Just Ask Them How They Made It
Hey guys! This is probably gonna be my last chapter for about a month, as I'm heading to Belgium and I'm not sure how much free computer time I'll be able to have. So bare with me! And please leave me lots of reviews! I need reviews because they are the only way I can improve and give you more of what you want and less of what you don't want! What am I doing right and what am I doing wrong? I want to know why this story is on your Favorites List or your Story Alerts! So please press the blue button at the bottom! Thanks to you who have already and please continue! Enjoy Chapter 3! Oh, and does anyone know how to properly divide scene breaks with a line? If you do, please let me know how to do it. I hate my scene breaks. They are so cheesy and not professional looking at all. So if anyone knows how to get those lines between scenes, please tell me! Thank you and I hope this chapter is everything you want in a Ringer fic!
Chapter Three: The Slap Heard Round The World
Ding, ding, ding. The bell signaling that the door to the police station was opening kept ringing as officers came and left with arrests. This must have been a busy day for them. Thankfully, Tessa had never been in trouble with the law, but she knew from Bobbie's stories of her twenty-some-odd years on the force that most cops got nothing of the sort of action that had been glamorized on TV and in movies. Bobbie loved watching the show Cops and bitching to the officers on the screen about how staged their careers were.
"There's no way he does this every day," she had griped once, obviously jealous that the guys on TV got to do so many drug busts in one night.
Nevertheless, there were indeed some characters coming into the station today whose situations could have been staged for television. Tessa would have laughed at one guy in particular if her own situation hadn't been so serious. He was ridiculous: a DUI suspect, so obviously drunk, who was blaming his behavior on his waitress at lunch, saying that he wouldn't have been drunk had she gotten his order correct and brought him four virgin margaritas instead.
Uh, ok. Whatever.
Tessa rolled her eyes. Cops may have been incompetent at times, but they weren't stupid, and besides, four margaritas? How big was his stomach? And how could he afford that many margaritas? Was the dude rich? And if he was, what kind of seven-figure salary job didn't give a crap if their employees showed up wasted? He must have been another rich guy with nothing but an inheritance to squander away.
But, she knew she shouldn't be concerned with that right now, no matter how incredible it might have been. She had her own issues and wished to God that the bell would stop ringing because it wasn't easing the situation. It was, in fact, giving her more of a headache, which was not being helped in the slightest by the ice in the plastic sandwich baggy on her head. This was the third pack she'd had on her head today, the third time the ice had done nothing but drip down her shirt, making her look like a drooling baby. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore and threw the bag away in the trashcan next to the hard wooden bench she and the three other "witnesses" were sitting on.
3:19 the clock on the wall above the warden's desk read. It was oddly cheerful looking for such a setting: it had bumblebees and flowers on it, as if the cops were just mocking all the detainees.
3:19. She, Andrea, London, and Clover had been at the station for nearly seven hours, missing a whole day of school. Yet, it was for the best that the cops had made them stay the entire day. Otherwise, the nosy kids at school would have bombarded them with a million questions and spreading nothing but crappy gossip. There was already no doubt in Tessa's mind that as soon as the dismissal bell had rung thirty minutes ago all the students had bolted out the door to tell everyone on the street and their dog that Juliet Martin, the "Rich Girl," had morphed into Wolverine and got in a key fight with Ellie Wheaton, the "Tablecloth Bitch." Clara must have been bored not having anyone to ride home with from school today. Maybe she got someone else to tag along.
The cops had stripped the three girls sitting impatiently on the butt-soring bench of their cell phones, purses (excluding wallets), and whatever else they had on them that might be used as a "weapon," according to the cops. The police obviously felt that if two teenage girls could start a fight with household items, then they certainly didn't want to take any chances with four others. Besides, the girls didn't care, anyway. At least Tessa, Andrea, and London really didn't care. Clover had put up a pretty strong argument for her phone, curse words and all, and had laughed at the idea of a cell phone being a weapon (apparently, she was not familiar with the incidents involving Naomi Campbell and Russell Crowe). But anyway, they were all preoccupied with thinking of a good way to tell their parents about the situation they were in, one that they didn't quite even understand fully. Of the four of them, London had been the only one brave enough to ask the warden to use the pay phone to finally call her mother after so many hours. In fact, she had just finished calling her about fifteen minutes before. None of the police officers themselves had given any explanation as to why they had not yet contacted the four girls' parents themselves. Perhaps they were too focused on the two girls who were actually involved, maybe they were too busy with all the other suspects coming in, or maybe they just didn't care.
Tessa had been too shocked to try to call anyone just yet. She knew that she wouldn't get in trouble with her foster parents after explaining to them that she was just a witness to the violence. That wasn't the reason why she hadn't done it. Instead, she was trying to piece together why Juliet would do something so stupid in the first place. She had already gotten in a cat fight with Tessa last semester and that had gone bad enough with nowhere near the results that this particular fight had. Why would she even risk getting in worse trouble? Did she even care about the consequences? Was she really that stupid?
Judging by her rage, it was evident to Tessa that Juliet had something bad going on, and it must have been something beyond bad, beyond horrible, even, to make her lose her cool in such a harsh and unpredictable way. It was completely out of character for her. Completely.
The incident itself had been a terror to watch. Juliet had lunged for Ellie so fast that the larger girl didn't even have a chance to defend herself. Ellie was shoved against the lockers with a bang as loud as the sound of a thousand suits of armor crashing together, followed by Juliet jabbing Tessa's keys at her indiscriminately. Everyone in the hallway was screaming, a few were running away, but no one of strength did anything for at least thirty seconds, until a senior boy grabbed Juliet from behind and slammed her to the ground, sitting on top of her. A split second later, the new principal, Dr. Merriman, a Trunchbull-like woman if there ever was one, came bashing through all of the screaming bystanders like a bowling ball and took hold of Juliet, twisting her arms behind her back. She had obviously been a police officer at some point in her life or had at least taken some martial arts. If she had just arrived a minute before, none of the girls would be sitting here right now. But, adults never did anything right.
Ellie remained cowering against the lockers with her hands over her face, sobbing, even after all the bystanders had been forced by at least six teachers to go to class. Tessa gasped loudly when Ellie finally removed her hand from her face. That was it. Juliet was screwed, because Ellie had blood dripping down her face from her forehead, her left cheek, and—Tessa's heart had skipped a beat—her left eye.
Had Ellie's eye been damaged?
As it turned out, no. The eye itself had not been hurt. But, there was a gash that led from just above her eyebrow to just a little ways under it. Stitches were needed, of course, but Ellie still had sight. The gash in her forehead was much longer, also requiring stitches, but the cut on her cheek would heal just fine with a band aid.
But, Tessa wasn't sure if Juliet would heal at all. It was shocking to see a girl who was once so in control go so crazy. Within twenty minutes, the cops had her in handcuffs and she had gone absolutely insane. Literally insane. She was crying hysterically, flailing on the ground and kicking her feet so violently that the police had been forced to remove her shoes. It was a very good thing she had chosen not to wear make-up today, because her face and eyes were as red and as bloated as someone who had just been stung by an entire hive of wasps.
Her behavior continued at the police station, along with her constant begging and screaming at the officers not to tell her father what had happened, saying that he "wasn't feeling well" and that he had been shot, that the artery the bullet had hit would re-severe itself if he had to deal with anymore stress. She kept screaming that he was going to "kill her" if he found out what she had done. Well, of course, the cops ignored her, as that would never happen, and responded by dragging her into a room that was so obviously reserved for people with her kind of emotional breakdowns, as there were no windows for passersby to see through and, from what Tessa could see briefly when the door opened, there was a place to lie down. But, there was no easing Juliet's hysteria, as she had been crying and screaming for the past six hours. Her wailing was still very clear from down the hallway.
Throughout that time, Tessa and the other girls had been asked questions one-by-one, which included: "What happened?" "Who started it?" Blah blah blah. All the usual questions that you seen people being asked in the five million crime shows that there were on TV. Tessa's answer was probably the most useful, as she was the original victim in it all, while Clover's and Ellie's combined were probably the most useless, as they were bound to make up a lie. Ellie was then whisked off to the hospital for stitches, making her look even more like a victim and giving her a free pass to leave the station that none of the other girls had just yet.
Tessa was now watching the window of the interrogation room across the hallway with a mixture of fear and sadness. Dr. Merriman, Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton, and Mr. Martin were sitting at a table with two officers, discussing something that Tessa would rather not know about. She couldn't help feeling horrible for Mr. Martin. He was such a kind man, but he had been through probably more than he could handle. As if the rape scheme wasn't enough, his daughter was probably in the biggest trouble of her life. He would definitely cancel her trust fund now, no doubt about it, and she would probably wind up in juvenile detention or something similar, not to mention face possible expulsion from school and maybe even a lawsuit from the Wheaton family.
It was evident that he was very stressed, as Juliet had implied in her rant about his gunshot wound. His face was very pale and drawn, like he hadn't slept in days, and there were cuts on it here and there, as though he had nicked himself shaving. Now, that was weird. Tessa didn't know much about businessmen, but surely any spots on the face were considered unprofessional, weren't they? Who wouldn't want to hide blood if they were meeting with people who were potentially going to make them a ton of money? Furthermore, he wasn't wearing his usual full business rich guy attire with the suit jacket and tie that he had always worn during the other times that Tessa had seen him. Instead, he was wearing a polo shirt, more of a casual look, which gave off even more of the impression that he wasn't in the mood to put his best foot forward today. He was still handsome, though. Tessa had to admit it. Not that she was attracted to him, at least not to the extent that she had been to Mr. Carpenter, a fantasy that she sorely regretted and would never try to make a reality again, no matter how hot the guy was. But, Mr. Martin had a proper air about him; everything from his posture to his defined jaw gave it off. Even his square forehead said something about his position. It was an appealing forehead, of course, one that added to his handsomeness, unlike that of Frankenstein's monster or Bill Hader, who were just about as ugly as they got. He was lean and physically fit, a definite cyclist or runner, and had given his daughter his dark eyes and curls, although her curls were a few shades of brown lighter and about two feet longer, and were normally either straightened or styled in a way that added to her look of superiority among the other students. At any rate, he was a much better choice to look at than Mr. Wheaton, a bald man from whom Ellie had so obviously inherited her large bone structure, or even Mrs. Wheaton, a smaller woman with an ugly mop of frizzy brown curls and clad in a yellow pant suit that made her look like a canary. She didn't quite look like a woman who would let her daughter wear dusty old upholstery to school, though. She reminded Tessa more of that dorky teacher from the movie Clueless who had "runs in her stockings and more lipstick on her teeth than on her mouth," in looks, at least, although she wasn't wearing stockings and Tessa couldn't see her teeth from so far away to confirm if she had anything on them.
Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. A strange noise snagged Tessa's attention away from the adults. What the heck was that?
She looked over in annoyance at Andrea, who was nervously gulping down what had to be her sixth can of Minute Maid since they had been there. It was surprising that the police station hadn't put a limit on how many times Andrea could use the dispenser, and what Tessa really couldn't wrap her head around was that Andrea hadn't used the bathroom once. Her bladder must have been awfully powerful. But, if drinking lemonade was her way to relieve stress and nervousness, then it shouldn't have been a big deal. It only was a big deal because she couldn't drink it quietly.
"Hey, Andrea," Tessa tried not to sound irritated. "Could you tone it down a bit?"
But, Andrea wasn't listening. Her face was very pale, which Tessa (she had to confess as to her ignorance of pigmentation) never thought was possible to that extent on a person who was half African-American and half Hispanic.
"I hope he doesn't really beat her," the olive-skinned her girl said, looking straight at Mr. Martin with her lemonade not even half an inch away from her mouth. "Juliet, I mean. I hope her dad doesn't hurt her like she says he will."
"Don't be silly, Andrea," London commented, but she didn't sound or look like she believed it herself. Her face was as white as snow, she was chewing on a piece of her reddish brown hair, and Tessa could see her hands shaking like a vibrator in her lap. "He's too British… British people don't beat their daughters." She then added in a light tone, "that's Alabamans."
Tessa let out a giggle. Now there's a Facebook status, she thought. Finally, there was something to lighten the mood in this dreary place.
"Alabamans beat their wives," Andrea countered with a rising of the corners of her mouth, finally lowering her drink to lap level.
London rolled her eyes. "Whatever. You get the idea."
Clover hadn't said anything to the other three girls for the entire time that they had been there. She had been keeping to her ponytail, fixing it and undoing it, then not liking it and braiding her hair instead. Then, repeating the cycle over and over again. In other words, her hands had been very busy. Her mouth had not, making Tessa confused as to why she would so suddenly decide to speak up. For show, she realized.
"And, anyway, everyone knows that there are two kinds of British men: the Prince William type and the Russell Brand type. One of them is a gentleman with lots of money and the other one's a drugged-up whack job rocker guy with—"
But Clover never got to finish her sentence because the door to the interrogation room opened and the adults were walking out. Dr. Merriman acknowledged the girls with a nod and walked out of the station with another nod to the warden, whereas Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton sprinted out as fast as Mr. Wheaton could move, noticing no one, hurrying to join their daughter at the hospital.
Of course, unsurprisingly, Mr. Martin did not leave. Instead, upon walking out of the room, one of the officers led him, expressionless, down the hallway to where Juliet was still crying her eyes out. The officer unlocked the door, and let Mr. Martin in casually, but then closed the door quickly. Even the officers knew what Juliet was in for. Tessa's stomach tightened.
There was a gasp and a somewhat of a whimper, followed by silence. The four girls on the bench watched the door, scared, in anticipation. So did several of the officers. And a few suspects.
Then it happened: the loudest slap in the world was heard coming from the windowless room, resonating off the police station walls.
Clover burst out laughing.
Andrea ran to the bathroom.
&& Juliet's POV &&
Sometime before Andrew had kicked Catherine out of the house for drinking excessively in front of their daughter, an incident occurred when five-year-old Juliet was on the playground in kindergarten. Swinging was her favorite activity. In fact, it was the only activity that she did during recess. But, on this particular day, both swings were occupied by two mean girls in Juliet's class, a blonde named Becca and redhead named Alex, who knew very well that the swings were her favorite. Enraged, Juliet decided to take matters into her own hands and did the first thing that came to her mind: she picked up the wood chips that were spread out on the ground beneath her and threw them , ironically, almost hitting both girls in the eyes. The teacher had responded by taking her to the principal's office and having her sit there until Catherine came to get her later that day. Her mother had dragged her to the limo, her freshly manicured nails digging into Juliet's wrist, the same one she would sprain later on, and scolded her the entire way home. There was no telling whether or not she had been drinking at all before arriving at the school, as Juliet did not yet know the signs, but Catherine had had the lack of sense enough to make a comment that Juliet never forgot:
"If you had a nanny, I wouldn't have to put up with your nasty behavior." Andrew had never liked the idea of a nanny for some reason. (Most likely it was because he figured that Catherine, as a housewife, had plenty of time on her hands to watch a child while he was working, which would have been true, of course, if she hadn't spent every waking hour getting manny-peddies, massages, and whatever else.) So, Juliet grew up without one.
As for the comment itself, looking back on it, Juliet concluded that it further emphasized her mother's complete selfishness. How could Catherine claim that she loved her after saying something like that? A real mother, a caring mother, would never say such a thing. And anyway, how would a nanny be any different than a mother in preventing bad behavior? Nannies were for women who worked and needed help watching their children, not women who just wanted them because their children were interrupting their post-Happy Hour shopping spree.
However, that comment wasn't the reason why the memory had suddenly decided to come back to Juliet today. It came back because, that night, Andrew had been so furious with his daughter's conduct that he had dealt with it by giving her a spanking.
It was the only time he had used any physical force to reprimand her for her actions, and needless to say, she never picked up a woodchip again after that. As she grew older and got into even more trouble with drinking, drugs, and the like, she wondered why he had never tried disciplining her in such a way again. The most punishment she had ever received for any of those related incidents was a yell or "a talk" from him about how she was being "disrespectful," "ungrateful," or even "insolent," a word that reinforced her father's Britishness unlike any other (she actually had to go look it up in a dictionary). Maybe it was because he felt spankings were for children and that she was too old for them, that she should no longer need any physical reinforcement to remind her not to break the law. Or maybe, mostly likely, it was because he had been turning a blind eye to her issues, hoping that they would go away with a simple word, rather than willing to accept the fact that she was turning into her mother and needed more help than he could give her.
But, apparently, and rightly so, he thought today was ideal for a physical rebuke. This time, rather than a spanking, it was a smack on the cheek, which was a far better mark of shame, as everyone could see it. She could feel the nerves in her face pounding like a heartbeat as she looked into her father's angry eyes. It was unnerving to see her own brown eyes looking back at her like that.
She had been curled up in a fetal position, bawling her eyes out for who knows how long, when she heard the door open, and she let out a gasp. But, rather than see who was entering, she did what she thought was smarter thing and pulled her sweatshirt over her head. When the door closed, footsteps could be heard coming toward her, but she kept her head down, whimpering in fear, before powerful hands pulled her into an upright position and a smack louder and more painful than a bomb greeted her cheek.
Her father's depression had turned to complete rage. In the past four days since Bridget had left, Andrew had done nothing but lie in bed and weep. Not eating or sleeping, just weeping. Juliet had even climbed into bed with him a few times, like she had as a little girl during a scary thunderstorm, holding his hand, trying to comfort him, but his heart was too broken for her to fix. Maybe she had bought the whole "You and me against the world" thing for an hour or two after they had arrived in the Hamptons that night, but that whole notion was certainly gone now.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
Andrew's emotionality was unlike anything she had ever seen. Never in a million years would she have thought he would let her see him cry. She had always been taught that men didn't show their emotions because it wasn't the "manly" thing to do. One of her teachers back in middle school had even told the class that the whole concept of male emotionality was nothing more than a façade created by daytime soap operas to appeal to women. Well, this teacher had obviously never met Andrew Martin.
Juliet didn't hold any of her father's emotions against him, though. She couldn't, not after what he had been through. He was acting as any man in his situation would. A man who had been shot, lied to, cheated on, held hostage, robbed of money, and disappointed by all the people whom he trusted with the world. No, it would be a crime to hold a grudge against him for his lack of attention toward her these past few days. He had every right to cry and slap.
Juliet knew that the smack burning a hole in her cheek wasn't just for her, but for all of them. For Bridget. For Catherine. For Siobhan. For Henry. Even for Olivia, his shady, lesbian, whore business partner. But, of course, Juliet felt like she bore most of the blame, because, not only could she have prevented the fight with Ellie if she had just controlled her temper, but also, more importantly, because she had failed him more than any of the others had. She had been his last bright spot, his last source of happiness after all the others had left him in misery. But, now, she, too, with this incident, had violated what little trust he had left in anyone and was no better than the rest. He was done with her and that was that. Of course, she would be able to come eventually, but Andrew would never show her any love again. No kisses, no hugs, no terms of endearment, probably even no acknowledgement of her presence at all.
He stepped back slowly, never taking his eyes off her, and folded his arms, as though he were afraid that if he didn't move away from her or conceal his hands, he might hit her again. When his back reached the door, Juliet could see more tears in his angry eyes, which was shocking, because she didn't think he had anymore tears left to cry.
"You're staying here for a week," he said evenly, but loudly, probably loud enough for the people in the hallway to hear, which was embarrassing, not that it wasn't already. His lips quivered slightly, before he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
She sighed heavily, trying to catch her breath, but failing miserably for a few seconds. He hadn't even waited for a response, not that she had expected him to. Any at rate, she didn't have one. There was no explanation for her actions, other than her own stupidity and lack of self-control. She crumpled back into her fetal position and let her head fall onto the pillow, which wasn't much of a pillow, just a hard, leathery lump, like the one that she couldn't get out of her throat.
She put both hands over her burning cheek, ignoring the tears. Her father's depression wasn't the only one that had turned into rage. Hers had, too. She had spent the last few days trying to feel happy, trying to get Bridget and everyone else out of her mind, trying to let go of the fantasy life that she knew she would never have and the mother who never was and never would be hers. She had tried taking walks on the beach, watching senseless comedy shows and movies, even collecting seashells, which she hadn't done since she was nine. She did whatever she could do to get her mind away from it all. But, none of that helped, and instead of reaching out to someone for help like a normal person would, she had hurt Ellie and thereby ruined her own future. She would most definitely be expelled from school, receiving "Incompletes" in her classes for the semester and having to retake them at another school, setting her behind in graduating. This incident would be on her permanent record, impacting her ability to be accepted to colleges and universities and probably even her ability to get a minimum-wage job. She would probably have to do community service with a bunch of other criminals, and Andrew would probably be sued by Ellie's parents, losing more money that he didn't deserve to lose.
Ellie…. The thought of her made Juliet sick.
She had hurt Ellie! She couldn't believe it. She had actually drawn blood and sent another girl to the hospital. She was so ashamed. How could she have let herself do something so horrible? Why did she lose control like that? Sure, Ellie wasn't a nice girl in the slightest. She picked on lots of other kids to stifle her own insecurities, but she didn't deserve to be hurt like that. Now, the kids at school were going to be gossiping about their fight, and Ellie would probably be laughed at and ridiculed. And Tessa and the others were probably going to be harassed as well. Rumors would be spread throughout the entire city about what an awful person Juliet Martin was. But, she wouldn't be able to counter them with anything, because they wouldn't be just rumors. They would be true.
She could have blamed her actions on Bridget for making up a horrendous lie in the first place, for making Juliet reach for something that wasn't real, giving her more happiness than anything else in her life ever had, but then snatching it away. She could have blamed them on Siobhan for being evil and manipulative and enticing Bridget to come to New York. She could have blamed then on Catherine for driving Andrew into Siobhan's arms, or even for seducing him in the first place, commencing Juliet's life and thus her misery. But, in the end, she knew the truth:
This was no one's fault but her own.
&&The Sheridan Apartment &&
By the time London had gotten back from the police station, her cell phone was going off just as much as her mouth was. She had been receiving texts by the millions since the officers had given her phone back, all of them from the students at her school asking about the details of the fight and the aftermath at the police station.
Greer and Bridget were in the kitchen making dinner for the three of them. Bridget had been in charge of chopping the vegetables: the zucchini, the carrots, and the celery, while Greer was cooking the steak, which, Bridget wanted to admit, but couldn't out of courtesy, was making her nauseous.
"Clove's such a bitch. Lindsay just said she's already told the whole school that Mr. Martin beat the crap out of her in front of the whole police station." she said as she texted away at the dining room table, thumbs moving at ten miles an hour. She looked up and said in clarification, "Juliet, I mean," as if no one knew who she was talking about.
Bridget's heart almost stopped beating. She turned around to look at London in shock. "What? Andrew beat her?"
"No," London responded with contempt, evidently aimed at the girl named Clove. "He didn't beat her. He just gave her a slap on the cheek, and it wasn't in front of the whole police station. It was in an enclosed room. Nobody saw it. Clove is just a bitch. But, I did hear him say that he was going to make her stay there for a week, which is a really long time. Isn't she only supposed to stay there for, like, a day or so and then get out? So, yeah…. He's pissed as hell."
She pulled her laptop plastered with Taylor Lautner pictures (about half were of him in character as Jacob Black, the other half were of him with his shirt off) out of her backpack and placed it on the dining room table, no doubt to check Facebook to see what all the kids at school were saying about the incident.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed, clearly frustrated after having scrolled down the page for barely thirty seconds. "Everybody's talking about it!" She began typing like mad, evidently to comment on everyone else's statuses to tell them what really happened.
"Well…." Bridget wanted to say something, but she wasn't sure what. She just felt horrible. All of this was her fault. How could she make excuses for either Andrew or Juliet when she was the reason for their actions? She had worked so hard to help them mend their relationship, and it had worked. Now, they were back in the same spot they were before Bridget had come into their lives. She had helped them, just to ruin them all over again, and there was nothing she could do to change it. Now, Juliet was probably just as miserable as she was and probably blamed her for what she had done. All the love that Bridget had shown her had been for absolutely nothing. She only wished she could tell Juliet that she was sorry for not being the mother she had wanted and deserved. After all, deep down, Juliet had a heart of gold. She wasn't a bad girl at all. She just needed to be understood and Catherine had never been there to do that.
It would never get a chance to happen now. No one would ever understand her. She would go back to drugs to ease her misery, but that would just make her life worse. Bridget had seen so much of herself in Juliet, and that was, in part, how she had grown to her love her. Because they were so alike, Bridget knew that she had to help her, to save her, to prevent her from going down the horrible path that she herself had. In doing so, Bridget felt like she finally had a daughter of her own.
But it was all in vain and a complete lie.
"They're going through a lot," she finally said, going back to chopping celery. Maybe it would distract her from her feelings of guilt and shame. And nausea. She wished she were chopping onions instead. Then, she would have had an excuse for the tears building up in her eyes.
"None of which is your fault." Greer finally spoke up after what felt like thirty minutes of London's rambling. She looked different wearing a cooking apron and her hair tied back in a ponytail, a real cafeteria worker than a rich woman in diamonds. She placed a lid over the steak, much to Bridget's delight, as it would get rid of the smell. Her nausea subsided, but her stomach was still filled with guilt and sadness and whatever other emotions she was feeling. There had been so many flooding through her these past few days that she didn't know which was which.
Bridget responded to Greer's comment by throwing some chopped celery into the pot on the back burner of the stove. She couldn't say "I know" or anything of an affirmative nature if she didn't believe it to be true, because she was well aware that her friend had been addressing the question to her. It certainly wasn't London's fault.
"Bridget." Greer was staring at her now, incredulously. "It's not your fault. Juliet had no business doing what she did. She could have very easily controlled her emotions. You know she could have. It had nothing to do with you."
She wasn't so sure. She just grabbed a zucchini and started chopping.
"Yeah. I hate to say it, but she knew what she was doing," London affirmed as she took a break from typing to join them in the kitchen , but only to snatch a Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator. Apparently, it had been upside-down because when she tried opening it, it fizzed over in her hands and onto the tiled floor.
"Oopsy," she said, proceeding to suck the liquid off the top of the can.
"Clean that up, please." Greer had been cleaning up London's messes all day, as the teenager had left at least five water glasses lying around, most of them tipped over and spilled, and so it was no surprised that her mother was unhappy about this one. "You need to more conscious of your messes, young lady."
"I'll help you," Bridget offered, noticing London's glare. She put down the knife and grabbed the paper towels off the counter and bent down to wipe the tiles, when she suddenly felt very hot and dizzy.
The nausea was back and this time, it wasn't going anywhere. In fact, it was actually manifesting into vomit, moving up her chest. She jumped up and ran to the toilet, puking up the chicken Caesar salad that she had eaten for lunch. When she lifted her head, she was trembling and covered in sweat.
Great. A stomach virus was just the thing she needed right now.