the entire ninth and tenth grades—knew that Rosie Patterson had wet her bed. And the only way that information could have gotten out was through Meg. There was absolutely no use in trying to deny her guilt. She had tried to apologize right then and there, at Rosie’s locker, with kids swarming past, some of them laughing and pointing, but Rosie wouldn’t even look at her. Even at the time Meg felt that it was more like Rosie couldn’t look at her, that her shame and sadness were too great. Not anger. Meg would have preferred that Rosie punch her in the nose rather than look so ... defeated. She had looked, Meg thought now, remembering, as if she had deserved the betrayal.
    And that had been the last day of Rosie’s normal ninth-grade life. She had completed her classes from home and missed out on all the end-of-the-year social events. Meg had participated in those events—a trip to Portland, Judy Smith’s party, and the festivities at school—but without enthusiasm or interest. All she felt was shame. Her father had said nothing at all to her about the incident, even though Meg knew her mother had told him what had happened. Her mother had been seriously disappointed in her, though at least she had acknowledged that Meg’s admitting her bad behavior right away was a good thing. Meg had accepted responsibility for her misdeed and her mother had forgiven her. But still, she felt lousy. It was good to feel genuine remorse, but it was not good to have done the thing for which you felt the remorse in the first place.
    Meg looked at her hands on the chains of the swing and realized they were stained with rust. Somehow, to have dirty hands seemed appropriate, a symbol of her sin. She couldn’t deny that she had betrayed her best friend to a bunch of thugs and yet, at the same time, she couldn’t really believe that she had done it. Why had she been so stupid? What had she hoped to accomplish? The counselor her mother had made her see for a few weeks, someone from their church, Sister Pauline, a nun who wore jeans and T-shirts and earrings just like a normal person, had asked her that question more than once and other than the incredibly lame answer of “I don’t know,” all she could