Contents
Part One: SIMON SAYS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two: HIDE-AND-SEEK
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Three: TRUTH OR DARE
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Follow Penguin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy
Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. When she isn’t
working or writing in Cambridge, Massachusetts, McManus loves to travel with
her son. One of Us Is Lying is her debut novel. To learn more about her, visit her
website, www.karenmcmanus.com, or follow her on Twitter at @writerkmc.
For Jack,
who always makes me laugh
Part One
SIMON SAYS
Chapter One
Bronwyn
Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.
A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s just this
week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip
app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class.
“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you see
tomorrow’s post.”
Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. I
lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives are you ruining next,
Simon?”
Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading
for the exit. “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor
Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his
bedroom?”
I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual
stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.
“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be
out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where
are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?”
I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m.,
Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.
Of course he is. The cute Mathlete—less of an oxymoron than you might
think—seems to only ever show up when I can’t.
“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give
Simon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to
the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview
High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced
out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their
tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and
scarred linoleum.
Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and
Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and
I half turn with my arms crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I
grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too?
What’s your crime?”
“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other
students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would
have predicted. Except one.
Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong
turn? This is detention, not student council.”
He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right
around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with
Bayview’s finest for … something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing.
He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.
“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and
closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send
triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football
practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.
I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a
baseball, whispers “Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from
him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.
The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a
helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch
Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.
Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but
maybe there’s still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise
my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening. “Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my
phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I say,
brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.
Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He
has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class
rooting through backpacks like he’s head of airline security and we’re all on the
watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.
“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls
around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her
boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t my phone either.”
“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray.
He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them
when they’re part of the same clique. Maybe überpopular people have better
things to talk about than unfair detentions.
“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk,
looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over
all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before
settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with
mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t
know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”
I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and
everything about Nate—from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket—
screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t
say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall
right over.
Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang
on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us,
it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice
because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a
lifesaving operation.
Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher.
I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and
you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know
About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses
initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up.
You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on
how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the
rules gets another detention tomorrow.”
“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.”
Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should
have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.
Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow
notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost
art.”
Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we
know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”
“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding.
“And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”
“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause?
Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously,
Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”
Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand
with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I
give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I
took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after
detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their
actual phones are safe in their backpacks.
Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk,
opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap
it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery
really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement
to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us
to contradict him instead of agree.
I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and
over in block letters.
It’s possible I’m overthinking this.
Cooper
Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.
My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the
last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never
feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to
write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s
gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but
pitching as far as he’s concerned.
That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of
fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.
Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He
hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”
“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.
“I know, but—my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”
Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded
with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”
Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with
water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but
seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his
sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in
our backpacks to mess with us?”
Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”
Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”
Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for
whatever your screw-up of the day was?”
“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery
warns.
Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there’s the sound of
tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other. Addy gasps and
I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who
looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feet toward the window. “Who
gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?” he asks.
Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she’s asking for permission, and when he
gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy follows her, and I
finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what’s going on. I lean
against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes up beside me with a
disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.
Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed into each
other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an
exasperated sigh. “I’d better make sure no one was hurt.” He runs his eyes over
all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the most responsible of the bunch. “Miss
Rojas, keep this room contained until I get back.”
“Okay,” Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the
window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or another teacher
appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of the parking lot.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Simon says. He heads back to his desk and
picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and
scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like
he’s about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup like he’s toasting us.
“Anyone else want some water?”
“I do,” Addy says, slipping into her chair.
“Get it yourself, princess.” Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put
while Simon leans against Mr. Avery’s desk. “Literally, huh? What’ll you do
with yourself now that homecoming’s over? Big gap between now and senior
prom.”
Addy looks at me without answering. I don’t blame her. Simon’s train of
thought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. He acts
like he’s above caring whether he’s popular, but he was pretty smug when he
wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I’m still not sure how he pulled
that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.
Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I
Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I
was voted king, so maybe I’m next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he’s
doing.
“What’s your point, Simon?” I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I
aren’t close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She’s been dating my
best friend since freshman year, and she’s a sweet girl. Also not the kind of
person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won’t quit.
“She’s a princess and you’re a jock,” he says. He thrusts his chin toward
Bronwyn, then at Nate. “And you’re a brain. And you’re a criminal. You’re all
walking teen-movie stereotypes.”
“What about you?” Bronwyn asks. She’s been hovering near the window, but
now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her
dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this year. New
glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she’s kind of working this sexynerd thing.
“I’m the omniscient narrator,” Simon says.
Bronwyn’s brows rise above her black frames. “There’s no such thing in teen
movies.”
“Ah, but Bronwyn.” Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp.
“There is such a thing in life.”
He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he’s got something on Bronwyn for
that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have been on it at
one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. My buddy Luis and
his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote. Though it was a true
story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend’s cousin. But still. That stuff
doesn’t have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad enough.
And if I’m being honest, I’m pretty freaked at what Simon could write about
me if he put his mind to it.
Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. “This tastes like crap.” He drops the cup,
and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still
think he’s messing around. But then the wheezing starts.
Bronwyn’s on her feet first, then kneeling beside him. “Simon,” she says,
shaking his shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened? Can you talk?” Her voice
goes from concerned to panicky, and that’s enough to get me moving. But
Nate’s faster, shoving past me and crouching next to Bronwyn.
“A pen,” he says, his eyes scanning Simon’s brick-red face. “You have a
pen?” Simon nods wildly, his hand clawing at his throat. I grab the pen off my
desk and try to hand it to Nate, thinking he’s about to do an emergency
tracheotomy or something. Nate just stares at me like I have two heads. “An
epinephrine pen,” he says, searching for Simon’s backpack. “He’s having an
allergic reaction.”
Addy stands and wraps her arms around her body, not saying a word.
Bronwyn turns to me, face flushed. “I’m going to find a teacher and call nineone-one. Stay with him, okay?” She grabs her phone out of Mr. Avery’s drawer
and runs into the hallway.
I kneel next to Simon. His eyes are bugging out of his head, his lips are blue,
and he’s making horrible choking noises. Nate dumps the entire contents of
Simon’s backpack on the floor and scrabbles through the mess of books, papers,
and clothes. “Simon, where do you keep it?” he asks, tearing open the small
front compartment and yanking out two regular pens and a set of keys.
Simon’s way past talking, though. I put one sweaty palm on his shoulder, like
that’ll do any good. “You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. We’re gettin’ help.” I
can hear my voice slowing, thickening like molasses. My accent always comes
out hard when I’m stressed. I turn to Nate and ask, “You sure he’s not chokin’
on somethin’?” Maybe he needs the Heimlich maneuver, not a freaking medical
pen.
Nate ignores me, tossing Simon’s empty backpack aside. “Fuck!” he yells,
slamming a fist on the floor. “Do you keep it on you, Simon? Simon!” Simon’s
eyes roll back in his head as Nate digs around in Simon’s pockets. But he
doesn’t find anything except a wrinkled Kleenex.
Sirens blare in the distance as Mr. Avery and two other teachers race in with
Bronwyn trailing behind them on her phone. “We can’t find his EpiPen,” Nate
says tersely, gesturing to the pile of Simon’s things.
Mr. Avery stares at Simon in slack-jawed horror for a second, then turns to
me. “Cooper, the nurse’s office has EpiPens. They should be labeled in plain
sight. Hurry!”
I run into the hallway, hearing footsteps behind me that fade as I quickly reach
the back stairwell and yank the door open. I take the stairs three at a time until
I’m on the first floor, and weave through a few straggling students until I get to
the nurse’s office. The door’s ajar, but nobody’s there.
It’s a cramped little space with the exam table up against the windows and a
big gray storage cabinet looming to my left. I scan the room, my eyes landing on
two wall-mounted white boxes with red block lettering. One reads emergency
defibrillator, the other EMERGENCY EPINEPHRINE. I fumble at the latch on the
second one and pull it open.
There’s nothing inside.
I open the other box, which has a plastic device with a picture of a heart. I’m
pretty sure that’s not it, so I start rummaging through the gray storage cabinet,
pulling out boxes of bandages and aspirin. I don’t see anything that looks like a
pulling out boxes of bandages and aspirin. I don’t see anything that looks like a
pen.
“Cooper, did you find them?” Ms. Grayson, one of the teachers who’d entered
the lab with Mr. Avery and Bronwyn, barrels into the room. She’s panting hard
and clutching her side.
I gesture toward the empty wall-mounted box. “They should be there, right?
But they’re not.”
“Check the supply cabinet,” Ms. Grayson says, ignoring the Band-Aid boxes
scattered across the floor that prove I’ve already tried. Another teacher joins us,
and we tear the office apart as the sound of sirens gets closer. When we’ve
opened the last cabinet, Ms. Grayson wipes a trickle of sweat from her forehead
with the back of her hand. “Cooper, let Mr. Avery know we haven’t found
anything yet. Mr. Contos and I will keep looking.”
I get to Mr. Avery’s lab the same time the paramedics do. There are three of
them in navy uniforms, two pushing a long white stretcher, one racing ahead to
clear the small crowd that’s gathered around the door. I wait until they’re all
inside and slip in behind them. Mr. Avery’s slumped next to the chalkboard, his
yellow dress shirt untucked. “We couldn’t find the pens,” I tell him.
He runs a shaking hand through his thin white hair as one of the paramedics
stabs Simon with a syringe and the other two lift him onto the stretcher. “God
help that boy,” he whispers. More to himself than to me, I think.
Addy’s standing off to the side by herself, tears rolling down her cheeks. I
cross over to her and put an arm around her shoulders as the paramedics
maneuver Simon’s stretcher into the hallway. “Can you come along?” one asks
Mr. Avery. He nods and follows, leaving the room empty except for a few shellshocked teachers and the four of us who started detention with Simon.
Barely fifteen minutes ago, by my guess, but it feels like hours.
“Is he okay now?” Addy asks in a strangled voice. Bronwyn clasps her phone
between her palms like she’s using it to pray. Nate stands with his hands on his
hips, staring at the door as more teachers and students start trickling inside.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say no,” he says.
Chapter Two
Addy
Monday, September 24, 3:25 p.m.
Bronwyn, Nate, and Cooper are all talking to the teachers, but I can’t. I need
Jake. I pull my phone out of my bag to text him but my hands are shaking too
bad. So I call instead.
“Baby?” He picks up on the second ring, sounding surprised. We’re not big
callers. None of our friends are. Sometimes when I’m with Jake and his phone
rings, he holds it up and jokes, “What does ‘incoming call’ mean?” It’s usually
his mom.
“Jake” is all I can get out before I start bawling. Cooper’s arm is still around
my shoulders, and it’s the only thing keeping me up. I’m crying too hard to talk,
and Cooper takes the phone from me.
“Hey, man. ’S Cooper,” he says, his accent thicker than normal. “Where you
at?” He listens for a few seconds. “Can you meet us outside? There’s been …
Somethin’ happened. Addy’s real upset. Naw, she’s fine, but … Simon Kelleher
got hurt bad in detention. Ambulance took him an’ we dunno if he’s gon’ be
okay.” Cooper’s words melt into one another like ice cream, and I can hardly
understand him.
Bronwyn turns to the closest teacher, Ms. Grayson. “Should we stay? Do you
need us?”
Ms. Grayson’s hands flutter around her throat. “Goodness, I don’t suppose so.
You told the paramedics everything? Simon … took a drink of water and
collapsed?” Bronwyn and Cooper both nod. “It’s so strange. He has a peanut
allergy, of course, but … you’re sure he didn’t eat anything?”
Cooper gives me my phone and runs a hand through his neatly cropped sandy
hair. “I don’t think so. He just drank a cup of water an’ fell over.”
“Maybe it was something he had with lunch,” Ms. Grayson says. “It’s
possible he had a delayed reaction.” She looks around the room, her eyes settling
on Simon’s discarded cup on the floor. “I suppose we should put this aside,” she
says, brushing past Bronwyn to pick it up. “Somebody might want to look at it.”
“I want to go,” I burst out, swiping at the tears on my cheeks. I can’t stand
“I want to go,” I burst out, swiping at the tears on my cheeks. I can’t stand
being in this room another second.
“Okay if I help her?” Cooper asks, and Ms. Grayson nods. “Should I come
back?”
“No, that’s all right, Cooper. I’m sure they’ll call you if they need you. Go
home and try to get back to normal. Simon’s in good hands now.” She leans in a
little closer, her tone softening. “I am so sorry. That must have been awful.”
She’s mostly looking at Cooper, though. There’s not a female teacher at
Bayview who can resist his all-American charm.
Cooper keeps an arm around me on the way out. It’s nice. I don’t have
brothers, but if I did, I imagine this is how they’d prop you up when you felt
sick. Jake wouldn’t like most of his friends being this close to me, but Cooper’s
fine. He’s a gentleman. I lean into him as we pass posters for last week’s
homecoming dance that haven’t been taken down yet. Cooper pushes the front
door open, and there, thank God, is Jake.
I collapse into his arms, and for a second, everything’s okay. I’ll never forget
seeing Jake for the first time, freshman year: he had a mouth full of braces and
hadn’t gotten tall or broad-shouldered yet, but I took one look at his dimples and
summer sky–blue eyes and knew. He was the one for me. It’s just a bonus he
turned out beautiful.
He strokes my hair while Cooper explains in a low voice what happened.
“God, Ads,” Jake says. “That’s awful. Let’s get you home.”
Cooper leaves on his own, and I’m suddenly sorry I didn’t do more for him. I
can tell by his voice he’s as freaked out as I am, just hiding it better. But
Cooper’s so golden, he can handle anything. His girlfriend, Keely, is one of my
best friends, and the kind of girl who does everything right. She’ll know exactly
how to help. Way better than me.
I settle myself into Jake’s car and watch the town blur past as he drives a little
too fast. I live only a mile from school, and the drive is short, but I’m bracing
myself for my mother’s reaction because I’m positive she’ll have heard. Her
communication channels are mysterious but foolproof, and sure enough she’s
standing on our front porch as Jake pulls into the driveway. I can read her mood
even though the Botox froze her expressions long ago.
I wait until Jake opens my door to climb out of the car, fitting myself under
his arm like always. My older sister, Ashton, likes to joke that I’m one of those
barnacles that would die without its host. It’s not actually so funny.
“Adelaide!” My mother’s concern is theatrical. She stretches out a hand as we
make our way up the steps and strokes my free arm. “Tell me what happened.”
I don’t want to. Especially not with Mom’s boyfriend lurking in the doorway
behind her, pretending his curiosity is actual concern. Justin is twelve years
behind her, pretending his curiosity is actual concern. Justin is twelve years
younger than my mother, which makes him five years younger than her second
husband, and fifteen years younger than my dad. At the rate she’s going, she’ll
date Jake next.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, ducking past them. “I’m fine.”
“Hey, Mrs. Calloway,” Jake says. Mom uses her second husband’s last name,
not my dad’s. “I’m going to take Addy to her room. The whole thing was awful.
I can tell you about it after I get her settled.” It always amazes me how Jake talks
to my mother, like they’re peers.
And she lets him get away with it. Likes it. “Of course,” she simpers.
My mother thinks Jake’s too good for me. She’s been telling me that since
sophomore year when he got super hot and I stayed the same. Mom used to enter
Ashton and me into beauty pageants when we were little, always with the same
results for both of us: second runner-up. Homecoming princess, not queen. Not
bad, but not good enough to attract and keep the kind of man who can take care
of you for life.
I’m not sure if that’s ever been stated as a goal or anything, but it’s what
we’re supposed to do. My mother failed. Ashton’s failing in her two-year
marriage with a husband who’s dropped out of law school and barely spends any
time with her. Something about the Prentiss girls doesn’t stick.
“Sorry,” I murmur to Jake as we head upstairs. “I didn’t handle this well. You
should’ve seen Bronwyn and Cooper. They were great. And Nate—my God. I
never thought I’d see Nate Macauley take charge that way. I was the only one
who was useless.”
“Shhh, don’t talk like that,” Jake says into my hair. “It’s not true.”
He says it with a note of finality, because he refuses to see anything but the
best in me. If that ever changed, I honestly don’t know what I’d do.
Nate
Monday, September 24, 4:00 p.m.
When Bronwyn and I get to the parking lot it’s nearly empty, and we hesitate
once we’re outside the door. I’ve known Bronwyn since kindergarten, give or
take a few middle-school years, but we don’t exactly hang out. Still, it’s not
weird having her next to me. Almost comfortable after that disaster upstairs.
She looks around like she just woke up. “I didn’t drive,” she mutters. “I was
supposed to get a ride. To Epoch Coffee.” Something about the way she says it
sounds significant, as if there’s more to the story she’s not sharing.
I have business to transact, but now probably isn’t the time. “You want a
ride?”
ride?”
Bronwyn follows my gaze to my motorcycle. “Seriously? I wouldn’t get on
that deathtrap if you paid me. Do you know the fatality rates? They’re no joke.”
She looks ready to pull out a spread sheet and show me.
“Suit yourself.” I should leave her and go home, but I’m not ready to face that
yet. I lean against the building and pull a flask of Jim Beam out of my jacket
pocket, unscrewing the top and holding it toward Bronwyn. “Drink?”
She folds her arms tightly across her chest. “Are you kidding? That’s your
brilliant idea before climbing onto your machine of destruction? And on school
property?”
“You’re a lot of fun, you know that?” I don’t actually drink much; I’d grabbed
the flask from my father this morning and forgotten about it. But there’s
something satisfying about annoying Bronwyn.
I’m about to put it back in my pocket when Bronwyn furrows her brow and
holds out her hand. “What the hell.” She slumps against the redbrick wall beside
me, inching down until she’s sitting on the ground. For some reason I flash back
to elementary school, when Bronwyn and I went to the same Catholic school.
Before life went completely to hell. All the girls wore plaid uniform skirts, and
she’s got a similar skirt on now that hikes up her thighs as she crosses her
ankles. The view’s not bad.
She drinks for a surprisingly long time. “What. Just. Happened?”
I sit next to her and take the flask, putting it on the ground between us. “I have
no idea.”
“He looked like he was going to die.” Bronwyn’s hand shakes so hard when
she picks up the flask again that it clatters against the ground. “Don’t you
think?”
“Yeah,” I say as Bronwyn takes another swig and makes a face.
“Poor Cooper,” she says. “He sounded like he left Ole Miss yesterday. He
always gets that way when he’s nervous.”
“I wouldn’t know. But what’s-her-name was useless.”
“Addy.” Bronwyn’s shoulder briefly nudges mine. “You should know her
name.”
“Why?” I can’t think of a good reason. That girl and I have barely crossed
paths before today and probably won’t again. I’m pretty sure that’s fine with
both of us. I know her type. Not a thought in her head except her boyfriend and
whatever petty power play’s happening with her friends this week. Hot enough, I
guess, but other than that she’s got nothing to offer.
“Because we’ve all been through a huge trauma together,” Bronwyn says, like
that settles things.
“You have a lot of rules, don’t you?”
“You have a lot of rules, don’t you?”
I forgot how tiring Bronwyn is. Even in grade school, the amount of crap she
cared about on a daily basis would wear down a normal person. She was always
trying to join things, or start things for other people to join. Then be in charge of
all the things she joined or started.
She’s not boring, though. I’ll give her that.
We sit in silence, watching the last of the cars leave the parking lot, while
Bronwyn sips occasionally from the flask. When I finally take it from her, I’m
surprised at how light it is. I doubt Bronwyn’s used to hard liquor. She seems
more a wine cooler girl. If that.
I put the flask back in my pocket as she plucks lightly at my sleeve. “You
know, I meant to tell you, back when it happened—I was really sorry to hear
about your mom,” she says haltingly. “My uncle died in a car accident too, right
around the same time. I wanted to say something to you, but … you and I, you
know, we didn’t really …” She trails off, her hand still resting on my arm.
“Talk,” I say. “It’s fine. Sorry about your uncle.”
“You must miss her a lot.”
I don’t want to talk about my mother. “Ambulance came pretty fast today,
huh?”
Bronwyn gets a little red and pulls her hand back, but rolls with the quickchange conversation. “How did you know what to do? For Simon?”
I shrug. “Everybody knows he has a peanut allergy. That’s what you do.”
“I didn’t know about the pen.” She snorts out a laugh. “Cooper gave you an
actual pen! Like you were going to write him a note or something. Oh my God.”
She bangs her head so hard against the wall she might’ve cracked something. “I
should go home. This is unproductive at best.”
“Offer of a ride stands.”
I don’t expect her to take it, but she says “Sure, why not” and holds out her
hand. She stumbles a little as I help her up. I didn’t think alcohol could kick in
after fifteen minutes, but I might’ve underestimated the Bronwyn Rojas
lightweight factor. Probably should have taken the flask away sooner.
“Where do you live?” I ask, straddling the seat and fitting the key in the
ignition.
“Thorndike Street. A couple miles from here. Past the center of town, turn left
onto Stone Valley Terrace after Starbucks.” The rich part of town. Of course.
I don’t usually take anybody on my bike and don’t have a second helmet, so I
give her mine. She takes it and I have to will myself to pull my eyes away from
the bare skin of her thigh as she hops on behind me, tucking her skirt between
her legs. She clamps her arms around my waist too tightly, but I don’t say
anything.
anything.
“Go slow, okay?” she asks nervously as I start the engine. I’d like to irritate
her more, but I leave the parking lot at half my normal speed. And though I
didn’t think it was possible, she squeezes me even tighter. We ride like that, her
helmeted head pressed up against my back, and I’d bet a thousand dollars, if I
had it, that her eyes are shut tight until we reach her driveway.
Her house is about what you’d expect—a huge Victorian with a big lawn and
lots of complicated trees and flowers. There’s a Volvo SUV in the driveway, and
my bike—which you could call a classic if you were feeling generous—looks as
ridiculous next to it as Bronwyn must look behind me. Talk about things that
don’t go together.
Bronwyn climbs off and fumbles at the helmet. I unhook it and help her pull it
off, loosening a strand of hair that catches on the strap. She takes a deep breath
and straightens her skirt.
“That was terrifying,” she says, then jumps as a phone rings. “Where’s my
backpack?”
“Your back.”
She shrugs it off and yanks her phone from the front pocket. “Hello? Yes, I
can …. Yes, this is Bronwyn. Did you— Oh God. Are you sure?” Her backpack
slips out of her hand and falls at her feet. “Thank you for calling.” She lowers
the phone and stares at me, her eyes wide and glassy.
“Nate, he’s gone,” she says. “Simon’s dead.”
Chapter Three
Bronwyn
Tuesday, September 25, 8:50 a.m.
I can’t stop doing the math in my head. It’s eight-fifty a.m. on Tuesday, and
twenty-four hours ago Simon was going to homeroom for the last time. Six
hours and five minutes from then we were heading to detention. An hour later,
he died.
Seventeen years, gone just like that.
I slide down into my chair in the back corner of homeroom, feeling twentyfive heads swivel my way as I sit. Even without About That to provide an
update, news of Simon’s death was everywhere by dinnertime last night. I got
multiple texts from everyone I’ve ever given my phone number to.
“You all right?” My friend Yumiko reaches over and squeezes my hand. I
nod, but the gesture makes the pounding in my head even worse. Turns out half
a flask of bourbon on an empty stomach is a terrible idea. Luckily both my
parents were still at work when Nate dropped me off, and my sister, Maeve,
poured enough black coffee down my throat that I was semicoherent by the time
they got home. Any lingering effects they chalked up to trauma.
The first bell rings, but the speaker crackle that usually signals morning
announcements never comes. Instead, our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Park, clears
her throat and gets up from behind her desk. She’s clutching a sheet of paper that
trembles in her hand as she starts to read. “The following is an official
announcement from Bayview High’s administration. I’m so sorry to have to
share this terrible news. Yesterday afternoon one of your classmates, Simon
Kelleher, suffered a massive allergic reaction. Medical help was called
immediately and arrived quickly, but unfortunately, it was too late to help
Simon. He died at the hospital shortly after arrival.”
A low whispering buzz runs through the room as somebody chokes out a sob.
Half the class already has their phones out. Rules be damned today, I guess.
Before I can stop myself, I pull my phone from my backpack and swipe to About
That. I half expect a notification for the juicy new update Simon bragged about
before detention yesterday, but of course there’s nothing except last week’s
before detention yesterday, but of course there’s nothing except last week’s
news.
Our favorite stoner drummer’s trying his hand at film. RC’s installed a camera in the light
fixture in his bedroom, and he’s been holding premieres for all his friends. You’ve been warned,
girls. (Too late for KL, though.)
Everyone’s seen the flirting between manic pixie dream girl TC and new rich boy GR, but
who knew it might be something more? Apparently not her boyfriend, who sat oblivious in the
bleachers at Saturday’s game while T&G got hot and heavy right underneath him. Sorry, JD.
Always the last to know.
The thing with About That was … you could pretty much guarantee every
word was true. Simon built it sophomore year, after he spent spring break at
some expensive coding camp in Silicon Valley, and nobody except him was
allowed to post there. He had sources all over school, and he was choosy and
careful about what he reported. People usually denied it or ignored it, but he was
never wrong.
I’d never been featured; I’m too squeaky-clean for that. There’s only one
thing Simon might have written about me, but it would have been almost
impossible for him to find out.
Now I guess he never will.
Mrs. Park is still talking. “There will be grief counseling provided in the
auditorium all day. You may leave class any time you feel the need to speak with
someone about this tragedy. The school is planning a memorial service for
Simon after Saturday’s football game, and we’ll provide those details as soon as
they’re available. We’ll also be sure to keep you up to date on his family’s
arrangements once we know them.”
The bell rings and we all get up to leave, but Mrs. Park calls my name before
I’ve even collected my backpack. “Bronwyn, can you hold back a moment?”
Yumiko shoots me a sympathetic look as she stands, tucking a strand of her
choppy black hair behind her ear. “Kate and I’ll wait for you in the hallway,
okay?”
I nod and grab my bag. Mrs. Park is still dangling the announcement from one
hand as I approach her desk. “Bronwyn, Principal Gupta wants all of you who
were in the room with Simon to receive one-on-one counseling today. She’s
asked me to let you know that you’re scheduled for eleven o’clock in Mr.
O’Farrell’s office.”
Mr. O’Farrell is my guidance counselor, and I’m very familiar with his office.
I’ve spent a lot of time there over the past six months, strategizing college
admissions. “Is Mr. O’Farrell doing the counseling?” I ask. I guess that wouldn’t
be so bad.
Mrs. Park’s forehead creases. “Oh, no. The school’s bringing in a
professional.”
professional.”
Great. I’d spent half the night trying to convince my parents I didn’t need to
see anybody. They’ll be thrilled it was forced on me anyway. “Okay,” I say, and
wait in case she has anything else to tell me, but she just pats my arm
awkwardly.
As promised, Kate and Yumiko are hovering outside the door. They flank me
as we walk to first-period calculus, like they’re shielding me from intrusive
paparazzi. Yumiko steps aside, though, when she sees Evan Neiman waiting
outside our classroom door.
“Bronwyn, hey.” Evan’s wearing one of his usual monogrammed polo shirts
with ewn embroidered in script above his heart. I’ve always wondered what the
W stands for. Walter? Wendell? William? I hope for his sake it’s William. “Did
you get my text last night?”
I did. Need anything? Want some company? Since that’s the only time Evan
Neiman has ever texted me, my cynical side decided he was angling for a frontrow seat to the most shocking thing that’s ever happened at Bayview. “I did,
thanks. I was really tired, though.”
“Well, if you ever feel like talking, let me know.” Evan glances around the
emptying hallway. He’s a stickler for punctuality. “We should probably get
inside, huh?”
Yumiko grins at me as we take our seats and whispers, “Evan kept asking
where you were at Mathlete practice yesterday.”
I wish I could match her enthusiasm, but at some point between detention and
calculus I lost all interest in Evan Neiman. Maybe it’s posttraumatic stress from
the Simon situation, but right now I can’t remember what attracted me in the
first place. Not that I was ever head over heels. Mostly I thought Evan and I had
potential to be a solid couple until graduation, at which point we’d break up
amicably and head to our different colleges. Which I realize is pretty
uninspiring, but so is high school dating. For me, anyway.
I sit through calculus, my mind far, far away from math, and then suddenly
it’s over and I’m walking to AP English with Kate and Yumiko. My head’s still
so full of what happened yesterday that when we pass Nate in the hallway it
seems perfectly natural to call out, “Hi, Nate.” I stop, surprising us both, and he
does too.
“Hey,” he replies. His dark hair is more disheveled than ever, and I’m pretty
sure he’s wearing the same T-shirt as yesterday. Somehow, though, it works on
him. A little too well. Everything from his tall, rangy build to his angular
cheekbones and wide-set, dark-fringed eyes is making me lose my train of
thought.
Kate and Yumiko are staring at him too, but in a different way. More like he’s
an unpredictable zoo animal in a flimsy cage. Hallway conversations with Nate
Macauley aren’t exactly part of our routine. “Have you had your counseling
session yet?” I ask.
His face is a total blank. “My what?”
“Grief counseling. Because of Simon. Didn’t your homeroom teacher tell
you?”
“I just got here,” he says, and my eyes widen. I never expected Nate to win
any attendance awards, but it’s almost ten o’clock.
“Oh. Well, all of us who were there are supposed to have one-on-one sessions.
Mine’s at eleven.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nate mutters, raking a hand through his hair.
The gesture pulls my eyes to his arm, where they remain until Kate clears her
throat. My face heats as I snap back to attention, too late to register whatever she
said. “Anyway. See you around,” I mumble.
Yumiko bends her head toward mine as soon as we’re out of earshot. “He
looks like he just rolled out of bed,” she whispers. “And not alone.”
“I hope you doused yourself in Lysol after getting off his motorcycle,” Kate
adds. “He’s a total man-whore.”
I glare at her. “You realize it’s sexist to say man-whore, right? If you have to
use the term you should at least be gender-neutral about it.”
“Whatever,” Kate says dismissively. “Point is, he’s a walking STD.”
I don’t answer. That’s Nate’s reputation, sure, but we don’t really know
anything about him. I almost tell her how carefully he drove me home yesterday,
except I’m not sure what point I’d be trying to make.
After English I head for Mr. O’Farrell’s office, and he waves me inside when
I knock on his open door. “Have a seat, Bronwyn. Dr. Resnick is running a little
late, but she’ll be here shortly.” I sit down across from him and spy my name
scrawled across the manila folder placed neatly in the middle of his desk. I move
to pick it up, then hesitate, not sure if it’s confidential, but he pushes it toward
me. “Your recommendation from the Model UN organizer. In plenty of time for
Yale’s early-action deadline.”
I exhale, letting out a small sigh of relief. “Oh, thanks!” I say, and pick up the
folder. It’s the last one I’ve been waiting for. Yale’s a family tradition—my
grandfather was a visiting scholar there and moved his whole family from
Colombia to New Haven when he got tenure. All his kids, including my dad,
went to undergrad there, and it’s where my parents met. They always say our
family wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Yale.
“You’re very welcome.” Mr. O’Farrell leans back and adjusts his glasses.
“Were your ears burning earlier? Mr. Camino stopped by to ask if you’d be
“Were your ears burning earlier? Mr. Camino stopped by to ask if you’d be
interested in tutoring for chemistry this semester. A bunch of bright juniors are
struggling the way you did last year. They’d love to learn strategies from
someone who ended up acing the course.”
I have to swallow a couple of times before I can answer. “I would,” I say, as
brightly as I can manage, “but I might be overcommitted already.” My smile
stretches too tightly over my teeth.
“No worries. You have a lot on your plate.”
Chemistry was the only class I’d ever struggled with, so much so that I had a
D average at midterm. With every quiz I bombed, I could feel the Ivy League
slipping out of reach. Even Mr. O’Farrell started gently suggesting that any toptier school would do.
So I brought my grades up, and got an A by the end of the year. But I’m pretty
sure nobody wants me sharing my strategies with the other students.
Cooper
Thursday, September 27, 12:45 p.m.
“Will I see you tonight?”
Keely takes my hand as we walk to our lockers after lunch, looking up at me
with huge dark eyes. Her mom is Swedish and her dad’s Filipino, and the
combination makes Keely the most beautiful girl in school by a lot. I haven’t
seen her much this week between baseball and family stuff, and I can tell she’s
getting antsy. Keely’s not a clinger, exactly, but she needs regular couple time.
“Not sure,” I say. “I’m pretty behind on homework.”
Her perfect lips curve down and I can tell she’s about to protest when a voice
floats over the loudspeaker. “Attention, please. Would Cooper Clay, Nate
Macauley, Adelaide Prentiss, and Bronwyn Rojas please report to the main
office. Cooper Clay, Nate Macauley, Adelaide Prentiss, and Bronwyn Rojas to
the main office.”
Keely looks around like she’s expecting an explanation. “What’s that about?
Something to do with Simon?”
“I guess.” I shrug. I already answered questions from Principal Gupta a couple
of days ago about what happened during detention, but maybe she’s gearing up
for another round. My father says Simon’s parents are pretty connected around
town, and the school should be worried about a lawsuit if it turns out they were
negligent in any way. “Better go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I give Keely a
quick kiss on the cheek, shoulder my backpack, and head down the hall.
When I get to the principal’s office, the receptionist points me toward a small
When I get to the principal’s office, the receptionist points me toward a small
conference room that’s already crowded with people: Principal Gupta, Addy,
Bronwyn, Nate, and a police officer. My throat gets a little dry as I take the last
empty chair.
“Cooper, good. Now we can get started.” Principal Gupta folds her hands in
front of her and looks around the table. “I’d like to introduce Officer Hank
Budapest with the Bayview Police Department. He has some questions about
what you witnessed on Monday.”
Officer Budapest shakes each of our hands in turn. He’s young but already
balding, with sandy hair and freckles. Not very intimidating, authority-wise.
“Nice to meet you all. This shouldn’t take long, but after speaking with the
Kelleher family we want to take a closer look at Simon’s death. Autopsy results
came back this morning, and—”
“Already?” Bronwyn interrupts, earning a look from Principal Gupta that she
doesn’t notice. “Don’t those usually take longer?”
“Preliminary results can be available within a couple days,” Officer Budapest
says. “These were fairly conclusive, showing that Simon died from a large dose
of peanut oil ingested shortly before death. Which his parents found strange,
considering how careful he always was with his food and drink. All of you told
Principal Gupta that Simon drank a cup of water just before he collapsed, is that
right?”
We all nod, and Officer Budapest continues, “The cup contained traces of
peanut oil, so it seems clear Simon died from that drink. What we’re trying to
figure out now is how peanut oil could have gotten into his cup.”
Nobody speaks. Addy meets my eyes and then cuts hers away, a small frown
creasing her forehead. “Does anyone remember where Simon got the cup from?”
Officer Budapest prompts, poising his pen over a blank notebook in front of him.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” Bronwyn says. “I was writing my assignment.”
“Me too,” Addy says, although I could’ve sworn she hadn’t even started. Nate
stretches and stares at the ceiling.
“I remember,” I volunteer. “He got the cup from a stack next to the sink.”
“Was the stack upside down, or right-side up?”
“Upside down,” I say. “Simon pulled the top one off.”
“Did you notice any liquid leave the cup when he did that? Did he shake it?”
I think back. “No. He just filled it with water.”
“And then he drank it?”
“Yeah,” I say, but Bronwyn corrects me.
“No,” she says. “Not right away. He talked for a while. Remember?” She
turns to Nate. “He asked you if you put the cell phones in our backpacks. The
ones that got us in trouble with Mr. Avery.”
“The cell phones. Right.” Officer Budapest scratches something down in his
notebook. He doesn’t say it like a question, but Bronwyn explains anyway.
“Somebody played a prank on us,” she says. “It’s why we were in detention.
Mr. Avery found phones in our backpacks that didn’t belong to us.” She turns to
Principal Gupta with an injured expression. “It really wasn’t fair. I’ve been
meaning to ask, is that something that goes on your permanent record?”
Nate rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t me. Someone stuck a phone in my backpack
too.”
Principal Gupta furrows her brow. “This is the first I’m hearing about this.”
I shrug when she meets my eyes. Those phones were the last thing on my
mind these past few days.
Officer Budapest doesn’t look surprised. “Mr. Avery mentioned that when I
met with him earlier. He said none of the kids ever claimed the phones, so he
thought it must’ve been a prank after all.” He slides his pen between his index
and middle finger and taps it rhythmically against the table. “Is that the sort of
joke Simon might have played on you all?”
“I don’t see why,” Addy says. “There was a phone in his backpack too.
Besides, I barely knew him.”
“You were on junior prom court with him,” Bronwyn points out. Addy blinks,
like she’s only just remembering that’s true.
“Any of you kids ever have trouble with Simon?” Officer Budapest asks.
“I’ve heard about the app he made—About That, right?” He’s looking at me, so I
nod. “You guys ever been on it?”
Everyone shakes their head except Nate. “Lots of times,” he says.
“What for?” Officer Budapest asks.
Nate smirks. “Stupid shit—” he starts, but Principal Gupta cuts him off.
“Language, Mr. Macauley.”
“Stupid stuff,” Nate amends. “Hooking up, mostly.”
“Did that bother you? Being gossiped about?”
“Not really.” He looks like he means it. I guess being on a gossip app isn’t a
big deal compared to getting arrested. If that’s true. Simon never posted it, so
nobody seems to know exactly what Nate’s deal is.
Kinda pathetic, how Simon was our most trusted news source.
Officer Budapest looks at the rest of us. “But not you three?” We all shake our
heads again. “Did you ever worry about ending up on Simon’s app? Feel like
you had something hanging over your heads, or anything like that?”
“Not me,” I say, but my voice isn’t as confident as I would have liked. I
glance away from Officer Budapest and catch Addy and Bronwyn looking like
polar opposites: Addy’s gone pale as a ghost, and Bronwyn’s flushed brick red.
Nate watches them for a few seconds, tilts his chair back, and looks at Officer
Nate watches them for a few seconds, tilts his chair back, and looks at Officer
Budapest.
“Everybody’s got secrets,” he says. “Right?”
My workout routine goes long that night, but my dad makes everyone wait till
I’m done so we can eat dinner together. My brother, Lucas, clutches his stomach
and staggers to the table with a long-suffering look when we finally sit down at
seven.
The topic of conversation’s the same as it’s been all week: Simon. “You had
to figure the police’d get involved at some point,” Pop says, spooning a small
mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Something’s not right about how
that boy died.” He snorts. “Peanut oil in the water system, maybe? Lawyers are
gonna have a field day with that.”
“Were his eyes bugging out of his head like this?” asks Lucas, making a face.
He’s twelve, and Simon’s death is nothing but video-game gore to him.
My grandmother reaches over and swats Lucas on the back of his hand.
Nonny’s barely five feet tall with a head full of tight white curls, but she means
business. “Hush your mouth unless you can speak of that poor young man with
respect.”
Nonny’s lived with us since we moved here from Mississippi five years ago. It
surprised me then that she came along; our grandfather had been dead for years,
but she had plenty of friends and clubs that kept her busy. Now that we’ve lived
here for a while, I get it. Our basic colonial costs three times what our house in
Mississippi did, and there’s no way we could afford it without Nonny’s money.
But you can play baseball year-round in Bayview, and it’s got one of the best
high school programs in the country. At some point, Pop expects I’ll make this
gigantic mortgage and the job he hates worthwhile.
I might. After my fastball improved by five miles an hour over the summer, I
ended up fourth on ESPN’s predictions for the June MLB draft next year. I’m
getting scouted by a lot of colleges too, and wouldn’t mind heading there first.
But baseball’s not the same as football or basketball. If a guy can head for the
minors right out of high school, he usually does.
Pop points at me with his knife. “You got a showcase game Saturday. Don’t
forget.”
As if I could. The schedule’s posted around the whole house.
“Kevin, maybe one weekend off?” my mother murmurs, but her heart’s not in
it. She knows it’s a losing battle.
“Best thing Cooperstown can do is business as usual,” Pop says. “Slacking off
won’t bring that boy back. God rest his soul.”
Nonny’s small, bright eyes settle on me. “I hope you realize none of you kids
Nonny’s small, bright eyes settle on me. “I hope you realize none of you kids
could’ve done anything for Simon, Cooper. The police have to dot their i’s and
cross their t’s, that’s all.”
I don’t know about that. Officer Budapest kept asking me about the missing
EpiPens and how long I was by myself in the nurse’s office. Almost like he
thought I might’ve done something with them before Ms. Grayson got there. But
he didn’t come out and say it. If he thinks someone messed with Simon, I’m not
sure why he isn’t looking at Nate. If anybody asked me—which they didn’t—I’d
wonder how a guy like Nate even knew about EpiPens in the first place.
We’ve just finished clearing the table when the doorbell rings, and Lucas
sprints for the door, hollering, “I’ll get it!” A few seconds later he yells again.
“It’s Keely!”
Nonny rises to her feet with difficulty, using the skull-topped cane Lucas
picked out last year when she faced up to the fact that she couldn’t walk on her
own anymore. “Thought you said you two didn’t have plans tonight, Cooper.”
“We didn’t,” I mutter as Keely enters the kitchen with a smile, wrapping her
arms around my neck in a tight hug.
“How are you?” she murmurs in my ear, her soft lips brushing my cheek.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“Okay,” I say. She pulls back and reaches into her pocket, briefly flashing a
cellophane packet and a smile. Red Vines, which are definitely not part of my
nutritional regimen, but my favorite candy in the world. The girl gets me. And
my parents, who require a few minutes of polite conversation before they head
out for their bowling league.
My phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket. Hey, handsome.
I duck my head to hide the grin that’s suddenly tugging at my mouth, and text
back: Hey.
Can I see you tonight?
Bad time. Call you later?
OK miss you.
Keely’s talking to my mother, her eyes bright with interest. She’s not faking
it. Keely isn’t only beautiful; she’s what Nonny calls “sugar all the way
through.” A genuinely sweet girl. Every guy at Bayview wishes he were me.
Miss you too.
Chapter Four
Addy
Thursday, September 27, 7:30 p.m.
I should be doing homework before Jake stops by, but instead I’m sitting at the
vanity in my bedroom, pressing fingers to the skin at my hairline. The tenderness
on my left temple feels as though it’s going to turn into one of those horrible
oversized pimples I get every few months or so. Whenever I have one I know
it’s all anyone can see.
I’ll have to wear my hair down for a while, which is how Jake likes it anyway.
My hair is the only thing I feel one hundred percent confident about all the time.
I was at Glenn’s Diner last week with my girlfriends, sitting next to Keely across
from the big mirror, and she reached over and ran a hand through my hair while
grinning at our reflections. Can we please trade? Just for a week? she said.
I smiled at her, but wished I were sitting on the other side of the table. I hate
seeing Keely and me side by side. She’s so beautiful, all tawny skin and long
eyelashes and Angelina Jolie lips. She’s the lead character in a movie and I’m
the generic best friend whose name you forget before the credits even start
rolling.
The doorbell rings, but I know better than to expect Jake upstairs right away.
Mom’s going to capture him for at least ten minutes. She can’t hear enough
about the Simon situation, and she’d talk about today’s meeting with Officer
Budapest all night if I let her.
I separate my hair into sections and run a brush along each length. My mind
keeps going back to Simon. He’d been a constant presence around our group
since freshman year, but he was never one of us. He had only one real friend, a
sorta-Goth girl named Janae. I used to think they were together until Simon
started asking out all my friends. Of course, none of them ever said yes.
Although last year, before she started dating Cooper, Keely got super drunk at a
party and let Simon kiss her for five minutes in a closet. It took her ages to shake
him after that.
I’m not sure what Simon was thinking, to be honest. Keely has one type: jock.
He should have gone for someone like Bronwyn. She’s cute enough, in a quiet
He should have gone for someone like Bronwyn. She’s cute enough, in a quiet
kind of way, with interesting gray eyes and hair that would probably look great
if she ever wore it down. Plus she and Simon must’ve tripped over each other in
honors classes all the time.
Except I got the impression today that Bronwyn didn’t like Simon much. Or at
all. When Officer Budapest talked about how Simon died, Bronwyn looked … I
don’t know. Not sad.
A knock sounds at the door and I watch it open in the mirror. I keep brushing
my hair as Jake comes in. He pulls off his sneakers and flops on my bed with
exaggerated exhaustion, arms splayed at his sides. “Your mom’s wrung me dry,
Ads. I’ve never met anyone who can ask the same question so many ways.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, getting up to join him. He puts an arm around me
and I curl into his side, my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest. We
know exactly how to fit together, and I relax for the first time since I got called
into Principal Gupta’s office.
I trail my fingers along his bicep. Jake’s not as defined as Cooper, who’s
practically a superhero with all the professional-level working out he does, but to
me he’s the perfect balance of muscular and lean. And he’s fast, the best running
back Bayview High’s seen in years. There’s not the same feeding frenzy around
him as Cooper, but a few colleges are interested and he’s got a good shot at a
scholarship.
“Mrs. Kelleher called me,” Jake says.
My hand halts its progress up his arm as I stare at the crisp blue cotton of his
T-shirt. “Simon’s mother? Why?”
“She asked if I’d be a pallbearer at the funeral. It’s gonna be Sunday,” Jake
says, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I told her sure. Can’t really say no, can I?”
I forget sometimes that Simon and Jake used to be friends in grade school and
middle school, before Jake turned into a jock and Simon turned into … whatever
he was. Freshman year Jake made the varsity football team and started hanging
out with Cooper, who was already a Bayview legend after almost pitching his
middle school team to the Little League World Series. By sophomore year the
two of them were basically the kings of our class, and Simon was just some
weird guy Jake used to know.
I half think Simon started About That to impress Jake. Simon found out one of
Jake’s football rivals was behind the anonymous sexting harassment of a bunch
of junior girls and posted it on this app called After School. It got tons of
attention for a couple of weeks, and so did Simon. That might’ve been the first
time anyone at Bayview noticed him.
Jake probably patted him on the back once and forgot about it, and Simon
moved on to bigger and better things by building his own app. Gossip as a public
moved on to bigger and better things by building his own app. Gossip as a public
service doesn’t go very far, so Simon started posting things a lot pettier and
more personal than the sexting scandal. Nobody thought he was a hero anymore,
but by then they were getting scared of him, and I guess for Simon that was
almost as good.
Jake usually defended Simon, though, when our friends got down on him for
About That. It’s not like he’s lying, he’d point out. Stop doing sneaky shit and it
won’t be a problem.
Jake can be pretty black-and-white in his thinking sometimes. Easy when you
never make a mistake.
“We’re still headed for the beach tomorrow night, if that’s okay,” he tells me
now, winding my hair around his fingers. He says it like it’s up to me, but we
both know Jake’s in charge of our social life.
“Of course,” I murmur. “Who’s going?” Don’t say TJ.
“Cooper and Keely are supposed to, although she’s not sure he’s up for it.
Luis and Olivia. Vanessa, Tyler, Noah, Sarah …”
Don’t say TJ.
“… and TJ.”
Argh. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or if TJ, who used to be on the
outskirts of our group as the new kid, has started working his way into the center
right when I wish he’d disappear altogether. “Great,” I say blandly, reaching up
and kissing Jake’s jawline. It’s the time of day when it’s a little scratchy, which
is new this year.
“Adelaide!” My mother’s voice floats up the stairs. “We’re heading out.” She
and Justin go somewhere downtown almost every night, usually restaurants but
sometimes clubs. Justin’s only thirty and still into that whole scene. My mother
enjoys it almost as much, especially when people mistake her for being Justin’s
age.
“Okay!” I call, and the door slams. After a minute Jake leans down to kiss me,
his hand sliding under my shirt.
A lot of people think Jake and I have been sleeping together since freshman
year, but that’s not true. He wanted to wait until after junior prom. It was a big
deal; Jake rented a fancy hotel room that he filled with candles and flowers, and
bought me amazing lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. I wouldn’t have minded
something a little more spontaneous, I guess, but I know I’m beyond lucky to
have a boyfriend who cares enough to plan every last detail.
“Is this okay?” Jake’s eyes scan my face. “Or would you rather just hang
out?” His brows rise like it’s a real question, but his hand keeps inching lower.
I never turn Jake down. It’s like my mother said when she first took me to get
birth control: if you say no too much, pretty soon someone else will say yes.
Anyway, I want it as much as he does. I live for these moments of closeness with
Jake; I’d crawl inside him if I could.
“More than okay,” I say, and pull him on top of me.
Nate
Thursday, September 27, 8:00 p.m.
I live in that house. The one people drive past and say, I can’t believe someone
actually lives there. We do, although “living” might be a stretch. I’m gone as
much as possible and my dad’s half-dead.
Our house is on the far edge of Bayview, the kind of shitty ranch rich people
buy to tear down. Small and ugly, with only one window in front. The chimney’s
been crumbling since I was ten. Seven years later everything else is joining it:
the paint’s peeling, shutters are hanging off, the concrete steps in front are
cracked wide open. The yard’s just as bad. The grass is almost knee-high and
yellow after the summer drought. I used to mow it, sometimes, until it hit me
that yard work is a waste of time that never ends.
My father’s passed out on the couch when I get inside, an empty bottle of
Seagram’s in front of him. Dad considers it a stroke of luck that he fell off a
ladder during a roofing job a few years ago, while he was still a functioning
alcoholic. He got a workman’s comp settlement and wound up disabled enough
to collect social security, which is like winning the lottery for a guy like him.
Now he can drink without interruption while the checks roll in.
The money’s not much, though. I like having cable, keeping my bike on the
road, and occasionally eating more than mac and cheese. Which is how I came to
my part-time job, and why I spent four hours after school today distributing
plastic bags full of painkillers around San Diego County. Obviously not
something I should be doing, especially since I was picked up for dealing weed
over the summer and I’m on probation. But nothing else pays as well and takes
so little effort.
I head for the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and pull out some leftover
Chinese. There’s a picture curling under a magnet, cracked like a broken
window. My dad, my mother, and me when I was eleven, right before she took
off.
She was bipolar and not great about taking her meds, so it’s not as though I
had some fantastic childhood while she was around. My earliest memory is her
dropping a plate, then sitting on the floor in the middle of the pieces, crying her
dropping a plate, then sitting on the floor in the middle of the pieces, crying her
eyes out. Once I got off the bus to her throwing all our stuff out the window.
Lots of times she’d curl up in a corner of her bed and not move for days.
Her manic phases were a trip, though. For my eighth birthday she took me to a
department store, handed me a cart, and told me to fill it with whatever I wanted.
When I was nine and into reptiles she surprised me by setting up a terrarium in
the living room with a bearded dragon. We called it Stan after Stan Lee, and I
still have it. Those things live forever.
My father didn’t drink as much then, so between the two of them they
managed to get me to school and sports. Then my mother went totally off her
meds and started getting into other mind-altering substances. Yeah, I’m the
asshole who deals drugs after they wrecked his mother. But to be clear: I don’t
sell anything except weed and painkillers. My mother would’ve been fine if
she’d stayed away from cocaine.
For a while she came back every few months or so. Then once a year. The last
time I saw her was when I was fourteen and my dad started falling apart. She
kept talking about this farm commune she’d moved to in Oregon and how great
it was, that she’d take me and I could go to school there with all the hippie kids
and grow organic berries or whatever the hell they did.
She bought me a giant ice cream sundae at Glenn’s Diner, like I was eight
years old, and told me all about it. You’ll love it, Nathaniel. Everyone is so
accepting. Nobody labels you the way they do here.
It sounded like bullshit even then, but better than Bayview. So I packed a bag,
put Stan in his carrier, and waited for her on our front steps. I must have sat there
half the night, like a complete fucking loser, before it finally dawned on me she
wasn’t going to show.
Turned out that trip to Glenn’s Diner was the last time I ever saw her.
While the Chinese heats up I check on Stan, who’s still got a pile of wilted
vegetables and a few live crickets from this morning. I lift the cover from his
terrarium and he blinks up at me from his rock. Stan is pretty chill and low
maintenance, which is the only reason he’s managed to stay alive in this house
for eight years.
“What’s up, Stan?” I put him on my shoulder, grab my food, and flop into an
armchair across from my comatose father. He has the World Series on, which I
turn off because (a) I hate baseball and (b) it reminds me of Cooper Clay, which
reminds me of Simon Kelleher and that whole sick scene in detention. I’d never
liked the kid, but that was horrible. And Cooper was almost as useless as the
blond girl when you come right down to it. Bronwyn was the only one who did
anything except babble like an idiot.
My mother used to like Bronwyn. She’d always notice her at school things.
Like the Nativity play in fourth grade when I was a shepherd and Bronwyn was
the Virgin Mary. Someone stole baby Jesus before we were supposed to go on,
probably to mess with Bronwyn because she took everything way too seriously
even then. Bronwyn went into the audience, borrowed a bag, wrapped a blanket
around it, and carried it around as if nothing had happened. That girl doesn’t
take crap from anyone, my mother had said approvingly.
Okay. In the interest of full disclosure, I stole baby Jesus, and it was definitely
to mess with Bronwyn. It would’ve been funnier if she’d freaked out.
My jacket beeps, and I dig in my pockets for the right phone. I almost laughed
in detention on Monday when Bronwyn said nobody has two cell phones. I have
three: one for people I know, one for suppliers, and one for customers. Plus
extras so I can switch them out. But I wouldn’t be stupid enough to take any of
them into Avery’s class.
My work phones are always set to vibrate, so I know it’s a personal message. I
pull out my ancient iPhone and see a text from Amber, a girl I met at a party last
month. U up?
I hesitate. Amber’s hot and never tries to hang out too long, but she was just
here a few nights ago. Things get messy when I let casual hookups happen more
than once a week. But I’m restless and could use a distraction.
Come over, I write back.
I’m about to put my phone away when another text comes through. It’s from
Chad Posner, a guy at Bayview I hang out with sometimes. You see this? I click
on the link in the message and it opens a Tumblr page with the headline “About
This.”
I got the idea for killing Simon while watching Dateline.
I’d been thinking about it for a while, obviously. That’s not the kind of thing you pluck out of
thin air. But the how of getting away with it always stopped me. I don’t kid myself that I’m a
criminal mastermind. And I’m much too good-looking for prison.
On the show, a guy killed his wife. Standard Dateline stuff, right? It’s always the husband.
But turns out lots of people were happy to see her gone. She’d gotten a coworker fired, screwed
over people on city council, and had an affair with a friend’s husband. She was a nightmare,
basically.
The guy on Dateline wasn’t too bright. Hired someone to murder his wife and the cell phone
records were easy to trace. But before those came out he had a decent smoke screen because of
all the other suspects. That’s the kind of person you can get away with killing: someone
everybody else wants dead.
Let’s face it: everyone at Bayview High hated Simon. I was just the only one with enough
guts to do something about it.
You’re welcome.
The phone almost slips out of my hand. Another text from Chad Posner came
through while I was reading. People r fucked up.
I text back, Where’d you get this?
Posner writes Some rando emailed a link, with the laughing-so-hard-I’mcrying emoji. He thinks it’s somebody’s idea of a sick joke. Which is what most
people would think, if they hadn’t spent an hour with a police officer asking ten
different ways how peanut oil got into Simon Kelleher’s cup. Along with three
other people who looked guilty as hell.
None of them have as much experience as I do keeping a straight face when
shit’s falling apart around them. At least, none of them are as good at it as me.
Chapter Five
Bronwyn
Friday, September 28, 6:45 p.m.
Friday evening is a relief. Maeve and I are settled into her room for a Buffy the
Vampire Slayer marathon on Netflix. It’s our latest obsession, and I’ve been
looking forward to it all week, but tonight we only half pay attention. Maeve’s
curled up on the window seat, tapping away on her laptop, and I’m sprawled
across her bed with my Kindle open to Ulysses by James Joyce. It’s number one
on the Modern Library’s 100 Best Novels and I’m determined to finish it before
the semester’s over, but it’s pretty slow going. And I can’t concentrate.
All anybody could talk about at school today was that Tumblr post. A bunch
of kids had the link emailed to them last night from some “About This” Gmail
address, and by lunchtime everyone had read it. Yumiko helps out in the
principal’s office on Fridays, and she heard them talking about trying to track
whoever did it by IP address.
I doubt they’ll have any luck. Nobody with half a brain would send something
like that from their own technology.
Since detention on Monday people have been careful and overly nice to me,
but today was different. Conversations kept stopping when I approached.
Yumiko finally said, “It’s not like people think you sent it. They just think it’s
weird, how you guys got questioned by the police yesterday and then this pops
up.” Like that was supposed to make me feel better.
“Just imagine.” Maeve’s voice startles me back to her bedroom. She puts
aside her laptop and raps her fingers lightly on the window. “This time next year,
you’ll be at Yale. What do you think you’ll do there on a Friday night? Frat
party?”
I roll my eyes at her. “Right, because you get a personality transplant along
with your acceptance letter. Anyway, I still have to get in.”
“You will. How could you not?”
I shift restlessly on the bed. Lots of ways. “You never know.”
Maeve keeps tapping her fingers against the glass. “If you’re being modest on
my account, you can give it a rest. I’m quite comfortable in my role as the family
my account, you can give it a rest. I’m quite comfortable in my role as the family
slacker.”
“You’re not a slacker,” I protest. She just grins and flutters a hand. Maeve’s
one of the smartest people I know, but until her freshman year she was too sick
to go to school consistently. She was diagnosed with leukemia when she was
seven, and wasn’t fully disease-free until two years ago, when she was fourteen.
We almost lost her a couple of times. Once when I was in fourth grade, I
overheard a priest at the hospital asking my parents if they’d considered starting
to make “arrangements.” I knew what he meant. I bowed my head and prayed:
Please don’t take her. I’ll do everything right if you let her stay. I’ll be perfect. I
promise.
After so many years in and out of the hospital, Maeve never really learned
how to participate in life. I do that for both of us: join the clubs, win the awards,
and get the grades so I can go to Yale like our parents did. It makes them happy,
and keeps Maeve from extending herself too much.
Maeve goes back to staring out the window with her usual faraway
expression. She looks like a daydream herself: pale and ethereal, with darkbrown hair like mine but startling amber eyes. I’m about to ask what she’s
thinking when she suddenly sits up straight and cups her hands around her eyes,
pressing her face against the window. “Is that Nate Macauley?” I snort without
moving, and she says, “I’m serious. Check it out.”
I get up and lean in next to her. I can just about make out the faint outline of a
motorcycle in our driveway. “What the hell?” Maeve and I exchange glances,
and she shoots me a wicked grin. “What?” I ask. My voice comes out more
snappish than I intended.
“What?” she mimics. “You think I don’t remember you mooning over him in
elementary school? I was sick, not dead.”
“Don’t joke about that. God. And that was light-years ago.” Nate’s motorcycle
is still in our driveway, not moving. “What do you suppose he’s doing here?”
“Only one way to find out.” Maeve’s voice is annoyingly singsongy, and she
ignores the dirty look I give her as I stand up.
My heart thumps all the way downstairs. Nate and I have talked more at
school this week than we have since fifth grade, which admittedly still isn’t
much. Every time I see him I get the impression he can’t wait to be someplace
else. But I keep running into him.
Opening the front door triggers a floodlight in front of our garage that makes
Nate look as though he’s on center stage. As I walk toward him my nerves are
jangling, and I’m acutely conscious of the fact that I’m in my usual hanging-out-
with-Maeve ensemble: flip-flops, a hoodie, and athletic shorts. Not that he’s
making an effort. I’ve seen that Guinness T-shirt at least twice this week.
“Hi, Nate,” I say. “What’s up?”
Nate takes his helmet off, and his dark-blue eyes flick past me to our front
door. “Hey.” He doesn’t say anything else for an uncomfortably long time. I
cross my arms and wait him out. Finally he meets my gaze with a wry smile that
makes my stomach do a slow somersault. “I don’t have a good reason for being
here.”
“Do you want to come in?” I blurt out.
He hesitates. “I bet your parents would love that.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. Dad’s least favorite stereotype is that of the
Colombian drug dealer, and he wouldn’t appreciate even a hint of association
from me. But I find myself saying, “They’re not home.” Then I hastily add, “I’m
hanging out with my sister,” before he thinks that was some sort of come-on.
“Yeah, okay.” Nate gets off his bike and follows me like it’s no big deal, so I
try to act equally nonchalant. Maeve’s leaning against the kitchen counter when
we get inside, even though I’m sure she was staring out her bedroom window ten
seconds ago. “Have you met my sister, Maeve?”
Nate shakes his head. “No. How’s it going?”
“All right,” Maeve answers, eyeing him with frank interest.
I have no idea what to do next as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a
kitchen chair. How am I supposed to … entertain Nate Macauley? It’s not even
my responsibility, right? He’s the one who showed up out of the blue. I should
do what I normally do. Except that’s sit in my sister’s room and watch retro
vampire shows while half reading Ulysses.
I’m completely out of my depth here.
Nate doesn’t notice my discomfort, wandering past the french doors that open
into our living room. Maeve elbows me as we follow him and murmurs, “Que
boca tan hermosa.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. Dad encourages us to speak Spanish around the house, but I
doubt this is what he had in mind. Besides, for all we know, Nate’s fluent.
He stops at the grand piano and looks back at us. “Who plays?”
“Bronwyn,” Maeve says before I can even open my mouth. I stay near the
doorway, arms folded, as she settles into Dad’s favorite leather armchair in front
of the sliding door leading to our deck. “She’s really good.”
“Oh yeah?” Nate asks at the same time I say, “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” Maeve insists. I narrow my eyes and she widens hers in fake
innocence.
Nate crosses to the large walnut bookcase covering one wall, picking up a
picture of Maeve and me with identical gap-toothed smiles in front of
Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland. It was taken six months before Maeve was
diagnosed, and for a long time it was the only vacation picture we had. He
studies it, then glances my way with a small smile. Maeve was right about his
mouth—it is sexy. “You should play something.”
Well, it’s easier than talking to him.
I shuffle to the bench and sit, adjusting the sheet music in front of me. It’s
“Variations on the Canon,” which I’ve been practicing for months now. I’ve
taken lessons since I was eight and I’m pretty competent, technically. But I’ve
never made people feel anything. “Variations on the Canon” is the first piece that
made me want to try. There’s something about the way it builds, starting soft and
sweet but gaining in volume and intensity until it’s almost angry. That’s the hard
part, because at a certain point the notes grow harsh, verging on discordant, and I
can’t muster the force to pull it off.
I haven’t played it in over a week. The last time I tried I hit so many wrong
notes, even Maeve winced. She seems to remember, glancing toward Nate and
saying, “This is a really hard song.” As if she suddenly regrets setting me up for
embarrassment. But what the hell. This whole situation is too surreal to take
seriously. If I woke up tomorrow and Maeve told me I’d dreamed it all, I’d fully
accept that.
So I start, and right away it feels different. Looser and less of a reach for the
harder parts. For a few minutes I forget anyone’s in the room, and enjoy how
notes that usually trip me up flow easily. Even the crescendo—I don’t attack it
as hard as I need to, but I’m faster and surer than I normally am, and don’t hit a
single wrong note. When I finish I smile triumphantly at Maeve, and it’s only
when her eyes drift toward Nate that I remember I have an audience of two.
He’s leaning against our bookcase, arms crossed, and for once he doesn’t look
bored or about to make fun of me. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he
says.
Addy
Friday, September 28, 7:00 p.m.
God, my mother. She’s actually flirting with Officer Budapest, of the pink
freckled face and receding hairline. “Of course Adelaide will do anything to
help,” she says in a husky voice, trailing one finger around the rim of her
wineglass. Justin’s having dinner with his parents, who hate Mom and never
invite her. This is his punishment whether he knows it or not.
Officer Budapest stopped by just as we finished the vegetable pad Thai Mom
always orders when my sister, Ashton, comes to visit. Now he doesn’t know
where to look, so he’s got his eyes fixed on a dried flower arrangement on the
living room wall. My mother redecorates every six months, and her latest theme
is shabby chic with a weird beachy edge. Cabbage roses and seashells as far as
the eye can see.
“Just a few follow-up points, if you don’t mind, Addy,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. I’m surprised he’s here, since I thought we’d already answered
all his questions. But I guess the investigation’s still going strong. Today Mr.
Avery’s lab was blocked off with yellow tape, and police officers were in and
out of school all day. Cooper said Bayview High’s probably going to get into
trouble for having peanut oil in the water or something.
I glance at my mother. Her eyes are fixed on Officer Budapest, but with that
distant expression I know well. She’s already mentally checked out, probably
planning her wardrobe for the weekend. Ashton comes into the living room and
settles herself in an armchair across from me. “Are you talking to all the kids
who were in detention that day?” she asks.
Officer Budapest clears his throat. “The investigation is ongoing, but I’m here
because I had a particular question for Addy. You were in the nurse’s office the
day Simon died, is that right?”
I hesitate and dart a glance toward Ashton, then look back at Officer
Budapest. “No.”
“You were,” Officer Budapest says. “It’s in the nurse’s log.”
I’m looking at the fireplace, but I can feel Ashton’s eyes boring into me. I
wind a strand of hair around my finger and tug nervously. “I don’t remember
that.”
“You don’t remember going to the nurse’s office on Monday?”
“Well, I go a lot,” I say quickly. “For headaches and stuff. It was probably for
that.” I scrunch my forehead like I’m thinking hard, and finally meet Officer
Budapest’s eyes. “Oh, right. I had my period and I was cramping really bad, so
yeah. I needed Tylenol.”
Officer Budapest is a blusher. He turns red as I smile politely and release my
hair. “And you got what you needed there? Just the Tylenol?”
“Why do you want to know?” Ashton asks. She rearranges a throw pillow
behind her so the starfish pattern, made out of actual seashells, isn’t digging into
her back.
“Well, one of the things we’re looking into is why there appeared to be no
EpiPens in the nurse’s office during Simon’s allergy attack. The nurse swears
EpiPens in the nurse’s office during Simon’s allergy attack. The nurse swears
she had several pens that morning. But they were gone that afternoon.”
Ashton stiffens and says, “You can’t possibly think Addy took them!” Mom
turns to me with a faintly surprised air, but doesn’t speak.
If Officer Budapest notices that my sister has stepped into the parenting role
here, he doesn’t mention it. “Nobody’s saying that. But did you happen to see
whether the pens were in the office then, Addy? According to the nurse’s log,
you were there at one o’clock.”
My heart’s beating uncomfortably fast, but I keep my tone even. “I don’t even
know what an EpiPen looks like.”
He makes me tell him everything I remember about detention, again, then
asks a bunch of questions about the Tumblr post. Ashton’s all alert and
interested, leaning forward and interrupting the whole time, while Mom goes
into the kitchen twice to refill her wineglass. I keep looking at the clock, because
Jake and I are supposed to be going to the beach soon and I haven’t even started
touching up my makeup. My pimple’s not going to cover itself.
When Officer Budapest finally gets ready to leave, he hands me a card. “Call
if you remember anything else, Addy,” he says. “You never know what might be
important.”
“Okay,” I say, sliding the card into the back pocket of my jeans. Officer
Budapest says good-bye to Mom and Ashton as I open the door for him. Ashton
leans against the doorframe next to me and we watch Officer Budapest get into
his squad wagon and start slowly backing out of our driveway.
I spy Justin’s car waiting to pull in behind Officer Budapest, and that gets me
moving again. I don’t want to have to talk to him and I still haven’t fixed my
makeup, so I escape upstairs with Ashton following behind me. My bedroom is
the biggest one in our house except the master, and used to be Ashton’s until I
took it over when she got married. She still makes herself at home there as if
she’d never left.
“You didn’t tell me about that Tumblr thing,” she says, sprawling across my
white eyelet bedspread and opening the latest issue of Us Weekly. Ashton is even
blonder than me, but her hair is cut in chin-length layers that our mother hates. I
think it’s cute, though. If Jake didn’t love my hair so much, I’d consider a cut
like that.
I sit at my vanity and dab concealer on my hairline pimple. “Somebody’s
being a creep, that’s all.”
“Did you really not remember being in the nurse’s office? Or did you just not
want to answer?” Ashton asks. I fumble with the concealer cap, but I’m saved
from answering when my phone blares its Rihanna “Only Girl” text tone from
the bedside table. Ashton picks it up and reports, “Jake’s almost here.”
the bedside table. Ashton picks it up and reports, “Jake’s almost here.”
“God, Ash.” I glare at her in the mirror. “You shouldn’t look at my phone like
that. What if it was private?”
“Sorry,” she says in a completely not-sorry tone. “Everything okay with
Jake?”
I twist in my chair to face her, frowning. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Ashton holds a palm up at me. “Just a question, Addy. I’m not implying
anything.” Her tone darkens. “No reason to think you’ll turn out like me. It’s not
as though Charlie and I were high school sweethearts.”
I blink at her in surprise. I mean, I’ve thought for a while that things weren’t
going well between Ashton and Charlie—for one thing, she’s suddenly here a
lot, and for another, he was hard-core flirting with a slutty bridesmaid at our
cousin’s wedding last month—but Ashton’s never come out and admitted a
problem before. “Are things … uh, really bad?”
She shrugs, dropping the magazine and picking at her nails. “It’s complicated.
Marriage is way harder than anyone tells you. Be thankful you don’t have to
make life decisions yet.” Her mouth tightens. “Don’t let Mom get in your ear
and twist everything. Just enjoy being seventeen.”
I can’t. I’m too afraid it’s all going to be ruined. That it’s already ruined.
I wish I could tell Ashton that. It would be such a relief to get it out. I usually
tell Jake everything, but I can’t tell him this. And after him, there’s literally not
one other person in the world I trust. Not any of my friends, certainly not my
mother, and not my sister. Because even though she probably means well, she
can be awfully passive-aggressive about Jake.
The doorbell rings, and Ashton’s mouth twists into a half smile. “Must be Mr.
Perfect,” she says. Sarcastic, right on schedule.
I ignore her and bound down the stairs, opening the door with the big smile I
can’t help when I’m about to see Jake. And there he is, in his football jacket with
his chestnut hair tousled by the wind, giving me the exact same smile back.
“Hey, baby.” I’m about to kiss him when I catch sight of another figure behind
him and freeze. “You don’t mind if we give TJ a ride, do you?”
A nervous laugh bubbles up in my throat and I push it down. “Of course not.”
I go in for my kiss, but the moment’s ruined.
TJ flicks his eyes toward me, then at the ground. “Sorry about this. My car
broke down and I was gonna stay home, but Jake insisted ….”
Jake shrugs. “You were on the way. No reason to miss a night out because of
car trouble.” His eyes travel from my face to my canvas sneakers as he asks,
“You wearing that, Ads?”
It’s not a criticism, exactly, but I’m in Ashton’s college sweatshirt and Jake’s
never liked me in shapeless clothes. “It’ll be cold at the beach,” I say tentatively,
never liked me in shapeless clothes. “It’ll be cold at the beach,” I say tentatively,
and he grins.
“I’ll keep you warm. Put on something a little cuter, huh?”
I give him a strained smile and go back inside, mounting the stairs with
dragging steps because I know I haven’t been gone long enough for Ashton to
have left my room. Sure enough she’s still flipping through Us Weekly on my
bed, and she knits her brows together as I head for my closet. “Back so soon?”
I pull out a pair of leggings and unbutton my jeans. “I’m changing.”
Ashton closes the magazine and watches me in silence until I exchange her
sweatshirt for a formfitting sweater. “You won’t be warm enough in that. It’s
chilly tonight.” She snorts out a disbelieving laugh when I slip off my sneakers
and step into a pair of strappy sandals with kitten heels. “You’re wearing those
to the beach? Is this wardrobe change Jake’s idea?”
I toss my discarded clothes into the hamper, ignoring her. “Bye, Ash.”
“Addy, wait.” The snarky tone’s gone from Ashton’s voice, but I don’t care.
I’m down the stairs and out the door before she can stop me, stepping into a
breeze that chills me instantly. But Jake gives me an approving smile and wraps
an arm around my shoulders for the short walk to the car.
I hate the entire ride. Hate sitting there acting normal when I want to throw
up. Hate listening to Jake and TJ talk about tomorrow’s game. Hate when the
latest Fall Out Boy song comes on and TJ says, “I love this song,” because now I
can’t like it anymore. But mostly, I hate the fact that barely a month after my and
Jake’s momentous first time, I got blind drunk and slept with TJ Forrester.
When we get to the beach Cooper and Luis are already building a bonfire, and
Jake heaves a frustrated grunt as he shifts into park. “They do it wrong every
time,” he complains, launching himself out of the car toward them. “You guys.
You’re too close to the water!”
TJ and I get out of the car more slowly, not looking at each other. I’m already
freezing, and wrap my arms around my body for warmth. “Do you want my jack
—” TJ starts, but I don’t let him finish.
“No.” I cut him off and stalk toward the beach, almost tripping in my stupid
shoes when I reach the sand.
TJ’s at my side, arm out to steady me. “Addy, hey.” His voice is low, his
minty breath briefly on my cheek. “It doesn’t have to be this awkward, you
know? I’m not going to say anything.”
I shouldn’t be mad at him. It’s not his fault. I’m the one who got insecure after
Jake and I slept together, and started thinking he was losing interest every time
he took too long to answer a text. I’m the one who flirted with TJ when we ran
into each other on this exact same beach over the summer while Jake was on
vacation. I’m the one who dared TJ to get a bottle of rum, and drank almost half
of it with a Diet Coke chaser.
At one point that day I laughed so hard I snorted soda out of my nose, which
would have disgusted Jake. TJ just said in this dry way, “Wow, Addy, that was
attractive. I’m very turned on by you right now.”
That was when I kissed him. And suggested we go back to his place.
So really, none of this is his fault.
We reach the edge of the beach and watch Jake douse the fire so he can
rebuild it where he wants. I sneak a glance at TJ and see dimples flash as he
waves to the guys. “Just forget it ever happened,” he says under his breath.
He sounds sincere, and hope sparks in my chest. Maybe we really can keep
this to ourselves. Bayview’s a gossipy school, but at least About That isn’t
hanging over everybody’s heads anymore.
And if I’m being one hundred percent honest, I have to admit—that’s a relief.
Chapter Six
Cooper
Saturday, September 29, 4:15 p.m.
I squint at the batter. We’re at full count and he’s fouled off the last two pitches.
He’s making me work, which isn’t good. In a showcase game like this, facing a
right-handed second baseman with so-so stats, I should’ve mowed him down
already.
Problem is, I’m distracted. It’s been a hell of a week.
Pop’s in the stands, and I can picture exactly what he’s doing. He’ll have
taken his cap off, knotting it between his hands as he stares at the mound. Like
burning a hole into me with his eyes is going to help.
I bring the ball into my glove and glance at Luis, who catches for me during
regular season. He’s on the Bayview High football team too but got permission
to miss today’s game so he could be here. He signals a fastball, but I shake my
head. I’ve thrown five already and this guy’s figured every one out. I keep
shaking Luis off until he gives me the signal I want. Luis adjusts his crouch
slightly, and we’ve played together long enough that I can read his thoughts in
the movement. Your funeral, man.
I position my fingers on the ball, tensing myself in preparation to throw. It’s
not my most consistent pitch. If I miss, it’ll be a big fat softball and this guy’ll
crush it.
I draw back and hurl as hard as I can. My pitch heads straight for the middle
of the plate, and the batter takes an eager, triumphant swing. Then the ball
breaks, dropping out of the strike zone and into Luis’s glove. The stadium
explodes in cheers, and the batter shakes his head like he has no idea what
happened.
I adjust my cap and try not to look pleased. I’ve been working on that slider
all year.
I strike the next hitter out on three straight fastballs. The last one hits ninetythree, the fastest I’ve ever pitched. Lights-out for a lefty. My stats through two
innings are three strikeouts, two groundouts, and a long fly that would’ve been a
double if the right fielder hadn’t made a diving catch. I wish I could have that
double if the right fielder hadn’t made a diving catch. I wish I could have that
pitch back—my curveball didn’t curve—but other than that I feel pretty good
about the game.
I’m at Petco—the Padres’ stadium—for an invitation-only showcase event,
which my father insisted I go to even though Simon’s memorial service is in an
hour. The organizers agreed to let me pitch first and leave early, so I skip my
usual postgame routine, take a shower, and head out of the locker room with
Luis to find Pop.
I spot him as someone calls my name. “Cooper Clay?” The man approaching
me looks successful. That’s the only way I can think to describe him. Sharp
clothes, sharp haircut, just the right amount of a tan, and a confident smile as he
holds his hand out to me. “Josh Langley with the Padres. I’ve spoken to your
coach a few times.”
“Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you,” I say. My father grins like somebody just
handed him the keys to a Lamborghini. He manages to introduce himself to Josh
without drooling, but barely.
“Hell of a slider you threw there,” Josh says to me. “Fell right off the plate.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good velocity on your fastball too. You’ve really brought that up since the
spring, haven’t you?”
“I’ve been working out a lot,” I say. “Building up arm strength.”
“Big jump in a short time,” Josh observes, and for a second the statement
hangs in the air between us like a question. Then he claps a hand on my
shoulder. “Well, keep it up, son. Nice to have a local boy on our radar. Makes
my job easy. Less travel.” He flashes a smile, nods good-bye to my dad and
Luis, and takes off.
Big jump in a short time. It’s true. Eighty-eight miles per hour to ninety-three
in a few months is unusual.
Pop won’t shut up on the way home, alternating between complaining about
what I did wrong and crowing about Josh Langley. He winds up in a good mood,
though, more happy about the Padres scout than upset about someone almost
getting a hit off me. “Simon’s family gonna be there?” he asks as he pulls up to
Bayview High. “Pay our respects if they are.”
“I dunno,” I answer him. “It might just be a school thing.”
“Hat off, boys,” Pop says. Luis crams his into the pocket of his football jacket,
and Pop raps the steering wheel impatiently when I hesitate. “Come on, Cooper,
it might be outside but this is still a service. Leave it in the car.”
I do as I’m told and get out, but as I run a hand through my hat-hair and close
the passenger door, I wish I had it back. I feel exposed, and people have already
been staring at me enough this week. If it were up to me I’d go home and spend
been staring at me enough this week. If it were up to me I’d go home and spend
a quiet evening watching baseball with my brother and Nonny, but there’s no
way I can miss Simon’s memorial service when I was one of the last people to
see him alive.
We start toward the crowd on the football field, and I text Keely to find out
where our friends are. She tells me they’re near the front, so we duck under the
bleachers and try to spot them from the sidelines. I have my eyes on the crowd,
and don’t see the girl in front of me until I almost bump into her. She’s leaning
against a post, watching the football field with her hands stuffed into the pockets
of her oversized jacket.
“Sorry,” I say, and realize who it is. “Oh, hey, Leah. You heading out to the
field?” Then I wish I could swallow my words, because there’s no way in hell
Leah Jackson’s here to mourn Simon. She actually tried to kill herself last year
because of him. After he wrote about her sleeping with a bunch of freshmen, she
was harassed on social media for months. She slit her wrists in her bathroom and
was out of school for the rest of the year.
Leah snorts. “Yeah, right. Good riddance.” She stares at the scene in front of
us, kicking the toe of her boot into the dirt. “Nobody could stand him, but
they’re all holding candles like he’s some kind of martyr instead of a gossipy
douchebag.”
She’s not wrong, but now doesn’t seem like the time to be that honest. Still,
I’m not going to try defending Simon to Leah. “I guess people want to pay their
respects,” I hedge.
“Hypocrites,” she mutters, cramming her hands deeper into her pockets. Her
expression shifts, and she pulls out her phone with a sly look. “You guys see the
latest?”
“Latest what?” I ask with a sinking feeling. Sometimes the best thing about
baseball is the fact that you can’t check your phone while you’re playing.
“There’s another email with a Tumblr update.” Leah swipes a few times at her
phone and hands it to me. I take it reluctantly and look at the screen as Luis
reads over my shoulder.
Time to clarify a few things.
Simon had a severe peanut allergy—so why not stick a Planters into his sandwich and be
done with it?
I’d been watching Simon Kelleher for months. Everything he ate was wrapped in an inch of
cellophane. He carried that goddamn water bottle everywhere and it was all he drank.
But he couldn’t go ten minutes without swigging from that bottle. I figured if it wasn’t there,
he’d default to plain old tap water. So yeah, I took it.
I spent a long time figuring out where I could slip peanut oil into one of Simon’s drinks.
Someplace contained, without a water fountain. Mr. Avery’s detention seemed like the ideal
spot.
I did feel bad watching Simon die. I’m not a sociopath. In that moment, as he turned that
horrible color and fought for air—if I could have stopped it, I would have.
I couldn’t, though. Because, you see, I’d taken his EpiPen. And every last one in the nurse’s
office.
My heart starts hammering and my stomach clenches. The first post was bad
enough, but this one—this one’s written like the person was actually in the room
when Simon had his attack. Like it was one of us.
Luis snorts. “That’s fucked up.”
Leah’s watching me closely, and I grimace as I hand back the phone. “Hope
they figure out who’s writing this stuff. It’s pretty sick.”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess.” She starts to back away. “Have a
blast mourning, guys. I’m outta here.”
“Bye, Leah.” I squelch the urge to follow her, and we trudge forward until we
hit the ten-yard line. I start shouldering through the crowd and finally find Keely
and the rest of our friends. When I reach her, she hands me a candle she lights
with her own, and loops her arm through mine.
Principal Gupta steps up to the microphone and taps against it. “What a
terrible week for our school,” she says. “But how inspiring to see all of you
gathered here tonight.”
I should be thinking about Simon, but my head’s too full of other stuff. Keely,
who’s gripping my arm a little too tight. Leah, saying the kind of things most
people only think. The new Tumblr—posted right before Simon’s memorial
service. And Josh Langley with his flashy smile: Big jump in a short time.
That’s the thing about competitive edges. Sometimes they’re too good to be
true.
Nate
Sunday, September 30, 12:30 p.m.
My probation officer isn’t the worst. She’s in her thirties, not bad-looking, and
has a sense of humor. But she’s a pain in my ass about school.
“How did your history exam go?” We’re sitting in the kitchen for our usual
Sunday meeting. Stan’s hanging out on the table, which she’s fine with since she
likes him. My dad is upstairs, something I always arrange before Officer Lopez
comes over. Part of her job is to make sure I’m being adequately supervised. She
knew his deal the first time she saw him, but she also knows I’ve got nowhere
else to go and state care can be way worse than alcoholic neglect. It’s easier to
pretend he’s a fit guardian when he’s not passed out in the living room.
“It went,” I say.
She waits patiently for more. When it doesn’t come, she asks, “Did you
She waits patiently for more. When it doesn’t come, she asks, “Did you
study?”
“I’ve been kind of distracted,” I remind her. She’d heard the Simon story from
her cop pals, and we spent the first half hour after she got here talking about
what happened.
“I understand. But keeping up with school is important, Nate. It’s part of the
deal.”
She brings up The Deal every week. San Diego County is getting tougher on
juvenile drug offenses, and she thinks I was lucky to get probation. A bad report
from her could put me back in front of a pissed-off judge. Another drug bust
could land me in juvie. So every Sunday morning before she shows up, I gather
up all my unsold drugs and burner phones and stick them in our senile
neighbor’s shed. Just in case.
Officer Lopez holds out her palm to Stan, who crawls halfway toward it
before he loses interest. She picks him up and lays him across her arm. “How
has your week been otherwise? Tell me something positive that happened.” She
always says that, as if life is full of great shit I can store up and report every
Sunday.
“I got to three thousand in Grand Theft Auto.”
She rolls her eyes. She does that a lot at my house. “Something else. What
progress have you made toward your goals?”
Jesus. My goals. She made me write a list at our first appointment. There’s
not anything I actually care about on there, just stuff I know she wants to hear
about school and jobs. And friends, which she’s figured by now I don’t have. I
have people I go to parties with, sell to, and screw, but I wouldn’t call any of
them friends.
“It’s been a slow week, goal-wise.”
“Did you look at that Alateen literature I left you?”
Nope. I didn’t. I don’t need a brochure to tell me how bad it sucks when your
only parent’s a drunk, and I definitely don’t need to talk about it with a bunch of
whiners in a church basement somewhere. “Yeah,” I lie. “I’m thinking about it.”
I’m sure she sees right through me, since she’s not stupid. But she doesn’t
push it. “That’s good to hear. Sharing experiences with other kids whose parents
are struggling would be transformative for you.”
Officer Lopez doesn’t let up. You have to give her that. We could be
surrounded by walking dead in the zombie apocalypse and she’d look for the
bright side. Your brains are still in your head, right? Way to beat the odds!
She’d love, just once, to hear an actual positive thing from me. Like how I spent
Friday night with Ivy League–bound Bronwyn Rojas and didn’t disgrace myself.
But that’s not a conversation I need to open up with Officer Lopez.
I don’t know why I showed up there. I was restless, staring at the Vicodin I
had left over after drop-off and wondering if I should take a few and see what all
the fuss is about. I’ve never gone down that road, because I’m pretty sure it’d
end with me comatose in the living room alongside my dad until someone
kicked us out for not paying the mortgage.
So I went to Bronwyn’s instead. I didn’t expect her to come outside. Or invite
me in. Listening to her play the piano had a strange effect on me. I almost felt …
peaceful.
“How is everyone coping with Simon’s death? Have they held the funeral
yet?”
“It’s today. The school sent an email.” I glance at the clock on our microwave.
“In about half an hour.”
Her brows shoot up. “Nate. You should go. That would be a positive thing to
do. Pay your respects, gain some closure after a traumatic event.”
“No thanks.”
She clears her throat and gives me a shrewd look. “Let me put it another way.
Go to that goddamn funeral, Nate Macauley, or I won’t overlook your spotty
school attendance the next time I file an update report. I’ll come with you.”
Which is how I end up at Simon Kelleher’s funeral with my probation officer.
We’re late and St. Anthony’s Church is packed, so we barely find space in the
last pew. The service hasn’t started but no one’s talking, and when the old guy in
front of us coughs it echoes through the room. The smell of incense brings me
back to grade school, when my mother used to take me to Mass every Sunday. I
haven’t been to church since then, but it looks almost exactly the same: red
carpet, shiny dark wood, tall stained-glass windows.
The only thing that’s different is the place is crawling with cops.
Not in uniform. But I can tell, and Officer Lopez can too. After a while some
of them look my way, and I get paranoid she’s led me into some kind of trap.
But I don’t have anything on me. So why do they keep staring at me?
Not only me. I follow their gazes to Bronwyn, who’s near the front with her
parents, and to Cooper and the blond girl, sitting in the middle with their friends.
The back of my neck tingles, and not in a good way. My body tenses, ready to
bolt until Officer Lopez puts a hand on my arm. She doesn’t say anything, but I
stay put.
A bunch of people talk—nobody I know except that Goth girl who used to
follow Simon everywhere. She reads a weird, rambling poem and her voice
shakes the whole time.
The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them,
emptied them,
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay
only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) …
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove
already too late? …
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the
runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the
grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under
your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
“Song of Myself,” Officer Lopez murmurs when the girl finishes. “Interesting
choice.”
There’s music, more readings, and it’s finally over. The priest tells us the
burial’s going to be private, family only. Fine by me. I’ve never wanted to leave
anyplace so bad in my life and I’m ready to take off before the funeral
procession comes down the aisle, but Officer Lopez has her hand on my arm
again.
A bunch of senior guys carry Simon’s casket out the door. A couple dozen
people dressed in dark colors file out after them, ending with a man and a
woman holding hands. The woman has a thin, angular face like Simon. She’s
staring at the floor, but as she passes our pew she looks up, catches my eye, and
chokes out a furious sob.
More people crowd the aisles, and someone edges into the pew with Officer
Lopez and me. It’s one of the plainclothes cops, an older guy with a buzz cut. I
can tell right away he’s not bush-league like Officer Budapest. He smiles like
we’ve met before.
“Nate Macauley?” he asks. “You got a few minutes, son?”
“Nate Macauley?” he asks. “You got a few minutes, son?”
Chapter Seven
Addy
Sunday, September 30, 2:05 p.m.
I shade my eyes against the sun outside the church, scanning the crowd until I
spot Jake. He and the other pallbearers put Simon’s casket onto some kind of
metal stretcher, then step aside as the funeral directors angle it toward the hearse.
I look down, not wanting to watch Simon’s body get loaded into the back of a
car like an oversized suitcase, and somebody taps me on the shoulder.
“Addy Prentiss?” An older woman dressed in a boxy blue suit gives me a
polite, professional smile. “I’m Detective Laura Wheeler with the Bayview
Police. I want to follow up on the discussion you had last week with Officer
Budapest about Simon Kelleher’s death. Could you come to the station with me
for a few minutes?”
I stare at her and lick my lips. I want to ask why, but she’s so calm and
assured, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to pull me aside after a
funeral, that it seems rude to question her. Jake comes up beside me then,
handsome in his suit, and gives Detective Wheeler a friendly, curious smile. My
eyes dart between them and I stammer, “Isn’t it—I mean—can’t we talk here?”
Detective Wheeler winces. “So crowded, don’t you think? And we’re right
around the corner.” She gives Jake a half smile. “Detective Laura Wheeler,
Bayview Police. I’m looking to borrow Addy for a little while and get
clarification on a few points related to Simon Kelleher’s death.”
“Sure,” he says, like that settles things. “Text me if you need a ride after, Ads.
Luis and I will stick around downtown. We’re starving and we gotta talk
offensive strategy for next Saturday’s game. Going to Glenn’s, probably.”
So that’s it, I guess. I follow Detective Wheeler down the cobblestone path
behind the church that leads to the sidewalk, even though I don’t want to. Maybe
this is what Ashton means when she says I don’t think for myself. It’s three
blocks to the police station, and we walk in silence past a hardware store, the
post office, and an ice cream parlor where a little girl out front is having a
meltdown about getting chocolate sprinkles instead of rainbow. I keep thinking I
should tell Detective Wheeler that my mother will worry if I don’t come straight
should tell Detective Wheeler that my mother will worry if I don’t come straight
home, but I’m not sure I could say it without laughing.
We pass through metal detectors in the front of the police station and
Detective Wheeler leads me straight to the back and into a small, overheated
room. I’ve never been inside a police station before, and I thought it would be
more … I don’t know. Official-looking. It reminds me of the conference room in
Principal Gupta’s office, with worse lighting. The flickering fluorescent tube
above us deepens every line on Detective Wheeler’s face and turns her skin an
unattractive yellow. I wonder what it does to mine.
She offers me a drink, and when I decline she leaves the room for a few
minutes, returning with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a small,
dark-haired woman trailing behind her. Both of them sit across from me at the
squat metal table, and Detective Wheeler lowers her bag onto the floor. “Addy,
this is Lorna Shaloub, a family liaison for the Bayview School District. She’s
here as an interested adult on your behalf. Now, this is not a custodial
interrogation. You don’t have to answer my questions and you are free to leave
at any time. Do you understand?”
Not really. She lost me at “interested adult.” But I say “Sure,” even though I
wish more than ever I’d just gone home. Or that Jake had come with me.
“Good. I hope you’ll hang in here with me. My sense is, of all the kids
involved, you’re the most likely to have gotten in over your head with no ill
intent.”
I blink at her. “No ill what?”
“No ill intent. I want to show you something.” She reaches into the bag next
to her and pulls out a laptop. Ms. Shaloub and I wait as she opens it and presses
a few keys. I suck in my cheeks, wondering if she’s going to show me the
Tumblr posts. Maybe the police think one of us wrote them as some kind of
awful joke. If they ask me who, I guess I’d have to say Bronwyn. Because the
whole thing sounds like it’s written by somebody who thinks they’re ten times
smarter than everyone else.
Detective Wheeler turns the laptop so it’s facing me. I’m not sure what I’m
looking at, but it seems like some kind of blog, with the About That logo front
and center. I give her a questioning look, and she says, “This is the admin panel
Simon used to manage content for About That. The text below last Monday’s
date stamp are his latest posts.”
I lean forward and start to read.
First time this app has ever featured good-girl BR, possessor of school’s most perfect academic
record. Except she didn’t get that A in chemistry through plain old hard work, unless that’s how
you define stealing tests from Mr. C’s Google Drive. Someone call Yale ….
On the opposite end of the spectrum, our favorite criminal NM’s back to doing what he does
On the opposite end of the spectrum, our favorite criminal NM’s back to doing what he does
best: making sure the entire school is as high as it wants to be. Pretty sure that’s a probation
violation there, N.
MLB plus CC equals a whole lot of green next June, right? Seems inevitable Bayview’s
southpaw will make a splash in the major leagues … but don’t they have some pretty strict
antijuicing rules? Because CC’s performance was most definitely enhanced during showcase
season.
AP and JR are the perfect couple. Homecoming princess and star running back, in love for
three years straight. Except for that intimate detour A took over the summer with TF at his
beach house. Even more awkward now that the guys are friends. Think they compare notes?
I can’t breathe. It’s out there for everyone to see. How? Simon’s dead; he
can’t have published this. Has someone else taken over for him? The Tumblr
poster? But it doesn’t even matter: the how, the why, the when—all that matters
is that it is. Jake will see it, if he hasn’t already. All the things I read before I got
to my initials, that shocked me as I realized who they were about and what they
meant, fall out of my brain. Nothing exists except my stupid, horrible mistake in
black and white on the screen for the whole world to read.
Jake will know. And he’ll never forgive me.
I’m almost folded in half with my head on the table, and can’t make out
Detective Wheeler’s words at first. Then some start breaking through. “… can
understand how you felt trapped … keep this from being published … If you tell
us what happened we can help you, Addy ….”
Only one phrase sinks in. “Is this not published?”
“It was queued up the day Simon died, but he never got the chance to post it,”
Detective Wheeler says calmly.
Salvation. Jake hasn’t seen this. Nobody has. Except … this police officer,
and maybe other police officers. What I’m focused on and what she’s focused on
are two different things.
Detective Wheeler leans forward, her lips stretched in a smile that doesn’t
reach her eyes. “You may already have recognized the initials, but those other
stories were about Bronwyn Rojas, Nate Macauley, and Cooper Clay. The four
of you who were in the room with Simon when he died.”
“That’s … a weird coincidence,” I manage.
“Isn’t it?” Detective Wheeler agrees. “Addy, you already know how Simon
died. We’ve analyzed Mr. Avery’s room and can’t see any way that peanut oil
could have gotten into Simon’s cup unless someone put it there after he filled it
from the tap. There were only six people in the room, one of whom is dead.
Your teacher left for a long period of time. The four of you who remained with
Simon all had reasons for wanting to keep him quiet.” Her voice doesn’t get any
louder, but it fills my ears like buzzing from a hive. “Do you see where I’m
heading with this? This might have been carried out as a group, but it doesn’t
mean you share equal responsibility. There’s a big difference between coming
up with an idea and going along with it.”
I look at Ms. Shaloub. She does look interested, I have to say, but not like
she’s on my side. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You lied about being in the nurse’s office, Addy. Did someone put you up to
that? To removing the EpiPens so Simon couldn’t be helped later?”
My heart pounds as I pull a strand of hair off my shoulders and twist it around
my fingers. “I didn’t lie. I forgot.” God, what if she makes me take a lie detector
test? I’ll never pass.
“Kids your age are under a lot of pressure today,” Detective Wheeler says.
Her tone is almost friendly, but her eyes are as flat as ever. “The social media
alone—it’s like you can’t make a mistake anymore, can you? It follows you
everywhere. The court is very forgiving toward impressionable young people
who act hastily when they have a lot to lose, especially when they help us
uncover the truth. Simon’s family deserves the truth, don’t you think?”
I hunch my shoulders and tug at my hair. I don’t know what to do. Jake would
know—but Jake’s not here. I look at Ms. Shaloub tucking her short hair behind
her ears, and suddenly Ashton’s voice pops into my head. You don’t have to
answer any questions.
Right. Detective Wheeler said that at the beginning, and the words push
everything else out of my brain with startling relief and clarity.
“I’m going to leave now.”
I say it with confidence, but I’m still not one hundred percent sure I can do
that. I stand and wait for her to stop me, but she doesn’t. She just narrows her
eyes and says, “Of course. As I told you, this isn’t a custodial interrogation. But
please understand, the help I can give you now won’t be the same once you
leave this room.”
“I don’t need your help,” I tell her, and walk out the door, then out of the
police station. Nobody stops me. Once I’m outside, though, I don’t know where
to go or what to do.
I sit on a bench and pull out my phone, my hands shaking. I can’t call Jake,
not for this. But who does that leave? My mind’s as blank as if Detective
Wheeler took an eraser and wiped it clean. I’ve built my entire world around
Jake and now that it’s shattered I realize, way too late, that I should have
cultivated some other people who’d care that a police officer with mom hair and
a sensible suit just accused me of murder. And when I say “care,” I don’t mean
in an oh-my-God-did-you-hear-what-happened-to-Addy kind of way.
My mother would care, but I can’t face that much scorn and judgment right
now.
I scroll to the As in my contact list and press a name. It’s my only option, and
I say a silent prayer of thanks when she picks up.
“Ash?” Somehow I manage not to cry at my sister’s voice. “I need help.”
Cooper
Sunday, September 30, 2:30 p.m.
When Detective Chang shows me Simon’s unpublished About That page, I read
everyone else’s entry first. Bronwyn’s shocks me, Nate’s doesn’t, I have no idea
who the hell this “TF” Addy supposedly hooked up with is—and I’m almost
positive I know what’s coming for me. My heart pounds as I spy my initials:
Because CC’s performance was most definitely enhanced during showcase
season.
Huh. My pulse slows as I lean back in my chair. That’s not what I expected.
Although I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I improved too much, too quickly—
even the Padres scout said something.
Detective Chang dances around the subject for a while, dropping hints until I
understand he thinks the four of us who were in the room planned the whole
thing to keep Simon from posting his update. I try to picture it—me, Nate, and
the two girls plotting murder by peanut oil in Mr. Avery’s detention. It’s so
stupid it wouldn’t even make a good movie.
I know I’m quiet for too long. “Nate and I never even spoke before last
week,” I finally say. “And I sure as heck never talked to the girls about this.”
Detective Chang leans almost halfway across the table. “You’re a good kid,
Cooper. Your record’s spotless till now, and you’ve got a bright future. You
made one mistake and you got caught. That’s scary. I get that. But it’s not too
late to do the right thing.”
I’m not sure which mistake he’s referring to: my alleged juicing, my alleged
murdering, or something we haven’t talked about yet. But as far as I know, I
haven’t been caught at anything. Just accused. Bronwyn and Addy are probably
getting the exact same speech somewhere. I guess Nate would get a different
one.
“I didn’t cheat,” I tell Detective Chang. “And I didn’t hurt Simon.” Ah didn’t.
I can hear my accent coming back.
He tries a different tack. “Whose idea was it to use the planted cell phones to
get all of you into detention together?”
I lean forward, palms pressed on the black wool of my good pants. I hardly
ever wear them, and they’re making me hot and itchy. My heart’s banging
against my chest again. “Listen. I don’t know who did that, but … isn’t it
against my chest again. “Listen. I don’t know who did that, but … isn’t it
something you should look into? Like, were there fingerprints on the phones?
Because it feels to me like maybe we were framed.” The other guy in the room,
some representative from the Bayview School District who hasn’t said a word,
nods like I’ve said something profound. But Detective Chang’s expression
doesn’t change.
“Cooper, we examined those phones as soon as we started to suspect foul
play. There’s no forensic evidence to suggest anyone else was involved. Our
focus is on the four of you, and that’s where I expect it to remain.”
Which finally gets me to say, “I want to call my parents.”
The “want” part isn’t true, but I’m in over my head. Detective Chang heaves a
sigh like I’ve disappointed him but says, “All right. You have your cell phone
with you?” When I nod, he says, “You can make the call here.” He stays in the
room while I call Pop, who catches on a lot faster than I did.
“Give me that detective you’re talking to,” he spits. “Right now. And
Cooperstown—wait, Cooper! Hold up. Don’t you say another goddamn word to
anyone.”
I hand Detective Chang my phone and he puts it to his ear. I can’t hear
everything Pop’s saying, but he’s loud enough that I get the basic idea. Detective
Chang tries to insert a few words—along the lines of how it’s perfectly legal to
question minors in California without their parents present—but mostly he lets
Pop rant. At one point he says, “No. He’s free to go,” and my ears prick up. It
hadn’t occurred to me that I could leave.
Detective Chang gives my phone back, and Pop’s voice crackles in my ear.
“Cooper, you there? Get your ass home. They’re not charging you with
anything, and you’re not gonna answer any more questions without me and a
lawyer.”
A lawyer. Do I actually need one of those? I hang up and face Detective
Chang. “My father told me to leave.”
“You have that right,” Detective Chang says, and I wish I’d known that from
the beginning. Maybe he told me. I honestly don’t remember. “But, Cooper,
these conversations are happening all over the station with your friends. One of
them is going to agree to work with us, and that person will be treated very
differently from the rest of you. I think it should be you. I’d like you to have that
chance.”
I want to tell him he’s got it all wrong, but Pop told me to stop talking. I can’t
bring myself to leave without saying anything, though. So I end up shaking
Detective Chang’s hand and saying, “Thank you for your time, sir.”
I sound like the ass-kisser of the century. It’s years of conditioning kicking in.
Chapter Eight
Bronwyn
Sunday, September 30, 3:07 p.m.
I’m beyond grateful my parents were with me at church when Detective
Mendoza pulled me aside and asked me to come to the police station. I thought
I’d just get a few follow-up questions from Officer Budapest. I wasn’t prepared
for what came next and wouldn’t have known what to do. My parents took over
and refused to let me answer his questions. They got tons of information out of
the detective and didn’t give up anything in return. It was pretty masterful.
But. Now they know what I’ve done.
Well. Not yet. They know the rumor. At the moment, driving home from the
police station, they’re still ranting against the injustice of it all. My mother is,
anyway. My father’s keeping his attention on the road, but even his turn signals
are unusually aggressive.
“I mean,” my mother says, in an urgent voice that indicates she’s barely
warming up, “it’s horrible what happened to Simon. Of course his parents want
answers. But to take a high school gossip post and turn it into an accusation like
that is just ludicrous. I can’t fathom how anyone could think Bronwyn would kill
a boy because he was about to post a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” I say, but too quietly for her to hear me.
“The police have nothing.” My father sounds like he’s judging a company
he’s thinking of acquiring and finds it lacking. “Flimsy circumstantial evidence.
Obviously no real forensics or they wouldn’t be reaching this way. That was a
Hail Mary.” The car in front of us stops short at a yellow light, and Dad swears
softly in Spanish as he brakes. “Bronwyn, I don’t want you to worry about this.
We’ll hire an outstanding lawyer, but it’s purely a formality. I may sue the police
department when it’s all over. Especially if any of this goes public and harms
your reputation.”
My throat feels like I’m getting ready to push words through sludge. “I did.”
I’m barely audible. I press the palm of my hand to my burning cheek and force
my voice higher. “I did cheat. I’m sorry.”
Mom rotates in her seat. “I can’t hear you, honey. What was that?”
Mom rotates in her seat. “I can’t hear you, honey. What was that?”
“I cheated.” The words tumble out of me: how I’d used a computer in the lab
right after Mr. Camino, and realized he hadn’t logged out of his Google Drive. A
file with all our chemistry test questions for the rest of the year was right there. I
downloaded it onto a flash drive almost without thinking about it. And I used it
to get perfect scores for the rest of the year.
I have no idea how Simon found out. But as usual, he was right.
The next few minutes in the car are horrible. Mom turns in her seat and stares
at me with betrayal in her eyes. Dad can’t do the same, but he keeps glancing
into the rearview mirror like he’s hoping to see something different. I can read
the hurt in both their expressions: You’re not who we thought you were.
My parents are all about merit-based achievement. Dad was one of the
youngest CFOs in California before we were even born, and Mom’s
dermatology practice is so successful she hasn’t been able to take on any new
patients in years. They’ve been drumming the same message into me since
kindergarten: Work hard, do your best, and the rest will follow. And it always
had, until chemistry.
I guess I didn’t know what to do about that.
“Bronwyn.” Mom’s still staring at me, her voice low and tight. “My God. I
never would have imagined you’d do something like that. This is terrible on so
many levels, but most important, it gives you a motive.”
“I didn’t do anything to Simon!” I burst out.
The hard lines of her mouth soften slightly as she shakes her head at me. “I’m
disappointed in you, Bronwyn, but I didn’t make that leap. I’m just stating fact.
If you can’t unequivocally say that Simon was lying, this could get very messy.”
She rubs a hand over her eyes. “How did he know you cheated? Does he have
proof?”
“I don’t know. Simon didn’t …” I pause, thinking about all the About That
updates I’d read over the years. “Simon never really proved anything. It’s just …
everybody believed him because he was never wrong. Things always came out
eventually.”
And here I’d thought I was in the clear, since I’d taken Mr. Camino’s files last
March. What I just don’t get is, if Simon had known, why hadn’t he pounced on
it right away?
I knew what I did was wrong, obviously. I even thought it might be illegal,
although technically I didn’t break into Mr. Camino’s account since it was
already open. But that part hardly seemed real. Maeve uses her mad computer
skills to hack into stuff for fun all the time, and if I’d thought of it I probably
could have asked her to get Mr. Camino’s files for me. Or even change my
grade. But it wasn’t premeditated. The file was in front of me in that moment,
grade. But it wasn’t premeditated. The file was in front of me in that moment,
and I took it.
Then I chose to use it for months afterward, telling myself it was okay
because one hard class shouldn’t ruin my whole future. Which is kind of horribly
ironic, given what just happened at the police station.
I wonder if everything Simon wrote about Cooper and Addy is true too.
Detective Mendoza showed us all the entries, implying that somebody else might
already be confessing and cutting a deal. I always thought Cooper’s talent was
God-given and that Addy was too Jake-obsessed to even look at another guy, but
they probably never imagined me as a cheater, either.
With Nate, I don’t wonder. He’s never pretended to be anything other than
exactly who he is.
Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, slipping the keys from the
ignition and turning to face me. “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”
I think back to the claustrophobic little room at the police station, my parents
on either side of me as Detective Mendoza lobbed questions like grenades. Were
you competitive with Simon? Have you ever been to his house? Did you know he
was writing a post about you?
Did you have any reason, beyond this, to dislike or resent Simon?
My parents said I didn’t have to respond to any of his questions, but I did
answer that one. No, I said then.
“No,” I say now, meeting my father’s eyes.
If he knows I’m lying, he doesn’t show it.
Nate
Sunday, September 30, 5:15 p.m.
Calling my ride home with Officer Lopez after Simon’s funeral “tense” would
be an understatement.
It was hours later, for one thing. After Officer Buzz Cut had brought me to the
station and asked me a half-dozen different ways whether I’d killed Simon.
Officer Lopez had asked if she could be present during questioning, and he
agreed, which was fine with me. Although things got a little awkward when he
pulled up Simon’s drug-dealing accusation.
Which, although true, he can’t prove. Even I know that. I stayed calm when he
told me the circumstances surrounding Simon’s death gave the police probable
cause to search my house for drugs, and that they already had a warrant. I’d
cleared everything out this morning, so I knew they wouldn’t find anything.
Thank God Officer Lopez and I meet on Sundays. I’d probably be in jail
otherwise. I owe her big-time for that, although she doesn’t know it. And for
having my back during questioning, which I didn’t expect. I’ve lied to her face
every time we’ve met and I’m pretty sure she knows that. But when Officer
Buzz Cut started getting heated, she’d dial him back. I got the sense, eventually,
that all they have is some flimsy circumstantial evidence and a theory they were
hoping to pressure someone into admitting.
I answered a few of their questions. The ones I knew couldn’t get me into
trouble. Everything else was some variation of I don’t know and I don’t
remember. Sometimes it was even true.
Officer Lopez didn’t say a word from the time we left the police station until
she pulled into my driveway. Now she gives me a look that makes it clear even
she can’t find a bright side to what just happened.
“Nate. I won’t ask if what I saw on that site is true. That’s a conversation for
you and a lawyer if it ever comes to that. But you need to understand something.
If, from this day forward, you deal drugs in any way, shape, or form—I can’t
help you. Nobody can. This is no joke. You’re dealing with a potential capital
offense. There are four kids involved in this investigation and every single one
of them except you is backed by parents who are materially comfortable and
present in their children’s lives. If not outright wealthy and influential. You’re
the obvious outlier and scapegoat. Am I making myself clear?”
Jesus. She’s not pulling any punches. “Yeah.” I got it. I’d been thinking about
it all the way home.
“All right. I’ll see you next Sunday. Call me if you need me before then.”
I climb out of the car without thanking her. It’s a bullshit move, but I don’t
have it in me to be grateful. I step inside our low-ceilinged kitchen and the smell
hits me right away: stale vomit seeps into my nose and throat, making me gag. I
look around for the source, and I guess today’s my lucky day because my father
managed to make it to the sink. He just didn’t bother rinsing it afterward. I put
one hand over my face and use the other to aim a spray of water, but it’s no
good. The stuff’s caked on by now and it won’t come off unless I scrub it.
We have a sponge somewhere. Probably in the cabinet under the sink. Instead
of looking, though, I kick it. Which is pretty satisfying, so I do it another five or
ten times, harder and harder until the cheap wood splinters and cracks. I’m
panting, breathing in lungsful of puke-infested air, and I’m so fucking sick of it
all, I could kill somebody.
Some people are too toxic to live. They just are.
A familiar scratching sound comes from the living room—Stan, clawing at the
glass of his terrarium, looking for food. I squirt half a bottle of dish detergent in
the sink and aim another blast of water over it. I’ll deal with the rest later.
the sink and aim another blast of water over it. I’ll deal with the rest later.
I get a container of live crickets from the refrigerator and drop them into
Stan’s cage, watching them hop around with no clue what’s in store for them.
My breathing slows and my head clears, but that’s not exactly good news. If I’m
not thinking about one shit storm, I have to think about another.
Group murder. It’s an interesting theory. I guess I should be grateful the cops
didn’t try to pin the whole thing on me. Ask the other three to nod and get out of
jail free. I’m sure Cooper and the blond girl would have been more than happy to
play along.
Maybe Bronwyn wouldn’t, though.
I close my eyes and brace my hands on the top of Stan’s terrarium, thinking
about Bronwyn’s house. How clean and bright it was, and how she and her sister
talked to each other like all the interesting parts of their conversation were the
things they didn’t say. It must be nice, after getting accused of murder, to come
home to a place like that.
When I leave the house and get on my bike, I tell myself I don’t know where
I’m going, and drive aimlessly for almost an hour. By the time I end up in
Bronwyn’s driveway, it’s dinnertime for normal people, and I don’t expect
anyone to come outside.
I’m wrong, though. Someone does. It’s a tall man in a fleece vest and a
checked shirt, with short dark hair and glasses. He looks like a guy who’s used
to giving orders, and he approaches me with a calm, measured tread.
“Nate, right?” His hands are on his hips, a big watch glinting on one wrist.
“I’m Javier Rojas, Bronwyn’s father. I’m afraid you can’t be here.”
He doesn’t sound mad, just matter-of-fact. But he also sounds like he’s never
meant anything more in his life.
I take my helmet off so I can meet his eyes. “Is Bronwyn home?” It’s the most
pointless question ever. Obviously she is, and obviously he’s not going to let me
see her. I don’t even know why I want to, except that I can’t. And because I want
to ask her: What’s true? What did you do? What didn’t you do?
“You can’t be here,” Javier Rojas says again. “I’m sure you don’t want police
involvement any more than I do.” He’s doing a decent job of pretending I
wouldn’t be his worst nightmare even if I weren’t involved in a murder
investigation with his daughter.
That’s it, I guess. Lines are drawn. I’m the obvious outlier and scapegoat.
There isn’t much else to say, so I reverse out of his driveway and head home.
Chapter Nine
Addy
Sunday, September 30, 5:30 p.m.
Ashton unlocks the door to her condo in downtown San Diego. It’s a onebedroom, because she and Charlie can’t afford anything bigger. Especially with
a year’s worth of law school debt that’ll be hard to repay now that Ashton’s
graphic design business hasn’t taken off and Charlie’s decided to make nature
documentaries instead of being a lawyer.
But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.
Ashton brews coffee in her kitchen, which is tiny but cute: white cabinets,
glossy black granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and retro light
fixtures. “Where’s Charlie?” I ask as she doctors mine with cream and sugar,
pale and sweet the way I like it.
“Rock climbing,” Ashton says, pressing her lips into a thin line as she hands
me the mug. Charlie has lots of hobbies Ashton doesn’t share, and they’re all
expensive. “I’ll call him about finding you a lawyer. Maybe one of his old
professors knows someone.”
Ashton insisted on taking me to get something to eat after we left the police
station, and I told her everything at the restaurant—well, almost everything. The
truth about Simon’s rumor, anyway. She tried calling Mom on the way here, but
got voice mail and left a cryptic call-me-as-soon-as-you-get-this message.
Which Mom has ignored. Or not seen. Maybe I should give her the benefit of
the doubt.
We take our coffee to Ashton’s balcony and settle ourselves into bright-red
chairs on either side of a tiny table. I close my eyes and swallow a mouthful of
hot, sweet liquid, willing myself to relax. It doesn’t work, but I keep sipping
slowly until I’m done. Ashton pulls out her phone and leaves a terse message for
Charlie, then tries our mother again. “Still voice mail,” she sighs, draining the
last of her coffee.
“Nobody’s home except us,” I say, and for some reason that makes me laugh.
A little hysterically. I might be losing it.
Ashton rests her elbows on the table and clasps her hands together under her
Ashton rests her elbows on the table and clasps her hands together under her
chin. “Addy, you’ve got to tell Jake what happened.”
“Simon’s update isn’t live,” I say weakly, but Ashton shakes her head.
“It’ll get out. Maybe gossip, maybe the police talking to him to put pressure
on you. But it’s something you need to deal with in your relationship no matter
what.” She hesitates, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Addy, is there some part
of you that’s been wanting Jake to find out?”
Resentment surges through me. Ashton can’t stop her anti-Jake crusade even
in the middle of a crisis. “Why would I ever want that?”
“He calls the shots on everything, doesn’t he? Maybe you got tired of that. I
would.”
“Right, because you’re the relationship expert,” I snap. “I haven’t seen you
and Charlie together in over a month.”
Ashton purses her lips. “This isn’t about me. You need to tell Jake, and soon.
You don’t want him to hear this from someone else.”
All the fight goes out of me, because I know she’s right. Waiting will only
make things worse. And since Mom’s not calling us back, I might as well rip off
the Band-Aid. “Will you take me to his house?”
I have a bunch of texts from Jake anyway, asking how things went at the
station. I should probably be focusing on the whole criminal aspect of this, but as
usual, my mind’s consumed with Jake. I take out my phone, open my messages,
and text, Can I tell you in person?
Jake responds right away. “Only Girl” blares, which seems inappropriate for
the conversation that’s about to follow.
Of course.
I rinse out our mugs while Ashton collects her keys and purse. We step into
the hallway and Ashton shuts the door behind us, tugging the knob to make sure
it’s locked. I follow her to the elevator, my nerves buzzing. I shouldn’t have had
that coffee. Even if it was mostly milk.
We’re more than halfway to Bayview when Charlie calls. I try to tune out
Ashton’s tense, clipped conversation, but it’s impossible in such close quarters.
“I’m not asking for me,” she says at one point. “Can you be the bigger person for
once?”
I scrunch in my seat and take out my phone, scrolling through messages.
Keely’s sent half a dozen texts about Halloween costumes, and Olivia’s
agonizing about whether she should get back together with Luis. Again. Ashton
finally hangs up and says with forced brightness, “Charlie’s going to make a few
calls about a lawyer.”
“Great. Tell him thanks.” I feel like I should say more, but I’m not sure what,
and we lapse into silence. Still, I’d rather spend hours in my sister’s quiet car
and we lapse into silence. Still, I’d rather spend hours in my sister’s quiet car
than five minutes in Jake’s house, which looms in front of us all too quickly.
“I’m not sure how long this will take,” I tell Ashton as she pulls into the
driveway. “And I might need a ride home.” Nausea rolls through my stomach. If
I hadn’t done what I did with TJ, Jake would insist on being a part of whatever
comes next. The whole situation would still be terrifying, but I wouldn’t have to
face it on my own.
“I’ll be at the Starbucks on Clarendon Street,” Ashton says as I climb out of
the car. “Text me when you’re done.”
I feel sorry, then, for snapping at her and goading her about Charlie. If she
hadn’t picked me up from the police station, I don’t know what I would have
done. But she backs out of the driveway before I can say anything, and I start my
slow march to Jake’s front door.
His mom answers when I ring the bell, smiling so normally that I almost think
everything’s going to be okay. I’ve always liked Mrs. Riordan. She used to be a
hotshot advertising executive till right before Jake started high school, when she
decided to downshift and focus on her family. I think my mother secretly wishes
she were Mrs. Riordan, with a glamorous career she doesn’t have to do anymore
and a handsome, successful husband.
Mr. Riordan can be intimidating, though. He’s a my-way-or-nothing sort of
man. Whenever I mention that, Ashton starts muttering about apples not falling
far from trees.
“Hi, Addy. I’m on my way out, but Jake’s waiting for you downstairs.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping past her into the foyer.
I can hear her lock the door behind her and her car door slam as I take the
stairs down to Jake. The Riordans have a finished basement that’s basically
Jake’s domain. It’s huge, and they have a pool table and a giant TV and lots of
overstuffed chairs and couches down there, so our friends hang out here more
than anywhere else. As usual, Jake is sprawled on the biggest couch with an
Xbox controller in hand.
“Hey, baby.” He pauses the game and sits up when he sees me. “How’d
everything go?”
“Not good,” I say, and start shaking all over. Jake’s face is full of concern I
don’t deserve. He gets to his feet, trying to pull me down next to him, but I resist
for once. I take a seat in the armchair beside the couch. “I think I should sit over
here while I tell you this.”
A frown creases Jake’s forehead. He sits back down, on the edge of the couch
this time, his elbows resting on his knees as he gazes at me intently. “You’re
scaring me, Ads.”
“It’s been a scary day,” I say, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. My
throat feels as dry as dust. “The detective wanted to talk to me because she
thinks I … She thinks all of us who were in detention with Simon that day …
killed him. They think we deliberately put peanut oil in his water so he’d die.” It
occurs to me as the words slip out that maybe I wasn’t supposed to talk about
this part. But I’m used to telling Jake everything.
Jake stares at me, blinks, and barks out a short laugh. “Jesus. That’s not funny,
Addy.” He almost never calls me by my actual name.
“I’m not joking. She thinks we did it because he was about to publish an
update of About That featuring the four of us. Reporting awful things we’d never
want to get out.” I’m tempted to tell him the other gossip first—See, I’m not the
only horrible person!—but I don’t. “There was something about me on there,
something true, that I have to tell you. I should have told you when it happened
but I was too scared.” I stare at the floor, my eyes focusing on a loose thread in
the plush blue carpet. If I pulled it I bet the whole section would unravel.
“Go on,” Jake says. I can’t read his tone at all.
God. How can my heart be hammering this hard and I still be alive? It should
have burst out of my chest by now. “At the end of school last year, when you
were in Cozumel with your parents, I ran into TJ at the beach. We got a bottle of
rum and ended up getting really drunk. And I went to TJ’s house and, um, I
hooked up with him.” Tears slide down my cheeks and drip onto my collarbone.
“Hooked up how?” Jake asks flatly. I hesitate, wondering if there’s any
possible way I can make this sound less awful than it is. But then Jake repeats
himself—“Hooked up how?”—so forcefully that the words spring out of me.
“We slept together.” I’m crying so hard I can barely get more words out. “I’m
sorry, Jake. I made a stupid, horrible mistake and I’m so, so sorry.”
Jake doesn’t say anything for a minute, and when he speaks his voice is icy
cold. “You’re sorry, huh? That’s great. That’s all right, then. As long as you’re
sorry.”
“I really am,” I start, but before I can continue he springs up and rams his fist
into the wall behind him. I can’t help the startled cry that escapes me. The
plaster cracks, raining white dust across the blue rug. Jake shakes his fist and hits
the wall harder.
“Fuck, Addy. You screw my friend months ago, you’ve been lying to me ever
since, and you’re sorry? What the hell is wrong with you? I treat you like a
queen.”
“I know,” I sob, staring at the bloody smears his knuckles left on the wall.
“You let me hang out with a guy who’s laughing his ass off behind my back
while you jump out of his bed and into mine like nothing happened. Pretending
you give a shit about me.” Jake almost never swears in my presence, or if he
you give a shit about me.” Jake almost never swears in my presence, or if he
does, he apologizes afterward.
“I do! Jake, I love you. I’ve always loved you, since the first time I saw you.”
“So why’d you do it? Why?”
I’ve asked myself that question for months and can’t come up with anything
except weak excuses. I was drunk, I was stupid, I was insecure. I guess that last
one’s closest to the truth; years of being not enough finally catching up with me.
“I made a mistake. I’d do anything to fix it. If I could take it back I would.”
“But you can’t, can you?” Jake asks. He’s silent for a minute, breathing hard. I
don’t dare say another word. “Look at me.” I keep my head in my hands as long
as I can. “Look at me, Addy. You fucking owe me that.”
So I do, but I wish I hadn’t. His face—that beautiful face I’ve loved since
before it ever looked as good as it does now—is twisted with rage. “You ruined
everything. You know that, right?”
“I know.” It comes out as a moan, like I’m a trapped animal. If I could gnaw
my own limb off to escape this situation, I would.
“Get out. Get the hell out of my house. I can’t stand the sight of you.”
I’m not sure how I manage to get up the stairs, never mind out the door. Once
I’m in the driveway I scramble through my bag trying to find my phone. There’s
no way I can stand in Jake’s driveway sobbing while I wait for Ashton. I need to
walk to Clarendon Street and find her. Then a car across the street beeps softly,
and through a haze of tears I watch my sister lower her window.
Her mouth droops as I approach. “I thought it might go like this. Come on, get
in. Mom’s waiting for us.”
Part Two
HIDE-AND-SEEK
Chapter Ten
Bronwyn
Monday, October 1, 7:30 a.m.
I get ready for school on Monday the way I always do. Up at six so I can run for
half an hour. Oatmeal with berries and orange juice at six-thirty, a shower ten
minutes later. Dry my hair, pick out clothes, put on sunscreen. Scan the New
York Times for ten minutes. Check my email, pack my books, make sure my
phone’s fully charged.
The only thing that’s different is the seven-thirty meeting with my lawyer.
Her name is Robin Stafford, and according to my father she’s a brilliant,
highly successful criminal defense attorney. But not overly high-profile. Not the
kind of lawyer automatically associated with guilty rich people trying to buy
their way out of trouble. She’s right on time and gives me a wide, warm smile
when Maeve leads her into the kitchen.
I wouldn’t be able to guess her age by looking at her, but the bio my father
showed me last night says she’s forty-one. She’s wearing a cream-colored suit
that’s striking against her dark skin, subtle gold jewelry, and shoes that look
expensive but not Jimmy Choo level.
She takes a seat at our kitchen island across from my parents and me.
“Bronwyn, it’s a pleasure. Let’s talk about what you might expect today and
how you should handle school.”
Sure. Because that’s my life now. School is something to be handled.
She folds her hands in front of her. “I’m not sure the police truly believed the
four of you planned this together, but I do think they hoped to shock and
pressure one of you into giving up useful information. That indicates their
evidence is flimsy at best. If none of you point fingers and your stories line up,
they don’t have anywhere to take this investigation, and it’s my belief it will
ultimately be closed out as an accidental death.”
The vise that’s been gripping my chest all morning loosens a little. “Even
though Simon was about to post those awful things about us? And there’s that
whole Tumblr thing going on?”
Robin gives an elegant little shrug. “At the end of the day, that’s nothing but
Robin gives an elegant little shrug. “At the end of the day, that’s nothing but
gossip and trolling. I know you kids take it seriously, but in the legal world it’s
meaningless unless hard proof emerges to back it up. The best thing you can do
is not talk about the case. Certainly not with the police, but not with school
administrators either.”
“What if they ask?”
“Tell them you’ve retained counsel and can’t answer questions without your
lawyer present.”
I try to imagine having that conversation with Principal Gupta. I don’t know
what the school’s heard about this, but me pleading the Fifth would be a major
red flag.
“Are you friendly with the other kids who were in detention that day?” Robin
asks.
“Not exactly. Cooper and I have some classes together, but—”
“Bronwyn.” My mother interrupts with a chill in her voice. “You’re friendly
enough with Nate Macauley that he showed up here last night. For the third
time.”
Robin sits straighter in her chair, and I flush. That was a big topic of
discussion last night after my dad made Nate leave. Dad thought he’d stalked our
address in a creepy way, so I had some explaining to do.
“Why has Nate been here three times, Bronwyn?” Robin asks with a polite,
interested air.
“It’s no big deal. He gave me a ride home after Simon died. Then he stopped
by last Friday to hang out for a while. And I don’t know what he was doing here
last night, since nobody would let me talk to him.”
“It’s the ‘hanging out’ while your parents aren’t home that disturbs me—” my
mother starts, but Robin interrupts her.
“Bronwyn, what’s the nature of your relationship with Nate?”
I have no idea. Maybe you could help me analyze it? Is that part of your
retainer? “I hardly know him. I hadn’t talked to him in years before last week.
We’re both in this weird situation and … it helps to be around other people
going through the same thing.”
“I recommend maintaining distance from the others,” Robin says, ignoring my
mother’s evil eye in my direction. “No need to give the police further
ammunition for their theories. If your cell phone and email are examined, will
they show recent communication with those three students?”
“No,” I say truthfully.
“That’s good news.” She glances at her watch, a slim gold Rolex. “That’s all
we can address now if you’re going to get to school on time, which you should.
Business as usual.” She flashes me that warm smile again. “We’ll talk more in
Business as usual.” She flashes me that warm smile again. “We’ll talk more in
depth later.”
I say good-bye to my parents, not quite able to look them in the eye, and call
for Maeve as I grab the keys to the Volvo. I spend the whole drive steeling
myself for something awful to happen once we get to school, but it’s weirdly
normal. No police lying in wait for me. Nobody’s looking at me any differently
than they have since the first Tumblr post came out.
Still, I’m only half paying attention to Kate and Yumiko’s chatter after
homeroom, my eyes roaming the hallway. There’s only one person I want to talk
to, even though it’s exactly who I’m supposed to stay away from. “Catch you
guys later, okay?” I murmur, and intercept Nate after he ducks into the back
stairwell.
If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t show it. “Bronwyn. How’s the family?”
I lean against the wall next to him and lower my voice. “I wanted to apologize
for my dad making you leave last night. He’s kind of freaked out by all this.”
“Wonder why.” Nate drops his voice as well. “You been searched yet?” My
eyes widen, and he laughs darkly. “Didn’t think so. I was. You’re probably not
supposed to be talking to me, right?”
I can’t help but glance around the empty stairwell. I’m already paranoid and
Nate’s not helping. I have to keep reminding myself that we did not, in fact,
conspire to commit murder. “Why did you stop by?”
His eyes search mine as though he’s about to say something profound about
life and death and the presumption of innocence. “I was going to apologize for
stealing Jesus from you.”
I recoil a little. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Is he making some kind
of religious allegory? “What?”
“In the fourth-grade Nativity play at St. Pius. I stole Jesus and you had to
carry a bag wrapped in a blanket. Sorry about that.”
I stare at him for a second as the tension flows out of me, leaving me limp and
slightly giddy. I punch him in the shoulder, startling him so much he actually
laughs. “I knew it was you. Why’d you do that?”
“To get a rise out of you.” He grins at me, and for a second I forget everything
except the fact that Nate Macauley still has an adorable smile. “Also, I wanted to
talk to you about—all this. But I guess it’s too late. You must be lawyered up by
now, right?” His smile disappears.
“Yes, but … I want to talk to you too.” The bell rings, and I pull out my
phone. Then I remember Robin asking about communication records between
the four of us and stuff it back into my bag. Nate catches the gesture and snorts
another humorless laugh.
“Yeah, exchanging numbers is a shit idea. Unless you want to use this.” He
reaches into his backpack and hands me a flip phone.
I take it gingerly. “What is it?”
“An extra phone. I have a few.” I run my thumb across the cover with a
dawning idea of what it might be for, and he adds hastily, “It’s new. Nobody’s
going to call it or anything. But I have the number. I’ll call you. You can answer,
or not. Up to you.” He pauses, and adds, “Just don’t, you know, leave it lying
around. They get a warrant for your phone and computer, that’s all they can
touch. They can’t go through your whole house.”
I’m pretty sure my expensive lawyer would tell me not to take legal advice
from Nate Macauley. And she’d probably have something to say about the fact
that he has an apparently inexhaustible supply of the same cheap phones that
corralled us all in detention last week. I watch him head up the stairs, knowing I
should drop the phone into the nearest trash can. But I put it in my backpack
instead.
Cooper
Monday, October 1, 11:00 a.m.
It’s almost a relief to be at school. Better than home, where Pop spent hours
ranting about how Simon’s a liar and the police are incompetent and the school
should be on the hook for this and lawyers will cost a fortune we don’t have.
He didn’t ask if any of it was true.
We’re in a weird limbo now. Everything’s different but it all looks the same.
Except Jake and Addy, who’re walking around like they want to kill and die,
respectively. Bronwyn gives me the least convincing smile ever in the hallway,
her lips pressed so tight they almost disappear. Nate’s nowhere in sight.
We’re all waiting for something to happen, I guess.
After gym something does, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. My
friends and I are heading for the locker room after playing soccer, lagging
behind everyone else, and Luis is going on about some new junior girl he’s got
his eye on. Our gym teacher opens the door to let a bunch of kids inside when
Jake suddenly whirls around, grabs TJ by the shoulder, and punches him in the
face.
Of course. “TF” from About That is TJ Forrester. The lack of a J confused
me.
I grab Jake’s arms, pulling him back before he can throw another punch, but
he’s so furious he almost gets away from me before Luis steps in to help. Even
then, two of us can barely hold him. “You asshole,” Jake spits at TJ, who
staggers but doesn’t fall. TJ puts a hand to his bloody, probably broken mess of a
nose. He doesn’t make any effort to go after Jake.
“Jake, come on, man,” I say as the gym teacher races toward us. “You’re
gonna get suspended.”
“Worth it,” Jake says bitterly.
So instead of today’s big story being Simon, it’s about how Jake Riordan got
sent home for punching TJ Forrester after gym class. And since Jake refused to
speak to Addy before he left and she’s practically in tears, everyone’s pretty sure
they know why.
“How could she?” Keely murmurs in the lunch line as Addy shuffles around
like a sleepwalker.
“We don’t know the whole story,” I remind her.
I guess it’s good Jake’s not here since Addy sits with us at lunch like usual.
I’m not sure she’d have the nerve otherwise. But she doesn’t talk to anybody,
and nobody talks to her. They’re pretty obvious about it. Vanessa, who’s always
been the bitchiest girl in our group, physically turns away when Addy takes the
chair next to her. Even Keely doesn’t make any effort to include Addy in the
conversation.
Bunch of hypocrites. Luis was on Simon’s app for the same damn thing and
Vanessa tried to give me a hand job at a pool party last month, so they shouldn’t
be judging anyone.
“How’s it goin’, Addy?” I ask, ignoring the stares of the rest of the table.
“Don’t be nice, Cooper.” She keeps her head down, her voice so low I can
hardly hear it. “It’s worse if you’re nice.”
“Addy.” All the frustration and fear I’ve been feeling finds its way into my
voice, and when Addy looks up a jolt of understanding passes between us.
There’re a million things we should be talking about, but we can’t say any of
them. “It’ll be all right.”
Keely puts her hand on my arm, asking, “What do you think?” and I realize
I’ve missed an entire conversation.
“About what?”
She gives me a little shake. “About Halloween! What should we be for
Vanessa’s party?”
I’m disoriented, like I just got yanked into some shiny video-game version of
the world where everything’s too bright and I don’t understand the rules. “God,
Keely, I don’t know. Whatever. That’s almost a month away.”
Olivia clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “Typical guy. You have no idea how
hard it is to find a costume that’s sexy but not slutty.”
Luis waggles his brows at her. “Just be slutty, then,” he suggests, and Olivia
Luis waggles his brows at her. “Just be slutty, then,” he suggests, and Olivia
smacks his arm. The cafeteria’s too warm, almost hot, and I wipe my damp brow
as Addy and I exchange another look.
Keely pokes me. “Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“I want to look at that picture we took last week, at Seaport Village? That
woman in the flapper dress. She looked amazing. Maybe I could do something
like that.” I shrug and pull out my phone, unlocking it and handing it over. She
squeezes my arm as she opens my photos. “You’d look totally hot in one of
those gangster suits.”
She hands the phone to Vanessa, who gives an exaggerated, breathless
“Ohhh!” Addy pushes food around on her plate without ever lifting her fork to
her mouth, and I’m about to ask her if she wants me to get her something else
when my phone rings.
Vanessa keeps hold of it and snorts, “Who calls during lunch? Everybody you
know is already here!” She looks at the screen, then at me. “Ooh, Cooper. Who’s
Kris? Should Keely be jealous?”
I don’t answer for a few seconds too long, then too fast. “Just, um, a guy I
know. From baseball.” My whole face feels hot and prickly as I take the phone
from Vanessa and send it to voice mail. I wish like hell I could take that call, but
now’s not the time.
Vanessa raises an eyebrow. “A boy who spells Chris with a K?”
“Yeah. He’s … German.” God. Stop talking. I put my phone in my pocket and
turn to Keely, whose lips are slightly parted like she’s about to ask a question.
“I’ll call him back later. So. A flapper, huh?”
I’m about to head home after the last bell when Coach Ruffalo stops me in the
hall. “You didn’t forget about our meeting, did you?”
I exhale in frustration because yeah, I did. Pop’s leaving work early so we can
meet with a lawyer, but Coach Ruffalo wants to talk college recruiting. I’m torn,
because I’m pretty sure Pop would want me to do both at the same time. Since
that’s not possible, I follow Coach Ruffalo and figure I’ll make it quick. His
office is next to the gym and smells like twenty years’ worth of student athletes
passing through. In other words, not good.
“My phone’s ringing off the hook for you, Cooper,” he says as I sit across
from him in a lopsided metal chair that creaks under my weight. “UCLA,
Louisville, and Illinois are putting together full-scholarship offers. They’re all
pushing for a November commitment even though I told them there’s no way
you’ll make a decision before spring.” He catches my expression and adds, “It’s
good to keep your options open. Obviously the draft’s a real possibility but the
good to keep your options open. Obviously the draft’s a real possibility but the
more interest there is on the college level, the better you’ll look to the majors.”
“Yes, sir.” It’s not draft strategy I’m worried about. It’s how these colleges
will react if the stuff on Simon’s app gets out. Or if this whole thing spirals and I
keep getting investigated by the police. Are all these offers gonna dry up, or am I
innocent until proven guilty? I’m not sure if I should be telling any of this to
Coach Ruffalo. “It’s just … hard to keep ’em all straight.”
He picks up a thin sheaf of stapled-together papers, waving them at me. “I’ve
done it for you. Here’s a list of every college I’ve been in touch with and their
current offer. I’ve highlighted the ones I think are the best fit or will be most
impressive to the majors. I wouldn’t necessarily put Cal State or UC Santa
Barbara on the short list, but they’re both local and offering facility tours. You
want to schedule those some weekend, let me know.”
“Okay. I … I have some family stuff coming up, so I might be kinda busy for
a while.”
“Sure, sure. No rush, no pressure. It’s entirely up to you, Cooper.”
People always say that but it doesn’t feel true. About anything.
I thank Coach Ruffalo and head into the almost-empty hallway. I have my
phone in one hand and Coach’s list in the other, and I’m so lost in thought as I
look between them that I almost mow someone over in my path.
“Sorry,” I say, taking in a slight figure with his arms wrapped around a box.
“Uh … hey, Mr. Avery. You need help carrying that?”
“No thank you, Cooper.” I’m a lot taller than he is, and when I look down I
don’t see anything but folders in the box. I guess he can manage those. Mr.
Avery’s watery eyes narrow when he sees my phone. “I wouldn’t want to
interrupt your texting.”
“I was just …” I trail off, since explaining the lawyer appointment I’m almost
late for won’t win me any points.
Mr. Avery sniffs and adjusts his grip on the box. “I don’t understand you kids.
So obsessed with your screens and your gossip.” He grimaces like the word
tastes bad, and I’m not sure what to say. Is he making a reference to Simon? I
wonder if the police bothered questioning Mr. Avery this weekend, or if he’s
been disqualified by virtue of not having a motive. That they know of, anyway.
He shakes himself, like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about either.
“Anyway. If you’ll excuse me, Cooper.”
All he’d have to do to get past me is step aside, but I guess that’s my job.
“Right,” I say, moving out of his way. I watch him shuffle down the hall and
decide to leave my stuff in my locker and head for the car. I’m late enough as it
is.
I’m stopped at the last red light before my house when my phone beeps. I look
I’m stopped at the last red light before my house when my phone beeps. I look
down expecting a text from Keely, because somehow I ended up promising we’d
get together tonight to plan Halloween costumes. But it’s from my mom.
Meet us at the hospital. Nonny had a heart attack.
Chapter Eleven
Nate
Monday, October 1, 11:50 p.m.
I made a round of calls to my suppliers this morning to tell them I’m out of
commission for a while. Then I threw away that phone. I still have a couple of
others. I usually pay cash for a bunch at Walmart and rotate them for a few
months before replacing them.
So after I’ve watched as many Japanese horror movies as I can stand and it’s
almost midnight, I take a new phone out and call the one I gave Bronwyn. It
rings six times before she picks up, and she sounds nervous as hell. “Hello?”
I’m tempted to disguise my voice and ask if I can buy a bag of heroin to mess
with her, but she’d probably throw the phone out and never talk to me again.
“Hey.”
“It’s late,” she says accusingly.
“Were you sleeping?”
“No,” she admits. “I can’t.”
“Me either.” Neither of us says anything for a minute. I’m stretched out on my
bed with a couple of thin pillows behind me, staring at paused screen credits in
Japanese. I click off the movie and scroll through the channel guide.
“Nate, do you remember Olivia Kendrick’s birthday party in fifth grade?”
I do, actually. It was the last birthday party I ever went to at St. Pius, before
my dad withdrew me because we couldn’t pay the tuition anymore. Olivia
invited the whole class and had a scavenger hunt in her yard and the woods
behind it. Bronwyn and I were on the same team, and she tore through those
clues like it was her job and she was up for a promotion. We won and all five of
us got twenty-dollar iTunes gift cards. “Yeah.”
“I think that’s the last time you and I spoke before all this.”
“Maybe.” I remember better than she probably realizes. In fifth grade my
friends started noticing girls and at one point they all had girlfriends for, like, a
week. Stupid kid stuff where they asked a girl out, the girl said yes, and then
they ignored each other. While we were walking through Olivia’s woods I
watched Bronwyn’s ponytail swing in front of me and wondered what she’d say
watched Bronwyn’s ponytail swing in front of me and wondered what she’d say
if I asked her to be my girlfriend. I didn’t do it, though.
“Where’d you go after St. Pi?” she asks.
“Granger.” St. Pius went up to eighth grade, so I wasn’t in school with
Bronwyn again until high school. By then she was in full-on overachiever mode.
She pauses, as though she’s waiting for me to continue, and laughs a little.
“Nate, why’d you call me if you’re only going to give one-word answers to
everything?”
“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”
“Okay.” Another pause. “Did you do it?”
I don’t have to ask what she means. “Yes and no.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Yes, I sold drugs while on probation for selling drugs. No, I didn’t dump
peanut oil in Simon Kelleher’s cup. You?”
“Same,” she says quietly. “Yes and no.”
“So you cheated?”
“Yes.” Her voice wavers, and if she starts crying I don’t know what I’ll do.
Pretend the call dropped, maybe. But she pulls herself together. “I’m really
ashamed. And I’m so afraid of people finding out.”
She’s all worried-sounding, so I probably shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it.
“So you’re not perfect. So what? Welcome to the real world.”
“I’m familiar with the real world.” Bronwyn’s voice is cool. “I don’t live in a
bubble. I’m sorry for what I did, that’s all.”
She probably is, but it’s not the whole truth. Reality’s messier than that. She
had months to confess if it was really eating at her, and she didn’t. I don’t know
why it’s so hard for people to admit that sometimes they’re just assholes who
screw up because they don’t expect to get caught. “You sound more worried
about what people are gonna think,” I say.
“There’s nothing wrong with worrying about what people think. It keeps you
off probation.”
My main phone beeps. It’s next to my bed on the scarred side table that
lurches every time I touch it, because it’s missing a leg tip and I’m too lazy to fix
it. I roll over to read a text from Amber: U up? I’m about to tell Bronwyn I have
to go when she heaves a sigh.
“Sorry. Low blow. It’s just … it’s more complicated than that, for me. I’ve
disappointed both my parents, but it’s worse for my dad. He’s always pushing
against stereotypes because he’s not from here. He built this great reputation,
and I could tarnish the whole thing with one stupid move.”
I’m about to tell her nobody thinks that way. Her family looks pretty
untouchable from where I sit. But I guess everyone has shit to deal with, and I
untouchable from where I sit. But I guess everyone has shit to deal with, and I
don’t know hers. “Where’s your dad from?” I ask instead.
“He was born in Colombia, but moved here when he was ten.”
“What about your mom?”
“Oh, her family’s been here forever. Fourth-generation Irish or something.”
“Mine too,” I say. “But let’s just say my fall from grace won’t surprise
anyone.”
She sighs. “This is all so surreal, isn’t it? That anybody could think either one
of us would actually kill Simon.”
“You’re taking me at my word?” I ask. “I’m on probation, remember?”
“Yeah, but I was there when you tried to help Simon. You’d have to be a
pretty good actor to fake that.”
“If I’m enough of a sociopath to kill Simon I can fake anything, right?”
“You’re not a sociopath.”
“How do you know?” I say it like I’m making fun, but I really want to know
the answer. I’m the guy who got searched. The obvious outlier and scapegoat, as
Officer Lopez said. Someone who lies whenever it’s convenient and would do it
in a heartbeat to save his own ass. I’m not sure how all that adds up to trust for
someone I hadn’t talked to in six years.
Bronwyn doesn’t answer right away, and I stop channel surfing at the Cartoon
Network to watch a snippet of some new show with a kid and a snake. It doesn’t
look promising. “I remember how you used to look out for your mom,” she
finally says. “When she’d show up at school and act … you know. Like she was
sick or something.”
Like she was sick or something. I guess Bronwyn could be referring to the
time my mother screamed at Sister Flynn during parent-teacher conferences and
ended up ripping all our artwork off the walls. Or the way she’d cry on the curb
while she was waiting to pick me up from soccer practice. There’s a lot to
choose from.
“I really liked your mom,” Bronwyn says tentatively when I don’t answer.
“She used to talk to me like I was a grown-up.”
“She’d swear at you, you mean,” I say, and Bronwyn laughs.
“I always thought it was more like she was swearing with me.”
Something about the way she says that gets to me. Like she could see the
person under all the other crap. “She liked you.” I think about Bronwyn in the
stairwell today, her hair still in that shiny ponytail and her face bright. As if
everything is interesting and worth her time. If she were around, she’d like you
now.
“She used to tell me …” Bronwyn pauses. “She said you only teased me so
much because you had a crush on me.”
much because you had a crush on me.”
I glance at Amber’s text, still unanswered. “I might have. I don’t remember.”
Like I said. I lie whenever it’s convenient.
Bronwyn’s quiet for a minute. “I should go. At least try to sleep.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I guess we’ll see what happens tomorrow, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“Well, bye. And, um, Nate?” She speaks quickly, in a rush. “I had a crush on
you back then. For whatever that’s worth. Nothing, probably. But anyway. FYI.
So, good night.”
After she hangs up I put the phone on my bedside table and pick up the other
one. I read Amber’s message again, then type, Come over.
Bronwyn’s naïve if she thinks there’s more to me than that.
Addy
Wednesday, October 3, 7:50 a.m.
Ashton keeps making me go to school. My mother couldn’t care less. As far as
she’s concerned I’ve ruined all our lives, so it doesn’t much matter what I do
anymore. She doesn’t say those exact words, but they’re etched across her face
every time she looks at me.
“Five thousand dollars just to talk to a lawyer, Adelaide,” she hisses at me
over breakfast Thursday morning. “I hope you know that’s coming out of your
college fund.”
I’d roll my eyes if I had the energy. We both know I don’t have a college
fund. She’s been on the phone to my father in Chicago for days, hassling him for
the money. He doesn’t have much to spare, thanks to his second, younger
family, but he’ll probably send at least half to shut her up and feel good about
what an involved parent he is.
Jake still won’t talk to me, and I miss him so much, it’s like I’ve been
hollowed out by a nuclear blast and there’s nothing left but ashes fluttering
inside brittle bones. I’ve sent him dozens of texts that aren’t only unanswered;
they’re unread. He unfriended me on Facebook and unfollowed me on Instagram
and Snapchat. He’s pretending I don’t exist and I’m starting to think he’s right.
If I’m not Jake’s girlfriend, who am I?
He was supposed to be suspended all week for hitting TJ, but his parents
raised a fuss about how Simon’s death has put everyone on edge, so I guess he’s
back today. The thought of seeing him makes me sick enough that I decided to
stay home. Ashton had to drag me out of bed. She’s staying with us indefinitely,
for now.
for now.
“You’re not going to wither up and die from this, Addy,” Ashton lectures as
she shoves me toward the shower. “He doesn’t get to erase you from the world.
God, you made a stupid mistake. It’s not like you murdered someone.
“Well,” she adds with a short, sarcastic laugh, “I guess the jury’s still out on
that one.”
Oh, the gallows humor in our household now. Who knew Prentiss girls had it
in them to be even a little bit funny?
Ashton drives me to Bayview and drops me off out front. “Keep your chin
up,” she advises. “Don’t let that sanctimonious control freak get you down.”
“God, Ash. I did cheat on him, you know. He’s not unprovoked.”
She purses her lips in a hard line. “Still.”
I get out of the car and try to steel myself for the day. School used to be so
easy. I belonged to everything without even trying. Now I’m barely hanging on
to the edges of who I used to be, and when I catch my reflection in a window I
hardly recognize the girl staring back at me. She’s in my clothes—the kind of
formfitting top and tight jeans that Jake likes—but her hollow cheeks and dead
eyes don’t match the outfit.
My hair looks tremendous, though. At least I have that going for me.
There’s only one person who looks worse than me at school, and that’s Janae.
She must have lost ten pounds since Simon died, and her skin’s a mess. Her
mascara’s running all the time, so I guess she cries in the bathroom between
classes as much as I do. It’s surprising we haven’t run into each other yet.
I see Jake at his locker almost as soon as I enter the hallway. All the blood
rushes out of my head, making me so light-headed I actually sway as I walk
toward him. His expression is calm and preoccupied as he twirls his
combination. For a second I hope everything’s going to be fine, that his time
away from school has helped him cool off and forgive me. “Hi, Jake,” I say.
His face changes in an instant from neutral to livid. He yanks his locker open
with a scowl and pulls out an armful of books, stuffing them into his backpack.
He slams his locker, shoulders his backpack, and turns away.
“Are you ever going to talk to me again?” I ask. My voice is tiny, breathless.
Pathetic.
He turns and gives me such a hate-filled look that I step backward. “Not if I
can help it.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Everyone’s staring at me as Jake stalks away. I catch
Vanessa smirking from a few lockers over. She’s loving this. How did I ever
think she was my friend? She’ll probably go after Jake soon, if she hasn’t
already. I stumble in front of my own locker, my hand stretching toward the
lock. It takes a few seconds for the word written in thick black Sharpie to sink in.
WHORE.
Muffled laughter surrounds me as my eyes trace the two Vs that make up the
W. They cross each other in a distinctive, loopy scrawl. I’ve made dozens of pep
rally posters for the Bayview Wildcats with Vanessa, and teased her for her
funny-looking Ws. She didn’t even try to hide it. I guess she wanted me to know.
I force myself to walk, not run, to the nearest bathroom. Two girls stand at the
mirror, fixing their makeup, and I duck past them into the farthest stall. I
collapse onto the toilet seat and cry silently, burying my head in my hands.
The first bell rings but I stay where I am, tears rolling down my cheeks until
I’m cried out. I fold my arms onto my knees and lower my head, immobile as the
second bell rings and girls come in and out of the bathroom again. Snatches of
conversation float through the room and, yeah, some of it’s about me. I plug my
ears and try not to listen.
It’s the middle of third period by the time I uncoil myself and stand. I unlock
the stall door and head for the mirror, pushing my hair away from my face. My
mascara’s washed away, but I’ve been here long enough that my eyes aren’t
puffy. I stare at my reflection and try to collect my scattered thoughts. I can’t
deal with classes today. I’d go to the nurse’s office and claim a headache, but I
don’t feel comfortable there now that I’m a suspected EpiPen thief. That leaves
only one option: getting out of here and going home.
I’m in the back stairwell with my hand on the door when heavy footsteps
pound the stairs. I turn to see TJ Forrester coming down; his nose is still swollen
and framed by a black eye. He stops when he sees me, one hand gripping the
banister. “Hey, Addy.”
“Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“I have a doctor’s appointment.” He puts a hand to his nose and grimaces. “I
might have a deviated septum.”
“Serves you right.” The bitter words burst out before I can stop them.
TJ’s mouth falls open, then closes, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“I didn’t say anything to Jake, Addy. I swear to God. I didn’t want this to come
out any more than you did. It’s messed things up for me too.” He touches his
nose again gingerly.
I wasn’t actually thinking about Jake; I was thinking about Simon. But of
course TJ wouldn’t know anything about the unpublished posts. How did Simon
know, though? “We were the only two people there,” I hedge. “You must have
told somebody.”
TJ shakes his head, wincing as though the movement hurts. “We were kissing
on a public beach before we got to my house, remember? Anyone could have
on a public beach before we got to my house, remember? Anyone could have
seen us.”
“But they wouldn’t have known—” I stop, realizing Simon’s site never said
TJ and I slept together. He implied it, pretty heavily, but that was it. Maybe I’d
overconfessed. The thought sickens me, although I’m not sure I could have
managed to tell Jake only a half-truth anyway. He’d have gotten it out of me
eventually.
TJ looks at me with regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry this sucks so bad for you.
For what it’s worth, I think Jake’s being a jerk. But I didn’t tell anybody.” He
puts a hand over his heart. “Swear on my granddad’s grave. I know that doesn’t
mean anything to you but it does to me.” I finally nod, and he lets out a deep
breath. “Where are you going?”
“Home. I can’t stand being here. All my friends hate me.” I’m not sure why
I’m telling him this, other than the fact that I don’t have anyone else to tell. “I
doubt they’ll even let me sit with them now that Jake’s back.” It’s true. Cooper’s
out today, visiting his sick grandmother and probably, although he didn’t say so,
meeting with his lawyer. With him gone nobody will dare stand up to Jake’s
anger. Or want to.
“Screw them.” TJ gives me a lopsided grin. “If they’re still being assholes
tomorrow, come sit with me. They wanna talk, let’s give them something to talk
about.”
It shouldn’t make me smile, but it almost does.
Chapter Twelve
Bronwyn
Thursday, October 4, 12:20 p.m.
I got lulled into a false sense of complacency.
It happens, I guess, even during the worst week of your life. Horrible, earthshattering stuff piles on top of you until you’re about to suffocate and then—it
stops. And nothing else happens, so you start to relax and think you’re in the
clear.
That’s a rookie mistake that smacks me in the face Thursday during lunch
when the usual low-grade cafeteria buzz suddenly grows and swells. At first I
look around, interested, like anyone would be, and wondering why everyone’s
suddenly pulled out their phones. But before I can take mine out, I notice the
heads swiveling in my direction.
“Oh.” Maeve is quicker than me, and her soft exhalation as she scans her
phone is loaded with so much regret that my heart sinks. She catches her bottom
lip between her teeth and wrinkles her forehead. “Bronwyn. It’s, um, another
Tumblr. About … well. Here.”
I take her phone, heart pounding, and read the exact same words Detective
Mendoza showed me on Sunday after Simon’s funeral. First time this app has
ever featured good-girl BR, possessor of school’s most perfect academic record
…
It’s all there. Simon’s unpublished entries for each of us, with an added note at
the bottom:
Did you think I was joking about killing Simon? Read it and weep, kids. Everyone in detention
with Simon last week had an extraspecial reason for wanting him gone. Exhibit A: the posts
above, which he was about to publish on About That.
Now here’s your assignment: connect the dots. Is everybody in it together, or is somebody
pulling strings? Who’s the puppet master and who’s the puppet?
I’ll give you a hint to get you started: everyone’s lying.
GO!
I raise my eyes and lock on Maeve’s. She knows the truth, all of it, but I
haven’t told Yumiko or Kate. Because I thought maybe this could stay
haven’t told Yumiko or Kate. Because I thought maybe this could stay
contained, quiet, while the police ran their investigation in the background and
then closed it out from lack of evidence.
I’m pathetically naïve. Obviously.
“Bronwyn?” I can barely hear Yumiko over the roaring in my ears. “Is this for
real?”
“Fuck this Tumblr bullshit.” I’d be startled at Maeve’s language if I hadn’t
vaulted over my surprise threshold two minutes ago. “I bet I could hack that
stupid thing and figure out who’s behind it.”
“Maeve, no!” My voice is so loud. I lower it and switch to Spanish. “No lo
hagas … No queremos …”
I force myself to stop talking as Kate and Yumiko keep staring at me. You
can’t. We don’t want. That should be enough, for now.
But Maeve won’t shut up. “I don’t care,” she says furiously. “You might, but I
—”
Saved by the loudspeaker. Sort of. Déjà vu seizes me as a disembodied voice
floats through the room: “Attention, please. Would Cooper Clay, Nate
Macauley, Adelaide Prentiss, and Bronwyn Rojas please report to the main
office. Cooper Clay, Nate Macauley, Adelaide Prentiss, and Bronwyn Rojas to
the main office.”
I don’t remember getting to my feet, but I must have, because here I am,
moving. Shuffling like a zombie past the stares and whispers, weaving through
tables until I get to the cafeteria exit. Down the hallway, past homecoming
posters that are three weeks old now. Our planning committee is slacking, which
would inspire more disdain if I weren’t on it.
When I get to the main office, the receptionist gestures toward the conference
room with the weary wave of someone who thinks I should know the drill by
now. I’m the last to arrive—at least, I think I am, unless Bayview Police or
school committee members are joining us. “Close the door, Bronwyn,” Principal
Gupta says. I comply and sidle past her to take a seat between Nate and Addy,
across from Cooper.
Principal Gupta steeples her fingers under her chin. “I’m sure I don’t have to
tell you why you’re here. We’ve been keeping an eye on that repulsive Tumblr
site and got today’s update as soon as you did. At the same time, we’ve had a
request from the Bayview Police Department to make the student body available
for interviews starting tomorrow. My understanding, based on conversations
with police, is that today’s Tumblr is an accurate reflection of posts Simon wrote
before he died. I realize most of you now have legal representation, which of
course the school respects. But this is a safe space. If there’s anything you’d like
to tell me that might help the school better understand the pressures you were
facing, now is the time.”
I stare at her as my knees start to tremble. Is she for real? Now is most
definitely not the time. Still, I feel this almost irresistible urge to answer her, to
explain myself, until a hand under the table grasps mine. Nate doesn’t look at
me, but his fingers thread through mine, warm and strong, resting against my
shaking leg. He’s in his Guinness T-shirt again, and the material stretches thin
and soft across his shoulders, as though it’s been through hundreds of washes. I
glance at him and he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“Ah got nothin’ more to say than what ah told ya last week,” Cooper drawls.
“Me either,” Addy says quickly. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she looks
exhausted, her pixie features pinched. She’s so pale, I notice the light dusting of
freckles across her nose for the first time. Or maybe she’s just not wearing
makeup. I think with a stab of sympathy that she’s been the hardest hit of anyone
so far.
“I hardly think—” Principal Gupta begins, when the door opens and the
receptionist sticks her head in.
“Bayview Police on line one,” she says, and Principal Gupta gets to her feet.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
She closes the door behind her and the four of us sit in strained silence,
listening to the hum of the air conditioner. It’s the first time we’ve all been in
one room together since Officer Budapest questioned us last week. I almost
laugh when I remember how clueless we were then, arguing about unfair
detentions and junior prom court.
Although to be fair, that was mostly me.
Nate lets go of my hand and tips his chair back, surveying the room. “Well.
This is awkward.”
“Are you guys all right?” My words come out in a rush, surprising me. I’m
not sure what I intended to say, but that wasn’t it. “This is unreal. That they—
suspect us.”
“It was an accident,” Addy says immediately. Not like she’s positive, though.
More like she’s testing a theory.
Cooper slides his eyes over to Nate. “Weird kind of accident. How does
peanut oil get in a cup all by itself?”
“Maybe someone came into the room at some point and we didn’t notice,” I
say, and Nate rolls his eyes at me. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but—you have
to consider everything, right? It’s not impossible.”
“Lots of people hated Simon,” Addy says. From the hard set of her jaw, she’s
one of them. “He ruined plenty of lives. You guys remember Aiden Wu? In our
class, transferred sophomore year?” I’m the only one who nods, so Addy turns
class, transferred sophomore year?” I’m the only one who nods, so Addy turns
her gaze on me. “My sister knows his sister from college. Aiden didn’t transfer
for the hell of it. He had a breakdown after Simon posted about his crossdressing.”
“Seriously?” Nate asks. Cooper runs a hand back and forth over his hair.
“You remember those spotlight posts Simon used to do when he first launched
the app?” Addy asks. “More in-depth stuff, like a blog, almost?”
My throat gets tight. “I remember.”
“Well, he did that with Aiden,” Addy says. “It was straight-up evil.”
Something about her tone makes me uneasy. I never thought I’d hear shallow
little Addy Prentiss speak with such venom in her voice. Or have an opinion of
her own.
Cooper jumps in hastily, like he’s worried she’s going to go off on a rant.
“That’s what Leah Jackson said at the memorial service. I ran into her under the
bleachers. She said we were all hypocrites for treating him like some kind of
martyr.”
“Well, there you go,” Nate says. “You were right, Bronwyn. The entire
school’s probably been walking around with bottles of peanut oil in their
backpacks, waiting for their chance.”
“Not just any peanut oil,” Addy says, and we all turn to her. “It would have to
be cold-pressed for a person with allergies to react to it. The gourmet type,
basically.”
Nate stares at her, brow creased. “How would you know that?”
Addy shrugs. “I saw it on the Food Network once.”
“Maybe that’s the sort of thing you keep to yourself when Gupta comes back,”
Nate suggests, and the ghost of a grin flits across Addy’s face.
Cooper glares at Nate. “This isn’t a joke.”
Nate yawns, unperturbed. “Feels like it sometimes.”
I swallow hard, my mind still churning through the conversation. Leah and I
were friendly once—we partnered in a Model United Nations competition that
brought us to the state finals at the beginning of junior year. Simon had wanted
to participate too, but we told him the wrong application deadline and he missed
the cutoff. It wasn’t on purpose, but he never believed that and was furious with
both of us. A few weeks later he started writing about Leah’s sex life on About
That. Usually Simon posted something once and let it go, but with Leah, he kept
the updates coming. It was personal. I’m sure he’d have done the same to me if
there had been anything to find back then.
When Leah started sliding off the rails, she asked me if I’d misled Simon on
purpose. I hadn’t but still felt guilty, especially once she slit her wrists. Nothing
was the same for her after Simon started his campaign against her.
was the same for her after Simon started his campaign against her.
I don’t know what going through something like that does to a person.
Principal Gupta comes back into the room, shutting the door behind her and
settling into her seat. “My apologies, but that couldn’t wait. Where were we?”
Silence falls for a few seconds, until Cooper clears his throat. “With all due
respect, ma’am, I think we were agreeing we can’t have this conversation.”
There’s a steel in his voice that wasn’t there before, and in an instant I feel the
energy of the room coalesce and shift. We don’t trust one another, that’s pretty
obvious—but we trust Principal Gupta and the Bayview Police Department even
less. She sees it too and pushes her chair back.
“It’s important you know this door is always open to you,” she says, but we’re
already getting to our feet and opening the door ourselves.
I’m out of sorts and anxious for the rest of the day, going through the motions of
everything I’m supposed to do at school and at home. But I can’t relax, not
really, until the clock inches past midnight and the phone Nate gave me rings.
He’s called me every night since Monday, always around the same time. He’s
told me things I couldn’t have imagined about his mother’s illness and his
father’s drinking. I’ve told him about Maeve’s cancer and the nameless pressure
I’ve always felt to be twice as good at everything. Sometimes we don’t talk at
all. Last night he suggested we watch a movie, and we both logged in to Netflix
and watched a god-awful horror movie he picked until two in the morning. I fell
asleep with my earbuds still in, and might have snored in his ear at some point.
“Your turn to pick a movie,” he says by way of greeting. I’ve noticed that
about Nate; he doesn’t do pleasantries. Just starts with whatever’s on his mind.
My mind’s elsewhere, though. “I’m looking,” I say, and we’re silent for a
minute as I scroll through Netflix titles without really seeing them. It’s no good;
I can’t go straight into movie mode. “Nate, are you in trouble because of how
everything came out at school today?” After I left Principal Gupta’s office, the
rest of the afternoon was a blur of stares, whispers, and uncomfortable
conversations with Kate and Yumiko once I finally explained what had been
going on for the past few days.
He snorts a short laugh. “I was in trouble before. Nothing’s changed.”
“My friends are mad at me for not telling them.”
“About cheating? Or being investigated by the police?”
“Both. I hadn’t said anything about either. I thought maybe it would all go
away and they’d never have to know.” Robin had said not to answer any
questions about the case, but I didn’t see how I could apply that to my two best
friends. When the whole school’s starting to turn against you, you need
somebody on your side. “I wish I could remember more about that day. What
class were you in when Mr. Avery found the phone in your backpack?”
“Physical science,” Nate says. “Science for dummies, in other words. You?”
“Independent study,” I say, chewing the sides of my cheeks. Ironically
enough, my stellar grades in chemistry let me construct my own science course
senior year. “I suppose Simon would’ve been in AP physics. I don’t know what
classes Addy and Cooper have with Mr. Avery, but in detention they acted
surprised to see each other.”
“So?” Nate asks.
“Well, they’re friends, right? You’d think they’d have talked about it. Or even
been in the same class when it happened.”
“Who knows. Could’ve been homeroom or study period for one of them.
Avery’s a jack-of-all-trades,” Nate says. When I don’t reply, he adds, “What,
you think those two masterminded the whole thing?”
“Just following a train of thought,” I say. “I feel like the police are barely
paying attention to how weird that phone situation is, because they’re so sure
we’re all in it together. I mean, when you think about it, Mr. Avery knows better
than anyone what classes we have with him. Maybe he did it. Planted phones in
all our backpacks and coated the cups with peanut oil before we got there. He’s a
science teacher; he’d know how to do that.”
Even as I say it, though, the mental image of our frail, mousy teacher
manically doctoring cups before detention doesn’t ring true. Neither does
Cooper making off with the school’s EpiPens, or Addy hatching a murder
scheme while watching the Food Network.
But I don’t really know any of them. Including Nate. Even though it feels like
I do.
“Anything’s possible,” Nate says. “You pick a movie yet?”
I’m tempted to choose something cool and art house-y to impress him, except
he’d probably see right through it. Plus he picked a crap horror movie, so there’s
not a lot to live up to. “Have you seen Divergent?”
“No.” His tone is wary. “And I don’t want to.”
“Tough. I didn’t want to watch a bunch of people get killed by a mist created
from an alien tear in the space-time continuum, but I did.”
“Damn it.” Nate sounds resigned. He pauses, then asks, “You have it
buffered?”
“Yes. Hit Play.” And we do.
Chapter Thirteen
Cooper
Friday, October 5, 3:30 p.m.
I pick Lucas up after school and stop by Nonny’s hospital room before our
parents get there. She’d been asleep most of the time we visited all week, but
today she’s sitting up in bed with the TV remote in hand. “This television only
gets three channels,” she complains as Lucas and I hover in the doorway. “We
might as well be in 1985. And the food is terrible. Lucas, do you have any
candy?”
“No, ma’am,” Lucas says, flipping his too-long hair out of his eyes. Nonny
turns a hopeful face to me, and I’m struck by how old she looks. I mean, sure,
she’s well into her eighties, but she’s always had so much energy that I never
really noticed. It hits me now that even though her doctor says she’s recovering
well, we’ll be lucky to go a few years before something like this happens again.
And then at some point, she’s not gonna be around at all.
“I got nothin’. Sorry,” I say, dropping my head to hide my stinging eyes.
Nonny lets out a theatrical sigh. “Well, goddamn. You boys are pretty, but not
helpful from a practical standpoint.” She rummages on the side table next to her
bed and finds a rumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Lucas, go downstairs to the gift
shop and buy three Snickers bars. One for each of us. Keep the change and take
your time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lucas’s eyes gleam as he calculates his profit. He’s out the
door in a flash, and Nonny settles back against a stack of hospital pillows.
“Off he goes to pad his pockets, bless his mercenary little heart,” she says
fondly.
“Are you supposed to be eating candy right now?” I ask.
“Of course not. But I want to hear how you’re doing, darlin’. Nobody tells me
anything but I hear things.”
I lower myself into the side chair next to her bed, eyes on the floor. I don’t
trust myself to look at her yet. “You should rest, Nonny.”
“Cooper, this was the least dangerous heart attack in cardiac history. A blip on
the monitor. Too much bacon, that’s all. Catch me up on the Simon Kelleher
the monitor. Too much bacon, that’s all. Catch me up on the Simon Kelleher
situation. I promise you it will not cause a relapse.”
I blink a few times and imagine myself getting ready to throw a slider:
straightening my wrist, placing my fingers on the outer portion of the baseball,
letting the ball roll off my thumb and index finger. It works; my eyes dry and my
breathing evens out, and I can finally meet Nonny’s eyes. “It’s a goddamn
mess.”
She sighs and pats my hand. “Oh, darlin’. Of course it is.”
I tell her everything: How Simon’s rumors about us are all over school now,
and how the police set up shop in the administrative offices today and
interviewed everybody we know. Plus lots of people we don’t know. How Coach
Ruffalo hasn’t pulled me aside yet to ask whether I’m on the juice but I’m sure
he will soon. How we had a sub for astronomy because Mr. Avery was holed up
in another room with two police officers. Whether he was being questioned like
we’d been or giving some kind of evidence against us, I couldn’t tell.
Nonny shakes her head when I finish. She can’t set her hair here the way she
does at home, and it bobs around like loose cotton. “I could not be sorrier you
got pulled into this, Cooper. You of all people. It’s not right.”
I wait for her to ask me, but she doesn’t. So I finally say—tentatively, because
after spending days with lawyers it feels wrong to state anything like an actual
fact—“I didn’t do what they say, Nonny. I didn’t use steroids and I didn’t hurt
Simon.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, Cooper.” Nonny brushes impatiently at her
hospital blanket. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
I swallow hard. Somehow, the fact that Nonny accepts my word without
question makes me feel guilty. “The lawyer’s costing a fortune and she’s not
helping. Nothing’s getting better.”
“Things’ll get worse before they get better,” Nonny says placidly. “That’s
how it goes. And don’t you worry about the cost. I’m payin’ for it.”
A fresh wave of guilt hits me. “Can you afford that?”
“Course I can. Your grandfather and I bought a lot of Apple stock in the
nineties. Just because I didn’t hand it all over to your father to buy a McMansion
in this overpriced town doesn’t mean I couldn’t have. Now. Tell me something I
don’t know.”
I’m not sure what she means. I could mention how Jake is freezing out Addy
and all our friends are joining in, but that’s too depressing. “Not much else to
tell, Nonny.”
“How’s Keely handling all this?”
“Like a vine. Clingy,” I say before I can stop myself. Then I feel horrible.
Keely’s been nothing but supportive, and it’s not her fault that makes me feel
Keely’s been nothing but supportive, and it’s not her fault that makes me feel
suffocated.
“Cooper.” Nonny takes my hand in both of hers. They’re small and light,
threaded with thick blue veins. “Keely is a beautiful, sweet girl. But if she’s not
who you love, she’s just not. And that’s fine.”
My throat goes dry and I stare at the game show on the screen. Somebody’s
about to win a new washer/dryer set and they’re pretty happy about it. Nonny
doesn’t say anything else, just keeps holding my hand. “I dunno whatcha mean,”
I say.
If Nonny notices my good ol’ boy accent coming and going, she doesn’t
mention it. “I mean, Cooper Clay, I’ve been in the room when that girl calls or
texts you, and you always look like you’re trying to escape. Then someone else
calls and your face lights up like a Christmas tree. I don’t know what’s holding
you back, darlin’, but I wish you’d stop letting it. It’s not fair to you or to
Keely.” She squeezes my hand and releases it. “We don’t have to talk about it
now. In fact, could you please hunt down that brother of yours? It may not have
been the best idea I ever had to let a twelve-year-old wander the hospital with
money burning a hole in his pocket.”
“Yeah, sure.” She’s letting me off the hook and we both know it. I stand up
and ease out of the room into a hallway crowded with nurses in brightly colored
scrubs. Every one of them stops what they’re doing and smiles at me. “You need
help, hon?” the one closest to me asks.
It’s been that way my whole life. People see me and immediately think the
best of me. Once they know me, they like me even more.
If it ever came out that I’d actually done something to Simon, plenty of people
would hate me. But there’d also be people who’d make excuses for me, and say
there must be more to my story than just getting accused of using steroids.
The thing is, they’d be right.
Nate
Friday, October 5, 11:30 p.m.
My father’s awake for a change when I get home Friday from a party at Amber’s
house. It was still going strong when I left, but I’d had enough. I’ve got ramen
noodles on the stove and toss some vegetables into Stan’s cage. As usual he just
blinks at them like an ingrate.
“You’re home early,” my father says. He looks the same as ever—like hell.
Bloated and wrinkled with a pasty, yellow tinge to his skin. His hand shakes
when he lifts his glass. A couple of months ago I came home one night and he
was barely breathing, so I called an ambulance. He spent a few days in the
hospital, where doctors told him his liver was so damaged he could drop dead at
any time. He nodded and acted like he gave a shit, then came home and cracked
another bottle of Seagram’s.
I’ve been ignoring that ambulance bill for weeks. It’s almost a thousand
dollars thanks to our crap insurance, and now that I have zero income there’s
even less chance we can pay it.
“I have things to do.” I dump the noodles into a bowl and head for my room
with them.
“Seen my phone?” my father calls after me. “Kept ringing today but I couldn’t
find it.”
“That’s ’cause it’s not on the couch,” I mutter, and shut my door behind me.
He was probably hallucinating. His phone hasn’t rung in months.
I scarf down my noodles in five minutes, then settle back onto my pillows and
put in my earbuds so I can call Bronwyn. It’s my turn to pick a movie, thank
God, but we’re barely half an hour into Ringu when Bronwyn decides she’s had
enough.
“I can’t watch this alone. It’s too scary,” she says.
“You’re not alone. I’m watching it with you.”
“Not with me. I need a person in the room for something like this. Let’s watch
something else instead. My turn to pick.”
“I’m not watching another goddamn Divergent movie, Bronwyn.” I wait a
beat before adding, “You should come over and watch Ringu with me. Climb out
your window and drive here.” I say it like it’s a joke, and it mostly is. Unless she
says yes.
Bronwyn pauses, and I can tell she’s thinking about it as a not-joke. “My
window’s a fifteen-foot drop to the ground,” she says. Joke.
“So use a door. You’ve got, like, ten of them in that house.” Joke.
“My parents would kill me if they found out.” Not-joke. Which means she’s
considering it. I picture her sitting next to me in those little shorts she had on
when I was at her house, her leg pressed against mine, and my breathing gets
shallow.
“Why would they?” I ask. “You said they can sleep through anything.” Notjoke. “Come on, just for an hour till we finish the movie. You can meet my
lizard.” It takes a few seconds of silence for me to realize how that might be
interpreted. “That’s not a line. I have an actual lizard. A bearded dragon named
Stan.”
Bronwyn laughs so hard she almost chokes. “Oh my God. That would have
been completely out of character and yet … for a second I really did think you
meant something else.”
meant something else.”
I can’t help laughing too. “Hey, girl. You were into that smooth talk. Admit
it.”
“At least it’s not an anaconda,” Bronwyn sputters. I laugh harder, but I’m still
kind of turned on. Weird combination.
“Come over,” I say. Not-joke.
I listen to her breathe for a while, until she says, “I can’t.”
“Okay.” I’m not disappointed. I never really thought she would. “But you
need to pick a different movie.”
We agree on the last Bourne movie and I’m watching it with my eyes halfclosed, listening to increasingly frequent texts from Amber chime in the
background. She might be starting to think we’re something we’re not. I reach
for that phone to shut it down when Bronwyn says, “Nate. Your phone.”
“What?”
“Someone keeps texting you.”
“So?”
“So it’s really late.”
“And?” I ask, annoyed. I hadn’t pegged Bronwyn as the possessive type,
especially when all we ever do is talk on the phone and she just turned down my
joke-not-joke invitation.
“It’s not … customers, is it?”
I exhale and shut the other phone off. “No. I told you, I’m not doing that
anymore. I’m not stupid.”
“All right.” She sounds relieved, but tired. Her voice is starting to drag. “I
might go to sleep now.”
“Okay. Do you want to hang up?”
“No.” She laughs thickly, already half-asleep. “I’m running out of minutes,
though. I just got a warning. I have half an hour left.”
Those prepaid phones have hundreds of minutes on them, and she’s had it less
than a week. I didn’t realize we’d been talking that much. “I’ll give you another
phone tomorrow,” I tell her, before I remember tomorrow’s Saturday and we
don’t have school. “Bronwyn, wait. You need to hang up.”
I think she’s already asleep until she mutters, “What?”
“Hang up, okay? So your minutes don’t run out and I can call you tomorrow
about getting you another phone.”
“Oh. Right. Okay. Good night, Nate.”
“Good night.” I hang up and place the two phones side by side, pick up the
remote, and shut off the TV. Might as well go to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Addy
Saturday, October 6, 9:30 a.m.
I’m at home with Ashton and we’re trying to figure out something to do. But we
keep getting stuck on the fact that nothing interests me.
“Come on, Addy.” I’m lying across an armchair, and Ashton nudges me with
her foot from the couch. “What would you normally do on a weekend? And
don’t say hang out with Jake,” she adds quickly.
“But that is what I’d do,” I whine. Pathetic, but I can’t help it. I’ve had this
awful sickening lurch in my stomach all week, as though I’d been walking along
a sturdy bridge and it vanished under my feet.
“Can you honestly not come up with a single, non-Jake-related thing you
like?”
I shift in my seat and consider the question. What did I do before Jake? I was
fourteen when we started dating, still partly a kid. My best friend was Rowan
Flaherty, a girl I’d grown up with who moved to Texas later that year. We’d
drifted apart in ninth grade when she had zero interest in boys, but the summer
before high school we’d still ridden our bikes all over town together. “I like
riding my bike,” I say uncertainly, even though I haven’t been on one in years.
Ashton claps her hands as if I’m a reluctant toddler she’s trying to get excited
about a new activity. “Let’s do that! Ride bikes somewhere.”
Ugh, no. I don’t want to move. I don’t have the energy. “I gave mine away
years ago. It was half-rusted under the porch. And you don’t have one anyway.”
“We’ll use those rental bikes—what are they called? Hub Bikes or something?
They’re all over town. Let’s find some.”
I sigh. “Ash, you can’t babysit me forever. I appreciate you keeping me from
falling apart all week, but you’ve got a life. You should get back to Charlie.”
Ashton doesn’t answer right away. She goes into the kitchen, and I hear the
refrigerator door opening and the faint clink of bottles. When she returns she’s
holding a Corona and a San Pellegrino, which she hands to me. She ignores my
raised eyebrows—it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning—and takes a long sip
of beer as she sits down, crossing her legs beneath her. “Charlie’s happy as can
of beer as she sits down, crossing her legs beneath her. “Charlie’s happy as can
be. I’m guessing he’s moved his girlfriend in by now.”
“What?” I forget how tired I am and sit up straight.
“I caught them when I went home to get more clothes last weekend. It was all
so horribly clichéd. I even threw a vase at his head.”
“Did you hit him?” I ask hopefully. And hypocritically, I guess. After all, I’m
the Charlie in my and Jake’s relationship. She shakes her head and takes another
gulp of her beer.
“Ash.” I move from my armchair and sit next to her on the couch. She’s not
crying, but her eyes are shiny, and when I put my hand on her arm she swallows
hard. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”
“You had enough to worry about.”
“But it’s your marriage!” I can’t help looking at Ashton and Charlie’s
wedding photo from two years ago, which sits next to my junior prom picture on
our mantel. They were such a perfect couple, people used to joke that they
looked as though they came with the frame. Ashton had been so happy that day,
gorgeous and glowing and giddy.
And relieved. I’d tried to squash the idea because I knew it was catty, but I
couldn’t help thinking Ashton had feared losing Charlie right up till the day she
married him. He was tremendous on paper—handsome, good family, headed to
Stanford Law—and our mother had been thrilled. It wasn’t until they’d been
married a year that I noticed Ashton almost never laughed when Charlie was
around.
“It’s been over for a while, Addy. I should have left six months ago, but I was
too much of a coward. I didn’t want to be alone, I guess. Or admit I’d failed. I’ll
find my own place eventually, but I’ll be here for a while.” She shoots me a wry
look. “All right. I’ve made my true confession. Now you tell me something.
Why did you lie when Officer Budapest asked about being in the nurse’s office
the day Simon died?”
I let go of her arm. “I didn’t—”
“Addy. Come on. You started playing with your hair as soon as he brought it
up. You always do that when you’re nervous.” Her tone’s matter-of-fact, not
accusing. “I don’t believe for one second you took those EpiPens, so what are
you hiding?”
Tears prick my eyes. I’m so tired, suddenly, of all the half-truths I’ve piled up
over the past days and weeks. Months. Years. “It’s so stupid, Ash.”
“Tell me.”
“I didn’t go for myself. I went to get Tylenol for Jake, because he had a
headache. And I didn’t want to say so in front of you because I knew you’d give
me that look.”
“What look?”
“You know. That whole Addy-you’re-such-a-doormat look.”
“I don’t think that,” Ashton says quietly. A fat tear rolls down my cheek, and
she reaches over to brush it away.
“You should. I am.”
“Not anymore,” Ashton says, and that does it. I start flat-out bawling, curled
in the fetal position in a corner of the couch with Ashton’s arms around me. I
don’t even know who or what I’m crying for: Jake, Simon, my friends, my
mother, my sister, myself. All of the above, I guess.
When the tears finally stop I’m raw and exhausted, my eyelids hot and my
shoulders sore from shaking for so long. But I feel lighter and cleaner too, like
I’ve purged something that’s been making me sick. Ashton gets me a pile of
Kleenex and gives me a minute to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. When I’ve
finally wadded up all the damp tissues and tossed them into a corner
wastebasket, she takes a small sip of her beer and wrinkles her nose. “This
doesn’t taste as good as I thought it would. Come on, let’s ride bikes.”
I can’t say no to her now. So I trail after her to the park a half mile from our
house, where there’s a whole row of rental bikes. Ashton figures out the sign-up
deal, swiping her credit card to release two bikes. We don’t have helmets, but
we’re just going around the park so it doesn’t really matter.
I haven’t ridden a bike in years but I guess it’s true what they say: you don’t
forget how. After a wobbly start we take off on the wide path through the park
and I have to admit, it’s kind of fun. The breeze flutters through my hair as my
legs pump and my heart rate accelerates. It’s the first time in a week I haven’t
felt half-dead. I’m surprised when Ashton stops and says, “Hour’s up.” She
catches sight of my face and asks, “Should we rent for another hour?”
I grin at her. “Yeah, okay.” We get tired about halfway through, though, and
return the bikes so we can go to a café and rehydrate. Ashton gets our drinks
while I find seats, and I scroll through my messages while I wait for her. It takes
a lot less time than it used to—I only have a couple from Cooper, asking if I’m
going to Olivia’s party tonight.
Olivia and I have been friends since freshman year, but she hasn’t spoken to
me all week. Pretty sure I’m not invited, I text.
“Only Girl” trills out with Cooper’s response. I make a mental note that when
all this is over and I have a minute to think straight, I’m going to change my text
tone to something less annoying. That’s BS. They’re your friends too.
Sitting this one out, I write. Have fun. At this point, I’m not even sad about
being excluded. It’s just one more thing.
Cooper doesn’t get it. I guess I should thank him; if he’d dropped me like
Cooper doesn’t get it. I guess I should thank him; if he’d dropped me like
everyone else, Vanessa would have gone nuclear on me by now. But she doesn’t
dare cross the homecoming king, even when he’s been accused of steroid use.
School opinion is split down the middle about whether he did it or not, but he’s
not saying either way.
I wonder if I could have done the same—bluffed and brazened my way
through this whole nightmare without telling Jake the truth. Then I look at my
sister, chuckling with the guy behind the coffee counter in a way she never did
with Charlie, and remember how careful and contained I always had to be
around Jake. If I was going to the party tonight I’d have to wear something he
picked out, stay as late as he wanted, and not talk to anyone who might make
him mad.
I miss him still. I do. But I don’t miss that.
Bronwyn
Saturday, October 6, 10:30 a.m.
My feet fly over the familiar path as my arms and legs match the rhythm of the
music blaring in my ears. My heart accelerates and the fears that have been
crowding my brain all week recede, replaced by pure physical effort. When I
finish my run I’m drained but pumped full of endorphins, and feel almost
cheerful as I head for the library to pick up Maeve. It’s our usual Saturdaymorning routine, but I can’t find her in any of her typical spots and have to text
her.
Fourth floor, she replies, so I head for the children’s room.
She’s sitting on a tiny chair near the window, tapping away at one of the
computers. “Revisiting your childhood?” I ask, sinking to the floor beside her.
“No,” Maeve says, her eyes on the screen. She lowers her voice to almost a
whisper. “I’m in the admin panel for About That.”
It takes a second for what she said to register, and when it does my heart takes
a panicky leap. “Maeve, what the hell? What are you doing?”
“Looking around. Don’t freak out,” she adds with a sideways glance at me.
“I’m not disturbing anything, but even if I were, nobody would know it’s me.
I’m at a public computer.”
“Using your library card!” I hiss. You can’t get online here without entering
your account number.
“No. Using his.” Maeve inclines her head toward a small boy a few tables
over with a stack of picture books in front of him. I stare at her incredulously,
and she shrugs. “I didn’t take it from him. He left it lying out and I wrote down
the numbers.”
The little boy’s mother joins him then, smiling as she catches Maeve’s eye.
She’d never guess my sweet-faced sister just committed identity theft against her
six-year-old.
I can’t think of anything to say except “Why?”
“I wanted to see what the police are seeing,” Maeve says. “If there were any
other draft posts, other people who might’ve wanted to keep Simon quiet.”
I inch forward in spite of myself. “Were there?”
“No, but there is something odd. About Cooper’s post. It’s date-stamped days
after everyone else’s, for the night before Simon died. There’s an earlier file
with his name on it, but it’s encrypted and I can’t open it.”
“So?”
“I don’t know. But it’s different, which makes it interesting. I need to come
back with a thumb drive and download it.” I blink at her, trying to pinpoint the
exact moment when she morphed into a hacker-investigator. “There’s something
else. Simon’s user name for the site is AnarchiSK. I Googled it and came up
with a bunch of 4chan threads he posted to constantly. I didn’t have time to read
them, but we should.”
“Why?” I ask as she loops her backpack over her shoulder and gets to her feet.
“Because something’s weird about all this,” Maeve says matter-of-factly,
leading me out the door and down the stairs. “Don’t you think?”
“Understatement of the year,” I mutter. I stop in the empty stairwell, so she
does too, half turning with a questioning look. “Maeve, how’d you even get into
Simon’s admin panel? How did you know where to look?”
A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “You’re not the only one who
grabs confidential information off computers other people were using.”
I gape at her. “So you—so Simon was posting About That at school? And left
it open?”
“Of course not. Simon was smart. He did it here. Not sure if it was a one-time
thing or if he posted from the library all the time, but I saw him one weekend last
month when you were running. He didn’t see me. I logged in to the computer
after him and got the address from the browser history. I didn’t do anything with
it at first,” she says, meeting my incredulous look with a calm gaze. “Just put it
aside for future reference. I started trying to get in after you came back from the
police station. Don’t worry,” she adds, patting me on the arm. “Not from home.
Nobody can trace it.”
“Okay, but … why the interest in the app? Before Simon even died? What
were you going to do?”
Maeve purses her lips thoughtfully. “I hadn’t figured that part out. I thought
Maeve purses her lips thoughtfully. “I hadn’t figured that part out. I thought
maybe I’d start wiping it clean right after he posted, or switch all the text to
Russian. Or dismantle the whole thing.”
I shift my feet and stumble a little, grabbing the railing for support. “Maeve, is
this because of what happened freshman year?”
“No.” Maeve’s amber eyes get hard. “Bronwyn, you’re the one who still
thinks about that. Not me. I just wanted the stupid hold he had over the entire
school to stop. And, well”—she lets out a short, humorless laugh that echoes
against the concrete walls of the stairwell—“I guess it did.” She starts back
down the stairs with long strides and pushes hard on the exit when she gets to the
bottom. I follow her silently, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my
sister was keeping a secret from me similar to the one I kept from her. And that
both of them tie back to Simon.
Maeve gives me a sunny smile when we get outside, as if the conversation we
just had never happened. “Bayview Estates is on our way home. Should we pick
up your forbidden technology?”
“We could try.” I’ve told Maeve all about Nate, who called this morning to
say he’d leave a phone in the mailbox of 5 Bayview Estate Road. It’s part of a
new development of half-built houses, and the area tends to be deserted on
weekends. “I’m not sure how early Nate gets moving on a Saturday, though.”
We reach Bayview Estates in less than fifteen minutes, turning into a street
filled with boxy, half-finished houses. Maeve puts a hand on my arm as we
approach number 5. “Let me go,” she says with a forbidding air, eyes darting
around dramatically as though the Bayview Police could descend with sirens
blaring at any minute. “Just in case.”
“Have at it,” I mutter. We’re probably too early anyway. It’s barely eleven.
But Maeve returns waving a small black device with a triumphant flourish,
laughing when I yank it from her. “Eager much, nerd?” When I power it up
there’s one message, and I open it to a picture of a yellow-brown lizard sitting
placidly on a rock in the middle of a large cage. Actual lizard, reads the caption,
and I laugh out loud.
“Oh my God,” Maeve mutters, peering over my shoulder. “Private jokes.
You’re soooo into him, aren’t you?”
I don’t have to answer her. It’s a rhetorical question.
Cooper
Saturday, October 6, 9:20 p.m.
By the time I get to Olivia’s party, nearly everyone’s out of it. Somebody’s
puking in the bushes as I push open the front door. I spot Keely huddled next to
the stairs with Olivia, having one of those intense conversations girls get into
when they’re wasted. A few juniors are toking up on the couch. Vanessa’s in a
corner trying to paw at Nate, who couldn’t look less interested as he scans the
room behind her. If Vanessa were a guy, somebody would’ve reported her by
now for all the unsolicited groping she does. My eyes briefly meet Nate’s, and
we both look away without acknowledging each other.
I finally find Jake on the patio with Luis, who’s headed inside for more drinks.
“Whaddya want?” Luis asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Whatever you’re getting.” I take a seat next to Jake, who’s listing sideways
in his chair.
“Whassup, killer?” he slurs, and sputters out a laugh. “Are you getting tired of
murder jokes yet? ’Cause I’m not.”
I’m surprised Jake is this drunk; he usually holds back during football season.
But I guess his week’s been almost as bad as mine. That’s what I came to talk to
him about, although as I watch him swat hazily at a bug, I’m not sure I should
bother.
I try anyway. “How’re you doing? Been a lousy few days, huh?”
Jake laughs again, but this time not as though he finds anything funny. “That’s
so Cooper of you, man. Don’t talk about your shit week, just check in on mine.
You’re a goddamn saint, Coop. You really are.”
The edge in his voice warns me I shouldn’t take the bait, but I do. “You mad
at me for something, Jake?”
“Why would I be? It’s not like you’re defending my whore ex-girlfriend to
anybody who’ll listen. Oh, wait. That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
Jake narrows his eyes at me, and I realize I can’t have the conversation I came
to have. He’s in no frame of mind to talk about easing up on Addy at school.
“Jake, I know Addy’s in the wrong. Everybody knows it. She made a stupid
mistake.”
“Cheating isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice,” Jake says furiously, and for a second
he sounds stone-cold sober. He drops his empty beer bottle on the ground and
cocks his head with an accusing glare. “Where the hell is Luis? Hey.” He grabs
the arm of a passing sophomore and plucks an unopened beer out of his hand,
twisting the cap off and taking a long sip. “What was I saying? Oh yeah.
Cheating. That’s a choice, Coop. You know, my mom cheated on my dad when I
was in junior high. Screwed up our whole family. Threw a grenade right in the
middle and—” He flings an arm, spilling half his beer, and makes a whoosh
sound. “Everything exploded.”
“I didn’t know that.” I’d met Jake when I moved to Bayview in eighth grade,
“I didn’t know that.” I’d met Jake when I moved to Bayview in eighth grade,
but we didn’t start hanging out till high school. “Sorry, man. That makes it even
worse, huh?”
Jake shakes his head, eyes glittering. “Addy has no clue what she’s done.
Ruined everything.”
“But your dad … forgave your mom, right? They’re still together?” It’s a
stupid question. I was at his house a month ago for a cookout before all this
started. His dad was grilling hamburgers and his mom was talking to Addy and
Keely about a new manicure place that opened in Bayview Center. Like normal.
Like always.
“Yeah, they’re together. Nothing’s the same, though. It’s never been the
same.” Jake’s staring in front of him with such disgust that I don’t know what to
say. I feel like a jerk for telling Addy she should come, and I’m glad she didn’t
listen to me.
Luis returns and hands us both a beer. “You going to Simon’s tomorrow?” he
asks Jake.
I think I can’t possibly have heard Luis right, but Jake says, “I guess.”
Luis catches my confused look. “His mom asked a bunch of us to come over
and, like, take something to remember him by before they pack his stuff. Creeps
me out since I barely knew the guy, but she seems to think we were friends so
what can you say, right?” He takes a sip of his beer and cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Guess you’re not invited?”
“Nope,” I say, feeling a little sick. The last thing I want to do is pick through
Simon’s things in front of his grieving parents, but if all my friends are going,
the slight’s pretty clear. I’m under suspicion, and not welcome.
“Simon, man.” Jake shakes his head solemnly. “He was freaking brilliant.” He
holds his beer up and for a second I think he’s going to pour it onto the patio in a
homeboy salute, but he refrains and drinks it instead.
Olivia joins us, wrapping one arm around Luis’s waist. Guess those two are
back on again. She pokes me with her free hand and holds up her phone, her face
bright with that excited look she gets when she’s about to share a great piece of
gossip. “Cooper, did you know you’re in the Bayview Blade?”
The way she says it, I’m pretty sure they’re not covering baseball. This night
keeps getting better. “Had no idea.”
“Sunday edition, online tonight. All about Simon. They’re not … accusing
you, exactly, but the four of you are named as persons of interest, and they
mention that stuff Simon was gonna post about you. There’re pictures of you all.
And, um, it’s been shared a few hundred times already. So.” Olivia hands me her
phone. “It’s out there now, I guess.”
Chapter Fifteen
Nate
Monday, October 8, 2:50 p.m.
I hear the rumors before I see the news vans. Three of them parked out front of
the school with reporters and camera crews waiting for last bell to ring. They’re
not allowed on school property, but they’re as close as they can get.
Bayview High is loving this. Chad Posner finds me after last period to tell me
people are practically lining up to be interviewed outside. “They’re asking about
you, man,” he warns. “You might wanna head out the back. They’re not allowed
in the parking lot, so you can cut through the woods on your bike.”
“Thanks.” I take off and scan the hallway for Bronwyn. We don’t talk much at
school to avoid—as she says in her lawyer voice—the appearance of collusion.
But I’ll bet this will freak her out. I spot her at her locker with Maeve and one of
her friends, and sure enough she looks ready to throw up. When she sees me she
waves me closer, not even trying to pretend she hardly knows me.
“Did you hear?” she asks, and I nod. “I don’t know what to do.” A horrified
realization crosses her face. “I guess we have to drive past them, don’t we?”
“I’ll drive,” Maeve volunteers. “You can, like, hide in the back or something.”
“Or we can stay here till they leave,” her friend suggests. “Wait them out.”
“I hate this,” Bronwyn says. Maybe it’s the wrong time to notice, but I like
how her face floods with color whenever she feels strongly about something. It
makes her look twice as alive as most people, and more distracting than she
already does in a short dress and boots.
“Come with me,” I say. “I’m taking my bike out back to Boden Street. I’ll
bring you to the mall. Maeve can pick you up later.”
Bronwyn brightens as Maeve says, “That’ll work. I’ll come find you in half an
hour at the food court.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” mutters the other girl, giving me a hard
look. “If they catch you together it’ll be ten times worse.”
“They won’t catch us,” I say shortly.
I’m not positive Bronwyn’s on board, but she nods and tells Maeve she’ll see
her soon, meeting her friend’s annoyed glance with a calm smile. I feel this
stupid rush of triumph, like she chose me, even though she basically chose not
winding up on the five o’clock news. But she walks close to me as we head out
the back door to the parking lot, not seeming to care about the stares. At least
they’re the kind we’ve gotten used to. No microphones or cameras involved.
I hand her my helmet and wait for her to settle herself on my bike and loop
her arms around me. Too tight again, but I don’t mind. Her death grip, along
with how her legs look in that dress, is why I engineered this escape in the first
place.
We’re not in the woods long before the narrow trail I’m taking widens into a
dirt path that runs past a row of houses behind the school. I take back roads for a
couple of miles until we make it to the mall, and ease my bike into a parking
spot as far from the entrance as I can get. Bronwyn takes the helmet off and
hands it to me, squeezing my arm as she does. She swings her legs onto the
pavement, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled. “Thanks, Nate. That was nice
of you.”
I didn’t do it to be nice. My hand reaches out and catches her around the
waist, pulling her toward me. And then I stop, not sure what to do next. I’m off
my game. If anyone had asked me ten minutes ago, I would have said I don’t
have game. But now it occurs to me that I probably do, and it’s not giving a shit.
When I’m still sitting and she’s standing we’re almost the same height. She’s
close enough for me to notice that her hair smells like green apples. I can’t stop
looking at her lips while I wait for her to back away. She doesn’t, and when I
raise my eyes to hers it feels like the breath is yanked right out of my lungs.
Two thoughts run through my head. One, I want to kiss her more than I want
air. And two, if I do I’m bound to screw everything up and she’ll stop looking at
me that way.
A van screeches into the spot next to us and we both jump, bracing for the
Channel 7 News camera crew. But it’s an ordinary soccer-mom van filled with
screaming kids. When they tumble out Bronwyn blinks and moves off to the
side. “Now what?” she asks.
Now wait till they’re gone and get back here. But she’s already walking
toward the entrance. “Buy me a giant pretzel for saving your ass,” I say instead.
She laughs and I wonder if she’s thankful for the interruption.
We walk past the potted palms that frame the front entrance, and I pull the
door open for a stressed-looking mother with two screaming toddlers in a double
stroller. Bronwyn flashes her a sympathetic smile but as soon as we’re inside it
disappears and she ducks her head. “Everyone’s staring at me. You were smart
not to have your class picture taken. That photo in the Bayview Blade didn’t
even look like you.”
“Nobody’s staring,” I tell her, but it’s not true. The girl folding sweaters at
Abercrombie & Fitch widens her eyes and pulls out her phone when we pass by.
“Even if they were, all you’d have to do is take your glasses off. Instant
disguise.”
I’m kidding, but she pulls them off and reaches into her bag for a bright-blue
case she snaps them into. “Good idea, except I’m blind without them.” I’ve seen
Bronwyn without glasses only once before, when they got knocked off by a
volleyball in fifth-grade gym class. It was the first time I’d noticed her eyes
weren’t blue like I always thought, but a clear, bright gray.
“I’ll guide you,” I tell her. “That’s a fountain. Don’t walk into it.”
Bronwyn wants to go to the Apple store, where she squints at iPod Nanos for
her sister. “Maeve’s starting to run now. She keeps borrowing mine and
forgetting to charge it.”
“You know that’s a rich-girl problem nobody else cares about, right?”
She grins, unoffended. “I need to make a playlist to keep her motivated. Any
recommendations?”
“I doubt we like the same music.”
“Maeve and I have varied musical taste. You’d be surprised. Let me see your
library.” I shrug and unlock my phone, and she scrolls through iTunes with an
increasingly furrowed brow. “What is all this? Why don’t I recognize anything?”
Then she glances at me. “You have ‘Variations on the Canon’?”
I take the phone from her and put it back in my pocket. I forgot I’d
downloaded that. “I like your version better,” I say, and her lips curve into a
smile.
We head for the food court, making small talk about stupid stuff like we’re a
couple of ordinary teenagers. Bronwyn insists on actually buying me a pretzel,
although I have to help her since she can’t see two feet in front of her face. We
sit by the fountain to wait for Maeve, and Bronwyn leans across the table so she
can meet my eyes. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
I raise my brows, interested, until she says, “I’m worried about the fact that you
don’t have a lawyer.”
I swallow a hunk of pretzel and avoid her eyes. “Why?”
“Because this whole thing’s starting to implode. My lawyer thinks the news
coverage is going to go viral. She made me set all my social media accounts to
private yesterday. You should do that too, by the way. If you have any. I
couldn’t find you anywhere. Not that I was stalking you. Just curious.” She gives
herself a little shake, like she’s trying to get her thoughts back on track.
“Anyway. The pressure’s on, and you’re already on probation, so you … you
need somebody good in your corner.”
You’re the obvious outlier and scapegoat. That’s what she means; she’s just
too polite to say it. I push my chair away from the table and tip it backward on
two legs. “That’s good news for you, right? If they focus on me.”
“No!” She’s so loud, people at the next table look over, and she lowers her
voice. “No, it’s awful. But I was thinking. Have you heard of Until Proven?”
“What?”
“Until Proven. It’s that pro bono legal group that started at California
Western. Remember, they got that homeless guy who was convicted of murder
released because of mishandled DNA evidence that led them to the real killer?”
I’m not sure I’m hearing her correctly. “Are you comparing me to a homeless
guy on death row?”
“That’s only one example of a high-profile case. They do other stuff too. I
thought it might be worth checking them out.”
She and Officer Lopez would really get along. They’re both positive you can
fix any problem with the right support group. “Sounds pointless.”
“Would you mind if I called them?”
I return my chair to the floor with a bang, my temper rising. “You can’t run
this like it’s student council, Bronwyn.”
“And you can’t just wait to be railroaded!” She puts her palms flat on the table
and leans forward, eyes blazing.
Jesus. She’s a pain in my ass and I can’t remember why I wanted to kiss her
so badly a few minutes ago. She’d probably turn it into a project. “Mind your
own business.” It comes out harsher than I intended, but I mean it. I’ve made it
through most of high school without Bronwyn Rojas running my life, and I don’t
need her to start now.
She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I’m trying to help you.”
That’s when I realize Maeve is standing there, looking back and forth between
us like she’s watching the world’s least entertaining ping-pong game. “Um. Is
this a bad time?” she says.
“It’s a great time,” I say.
Bronwyn stands abruptly, putting her glasses on and hiking her bag over her
shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.” Her voice is as cold as mine.
Whatever. I get up and head for the exit without answering, feeling a
dangerous combination of pissed off and restless. I need a distraction but never
know what the hell to do with myself now that I’m out of the drug business.
Maybe stopping was just delaying the inevitable.
I’m almost outside when someone tugs on my jacket. When I turn, arms wrap
around my neck and the clean, bright scent of green apples drifts around me as
around my neck and the clean, bright scent of green apples drifts around me as
Bronwyn kisses my cheek. “You’re right,” she whispers, her breath warm in my
ear. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. Don’t be mad, okay? I can’t get through
this if you stop talking to me.”
“I’m not mad.” I try to unfreeze so I can hug her back instead of standing
there like a block of wood, but she’s already gone, hurrying after her sister.
Addy
Tuesday, October 9, 8:45 a.m.
Somehow Bronwyn and Nate managed to dodge the cameras. Cooper and I
weren’t as lucky. We were both on the five o’clock news on all the major San
Diego channels: Cooper behind the wheel of his Jeep Wrangler, me climbing
into Ashton’s car after I’d abandoned my brand-new bike at school and sent her
a panicked text begging for a ride. Channel 7 News ended up with a pretty clear
shot of me, which they put side by side with an old picture of eight-year-old me
at the Little Miss Southeast San Diego pageant. Where, naturally, I was second
runner-up.
At least there aren’t any vans when Ashton pulls up to drop me off at school
the next day. “Call me if you need a ride again,” she says, and I give her a quick,
stranglehold hug. I thought I’d be more comfortable showing sisterly affection
after last weekend’s cryfest, but it’s still awkward and I manage to snag my
bracelet on her sweater. “Sorry,” I mutter, and she gives me a pained grin.
“We’ll get better at that eventually.”
I’ve gotten used to stares, so the fact that they’ve intensified since yesterday
doesn’t faze me. When I leave class in the middle of history, it’s because I feel
my period coming on and not because I have to cry.
But when I arrive in the girls’ room, someone else is. Muffled sounds come
from the last stall before whoever’s there gets control of herself. I take care of
my business—false alarm—and wash my hands, staring at my tired eyes and
surprisingly bouncy hair. No matter how awful the rest of my life is, my hair still
manages to look good.
I’m about to leave, but hesitate and head for the other end of the restroom. I
lean down and see scuffed black combat boots under the last stall door.
“Janae?”
No answer. I rap my knuckles against the door. “It’s Addy. Do you need
anything?”
“Jesus, Addy,” Janae says in a strangled voice. “No. Go away.”
“Okay,” I say, but I don’t. “You know, I’m usually the one in that stall
“Okay,” I say, but I don’t. “You know, I’m usually the one in that stall
bawling my eyes out. So I have a lot of Kleenex if you need some. Also Visine.”
Janae doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry about Simon. I don’t suppose it means
much given everything you’ve heard, but … I was shocked by what happened.
You must miss him a lot.”
Janae stays silent, and I wonder if I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth again. I’d
always thought Janae was in love with Simon and he was oblivious. Maybe
she’d finally told him the truth before he died, and got rejected. That would
make this whole thing even worse.
I’m about to leave when Janae heaves a deep sigh. The door opens, revealing
her blotchy face and black-on-black clothing. “I’ll take that Visine,” she says,
wiping at her raccoon eyes.
“You should take the Kleenex, too,” I suggest, pressing both into her hand.
She snorts out something like a laugh. “How the mighty have fallen, Addy.
You’ve never talked to me before.”
“Did that bother you?” I ask, genuinely curious. Janae never struck me as
someone who wanted to be part of our group. Unlike Simon, who was always
prowling around the edges, looking for a way in.
Janae wets a Kleenex under the sink and dabs at her eyes, glaring at me in the
mirror the whole time. “Screw you, Addy. Seriously. What kind of question is
that?”
I’m not as offended as I’d normally be. “I don’t know. A stupid one, I guess?
I’m only just realizing I suck at social cues.”
Janae squirts a stream of Visine into both eyes and her raccoon circles
reappear. I hand her another Kleenex so she can repeat the wiping process.
“Why?”
“Turns out Jake’s the one who was popular, not me. I was riding coattails.”
Janae takes a step back from the mirror. “I never thought I’d hear you say
that.”
“ ‘I am large, I contain multitudes,’ ” I tell her, and her eyes widen. “Song of
Myself, right? Walt Whitman. I’ve been reading it since Simon’s funeral. I don’t
understand most of it, but it’s comforting in a weird way.”
Janae keeps dabbing at her eyes. “That’s what I thought. It was Simon’s
favorite poem.”
I think about Ashton and how she’s kept me sane over the past couple of
weeks. And Cooper, who’s defended me at school even though there’s no real
friendship between us. “Do you have anybody to talk to?”
“No,” Janae mutters, and her eyes fill again.
I know from experience she won’t thank me for continuing the conversation.
At some point we need to suck it up and get to class. “Well, if you want to talk
to me—I have a lot of time. And space next to me in the cafeteria. So, open
invitation or whatever. Anyway, I really am sorry about Simon. See you.”
All things considered, I think that went pretty well. She stopped insulting me
toward the end, anyway.
I return to history but it’s almost over, and after the bell rings it’s time for
lunch—my least favorite part of the day. I’ve told Cooper to stop sitting with
me, because I can’t stand the hard time everyone else gives him, but I hate eating
alone. I’m about to skip and go to the library when a hand plucks at my sleeve.
“Hey.” It’s Bronwyn, looking surprisingly fashionable in a fitted blazer and
striped flats. Her hair’s down, spilling over her shoulders in glossy dark layers,
and I notice with a stab of envy how clear her skin is. No giant pimples for her,
I’ll bet. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Bronwyn looking this good, and I’m so
distracted that I almost miss her next words. “Do you want to eat lunch with us?”
“Ah …” I tilt my head at her. I’ve spent more time with Bronwyn in the past
two weeks than I have the last three years at school, but it hasn’t exactly been
social. “Really?”
“Yeah. Well. We have some stuff in common now, so …” Bronwyn trails off,
her eyes flicking away from mine, and I wonder if she ever thinks I might be the
one behind all this. She must, because I think it about her sometimes. But in an
evil-genius, cartoon-villain sort of way. Now that she’s standing in front of me
with cute shoes and a tentative smile, it seems impossible.
“All right,” I say, and follow Bronwyn to a table with her sister, Yumiko
Mori, and some tall, sullen-looking girl I don’t know. It’s better than skipping
lunch at the library.
When I get out front after the last bell, there’s nothing—no news vans, no
reporters—so I text Ashton that she doesn’t have to pick me up, and take the
opportunity to ride my bike home. I stop at the extralong red light on Hurley
Street, resting my feet on the pavement as I look at the stores in the strip mall to
my right: cheap clothes, cheap jewelry, cheap cellular. And cheap haircuts.
Nothing like my usual salon in downtown San Diego, which charges sixty
dollars every six weeks to keep split ends at bay.
My hair feels hot and heavy under my helmet, weighing me down. Before the
light changes I angle my bike off the road and over the sidewalk into the mall
parking lot. I lock my bike on the rack outside Supercuts, pull off my helmet,
and go inside.
“Hi!” The girl behind the register is only a few years older than me, wearing a
flimsy black tank top that exposes colorful flower tattoos covering her arms and
shoulders. “Are you here for a trim?”
“A cut.”
“A cut.”
“Okay. We’re not super busy, so I can take you right now.”
She directs me to a cheap black chair that’s losing its stuffing, and we both
gaze at my reflection in the mirror as she runs her hands through my hair. “This
is so pretty.”
I stare at the shining locks in her hands. “It needs to come off.”
“A couple inches?”
I shake my head. “All of it.”
She laughs nervously. “To your shoulders, maybe?”
“All of it,” I repeat.
Her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, you don’t mean that. Your hair is beautiful!”
She disappears from behind me and reappears with a supervisor. They stand
there conferring for a few minutes in hushed tones. Half the salon is staring at
me. I wonder how many of them saw the San Diego news last night, and how
many think I’m just an overly hormonal teenage girl.
“Sometimes people think they want a dramatic cut, but they don’t really,” the
supervisor starts cautiously.
I don’t let her finish. I’m beyond tired of people telling me what I want. “Do
you guys do haircuts here? Or should I go somewhere else?”
She tugs at a lock of her own bleached-blond hair. “I’d hate for you to regret
this. If you want a different look, you could try—”
Shears lie across the counter in front of me, and I reach for them. Before
anyone can stop me, I grab a thick handful of hair and chop the whole thing off
above my ear. Gasps run through the salon, and I meet the tattooed girl’s
shocked eyes in the mirror.
“Fix it,” I tell her. So she does.
Chapter Sixteen
Bronwyn
Friday, October 12, 7:45 p.m.
Four days after we’re featured on the local news, the story goes national on
Mikhail Powers Investigates.
I knew it was coming, since Mikhail’s producers had tried to reach my family
all week. We never responded, thanks to basic common sense and also Robin’s
legal advice. Nate didn’t either, and Addy said she and Cooper both refused to
talk as well. So the show will be airing in fifteen minutes without commentary
from any of the people actually involved.
Unless one of us is lying. Which is always a possibility.
The local coverage was bad enough. Maybe it was my imagination, but I’m
pretty sure Dad winced every time I was referred to as “the daughter of
prominent Latino business leader Javier Rojas.” And he left the room when one
station reported his nationality as Chilean instead of Colombian. The whole
thing made me wish, for the hundredth time since this started, that I’d just taken
that D in chemistry.
Maeve and I are sprawled on my bed watching the minutes on my alarm clock
tick by until my debut as a national disgrace. Or rather, I am, and she’s combing
through the 4chan links she found through Simon’s admin site.
“Check this out,” she says, angling her laptop toward me.
The long discussion thread covers a school shooting that happened last spring
a few counties over. A sophomore boy concealed a handgun in his jacket and
opened fire in the hallway after the first bell. Seven students and a teacher died
before the boy turned the gun on himself. I have to read a few of the comments
more than once before I realize the thread isn’t condemning the boy, but
celebrating him. It’s a bunch of sickos cheering on what he did.
“Maeve.” I burrow my head in my arms, not wanting to read any more. “What
the hell is this?”
“Some forum Simon was all over a few months back.”
I raise my head to stare at her. “Simon posted there? How do you know?”
“He used that AnarchiSK name from About That,” Maeve replies.
“He used that AnarchiSK name from About That,” Maeve replies.
I scan the thread, but it’s too long to pick out individual names. “Are you sure
it’s Simon? Maybe other people use the same name.”
“I’ve been spot-checking posts, and it’s definitely Simon,” she says. “He
references places in Bayview, talks about clubs he was in at school, mentions his
car a few times.” Simon drove a 1970s Volkswagen Bug that he was freakishly
proud of. Maeve leans against the cushions, chewing on her bottom lip. “There’s
a lot to go through, but I’m going to read the whole thing when I have time.”
I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less. “Why?”
“The thread’s full of weird people with axes to grind,” Maeve says. “Simon
might’ve made some enemies there. Worth looking into, anyway.” She takes her
laptop back and adds, “I got that encrypted file of Cooper’s at the library the
other day, but I can’t get it open. Yet.”
“Girls.” My mother’s voice is strained as she calls upstairs. “It’s time.”
That’s right. My entire family is watching Mikhail Powers Investigates
together. Which is a circle of hell even Dante never imagined.
Maeve shuts her laptop as I heave myself to my feet. There’s a slight buzzing
from inside my end table, and I open the drawer to pull out my Nate phone.
Enjoy the show, his text says.
Not funny, I reply.
“Put that away,” Maeve says with mock severity. “Now is not the time.”
We head downstairs to the living room, where Mom has already settled into
an armchair with an exceptionally full glass of wine. Dad’s in full Evening
Executive mode, wearing his favorite casual fleece vest and surrounded by a
half-dozen communication devices. A commercial for paper towels flashes
across the television screen as Maeve and I sit side by side on the couch and wait
for Mikhail Powers Investigates to start.
The show focuses on true crime and it’s pretty sensationalistic, but more
credible than similar shows because of Mikhail’s hard-news background. He
spent years as an anchor with one of the major networks, and brings a certain
gravitas to the proceedings.
He always reads the beginning hook in his deep, authoritative voice while
grainy police photos play across the screen.
A young mother disappears. A double life exposed. And one year later, a
shocking arrest. Has justice finally been served?
A high-profile couple dead. A dedicated daughter suspected. Could her
Facebook account hold the key to the killer’s identity?
I know the formula, so it shouldn’t be any surprise when it’s applied to me.
A high school student’s mysterious death. Four classmates with secrets to
hide. When the police keep running into dead ends, what’s next?
Dread starts spreading through me: my stomach aches, my lungs compress,
even my mouth has a horrible taste. For almost two weeks I’ve been questioned
and scrutinized, whispered about and judged. I’ve had to deflect questions about
Simon’s allegations with police and teachers, and watch their eyes harden as
they read between the lines. I’ve waited for another shoe to drop; for the Tumblr
to release a video of me accessing Mr. Camino’s files, or for the police to file
charges. But nothing’s felt quite so raw and real as watching my class picture
appear over Mikhail Powers’s shoulder on national television.
There’s footage of Mikhail and his team in Bayview, but he does most of his
reporting from behind a sleek chrome desk in his Los Angeles studio. He has
smooth dark skin and hair, expressive eyes, and the most perfectly fitted
wardrobe I’ve ever seen. I have no doubt that if he’d managed to catch me alone,
I’d have spilled all sorts of things I shouldn’t.
“But who are the Bayview Four?” Mikhail asks, staring intently into the
camera.
“You guys have a name,” Maeve whispers, but not quietly enough that Mom
doesn’t hear.
“Maeve, there is nothing funny about this,” she says tightly as the camera cuts
to video of my parents’ offices.
Oh no. They’re starting with me.
Honor student Bronwyn Rojas comes from a high-achieving family
traumatized by their youngest child’s lingering illness. Did the pressure to
measure up compel her to cheat and take Yale out of her reach forever?
Followed by a spokesperson from Yale confirming that I have not, in fact,
applied yet.
We all get our turn. Mikhail examines Addy’s beauty pageant past, speaks
with baseball analysts about the prevalence of high school juicing and its
potential impact on Cooper’s career, and digs through the particulars of Nate’s
drug bust and probation sentence.
“It’s not fair,” Maeve breathes into my ear. “They’re not saying anything
about how his dad’s a drunk and his mom’s dead. Where’s the context?”
“He wouldn’t want that, anyway,” I whisper back.
I cringe my way through the show until an interview with a lawyer from Until
Proven. Since none of our lawyers agreed to talk, Mikhail’s team tapped Until
Proven as subject-matter experts. The lawyer they speak with, Eli Kleinfelter,
doesn’t look even ten years older than me. He has wild curly hair, a sparse
goatee, and intense dark eyes.
“Here’s what I’d say, if I were their lawyer,” he says, and I lean forward
despite myself. “All the attention’s on these four kids. They’re getting dragged
through the mud with no evidence tying them to any crime after weeks of
investigation. But there was a fifth kid in the room, wasn’t there? And he seems
like the type who might’ve had more than four enemies. So you tell me. Who
else had a motive? What story’s not being told? That’s where I’d be looking.”
“Exactly,” Maeve says, drawing out each syllable.
“And you can’t assume Simon was the only person with access to the About
That admin panel,” Eli continues. “Anybody could’ve gotten into that before he
died and either viewed or changed those posts.”
I look at Maeve, but this time she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the
screen with a half smile on her face.
I can’t stop thinking about Eli’s words for the rest of the night. Even when I’m
on the phone with Nate, half watching Battle Royale, which is better than a lot of
the movies Nate likes. But between Mikhail Powers Investigates and our trip to
the mall on Monday—which I’ve been thinking about nonstop in those spare
moments when I’m not thinking about going to jail—I can’t concentrate. Too
many other thoughts compete for brain space.
Nate was about to kiss me, wasn’t he? And I wanted him to. So why didn’t we?
Eli finally said it. Why isn’t anyone looking at other suspects?
I wonder if Nate and I are officially friend-zoned now.
Mikhail Powers does serial investigations, so this will only get worse.
Nate and I would be horrible together anyway. Probably.
Did People magazine seriously just email me?
“What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Bronwyn?” Nate finally asks.
Too much, and most of it I probably shouldn’t share. “I want to talk to Eli
Kleinfelter,” I say. “Not about you,” I add when Nate doesn’t reply. “Just in
general. I’m intrigued by how he thinks.”
“You already have a lawyer. Think she’d want you getting a second opinion?”
I know she wouldn’t. Robin is all about containment and defense. Don’t give
anybody anything they can use against you. “I don’t want him to represent me or
anything. I just want a conversation. Maybe I’ll try to call him next week.”
“You never shut off, do you?”
It doesn’t sound like a compliment. “No,” I admit, wondering if I’ve killed
whatever weird attraction Nate might’ve once felt toward me.
Nate’s silent as we watch Shogo fake Shuya’s and Noriko’s deaths. “This isn’t
bad,” he finally says. “But you still owe me finishing Ringu in person.”
Tiny electrical sparks zip through my bloodstream. Attraction not dead, then?
Maybe on life support. “I know. That’s logistically challenging, though.
Especially now that we’re notorious.”
“There aren’t any news vans here now.”
I’ve thought about this. Maybe a few dozen times since he first asked me. And
while I don’t understand much about what’s going on between Nate and me, I do
know this: whatever happens next won’t involve me driving to his house in the
middle of the night. I start to tell him all my excellent practical reasons, like how
the Volvo’s noisy engine will wake my parents, when he says, “I could come get
you.”
I blow out a sigh and stare at the ceiling. I’m no good at navigating these
situations, probably because they’ve only ever happened in my head. “I feel
weird going to your house at one in the morning, Nate. Like, it’s … different
from watching a movie. And I don’t know you well enough to, um, not watch a
movie with you.” Oh God. This is why people shouldn’t wait until their senior
year of high school to date. My whole face burns, and as I wait for him to
answer, I’m deeply thankful he can’t see me.
“Bronwyn.” Nate’s voice isn’t as mocking as I’d expected. “I’m not trying to
not-watch a movie with you. I mean, sure, if you were into that, I wouldn’t say
no. Believe me. But the main reason I invited you over after midnight is that my
house sucks during the day. For one thing, you can see it. Which I don’t
recommend. For another, my dad’s around. I’d rather you not … you know. Trip
over him.”
My heart keeps missing beats. “I don’t care about that.”
“I do.”
“Okay.” I don’t fully understand Nate’s rules for managing his world, but for
once I’m going to mind my own business and not give my opinion about what
does and doesn’t matter. “We’ll figure something else out.”
Cooper
Saturday, October 13, 4:35 p.m.
There’s no good place to break up with someone, but at least their living room is
private and they don’t have to go anywhere afterward. So that’s where I give
Keely the news.
It’s not because of what Nonny said. It’s been coming for a while. Keely’s
great in a dozen different ways but not for me, and I can’t drag her through all
this knowing that.
Keely wants an explanation, and I don’t have a good one. “If it’s because of
the investigation, I don’t care!” she says tearfully. “I’m behind you no matter
what.”
what.”
“It’s not that,” I tell her. It’s not only that, anyway.
“And I don’t believe a word of that awful Tumblr.”
“I know, Keely. I appreciate that, I really do.” There was another post this
morning, crowing about the media coverage:
The Mikhail Powers Investigates site has thousands of comments about the Bayview Four.
(Kind of a dull name, by the way. Would’ve expected better from a top-ranked newsmagazine.)
Some call for jail time. Some rail about how spoiled and entitled kids are today, and how this is
another example of that.
It’s a great story: four good-looking, high-profile students all being investigated for murder.
And nobody’s what they seem.
The pressure’s on now, Bayview Police. Maybe you should be looking a little closer at
Simon’s old entries. You might find some interesting hints about the Bayview Four.
Just saying.
That last part made my blood run cold. Simon had never written about me
before, but I don’t like the implication. Or the sick, heavy feeling that something
else is coming. And soon.
“Then why are you doing this?” Keely has her head in her hands, tears
running down her face. She’s a pretty crier; nothing red or splotchy about her.
She peers at me with swimming dark eyes. “Did Vanessa say something?”
“Did—what? Vanessa? What would she say?”
“She’s being a bitch about me still talking to Addy and she was going to tell
you something you shouldn’t even care about, because it happened before we
were dating.” She looks at me expectantly, and my blank expression seems to
make her mad. “Or maybe you should care, so you’d care about something
related to me. You’re so holier-than-thou about how Jake is acting, Cooper, but
at least he has emotions. He’s not a robot. It’s normal to be jealous when the girl
you care about is with someone else.”
“I know.”
Keely waits a beat before giving a sarcastic little laugh. “That’s it, huh?
You’re not even a little bit curious. You’re not worried about me, or protective
of me. You just don’t give a shit.”
We’re at the point where nothing I say will be right. “I’m sorry, Keely.”
“I hooked up with Nate,” she says abruptly, eyes locked on mine. And I have
to admit, that surprises me. “At Luis’s party the last night of junior year. Simon
was following me around all night and I was sick of it. Nate showed up and I
figured, what the hell. He’s hot, right? Even if he is a total degenerate.” She
smirks at me, a trace of bitterness in her face. “We just kissed, mostly. That
night. Then you asked me out a few weeks later.” She gives me that intense look
again, and I’m not sure what she’s trying to get across.
“So you were with me and Nate at the same time?”
“Would that bother you?”
“Would that bother you?”
She wants something from me out of this conversation. I wish I could figure it
out and let her have it, because I know I haven’t been fair to her. Her dark eyes
are fastened on mine, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted. She really is
beautiful, and if I told her I’d made a mistake, she’d take me back and I’d keep
being the most envied guy at Bayview. “I guess I wouldn’t like it—” I start, but
she interrupts me with a half laugh, half sob.
“Oh my God, Cooper. Your face. You seriously could not care less. Well, for
the record, I stopped doing anything with Nate as soon as you asked me out.”
She’s crying again, and I feel like the world’s biggest jerk. “You know, Simon
would’ve given anything if I’d chosen him. You didn’t even know it was a
choice. People always pick you, don’t they? They always picked me, too. Until
you came along and made me feel invisible.”
“Keely, I never meant—”
She’s not listening to me anymore. “You’ve never cared, have you? You just
wanted the right accessory for scouting season.”
“That’s not fair—”
“It’s all a big lie, isn’t it, Cooper? Me, your fastball—”
“I’ve never used steroids,” I interrupt, suddenly angry.
Keely gives another strangled laugh. “Well, at least you’re passionate about
something.”
“I’m gonna go.” I stand abruptly, adrenaline coursing through me as I stalk
out her door before I say something I shouldn’t. I got tested after Simon’s
accusations came to light, and I was clean. And I was tested once over the
summer as part of an extensive physical the UCSD sports medicine center did
before putting together my training regimen. But that’s it, and since plenty of
steroids disappear from your system within weeks, I can’t escape the taint
entirely. I’ve told Coach Ruffalo there’s no truth to the accusations, and so far
he’s sitting tight on contacting any colleges. We’re part of the news cycle now,
though, so things won’t stay quiet for long.
And Keely’s right—I’ve been a lot more worried about that than about our
relationship. I owe her a better apology than the one I just half-assed. But I don’t
know how to give it.
Chapter Seventeen
Addy
Monday, October 15, 12:15 p.m.
Sexism is alive and well in true-crime coverage, because Bronwyn and I aren’t
nearly as popular with the general public as Cooper and Nate. Especially Nate.
All the tween girls posting about us on social media love him. They couldn’t
care less that he’s a convicted drug dealer, because he’s got dreamy eyes.
Same goes for school. Bronwyn and I are pariahs—other than her friends, her
sister, and Janae, hardly anyone talks to us. They just whisper behind our backs.
But Cooper’s as golden as ever. And Nate—well, it’s not like Nate was ever
popular, exactly. He’s never seemed to care what people think, though, and he
still doesn’t.
“Seriously, Addy, stop pulling that stuff up. I don’t want to see it.”
Bronwyn rolls her eyes at me, but she doesn’t really look mad. I guess we’re
almost friends now, or as friendly as you can get when you’re not one hundred
percent sure the other person isn’t framing you for murder.
She won’t play along with my obsessive need to track our news stories,
though. And I don’t show her everything, especially not the horrible commenters
tossing racial slurs at her family. That’s an extra layer of suck she doesn’t need.
Instead, I show Janae one of the more positive articles I’ve found. “Look. The
most-shared article on BuzzFeed is Cooper leaving the gym.”
Janae looks awful. She’s lost more weight since I first ran into her in the
bathroom, and she’s jumpier than ever. I’m not sure why she eats lunch with us,
since most of the time she doesn’t say a word. But she glances gamely at my
phone. “It’s a good picture of him, I guess.”
Kate shoots me a severe look. “Would you put that away?” I do, but in my
head I’m giving her the finger the whole time. Yumiko’s all right, but Kate
almost makes me miss Vanessa.
No. That’s a complete and utter lie. I hate Vanessa. Hate how she’s meangirled her way into the center of my former group and how she’s glommed on to
Jake like they’re a couple. Even though I don’t see much interest on his part.
Chopping my hair off was like giving up on Jake, since he wouldn’t have
noticed me three years ago without it. But just because I’ve abandoned hope
doesn’t mean I’ve stopped paying attention.
After lunch I head for earth science, settling myself on a bench next to a lab
partner who barely glances in my direction. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Ms.
Mara warns. “We’re mixing things up today. You’ve all been with your partners
for a while, so let’s rotate.” She gives us complicated directions—some people
move left, others right, and the rest of us stay still—and I don’t pay much
attention to the process until I wind up next to TJ.
His nose looks a lot better, but I doubt it’ll ever be straight again. He gives me
a sheepish half smile as he pulls the tray of rocks in front of us closer. “Sorry.
This is probably your worst nightmare, right?”
Don’t flatter yourself, TJ, I think. He’s got nothing on my nightmares. All
those months of angsty guilt about sleeping with him in his beach house seem
like they happened in another lifetime. “It’s fine.”
We classify rocks in silence until TJ says, “I like your hair.”
I snort. “Yeah, right.” With the possible exception of Ashton, who’s biased,
nobody likes my hair. My mother is appalled. My former friends laughed openly
when they saw me the next day. Even Keely smirked. She’s moved right on to
Luis, like if she can’t have Cooper, she’ll settle for his catcher instead. Luis
dumped Olivia for her, but nobody blinked an eye about that.
“I’m serious. You can finally see your face. You look like a blond Emma
Watson.”
That’s false. But nice of him to say, I guess. I hold a rock between my thumb
and forefinger and squint at it. “What do you think? Igneous or sedimentary?”
TJ shrugs. “I can’t tell the difference.”
I take a guess and sort the rock into the igneous pile. “TJ, if I can manage to
care about rocks, I’m pretty sure you can put in more of an effort.”
He blinks at me in surprise, then grins. “There you are.”
“What?”
Everyone seems absorbed in their rocks, but he lowers his voice anyway.
“You were really funny when we—um, that first time we hung out. On the
beach. But whenever I saw you after that you were so … passive. Always
agreeing with whatever Jake said.”
I glower at the tray in front of me. “That’s a rude thing to say.”
TJ’s voice is mild. “Sorry. But I could never figure out why you’d fade into
the background that way. You were a lot of fun.” He catches my glare and adds
hastily, “Not like that. Or, well, yes, like that, but also … You know what?
Never mind. I’ll stop talking now.”
“Great idea,” I mutter, scooping up a handful of rocks and dumping them in
“Great idea,” I mutter, scooping up a handful of rocks and dumping them in
front of him. “Sort these, would you?”
It’s not that TJ’s “fade into the background” comment stings. I know it’s true.
I can’t wrap my head around the rest, though. Nobody’s ever said I’m funny
before. Or fun. I always figured TJ was still talking to me because he wouldn’t
mind getting me alone again. I never thought he might’ve actually enjoyed
hanging out during the nonphysical part of the day.
We finish the rest of the class in silence except to agree or disagree on rock
classification, and when the bell rings I grab my backpack and head for the hall
without a backward look.
Until the voice behind me stops me like I’ve slammed into an invisible wall.
“Addy.”
My shoulders tense as I turn. I haven’t tried talking to Jake since he blew me
off at his locker, and I’m afraid of what he’s going to say to me now.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
I almost laugh. “Oh, you know. Not good.”
I can’t read Jake’s expression. He doesn’t look mad, but he’s not smiling
either. He seems different somehow. Older? Not exactly, but … less boyish,
maybe. He’s been staring right through me for almost two weeks, and I don’t
understand why I’m suddenly visible again. “Things must be getting intense,” he
says. “Cooper’s totally clammed up. Do you—” He hesitates, shifting his
backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Do you want to talk sometime?”
My throat feels like I swallowed something sharp. Do I? Jake waits for an
answer, and I mentally shake myself. Of course I do. That’s all I’ve wanted since
this happened. “Yes.”
“Okay. Maybe this afternoon? I’ll text you.” He holds my gaze, still not
smiling, and adds, “God, I can’t get used to your hair. You don’t even look like
yourself.”
I’m about to say I know when I remember TJ’s words. You were so … passive.
Always agreeing with whatever Jake said. “Well, I am,” I say instead, and take
off down the hall before he can break eye contact first.
Nate
Monday, October 15, 3:15 p.m.
Bronwyn settles herself on the rock next to me, smoothing her skirt over her
knees and looking over the treetops in front of us. “I’ve never been to Marshall’s
Peak before,” she says.
I’m not surprised. Marshall’s Peak—which isn’t really a peak, more of a
rocky outcropping overlooking the woods we cut through on our way out of
school—is Bayview’s so-called scenic area. It’s also a popular spot for drinking,
drugs, and hookups, although not at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon. I’m
pretty sure Bronwyn has no clue what happens here on weekends. “Hope reality
lives up to the hype,” I say.
She smiles. “It beats getting ambushed by Mikhail Powers’s crew.” We had
another sneak-out-the-back routine when they showed up at the front of school
today. I’m surprised they haven’t wised up to staking out the woods yet. Driving
to the mall again seemed like a bad idea given how high our profile’s risen over
the past week, so here we are.
Bronwyn’s eyes are down, watching a line of ants carry a leaf across the rock
next to us. She licks her lips like she’s nervous, and I shift a little closer. Most of
my time with her is spent on the phone, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking in
person.
“I called Eli Kleinfelter,” she says. “From Until Proven.”
Oh. That’s what she’s thinking. I shift back. “Okay.”
“It was an interesting conversation,” she says. “He was nice about hearing
from me, didn’t seem surprised at all. He promised he wouldn’t tell anybody I’d
called him.”
For all her brains, Bronwyn can be like a little kid sometimes. “What’s that
worth?” I ask. “He’s not your lawyer. He can talk to Mikhail Powers about you
if he wants more airtime.”
“He won’t,” Bronwyn says calmly, like she’s got it all figured out. “Anyway,
I didn’t tell him anything. We didn’t talk about me at all. I just asked him what
he thought of the investigation so far.”
“And?”
“Well, he repeated some of what he said on TV. That he was surprised there
wasn’t more talk about Simon. Eli thought anyone who’d run the kind of app
Simon did, for as long as he did, would’ve made plenty of enemies who’d love
to use the four of us as scapegoats. He said he’d check into some of the most
damaging stories and the kids they covered. And he’d look into Simon generally.
Like Maeve’s doing with the 4chan stuff.”
“The best defense is a good offense?” I ask.
“Right. He also said our lawyers aren’t doing enough to pick apart the theory
that nobody else could’ve poisoned Simon. Mr. Avery, for one.” A note of pride
creeps into her voice. “Eli said the exact same thing I did, that Mr. Avery had the
best opportunity of anyone to plant the phones and doctor the cups. But other
than questioning him a few times, the police are mostly leaving him alone.”
I shrug. “What’s his motive?”
I shrug. “What’s his motive?”
“Technophobia,” Bronwyn says, and glares at me when I laugh. “It’s a thing.
Anyway, that was just one idea. Eli also mentioned the car accident as a time
when everybody was distracted and someone could’ve slipped into the room.”
I frown at her. “We weren’t at the window that long. We would’ve heard the
door open.”
“Would we? Maybe not. His point is, it’s possible. And he said something else
interesting.” Bronwyn picks up a small rock and juggles it meditatively in her
hand. “He said he’d look into the car accident. That the timing was suspect.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, it goes back to his earlier point that someone could’ve opened the door
while we watched the cars. Someone who knew it was going to happen.”
“He thinks the car accident was planned?” I stare at her, and she avoids my
gaze as she heaves the rock over the trees beneath us. “So you’re suggesting
somebody engineered a fender bender in the parking lot so they could distract us,
slip into detention, and dump peanut oil into Simon’s cup? That they couldn’t
possibly have known he had if they weren’t already in the room? Then leave
Simon’s cup lying around, because they’re stupid?”
“It’s not stupid if they’re trying to frame us,” Bronwyn points out. “But it
would be stupid for one of us to leave it there, instead of finding a way to get rid
of it. Chances were good nobody would have searched us right after.”
“It still doesn’t explain how anybody outside the room would know Simon
had a cup of water in the first place.”
“Well, it’s like the Tumblr post said. Simon was always drinking water,
wasn’t he? They could have been outside the door, watching through the
window. That’s what Eli says, anyway.”
“Oh, well, if Eli says so.” I’m not sure why this guy’s a legal god in
Bronwyn’s eyes. He can’t be more than twenty-five. “Sounds like he’s full of
dipshit theories.”
I’m getting ready for an argument, but Bronwyn doesn’t take the bait.
“Maybe,” she says, tracing her fingers over the rock between us. “But I’ve been
thinking about this a lot lately and … I don’t think it was anyone in that room,
Nate. I really don’t. I’ve gotten to know Addy a little bit this week”—she raises
a palm at my skeptical look—“and I’m not saying I’m suddenly an Addy expert
or anything, but I honestly can’t picture her doing anything to Simon.”
“What about Cooper? That guy’s definitely hiding something.”
“Cooper’s not a killer.” Bronwyn sounds positive, and for some reason that
pisses me off.
“You know this how? Because you guys are so close? Face it, Bronwyn, none
of us really know each other. Hell, you could’ve done it. You’re smart enough to
plan something this messed up and get away with it.”
I’m kidding, but Bronwyn goes rigid. “How can you say that?” Her cheeks get
red, giving her that flushed look that always unsettles me. She’ll surprise you
one day with how pretty she is. My mother used to say that about Bronwyn.
My mother was wrong, though. There’s nothing surprising about it.
“Eli said it himself, right?” I say. “Anything’s possible. Maybe you brought
me here to shove me down the hill and break my neck.”
“You brought me here,” Bronwyn points out. Her eyes widen, and I laugh.
“Oh, come on. You don’t actually think— Bronwyn, we’re barely on an
incline. Pushing you off this rock isn’t much of an evil plan if all you’d do is
twist your ankle.”
“That’s not funny,” Bronwyn says, but a smile twitches at her lips. The
afternoon sun’s making her glow, putting glints of gold in her dark hair, and for
a second I almost can’t breathe.
Jesus. This girl.
I stand and hold out my hand. She gives me a skeptical look, but takes it and
lets me pull her to her feet. I put my other hand in the air. “Bronwyn Rojas, I
solemnly swear not to murder you today or at any point in the future. Deal?”
“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters, going even redder.
“It concerns me you’re avoiding a promise not to murder me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you say that to all the girls you bring here?”
Huh. Maybe she knows Marshall’s Peak’s reputation after all.
I move closer until there’s only a couple of inches between us. “You’re still
not answering my question.”
Bronwyn leans forward and brings her lips to my ear. She’s so close I can feel
her heart beating when she whispers, “I promise not to murder you.”
“That’s hot.” I mean it as a joke, but my voice comes out like a growl and
when her lips part I kiss her before she can laugh. A shock of energy shoots
through me as I cup her face in my hands, my fingers grasping her cheeks and
the line of her jaw. It must be the adrenaline that’s making my heart pound so
fast. The whole nobody-else-could-possibly-understand-this bond. Or maybe it’s
her soft lips and green apple–scented hair, and the way she winds her arms
around my neck like she can’t stand to let go. Either way I keep kissing her as
long as she lets me, and when she steps away I try to pull her back because it
wasn’t enough.
“Nate, my phone,” she says, and for the first time I notice a persistent, jangly
text tone. “It’s my sister.”
“She can wait,” I say, tangling a hand in her hair and kissing along her jawline
“She can wait,” I say, tangling a hand in her hair and kissing along her jawline
to her neck. She shivers against me and makes a little noise in her throat. Which
I like.
“It’s just …” She runs her fingertips across the back of my neck. “She
wouldn’t keep texting if it weren’t important.”
Maeve’s our excuse—she and Bronwyn are supposed to be at Yumiko’s house
together—and I reluctantly step back so Bronwyn can reach down and dig her
phone out of her backpack. She looks at the screen and draws in a quick, sharp
breath. “Oh God. My mom’s trying to reach me too. Robin says the police want
me to come to the station. To, quote, ‘follow up on a couple of things.’
Unquote.”
“Probably the same bullshit.” I manage to sound calm even though it’s not
how I feel.
“Did they call you?” she asks. She looks like she hopes they did, and hates
herself for it.
I didn’t hear my phone, but pull it out of my pocket to check anyway. “No.”
She nods and starts firing off texts. “Should I have Maeve pick me up here?”
“Have her meet us at my house. It’s halfway between here and the station.” As
soon as I say it I kind of regret it—I still don’t want Bronwyn anywhere near my
house when it’s light out—but it’s the most convenient option. And we don’t
have to go inside.
Bronwyn bites her lip. “What if reporters are there?”
“They won’t be. They’ve figured out no one’s ever around.” She still looks
worried, so I add, “Look, we can park at my neighbor’s and walk over. If
anyone’s there, I’ll take you someplace else. But trust me, it’ll be fine.”
Bronwyn texts Maeve my address and we walk to the edge of the woods
where I left my bike. I help her with the helmet and she climbs behind me,
wrapping her arms around my waist as I start the engine.
I drive slowly down narrow, twisty side roads until we reach my street. My
neighbor’s rusted Chevrolet sits in her driveway, in the exact same spot it’s been
for the past five years. I park next to it, wait for Bronwyn to dismount, and take
her hand as we make our way through the neighbor’s yard to mine. As we get
closer I see our house through Bronwyn’s eyes, and wish I’d bothered to mow
the lawn at some point in the last year.
Suddenly she stops in her tracks and lets out a gasp, but she’s not looking at
our knee-length grass. “Nate, there’s someone at your door.”
I stop too and scan the street for a news van. There isn’t one, just a beat-up
Kia parked in front of our house. Maybe they’re getting better at camouflage.
“Stay here,” I tell Bronwyn, but she comes with me as I get closer to my
driveway for a better look at whoever’s at the door.
driveway for a better look at whoever’s at the door.
It’s not a reporter.
My throat goes dry and my head starts to throb. The woman pressing the bell
turns around, and her mouth falls open a little when she sees me. Bronwyn goes
still beside me, her hand dropping from mine. I keep walking without her.
I’m surprised how normal my voice sounds when I speak. “What’s up,
Mom?”
Chapter Eighteen
Bronwyn
Monday, October 15, 4:10 p.m.
Maeve pulls into the driveway seconds after Mrs. Macauley turns around. I stand
rigid, my hands clenched at my sides and my heart pounding, staring at the
woman I thought was dead.
“Bronwyn?” Maeve lowers her window and sticks her head out of the car.
“You ready? Mom and Robin are already there. Dad’s trying to get off work, but
he’s got a board meeting. I had to do some maneuvering about why you weren’t
answering your phone. You’re sick to your stomach, okay?”
“That’s accurate,” I mutter. Nate’s back is to me. His mother is talking,
staring at him with ravenous eyes, but I can’t hear anything she’s saying.
“Huh?” Maeve follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”
“I’ll tell you in the car,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Nate. “Let’s go.”
I climb into the passenger seat of our Volvo, where the heat is blasting
because Maeve’s always cold. She backs out of the driveway in her careful, justgot-my-license way, talking the whole time. “Mom’s doing that whole Mom
thing, where she’s pretending not to be freaked out but she totally is,” she says,
and I’m half listening. “I guess the police aren’t giving much information. We
don’t even know if anyone else is going to be there. Is Nate coming, do you
know?”
I snap back to attention. “No.” For once I’m glad Maeve likes to maintain
broiler-oven temperatures while driving, because it’s keeping the cold inching
up my spine at bay. “He’s not coming.”
Maeve approaches a stop sign and brakes jerkily, glancing over at me.
“What’s the matter?”
I close my eyes and lean against the headrest. “That was Nate’s mother.”
“What was?”
“The woman at the door just now. At Nate’s house. It was his mother.”
“But …” Maeve trails off, and I can tell by the sound of the blinker that she’s
about to make a turn and needs to concentrate. When the car straightens again
she says, “But she’s dead.”
she says, “But she’s dead.”
“Apparently not.”
“I don’t—but that’s—” Maeve sputters for a few seconds. I keep my eyes
closed. “So … what’s the deal? Did he not know she was alive? Or did he lie
about it?”
“We didn’t exactly have time to discuss it,” I say.
But that’s the million-dollar question. I remember hearing three years ago
through the grapevine that Nate’s mother had died in a car accident. We lost my
mom’s brother the same way, and I felt a lot of empathy for Nate, but I’d never
asked him about it back then. I did over the past few weeks, though. Nate didn’t
like to talk about it. All he said was he hadn’t heard anything about his mother
since she flaked on taking him to Oregon, until he got news that she’d died. He
never mentioned a funeral. Or much of anything, really.
“Well.” Maeve’s voice is encouraging. “Maybe it’s some kind of miracle.
Like it was all a horrible misunderstanding and everybody thought she was dead
but really she … had amnesia. Or was in a coma.”
“Right,” I snort. “And maybe Nate has an evil twin who’s behind it all.
Because we’re living in a telenovela.” I think about Nate’s face before he walked
away from me. He didn’t seem shocked. Or happy. He looked … stoic. He
reminded me of my father every time Maeve had a relapse. As though an illness
he’d been dreading had come back, and he was just going to have to deal with it
now.
“We’re here,” Maeve says, pulling to a careful stop. I open my eyes.
“You’re in the handicapped space,” I tell her.
“I’m not staying, just dropping you off. Good luck.” She reaches over and
squeezes my hand. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. All of it.”
I walk slowly inside and give my name to the woman behind the glass
partition in the lobby, who directs me to a conference room down the hall. When
I enter, my mother, Robin, and Detective Mendoza are all already seated at a
small round table. My heart sinks at the absence of Addy or Cooper, and at the
sight of a laptop in front of Detective Mendoza.
Mom gives me a worried look. “How’s your stomach, honey?”
“Not great,” I say truthfully, slipping into a chair beside her and dropping my
backpack on the floor.
“Bronwyn isn’t well,” Robin says with a cool look toward Detective
Mendoza. She’s in a sharp navy suit and a long, multistrand necklace. “This
should be a discussion between you and me, Rick. I can loop Bronwyn and her
parents in as needed.”
Detective Mendoza presses a key on the laptop. “We won’t keep you long.
Always better to talk face to face, in my opinion. Bronwyn, are you aware
Always better to talk face to face, in my opinion. Bronwyn, are you aware
Simon used to have a companion website for About That, where he’d write
longer posts?”
Robin interrupts before I can speak. “Rick, I’m not letting Bronwyn answer
any questions until you tell me why she’s here. If you have something to show or
tell us, please get to that first.”
“I do,” Detective Mendoza says, rotating the laptop so it faces me. “One of
your classmates alerted us to a post that ran eighteen months ago, Bronwyn.
Does this look familiar?”
My mother moves her chair next to me as Robin leans over my shoulder. I
focus my eyes on the screen, but I already know what I’m about to read. I’ve
worried for weeks that it might come up.
So maybe I should have said something. But it’s too late now.
News flash: LV’s end-of-the-year party isn’t a charity event. Just so we’re clear. You’d be
excused for thinking so, though, with frosh attendance at an all-time high.
Regular readers (and if you’re not one, what the hell is wrong with you?) know I try to cut the
kids some slack. Children are our future and all that. But let me do a little PSA for one new (and
fleeting, I’m gonna guess) arrival to the social scene: MR, who doesn’t seem to realize SC is out
of her league.
He’s not in the market for a puppy, kid. Stop with the following. It’s pathetic.
And, guys, don’t give me that poor-little-thing-had-cancer crap. Not anymore. M can put on
her big-girl panties like anyone else and learn a few basic rules:
1. Varsity basketball players with cheerleader girlfriends are OFF THE MARKET. I shouldn’t
have to explain this, but apparently I do.
2. Two beers are too many when you’re a lightweight, because it leads to:
3. The worst display of awkward kitchen table dancing I’ve ever seen. Seriously, M. Never
again.
4. If that one beer makes you throw up, try not to do it in your hosts’ washing machine. That’s
just rude.
Let’s card at the door from now on, okay, LV? At first it’s funny, but then it’s just sad.
I stay still in my chair and try to keep my face impassive. I remember that post
like it was yesterday: how Maeve, who’d been giddy from her first crush and her
first party, even though neither had gone exactly as planned, folded into herself
after she read Simon’s post and refused to go out again. I remember all the
impotent rage I’d felt, that Simon was so casually cruel, just because he could
be. Because he had a willing audience that ate it up.
And I hated him for it.
I can’t look at my mother, who has no idea any of this happened, so I focus on
Robin. If she’s surprised or concerned, she doesn’t show it. “All right. I’ve read
it. Tell me what you think the significance of this is, Rick.”
“I’d like to hear that from Bronwyn.”
“No.” Robin’s voice cracks like a velvet whip, soft but unyielding. “Explain
“No.” Robin’s voice cracks like a velvet whip, soft but unyielding. “Explain
why we’re here.”
“This post appears to be written about Bronwyn’s sister, Maeve.”
“What makes you think that?” Robin asks.
My mother chokes out a furious, disbelieving laugh, and I finally sneak a look
at her. Her face is bright red, her eyes burning. Her voice shakes when she
speaks. “Is this for real? You bring us here to show us this horrible post written
by a—I have to say, a boy who quite clearly had issues—and for what? What are
you hoping to accomplish, exactly?”
Detective Mendoza tilts his head in her direction. “I’m sure this is difficult to
read, Mrs. Rojas. But between the initials and the cancer diagnosis, it’s obvious
Simon was writing about your younger daughter. There’s no other current or
past student at Bayview High who fits that profile.” He turns toward me. “This
must have been humiliating for your sister, Bronwyn. And from what other kids
at school have told us recently, she’s never really participated in social activities
since then. Did that make you resent Simon?”
My mother opens her mouth to speak, but Robin puts a hand on her arm and
cuts her off. “Bronwyn has no comment.”
Detective Mendoza’s eyes gleam, and he looks as though he can barely
restrain himself from grinning. “Oh, but she does. Or she did, anyway. Simon
unpublished the blog more than a year ago, but all the posts and comments are
still recorded on the back end.” He pulls the laptop back and presses a few keys,
then spins it toward us with a new window open. “You have to give your email
address to leave a comment. This is yours, right, Bronwyn?”
“Anybody can leave another person’s email address,” Robin says quickly.
Then she leans over my shoulder again, and reads what I wrote at the end of
sophomore year.
Fuck off and die, Simon.
Addy
Monday, October 15, 4:15 p.m.
The road from my house to Jake’s is a pretty smooth ride until I turn onto
Clarendon Street. It’s a major intersection, and I have to get to the far left
without the help of a bike lane. When I first started riding again I used to head
for the sidewalk and cross with the light, but now I whiz across three lanes of
traffic like a pro.
I cruise into Jake’s driveway and push the kickstand down as I dismount,
pulling off my helmet and looping it across my handlebars. I run a hand through
my hair as I approach the house, but it’s a pointless gesture. I’ve gotten used to
the cut and sometimes I even like it, but short of growing it a foot and a half
overnight, there’s nothing I can do to improve it in Jake’s eyes.
I ring the doorbell and step back, uncertainty humming through my veins. I
don’t know why I’m here or what I’m hoping for.
The door clicks and Jake pulls it open. He looks the same as ever—touslehaired and blue-eyed, in a perfectly fitted T-shirt that shows off his football
season workouts to great effect. “Hey. Come in.”
I instinctively turn toward the basement, but that’s not where we’re headed.
Instead, Jake leads me into the formal living room, where I’ve spent less than an
hour total since I started dating Jake more than three years ago. I lower myself
onto his parents’ leather sofa and my still-sweaty legs stick to it almost
immediately. Who decided leather furniture was a good idea?
When he sits down across from me, his mouth sets in such a hard line that I
can tell this won’t be a reconciliation conversation. I wait for crushing
disappointment to hit, but it doesn’t.
“So you ride a bike now?” he asks.
Of all the conversations we could have, I’m not sure why he’s starting with
this one. “I don’t have a car,” I remind him. And you used to drive me
everywhere.
He leans forward with his elbows on his knees—such a familiar gesture that I
almost expect him to start chatting about football season like he would have a
month ago. “How’s the investigation going? Cooper never talks about it
anymore. You guys still all under the gun, or what?”
I don’t want to talk about the investigation. The police have questioned me a
couple of times over the past week, always finding new ways to ask me about
the missing EpiPens in the nurse’s office. My lawyer tells me the repetitive
questioning means the investigation’s going nowhere, not that I’m their main
suspect. It’s none of Jake’s business, though, so I tell him a stupid, made-up
story about how the four of us saw Detective Wheeler eating an entire plateful of
doughnuts in an interrogation room.
Jake rolls his eyes when I’m done. “So basically, they’re getting nowhere.”
“Bronwyn’s sister thinks people should be looking at Simon more,” I say.
“Why Simon? He’s dead, for crying out loud.”
“Because it might turn up suspects the police haven’t thought of yet. Other
people who had a reason for wanting Simon out of the picture.”
Jake blows out an annoyed sigh and flings an arm across the back of his chair.
“Blame the victim, you mean? What happened to Simon wasn’t his fault. If
people didn’t pull such sneaky, bullshit moves, About That wouldn’t even have
existed.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You know that better than anyone.”
existed.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You know that better than anyone.”
“Still doesn’t make him a great guy,” I counter, with a stubbornness that
surprises me. “About That hurt a lot of people. I don’t understand why he kept it
up for so long. Did he like people being afraid of him? I mean, you were friends
with him growing up, right? Was he always that way? Is that why you stopped
hanging out?”
“Are you doing Bronwyn’s investigative work for her now?”
Is he sneering at me? “I’m as curious as she is. Simon’s kind of a central
figure in my life now.”
He snorts. “I didn’t invite you here to argue with me.”
I stare at him, searching for something familiar in his face. “I’m not arguing.
We’re having a conversation.” But even as I say it, I try to remember the last
time I talked to Jake and didn’t agree one hundred percent with whatever he
said. I can’t come up with a thing. I reach up and play with the back of my
earring, pulling it until it almost comes off and then sliding it on again. It’s a
nervous habit I’ve developed now that I don’t have hair to wind around my
fingers. “So why did you invite me here?”
His lip curls as his eyes flick away from me. “Leftover concern, I guess. Plus,
I deserve to know what’s happening. I keep getting calls from reporters and I’m
sick of it.”
He sounds like he’s waiting for an apology. But I’ve already given enough of
those. “So am I.” He doesn’t say anything, and as silence falls I’m acutely aware
of how loud the clock over his fireplace is. I count sixty-three ticks before I ask,
“Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
I’m not even sure what kind of forgiveness I want anymore. It’s hard to
imagine going back to being Jake’s girlfriend. But it would be nice if he stopped
hating me.
His nostrils flare and his mouth pulls into a bitter twist. “How could I? You
cheated on me and lied about it, Addy. You’re not who I thought you were.”
I’m starting to think that’s a good thing. “I’m not going to make excuses,
Jake. I screwed up, but not because I didn’t care about you. I guess I never
thought I was worthy of you. Then I proved it.”
His cold gaze doesn’t waver. “Don’t play the poor-me card, Addy. You knew
what you were doing.”
“Okay.” All of a sudden I feel like I did when Detective Wheeler first
interrogated me: I don’t have to talk to you. Jake might be getting satisfaction
from picking at the scab of our relationship, but I’m not. I stand up, my skin
making a faint peeling sound as it unsticks from the sofa. I’m sure I’ve left two
thigh-shaped imprints behind. Gross, but who cares anymore. “I guess I’ll see
you around.”
I let myself out and climb onto my bike, putting on my helmet. As soon as it’s
clipped tight I push up the kickstand and I’m pedaling hard down Jake’s
driveway. Once my heart finds a comfortable pounding rhythm, I remember how
it almost beat out of my chest when I confessed to cheating on Jake. I’d never
felt so trapped in my life. I thought I’d feel the same way in his living room
today, waiting for him to tell me again I’m not good enough.
But I didn’t, and I don’t. For the first time in a long time, I feel free.
Cooper
Monday, October 15, 4:20 p.m.
My life isn’t mine anymore. It’s been taken over by a media circus. There aren’t
reporters in front of my house every day, but it’s a common-enough occurrence
that my stomach hurts whenever I get close to home.
I try not to go online more than I have to. I used to dream about my name
being a trending search on Google, but for pitching a no-hitter in the World
Series. Not for possibly killing a guy with peanut oil.
Everyone says, Just keep your head down. I’ve been trying, but once you’re
under a microscope nothing slips by people. Last Friday at school I got out of
my car the same time Addy got out of her sister’s, the breeze ruffling her short
hair. We were both wearing sunglasses, a pointless attempt at blending in, and
gave each other our usual tight-lipped, still-can’t-believe-this-is-happening
smile. We hadn’t gone more than a few steps before we saw Nate stride over to
Bronwyn’s car and open the door, being all exaggeratedly polite about it. He
smirked as she got out, and she gave him a look that made Addy and me
exchange glances behind our shades. The four of us ended up almost in a line,
walking toward the back entrance.
The whole thing barely took a minute—just enough time for one of our
classmates to record a phone video that wound up on TMZ that night. They ran it
in slo-mo with the song “Kids” by MGMT playing in the background, like we’re
some kind of hip high school murder club without a care in the world. The thing
went viral within a day.
That might be the weirdest thing about all this. Plenty of people hate us and
want us in jail, but there are just as many—if not more—who love us. All of a
sudden I have a Facebook fan page with over fifty thousand likes. Mostly girls,
according to my brother.
The attention slows sometimes, but it never really stops. I thought I’d avoided
it tonight when I left my house to meet Luis at the gym, but as soon as I arrive a
pretty, dark-haired woman with a face full of makeup hurries toward me. My
heart sinks because I’m familiar with her type. I’ve been followed again.
“Cooper, do you have a few minutes? Liz Rosen with Channel Seven News.
I’d love your perspective on all this. A lot of people are rooting for you!”
I don’t answer, brushing past her through the gym’s entrance. She clicks after
me in her high heels, a cameraman trailing in her wake, but the guy at the front
desk stops them both. I’ve been going there for years and they’ve been pretty
cool through all this. I disappear down the hall while he argues with her that no,
she can’t buy a membership on the spot.
Luis and I bench-press for a while, but I’m preoccupied with what’s waiting
outside for me when we’re done. We don’t talk about it, but in the locker room
afterward he says, “Give me your shirt and keys.”
“What?”
“I’ll be you, head out of here in your cap and sunglasses. They won’t know
the difference. Take my car and get the hell out of here. Go home, go out,
whatever. We can swap cars again at school tomorrow.”
I’m about to tell him that’ll never work. His hair’s a lot darker than mine, and
he’s at least a shade tanner. Then again, with a long-sleeved shirt and a cap on, it
might not matter. Worth a shot, anyway.
So I hover in the hallway as Luis strides out the front door in my clothes to the
bright lights of cameras. My baseball cap sits low on his forehead and his hand
shields his face as he climbs into my Jeep. He peels out of the parking lot and a
couple of vans follow.
I put on Luis’s hat and sunglasses, then get into his Honda and fling my gym
bag across the seat. It takes a few tries to start the engine, but once it roars I pull
out of the parking lot and take back roads until I’m on the highway toward San
Diego. When I’m downtown I circle for half an hour, still paranoid someone’s
following me. Eventually I make my way to the North Park neighborhood,
pulling in front of an old factory that was renovated into condos last year.
The neighborhood’s trendy, with lots of well-dressed kids a little older than
me filling the sidewalk. A pretty girl in a flowered dress almost doubles over
laughing at something the guy next to her says. She clutches his arm as they pass
Luis’s car without looking my way, and I feel a bone-deep sense of loss. I was
like them a few weeks ago, and now I’m … not.
I shouldn’t be here. What if someone recognizes me?
I pull a key out of my gym bag and wait for a break in the sidewalk crowds.
I’m out of Luis’s car and in the front door so fast, I don’t think anyone could’ve
seen me. I duck into the elevator and take it to the top floor, letting out a sigh of
seen me. I duck into the elevator and take it to the top floor, letting out a sigh of
relief when it doesn’t stop once. The hallway echoes with empty silence; all the
hipsters who live here must be out for the afternoon.
Except one, I hope.
When I knock, I only half expect an answer. I never called or texted to say I
was coming. But the door cracks open, and a pair of startled green eyes meet
mine.
“Hey.” Kris steps aside to let me in. “What are you doing here?”
“Had to get out of my house.” I close the door behind me and take off my hat
and sunglasses, tossing them on an entry table. I feel silly, like a kid who’s been
caught playing spy. Except people are following me. Just not right this second.
“Plus, I guess we should talk about the whole Simon thing, huh?”
“Later.” Kris hesitates a fraction of a second, then leans forward and pulls me
roughly toward him, pressing his lips against mine. I close my eyes and the
world around me fades, like it always does, when I slide my hands into his hair
and kiss him back.
Part Three
TRUTH OR DARE
Chapter Nineteen
Nate
Monday, October 15, 4:30 p.m.
My mother’s upstairs, trying to have a conversation with my father. Good luck
with that. I’m on our couch with my burner phone in hand, wondering what I can
text to Bronwyn to keep her from hating me. Not sure Sorry I lied about my mom
being dead is going to cut it.
It’s not like I wanted her dead. But I thought she probably was, or would be
soon. And it was easier than saying, or thinking, the truth. She’s a coke addict
who ran off to some commune in Oregon and hasn’t talked to me since. So when
people started asking where my mother was, I lied. By the time it hit me how
fucked up a response that was, it was too late to take it back.
Nobody’s ever really cared, anyway. Most of the people I know don’t pay
attention to what I say or do, as long as I keep the drugs coming. Except Officer
Lopez, and now Bronwyn.
I thought about telling her, a few times late at night while we were talking.
But I could never figure out how to start the conversation. I still can’t.
I put my phone away.
The stairs creak as my mother comes down, brushing her hands on the front of
her pants. “Your father’s not in any shape to talk right now.”
“Shocking,” I mutter.
She looks both older and younger than she used to. Her hair’s a lot grayer and
shorter, but her face isn’t so ragged and drawn. She’s heavier, which I guess is
good. Means she’s eating, anyway. She crosses over to Stan’s terrarium and
gives me a small, nervous smile. “Nice to see Stan’s still around.”
“Not much has changed since we last saw you,” I say, putting my feet on the
coffee table in front of me. “Same bored lizard, same drunk dad, same fallingapart house. Except now I’m being investigated for murder. Maybe you heard
about that?”
“Nathaniel.” My mother sits in the armchair and clasps her hands in front of
her. Her nails are as bitten off as ever. “I—I don’t even know where to start. I’ve
been sober for almost three months and I’ve wanted to contact you every single
been sober for almost three months and I’ve wanted to contact you every single
second. But I was so afraid I wasn’t strong enough yet and I’d let you down
again. Then I saw the news. I’ve been coming by the last few days, but you’re
never home.”
I gesture at the cracked walls and sagging ceiling. “Would you be?”
Her face crumples. “I’m sorry, Nathaniel. I hoped … I hoped your father
would step up.”
You hoped. Solid parenting plan. “At least he’s here.” It’s a low blow, and not
a ringing endorsement since the guy barely moves, but I feel entitled to it.
My mother nods her head jerkily while cracking her knuckles. God, I forgot
she did that. It’s fucking annoying. “I know. I have no right to criticize. I don’t
expect you to forgive me. Or believe you’ll get anything better than what you’re
used to from me. But I’m finally on meds that work and don’t make me sick
with anxiety. It’s the only reason I could finish rehab this time. I have a whole
team of doctors in Oregon who’ve been helping me stay sober.”
“Must be nice. To have a team.”
“It’s more than I deserve, I know.” Her downcast eyes and humble tone are
pissing me off. But I’m pretty sure anything she did would piss me off right
now.
I get to my feet. “This has been great, but I need to be somewhere. You can let
yourself out, right? Unless you want to hang with Dad. Sometimes he wakes up
around ten.”
Oh crap. Now she’s crying. “I’m sorry, Nathaniel. You deserve so much better
than the two of us. My God, just look at you—I can’t believe how handsome
you’ve gotten. And you’re smarter than both your parents put together. You
always were. You should be living in one of those big houses in Bayview Hills,
not taking care of this dump on your own.”
“Whatever, Mom. It’s all good. Nice to see you. Send me a postcard from
Oregon sometime.”
“Nathaniel, please.” She stands and tugs at my arm. Her hands look twenty
years older than the rest of her—soft and wrinkled, covered with brown spots
and scars. “I want to do something to help you. Anything. I’m staying in the
Motel Six on Bay Road. Could I take you out to dinner tomorrow? Once you’ve
had some time to process all this?”
Process this. Christ. What kind of rehab-speak is she spewing? “I don’t know.
Leave a number, I’ll call you. Maybe.”
“Okay.” She’s nodding like a puppet again and I’m going to lose it if I don’t
get away from her soon. “Nathaniel, was that Bronwyn Rojas I saw earlier?”
“Yeah,” I say, and she smiles. “Why?”
“It’s just … well, if that’s who you’re with, we can’t have messed you up too
“It’s just … well, if that’s who you’re with, we can’t have messed you up too
badly.”
“I’m not with Bronwyn. We’re murder cosuspects, remember?” I say, and let
the door slam behind me. Which is self-defeating, because when it comes off its
hinges, again, I’m the one who’ll have to fix it.
Once I’m outside, I don’t know where to go. I get on my bike and head for
downtown San Diego, then change my mind and get on I-15 North. And just
keep riding, stopping after an hour to fill up my tank. I pull out my burner phone
while I’m doing it and check messages. Nothing. I should call Bronwyn, see how
things went at the police station. She’s gotta be fine, though. She has that
expensive lawyer, along with parents who are like guard dogs between her and
people trying to mess with her. And anyway, what the hell would I say?
I put my phone away.
I ride for almost three hours until I hit wide desert roads dotted with scrubby
bushes. Even though it’s getting late, it’s hotter here near the Mojave Desert, and
I stop to take off my jacket as I cruise closer to Joshua Tree. The only vacation I
ever went on with my parents was a camping trip here when I was nine years
old. I spent the whole time waiting for something bad to happen: for our ancient
car to break down, for my mother to start screaming or crying, for my dad to go
still and silent like he always did when we got to be too much for him to take.
It was almost normal, though. They were as tense with each other as ever, but
kept the arguing to a minimum. My mother was on good behavior, maybe
because she had a thing for those short, twisted trees that were everywhere. “The
first seven years of the Joshua tree’s life, it’s just a vertical stem. No branches,”
she told me while we were hiking. “It takes years before it blooms. And every
branching stem stops growing after it blossoms, so you’ve got this complex
system of dead areas and new growth.”
I used to think about that, sometimes, when I wondered what parts of her
might still be alive.
It’s past midnight by the time I get back to Bayview. I thought about getting on
I-15 and riding through the night, as far as I could go until I dropped from
exhaustion. Let my parents have whatever fucked-up reunion they’re about to
get into on their own. Let the Bayview Police come find me if they ever want to
talk to me again. But that’s what my mother would do. So in the end I came
back, checked my phones, and followed up on the only text I had: a party at
Chad Posner’s house.
When I get there Posner’s nowhere to be found. I end up in his kitchen,
nursing a beer and listening to two girls go on and on about a TV show I’ve
never seen. It’s boring and doesn’t take my mind off my mother’s sudden
never seen. It’s boring and doesn’t take my mind off my mother’s sudden
reappearance, or Bronwyn’s police summons.
One of the girls starts to giggle. “I know you,” she says, poking me in the side.
She giggles harder and flattens her palm against my stomach. “You were on
Mikhail Powers Investigates, weren’t you? One of the kids who maybe killed
that guy?” She’s half-drunk and staggers as she leans closer. She looks like a lot
of the girls I meet at Posner’s parties: pretty in a forgettable way.
“Oh my God, Mallory,” her friend says. “That’s so rude.”
“Not me,” I say. “I just look like him.”
“Liar.” Mallory tries to poke me again, but I step out of reach. “Well, I don’t
think you did it. Neither does Brianna. Right, Bri?” Her friend nods. “We think it
was the girl with the glasses. She looks like a stuck-up bitch.”
My hand tightens around my beer bottle. “I told you, that’s not me. So you
can drop it.”
“Shhorry,” Mallory slurs, tilting her head and shaking bangs out of her eyes.
“Don’t be such a grouch. I bet I can cheer you up.” She slides a hand into her
pocket and pulls out a crumpled baggie filled with tiny squares. “Wanna go
upstairs with us and trip for a while?”
I hesitate. I’d do almost anything to get out of my head right now. It’s the
Macauley family way. And everybody already thinks I’m that guy.
Almost everybody. “Can’t,” I say, pulling out my burner phone and starting to
shoulder my way through the crowd. It buzzes before I get outside. When I look
at the screen and see Bronwyn’s number—even though she’s the only one who
ever calls me on this phone—I feel a massive sense of relief. Like I’ve been
freezing and someone wrapped a blanket around me.
“Hey,” Bronwyn says when I pick up. Her voice is far away, quiet. “Can we
talk?”
Bronwyn
Tuesday, October 16, 12:30 a.m.
I’m nervous about sneaking Nate into the house. My parents are already furious
with me for not telling them about Simon’s blog post—both now and back when
it actually happened. We got out of the police station without much trouble,
though. Robin gave this haughty speech that was all, Stop wasting our time with
meaningless speculation that you can’t prove, and that wouldn’t be actionable
even if you did.
I guess she was right, because here I am. Although I’m grounded until, as my
mother says, I stop “undermining my future by not being transparent.”
“You couldn’t have hacked into Simon’s old blog while you were at it?” I
“You couldn’t have hacked into Simon’s old blog while you were at it?” I
muttered to Maeve before she went to bed.
She looked genuinely chagrined. “He took it down so long ago! I didn’t think
it even existed anymore. And I never knew you wrote that comment. It wasn’t
posted.” She shook her head at me with a sort of exasperated fondness. “You
were always more upset about that than I was, Bronwyn.”
Maybe she’s right. It occurred to me, as I lay in my dark room debating
whether I should call Nate, that I’ve spent years thinking Maeve was a lot more
fragile than she actually is.
Now I’m downstairs in our media room, and when I get a text from Nate that
he’s at the house, I open the basement door and stick my head outside. “Over
here,” I call softly, and a shadowy figure comes around the corner next to our
bulkhead. I retreat back into the basement, leaving the door open for Nate to
follow me.
He comes in wearing a leather jacket over a torn, rumpled T-shirt, his hair
falling sweaty across his forehead from the helmet. I don’t say anything until
I’ve led him into the media room and closed the door behind us. My parents are
three floors away and asleep, but the added bonus of a soundproof room can’t be
overstated at a time like this.
“So.” I sit in one corner of the couch, knees bent and arms crossed over my
legs like a barrier. Nate takes off his jacket and tosses it on the floor, lowering
himself on the opposite end. When he meets my eyes, his are clouded with so
much misery that I almost forget to be upset.
“How’d it go at the police station?” he asks.
“Fine. But that’s not what I want to talk about.”
He drops his eyes. “I know.” Silence stretches between us and I want to fill it
with a dozen questions, but I don’t. “You must think I’m an asshole,” he says
finally, still staring at the floor. “And a liar.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nate exhales a slow breath and shakes his head. “I wanted to. I thought about
it. I didn’t know how to start. Thing is—it was this lie I told because it was
easier than the truth. And because I half believed it, anyway. I didn’t think she’d
ever come back. Then once you say something like that, how do you unsay it?
You look like a fucking psycho at that point.” He raises his eyes again, locking
on mine with sudden intensity. “I’m not, though. I haven’t lied to you about
anything else. I’m not dealing drugs anymore, and I didn’t do anything to Simon.
I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me, but I swear to God it’s true.”
Another long silence descends while I try to gather my thoughts. I should be
angrier, probably. I should demand proof of his trustworthiness, even though I
have no idea what that would look like. I should ask lots of pointed questions
have no idea what that would look like. I should ask lots of pointed questions
designed to ferret out whatever other lies he’s told me.
But the thing is, I do believe him. I won’t pretend I know Nate inside and out
after a few weeks, but I know what it’s like to tell yourself a lie so often that it
becomes the truth. I did it, and I haven’t had to muddle through life almost
completely on my own.
And I’ve never thought he had it in him to kill Simon.
“Tell me about your mom. For real, okay?” I ask. And he does. We talk for
over an hour, but after the first fifteen minutes or so, we’re mainly covering old
ground. I start feeling stiff from sitting so long, and lift my arms over my head in
a stretch.
“Tired?” Nate asks, moving closer.
I wonder if he’s noticed that I’ve been staring at his mouth for the past ten
minutes. “Not really.”
He reaches out and pulls my legs over his lap, tracing a circle on my left knee
with his thumb. My legs tremble, and I press them together to make it stop. His
eyes flick toward mine, then down. “My mother thought you were my
girlfriend.”
Maybe if I do something with my hands I can manage to hold still. I reach up
and tangle my fingers into the hair on the nape of his neck, smoothing the soft
waves against his warm skin. “Well. I mean. Is that out of the question?”
Oh God. I actually said it. What if it is?
Nate’s hand moves down my leg, almost absently. Like he has no idea he’s
turning my entire body into jelly. “You want a drug-dealing murder suspect who
lied about his not-dead mother as your boyfriend?”
“Former drug dealer,” I correct. “And I’m not in a position to judge.”
He looks up with a half smile, but his eyes are wary. “I don’t know how to be
with somebody like you, Bronwyn.” He must see my face fall, because he
quickly adds, “I’m not saying I don’t want to. I’m saying I think I’d screw it up.
I’ve only ever been … you know. Casual about this kind of thing.”
I don’t know. I pull my hands back and twist them in my lap, watching my
pulse jump under the thin skin of my wrist. “Are you casual now? With
somebody else?”
“No,” Nate says. “I was. When you and I first started talking. But not since
then.”
“Well.” I’m quiet for a few seconds, weighing whether I’m about to make a
giant mistake. Probably, but I plow ahead anyway. “I’d like to try. If you want
to. Not because we’re thrown together in this weird situation and I think you’re
hot, although I do. But because you’re smart, and funny, and you do the right
thing more often than you give yourself credit for. I like your horrible taste in
thing more often than you give yourself credit for. I like your horrible taste in
movies and the way you never sugarcoat anything and the fact that you have an
actual lizard. I’d be proud to be your girlfriend, even in a nonofficial capacity
while we’re, you know, being investigated for murder. Plus, I can’t go more than
a few minutes without wanting to kiss you, so—there’s that.”
Nate doesn’t reply at first, and I worry I’ve blown it. Maybe that was too
much information. But he’s still running his hand down my leg, and finally he
says, “You’re doing better than me. I never stop thinking about kissing you.”
He takes off my glasses and folds them, putting them on the side table next to
the couch. His hand on my face is featherlight as he leans in close and pulls my
mouth toward his. I hold my breath as our lips connect, and the soft pressure
sends a warm ache humming through my veins. It’s sweet and tender, different
from the hot, needy kiss at Marshall’s Peak. But it still makes me dizzy. I’m
shaking all over and press my hands against his chest to try to get that under
control, feeling a hard plane of muscle through his thin shirt. Not helping.
My lips part in a sigh that turns into a small moan when Nate slides his tongue
to meet mine. Our kisses grow deeper and more intense, our bodies so tangled I
can’t tell where mine stops and his starts. I feel like I’m falling, floating, flying.
All at once. We kiss until my lips are sore and my skin sparks like I’ve been lit
by a fuse.
Nate’s hands are surprisingly PG. He touches my hair and face a lot, and
eventually he slides a hand under my shirt and runs it over my back and oh God,
I might have whimpered. His fingers dip into the waistband of my shorts and a
shiver goes through me, but he stops there. The insecure side of me wonders if
he’s not as attracted to me as I am to him, or as he is to other girls. Except …
I’ve been pressed against him for half an hour and I know that’s not it.
He pulls back and looks at me, his thick dark lashes sweeping low. God, his
eyes. They’re ridiculous. “I keep picturing your father walking in,” he murmurs.
“He kinda scares me.” I sigh because, truth be told, that’s been in the back of my
mind too. Even though there’s barely a five percent chance, it’s still too much.
Nate runs a finger over my lips. “Your mouth is so red. We should take a
break before I do permanent damage. Plus, I need to, um, calm down a little.” He
kisses my cheek and reaches for his jacket on the floor.
My heart drops. “Are you leaving?”
“No.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up Netflix, then hands
me my glasses. “We can finally finish watching Ringu.”
“Damn it. I thought you’d forgotten about that.” My disappointment’s fake
this time, though.
“Come on, this is perfect.” Nate stretches on the couch and I curl next to him
with my head on his shoulder as he props his iPhone in the crook of his arm.
with my head on his shoulder as he props his iPhone in the crook of his arm.
“We’ll use my phone instead of that sixty-inch monster on your wall. You can’t
be scared of anything on such a tiny screen.”
Honestly, I don’t care what we do. I just want to stay wrapped around him for
as long as possible, fighting sleep and forgetting about the rest of the world.
Chapter Twenty
Cooper
Tuesday, October 16, 5:45 p.m.
“Pass the milk, would you, Cooperstown?” Pop jerks his chin at me during
dinner, his eyes drifting toward the muted television in our living room, where
college football scores scroll along the bottom of the screen. “So what’d you do
with your night off?” He thinks it’s hilarious that Luis posed as me after the gym
yesterday.
I hand over the carton and picture myself answering his question honestly.
Hung out with Kris, the guy I’m in love with. Yeah, Pop, I said guy. No, Pop, I’m
not kidding. He’s a premed freshman at UCSD who does modeling on the side.
Total catch. You’d like him.
And then Pop’s head explodes. That’s how it always ends in my imagination.
“Just drove around for a while,” I say instead.
I’m not ashamed of Kris. I’m not. But it’s complicated.
Thing is, I didn’t realize I could feel that way about a guy till I met him. I
mean, yeah, I suspected. Since I was eleven or so. But I buried those thoughts as
far down as I could because I’m a Southern jock shooting for an MLB career and
that’s not how we’re supposed to be wired.
I really did believe that for most of my life. I’ve always had a girlfriend. But it
was never hard to hold off till marriage like I was raised. I only recently
understood that was more of an excuse than a deeply held moral belief.
I’ve been lying to Keely for months, but I did tell her the truth about Kris. I
met him through baseball, although he doesn’t play. He’s friends with another
guy I made the exhibition rounds with, who invited us both to his birthday party.
And he is German.
I just left out the part about being in love with him.
I can’t admit that to anybody yet. That it’s not a phase, or experimentation, or
distraction from pressure. Nonny was right. My stomach does flips when Kris
calls or texts me. Every single time. And when I’m with him I feel like a real
person, not the robot Keely called me: programmed to perform as expected.
But Cooper-and-Kris only exists in the bubble of his apartment. Moving it
But Cooper-and-Kris only exists in the bubble of his apartment. Moving it
anyplace else scares the hell out of me. For one thing, it’s hard enough making it
in baseball when you’re a regular guy. The number of openly gay players who
are part of a major league team stands at exactly one. And he’s still in the
minors.
For another thing: Pop. My whole brain seizes when I imagine his reaction.
He’s the kind of good old boy who calls gay people “fags” and thinks we spend
all our time hitting on straight guys. The one time we saw a news story about the
gay baseball player, he snorted in disgust and said, Normal guys shouldn’t have
to deal with that crap in the locker room.
If I tell him about Kris and me, seventeen years of being the perfect son would
be gone in an instant. He’d never look at me the same. The way he’s looking at
me now, even though I’m a murder suspect who’s been accused of using
steroids. That he can handle.
“Testing tomorrow,” he reminds me. I have to get tested for steroids every
damn week now. In the meantime I keep pitching, and no, my fastball hasn’t
gotten any slower. Because I haven’t been lying. I didn’t cheat. I strategically
improved.
It was Pop’s idea. He wanted me to hold back a little junior year, not give my
all, so there’d be more excitement around me during showcase season. And there
was. People like Josh Langley noticed me. But now, of course, it looks
suspicious. Thanks, Pop.
At least he feels guilty about it.
I was sure, when the police got ready to show me the unpublished About That
posts last month, that I was going to read something about Kris and me. I’d
barely known Simon, only talked with him one-on-one a few times. But anytime
I got near him I’d worry about him learning my secret. Last spring at junior
prom he’d been drunk off his ass, and when I ran into him in the bathroom he
flung an arm around me and pulled me so close I practically had a panic attack. I
was sure that Simon—who’d never had a girlfriend as far as I knew—realized I
was gay and was putting the moves on me.
I freaked out so bad, I had Vanessa disinvite him to her after-prom party. And
Vanessa, who never passes up a chance to exclude somebody, was happy to do
it. I let it stand even after I saw Simon hitting on Keely later with the kind of
intensity you can’t fake.
I hadn’t let myself think about that since Simon died; how the last time I’d
talked to him, I acted like a jerk because I couldn’t deal with who I was.
And the worst part is, even after all this—I still can’t.
Nate
Tuesday, October 16, 6:00 p.m.
When I get to Glenn’s Diner half an hour after I’m supposed to meet my mother,
her Kia is parked right out front. Score one for the new and improved version, I
guess. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she didn’t show.
I thought about doing the same. A lot. But pretending she doesn’t exist hasn’t
worked out all that well.
I park my bike a few spaces away from her car, feeling the first drops of rain
hit my shoulders before I enter the restaurant. The hostess looks up with a polite,
quizzical expression. “I’m meeting somebody. Macauley,” I say.
She nods and points to a corner booth. “Right over there.”
I can tell my mother’s already been there for a while. Her soda’s almost empty
and she’s torn her straw wrapper to shreds. When I slide into the seat across
from her, I pick up a menu and scan it carefully to avoid her eyes. “You order?”
“Oh, no. I was waiting for you.” I can practically feel her willing me to look
up. I wish I weren’t here. “Do you want a hamburger, Nathaniel? You used to
love Glenn’s hamburgers.”
I did, and I do, but now I want to order anything else. “It’s Nate, okay?” I
snap my menu shut and stare at the gray drizzle pelting the window. “Nobody
calls me that anymore.”
“Nate,” she says, but my name sounds strange coming from her. One of those
words you say over and over until it loses meaning. A waitress comes by and I
order a Coke and a club sandwich I don’t want. My burner phone buzzes in my
pocket and I pull it out to a text from Bronwyn. Hope it’s going ok. I feel a jolt
of warmth, but put the phone back without answering. I don’t have the words to
tell Bronwyn what it’s like to have lunch with a ghost.
“Nate.” My mother clears her throat around my name. It still sounds wrong.
“How is … How are you doing in school? Do you still like science?”
Christ. Do you still like science? I’ve been in remedial classes since ninth
grade, but how would she know? Progress reports come home, I fake my father’s
signature, and they go back. Nobody ever questions them. “Can you pay for
this?” I ask, gesturing around the table. Like the belligerent asshole I’ve turned
into in the past five minutes. “Because I can’t. So if you’re expecting that you
should tell me before the food comes.”
Her face sags, and I feel a pointless stab of triumph. “Nath—Nate. I would
never … well. Why should you believe me?” She pulls out a wallet and puts a
couple of twenties on the table, and I feel like shit until I think about the bills I
keep tossing into the trash instead of paying. Now that I’m not earning anything,
my father’s disability check barely covers the mortgage, utilities, and his
alcohol.
“How do you have money when you’ve been in rehab for months?”
The waitress returns with a glass of Coke for me, and my mother waits until
she leaves to answer. “One of the doctors at Pine Valley—that’s the facility I’ve
been in—connected me with a medical transcription company. I can work
anywhere, and it’s very steady.” She brushes her hand against mine and I jerk
away. “I can help you and your father out, Nate. I will. I wanted to ask you—if
you have a lawyer, for the investigation? We could look into that.”
Somehow, I manage not to laugh. Whatever she’s making, it’s not enough to
pay a lawyer. “I’m good.”
She keeps trying, asking about school, Simon, probation, my dad. It almost
gets to me, because she’s different than I remember. Calmer and more eventempered. But then she asks, “How’s Bronwyn handling all this?”
Nope. Every time I think about Bronwyn my body reacts like I’m back on the
couch in her media room—heart pounding, blood rushing, skin tingling. I’m not
about to turn the one good thing that’s come out of this mess into yet another
awkward conversation with my mother. Which means we’ve pretty much run out
of things to say. Thank God the food’s arrived so we can stop trying to pretend
the last three years never happened. Even though my sandwich tastes like
nothing, like dust, it’s better than that.
My mother doesn’t take the hint. She keeps bringing up Oregon and her
doctors and Mikhail Powers Investigates until I feel as if I’m about to choke. I
pull at the neck of my T-shirt like that’ll help me breathe, but it doesn’t. I can’t
sit here listening to her promises and hoping it’ll all work out. That she’ll stay
sober, stay employed, stay sane. Just stay.
“I have to go,” I say abruptly, dropping my half-eaten sandwich onto my
plate. I get up, banging my knee against the edge of the table so hard I wince,
and walk out without looking at her. I know she won’t come after me. That’s not
how she operates.
When I get outside I’m confused at first because I can’t see my bike. It’s
wedged between a couple of huge Range Rovers that weren’t there before. I
make my way toward it, then suddenly a guy who’s way overdressed for Glenn’s
Diner steps in front of me with a blinding smile. I recognize him right away but
look through him as if I don’t.
“Nate Macauley? Mikhail Powers. You’re a hard man to find, you know that?
Thrilled to make your acquaintance. We’re working on our follow-up broadcast
to the Simon Kelleher investigation and I’d love your take. How about I buy you
a coffee inside and we talk for a few minutes?”
I climb onto my bike and strap on my helmet like I didn’t hear him. I get
I climb onto my bike and strap on my helmet like I didn’t hear him. I get
ready to back up, but a couple of producer types block my way. “How about you
tell your people to move?”
His smile’s as wide as ever. “I’m not your enemy, Nate. The court of public
opinion matters in a case like this. What do you say we get them on your side?”
My mother appears in the parking lot, her mouth falling open when she sees
who’s next to me. I slowly reverse my bike until the people in my way move and
I’ve got a clear path. If she wants to help me, she can talk to him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bronwyn
Wednesday, October 17, 12:25 p.m.
At lunch on Wednesday, Addy and I are talking about nail polish. She’s a font of
information on the subject. “With short nails like yours, you want something
pale, almost nude,” she says, examining my hands with a professional air. “But,
like, super glossy.”
“I don’t really wear nail polish,” I tell her.
“Well, you’re getting fancier, aren’t you? For whatever reason.” She arches a
brow at my careful blow-dry, and my cheeks heat as Maeve laughs. “You might
want to give it a try.”
It’s a mundane, innocuous conversation compared to yesterday’s lunch, when
we caught up on my police visit, Nate’s mother, and the fact that Addy got
called to the station separately to answer questions about the missing EpiPens
again. Yesterday we were murder suspects with complicated personal lives, but
today we’re just being girls.
Until a shrill voice from a few tables over pierces the conversation. “It’s like I
told them,” Vanessa Merriman says. “Which person’s rumor is definitely true?
And which person’s totally fallen apart since Simon died? That’s your
murderer.”
“What’s she on about now?” Addy mutters, nibbling like a squirrel at an
oversized crouton.
Janae, who doesn’t talk much when she sits with us, darts a look at Addy and
says, “You haven’t heard? Mikhail Powers’s crew is out front. A bunch of kids
are giving interviews.”
My stomach drops, and Addy shoves her tray away. “Oh, great. That’s all I
need, Vanessa on TV yakking about how guilty I am.”
“Nobody really thinks it was you,” Janae says. She nods toward me. “Or you.
Or …” She watches as Cooper heads for Vanessa’s table with a tray balanced in
one hand, then spots us and changes course, seating himself at the edge of ours.
He does that sometimes; sits with Addy for a few minutes at the beginning of
lunch. Long enough to signal he’s not abandoning her like the rest of her friends,
lunch. Long enough to signal he’s not abandoning her like the rest of her friends,
but not so long that Jake gets pissed. I can’t decide whether it’s sweet or
cowardly.
“What’s up, guys?” he asks, starting to peel an orange. He’s dressed in a sage
button-down that brightens his hazel eyes, and he’s got a baseball-cap tan from
the sun hitting his cheeks more than anything else. Somehow, instead of making
him look uneven, it only adds to the Cooper Clay glow.
I used to think Cooper was the handsomest guy at school. He still might be,
but lately there’s something almost Ken doll-like about him—a little plastic and
conventional. Or maybe my tastes have changed. “Have you given your Mikhail
Powers interview yet?” I joke.
Before he can answer, a voice speaks over my shoulder. “You should. Go
ahead and be the murder club everybody thinks you guys are. Ridding Bayview
High of its asshats.” Leah Jackson perches on the table next to Cooper. She
doesn’t notice Janae, who turns brick red and stiffens in her chair.
“Hello, Leah,” Cooper says patiently. As though he’s heard it before. Which I
guess he did, at Simon’s memorial service.
Leah scans the table, her eyes landing on me. “You ever gonna admit you
cheated?” Her tone’s conversational and her expression is almost friendly, but I
still freeze.
“Hypocritical, Leah.” Maeve’s voice rings out, surprising me. When I turn,
her eyes are blazing. “You can’t complain about Simon in one breath and repeat
his rumor in the next.”
Leah gives Maeve a small salute. “Touché, Rojas the younger.”
But Maeve’s just getting warmed up. “I’m sick of the conversation never
changing. Why doesn’t anybody talk about how awful About That made this
school sometimes?” She looks directly at Leah, her eyes challenging. “Why
don’t you? They’re right outside, you know. Dying for a new angle. You could
give it to them.”
Leah recoils. “I’m not talking to the media about that.”
“Why not?” Maeve asks. I’ve never seen her like this; she’s almost fierce as
she stares Leah down. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Simon did. He did it for
years, and now everybody’s sainting him for it. Don’t you have a problem with
that?”
Leah stares right back, and I can’t make out the expression that crosses her
face. It’s almost … triumphant? “Obviously I do.”
“So do something about it,” Maeve says.
Leah stands abruptly, pushing her hair over her shoulder. The movement lifts
her sleeve and exposes a crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. “Maybe I will.” She
stalks out the door with long strides.
stalks out the door with long strides.
Cooper blinks after her. “Dang, Maeve. Remind me not to get on your bad
side.” Maeve wrinkles her nose, and I remember the file with Cooper’s name on
it she still hasn’t managed to decrypt.
“Leah’s not on my bad side,” she mutters, tapping furiously on her phone.
I’m almost afraid to ask. “What are you doing?”
“Sending Simon’s 4chan threads to Mikhail Powers Investigates,” she says.
“They’re journalists, right? They should look into it.”
“What?” Janae bursts out. “What are you talking about?”
“Simon was all over these discussion threads full of creepy people cheering on
school shootings and stuff like that,” Maeve says. “I’ve been reading them for
days. Other people started them, but he jumped right in and said all kinds of
awful things. He didn’t even care when that boy killed all those people in
Orange County.” She’s still tapping away when Janae’s hand shoots out and
locks around her wrist, almost knocking her phone from her hand.
“How would you know that?” she hisses, and Maeve finally snaps out of the
zone to realize she might’ve said too much.
“Let her go,” I say. When Janae doesn’t, I reach out and pry her fingers off
Maeve’s wrist. They’re icy cold. Janae pushes her chair back with a loud scrape,
and when she gets to her feet she’s shaking all over.
“None of you knew anything about him,” she says in a choked voice, and
stomps away just like Leah did. Except she’s probably not about to give Mikhail
Powers a sound bite. Maeve and I exchange glances as I drum my fingers on the
table. I can’t figure Janae out. Most days, I’m not sure why she sits with us when
we must be a constant reminder of Simon.
Unless it’s to hear conversations like the one we just had.
“I gotta go,” Cooper says abruptly, as though he’s used up his allotted nonJake time. He lifts his tray, where the bulk of his lunch lies untouched, and
smoothly makes his way to his usual table.
So our crew is back to being all girls, and stays that way for the rest of lunch.
The only other guy who’d sit with us never bothers making an appearance in the
cafeteria. But I pass Nate in the hallway afterward, and all the questions
bubbling in my brain about Simon, Leah, and Janae disappear when he gives me
a fleeting grin.
Because God, it’s beautiful when that boy smiles.
Addy
Friday, October 19, 11:12 a.m.
It’s hot on the track, and I shouldn’t feel like running very hard. It’s only gym
class, after all. But my arms and legs pump with unexpected energy as my lungs
fill and expand, as if all my recent bike riding has given me reserves that need a
release. Sweat beads my forehead and pastes my T-shirt to my back.
I feel a jolt of pride as I pass Luis—who, granted, is barely trying—and
Olivia, who’s on the track team. Jake’s ahead of me and the idea of catching him
seems ridiculous because obviously Jake is much faster than me, and bigger and
stronger too, and there’s no way I can gain on him except I am. He’s not a speck
anymore; he’s close, and if I shift lanes and keep this pace going I can almost,
probably, definitely—
My legs fly out from under me. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I
bite into my lip and my palms slam hard against the ground. Tiny stones shred
my skin, embedding in raw flesh and exploding into dozens of tiny cuts. My
knees are in agony and I know before I see thick red dots on the ground that my
skin’s burst open on both of them.
“Oh no!” Vanessa’s voice rings with fake concern. “Poor thing! Her legs gave
out.”
They didn’t. While my eyes were on Jake, someone’s foot hooked my ankle
and brought me down. I have a pretty good idea whose, but can’t say anything
because I’m too busy trying to suck air into my lungs.
“Addy, are you okay?” Vanessa keeps her fake voice on as she kneels next to
me, until she’s right next to my ear and whispers, “Serves you right, slut.”
I’d love to answer her, but I still can’t breathe.
When our gym teacher arrives Vanessa backs off, and by the time I have
enough air to talk she’s gone. The gym teacher inspects my knees, turns my
hands over, clucks at the damage. “You need the nurse’s office. Get those cuts
cleaned up and some antibiotics on you.” She scans the crowd that’s gathered
around me and calls, “Miss Vargas! Help her out.”
I guess I should be grateful it’s not Vanessa or Jake. But I’ve barely seen
Janae since Bronwyn’s sister called Simon out a couple of days ago. As I limp
toward school Janae doesn’t look at me until we’re almost at the entrance. “What
happened?” she asks as she opens the door.
By now I have enough breath to laugh. “Vanessa’s version of slut-shaming.” I
turn left instead of right at the stairwell, heading for the locker room.
“You’re supposed to go to the nurse’s,” Janae says, and I flutter my hand at
her. I haven’t darkened the nurse’s doorstep in weeks, and anyway, my cuts are
painful but superficial. All I really need is a shower. I limp to a stall and peel off
my clothes, stepping under the warm spray and watching brown-and-red water
swirl down the drain. I stay in the shower until the water’s clear and when I step
out, a towel wrapped around me, Janae’s there holding a pack of Band-Aids.
out, a towel wrapped around me, Janae’s there holding a pack of Band-Aids.
“I got these for you. Your knees need them.”
“Thanks.” I lower myself onto a bench and press flesh-colored strips across
my knees, which sure enough are getting slick with blood again. My palms sting
and they’re scraped pink and raw, but there’s nowhere I can put a Band-Aid that
will make a difference.
Janae sits as far away as possible from me on the bench. I put three Band-Aids
on my left knee and two on my right. “Vanessa’s a bitch,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I agree, standing and taking a cautious step. My legs hold up, so I
head for my locker and pull out my clothes. “But I’m getting what I deserve,
right? That’s what everybody thinks. I guess it’s what Simon would’ve wanted.
Everything out in the open for people to judge. No secrets.”
“Simon …” Janae’s got that strangled sound to her voice again. “He’s not …
He wasn’t like they said. I mean, yes, he went overboard with About That, and
he wrote some awful things. But the past couple years have been rough. He tried
so hard to be part of things and he never could. I don’t think …” She stumbles
over her words. “When Simon was himself, he wouldn’t have wanted this for
you.”
She sounds really sad about it. But I can’t bring myself to care about Simon
now. I finish dressing and look at the clock. There’s still twenty minutes left in
gym class, and I don’t want to be here when Vanessa and her minions descend.
“Thanks for the Band-Aids. Tell them I’m still at the nurse’s, okay? I’m going to
the library till next period.”
“Okay,” Janae says. She’s slumped on the bench, looking hollowed out and
exhausted, and as I head for the door she abruptly calls out, “Do you want to
hang out this afternoon?”
I turn to her in surprise. I hadn’t thought we were at that point in our …
acquaintance, I guess. Friendship still seems like a strong word. “Um, yeah.
Sure.”
“My mom’s having her book club, so … maybe I could come to your house?”
“All right,” I say, picturing my own mother’s reaction to Janae after being
used to a house full of pretty-perky Keelys and Olivias. The thought brightens
me up, and we make plans for Janae to stop by after school. On a whim I text an
invitation to Bronwyn, but I forgot she’s grounded. Plus, she has piano lessons.
Spontaneous downtime isn’t really her thing.
I’ve barely stowed my bike under the porch after school when Janae arrives
dragging her oversized backpack like she came to study. We make excruciating
small talk with my mother, whose eyes keep roving from Janae’s multiple
piercings to her scuffed combat boots, until I bring her upstairs to watch TV.
“Do you like that new Netflix show?” I ask, aiming the remote at my
television and sprawling across my bed so Janae can take the armchair. “The
superhero one?”
She sits gingerly, like she’s afraid the pink plaid will swallow her whole.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, lowering her backpack next to her and looking at all the
framed photographs on my wall. “You’re really into flowers, huh?”
“Not exactly. My sister has a new camera I was playing around with, and … I
took a lot of old pictures down recently.” They’re shoved beneath my shoe boxes
now: a dozen memories of me and Jake from the past three years, and almost as
many with my friends. I hesitated over one—me, Keely, Olivia, and Vanessa at
the beach last summer, wearing giant sun hats and goofy grins with a brilliant
blue sky behind us. It had been a rare, fun girls’ day out, but after today I’m
more glad than ever that I banished Vanessa’s stupid smirk to the closet.
Janae fiddles with the strap to her backpack. “You must miss how things were
before,” she says in a low voice.
I keep my eyes trained on the screen while I consider her comment. “Yes and
no,” I say finally. “I miss how easy school used to be. But I guess nobody I hung
out with ever really cared about me, right? Or things would have been different.”
I shift restlessly on the bed and add, “I’m not gonna pretend it’s anything like
what you’re dealing with. Losing Simon that way.”
Janae flushes and doesn’t answer, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up. I can’t
figure out how to interact with her. Are we friends, or just a couple of people
without better options? We stare silently at the television until Janae clears her
throat and says, “Could I have something to drink?”
“Sure.” It’s almost a relief to escape the silence that’s settled between us, until
I run into my mother in the kitchen and have a terse, ten-minute-long
conversation about the kind of friends you have now. When I finally get back
upstairs, two glasses of lemonade in hand, Janae’s got her backpack on and she’s
halfway out the door.
“I don’t feel well suddenly,” she mumbles.
Great. Even my unsuitable friends don’t want to hang out with me.
I text Bronwyn in frustration, not expecting an answer since she’s probably in
the middle of Chopin or something. I’m surprised when she messages me back
right away, and even more surprised at what she writes.
Be careful. I don’t trust her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cooper
Sunday, October 21, 5:25 p.m.
We’ve almost finished dinner when Pop’s phone rings. He looks at the number
and picks up immediately, the lines around his mouth deepening. “This is Kevin.
Yeah. What, tonight? Is that really necessary?” He waits a beat. “All right. We’ll
see you there.” He hangs up and blows out an irritated sigh. “We gotta meet your
lawyer at the police station in half an hour. Detective Chang wants to talk to you
again.” He holds up a hand when I open my mouth. “I don’t know what about.”
I swallow hard. I haven’t been questioned in a while, and I’d been hoping the
whole thing was fading away. I want to text Addy and see if she’s getting
brought in too, but I’m under strict orders not to put anything about the
investigation in writing. Calling Addy’s not a great idea, either. So I finish my
dinner in silence and drive to the station with Pop.
My lawyer, Mary, is already talking with Detective Chang when we get
inside. He beckons us toward the interrogation room, which is nothing like you
see on TV. No big pane of glass with a two-way mirror behind it. Just a drab
little room with a conference table and a bunch of folding chairs. “Hello,
Cooper. Mr. Clay. Thanks for coming.” I’m about to brush past him through the
door when he puts a hand on my arm. “You sure you want your father here?”
I’m about to ask Why wouldn’t I? but before I can speak, Pop starts blustering
about how it’s his God-given right to be present during questioning. He has this
speech perfected and once he winds up, he needs to finish.
“Of course,” Detective Chang says politely. “It’s mainly a privacy issue for
Cooper.”
The way he says that makes me nervous, and I look to Mary for help. “It
should be fine to start with just me in the room, Kevin,” she says. “I’ll bring you
in if needed.” Mary’s okay. She’s in her fifties, no-nonsense, and can handle
both the police and my father. So in the end it’s me, Detective Chang, and Mary
seating ourselves around the table.
My heart’s already pounding when Detective Chang pulls out a laptop.
“You’ve always been vocal about Simon’s accusation not being true, Cooper.
“You’ve always been vocal about Simon’s accusation not being true, Cooper.
And there’s been no drop in your baseball performance. Which is inconsistent
with the reputation of Simon’s app. It wasn’t known for posting lies.”
I try to keep my expression neutral, even though I’ve been thinking the same
thing. I was more relieved than mad when Detective Chang first showed me
Simon’s site, because a lie was better than the truth. But why would Simon lie
about me?
“So we dug a little deeper. Turns out we missed something in our initial
analysis of Simon’s files. There was a second entry for you that was encrypted
and replaced with the steroids accusation. It took a while to get that file figured
out, but the original is here.” He turns the screen so it’s facing Mary and me. We
lean forward together to read it.
Everybody wants a piece of Bayview southpaw CC and he’s finally been tempted. He’s stepping
out on the beauteous KS with a hot German underwear model. What guy wouldn’t, right?
Except the new love interest models boxers and briefs, not bras and thongs. Sorry, K, but you
can’t compete when you play for the wrong team.
Every part of me feels frozen except my eyes, which can’t stop blinking. This
is what I was afraid I’d see weeks ago.
“Cooper.” Mary’s voice is even. “There’s no need to react to this. Do you
have a question, Detective Chang?”
“Yes. Is the rumor Simon planned to print true, Cooper?”
Mary speaks before I can. “There’s nothing criminal in this accusation.
Cooper doesn’t need to address it.”
“Mary, you know that’s not the case. We have an interesting situation here.
Four students with four entries they want to keep quiet. One gets deleted and
replaced with a fake. Do you know what that looks like?”
“Shoddy rumormongering?” Mary asks.
“Like someone accessed Simon’s files to get rid of this particular entry. And
made sure Simon wouldn’t be around to correct it.”
“I need a few minutes with my client,” Mary says.
I feel sick. I’ve imagined breaking the news about Kris to my parents in
dozens of ways, but none as flat-out horrible as this.
“Of course. You should know we’ll be requesting a warrant to search more of
the Clays’ home, beyond Cooper’s computer and cell phone records. Given this
new information, he’s a more significant person of interest than he was
previously.”
Mary has a hand on my arm. She doesn’t want me to talk. She doesn’t have to
worry. I couldn’t if I tried.
Disclosing information about sexual orientation violates constitutional rights to
privacy. That’s what Mary says, and she’s threatened to involve the American
Civil Liberties Union if the police make Simon’s post about me public. Which
would fall into the category of Too Little, Way Too Late.
Detective Chang dances around it. They have no intention of invading my
privacy. But they have to investigate. It would help if I told them everything.
Our definitions of everything are different. His includes me confessing that I
killed Simon, deleted my About That entry, and replaced it with a fake one about
steroids.
Which makes no sense. Wouldn’t I have taken myself out of the equation
entirely? Or come up with something less career-threatening? Like cheating on
Keely with another girl. That might’ve killed two birds with one stone, so to
speak.
“This changes nothing,” Mary keeps saying. “You have no more proof than
you ever did that Cooper touched Simon’s site. Don’t you dare disclose sensitive
information in the name of your investigation.”
The thing is, though, it doesn’t matter. It’s getting out. This case has been full
of leaks from the beginning. And I can’t waltz out of here after being
interrogated for an hour and tell my father nothing’s changed.
When Detective Chang leaves, he makes it clear they’ll be digging deep into
my life over the next few days. They want Kris’s number. Mary tells me I don’t
have to provide it, but Detective Chang reminds her they’ll subpoena my cell
phone and get it anyway. They want to talk to Keely, too. Mary keeps
threatening the ACLU, and Detective Chang keeps telling her, mild as skim
milk, that they need to understand my actions in the weeks leading up to the
murder.
But we all know what’s really happening. They’ll make my life miserable
until I cave from the pressure.
I sit with Mary in the interrogation room after Detective Chang leaves,
thankful there’s no two-way mirror as I bury my head in my hands. Life as I
knew it is over, and pretty soon nobody will look at me the same way. I was
going to tell eventually, but—in a few years, maybe? When I was a star pitcher
and untouchable. Not now. Not like this.
“Cooper.” Mary puts a hand on my shoulder. “Your father will be wondering
why we’re still in here. You need to talk to him.”
“I can’t,” I say automatically. Cain’t.
“Your father loves you,” she says quietly.
I almost laugh. Pop loves Cooperstown. He loves when I strike out the side
and get attention from flashy scouts, and when my name scrolls across the
bottom of ESPN. But me?
He doesn’t even know me.
There’s a knock on the door before I can reply. Pop pokes his head in and
snaps his fingers. “We done in here? I wanna get home.”
“All set,” I say.
“The hell was that all about?” he demands of Mary.
“You and Cooper need to talk,” she says. Pop’s jaw tenses. What the hell are
we paying you for? is written all over his face. “We can discuss next steps after
that.”
“Fantastic,” Pop mutters. I stand and squeeze myself through the narrow gap
between the table and the wall, ducking past Mary and into the hallway. We
walk in silence, one in front of the other, until we pass through the double glass
doors and Mary murmurs a good-bye. “Night,” Pop says, tersely leading the way
to our car at the far end of the parking lot.
Everything in me clenches and twists as I buckle myself next to him in the
Jeep. How do I start? What do I say? Do I tell him now, or wait till we’re home
and I can tell Mom and Nonny and … Oh God. Lucas?
“What was all that about?” Pop asks. “What took so long?”
“There’s new evidence,” I say woodenly.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
I can’t. I can’t. Not just the two of us in this car. “Let’s wait till we’re home.”
“This serious, Coop?” Pop glances at me as he passes a slow-moving
Volkswagen. “You in trouble?”
My palms start sweating. “Let’s wait,” I repeat.
I need to tell Kris what’s happening, but I don’t dare text him. I should go to
his apartment and explain in person. Another conversation that’ll kill some part
of me. Kris has been out since junior high. His parents are both artists and it was
never a big deal. They were pretty much like, Yeah, we knew. What took you so
long? He’s never pressured me, but sneaking around isn’t how he wants to live.
I stare out the window, my fingers tapping on the door handle for the rest of
the ride home. Pop pulls into the driveway and our house looms in front of me:
solid, familiar, and the last place I want to be right now.
We head inside, Pop tossing his keys onto the hallway table and catching sight
of my mother in the living room. She and Nonny are sitting next to each other on
the couch as though they’ve been waiting for us. “Where’s Lucas?” I ask,
following Pop into the room.
“Downstairs playing Xbox.” Mom mutes the television as Nonny cocks her
head to one side and fastens her eyes on me. “Everything okay?”
“Cooper’s being all mysterious.” Pop’s glance at me is half shrewd, half
dismissive. He doesn’t know whether to take my obvious freaking out seriously
dismissive. He doesn’t know whether to take my obvious freaking out seriously
or not. “You tell us, Cooperstown. What’s all the fuss about? They got some
actual evidence this time?”
“They think they do.” I clear my throat and push my hands into my khakis. “I
mean, they do. Have new information.”
Everybody’s quiet, absorbing that, until they notice I’m not in any hurry to
continue. “What kind of new information?” Mom prompts.
“There was an entry on Simon’s site that was encrypted before the police got
there. I guess it’s what he originally meant to post about me. Nothin’ to do with
steroids.” There goes my accent again.
Pop never lost his, and doesn’t notice when mine fades in and out. “I knew
it!” he says triumphantly. “They clear you, then?”
I’m mute, my mind blank. Nonny leans forward, hands gripping her skulltopped cane. “Cooper, what was Simon going to post about you?”
“Well.” A couple of words is all it’ll take to make everything in my life
Before and After. The air leaves my lungs. I can’t look at my mother, and I sure
as hell can’t look at my father. So I focus on Nonny. “Simon. Somehow. Found
out. That.” God. I’ve run out of filler words. Nonny taps her cane on the floor
like she wants to help me along. “I’m gay.”
Pop laughs. Actually laughs, a relieved kind of guffaw, and slaps me on the
shoulder. “Jesus, Coop. Had me going there for a minute. Seriously, what’s up?”
“Kevin.” Nonny grits the word through her teeth. “Cooper is not joking.”
“Course he is,” Pop says, still laughing. I watch his face, because I’m pretty
sure it’s the last time he’ll look at me the way he always has. “Right?” His eyes
slide over to mine, casual and confident, but when he sees my face his smile
dims. There it is. “Right, Coop?”
“Wrong,” I tell him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Addy
Monday, October 22, 8:45 a.m.
Police cars line the front of Bayview High again. And Cooper’s stumbling
through the hall like he hasn’t slept in days. It doesn’t occur to me the two might
be related until he pulls me aside before first bell. “Can we talk?”
I peer at him more closely, unease gnawing at my stomach. I’ve never seen
Cooper’s eyes look bloodshot before. “Yeah, sure.” I think he means here in the
hallway, but to my surprise he leads me out the back staircase into the parking
lot, where we lean against the wall next to the door. Which means I’ll be late for
homeroom, I guess, but my attendance record is already so bad another tardy
won’t make a difference. “What’s up?”
Cooper runs a hand through his sandy hair until it sticks straight up, which is
not a thing I ever imagined Cooper’s hair could do until just now. “I think the
police are here because of me. To ask questions about me. I just—wanted to tell
somebody why before everything goes to hell.”
“Okay.” I put a hand on his forearm, and tense in surprise when I feel it
shaking. “Cooper, what’s wrong?”
“So the thing is …” He pauses, swallowing hard.
He looks like he’s about to confess something. For a second Simon flashes
through my mind: his collapse in detention and his red, gasping face as he
struggled to breathe. I can’t help but flinch. Then I meet Cooper’s eyes—filmy
with tears, but as kind as ever—and I know that can’t be it. “The thing is what,
Cooper? It’s all right. You can tell me.”
Cooper stares at me, taking in the whole picture—messy hair that’s spiking
oddly because I didn’t take the time to blow-dry it, so-so skin from all the stress,
faded T-shirt featuring some band Ashton used to like, because we’re seriously
behind on laundry—before he replies, “I’m gay.”
“Oh.” It doesn’t register at first, and then it does. “Ohhh.” The whole notinto-Keely thing suddenly makes sense. It seems like I should say more than
that, so I add, “Cool.” Inadequate response, I guess, but sincere. Because
Cooper’s pretty great except the way he’s always been a little remote. This
explains a lot.
“Simon found out I’m seeing someone. A guy. He was gonna post it on About
That with everyone else’s entries. It got switched out and replaced with a fake
entry about me using steroids. I didn’t switch it,” he adds hastily. “But they think
I did. So they’re looking into me hard-core now, which means the whole school
will know pretty soon. I guess I wanted to … tell somebody myself.”
“Cooper, no one will care—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“They will. You know they will,” he says. I drop my eyes, because I can’t
deny it. “I’ve been hiding my head under a rock about this whole investigation,”
he continues, his voice hoarse. “Hopin’ they’d chalk it up to an accident because
there’s no real proof about anything. Now I keep thinking about what Maeve
said about Simon the other day—how much weird stuff was going on around
him. You think there’s anything to that?”
“Bronwyn does,” I say. “She wants the four of us to get together and compare
notes. She says Nate will.” Cooper nods distractedly, and it occurs to me that
since he’s still in Jake’s bubble most of the time, he’s not fully up to speed on
everything that’s been going on. “Did you hear about Nate’s mom, by the way?
How she’s, um, not dead after all?”
I didn’t think Cooper could get any paler, but he manages. “What?”
“Kind of a long story, but—yeah. Turns out she was a drug addict living in
some kind of commune, but she’s back now. And sober, supposedly. Oh, and
Bronwyn got called into the police station because of a creepy post Simon wrote
about her sister sophomore year. Bronwyn told him to drop dead in the
comments section, so … you know. That looks kinda bad now.”
“The hell?” By the incredulous look on Cooper’s face, I’ve managed to
distract him from his problems. Then the late bell rings, and his shoulders sag.
“We’d better go. But, yeah. If you guys get together, I’m in.”
The Bayview Police set themselves up in a conference room with a school
liaison again, and start interviewing students one by one. At first things are kind
of quiet, and when we get through the day without any rumors I’m hopeful that
Cooper was wrong about his secret getting out. But by midmorning on Tuesday,
the whispers start. I don’t know if it’s the kind of questions the police were
asking, or who they were talking to, or just a good old-fashioned leak, but before
lunch my ex-friend Olivia—who hasn’t spoken to me since Jake punched TJ—
runs up to my locker and grabs my arm with a look of pure glee.
“Oh my God. Did you hear about Cooper?” Her eyes pop with excitement as
she lowers her voice to a piercing whisper. “Everyone’s saying he’s gay.”
I pull away. If Olivia thinks I’m grateful to be included in the gossip mill,
I pull away. If Olivia thinks I’m grateful to be included in the gossip mill,
she’s wrong. “Who cares?” I say flatly.
“Well, Keely does,” Olivia giggles, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “No
wonder he wouldn’t sleep with her! Are you headed to lunch now?”
“Yeah. With Bronwyn. See you.” I slam my locker shut and spin on my heel
before she can say anything else.
In the cafeteria, I collect my food and head for our usual table. Bronwyn looks
pretty in a sweater-dress and boots, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her
cheeks are so pink I wonder if she’s wearing makeup for a change, but if she is
it’s really natural. She keeps looking at the door.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
She turns redder. “Maybe.”
I have a pretty good idea who she’s waiting for. Probably not Cooper,
although the rest of the room seems to be. When he steps into the cafeteria
everything goes quiet, and then a low whispering buzz runs through the room.
“Cooper Clay is Cooper GAY!” somebody calls out in a high, falsetto voice,
and Cooper freezes in the door as something flies through the air and hits him
across the chest. I recognize the blue packaging immediately: Trojan condoms.
Jake’s brand. Along with half the school, I guess. But it did come from the
direction of my old table.
“Doin’ the butt, hey, pretty,” somebody else sings, and laughter runs through
the room. Some of it’s mean but a lot of it’s shocked and nervous. Most people
look like they don’t know what to do. I’m struck silent because Cooper’s face is
the worst thing I’ve ever seen and I want, so badly, for this to not be happening.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” It’s Nate. He’s in the entrance next to Cooper, which
surprises me since I’ve never seen him in the cafeteria before. The rest of the
room is equally taken aback, quieting enough that his contemptuous voice cuts
across the whispers as he surveys the scene in front of him. “You losers
seriously give a crap about this? Get a life.”
A girl’s voice calls out “Boyfriend!” disguised with a fake cough. Vanessa
smirks as everyone around her dissolves into the kind of laughter that’s been
directed my way over the past month: half-guilty, half-gleeful, and all Thank
God this is happening to you and not me. The only exceptions are Keely, who’s
biting her lip and staring at the floor, and Luis, who’s half standing with his
forearms braced on the table. One of the lunch ladies hovers in the doorway
between the kitchen and the cafeteria, seemingly torn between letting things play
out and getting a teacher to intervene.
Nate zeroes in on Vanessa’s smug face without a trace of self-consciousness.
“Really? You’ve got something to say? I don’t even know your name and you
tried to stick your hand down my pants the last time we were at a party.” More
laughter, but this time it’s not at Cooper’s expense. “In fact, if there’s a guy at
Bayview you haven’t tried that with, I’d love to meet him.”
Vanessa’s mouth hangs open as a hand shoots up from the middle of the
cafeteria. “Me,” calls a boy sitting at the computer-nerd table. His friends all
laugh nervously as the pulsing attention of the room—seriously, it’s like a wave
moving from one target to the next—focuses on them. Nate gives him a thumbsup and looks back at Vanessa.
“There you go. Try to make that happen and shut the hell up.” He crosses to
our table and dumps his backpack next to Bronwyn. She stands up, winds her
arms around his neck, and kisses him like they’re alone while the entire cafeteria
erupts into gasps and catcalls. I stare as much as everyone else. I mean, I kind of
guessed, but this is pretty public. I’m not sure if Bronwyn’s trying to distract
everyone from Cooper or if she couldn’t help herself. Maybe both.
Either way, Cooper’s effectively been forgotten. He’s motionless at the
entrance until I grab his arm. “Come sit. The whole murder club at one table.
They can stare at all of us together.”
Cooper follows me, not bothering to get any food. We settle ourselves at the
table and awkward silence descends until someone else approaches: Luis with
his tray in hand, lowering himself into the last empty chair at our table.
“That was bullshit,” he fumes, looking at the empty space in front of Cooper.
“Aren’t you gonna eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” Cooper says shortly.
“You should eat something.” Luis grabs the only untouched food item on his
tray and holds it out. “Here, have a banana.”
Everyone freezes for a second; then we all burst out laughing at the same
time. Including Cooper, who rests his chin in his palm and massages his temple
with his other hand.
“I’ll pass,” he says.
I’ve never seen Luis so red. “Why couldn’t it have been apple day?” he
mutters, and Cooper gives him a tired smile.
You find out who your real friends are when stuff like this happens. Turns out
I didn’t have any, but I’m glad Cooper does.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nate
Thursday, October 25, 12:20 a.m.
I ease my motorcycle into the cul-de-sac at the end of Bayview Estates and kill
the motor, staying still for a minute to check for any hint that someone’s nearby.
It’s quiet, so I climb off and give a hand to Bronwyn so she can do the same.
The neighborhood is still a half-finished construction area with no streetlights,
so Bronwyn and I walk in darkness to house number 5. When we get there I try
the front door, but it’s locked. We circle to the back of the house and I jiggle
each window until I find one that opens. It’s low enough to the ground that I
haul myself in easily. “Go back out front; I’ll let you in,” I say in a low voice.
“I think I can do it too,” Bronwyn says, preparing to pull herself up. She
doesn’t have the arm strength, though, and I have to lean over and help her. The
window’s not big enough for two, and when I let go and step back to give her
room, she scrambles the rest of the way and lands on the floor with a thud.
“Graceful,” I say as she gets to her feet and brushes off her jeans.
“Shut up,” she mutters, looking around. “Should we unlock the front for Addy
and Cooper?”
We’re in an empty, under-construction house after midnight for a meeting of
the Bayview Four. It’s like a bad spy movie, but there’s no way all of us could
get together anywhere else without drawing too much attention. Even my don’tgive-a-crap neighbors are suddenly in my business now that Mikhail Powers’s
team keeps cruising down our street.
Plus, Bronwyn’s still grounded.
“Yeah,” I say, and we feel our way through a half-built kitchen and into a
living room with a huge bay window. The moonlight streams bright across the
door, and I twist its dead bolt open. “What time did you tell them?”
“Twelve-thirty,” she says, pressing a button on her Apple watch.
“What time is it?”
“Twelve-twenty-five.”
“Good. We have five minutes.” I slide my hand along the side of her face and
back her up against the wall, pulling her lips to mine. She leans into me and
back her up against the wall, pulling her lips to mine. She leans into me and
wraps her arms around my neck, opening her mouth with a soft sigh. My hands
travel down the curve of her waist to her hips, finding a strip of bare skin under
the hem of her shirt. Bronwyn has this unbelievable stealth body under all her
conservative clothes, although I’ve barely gotten to see any of it.
“Nate,” she whispers after a few minutes, in that breathless voice that drives
me wild. “You were going to tell me how things went with your mom.”
Yeah. I guess I was. I saw my mother again this afternoon and it was … all
right. She showed up on time and sober. She backed off asking questions and
gave me money for bills. But I spent the whole time taking bets with myself on
how long it’d last. Current odds say two weeks.
Before I can answer, though, the door creaks and we’re not alone anymore. A
small figure slips inside and shuts the door behind her. The moonlight’s bright
enough that I can see Addy clearly, including the unexpected dark streaks in her
hair. “Oh, good, I’m not the first one,” she whispers, then puts her hands on her
hips as she glares at Bronwyn and me. “Are you two making out? Seriously?”
“Did you dye your hair?” Bronwyn counters, pulling away from me. “What
color is that?” She reaches a hand out and examines Addy’s bangs. “Purple? I
like it. Why the change?”
“I can’t keep up with the maintenance requirements of short hair,” Addy
grumbles, dropping a bike helmet on the floor. “It doesn’t look as bad with color
mixed in.” She cocks her head at me and adds, “I don’t need your commentary if
you disagree, by the way.”
I hold up my hands. “Wasn’t going to say a word, Addy.”
“When did you even start knowing my name,” she deadpans.
I grin at her. “You’ve gotten kinda feisty since you lost all the hair. And the
boyfriend.”
She rolls her eyes. “Where are we doing this? Living room?”
“Yeah, but back corner. Away from the window,” Bronwyn says, picking her
way through construction supplies and sitting cross-legged in front of a stone
fireplace. I sprawl next to her and wait for Addy to follow, but she’s still poised
near the door.
“I think I hear something,” she says, peering through the peephole. She opens
the door a crack and steps aside to let Cooper in. Addy leads him toward the
fireplace but nearly goes flying when she trips on an extension cord. “Ow! Damn
it, that was loud. Sorry.” She settles herself next to Bronwyn, and Cooper sits
beside her.
“How are things?” Bronwyn asks Cooper.
He rubs a hand over his face. “Oh, you know. Livin’ the nightmare. My father
won’t talk to me, I’m getting torn apart online, and none of the teams that were
won’t talk to me, I’m getting torn apart online, and none of the teams that were
scouting me will return Coach Ruffalo’s calls. Other than that I’m great.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bronwyn says, and Addy grabs his hand and folds it in both of
hers.
He heaves a sigh but doesn’t pull away. “It is what it is, I guess. Let’s just get
to why we’re here, huh?”
Bronwyn clears her throat. “Well. Mainly to … compare notes? Eli kept
talking about looking for patterns and connections, which makes a lot of sense. I
thought maybe we could go through some of the things we know. And don’t
know.” She frowns and starts ticking things off on her fingers. “Simon was
about to post some pretty shocking things about all of us. Somebody got us into
that room together with the fake cell phones. Simon was poisoned while we were
there. Lots of people besides us had reasons to be mad at Simon. He was mixed
up in all kinds of creepy 4chan stuff. Who knows what kind of people he pissed
off.”
“Janae said he hated being an outsider and he was really upset nothing more
ever happened with Keely,” Addy says, looking at Cooper. “Do you remember
that? He started hitting on her during junior prom, and she caved at a party a
couple weeks later and hooked up with him for, like, five minutes. He thought it
was actually going somewhere.”
Cooper hunches his shoulders like he’s remembering something he’d rather
not. “Right. Huh. I guess that’s a pattern. Or a connection, or whatever. With me
and Nate, I mean.”
I don’t get it. “What?”
He meets my eyes. “When I broke up with Keely, she told me she’d hooked
up with you at a party to get rid of Simon. And I asked her out a couple weeks
after.”
“You and Keely?” Addy stares at me. “She never said!”
“It was just a couple times.” Honestly, I’d forgotten all about it.
“And you’re good friends with Keely. Or you were,” Bronwyn says to Addy.
She doesn’t seem fazed at the idea of Keely and me getting together, and I have
to appreciate how she doesn’t lose focus. “But I have nothing to do with her. So
… I don’t know. Does that mean something, or doesn’t it?”
“I don’t see how it could,” Cooper says. “Nobody except Simon cared what
happened between him and Keely.”
“Keely might have,” Bronwyn points out.
Cooper stifles a laugh. “You can’t think Keely had anything to do with this!”
“We’re freewheeling here,” Bronwyn says, leaning forward and propping her
chin in her hand. “She’s a common thread.”
“Yeah, but Keely has zero motive for anything. Shouldn’t we be talking about
people who hated Simon? Besides you,” Cooper adds, and Bronwyn goes rigid.
“I mean, for that blog post he wrote about your sister. Addy told me about it.
That was low, really low. I never saw it the first time around. I’d have said
something if I did.”
“Well, I didn’t kill him for it,” Bronwyn says tightly.
“I’m not saying—” Cooper starts, but Addy interrupts.
“Let’s stay on track. What about Leah, or even Aiden Wu? You can’t tell me
they wouldn’t have liked revenge.”
Bronwyn swallows and lowers her eyes. “I wonder about Leah too. She’s been
… Well, I have a connection to her I haven’t told you guys about. She and I
were partners in a Model UN competition, and by mistake we told Simon a
wrong deadline that got him disqualified. He started torturing Leah on About
That right after.”
Bronwyn’s told me this, actually. It’s been eating at her for a while. But it’s
news to Cooper and Addy, who starts bobbing her head. “So Leah’s got a reason
to hate Simon and be mad at you.” Then she frowns. “But what about the rest of
us? Why drag us along?”
I shrug. “Maybe we were just the secrets Simon had on hand. Collateral
damage.”
Bronwyn sighs. “I don’t know. Leah’s hotheaded, but not exactly sneaky. I’m
more confused about Janae’s deal.” She turns toward Addy. “One of the
strangest things about the Tumblr is how many details it got right. You’d almost
have to be one of us to know that stuff—or spend a lot of time with us. Don’t
you think it’s weird that Janae hangs out with us even though we’re accused of
killing her best friend?”
“Well, to be fair, I did invite her,” Addy says. “But she’s been awfully skittish
lately. And did you guys notice she and Simon weren’t together as much as
usual right before he died? I keep wondering if something happened between
them.” She leans back and chews on her bottom lip. “I suppose if anybody
would’ve known what secrets Simon was about to spill and how to use them, it’d
be Janae. I just … I don’t know, you guys. I’m not sure Janae’s got it in her to do
something like this.”
“Maybe Simon rejected her and she … killed him?” Cooper looks doubtful
before he finishes the sentence. “Don’t see how, though. She wasn’t there.”
Bronwyn shrugs. “We don’t know that for sure. When I talked to Eli, he kept
saying somebody could’ve planned the car accident as a distraction to slip into
the room. If you take that as a possibility, anyone could’ve done it.”
I made fun of Bronwyn when she first brought that up, but—I don’t know. I
wish I could remember more about that day, could say for sure whether it’s even
wish I could remember more about that day, could say for sure whether it’s even
possible. The whole thing’s turned into a blur.
“One of the cars was a red Camaro,” Cooper recalls. “Looked ancient. I don’t
remember ever seeing it in the parking lot before. Or since. Which is weird when
you think about it.”
“Oh, come on,” Addy scoffs. “That’s so far-fetched. Sounds like a lawyer
with a guilty client grasping at straws. Someone new was probably just picking
up a kid that day.”
“Maybe,” Cooper says. “I dunno. Luis’s brother works in a repair place
downtown. Maybe I’ll ask him if a car like that came through, or if he can check
with some other shops.” He holds up a hand at Addy’s raised brows. “Hey,
you’re not the police’s favorite new person of interest, okay? I’m desperate
here.”
We’re not getting anywhere with this conversation. But I’m struck by a couple
of things as I listen to them talk. One: I like all of them more than I thought I
would. Bronwyn’s obviously been the biggest surprise, and like doesn’t cover it.
But Addy’s turned into kind of a badass, and Cooper’s not as one-dimensional as
I thought.
And two: I don’t think any of them did it.
Bronwyn
Friday, October 26, 8:00 p.m.
Friday night my entire family settles in to watch Mikhail Powers Investigates.
I’m feeling more dread than usual, between bracing myself for Simon’s blog
post about Maeve and worrying that something about Nate and me will make it
into the broadcast. I never should have kissed him at school. Although in my
defense he was unbelievably hot at that particular moment.
Anyway. We’re all nervous. Maeve curls next to me as Mikhail’s theme music
plays and photos of Bayview flash across the screen.
A murder investigation turns witch hunt. When police tactics include
revealing personal information in the name of evidence collection, have they
gone too far?
Wait. What?
The camera zooms in on Mikhail, and he is pissed. I sit up straighter as he
stares into the camera and says, “Things in Bayview, California, turned ugly this
week when a closeted student involved in the investigation was outed after a
round of police questioning, causing a media firestorm that should concern every
American who cares about privacy rights.”
And then I remember. Mikhail Powers is gay. He came out when I was in
junior high and it was a big deal because it happened after some photos of him
kissing a guy circulated online. It wasn’t his choice. And from the way he’s
covering the story now, he’s still bitter.
Because suddenly the Bayview Police are the bad guys. They have no
evidence, they’ve disrupted our lives, and they’ve violated Cooper’s
constitutional rights. They’re on the defensive as a police spokesperson claims
they were careful in their questioning and no leaks came from the department.
But the ACLU wants to get involved now. And there’s Eli Kleinfelter from Until
Proven again, talking about how poorly this case has been handled from the
beginning, with the four of us made into scapegoats while nobody even asks who
else might’ve wanted Simon Kelleher dead.
“Has everybody forgotten about the teacher?” he asks, leaning forward from
behind an overflowing desk. “He’s the only person who was in that room who’s
being treated as a witness instead of a suspect, even though he had more
opportunity than anyone. That can’t be discounted.”
Maeve leans her head next to mine and whispers, “You should be working for
Until Proven, Bronwyn.”
Mikhail switches to the next segment: Will the real Simon Kelleher please
stand up? Simon’s class picture flashes across the screen as people reminisce
about his good grades and nice family and all the clubs he belonged to. Then
Leah Jackson pops up on-screen, standing on Bayview High’s front lawn. I turn
to Maeve, eyes wide, and she looks equally shocked.
“She did it,” she murmurs. “She actually did it.”
Leah’s interview is followed by segments with other kids hurt by Simon’s
gossip, including Aiden Wu and a girl whose parents kicked her out when news
spread about her being pregnant. Maeve’s hand finds mine as Mikhail drops his
last bombshell—a screen capture of the 4chan discussion threads, with Simon’s
worst posts about the Orange County school shooting highlighted:
Look, I support the notion of violently disrupting schools in theory, but this kid showed a
depressing lack of imagination. I mean, it was fine, I guess. It got the job done. But it was so
prosaic. Haven’t we seen this a hundred times now? Kid shoots up school, shoots up self, film at
eleven. Raise the stakes, for God’s sake. Do something original.
A grenade, maybe. Samurai swords? Surprise me when you take out a bunch of asshole
lemmings. That’s all I’m asking.
I think back to Maeve texting away that day Janae got so upset with her at
lunch. “So you really did send that to the show?” I whisper.
“I really did,” she whispers back. “I didn’t know they’d use them, though.
“I really did,” she whispers back. “I didn’t know they’d use them, though.
Nobody ever got back to me.”
By the time the broadcast finishes, the Bayview Police are the real villains,
followed closely by Simon. Addy, Nate, and I are innocent bystanders caught in
a cross fire we don’t deserve, and Cooper’s a saint. The whole thing’s a stunning
reversal.
I’m not sure you could call it journalism, but Mikhail Powers Investigates
definitely has an impact over the next few days. Somebody starts a Change.org
petition to drop the investigation that collects almost twenty thousand signatures.
The MLB and local colleges get heat about whether they discriminate against
gay players. The tone of the media coverage shifts, with more questions being
raised about the police’s handling of the case than about us. And when I return to
school on Monday, people actually talk to me again. Even Evan Neiman, who’s
been acting like we’ve never met, sidles up to me at the last bell and asks if I’m
going to Mathlete practice.
Maybe my life won’t ever be fully normal again, but by the end of the week I
start to hope it’ll be less criminal.
Friday night I’m on the phone with Nate as usual, reading him the latest
Tumblr post. Even that seems like it’s about to give up:
Being accused of murder is turning into a monumental drag. I mean, sure, the TV coverage is
interesting. And it makes me feel good that the smoke screen I put in place is working—people
still have no clue who’s responsible for killing Simon.
Nate cuts me off after the first paragraph. “Sorry, but we have more important
things to discuss. Answer this honestly: If I’m no longer a murder suspect, will
you still find me attractive?”
“You’ll still be on probation for drug dealing,” I point out. “That’s pretty hot.”
“Ah, but that’s up in December,” Nate replies. “By the new year I could be a
model citizen. Your parents might even let me take you out on an actual date. If
you wanted to go.”
If I wanted to go. “Nate, I’ve been waiting to go on a date with you since fifth
grade,” I tell him. I like that he wonders what we’ll be like outside this weird
bubble. Maybe if we’re both thinking about it, there’s a possibility we’ll figure it
out.
He tells me about his latest visit with his mother, who really seems to be
trying. We watch a movie together—his choice, unfortunately—and I fall asleep
to his voice criticizing the shoddy camerawork. When I wake up Saturday
morning, I notice my phone has only a few minutes left. I’ll have to ask him for
another one. Which will be phone number four, I think.
Maybe we can use our actual phones one of these days.
Maybe we can use our actual phones one of these days.
I stay in bed a little later than usual, right up till the time I need to get moving
if Maeve and I are going to do our usual running-slash-library routine. I’ve just
finished lacing up my sneakers and am rooting around in my dresser for my
Nano when a tentative knock sounds on my bedroom door.
“Come in,” I say, unearthing a small blue device from a pile of headbands. “Is
that you, Maeve? Are you the reason this is only ten percent charged?” I turn
around to see my sister so white-faced and trembling that I almost drop my
Nano. Anytime Maeve looks sick, I’m seized with the horrible fear she’s had a
relapse. “Do you feel all right?” I ask anxiously.
“I’m fine.” The words come out as a gasp. “But you need to see something.
Come downstairs, okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“Just … come.” Maeve’s voice is so brittle that my heart thumps painfully.
She clutches the banister all the way downstairs. I’m about to ask if something’s
wrong with Mom or Dad when she leads me into the living room and points
mutely at the television.
Where I see Nate in handcuffs, being led away from his house, with the words
Arrest in the Simon Kelleher Murder Case scrolling on the bottom of the screen.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bronwyn
Saturday, November 3, 10:17 a.m.
This time I do drop my Nano.
It slips from my hand and thuds softly onto our rug as I watch one of the
police officers flanking Nate open the cruiser door and push him, not very
gently, into the backseat. The scene cuts to a reporter standing outdoors,
brushing windswept dark hair out of her face. “Bayview Police refused to
comment, other than to say that new evidence provides probable cause to charge
Nate Macauley, the only one of the Bayview Four with a criminal record, with
Simon Kelleher’s murder. We’ll continue to provide updates as the story
unfolds. I’m Liz Rosen, reporting for Channel Seven News.”
Maeve stands next to me, the remote in her hand. I pluck at her sleeve. “Can
you rewind to the beginning, please?”
She does, and I study Nate’s face in the looping video. His expression is
blank, almost bored, as though he’s been talked into going to a party that doesn’t
interest him.
I know that look. It’s the same one he got when I mentioned Until Proven at
the mall. He’s shutting down and putting up defenses. There’s no trace of the
boy I know from the phone, or our motorcycle rides, or my media room. Or the
one I remember from grade school, his St. Pius tie askew and his shirt untucked,
leading his sobbing mother down the hallway with a fierce look that dared any of
us to laugh.
I still believe that Nate’s the real one. Whatever the police think, or found,
doesn’t change that.
My parents aren’t home. I grab my phone and call my lawyer, Robin, who
doesn’t answer. I leave her such a long, rambling message that her voice mail
cuts me off, and I hang up feeling helpless. Robin’s my only hope for getting
information, but she won’t consider this an emergency. It’s a problem for Nate’s
future lawyer, not her.
That thought makes me even more panicked. What’s an overworked public
defender who’s never met Nate going to be able to do? My eyes dart around the
defender who’s never met Nate going to be able to do? My eyes dart around the
room and meet Maeve’s troubled gaze.
“Do you think he might have—”
“No,” I say forcefully. “Come on, Maeve, you’ve seen how screwed up this
investigation is. They thought I did it for a while. They’re wrong. I’m positive
they’re wrong.”
“I wonder what they found, though,” Maeve says. “You’d think they’d be
pretty careful after all the bad press they got this week.”
I don’t answer. For once in my life I have no idea what to do. My brain’s
empty of everything except a churning anxiety. Channel 7 has given up
pretending they know anything new, and they’re replaying snippets about the
investigation to date. There’s footage from Mikhail Powers Investigates. Addy in
her pixie haircut, giving whoever’s filming her a defiant finger. A Bayview
Police Department spokesperson. Eli Kleinfelter.
Of course.
I grab my phone and search for Eli’s name. He gave me his cell the last time
we spoke and told me to call anytime. I hope he meant it.
He answers on the first ring. “Eli Kleinfelter.”
“Eli? It’s Bronwyn Rojas. From—”
“Of course. Hi, Bronwyn. I take it you’re watching the news. What do you
make of it?”
“They’re wrong.” I stare at the television while Maeve stares at me. Dread’s
creeping through me like a fast-growing vine, squeezing my heart and lungs so
it’s hard to breathe. “Eli, Nate needs a better lawyer than whatever random
public defender they’ll assign him. He needs somebody who gives a crap and
knows what they’re doing. I think, um, well—basically I think he needs you.
Would you consider taking his case?”
Eli doesn’t answer straightaway, and when he does his voice is cautious.
“Bronwyn, you know I’m interested in this case, and I sympathize with all of
you. You’ve gotten a shit deal and I’m sure this arrest is more of the same. But
I’ve got an impossible workload as it is—”
“Please,” I interrupt, and words tumble out of me. I tell Eli about Nate’s
parents and how he’s practically raised himself since he was in fifth grade. I tell
him every awful, heart-wrenching story Nate’s ever told me, or that I witnessed
or guessed. Nate would hate it, but I’ve never believed anything more strongly
than I believe he needs Eli to stay out of jail.
“All right, all right,” Eli says finally. “I get it. I really do. Are either of these
parents in any shape to talk? I’ll make time for a consult and give them some
ideas for resources. That’s all I can do.”
It’s not enough, but it’s something. “Yes!” I say with brazen fake confidence.
It’s not enough, but it’s something. “Yes!” I say with brazen fake confidence.
Nate talked to his mother two days ago and she was holding on, but I have no
idea what effect today’s news might have on her. “I’ll talk to Nate’s mom. When
can we meet?”
“Ten tomorrow, our offices.”
Maeve’s still watching me when I hang up. “Bronwyn, what are you doing?”
I snatch the keys to the Volvo from the kitchen island. “I need to find Mrs.
Macauley.”
Maeve bites her lip. “Bronwyn, you can’t—”
Run this like it’s student council? She’s right. I need help. “Will you come?
Please?”
She debates for half a minute, her amber eyes steady on mine. “All right.”
My phone almost slips out of my sweaty palm as we head for the car. I
must’ve gotten a dozen calls and texts while I was talking with Eli. My parents,
my friends, and a bunch of numbers I don’t recognize that probably belong to
reporters. I have four messages from Addy, all some variation of Did you see?
and WTF?
“Are we telling Mom and Dad about this?” Maeve asks as I back out of the
driveway.
“What ‘this’? Nate’s arrest?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re in the loop on that. This … legal coordination you’re
doing.”
“Do you disapprove?”
“Not disapprove, exactly. But you’re flying off the handle before you even
know what the police found. It could be cut-and-dried. I know you really like
him, but … isn’t it possible he did this?”
“No,” I say shortly. “And yes. I’ll tell Mom and Dad. I’m not doing anything
wrong. Just trying to help a friend.” My voice sticks on the last word, and we
drive in silence until we reach Motel 6.
I’m relieved when the front desk clerk tells me Mrs. Macauley’s still checked
in, but she doesn’t answer the phone in her room. Which is a good sign—
hopefully she’s wherever Nate is. I leave a note with my phone number and try
not to overdo the underlines and capital letters. Maeve takes over driving
responsibilities on the ride home while I call Addy.
“What the hell?” she says when she picks up, and the vise gripping my chest
loosens at the disbelief in her voice. “First they think it’s all of us. Then it’s
musical chairs till they finally land on Nate, I guess.”
“Anything new?” I ask. “I’ve been away from screens for half an hour.”
But there’s nothing. The police are being tight-lipped about whatever they
found. Addy’s lawyer doesn’t have a clue what’s happening. “You want to hang
found. Addy’s lawyer doesn’t have a clue what’s happening. “You want to hang
out tonight?” she asks. “You must be going nuts. My mom and her boyfriend
have plans, so Ashton and I are making pizza. Bring Maeve; we’ll have a sister
night.”
“Maybe. If things aren’t too out of control,” I say gratefully.
Maeve turns into our street, and my heart sinks when I spy the line of white
news vans in front of our house. It looks like Univision and Telemundo have
joined the fray, which is seriously going to piss off my dad. He can never get
them to cover anything positive about his company, but this they show up for.
We pull into the driveway behind my parents’ cars, and as soon as I open my
door a half-dozen microphones are in my face. I push past them and meet Maeve
in front of the car, grabbing her hand as we weave through the cameras and the
flashing lights. Most of the reporters shout some variation of “Bronwyn, do you
think Nate killed Simon?” but one calls out, “Bronwyn, is it true you and Nate
are romantically involved?”
I really hope my parents weren’t asked the same question.
Maeve and I slam the door behind us and duck past the windows into our
kitchen. Mom is sitting at the island with a coffee cup between both hands, her
face tight with worry. Dad’s voice rises in heated conversation from behind his
closed office door.
“Bronwyn, we need to talk,” Mom says, and Maeve floats away upstairs.
I sit across from my mother at the kitchen island and meet her tired eyes with
a pang. My fault. “Obviously you saw the news,” she says. “Your father’s
talking to Robin about what, if anything, this means for you. In the meantime,
we got a lot of questions when we walked past that zoo out there. Some about
you and Nate.” I can tell she’s trying hard to keep her voice neutral. “We might
have made it difficult for you to talk about whatever … relationships you have
with the other kids. Because from our perspective the best way to keep you safe
was to keep you separate. So maybe you didn’t think you could confide in us,
but I need you to be straight with me now that Nate’s been arrested. Is there
something I should know?”
At first all I can think is What’s the least amount of information I can provide
and still make you understand I need to help Nate? But then she reaches out and
squeezes my hand, and it hits me with a stab of guilt how I never used to keep
things from her until I cheated in chemistry. And look how that turned out.
So I tell her almost everything. Not about bringing Nate to our house or
meeting him at Bayview Estates, because I’m pretty sure that’ll send us down a
bad path. But I explain the late-night phone calls, the escape-from-school
motorcycle rides, and, yeah, the kissing.
My mother is trying so hard not to freak out. I give her a lot of credit.
“So you’re … serious about him?” She almost chokes on the words.
She doesn’t want the real answer. Robin’s answer-a-different-question-thanthe-one-you’re-trying-to-deflect strategy would work well now. “Mom, I
understand this is a bizarre situation and I don’t really know Nate. But I don’t
believe he’d hurt Simon. And he doesn’t have anybody looking out for him. He
needs a good lawyer, so that’s what I’m trying to help with.” My phone buzzes
with a number I don’t recognize, and I grimace as I realize I need to answer in
case it’s Mrs. Macauley. “Hi, this is Bronwyn.”
“Bronwyn, so glad you picked up! This is Lisa Jacoby with the Los Angeles Ti
—”
I hang up and face my mother again. “I’m sorry I haven’t been straight with
you after everything you’ve done for me. But please let me connect Mrs.
Macauley and Eli. Okay?”
My mother massages her temple. “Bronwyn, I’m not sure you understand how
cavalier you’ve been. You ignored Robin’s advice and you’re lucky it didn’t
blow up in your face. It still might. But … no, I won’t stop you from talking with
Nate’s mother. This case is messed up enough that everyone involved needs
decent counsel.”
I throw my arms around her and, God, it feels good to just hug my mom for a
minute.
She sighs when I let go. “Let me talk to your father. I don’t think a
conversation between you two would be productive right now.”
I couldn’t agree more. I’m on my way upstairs when my phone rings again,
and my heart leaps when I see a 503 area code. I can’t keep the hope out of my
voice when I pick up. “Hi, this is Bronwyn.”
“Bronwyn, hello.” The voice is low and strained, but clear. “It’s Ellen
Macauley. Nate’s mother. You left me a note.”
Oh, thank God thank God thank God. She didn’t hightail it to Oregon in a
drug-induced haze. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
Cooper
Saturday, November 3, 3:15 p.m.
It’s hard to evaluate exhibition games anymore, but overall this one went pretty
well. My fastball hit ninety-four, I struck out the side twice, and only a few guys
heckled me from the stands. They were wearing tutus and baseball caps, though,
so they stood out a little more than your average gay basher before security
escorted them out.
A couple of college scouts showed up, and the guy from Cal State even
bothered to talk to me afterward. Coach Ruffalo started hearing from teams
again, but it strikes me as more of a PR play than genuine interest. Only Cal
State is still talking scholarship, even though I’m pitching better than ever.
That’s life as an outed murder suspect, I guess. Pop doesn’t wait for me outside
the locker room anymore. He heads straight for the car when I’m done and starts
the engine so we can make a quick exit.
Reporters are another story. They’re dying to talk to me. I brace myself when
a camera lights up as I leave the locker room, waiting for the woman with the
microphone to cycle through the usual half-dozen questions. But she catches me
by surprise.
“Cooper, what do you think about Nate Macauley’s arrest?”
“Huh?” I stop short, too shocked to brush past her, and Luis almost bumps
into me.
“You haven’t heard?” The reporter grins like I handed her a winning lottery
ticket. “Nate Macauley’s been arrested for Simon Kelleher’s murder, and the
Bayview Police are saying you’re no longer a person of interest. Can you tell me
how that feels?”
“Um …” Nope. I can’t. Or won’t. Same difference. “Excuse me.”
“The hell?” Luis mutters once we’re past the camera gauntlet. He pulls out his
phone and swipes wildly as I spot my father’s car. “Damn, she wasn’t lying.
Dude.” He stares at me with wide eyes. “You’re off the hook.”
Weird, but that hadn’t even occurred to me till he said it.
We’re giving Luis a ride home, which is good since it cuts down the time Pop
and I need to spend alone. Luis and I drop our bags in the backseat, and I climb
into the passenger seat while Luis settles himself into the back. Pop’s fiddling
with the radio, trying to find a news station. “They arrested that Macauley kid,”
he says with grim satisfaction. “I’ll tell you what, they’re gonna have a pack of
lawsuits on their hands when this is done. Starting with me.”
He slides his eyes to my left as I sit. That’s Pop’s new thing: he looks near
me. He hasn’t met my eyes once since I told him about Kris.
“Well, you had to figure it was Nate,” Luis says calmly. Throws Nate right
under the bus, like he hadn’t been sitting with the guy at lunch all last week.
I don’t know what to think. If I’d had to point a finger at someone when this
all started, it would’ve been Nate. Even though he’d acted genuinely desperate
when he was searching for Simon’s EpiPen. He was the person I knew the least,
and he was already a criminal, so … it wasn’t much of a stretch.
But when the entire Bayview High cafeteria was ready to take me down like a
But when the entire Bayview High cafeteria was ready to take me down like a
pack of hyenas, Nate was the only person who said anything. I never thanked
him, but I’ve thought a lot about how much worse school would’ve gotten if
he’d brushed past me and let things snowball.
My phone’s filled with text messages, but the only ones I care about are a
string from Kris. Other than a quick visit to warn Kris about the police and
apologize for the oncoming media onslaught, I’ve barely seen him in the past
couple of weeks. Even though people know about us, we haven’t had a chance to
be normal.
I’m still not sure what that would even look like. I wish I could find out.
Omg saw the news
This is good right??
Call when you can
I text him back while half listening to Pop and Luis talk. After we drop Luis
off silence settles between me and my father, dense as fog. I’m the first to break
it. “So how’d I do?”
“Good. Looked good.” Bare-minimum response, as usual lately.
I try again. “I talked to the scout from Cal State.”
He snorts. “Cal State. Not even top ten.”
“Right,” I acknowledge.
We catch sight of the news vans when we’re halfway down our street.
“Goddamn it,” Pop mutters. “Here we go again. Hope this was worth it.”
“What was worth it?”
He pulls around a news van, throws the gearshift into park, and yanks the key
out of the ignition. “Your choice.”
Anger flares inside me—at both his words and how he spits them out without
even looking at me. “None of this is a choice,” I say, but the noise outside
swallows my words as he opens the door.
The reporter gauntlet is thinner than usual, so I’m guessing most of them are
at Bronwyn’s. I follow Pop inside, where he immediately heads for the living
room and turns on the TV. I’m supposed to do postgame stretching now, but my
father hasn’t bothered to remind me about my routine for a while.
Nonny’s in the kitchen, making buttered toast with brown sugar on top. “How
was the game, darlin’?”
“Fantastic,” I say heavily, collapsing into a chair. I pick up a stray quarter and
spin it into a silvery blur across the kitchen table. “I pitched great, but nobody
cares.”
“Now, now.” She sits across from me with her toast and offers me a slice, but
I push it back toward her. “Give it time. Do you remember what I told you in the
hospital?” I shake my head. “Things’ll get worse before they get better. Well,
hospital?” I shake my head. “Things’ll get worse before they get better. Well,
they surely did get worse, and now there’s nowhere to go but up.” She takes a
bite and I keep spinning the quarter until she swallows. “You should bring that
boy of yours by sometime for dinner, Cooper. It’s about time we met him.”
I try to picture my father making conversation with Kris over chicken
casserole. “Pop would hate that.”
“Well, he’ll have to get used to it, won’t he?”
Before I can answer her, my phone buzzes with a text from a number I don’t
recognize. It’s Bronwyn. I got your number from Addy. Can I call you?
Sure.
My phone rings within seconds. “Hi, Cooper. You’ve heard about Nate?”
“Yeah.” I’m not sure what else to say, but Bronwyn doesn’t give me a chance.
“I’m trying to set up a meeting with Nate’s mom and Eli Kleinfelter from
Until Proven. I’m hoping he’ll take Nate’s case. I was wondering, did you get a
chance to ask Luis’s brother about that red Camaro from the parking lot
accident?”
“Luis called him last week about it. He was gonna look into it, but I haven’t
heard back yet.”
“Would you mind checking in with him?” Bronwyn asks.
I hesitate. Even though I haven’t processed everything yet, there’s this little
ball of relief growing inside me. Because yesterday I was the police’s number
one guy. And today I’m not. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good.
But this is Nate. Who’s not a friend, exactly. Or at all, I guess. But he’s not
nothing.
“Yeah, okay,” I tell Bronwyn.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bronwyn
Sunday, November 4, 10:00 a.m.
We’re quite the crew at the Until Proven offices Sunday morning: me, Mrs.
Macauley, and my mom. Who was willing to let me go, but not unsupervised.
The small, sparsely furnished space is overflowing, with each desk holding at
least two people. Everyone’s either talking urgently on the phone or pounding
away on a computer. Sometimes both. “Busy for a Sunday,” I comment as Eli
leads us into a tiny room crammed with a small table and chairs.
Eli’s hair seems to have grown three inches since he was on Mikhail Powers
Investigates, all of it upward. He runs a hand through the mad scientist curls and
sends them even higher. “Is it Sunday already?”
There aren’t enough chairs, so I sit on the floor. “Sorry,” Eli says. “We can
make this quick. First off, Mrs. Macauley, I’m sorry about your son’s arrest. I
understand he’s been remanded to a juvenile detention center instead of an adult
facility, which is good news. As I told Bronwyn, there’s not much I can do given
my current workload. But if you’re willing to share whatever information you
have, I’ll do what I can to provide suggestions and maybe a referral.”
Mrs. Macauley looks exhausted, but like she’s made an effort to dress up a
little in navy pants and a lumpy gray cardigan. My own mother is her usual
effortless chic in leggings, tall boots, a cashmere sweater-coat, and a subtly
patterned infinity scarf. The two of them couldn’t be more different, and Mrs.
Macauley tugs at the frayed hem of her sweater as though she knows it.
“Well. Here’s what I’ve been told,” she says. “The school received a call that
Nate had drugs in his locker—”
“From whom?” Eli asks, scribbling on a yellow notepad.
“They wouldn’t say. I think it was anonymous. But they went ahead and
removed his lock Friday after school to check. They didn’t find any drugs. But
they did find a bag with Simon’s water bottle and EpiPen. And all the EpiPens
from the nurse’s office that went missing the day he died.” I run my fingers
along the rough fiber of the rug, thinking of all the times Addy’s been
questioned about those pens. Cooper, too. They’ve been hanging over our heads
questioned about those pens. Cooper, too. They’ve been hanging over our heads
for weeks. There’s no way, even if Nate were actually guilty of something, that
he’d be dumb enough to leave them sitting in his locker.
“Ah.” Eli’s voice comes out like a sigh, but his head stays bent over his legal
pad.
“So the police got involved, and they got a warrant to search the house
Saturday morning,” Mrs. Macauley continues. “And they found a computer in
Nate’s closet with this … journal, I guess they’re calling it. All those Tumblr
posts that have been popping up everywhere since Simon died.”
I raise my eyes and catch my mother staring at me, a kind of disturbed pity
crawling across her face. I hold her gaze and shake my head. I don’t believe any
of it.
“Ah,” Eli says again. This time he does look up, but his face remains calm and
neutral. “Any fingerprints?”
“No,” Mrs. Macauley says, and I exhale quietly.
“What does Nate say about all this?” Eli asks.
“That he has no idea how any of these things got into his locker or the house,”
Mrs. Macauley says.
“Okay,” Eli says. “And Nate’s locker hadn’t been searched before this?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Macauley admits, and Eli looks at me.
“It was,” I recall. “Nate says he was searched the first day they questioned us.
His locker and his house. The police came with dogs and everything, looking for
drugs. They didn’t find any,” I add hastily, with a sideways glance at my mother
before I turn back to Eli. “But nobody found Simon’s things or a computer
then.”
“Is your house typically locked?” Eli asks Mrs. Macauley.
“It’s never locked,” she replies. “I don’t think the door even has a lock
anymore.”
“Huh,” Eli mutters, scribbling on his pad again.
“There’s something else,” Mrs. Macauley says, and her voice wavers. “The
district attorney wants Nate moved to a regular prison. They’re saying he’s too
dangerous to be in a juvenile center.”
A chasm cracks open in my chest as Eli sits bolt upright. It’s the first time
he’s dropped his impartial lawyer mask and shown some emotion, and the horror
on his face terrifies me. “Oh no. No, no, no. That would be a fucking disaster.
Excuse my language. What’s his lawyer doing to stop that?”
“We haven’t met him yet.” Mrs. Macauley sounds near tears. “Someone’s
been appointed, but they haven’t been in touch.”
Eli drops his pen with a frustrated grunt. “Possession of Simon’s things isn’t
great. Not great at all. People have been convicted on less. But the way they got
great. Not great at all. People have been convicted on less. But the way they got
this evidence … I don’t like it. Anonymous tips, things that weren’t there before
conveniently showing up now. In places that aren’t hard to access. Combination
locks are easy to pick. And if the DA’s talking about sending Nate to federal
prison at age seventeen … any lawyer worth a damn should be blocking the hell
out of that.” He rubs a hand across his face and scowls at me. “Damn it,
Bronwyn. This is your fault.”
Everything Eli’s been saying has been making me more and more sick, except
this. Now I’m just confused. “What did I do?” I protest.
“You brought this case to my attention and now I have to take it. And I do not
have time. But whatever. That’s assuming you’re open to a change in counsel,
Mrs. Macauley?”
Oh, thank God. The relief surging through me makes me limp and almost
dizzy. Mrs. Macauley nods vigorously, and Eli sighs.
“I can help,” I say eagerly. “We’ve been looking into—” I’m about to tell Eli
about the red Camaro, but he holds his hand out with a forbidding expression.
“Stop right there, Bronwyn. If I’m going to represent Nate, I can’t speak with
other represented people in this case. It could get me disbarred and put you at
risk of implication. In fact, I need you and your mother to leave so I can work
out some details with Mrs. Macauley.”
“But …” I look helplessly at my mother, who’s nodding and getting to her
feet, securing her handbag over her shoulder with an air of finality.
“He’s right, Bronwyn. You need to leave things with Mr. Kleinfelter and Mrs.
Macauley now.” Her expression softens as she meets Mrs. Macauley’s eyes. “I
wish you the best of luck with all this.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Macauley says. “And thank you, Bronwyn.”
I should feel good. Mission accomplished. But I don’t. Eli doesn’t know half
of what we do, and now how am I supposed to tell him?
Addy
Monday, November 5, 6:30 p.m.
By Monday things have gotten oddly normal. Well, new-normal. Newmal?
Anyway, my point is, when I sit down to dinner with my mother and Ashton, the
driveway is free of news vans and my lawyer doesn’t call once.
Mom deposits a couple of heated-up Trader Joe’s dinners in front of Ashton
and me, then sits between us with a cloudy glass of yellow-brown beverage.
“I’m not eating,” she announces, even though we didn’t ask. “I’m cleansing.”
Ashton wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, Mom. That’s not that lemonade with the
maple syrup and cayenne pepper, is it? That’s so gross.”
maple syrup and cayenne pepper, is it? That’s so gross.”
“You can’t argue with results,” Mom says, taking a long sip. She presses a
napkin to her overly plumped lips, and I take in her stiff blond hair, red
lacquered nails, and the skintight dress she put on for a typical Monday. Is that
me in twenty-five years? The thought makes me even less hungry than I was a
minute ago.
Ashton turns on the news and we watch coverage of Nate’s arrest, including
an interview with Eli Kleinfelter. “Handsome boy,” Mom notes when Nate’s
mug shot appears on the screen. “Shame he turned out to be a murderer.”
I push my half-eaten tray away. There’s no point in suggesting that the police
might be wrong. Mom’s just happy the lawyer bills are almost over.
The doorbell rings, and Ashton folds her napkin next to her plate. “I’ll see
who it is.” She calls my name a few seconds later, and my mother shoots me a
surprised look. Nobody’s come to the door in weeks unless they wanted to
interview me, and my sister always chases those away. Mom follows me into the
living room as Ashton pulls the door open to let TJ enter.
“Hey.” I blink at him in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Your history book ended up in my backpack after earth science. This is
yours, right?” TJ hands a thick gray textbook to me. We’ve been lab partners
since the first rock sorting, and it’s usually a bright spot in my day.
“Oh. Yeah, thanks. But you could’ve given it to me tomorrow.”
“We have that quiz, though.”
“Right.” No point in telling him I’ve pretty much given up on academics for
the semester. “How’d you know where I live?”
“School directory.” Mom’s staring at TJ like he’s dessert, and he meets her
eyes with a polite smile. “Hi, I’m TJ Forrester. I go to school with Addy.” She
simpers and shakes his hand, taking in his dimples and football jacket. He’s
almost a dark-skinned, crooked-nosed version of Jake. His name doesn’t register
with her, but Ashton exhales a soft breath behind me.
I’ve got to get TJ out of here before Mom puts two and two together. “Well,
thanks again. I’d better go study. See you tomorrow.”
“Do you want to study together for a while?” TJ asks.
I hesitate. I like TJ, I really do. But spending time together outside school isn’t
a step I’m ready to take. “I can’t, because of … other stuff.” I practically shove
him out the door, and when I turn back inside, Mom’s face is a mixture of pity
and irritation.
“What’s wrong with you?” she hisses. “Being so rude to a handsome boy like
that! It’s not as if they’re beating down your door anymore.” Her eyes flicker
over my purple-streaked hair. “Given the way you’ve let yourself go, you should
consider yourself lucky he wanted to spend time with you at all.”
consider yourself lucky he wanted to spend time with you at all.”
“God, Mom—” Ashton says, but I interrupt her.
“I’m not looking for another boyfriend, Mom.”
She stares at me like I’ve sprouted wings and started speaking Chinese. “Why
on earth not? It’s been ages since you and Jake broke up.”
“I spent more than three years with Jake. I could use some downtime.” I say it
mostly to argue, but as soon as the words come out of my mouth I know they’re
true. My mother started dating when she was fourteen, like me, and hasn’t
stopped since. Even when it means going out with an immature man-boy who’s
too cowardly to bring her home to his parents.
I don’t want to be that afraid to be alone.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the last thing you need. Have a few dates with a
boy like TJ, even if you’re not interested, and other boys at school might see you
as desirable again. You don’t want to end up on a shelf, Adelaide. Some sad
single girl who spends all her time with that odd group of friends you’ve got
now. If you’d wash that nonsense out of your hair, grow it a little, and wear
makeup again, you could do much better than that.”
“I don’t need a guy to be happy, Mom.”
“Of course you do,” she snaps. “You’ve been miserable for the past month.”
“Because I was being investigated for murder,” I remind her. “Not because
I’m single.” It’s not one hundred percent true, since the main source of my
misery was Jake. But it was him I wanted to be with. Not just anyone.
My mother shakes her head. “You keep telling yourself that, Adelaide, but
you’re hardly college material. Now’s the time to find a decent boy with a good
future who’s willing to take care of y—”
“Mom, she’s seventeen,” Ashton interrupts. “You can put this script on hold
for at least ten years. Or forever. It’s not like the whole relationship thing has
worked out well for either of us.”
“Speak for yourself, Ashton,” Mom says haughtily. “Justin and I are
ecstatically happy.”
Ashton opens her mouth to say more, but my phone rings and I hold up my
finger as Bronwyn’s name appears. “Hey. What’s up?” I say.
“Hi.” Her voice sounds thick, as if she’s been crying. “So, I was thinking
about Nate’s case and I wanted your help with something. Could you stop by for
a little while tonight? I’m going to ask Cooper, too.”
It beats being insulted by my mother. “Sure. Text me your address.”
I scrape my half-eaten dinner into the garbage disposal and grab my helmet,
calling good-bye to Ashton as I head out the door. It’s a perfect late-fall night,
and the trees lining our street sway in a light breeze as I pedal past. Bronwyn’s
house is only about a mile from mine, but it’s a completely different
neighborhood; there’s nothing cookie-cutter about these houses. I coast into the
driveway of her huge gray Victorian, eyeing the vibrant flowers and wraparound
porch with a stab of envy. It’s gorgeous, but it’s not just that. It looks like a
home.
When I ring the doorbell Bronwyn answers with a muted “Hey.” Her eyes
droop with exhaustion and her hair’s come half out of its ponytail. It occurs to
me that we’ve all had our turn getting crushed by this experience: me when Jake
dumped me and all my friends turned against me; Cooper when he was outed,
mocked, and pursued by the police; and now Bronwyn when the guy she loves is
in jail for murder.
Not that she’s ever said she loves Nate. It’s pretty obvious, though.
“Come on in,” Bronwyn says, pulling the door open. “Cooper’s here. We’re
downstairs.”
She leads me into a spacious room with overstuffed sofas and a large flatscreen television mounted on the wall. Cooper is already sprawled in an
armchair, and Maeve’s sitting cross-legged in another with her laptop on the
armrest between them. Bronwyn and I sink into a sofa and I ask, “How’s Nate?
Have you seen him?”
Wrong question, I guess. Bronwyn swallows once, then twice, trying to keep
herself together. “He doesn’t want me to. His mom says he’s … okay.
Considering. Juvenile detention’s horrible but at least it’s not prison.” Yet. We
all know Eli’s locked in a battle to keep Nate where he is. “Anyway. Thanks for
coming. I guess I just …” Her eyes fill with tears, and Cooper and I exchange a
worried glance before she blinks them back. “You know, I was so glad when we
all finally got together and started talking about this. I felt a lot less alone. And
now I guess I’m asking for your help. I want to finish what we started. Keep
putting our heads together to make sense of this.”
“I haven’t heard anything from Luis about the car,” Cooper says.
“I wasn’t actually thinking about that right now, but please keep checking,
okay? I was more hoping we could all take another look at those Tumblr posts. I
have to admit, I started ignoring them because they were freaking me out. But
now the police say Nate wrote them, and I thought we should read through and
note anything that’s surprising, or doesn’t fit with how we remember things, or
just strikes us as weird.” She pulls her ponytail over her shoulder as she opens
her laptop. “Do you mind?”
“Now?” Cooper asks.
Maeve angles her screen so Cooper can see it. “No time like the present.”
Bronwyn’s next to me, and we start from the bottom of the Tumblr posts. I got
the idea for killing Simon while watching Dateline. Nate’s never struck me as a
newsmagazine show fan, but I doubt that’s the kind of insight Bronwyn’s
looking for. We sit in silence for a while, reading. Boredom creeps in and I
realize I’ve been skimming, so I go back and try to read more thoroughly. Blah
blah, I’m so smart, nobody knows it’s me, the police don’t have a clue. And so
on.
“Hang on. This didn’t happen.” Cooper’s reading more carefully than I am.
“Have you gotten to this yet? The one dated October twentieth, about Detective
Wheeler and the doughnuts?”
I raise my head like a cat pricking up its ears at a distant sound. “Um,”
Bronwyn says, her eyes scanning the screen. “Oh yeah. That’s a weird little
aside, isn’t it? We were never all at the police station at once. Well, maybe right
after the funeral, but we didn’t see or talk to each other. Usually when whoever’s
writing these throws in specific details, they’re accurate.”
“What are you guys looking at?” I ask.
Bronwyn increases the page size and points. “There. Second to last line.”
This investigation is turning into such a cliché, the four of us even caught Detective Wheeler
eating a pile of doughnuts in the interrogation room.
A cold wave washes over me as the words enter my brain and nest there,
pushing everything else out. Cooper and Bronwyn are right: that didn’t happen.
But I told Jake it did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bronwyn
Tuesday, November 6, 7:30 p.m.
I’m not supposed to talk to Eli. So last night I texted Mrs. Macauley a link to the
Tumblr post that Addy, Cooper, and I read together, and told her what was weird
about it. Then I waited. A frustratingly long time, until I got a text back from her
after school.
Thank you. I’ve informed Eli, but he asks that you don’t involve yourself
further.
That’s all. I wanted to throw my phone across the room. I’ll admit it; I spent
most of last night fantasizing that Addy’s bombshell would get Nate out of jail
immediately. While I realize that was ridiculously naïve, I still think it deserves
more than a brush-off.
Even though I can’t wrap my brain around what it means. Because—Jake
Riordan? If I had to pick the most random possible person to be involved in this,
it still wouldn’t have been him. And involved how, exactly? Did he write the
whole Tumblr, or just that one post? Did he frame Nate? Did he kill Simon?
Cooper shot that down almost immediately. “He couldn’t have,” he said
Monday night. “Jake was at football practice when Addy called him.”
“He might have left,” I insisted. So Cooper called Luis to confirm. “Luis says
no,” Cooper reported. “Jake was leading passing drills the whole time.”
I’m not sure we can hinge an entire investigation on Luis’s memory, though.
That boy’s killed a lot of brain cells over the years. He didn’t even question why
Cooper was asking.
Now I’m in my room with Maeve and Addy, putting dozens of colored Postits on the wall that summarize everything we know. It’s very Law & Order,
except none of it makes sense.
Someone planted phones in our backpacks
Simon was poisoned during detention
Bronwyn, Nate, Cooper, Addy & Mr. Avery were in the room
The car accident distracted us
Jake wrote at least one Tumblr post
Jake and Simon were friends once
Leah hates Simon
Aiden Wu hates Simon
Simon had a thing for Keely
Simon had a violence-loving alter ego online
Simon was depressed
Janae seems depressed
Janae & Simon stopped being friends?
My mother’s voice floats up the stairs. “Bronwyn, Cooper’s here.”
Mom already loves Cooper. So much that she doesn’t protest all of us getting
together again, even though Robin’s legal advice is to still keep our distance
from one another.
“Hey,” Cooper says, not the least bit breathless from bounding up our stairs.
“I can’t stay long, but I got some good news. Luis thinks he might’ve found that
car. His brother called a buddy at a repair place in Eastland and they had a red
Camaro come through with fender damage a few days after Simon died. I got
you the license plate and a phone number.” He searches through his backpack
and hands me a torn envelope with numbers scrawled across the back. “I guess
you can pass that along to Eli, huh? Maybe there’s something there.”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully.
Cooper runs his eyes over my wall. “This helping?”
Addy sits back on her haunches with a frustrated noise. “Not really. It’s just a
collection of random facts. Simon this, Janae that, Leah this, Jake that …”
Cooper frowns and crosses his arms, leaning forward for a better look at the
wall. “I don’t get the Jake part, at all. I can’t believe he’d actually sit around and
write that damn Tumblr. I think he just … blabbed to the wrong person or
something.” He taps a finger on the Post-it with all our names on it. “And I keep
wondering: Why us? Why’d we get dragged into this? Are we just collateral
damage, like Nate said? Or is there some specific reason we’re part of this?”
I tilt my head at him, curious. “Like what?”
Cooper shrugs. “I don’t know. Take you and Leah. It’s a small thing, but what
if something like that started a domino effect? Or me and …” He scans the wall
and settles on a Post-it. “Aiden Wu, maybe. He got outed for cross-dressing, and
I was hiding the fact I’m gay.”
“But that entry was changed,” I remind him.
“I know. And that’s weird too, isn’t it? Why get rid of a perfectly good piece
of gossip that’s true, and replace it with one that’s not? I can’t shake the feeling
that this is personal, y’know? The way that Tumblr kept everything going,
egging people on about us. I wish I understood why.”
Addy tugs on one of her earrings. Her hand trembles, and when she speaks,
Addy tugs on one of her earrings. Her hand trembles, and when she speaks,
her voice does too. “Things were pretty personal between me and Jake, I guess.
And maybe he was jealous of you, Cooper. But Bronwyn and Nate … why
would he involve them?”
Collateral damage. We’ve all been affected, but Nate’s gotten the worst of it
by far. If Jake’s to blame, that doesn’t make sense. But then again, none of this
does.
“I should go,” Cooper says. “I’m meeting Luis.”
I manage a smile. “Not Kris?”
Cooper’s return smile is a little strained. “We’re still figuring things out.
Anyway, let me know if the car stuff is helpful.”
He leaves and Maeve gets up, crossing over to the spot near my bed that
Cooper just vacated. She shuffles Post-its on the wall, putting four of them into a
square:
Jake wrote at least one Tumblr post
Leah hates Simon
Aiden Wu hates Simon
Janae seems depressed
“These are the most connected people. They’ve either got reason to hate
Simon, or we already know they’re involved in some way. Some are pretty
unlikely”—she taps on Aiden’s name—“and some have big red flags against
them.” She points to Jake and Janae. “But nothing’s clear-cut. What are we
missing?”
We all stare at the Post-its in silence.
You can learn a lot about a person when you have his license plate and phone
number. His address, for example. And his name, and where he goes to school.
So if you wanted to, you could hang out in the parking lot of his school before it
started and wait for his red Camaro to arrive. Theoretically.
Or actually.
I meant to turn the numbers Cooper gave me over to Mrs. Macauley so she
could pass them along to Eli. But I kept thinking about her terse text: I’ve
informed Eli, but he asks that you don’t involve yourself further. Would Eli even
take me seriously? He’s the one who first mentioned the car accident as
suspicious, but he’s spending all his time trying to keep Nate in the juvenile
detention center. He might consider this nothing but a pesky distraction.
Anyway, I’m just scoping things out. That’s what I tell myself as I enter
Eastland High’s parking lot. They start classes forty minutes before we do, so I
can still get back to Bayview in plenty of time for the first bell. It’s stuffy in the
car, and I lower both front-seat windows as I pull into an empty spot and turn the
car, and I lower both front-seat windows as I pull into an empty spot and turn the
car off.
Thing is, I need to be doing stuff. If I don’t, I think about Nate too much.
About where he is, what he’s going through, and the fact that he won’t talk to
me. I mean, I understand he has limited communication options. Obviously. But
they’re not nonexistent. I asked Mrs. Macauley if I could visit, and she told me
Nate didn’t want me there.
Which stings. She thinks he wants to protect me, but I’m not so sure. He’s
pretty used to people giving up on him, and maybe he’s decided to do it to me
first.
A flash of red catches my eye, and an ancient Camaro with a shiny fender
parks a few spaces away from me. A short dark-haired boy gets out and hauls a
backpack from the passenger seat, looping one strap over his shoulder.
I don’t intend to say anything. But he glances my way as he walks by my
window and before I can stop myself I blurt out, “Hey.”
He pauses, curious brown eyes meeting mine. “Hey. I know you. You’re the
girl from the Bayview investigation. Bronte, right?”
“Bronwyn.” Since I’ve already blown my cover, might as well go all in.
“What are you doing here?” He’s dressed like he’s waiting for a ’90s grunge
comeback, in a flannel shirt over a Pearl Jam T-shirt.
“Um …” My eyes skitter to his car. I should just ask, right? That’s what I
came for. But now that I’m actually talking to this boy the whole thing seems
ridiculous. What am I supposed to say? Hey, what’s the deal with your oddly
timed car accident at a school you don’t go to? “Waiting for somebody.”
He wrinkles his brow at me. “You know people here?”
“Yeah.” Sort of. I know about your recent car repair, anyway.
“Everybody’s been talking about you guys. Weird case, huh? The kid who
died—he was kind of weird, right? I mean, who even has an app like that? And
all that stuff they said on Mikhail Powers. Random.”
He seems … nervous. My brain chants ask ask ask but my mouth won’t obey.
“Well. See ya.” He starts to move past my car.
“Wait!” My voice unsticks and he pauses. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“We just were talking.”
“Right, but … I have an actual question for you. The thing is, when I said I
was waiting for somebody? I meant you.”
He’s definitely nervous. “Why would you be waiting for me? You don’t even
know me.”
“Because of your car,” I say. “I saw you get into an accident in our parking lot
that day. The day Simon died.”
He pales and blinks at me. “How do you—why do you think that was me?”
“I saw your license plate,” I lie. No need to sell out Luis’s brother. “The thing
“I saw your license plate,” I lie. No need to sell out Luis’s brother. “The thing
is … the timing was weird, you know? And now someone’s been arrested for
something I’m sure he didn’t do and I wondered … did you happen to see
anything or anyone strange that day? It would help—” My voice catches and
tears prick my eyes. I blink them back and try to focus. “Anything you could tell
me would help.”
He hesitates and steps back, looking toward the stream of kids funneling into
the school. I wait for him to back away and join them, but instead he crosses to
the other side of my car, opens the passenger door, and climbs inside. I press a
button to raise the windows and turn to face him.
“So.” He runs a hand through his hair. “This is weird. I’m Sam, by the way.
Sam Barron.”
“Bronwyn Rojas. But I guess you know that already.”
“Yeah. I’ve been watching the news and wondering if I should say something.
But I didn’t know if it meant anything. I still don’t.” He gives me a quick
sideways glance, as though checking for signs of alarm. “We didn’t do anything
wrong. Like, illegal. As far as I know.”
My spine tingles as I sit up straighter. “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Me and my buddy. We had the accident on purpose. A guy paid us a
thousand bucks each to do it. Said it was a prank. I mean, wouldn’t you? The
fender barely cost five hundred to fix. The rest was pure profit.”
“Someone …” It’s warm in the car with the windows up, and my hands
gripping the steering wheel are slick with sweat. I should turn the air
conditioning on, but I can’t move. “Who? Do you know his name?”
“I didn’t, but—”
“Did he have brown hair and blue eyes?” I blurt out.
“Yeah.”
Jake. He must’ve gotten away from Luis at some point after all. “Was he—
Wait, I have a picture in here somewhere,” I say, fumbling through my backpack
for my phone. I’m sure I took a picture of the homecoming court in September.
“I don’t need a picture,” Sam says. “I know who he is.”
“Really? Like, you know his name?” My heart’s beating so fast I can see my
chest moving. “Are you sure he gave you a real name?”
“He didn’t give me any name. I figured it out later when I saw the news.”
I remember those first few stories, with Jake’s class picture next to Addy’s. A
lot of people thought it wasn’t fair to show him, but I’m glad they did. I have the
homecoming picture pulled up now, and I hand it to Sam. “Him, right? Jake
Riordan?”
He blinks at my phone, shakes his head, and hands it back. “No. That’s not
him. It was someone a lot more … closely involved with the whole thing.”
him. It was someone a lot more … closely involved with the whole thing.”
My heart’s about to explode. If it wasn’t Jake, there’s only one other boy with
dark hair and blue eyes involved in the investigation. Closely involved, no less.
And that’s Nate.
No. No. Please, God, no.
“Who?” My voice isn’t even a whisper.
Sam blows out a sigh and leans against the headrest. He’s quiet for the longest
seconds of my life until he says, “It was Simon Kelleher.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cooper
Wednesday, November 7, 7:40 p.m.
These murder club meetings are becoming a regular thing. We need a new name,
though.
This time we’re at a coffee shop in downtown San Diego, crammed into a
back table because our numbers keep expanding. Kris came with me, and Ashton
with Addy. Bronwyn’s got all her Post-it notes on a bunch of manila folders,
including the newest one: Simon paid two kids to stage a car accident. She says
Sam Barron promised to call Eli and let him know. How that’ll help Nate, I have
no idea.
“Why’d you pick this place, Bronwyn?” Addy asks. “Kind of out of the way.”
Bronwyn clears her throat and makes a big production of rearranging her Postit notes. “No reason. So, anyway.” She shoots a businesslike look around the
table. “Thanks for coming. Maeve and I keep going over this stuff and it never
makes any sense. We thought a meeting of the minds might help.”
Maeve and Ashton return from the counter, balancing our orders on a couple
of recyclable trays. They hand drinks around, and I watch Kris methodically
open five packets of sugar and dump them into his latte. “What?” he asks,
catching my expression. He’s in a green polo shirt that brings out his eyes, and
he looks really, really good. That still seems like the kind of thing I’m not
supposed to notice.
“You like sugar, huh?” It’s a dumb thing to say. What I mean is, I have no
idea how you take your coffee because this is the first time we’ve been out in
public together. Kris presses his lips together, which shouldn’t be attractive but
is. I feel awkward and jittery and accidentally bump his knee under the table.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Addy says, tipping her cup against Kris’s. The
liquid inside hers is so pale it barely resembles coffee.
Kris and I have been spending more time together, but it doesn’t feel natural
yet. Maybe I’d gotten used to the sneaking around, or maybe I haven’t come to
terms with the fact that I’m dating a guy. I found myself keeping my distance
from Kris when we walked from my car to the coffee shop, because I didn’t
from Kris when we walked from my car to the coffee shop, because I didn’t
want people guessing what we are to each other.
I hate that part of me. But it’s there.
Bronwyn has some kind of steaming tea that looks too hot to drink. She
pushes it aside and props one of the manila folders against the wall. “Here’s all
the stuff we know about Simon: He was going to post rumors about us. He paid
two kids to stage a car accident. He was depressed. He had a creepy online
persona. He and Janae seemed on the outs. He had a thing for Keely. He used to
be friends with Jake. Am I missing anything?”
“He deleted my original About That entry,” I say.
“Not necessarily,” Bronwyn corrects. “Your entry was deleted. We don’t
know by whom.”
Fair enough, I guess.
“And here’s what we know about Jake,” Bronwyn continues. “He wrote at
least one of the Tumblr posts, or helped somebody else write it. He wasn’t in the
school building when Simon died, according to Luis. He—”
“Is a complete control freak,” Ashton interrupts. Addy opens her mouth in
protest, but Ashton cuts her off. “He is, Addy. He ran every part of your life for
three years. Then as soon as you did something he didn’t like, he blew up.”
Bronwyn scribbles Jake is a control freak on a Post-it with an apologetic glance
at Addy.
“It’s a data point,” Bronwyn says. “Now, what if—”
The front door bangs and she goes bright red. “What a coincidence.” I follow
her gaze and see a young guy with wild hair and a scruffy beard enter the coffee
shop. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. He spots Bronwyn with an
exasperated expression that turns alarmed when he takes in Addy and me.
He holds a hand in front of his face. “I don’t see you. Any of you.” Then he
catches sight of Ashton and does a classic double take, almost tripping over his
feet. “Oh, hi. You must be Addy’s sister.”
Ashton blinks, confused, looking between him and Bronwyn. “Do I know
you?”
“This is Eli Kleinfelter,” Bronwyn says. “He’s with Until Proven. Their
offices are upstairs. He’s, um, Nate’s lawyer.”
“Who cannot talk to you,” Eli says, like he just remembered. He gives Ashton
a lingering look, but turns away and heads for the counter. Ashton shrugs and
blows on her coffee. I’m sure she’s used to having that effect on guys.
Addy’s eyes are round as she watches Eli’s retreating back. “God, Bronwyn. I
can’t believe you stalked Nate’s lawyer.”
Bronwyn looks almost as embarrassed as she should be, taking the envelope
I’d given her out of her backpack. “I wanted to see if Sam Barron ever got in
touch, and pass along his information if he hadn’t. I thought if I ran into Eli
casually, he might talk to me. Guess not.” She darts a hopeful look at Ashton. “I
bet he’d talk to you, though.”
Addy locks her hands on her hips and juts her chin in outrage. “You can’t
pimp out my sister!”
Ashton smiles wryly and holds out her hand for the envelope. “As long as it’s
for a good cause. What am I supposed to say?”
“Tell him he was right—that the car accident at Bayview the day Simon died
was staged. The envelope has contact information for the boy Simon paid to do
it.”
Ashton heads for the counter, and we all sip our drinks in silence. When she
returns a minute later, the envelope’s still in her hand. “Sam called him,” she
confirms. “He said he’s looking into it, he appreciates the information, and you
should mind your fucking business. That’s a direct quote.”
Bronwyn looks relieved and not at all insulted. “Thank you. That’s good
news. So, where were we?”
“Simon and Jake,” Maeve says, propping her chin in one hand as she gazes at
the two manila folders. “They’re connected. But how?”
“Excuse me,” Kris says mildly, and everyone looks at him like they’d
forgotten he was at the table. Which they probably had. He’s been quiet since we
got here.
Maeve tries to make up for it by giving him an encouraging smile. “Yeah?”
“I wonder,” Kris says. His English is unaccented and almost perfect, with just
a little formality that hints he’s from someplace else. “There has always been so
much focus on who was in the room. That’s why the police originally targeted
the four of you. Because it would be almost impossible for anyone who wasn’t
in the room to kill Simon. Right?”
“Right,” I say.
“So.” Kris removes two Post-its from one of the folders. “If the killer wasn’t
Cooper, or Bronwyn, or Addy, or Nate—and nobody thinks the teacher who was
there could have had anything to do with it—who does that leave?” He layers
one Post-it on top of the other on the wall next to the booth, then sits back and
looks at us with polite attentiveness.
Simon was poisoned during detention
Simon was depressed
We’re all silent for a long minute, until Bronwyn exhales a small gasp. “I’m
the omniscient narrator,” she says.
the omniscient narrator,” she says.
“What?” Addy asks.
“That’s what Simon said before he died. I said there wasn’t any such thing in
teen movies, and he said there was in life. Then he drained his drink in one
gulp.” Bronwyn turns and calls “Eli!” but the door’s already closing behind
Nate’s lawyer.
“So you’re saying …” Ashton stares around the table until her eyes land on
Kris. “You think Simon committed suicide?” Kris nods. “But why? Why like
that?”
“Let’s go back to what we know,” Bronwyn says. Her voice is almost clinical,
but her face is flushed brick red. “Simon was one of those people who thought
he should be at the center of everything, but wasn’t. And he was obsessed with
the idea of making some kind of huge, violent splash at school. He fantasized
about it all the time on those 4chan threads. What if this was his version of a
school shooting? Kill himself and take a bunch of students down with him, but
in an unexpected way. Like framing them for murder.” She turns to her sister.
“What did Simon say on 4chan, Maeve? Do something original. Surprise me
when you take out a bunch of lemming assholes.”
Maeve nods. “Exact quote, I think.”
I think about how Simon died—choking, panicked, trying to catch his breath.
If he really did it to himself, I wish more than ever we’d found his damn EpiPen.
“I think he regretted it at the end,” I say, the weight of the words settling heavy
on my heart. “He looked like he wanted help. If he could’ve gotten medication in
time, maybe a close call like that would’ve jolted him into being a different kind
of guy.”
Kris’s hand squeezes mine under the table. Bronwyn and Addy both look like
they’re back in the room where Simon died, horrified and stunned. They know
I’m right. Silence descends and I think we might be done until Maeve looks over
at the Post-it wall and sucks in her cheeks.
“But how does Jake fit in?” she asks.
Kris hesitates and clears his throat, like he’s waiting for permission to speak.
When nobody protests he says, “If Jake isn’t Simon’s killer, he must be his
accomplice. Someone had to keep things going after Simon died.”
He meets Bronwyn’s eyes, and some kind of understanding passes between
them. They’re the brains of this operation. The rest of us are just trying to keep
up. Kris’s hand pulled away from mine while he was talking, and I take it back.
“Simon found out about Addy and TJ,” Bronwyn says. “Maybe that’s how he
approached Jake in the first place to get his help. Jake would’ve wanted revenge,
because he—”
A chair scrapes noisily beside me as Addy pushes herself away from the table.
A chair scrapes noisily beside me as Addy pushes herself away from the table.
“Stop,” she says in a choked voice, her purple-streaked hair falling into her eyes.
“Jake wouldn’t … He couldn’t …”
“I think we’ve had enough for one night,” Ashton says firmly, getting to her
feet. “You guys keep going, but we need to get home.”
“Sorry, Addy,” Bronwyn says with a chagrined expression. “I got carried
away.”
Addy waves a hand. “It’s fine,” she says unsteadily. “I just … can’t right
now.” Ashton links arms with her until they get to the door; then she pulls it
open and lets Addy slip through ahead of her.
Maeve watches them, her chin in her hands. “She has a point. The whole thing
sounds impossible, doesn’t it? And even if we’re right, we can’t prove
anything.” She looks hopefully at Kris, as though she’s willing him to work
more Post-it magic.
Kris shrugs and taps the colored square closest to him. “Perhaps there’s one
person remaining who knows something useful.”
Janae seems depressed
Bronwyn and Maeve leave around nine, and Kris and I don’t stay much
longer. We gather up the table debris that’s left and deposit it in the trash can
next to the exit. We’re both quiet, coming off one of the weirdest dates in
history.
“Well,” Kris says, pushing through the door and pausing on the sidewalk to
wait for me. “That was interesting.” Before he can say anything else I grab him
and press him against the coffee shop wall, my fingers digging into his hair and
my tongue sliding between his teeth in a deep, wanting kiss. He makes a sound
like a surprised growl and pulls me hard against his chest. When another couple
exits through the door and we break apart, he looks dazed.
He straightens his shirt and runs a hand over his hair. “Thought you’d
forgotten how to do that.”
“I’m sorry.” My voice thickens with the need to kiss him again. “It’s not that I
didn’t want to. It’s just—”
“I know.” Kris laces his fingers in mine and holds our hands up like a
question. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I say, and we start down the sidewalk together.
Nate
Wednesday, November 7, 11:30 p.m.
So here’s how you deal with being locked up.
You keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk about your life or why you’re there.
You keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk about your life or why you’re there.
Nobody cares unless they want to use it against you.
You don’t take shit from anyone. Ever. Juvenile detention’s not Oz, but
people will still fuck with you if they think you’re weak.
You make friends. I use the term loosely. You identify the least shitty people
you can find and associate with them. Moving around in a pack is useful.
You don’t break rules, but you look the other way when someone else does.
You work out and watch television. A lot.
You stay under the guards’ radar as much as possible. Including the overly
friendly woman who keeps offering to let you make calls from her office.
You don’t complain about how slowly time passes. When you’ve been
arrested for a capital offense and you’re four months away from your eighteenth
birthday, days that crawl by are your friends.
You come up with new ways to answer your lawyer’s endless questions. Yeah,
I leave my locker open sometimes. No, Simon’s never been to my house. Yeah,
we saw each other outside of school sometimes. The last time? Probably when I
was selling him weed. Sorry, we’re not supposed to talk about that, are we?
You don’t think about what’s outside. Or who. Especially if she’s better off
forgetting you exist.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Addy
Thursday, November 8, 7:00 p.m.
I keep reading through the About This Tumblr as if it’s going to change. But it
never does. Ashton’s words loop through my head: Jake’s a complete control
freak. She’s not wrong. But does that mean the rest of it has to be right? Maybe
Jake told somebody else what I said, and they wrote it. Or maybe it’s all just a
coincidence.
Except. A memory surfaces from the morning of Simon’s death, so seemingly
insignificant that it hadn’t crossed my mind till now: Jake pulling my backpack
off my shoulder with an easy grin as we walked down the hallway together.
That’s too heavy for you, baby. I’ve got it. He’d never done that before, but I
didn’t question him. Why would I?
And a phone that wasn’t mine got pulled from my backpack a few hours later.
I’m not sure what’s worse—that Jake might be part of something so awful,
that I drove him to it, or that he’s been putting on an act for weeks.
“His choice, Addy,” Ashton reminds me. “Plenty of people get cheated on and
don’t lose their minds. Take me, for example. I threw a vase at Charlie’s head
and moved on. That’s a normal reaction. Whatever’s going on here isn’t your
fault.”
That might be true. But it doesn’t feel true.
So I’m supposed to talk to Janae, who hasn’t been in school all week. I tried
texting her a few times after school and again after dinner, but she never
responded. Finally, I decided to borrow TJ’s trick—find her address in the
school directory and just show up. When I told Bronwyn she offered to come
along, but I thought it’d go better with only me. Janae never warmed up to
Bronwyn all that much.
Cooper insists on driving me even though I tell him he’ll need to wait in the
car. There’s no way Janae’ll open up about anything if he’s around. “That’s
fine,” he says as he pulls across the street from Janae’s faux-Tudor house. “Text
me if things turn weird.”
“Will do,” I say, giving him a salute as I close the door and cross the street.
“Will do,” I say, giving him a salute as I close the door and cross the street.
There aren’t any cars in Janae’s driveway, but lights are burning throughout the
house. I ring the doorbell four times with no answer, glancing back at Cooper
with a shrug after the last one. I’m about to give up when the door cracks and
one of Janae’s black-rimmed eyes stares out at me. “What are you doing here?”
she asks.
“Checking on you. You haven’t been around and you’re not answering my
texts. Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Janae tries to close the door, but I stick my foot in it to stop her.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
She hesitates but releases the door and steps back, allowing me to push it
forward and enter. When I get a good look at her, I almost gasp. She’s thinner
than ever, and angry red hives cover her face and neck. She scratches at them
self-consciously. “What? I’m not feeling well. Obviously.”
I peer down the hallway. “Anyone else home?”
“No. My parents are out to dinner. Look, um, no offense, but do you have
some reason for being here?”
Bronwyn coached me on what to say. I’m supposed to start with small, subtle
questions about where Janae’s been all week and how she’s feeling. To follow
up on the thread of Simon’s depression and encourage her to tell me more. As a
last resort, I can maybe talk about what Nate’s facing as the DA’s office tries to
send him to an honest-to-God prison.
I don’t do any of that. Instead I step forward and hug her, cradling her
scrawny body as though she’s a little kid who needs comforting. She feels like
one, all weightless bones and fragile limbs. She stiffens, then slumps against me
and starts to cry.
“Oh my God,” she says in a thick, raspy voice. “It’s all fucked up.
Everything’s so massively fucked up.”
“Come on.” I lead her to the living room sofa, where we sit and she cries some
more. Her head digs awkwardly into my shoulder while I pat her hair. It’s stiff
with product, her mouse-brown roots blending into shiny blue-black dye.
“Simon did this to himself, didn’t he?” I ask carefully. She pulls away and
buries her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
“How did you know?” she chokes out.
God. It’s true. I didn’t fully believe it till now.
I’m not supposed to tell her everything. I’m actually not supposed to tell her
anything, but I do. I can’t think how else to have this conversation. When I finish
she rises and goes upstairs without a word. I wait for a couple of minutes,
curling one hand on my lap and using the other to tug at my earring. Is she
calling somebody? Getting a gun to blow my head off? Slitting her wrists to join
Simon?
Just when I think I might have to go after her, Janae thuds down the stairs
holding a thin sheaf of papers she thrusts toward me. “Simon’s manifesto,” she
says with a sour twist of her mouth. “It’s supposed to be sent to the police a year
from now, after all your lives are completely screwed. So everyone would know
he pulled it off.”
The papers tremble in my hand as I read:
Here’s the first thing you need to know: I hate my life and everything in it.
So I decided to get the hell out. But not go quietly.
I thought a lot about how to do this. I could buy a gun, like pretty much any asshole in
America. Bar the doors one morning and take out as many Bayview lemmings as I have bullets
for before turning the last one on myself.
And I’d have a lot of bullets.
But that’s been done to death. It doesn’t have the same impact anymore.
I want to be more creative. More unique. I want my suicide to be talked about for years. I
want imposters to try to imitate me. And fail, because the planning this takes is beyond your
average depressed loser with a death wish.
You’ve been watching it unfold for a year now. If it’s gone the way I hope, you have no clue
what actually happened.
I look up from the papers. “Why?” I ask, bile rising in my throat. “How did
Simon get to this point?”
“He’d been depressed for a while,” Janae says, kneading the fabric of her
black skirt between her hands. The stacks of studded bracelets she wears on both
arms rattle with the movement. “Simon always felt like he should get a lot more
respect and attention than he did, you know? But he got really bitter about it this
year. He started spending all his time online with a bunch of creepers,
fantasizing about getting revenge on everyone who made him miserable. It got to
the point where I don’t think he even knew what was real anymore. Whenever
something bad happened, he blew it way out of proportion.”
Words are tumbling out of her now. “He started talking about killing himself
and taking people with him, but, like, creatively. He got obsessed with the idea
of using the app to frame everyone he hated. He knew Bronwyn cheated and it
pissed him off. She practically had valedictorian sewn up anyway, but she made
it impossible for him to catch up. He thought she’d screwed him out of going to
the Model UN finals too. And he couldn’t stand Nate because of what happened
with Keely. Simon had thought he had a shot with her, and then Nate stole her
away without even trying or actually giving a fuck.”
My heart contracts. God, poor Nate. What a stupid, pointless reason to end up
in jail. “What about Cooper? Did Simon involve him because of Keely too?”
Janae snorts out a bitter laugh. “Mr. Nice Guy? Cooper got Simon blacklisted
from Vanessa’s after-prom party. Even though Simon was on the court and
everything. He was so humiliated that he was not only not invited, but actually
not even allowed to go. Everyone was going to be there, he said.”
“Cooper did?” I blink. That’s news to me. Cooper hadn’t mentioned it, and I
never even noticed Simon wasn’t there.
Which I guess was part of the problem.
Janae bobs her head. “Yeah. I don’t know why, but he did. So those three
were Simon’s targets, and he had his gossip all lined up. I still thought it was just
talk, though. A way to blow off steam. Maybe it would’ve been, if I could have
convinced him to get offline and stop obsessing. But then Jake found out
something Simon didn’t want anyone to know and it just—that was the final
straw.”
Oh no. Every second that went by without a mention of Jake’s name made me
hope he wasn’t involved, after all. “What do you mean?” I pull at my earring so
hard, I’m in danger of tearing a lobe.
Janae picks at her chipped nail polish, sending gray flakes across her skirt.
“Simon rigged the votes so he’d be on the junior prom court.” My hand freezes
at my ear and my eyes go wide. Janae huffs out a humorless little laugh. “I
know. Stupid, right? Simon was weird like that. He’d make fun of people for
being lemmings, but he still wanted the same things they did. And he wanted
them to look up to him. So he did it, and he was gloating about it at the pool last
summer, saying how easy it was and how he’d mess with homecoming too. And
Jake overheard us.”
I can immediately picture Jake’s reaction, so Janae’s next words don’t surprise
me. “He laughed his head off. Simon freaked. He couldn’t stand the thought of
Jake telling people, and everyone at school knowing he’d done something so
pathetic. Like, he’d spent years spilling everybody’s secrets, and now he was
gonna get humiliated with one of his own.” She cringes. “Can you imagine? The
creator of About That getting exposed as such a wannabe? It sent him over the
edge.”
“The edge?” I echo.
“Yeah. Simon decided to stop talking about his crazy plan and actually do it.
He already knew about you and TJ, but he’d been sitting on that till school
started again. So he used it to shut Jake up and bring him in. Because Simon
needed somebody to keep things going after he died, and I wouldn’t do it.”
I don’t know whether to believe her or not. “You wouldn’t?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Janae doesn’t meet my eyes. “Not for your sake. I didn’t
care about any of you. For Simon’s sake. But he wouldn’t listen to me, and then
all of a sudden he didn’t need me. He knew what Jake was like, that he’d lose it
when he found out about you and TJ. Simon told Jake he could plant everything
on you so you’d take the fall and wind up in jail. And Jake was totally on board.
He even came up with the idea of sending you to the nurse’s office that day for
Tylenol so you’d look more guilty.”
White noise buzzes through my brain. “The perfect revenge for cheating on a
perfect boyfriend.” I’m not sure I’ve said it out loud until Janae nods.
“Right, and no one would ever guess since Simon and Jake weren’t even
friends. For Simon, there was the added bonus that he didn’t care if Jake screwed
up and got caught. He was almost hoping he would. He’d hated Jake for years.”
Janae’s voice rises like she’s warming up for the kind of bitch session she and
Simon probably used to have all the time. “The way Jake just dropped Simon
freshman year. Started hanging out with Cooper like they’d always been best
friends, as if Simon didn’t exist anymore. Like he didn’t matter.”
Saliva swims at the back of my throat. I’m going to throw up. No, pass out.
Maybe both. Either would be better than sitting here listening to this. All that
time after Simon died, when Jake comforted me, made me drive to a party with
TJ like nothing happened, slept with me—he knew. He knew I’d cheated and he
was just biding his time. Waiting to punish me.
That might be the worst part. How normal he acted the whole time.
Somehow, I find my voice. “But he … But Nate was framed. Did Jake change
his mind?”
It hurts how much I want that to be true.
Janae doesn’t answer right away. The room’s silent except for her ragged
breathing. “No,” she says finally. “The thing is … it all unfolded almost exactly
the way Simon planned. He and Jake snuck those phones into your backpacks
that morning, and Mr. Avery found them and gave you detention, just like Simon
said he would. He made it easy for the police to investigate by keeping the
About That admin site wide open. He wrote an outline of the Tumblr journal,
and told Jake to post updates from public computers with details about what was
really happening. It was like watching some out-of-control reality TV show
where you keep thinking producers are gonna step in and say, Enough. But
nobody did. It made me sick. I kept telling Jake he needed to stop before it went
too far.”
My gut twists. “And Jake wouldn’t?”
Janae sniffs. “No. He got really into the whole thing once Simon died. Total
power trip watching you guys get hauled into the station, seeing the school
scrambling and everybody freaking out about the Tumblr. He liked having that
control.” She stops for a second and glances at me. “I guess you’d know about
that.”
that.”
Yeah, I guess I would. But I could do without the reminder right now. “You
could’ve stopped it, Janae,” I say, my voice rising as anger starts to overtake my
shock. “You should’ve told somebody what was going on.”
“I couldn’t,” Janae says, hunching her shoulders. “One time when we were
meeting with Simon, Jake recorded us on his phone. I was trying to talk sense
into Simon, but the way Jake edited things made it sound like it was practically
my idea. He said he’d give the recording to the police and pin everything on me
if I didn’t help.”
She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I was supposed to plant all the evidence
on you. You remember that day I came to your house? I had the computer with
me then. But I couldn’t do it. After that, Jake kept harassing me and I panicked. I
just dumped everything on Nate.” She chokes out a sob. “It was easy. Nate
doesn’t lock anything. And I called in the tip about him instead of you.”
“Why?” My voice is tiny, and my hands are shaking so badly that Simon’s
manifesto makes a rattling sound. “Why didn’t you stick to the plan?”
Janae starts rocking back and forth again. “You were nice to me. Hundreds of
people in that stupid school and nobody, except you, ever asked if I missed
Simon. I did. I do. I totally get how fucked up he was, but—he was my only
friend.” She starts crying hard again, her thin shoulders shaking. “Until you. I
know we’re not really friends and you probably hate me now, but … I couldn’t
do that to you.”
I don’t know how to respond. And if I keep thinking about Jake, I’m going to
lose it. My mind latches on to one small piece of this messed-up puzzle that
doesn’t make sense. “What about Cooper’s entry? Why would Simon write the
truth and then replace it with a lie?”
“That was Jake,” Janae says, swiping at her eyes. “He made Simon change it.
He said he was doing Cooper a favor, but … I don’t know. I think it was more he
didn’t want anyone to know his best friend was gay. And he seemed pretty
jealous of all the attention Cooper was getting for baseball.”
My head’s spinning. I should be asking more questions, but I can think of only
one. “Now what? Are you … I mean, you can’t let Nate get convicted, Janae.
You’re going to tell someone, right? You have to tell someone.”
Janae passes a hand over her face. “I know. I’ve been sick about it all week.
But the thing is, I don’t have anything except this printout. Jake has the video
version on Simon’s hard drive, along with all the backup files that show he’d
planned the whole thing for months.”
I brandish Simon’s manifesto like a shield. “This is good enough. This, and
your word, is plenty.”
“What would even happen to me?” Janae mutters under her breath. “I’m, like,
aiding and abetting, right? Or obstructing justice? I could wind up in jail. And
Jake has that recording hanging over my head. He’s already pissed at me. I’ve
been too afraid of him to go to school. He keeps stopping by and—” The
doorbell chimes, and she freezes as my phone rings out with a text. “Oh God,
Addy, that’s probably him. He only ever comes by when my parents’ car isn’t in
the driveway.”
My phone blares with a message from Cooper. Jake’s here. What’s going on?
I grab hold of Janae’s arm. “Listen. Let’s do to him exactly what he did to you.
Talk to him about all this, and we’ll record it. Do you have your phone on you?”
Janae pulls it out of her pocket as the doorbell rings again. “It won’t do any
good. He always makes me give it to him before we talk.”
“Okay. We’ll use mine.” I look into the darkened dining room across from us.
“I’ll hide in there while you talk to him.”
“I don’t think I can,” Janae whispers, and I give her arm a hard shake.
“You have to. You need to make this right, Janae. It’s gone way too far.” My
hands are trembling, but I manage to send a quick text to Cooper—It’s fine, just
wait—and get to my feet, pulling Janae with me and shoving her toward the
door. “Answer it.” I stumble into the dining room and sink to my knees, opening
my phone’s Voice Recorder app and pressing Play. I put it as close as I dare to
the entryway between the dining room and the living room, and scoot against the
wall next to a china cabinet.
At first, the blood rushing in my ears blocks out every other sound, but when
it starts to recede I hear Jake’s voice: “… haven’t you been at school?”
“I don’t feel well,” Janae says.
“Really.” Jake’s voice drips with contempt. “Me either, but I still show up.
Which you need to do too. Business as usual, you know?”
I have to strain to hear Janae. “Don’t you think this has gone on long enough,
Jake? I mean, Nate’s in jail. I realize that’s the plan and all, but now that it’s
happening it’s pretty messed up.” I’m not sure the phone’s going to be able to
pick her up, but there’s not much I can do about it. I can’t exactly stage-direct
her from the dining room.
“I knew you were freaking out.” Jake’s voice carries easily. “No, we fucking
can’t, Janae. That’d put us both at risk. Anyway, sending Nate to jail was your
choice, wasn’t it? That should’ve been Addy, which is why I’m here, by the
way. You fucked that up and need to turn it around. I have some ideas.”
Janae’s voice gets a little stronger. “Simon was sick, Jake. Killing yourself
and framing other people for murder is crazy. I want out. I won’t tell anybody
you’re involved, but I want us to—I don’t know—put out an anonymous note
that says it was a hoax or something. We have to make it stop.”
Jake snorts. “Not your call, Janae. Don’t forget what I have on hand. I can put
everything on your doorstep and walk away. There’s nothing to tie me to any of
this.”
Wrong, asshole, I think. Then time seems to stop as a text message from
Cooper crosses my phone with a loud blare of Rihanna’s “Only Girl.” You ok?
I forgot the all-important step of silencing my phone before using it as a spy
device.
“What the hell? Addy?” Jake roars. I don’t even think, just take off out of the
dining room and through Janae’s kitchen, thanking God that she has a back door
I can burst through. Heavy footsteps pound behind me, so instead of going for
Cooper’s car I run straight into the dense woods behind Janae’s house. I fly
through the underbrush in a panic, dodging bushes and overgrown roots until my
foot hooks under something and I tumble to the ground. It’s like the gym track
all over again—knees torn, breath gone, palms raw—except this time my ankle’s
twisted also.
I hear branches crashing behind me, farther away than I would have thought
but heading straight to me. I get to my feet, wincing, and weigh my options. One
thing’s sure after everything I heard in the living room—Jake’s not leaving these
woods till he finds me. I don’t know if I can hide, and I sure as hell can’t run. I
take a deep breath, scream “Help!” at the top of my lungs, and take off again,
trying to zigzag away from where I think Jake is while still getting closer to
Janae’s house.
But, oh God, my ankle hurts so badly. I’m barely dragging myself forward,
and the noises behind me get louder until a hand catches my arm and yanks me
back. I manage to scream once more before Jake clamps his other hand over my
mouth.
“You little bitch,” he says hoarsely. “You brought this on yourself, you know
that?” I sink my teeth into Jake’s palm and he lets out an animal sound of pain,
dropping his hand and lifting it just as quickly to strike me across the face.
I stagger, my face aching, but manage to stay upright and twist in an attempt
to connect my knee to his groin and my nails to his eye. Jake grunts again when I
make contact, stumbling enough that I break free and spin away. My ankle
buckles and his hand locks around my arm, tight as a vise. He pulls me toward
him and grips me hard by the shoulders. For one bizarre second I think he’s
going to kiss me.
Instead he shoves me to the ground, kneels down, and slams my head on a
rock. My skull explodes with pain and my vision goes red around the edges, then
black. Something presses across my neck and I’m choking. I can’t see anything,
black. Something presses across my neck and I’m choking. I can’t see anything,
but I can hear. “You should be in jail instead of Nate, Addy,” Jake snarls as I
claw at his hands. “But this works too.”
A girl’s panicked voice pierces the pain in my head. “Jake, stop! Leave her
alone!”
The awful pressure releases and I gasp for air. I hear Jake’s voice, low and
angry, then a shriek and a thud. I should get up, right now. I reach my hands out,
feeling grass and dirt beneath my fingers as I scramble to find an anchor. I just
need to pull myself off the ground. And get these starbursts out of my eyes. One
thing at a time.
Hands are at my throat again, squeezing. I lash out with my legs, willing them
to work the way they do on my bike, but they feel like spaghetti. I blink, blink,
blink some more, until I can finally see. Except now I wish I couldn’t. Jake’s
eyes flash silver in the moonlight, filled with a cold fury. How did I not see this
coming?
I can’t budge his hands no matter how hard I try.
Then I can breathe again as Jake flies backward, and I wonder dimly how and
why he did that. Sounds fill the air as I roll onto my side, gasping to fill my
empty lungs. Seconds or minutes pass, it’s hard to tell, until a hand presses my
shoulder and I blink into a different pair of eyes. Kind, concerned. And scared as
shitless as I am.
“Cooper,” I rasp. He pulls me into a sitting position and I let my head fall
against his chest, feeling his heart hammering against my cheek as the distant
wail of sirens draws closer.
Chapter Thirty
Nate
Friday, November 9, 3:40 p.m.
I know something’s different by how the guard looks at me when he calls my
name. Not as much like a piece of dirt he wants to grind under his shoe as usual.
“Bring your things,” he says. I don’t have much, but I take my time shoving
everything into a plastic bag before I follow him down the long gray corridor to
the warden’s office.
Eli hovers in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, giving me that intense
stare of his times a hundred. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Nate.” When I
don’t react, he adds, “You’re free. You’re out. This whole thing was a hoax
that’s been blown wide open. So get out of that jumpsuit and into civilian
clothes, and let’s get you the hell out of here.”
At this point I’m used to doing what I’m told, so that’s all I do. Nothing else
registers, even when Eli shows me news stories about Jake’s arrest, until he tells
me Addy’s in the hospital with a concussion and a fractured skull. “Good news
is, it’s a hairline fracture with no underlying brain injury. She’ll make a full
recovery.”
Addy, that airhead homecoming princess turned badass ninja investigator, in
the hospital with a cracked skull because she tried to help me. Possibly only
alive because of Janae, who got a busted jaw for her trouble, and Cooper, who’s
suddenly some kind of superhero the media’s fawning over. I’d be happy for him
if the whole thing didn’t make me sick.
There’s a lot of paperwork when you get out of jail for a crime you didn’t
commit. Law & Order never shows how many forms you have to fill out before
you rejoin the world. The first thing I see when I step blinking into bright
sunshine is a dozen cameras whirring to life. Of course. This whole thing’s a
never-ending movie, and I’ve gone from villain to hero in a matter of hours even
though I haven’t done a single thing to make a difference since I got here.
My mother’s outside, which I guess is a pleasant surprise. I’m never not
prepared for her to disappear. And Bronwyn, even though I specifically said I
didn’t want her anywhere near this place. Guess nobody thought I was serious
about that. Before I can react her arms are around me and my face is buried in
her green-apple hair.
Jesus. This girl. For a few seconds I breathe her in and everything’s all right.
Except it’s not.
“Nate, how does it feel to be free? Do you have any comment about Jake?
What’s your next step?” Eli shoots sound bites at all the microphones in my face
as we make our way to his car. He’s the man of the hour, but I don’t see what he
did to earn it. The charges were dropped because Bronwyn kept unraveling
threads and tracked down a witness. Because Cooper’s boyfriend connected dots
nobody else saw. Because Addy put herself in the line of fire. And because
Cooper saved the day before Jake could shut her up.
I’m the only one in the murder club who didn’t contribute a goddamn thing.
All I did was be the guy who’s easy to frame.
Eli inches his car past all the media vans until we’re on the highway and the
juvenile detention center fades to a speck in the distance. He’s rattling on about
too many things to follow: how he’s working with Officer Lopez to get my drug
charges dropped; how if I want to make a statement through the media he’d
recommend Mikhail Powers; how I need a strategy for reintegrating into school.
I stare out the window, my hand a dead weight in Bronwyn’s. When I finally
hear Eli’s voice asking if I have any questions, I can tell he’s been repeating
himself for a while.
“Did someone feed Stan?” I ask. My father sure as shit didn’t.
“I did,” Bronwyn says. When I don’t respond, she squeezes my hand and
adds, “Nate, are you all right?”
She tries to catch my eye, but I can’t do it. She wants me to be happy and I
can’t do that either. The impossibility of Bronwyn hits me like a punch to the
gut: everything she wants is good and right and logical and I can’t do any of it.
She’ll always be that girl in front of me in the scavenger hunt, her shining hair
hypnotizing me so much I almost forget how uselessly I’m trailing behind her.
“I just want to go home and sleep.” I’m still not looking at Bronwyn, but out
of the corner of my eye I can see her face fall, and for some reason that’s
perversely satisfying. I’m disappointing her right on schedule. Finally,
something makes sense.
Cooper
Saturday, November 17, 9:30 a.m.
It’s pretty surreal to come downstairs for breakfast Saturday morning to my
grandmother reading an issue of People with me on the cover.
I didn’t pose for it. It’s a shot of Kris and me leaving the police station after
giving our statements. Kris looks fantastic, and I look like I just woke up after a
night of heavy drinking. It’s obvious which of us is the model.
Funny how this accidental-fame thing works. First people supported me even
though I’d been accused of cheating and murder. Then they hated me because of
who I turned out to be. Now they love me again because I was in the right place
at the right time and managed to flatten Jake with a well-aimed punch.
And because of the halo effect of being with Kris, I guess. Eli’s giving him
full credit for figuring out what really happened, so he’s the new breakout star of
this whole mess. The fact that he’s trying to avoid the media machine only
makes them want him more.
Lucas sits across from Nonny, spooning Cocoa Puffs into his mouth while
scrolling through his iPad. “Your Facebook fan page has a hundred thousand
likes now,” he reports, flicking a strand of hair out of his face like it’s an
annoying bug. This is good news for Lucas, who took it personally when most of
my so-called fans deserted the page after the police outed me.
Nonny sniffs and flings the magazine across the table. “Awful. One boy’s
dead, another ruined his life and almost ruined yours, and people still treat this
like it’s a TV show. Thank God for short attention spans. Something else’ll
come along soon and you can get back to normal.”
Whatever that is.
It’s been about a week since Jake was arrested. So far he’s being charged with
assault, obstruction of justice, evidence tampering, and a whole bunch of other
things I can’t keep track of. He’s got his own lawyer now, and he’s in the same
detention center where Nate was being held. Which I guess is poetic justice, but
it doesn’t feel good. I still can’t reconcile the guy I pulled off Addy with the kid
who’d been my friend since ninth grade. His lawyer’s talking about undue
influence from Simon, and maybe that explains it. Or maybe Ashton was right
and Jake’s been a control freak all along.
Janae’s cooperating with the police and it looks like she’ll get a plea bargain
in exchange for her testimony. She and Addy are thick as thieves now. I have
mixed feelings about Janae and the way she let things get this far. But I’m not as
innocent as I’d thought, either. While Addy was zonked out on painkillers in the
hospital she told me everything, including how my stupid, panicked slight at
junior prom made Simon hate me enough to frame me for murder.
I have to figure out a way to live with that, and it won’t be by not forgiving
other people’s mistakes.
“You meetin’ Kris later?” Nonny asks.
“Yup,” I say. Lucas keeps eating cereal without blinking an eye. Turns out he
couldn’t care less that his older brother has a boyfriend. Although he does seem
to miss Keely.
Who I’m also seeing today, before Kris and I get together. Partly because I
owe her an apology, and partly because she’s been sucked into this mess too,
even though the police tried to keep her name out of Simon’s confession. It
wasn’t part of the public record, but people at school knew enough to guess. I
texted her earlier in the week to see how she was doing, and she texted back an
apology for not being more supportive when the story about me and Kris broke.
Which was pretty big of her, considering all the lies I told.
We went back and forth for a while after that. She was pretty broken up about
the part she played in everything, even though she had no idea what was
happening. I’m one of the few people in town who can understand how that
feels.
Maybe we can manage to be friends after all this. I’d like that.
Pop comes into the kitchen with his laptop, jiggling it like there’s a present
inside. “You check your email?”
“Not this morning.”
“Josh Langley’s touching base. Wants to know what you’re thinking about
college versus the draft. And the UCLA offer came through. Still nothin’ from
LSU, though.” Pop won’t be happy until all the top-five college baseball teams
make me a scholarship offer. Louisiana State is the lone holdout, which annoys
him since they’re ranked number one. “Anyway, Josh wants to talk next week.
You up for it?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I’ve already decided I’m not going right into the
draft. The more I think about my baseball future, the more I want college ball to
be the next step. I have the rest of my life to play baseball, but only a few years
to go to college.
And my first choice is Cal State. Since they’re the only school that didn’t back
away from me when I was down.
But it’ll make Pop happy to talk with Josh Langley. We’ve gotten back on
tentative father-son footing since the good baseball news started pouring in. He
still doesn’t talk to me about Kris, and clams up when anyone else mentions him.
He doesn’t bolt out of the room anymore, though. And he’s looking me in the
eye again.
It’s a start.
Addy
Saturday, November 17, 2:15 p.m.
I can’t ride my bike because of the skull fracture and my sprained ankle, so
Ashton drives me to my follow-up doctor’s appointment. Everything’s healing
the way it should, although I still get instant headaches if I move my head too
fast.
The emotional stuff will take longer. Half the time I feel like Jake died, and
the other half I want to kill him. I can admit, now, that Ashton and TJ weren’t
wrong about how things were between Jake and me. He ran everything, and I let
him. But I never would have believed he could be capable of what he did in the
woods. My heart feels like my skull did right after Jake attacked me—as though
it’s been split in two with a dull ax.
I don’t know how to feel about Simon, either. Sometimes I get really sad
when I think about how he planned to ruin four people because he thought we’d
taken away from him things that everybody wants: to be successful, to have
friends, to be loved. To be seen.
But most of the time I just wish I’d never met him.
Nate visited me in the hospital and I’ve seen him a few times since I’ve been
out. I’m worried about him. He’s not one to open up, but he said enough that I
could tell getting arrested made him feel pretty useless. I’ve been trying to
convince him otherwise, but I don’t think it’s sinking in. I wish he’d listen,
because if anyone knows how badly you can screw up your life when you decide
you’re not good enough, it’s me.
TJ’s texted a few times since I was discharged a couple of days ago. He kept
dropping hints about asking me out, so I finally had to tell him it’s not
happening. There’s no way I can hook up with the person who helped me set off
this whole chain reaction. It’s too bad, because there might’ve been potential if
we’d gone about things differently. But I’m starting to realize there are some
things you can’t undo, no matter how good your intentions are.
It’s all right, though. I don’t agree with my mother that TJ was my last, best
hope to avoid premature spinsterhood. She’s not the expert she thinks she is on
relationships.
I’d rather take my cues from Ashton, who’s getting a kick out of Eli’s sudden
infatuation. He tracked her down after things settled with Nate and asked her
out. She told him she’s not ready to date yet, so he keeps interrupting his insane
workload to take her on elaborate, carefully planned not-dates. Which, she has to
admit, she’s enjoying.
“I’m not sure I can take him seriously, though,” she tells me as I hobble to the
car on crutches after my checkup. “I mean, the hair alone.”
car on crutches after my checkup. “I mean, the hair alone.”
“I like the hair. It has character. Plus, it looks soft, like a cloud.”
Ashton grins and brushes a stray lock of mine off my forehead. “I like yours.
Grow it a little more and we’ll be twins.”
That’s my secret plan. I’ve been coveting Ashton’s hair all along.
“I have something to show you,” she says as she pulls away from the hospital.
“Some good news.”
“Really? What?” Sometimes it’s hard to remember what good news feels like.
Ashton shakes her head and smiles. “It’s a show, not a tell.”
She pulls up in front of a new apartment building in the closest thing Bayview
has to a trendy neighborhood. Ashton matches my slow pace as we step into a
bright atrium, and guides me to a bench in the lobby. “Wait here,” she says,
propping my crutches next to the bench. She disappears around the corner, and
when she returns ten minutes later she leads me to an elevator and we head for
the third floor.
Ashton fits a key into a door marked 302 and pushes it open to a large
apartment with soaring, loftlike ceilings. It’s all windows and exposed brick and
polished wood floors, and I love it instantly. “What do you think?” she asks.
I lean my crutches against the wall and hop into the open kitchen, admiring
the mosaic tile backsplash. Who knew Bayview had something like this? “It’s
beautiful. Are you, um, thinking of renting it?” I try to sound enthusiastic and
not terrified of Ashton leaving me alone with Mom. Ashton hasn’t been home all
that long, but I’ve gotten kind of attached to having her there.
“I already did,” she says with a grin, spinning around a little on the hardwood
floors. “Charlie and I got an offer on the condo while you were in the hospital. It
still has to close, but once it does, we’ll make a pretty good profit. He’s agreed
to take on all his student loans as part of the divorce settlement. My design
work’s still slow, but I’ll have enough of a cushion that it won’t be a stretch.
And Bayview’s so much more affordable than San Diego. This apartment
downtown would cost three times as much.”
“That’s fantastic!” I hope I’m doing a good job of acting excited. I am excited
for her, truly. I’ll just miss her. “You’d better have a spare room so I can visit.”
“I do have a spare room,” Ashton says. “I don’t want you to visit, though.”
I stare at her. I can’t have heard her correctly. I thought we’d been getting
along great these past couple of months.
She laughs at my expression. “I want you to live here, silly. You need to get
out of that house as much as I do. Mom said it’s okay. She’s in that decline
phase with Justin where she thinks lots of private couple time will fix their
problems. Plus, you’ll be eighteen in a few months and can live wherever you
want then anyway.”
I grab her in a hug before she can finish, and she suffers it for a few seconds
before ducking away. We still haven’t mastered the art of non-awkward sisterly
affection. “Go ahead, check out your room. It’s over there.”
I limp into a sun-splashed room with a huge window overlooking a bike path
behind the building. Built-in bookshelves line the wall, and exposed beams in
the ceiling frame an amazing light fixture with a dozen Edison bulbs in different
shapes and sizes. I love everything about it. Ashton leans against the doorway
and smiles at me.
“Fresh start for both of us, huh?”
It finally feels like that might be true.
Bronwyn
Sunday, November 18, 10:45 a.m.
The day after Nate was released, I gave my one and only interview to the media.
I didn’t mean to. But Mikhail Powers himself ambushed me outside my house,
and as I expected when I first saw the full force of his charm turned on our case,
I couldn’t resist him.
“Bronwyn Rojas. The girl most likely.” He was dressed in a crisp navy suit
and subtly patterned tie, gold cuff links glinting as he held out his hand with a
warm smile. I almost didn’t notice the camera behind him. “I’ve been wanting to
talk to you for weeks. You never gave up on your friend, did you? I admire that.
I’ve admired you throughout this entire case.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. It was a transparent attempt to butter me up and it
totally worked.
“I would love your take on everything. Can you spare a few minutes to tell us
what this ordeal has been like for you, and how you feel now that it’s over?”
I shouldn’t have. Robin and my family had held our last legal meeting that
morning, and her parting advice was to keep a low profile. She was right, as
usual. But there was something I’d wanted to get off my chest that I hadn’t been
allowed to say before.
“Just one thing.” I looked into the camera while Mikhail smiled
encouragingly. “I did cheat in my chemistry class, and I’m sorry. Not only
because it got me into this mess, but because it was an awful thing to do. My
parents raised me to be honest and work hard, like they do, and I let them down.
It wasn’t fair to them, or my teachers, or the colleges I wanted to apply to. And it
wasn’t fair to Simon.” My voice started shaking then, and I couldn’t blink back
wasn’t fair to Simon.” My voice started shaking then, and I couldn’t blink back
the tears any longer. “If I’d known … If I’d thought … I won’t ever stop being
sorry for what I did. I’ll never do anything like that again. That’s all I want to
say.”
I doubt that’s what Mikhail was hoping for, but he used it anyway for his final
Bayview report. Rumor has it he’s submitting the series for Emmy
consideration.
My parents keep telling me I can’t blame myself for what Simon did. Just like
I keep telling Cooper and Addy the same thing. And I’d tell Nate, if he’d let me,
but I’ve barely heard from him since he got out of juvenile detention. He talks to
Addy more than me now. I mean, he should talk to Addy, who is obviously a
rock star. But still.
He finally agreed to let me stop by and catch up, but I don’t feel my usual
excited anticipation as I ring his doorbell. Something’s changed since he was
arrested. I almost don’t expect him to be home, but he opens the creaking door
and steps aside.
Nate’s house looks better than it did when I was feeding Stan. His mother’s
staying here and she’s added all sorts of new touches like curtains, throw
pillows, and framed pictures. The only time Nate spoke to me at any length after
he got home, he said his mother had convinced his father to try a stint at rehab.
Nate didn’t hold out much hope for it, but I’m sure having his father out of the
house temporarily is a relief.
Nate flops into an armchair in the living room as I make my way over to Stan
and peer into his cage, glad for the distraction. He lifts one of his front legs in
my direction, and I laugh in surprise. “Did Stan just wave at me?”
“Yeah. He does that, like, once a year. It’s his only move.” Nate meets my
eyes with a grin, and for a second things are normal between us. Then his smile
fades and he looks down. “So. I don’t actually have a lot of time. Officer Lopez
wants to hook me up with a weekend job at some construction company in
Eastland. I have to be there in twenty minutes.”
“That’s great.” I swallow hard. Why is it so hard to talk to him now? It was
the easiest thing in the world a few weeks ago. “I just—I guess I wanted to say,
um, I know you went through something awful and I understand if you don’t
want to talk about it, but I’m here if you do. And I still … care about you. As
much as ever. So. That’s all, I guess.”
It’s an awkward start, made worse by the fact that he won’t look at me during
my sad little speech. When he finally does, his eyes are flat.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. First, thanks for everything you
did. Seriously, I owe you one. I probably won’t ever be able to repay you. But
it’s time to get back to normal, right? And we’re not each other’s normal.” He
averts his eyes again, and it’s killing me. If he’d look at me for more than ten
seconds I’m positive he wouldn’t say this.
“No, we’re not.” I’m surprised at how steady my voice is. “But that’s never
mattered to me, and I didn’t think it mattered to you. My feelings haven’t
changed, Nate. I still want to be with you.”
I’ve never said anything that matters so much in such a straightforward way,
and at first I’m glad I didn’t wimp out. But Nate looks like he couldn’t care less.
And while I’m not fazed by external obstacles thrown my way—Disapproving
parents? No problem! Jail time? I’ll get you out!—his indifference makes me
wilt.
“I don’t see the point. We’ve got separate lives, and nothing in common now
that the investigation’s wrapped up. You need to get ready for the Ivy League,
and I—” He lets out a humorless snort. “I’ll be doing whatever the opposite of
that is.”
I want to throw my arms around him and kiss him until he stops talking like
this. But his face is closed off, as though his mind’s already a thousand miles
away, waiting for his body to catch up. Like he only let me come here out of a
sense of obligation. And I can’t stand it.
“If that’s how you feel.”
He nods so fast that whatever tiny flicker of hope I might’ve been nursing
disappears. “Yup. Good luck with everything, Bronwyn. Thanks again.”
He stands up like he’s going to walk me to the door, but I can’t take fake
politeness right now. “Don’t bother,” I say, stalking past him with my eyes on
the floor. I let myself out and walk stiffly to my car, willing myself not to run,
and fumble through my bag with shaking hands until I find my keys.
I drive home with dry, unblinking eyes and make it all the way to my room
before I lose it. Maeve knocks softly and enters without waiting for an invitation,
curling up next to me and stroking my hair while I sob into a pillow like my
heart just broke. Which I guess it did.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She knew where I was headed, and I don’t need to tell
her how it went. “He’s being a jerk.”
She doesn’t say anything else until I wear myself out and sit up, rubbing my
eyes. I’d forgotten how tired full-body crying can make you. “Sorry I can’t make
this better,” Maeve says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone.
“But I have something to show you that might cheer you up. Lots of reaction on
Twitter to your statement on Mikhail Powers Investigates. All positive, by the
way.”
“Maeve, I don’t care about Twitter,” I say wearily. I haven’t been on there
since this whole mess started. Even with my profile set to private, I couldn’t deal
with the onslaught of opinions.
“I know. But you should see this.” She hands me her phone and points to a
post on my timeline from Yale University:
To err is human @BronwynRojas. We look forward to receiving your
application.
Epilogue
THREE MONTHS LATER
Bronwyn
Friday, February 16, 6:50 p.m.
I’m sort of seeing Evan Neiman now. It snuck up on me. First we were together
a lot in big groups, then smaller ones, and a few weeks ago he drove me home
after a bunch of us hate-watched The Bachelor at Yumiko’s house. When we got
to my driveway, he leaned over and kissed me.
It was … nice. He’s a good kisser. I found myself analyzing the kiss in almost
clinical detail while it was happening, mentally congratulating him on a stellar
technique while noting the absence of any heat or magnetic pull between us. My
heart didn’t pound as I kissed him back, and my limbs didn’t shake. It was a
good kiss with a nice boy. The kind I’d always wanted.
Now things are almost exactly how I thought they’d be when I first imagined
dating Evan. We make a solid couple. I have an automatic date for the spring
break dance, which is nice. But I’m planning my post-Bayview life on a parallel
track that has nothing to do with him. We’re an until-graduation couple, at best.
I applied to Yale, but not early decision. I’ll find out next month along with
everyone else whether I got in or not. It doesn’t seem like the be-all, end-all of
my future anymore, though. I’ve been interning for Eli on the weekends, and I’m
starting to see the appeal of staying local and keeping up with Until Proven.
Everything’s pretty fluid, and I’m trying to be okay with that. I think a lot
about Simon and about what the media called his “aggrieved entitlement”—the
belief he was owed something he didn’t get, and everyone should pay because of
it. It’s almost impossible to understand, except by that corner of my brain that
pushed me to cheat for validation I hadn’t earned. I don’t ever want to be that
person again.
The only time I see Nate is at school. He’s there more often than he used to
be, and I guess he’s doing all right. I don’t know for sure, though, because we
don’t talk anymore. At all. He wasn’t kidding about going back to separate lives.
Sometimes I almost catch him looking at me, but it’s probably wishful
Sometimes I almost catch him looking at me, but it’s probably wishful
thinking.
He’s still on my mind constantly, and it sucks. I’d hoped starting up with Evan
might curb the Nate loop in my head, but it’s made things worse. So I try not to
think about Evan unless I’m actually with him, which means I sometimes
overlook things that I shouldn’t as Evan’s sort-of girlfriend. Like tonight.
I have a piano solo with the San Diego Symphony. It’s part of their High
School Spotlight concert series, something I’ve applied for since I was a
freshman without ever getting an invitation. Last month, I finally did. It’s
probably due to residual notoriety, although I like to think the audition video I
submitted of “Variations on the Canon” helped. I’ve improved a lot since the
fall.
“Are you nervous?” Maeve asks as we head downstairs. She’s dressed for the
concert in a burgundy velvet dress that has a Renaissance feel, her hair in a loose
braid threaded with small jeweled pins. She recently got the part of Lady
Guinevere in the drama club’s upcoming King Arthur, and she’s gone a little
overboard getting in character. It suits her, though. I’m more conservative in a
scoop-necked jacquard dress with a subtle gray-and-black tonal-dot pattern that
nips in at the waist and flares out above my knees.
“A little,” I reply, but she’s only half listening. Her fingers fly across her
phone, probably arranging yet another weekend rehearsal with the boy who
plays Lancelot in King Arthur. Who she insists is just a friend. Right.
I have my own phone out, texting last-minute directions to Kate, Yumiko, and
Addy. Cooper’s bringing Kris, although they’re having dinner with his parents
first, so they might be late. With Kris’s parents, that is. Cooper’s dad is slowly
coming around, but he’s not at that stage yet. Yumiko texts Should we look for
Evan? and at that point I remember I never invited him.
It’s fine, though. It’s not a big deal. It was in the newspaper, and I’m sure he
would have mentioned it if he’d seen it and wanted to come.
We’re at Copley Symphony Hall, in front of a capacity crowd. When it’s my
turn to play I walk onto a huge stage that dwarfs the piano at its center. The
crowd’s silent except the occasional cough, and my heels click loudly on the
polished floor. I smooth my dress beneath me before taking a seat on the ebony
bench. I’ve never performed in front of this many people, but I’m not as nervous
as I thought I’d be.
I flex my fingers and wait for a signal from backstage. When I start, I can tell
right away it’s going to be the best I’ve ever played. Every note flows, but it’s
not only that. When I reach the crescendo and the soft notes that follow, I pour
every ounce of emotion from the past few months into the keys beneath my
every ounce of emotion from the past few months into the keys beneath my
fingers. I feel each note like a heartbeat. And I know the audience does too.
Loud applause echoes through the room when I finish. I stand and incline my
head, absorbing the crowd’s approval until the stage manager beckons me and I
walk into the wings. Backstage I collect flowers my parents left for me, holding
them close while I listen to the rest of the performers.
Afterward I catch up with my friends in the foyer. Kate and Yumiko give me a
smaller bouquet of flowers, which I add to the ones already in my hands. Addy
is pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing her new track team jacket over a black
dress like the world’s unlikeliest jock. Her hair’s in a choppy bob that’s almost
exactly like her sister’s except the color. She decided to go full-on purple instead
of back to blond, and it suits her.
“That was so good!” she says gleefully, pulling me into a hug. “They should
have let you play all the songs.”
To my surprise, Ashton and Eli come up behind her. Ashton mentioned she’d
be here, but I didn’t think Eli would leave the office so early. I guess I should
have known better. They’re an official couple now, and Eli somehow manages to
find time for whatever Ashton wants to do. He’s wearing that moony grin he
always has around her, and I doubt he heard a note I played. “Not bad,
Bronwyn,” he says.
“I got you on video,” Cooper says, brandishing his phone. “I’ll text it once I
make a few edits.”
Kris, who looks dashing in a sports jacket and dark jeans, rolls his eyes.
“Cooper finally learned how to use iMovie, and now there’s no stopping him.
Trust me. I have tried.” Cooper grins unrepentantly and puts his phone away,
slipping his hand into Kris’s.
Addy keeps craning her neck to look around the crowded foyer, so much that I
wonder if she brought a date. “Expecting someone?” I ask.
“What? No,” she says with a breezy wave. “Just checking things out.
Beautiful building.”
Addy has the world’s worst poker face. I follow her eyes but can’t catch a
glimpse of any potential mystery guy. She doesn’t seem disappointed, though.
People keep stopping to talk, so it takes half an hour before Maeve, my
parents, and I work our way outside. My father squints at the twinkling stars
above us. “I had to park pretty far away. You three don’t want to walk there in
heels. Wait here and I’ll bring the car.”
“All right,” my mother says, kissing his cheek. I clutch my flowers and look at
all the well-dressed people surrounding us, laughing and murmuring as they spill
onto the sidewalks. A line of sleek cars pulls forward, and I watch them even
though it’s too soon for my father to be among them. A Lexus. A Range Rover.
A Jaguar.
A motorcycle.
My heart pounds as the bike’s lights dim and its rider removes his helmet.
Nate climbs off, skirting past an older couple, and advances toward me with his
eyes locked on mine.
I can’t breathe.
Maeve tugs on my mother’s arm. “We should go closer to the parking lot so
Dad sees us.” My eyes are on Nate, so I hear rather than see Mom’s deep sigh.
But she moves away with Maeve, and I’m alone on the sidewalk when Nate
reaches me.
“Hey.” He looks at me with those dreamy, dark-fringed eyes, and resentment
surges through my veins. I don’t want to see his stupid eyes, his stupid mouth,
and every other part of his stupid face that’s made me miserable for the past
three months. I had one night, finally, where I got to lose myself in something
besides my pathetic love life. Now he’s ruined it.
But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. “Hi, Nate.”
I’m surprised at my calm, neutral voice. You’d never guess how desperately my
heart’s trying to escape my rib cage. “How’ve you been?”
“Okay,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks almost—
awkward? It’s a novel stance for him. “My dad’s back in rehab. But they say
that’s positive. That he’s giving it another shot.”
“That’s great. I hope it works out.” I don’t sound like I mean it, even though I
do. The longer he stands there, the harder it is to act natural. “How’s your
mom?”
“Good. Working. She moved everything from Oregon, so—I guess she’ll be
here for a while. That’s the plan, anyway.” He runs a hand through his hair and
shoots me another half-lidded glance. The kind he used to give right before he
kissed me. “I saw your solo. I was wrong, that night at your house when I first
heard you. That, tonight, was the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
I squeeze the stems of my flowers so hard that thorns from the roses prick me.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you come? I mean—” I lift my chin toward the crowd. “It’s not
really your thing, is it?”
“No,” Nate admits. “But this is a big deal for you, right? I wanted to see it.”
“Why?” I repeat. I want to ask more, but I can’t. My throat closes and I’m
horrified as my eyes prickle and fill. I concentrate on breathing and press my
hands against the thorns, willing the mild pain to distract me. Okay. There we
go. Tears receding. Disaster averted.
go. Tears receding. Disaster averted.
In the seconds I’ve been pulling myself together, Nate’s stepped closer. I
don’t know where to look because there’s no part of him that doesn’t undo me.
“Bronwyn.” Nate rubs the back of his neck and swallows hard, and I realize
he’s as nervous as I am. “I’ve been an idiot. Being arrested messed with my
head. I thought you’d be better off without me in your life so I just … made that
happen. I’m sorry.”
I drop my eyes to his sneakers, which seem like the safest spot. I don’t trust
myself to speak.
“The thing is … I never really had anybody, you know? I’m not saying that so
you’ll feel bad for me. Just to try and explain. I don’t—I didn’t—get how stuff
like this works. That you can’t pretend you don’t give a crap and it’s done.” Nate
shifts his weight from one foot to the other, which I notice since my eyes remain
fastened on the ground. “I’ve been talking to Addy about this, because”—he
laughs a little—“she won’t let it go. I asked her if she thought you’d be mad if I
tried to talk to you and she said it didn’t matter. That I owe you an explanation
anyway. She’s right. As usual.”
Addy. That meddler. No wonder she’d been bobbleheading all over
Symphony Hall.
I clear my throat to try to dislodge the lump, but it’s no good. I’ll have to talk
around it. “You weren’t just my boyfriend, Nate. You were my friend. Or I
thought you were. And then you stopped talking to me like we were nothing.” I
have to bite hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from tearing up again.
“I know. It was— God, I can’t even explain it, Bronwyn. You were the best
thing that ever happened to me, and it freaked me out. I thought I’d ruin you. Or
you’d ruin me. That’s how things tend to go in the Macauley house. But you’re
not like that.” He exhales sharply and his voice dips lower. “You’re not like
anybody. I’ve known that since we were kids, and I just—I fucked up. I finally
had my chance with you and I fucked it all up.”
He waits a beat for me to say something, but I can’t yet. “I’m sorry,” he says,
shifting again. “I shouldn’t have come. I sprang this on you out of nowhere. I
didn’t mean to ruin your big night.”
The crowd is thinning, the night air cooling. My father will be here soon. I
finally look up, and it’s every bit as unnerving as I thought it would be. “You
really hurt me, Nate. You can’t just ride here on your motorcycle with … all
this”—I gesture around his face—“and expect everything to be okay. It’s not.”
“I know.” Nate’s eyes search mine. “But I was hoping … I mean, what you
were saying before. How we were friends. I wanted to ask you—it’s probably
stupid, after all this, but you know Porter Cinema, on Clarendon? The one that
plays older stuff? They’ve got the second Divergent movie there. I was, um,
plays older stuff? They’ve got the second Divergent movie there. I was, um,
wondering if you want to go sometime.”
Long pause. My thoughts are a tangled mess, but I’m sure of one thing—if I
tell him no, it’ll be out of pride and self-preservation. Not because it’s what I
want. “As friends?”
“As whatever you want. I mean, yeah. Friends would be great.”
“You hate those movies,” I remind him.
“I really do.” He sounds regretful, and I almost crack a smile. “I like you
more, though. I miss you like crazy.” I furrow my brow at him and he quickly
adds, “As a friend.” We stare at each other for a few seconds until his jaw
twitches. “Okay. Since I’m being honest here, more than a friend. But I get that’s
not where your head is. I’d still like to take you to a shitty movie and hang out
with you for a couple hours. If you’ll let me.”
My cheeks burn, and the corners of my mouth keep trying to turn upward. My
face is a fickle traitor. Nate sees it and brightens, but when I don’t say anything
he pulls at the neck of his T-shirt and drops his head like I’ve already turned him
down. “Well. Just think about it, okay?”
I take a deep breath. Being dumped by Nate was heartbreaking, and the idea
of opening myself up to that kind of hurt again is scary. But I put myself on the
line for him once, when I told him how I felt about him. And again, when I
helped get him out of jail. He’s worth at least a third time. “If you’ll admit that
Insurgent is a cinematic tour de force and you’re dying to see it, I’ll consider
your proposal.”
Nate snaps his head up and gives me a smile like the sun coming out.
“Insurgent is a cinematic tour de force and I’m dying to see it.”
Happiness starts bubbling through me, making it hard to keep a straight face. I
manage, though, because I’m not going to make things that easy on him. Nate
can sit through the entire series before we leave the friend zone. “That was fast,”
I say. “I expected more resistance.”
“I already wasted too much time.”
I give a small nod. “All right, then. I’ll call you.”
Nate’s smile fades a little. “We never exchanged numbers, though, did we?”
“Still have your burner phone?” I ask. Mine’s been charging in my closet for
three months. Just in case.
His face lights up again. “Yeah. I do.”
The gentle but insistent honk of a horn penetrates my brain. Dad’s BMW idles
directly behind us, and Mom lowers the passenger window to peer outside. If I
had to use one word to describe her expression it would be resigned. “There’s
my ride,” I tell Nate.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it quickly before letting go, and I swear
to God, actual sparks shoot across my skin. “Thanks for not telling me to get
lost. I’ll wait to hear from you, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay.” I move past him toward my parents’ car and feel him turn to watch
me. I finally let myself smile, and now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. That’s okay,
though. I catch his reflection in the backseat window, and he can’t either.
Acknowledgments
So many people helped me along the journey from idea to publication, and I will
be forever grateful to all of them. First, a profound thank-you to Rosemary
Stimola and Allison Remcheck, without whom this book wouldn’t exist. Thank
you for taking a chance on me, and for your brilliant advice and unwavering
support.
To Krista Marino, thank you for being an incredible editor and for your deep
understanding of my story and its characters. Your insightful feedback and
guidance strengthened this book in ways I didn’t realize were possible. To all the
team at Random House/Delacorte Press, I’m honored to be counted among your
authors.
Writers are so much better when they’re part of a community. To Erin Hahn,
my first critique partner, thank you for being an honest critic, a tireless
cheerleader, and a good friend. Thank you Jen Fulmer, Meredith Ireland, Lana
Kondryuk, Kathrine Zahm, Amelinda Berube, and Ann Marjory K for your
thoughtful reads and words of wisdom. Every one of you made this book better.
Thank you, Amy Capelin, Alex Webb, Bastian Schlueck, and Kathrin Nehm
for bringing One of Us Is Lying to audiences around the world.
Thank you to my sister, Lynne, at whose kitchen table I sat and announced,
“I’m finally going to write a book.” You’ve read every word I’ve written since,
and believed in me when all this seemed like a pipe dream. Thank you, Luis
Fernando, Gabriela, Carolina, and Erik for your love and support, and for putting
up with my laptop at family gatherings. Thank you, Jay and April, who are part
of every sibling story I write, and Julie for always checking in on book progress.
Deep gratitude to my mom and dad for instilling in me a love of reading and
the discipline required for writing. And to my second-grade teacher, the late
Karen Hermann Pugh, who was the first to ever call me a storyteller. I wish I
could have thanked you in person.
All the love in the world to my kind, smart, and funny son, Jack. I am proud
of you always.
And finally, to my readers—thank you from the bottom of my heart for
choosing to spend your time with this book. I couldn’t be happier to share it with
you.
you.
For loads more about the
things you love, make sure you
follow Penguin Platform.
@penguinplatform
youtube.com/penguinplatform
@penguinplatform
tumblr. penguin-platform.tumblr.com
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinUKbooks
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks
Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks
Listen to Penguin at SoundCloud.com/penguin-books
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk
PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at
global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
www.penguin.co.uk
www.puffin.co.uk
www.ladybird.co.uk
First published in the United States of America by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Penguin Random House
LLC 2017
Published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2017
Text copyright © Karen M. McManus
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover design Melissa Four
ISBN: 978-0-141-37564-9
All correspondence to:
Penguin Books
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
BOOKS BY KAREN M. MCMANUS
One of Us Is Lying
Two Can Keep a Secret
One of Us Is Next
For Mom and Dad
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Karen M. McManus, LLC
Cover photograph (second girl) © 2020 by Nabi Tang/Stocksy; all other photographs used
under license from Shutterstock.com
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random
House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin
Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McManus, Karen M., author.
Title: One of us is next / Karen M. McManus.
Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, [2020] | Summary: “A year after
the Bayview four were cleared of Simon Kelleher’s death, a new mystery has cropped up—a
game with dangerous consequences that’s targeting students at Bayview again. And if the
creator isn’t found soon, dangerous could prove deadly”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019004154 | ISBN 978-0-525-70796-7 (hc) | ISBN 978-0-525-70797-4
(glb) | ISBN 978-0-525-70798-1 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-593-17547-7 (intl. tr. pbk.)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Gossip—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. |
Schools—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M4637 Or 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780525707981
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to
read.
v5.4
ep
Contents
Cover
Books by Karen M. Mcmanus
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter 11
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Two
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Friday, March 6
REPORTER (standing at the edge of a winding street with a
large white stucco building behind her): Good morning. This
is Liz Rosen with Channel Seven News, reporting live from
Bayview High, where students are reeling from the loss of
one of their classmates yesterday. It’s the second tragic
teenage death in the past eighteen months for this small
town, and the mood outside the school is one of shocked déjà
vu.
(Cut to two girls, one wiping tears, the other stonefaced.)
CRYING GIRL: It’s just…it’s just really sad. Like,
sometimes it feels as though Bayview is cursed, you know?
First Simon, and now this.
STOIC GIRL: This isn’t anything like what happened with
Simon.
REPORTER (angling her microphone toward the crying
girl): Were you and the deceased student close?
CRYING GIRL: Not like, close close. Or at all close. I mean,
I’m just a freshman.
REPORTER (turning toward the other girl): And how about
you?
STOIC GIRL: I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking to
you.
Ten Weeks Earlier
Reddit, Vengeance Is Mine subforum
Thread started by Bayview2020
Hey.
Is this the same group Simon Kelleher used to post with?—Bayview2020
Greetings.
One and the same.—Darkestmind
Why’d you move? And why are there hardly any posts?—Bayview2020
Too many gawkers and reporters on the old site.
And we have new security measures. Lesson learned from our friend
Simon.
Who I’m guessing you know, based on your user name?—Darkestmind
Everyone knows Simon. Well. Knew him.
It’s not like we were friends, though.—Bayview2020
Okay. So what brings you here?—Darkestmind
I don’t know. Just stumbled across it.—Bayview2020
Bullshit. This is a forum dedicated to revenge, and it’s not easy to find.
You’re here for a reason.
What is it? Or should I say who?—Darkestmind
Who.
Somebody did something horrible.
It wrecked my life and so many others.
Meanwhile NOTHING happened to them.
And I can’t do anything about it.—Bayview2020
Same, same.
We have a lot in common.
It sucks when the person who ruined your life gets to walk around like
always.
As if what they did doesn’t matter.
I beg to disagree with your conclusion, though.
There’s always something you can do.—Darkestmind
CHAPTER ONE
Maeve
Monday, February 17
My sister thinks I’m a slacker. She’s not coming right out and saying
it—or texting it, technically—but it’s heavily implied:
Did you check out that list of colleges I sent?
Winter of your junior year isn’t too early to start looking. It’s
actually kind of late.
We could visit some places when I’m home for Ashton’s
bachelorette party if you want.
You should apply somewhere totally out of your comfort
zone, too.
What about the University of Hawaii?
I look up from the texts flashing across my phone to meet Knox
Myers’s questioning gaze. “Bronwyn thinks I should go to college at
the University of Hawaii,” I report, and he almost chokes on his
mouthful of empanada.
“She does realize that’s on an island, right?” he asks, reaching for
a glass of ice water and draining half of it in one gulp. The
empanadas at Café Contigo are legendary in Bayview but they’re a lot
to take if you’re not used to spicy food. Knox, who moved here from
Kansas in middle school and still counts mushroom-soup-based
casseroles among his favorite meals, most definitely is not. “Has she
already forgotten that you’re vehemently anti-beach?”
“I’m not anti-beach,” I protest. “I’m just not a proponent of sand.
Or too much sun. Or undertow. Or sea creatures.” Knox’s eyebrows
climb higher with every sentence. “Look, you’re the one who made
me watch Monsters of the Deep,” I remind him. “My ocean phobia is
mostly your fault.” Knox was my first-ever boyfriend last summer,
both of us too inexperienced to realize we weren’t actually attracted
to one another. We spent most of our relationship watching the
Science Channel, which should have clued us in quicker that we were
better off as friends.
“You’ve convinced me,” Knox says drily. “This is the school for
you. I look forward to reading what will undoubtedly be a heartfelt
application essay when it’s due.” He leans forward and raises his
voice for emphasis. “Next year.”
I sigh, drumming my fingers on the brightly tiled table. Café
Contigo is an Argentinean café with deep blue walls and a tin ceiling,
the air a fragrant mix of sweet and savory scents. It’s less than a mile
from my house and became my favorite place to do homework once
Bronwyn left for Yale and my room was suddenly much too quiet. I
like the friendly bustle of the café and the fact that nobody minds if I
spend three hours here and only order coffee. “Bronwyn thinks I’m
behind schedule,” I tell Knox.
“Yeah, well, Bronwyn practically had her Yale application ready
in preschool, didn’t she?” he says. “We have plenty of time.” Knox is
like me—a seventeen-year-old junior at Bayview High, older than
most of our classmates. In his case, it’s because he was small for his
age in kindergarten and his parents held him back. In mine, it’s
because I was in and out of hospitals with leukemia for half my
childhood.
“I guess.” I reach over to grab Knox’s empty plate and stack it on
top of mine but knock over the saltshaker instead, sending white
crystals scattering across the table. Almost without thinking, I take a
pinch between two fingers and throw it over my shoulder. Warding
off bad luck, like Ita taught me. My grandmother has dozens of
superstitions: some Colombian, and some she’s picked up after living
in the United States for thirty years. I used to follow them all when I
was little, especially when I was sick. If I wear the beaded bracelet
Ita gave me, this test won’t hurt. If I avoid all the cracks in the floor,
my white cell count will be normal. If I eat twelve grapes at
midnight on New Year’s Eve, I won’t die this year.
“Anyway, it’s not the end of the world if you don’t go to college
right away,” Knox says. He slouches in his chair, pushing a shock of
brown hair off his forehead. Knox is so lean and angular that even
after stuffing himself with all of his empanadas and half of mine, he
still looks hungry. Every time he’s at our house, one or both of my
parents try to feed him. “Lots of people don’t.” His glance flicks
around the restaurant before landing on Addy Prentiss pushing
through the kitchen doors with a tray balanced in one hand.
I watch Addy wind her way through Café Contigo, dropping off
plates of food with practiced ease. Over Thanksgiving, when the true
crime show Mikhail Powers Investigates aired its special report “The
Bayview Four: Where Are They Now,” Addy agreed to be interviewed
for the first time ever. Probably because she could tell that the
producers were gearing up to present her as the slacker of the group
—my sister made it to Yale, Cooper had a splashy scholarship to Cal
State Fullerton, even Nate was taking a few community college
classes—and she wasn’t having it. No “Bayview’s Former Beauty
Queen Peaks in High School” headline for Adelaide Prentiss.
“If you know what you want to do when you graduate, great,”
she’d said, perched on a stool in Café Contigo with the day’s specials
written in brightly colored chalk on the blackboard behind her. “If
you don’t, why pay a fortune for a degree you might never use?
There’s nothing wrong with not having your entire life mapped out
when you’re eighteen.”
Or seventeen. I eye my phone warily, waiting for another barrage
of Bronwyn texts. I love my sister, but her perfectionism is a hard act
to follow.
The evening crowd is starting to arrive, filling the last of the
tables as someone turns all the wall-mounted big-screen televisions
to Cal State Fullerton’s baseball season opener. Addy pauses when
her tray is almost empty and scans the room, smiling when she
catches my eye. She makes her way to our corner table and places a
small plate of alfajores between Knox and me. The dulce de leche
sandwich cookies are a Café Contigo specialty, and they’re the only
thing Addy has learned to make during her nine months working
here.
Knox and I both reach for them at the same time. “You guys
want anything else?” Addy asks, tucking a lock of silvery pink hair
behind her ear. She’s tried a few different colors over the past year,
but nothing that isn’t pink or purple lasts for very long. “You should
get your order in now if you do. Everyone’s taking a break once
Cooper starts pitching in”—she glances at the clock on the wall—“five
minutes or so.”
I shake my head as Knox stands, brushing crumbs from the front
of his favorite gray sweatshirt. “I’m good, but I have to hit the
restroom,” he says. “Can you save my seat, Maeve?”
“You got it,” I say, sliding my bag onto his chair.
Addy half turns, then almost drops her tray. “Oh my God! There
he is!”
Every screen in the restaurant fills with the same image: Cooper
Clay walking to the mound to warm up for his first college baseball
game. I just saw Cooper over Christmas, not even two months ago,
but he looks bigger than I remember. As square-jawed and
handsome as ever, but with a steely glint in his eyes that I’ve never
seen before. Then again, until right this second, I’ve always watched
Cooper pitch from a distance.
I can’t hear the announcers over the chatter in the café, but I can
guess what they’re saying: Cooper’s debut is the talk of college
baseball right now, big enough that a local cable sports show is
covering the whole game. Part of the buzz is due to lingering Bayview
Four notoriety, and the fact that he’s one of the few openly gay
players in baseball, but it’s also because he’s been tearing up spring
training. Sports analysts are taking bets on whether he’ll jump to the
majors before he’s finished a single college season.
“Our superstar is finally going to meet his destiny,” Addy says
fondly as Cooper adjusts his cap on screen. “I need to do one last
check on my tables, then I’ll join you guys.” She starts moving
through the restaurant with her tray tucked under her arm and her
order pad in hand, but the attention of the room has already shifted
from food to baseball.
My eyes linger on the television, even though the scene has
switched from Cooper to an interview with the other team’s coach. If
Cooper wins, this year will turn out fine. I try to push the thought
out of my head as soon as it pops in, because I won’t be able to enjoy
the game if I turn it into yet another bet against fate.
A chair scrapes noisily beside me, and a familiar black leather
jacket brushes against my arm. “What’s up, Maeve?” Nate Macauley
asks, settling into his chair. His eyes rove across the sodiumspattered tabletop. “Uh-oh. Salt massacre. We’re doomed, aren’t
we?”
“Ha and ha,” I say, but my lips twitch. Nate’s become like a
brother to me since he and Bronwyn started dating almost a year
ago, so I suppose teasing comes with the territory. Even now, when
they’re “on a break” for the third time since Bronwyn left for college.
After spending last summer angsting over whether a three-thousandmile long-distance relationship could work, my sister and her
boyfriend have settled into a pattern of being inseparable, arguing,
breaking up, and getting back together that, oddly, seems to work for
both of them.
Nate just grins, and we lapse into a comfortable silence. It’s easy
hanging out with him, and Addy, and the rest of Bronwyn’s friends.
Our friends, she always says, but it’s not really true. They were hers
first, and they wouldn’t be mine without her.
My phone buzzes as if on cue, and I look down to another text
from Bronwyn. Has the game started?
Soon, I type. Cooper’s warming up.
I wish it were on ESPN so I could watch!!! Pacific Coast Sports
Network does not, sadly, air in New Haven, Connecticut. Or anyplace
outside a three-hour radius of San Diego. And they don’t live-stream
online, either.
I’m recording it for you, I remind her.
I know, but it’s not the same.
Sorry :(
I swallow the last of my cookie, watching the gray dots linger on
my phone screen for so long that I’m positive I know what’s coming
next. Bronwyn is a lightning-fast texter. She never hesitates unless
she’s about to say something she thinks she shouldn’t, and there’s
currently only one topic on her self-imposed Do Not Raise list.
Sure enough: Is Nate there?
My sister may not live one room away from me anymore, but
that doesn’t mean I can’t still give her a hard time. Who? I text back,
then glance at Nate. “Bronwyn says hi,” I tell him.
His dark-blue eyes flash, but his expression remains impassive.
“Hi back.”
I get it, I guess. No matter how much you care about someone,
things change when they used to be around all the time and then
suddenly, they’re not. I feel it too, in a different way. But Nate and I
don’t have the sort of dynamic where we talk about our feelings—
neither of us has that with anyone, really, except for Bronwyn—so I
just make a face at him. “Repression is unhealthy, you know.”
Before Nate can reply, there’s a sudden flurry of activity around
us: Knox returns, Addy pulls a chair over to our table, and a plate of
tortilla chips covered with shredded steak, melted cheese, and
chimichurri—Café Contigo’s version of nachos—materializes in front
of me.
I look up in the direction they came from to meet a pair of deepbrown eyes. “Game snacks,” Luis Santos says, transferring the towel
he used to hold the plate from his hand to his shoulder. Luis is
Cooper’s best friend from Bayview High, the catcher to Cooper’s
pitcher on the baseball team until they both graduated last year. His
parents own Café Contigo, and he works here part-time while taking
classes at City College. Ever since I made this corner table my second
home, I see more of Luis than I did when we went to school together.
Knox lunges for the nachos like he didn’t just polish off two
servings of empanadas and a plate of cookies five minutes ago.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Luis warns, lowering himself into the chair across
from me. I immediately think, Yeah you are, because I have an
embarrassing weakness for good-looking jocks that brings out my
inner twelve-year-old. You’d think I would have learned after my
one-sided crush on a basketball player landed me a humiliating post
on Simon Kelleher’s About That gossip blog freshman year, but no.
I’m not really hungry, but I extract a chip from the bottom of the
pile anyway. “Thanks, Luis,” I say, sucking the salt from one corner.
Nate smirks. “What were you saying about repression, Maeve?”
My face heats, and I can’t think of a better response than to stuff
the entire chip into my mouth and chew aggressively in Nate’s
general direction. Sometimes I don’t know what my sister sees in
him.
Damn it. My sister. I glance at my phone with a stab of guilt at
the string of sad-face emojis from Bronwyn. Just kidding. Nate looks
miserable, I reassure her. He doesn’t, because nobody wears the
don’t give a crap mask as effortlessly as Nate Macauley, but I’m sure
he is.
Phoebe Lawton, another Café Contigo waitress and a junior in
our class, hands around glasses of water before taking a seat at the
far edge of the table just as the first batter from the opposing team
saunters up to home plate. The camera zooms in on Cooper’s face as
he brings up his glove and narrows his eyes. “Come on, Coop,” Luis
murmurs, his left hand curling instinctively like it’s in a catcher’s
mitt. “Play ball.”
—
Two hours later, the entire café is filled with an excited buzz after
Cooper’s near-flawless performance: eight strikeouts, one walk, one
hit, and no runs through seven innings. The Cal State Fullerton
Titans are winning by three, but nobody in Bayview cares all that
much now that a relief pitcher has taken over for Cooper.
“I’m so happy for him,” Addy beams. “He deserves this so much
after…you know.” Her smile falters. “After everything.”
Everything. It’s too small a word to cover what happened when
Simon Kelleher decided to stage his own death almost eighteen
months ago, and frame my sister, Cooper, Addy, and Nate for his
murder. The Mikhail Powers Investigates Thanksgiving special
rehashed it all in excruciating detail, from Simon’s plot to trap
everyone in detention together to the secrets he arranged to leak on
About That to make it seem like the other four had reasons for
wanting him dead.
I watched the special with Bronwyn while she was home on
break. It brought me right back to the year before, when the story
became a national obsession and news vans crowded our driveway
every day. The entire country learned that Bronwyn stole tests to get
an A in chemistry, that Nate sold drugs while on probation for selling
drugs, and that Addy cheated on her boyfriend, Jake—who turned
out to be such a controlling trash fire that he agreed to be Simon’s
accomplice. And Cooper was falsely accused of using steroids, then
outed before he was ready to come out to his family and friends.
All of which was a nightmare, but not nearly as bad as being
suspected of murder.
The investigation unfolded almost exactly the way Simon
planned—except for the part where Bronwyn, Cooper, Addy, and
Nate banded together instead of turning on one another. It’s hard to
imagine what this night would look like if they hadn’t. I doubt
Cooper would’ve almost pitched a no-hitter in his first college game,
or that Bronwyn would have made it to Yale. Nate would probably be
in jail. And Addy—I don’t like to think about where Addy would be.
Mostly because I’m afraid she wouldn’t be here at all.
I shiver, and Luis catches my eye. He raises his glass with the
determined look of a guy who’s not about to let his best friend’s
triumph turn sour. “Yeah, well, here’s to karma. And to Coop, for
kicking ass in his first college game.”
“To Cooper,” everyone echoes.
“We have to plan a road trip to see him!” Addy exclaims. She
reaches across the table and taps Nate’s arm as he starts gazing
around the room like he’s calculating how soon he can leave. “That
includes you. Don’t try to get out of it.”
“The whole baseball team will want to go,” Luis says. Nate
grimaces in a resigned sort of way, because Addy is a force of nature
when she’s determined to make him socialize.
Phoebe, who shifted closer to Knox and me as the game wore on
and other people left, reaches out to pour herself a glass of water.
“Bayview is so different without Simon, but it also…isn’t. You know?”
she murmurs, so quietly that only Knox and I can hear. “It’s not like
people got any nicer once the shock wore off. We just don’t have
About That to keep tabs on who’s being horrible from one week to
the next.”
“Not from lack of effort,” Knox mutters.
About That copycats were everywhere for a while after Simon
died. Most of them fizzled out within days, although one site, Simon
Says, stayed up nearly a month last fall before the school got involved
and shut it down. But nobody took it seriously, because the site’s
creator—one of those quiet kids hardly anyone knows—never posted
a single piece of gossip that everyone hadn’t already heard.
That was the thing about Simon Kelleher: he knew secrets most
people couldn’t even have guessed. He was patient, willing to wait
until he could wring the maximum amount of drama and pain from
any given situation. And he was good at hiding how much he hated
everyone at Bayview High; the only place he let it out was on the
revenge forum I’d found when I was looking for clues to his death.
Reading Simon’s posts back then made me sick to my stomach. It
still chills me, sometimes, to think how little any of us understood
what it meant to go up against a mind like Simon’s.
Everything could have turned out so differently.
“Hey.” Knox nudges me back to the present, and I blink until his
face comes into focus. It’s still just the three of us locked into our side
conversation; I don’t think last year’s seniors ever let themselves
dwell on Simon for too long. “Don’t look so serious. The past is past,
right?”
“Right,” I say, then twist in my seat as a loud groan goes up from
the Café Contigo crowd. It takes a minute for me to understand
what’s going on, and when I do, my heart sinks: Cooper’s
replacement loaded the bases in the bottom of the ninth inning, got
pulled, and the new pitcher just gave up a grand slam. All of a
sudden, Cal State’s three-run lead has turned into a walk-off, onerun loss. The other team mobs the hitter at home base, piling on top
of him until they collapse in a joyful heap. Cooper, despite pitching
like a dream, didn’t get his win.
“Nooooo,” Luis moans, burying his head in his hands. He sounds
like he’s in physical pain. “That is bullshit.”
Phoebe winces. “Ooh, tough luck. Not Cooper’s fault, though.”
My eyes find the only person at the table I can always count on
for an unfiltered reaction: Nate. He looks from my tense face to the
salt still scattered across our table and shakes his head like he knows
the superstitious bet I made with myself. I can read the gesture as
plainly as if he spoke: It doesn’t mean anything, Maeve. It’s just a
game.
I’m sure he’s right. But still. I really wish Cooper had won.
CHAPTER TWO
Phoebe
Tuesday, February 18
The logical part of my brain knows my mother isn’t playing with
dolls. But it’s early, I’m tired, and I’m not wearing my contacts yet.
So instead of squinting harder, I lean against the kitchen counter and
ask, “What’s with the dolls?”
“They’re wedding cake toppers,” Mom says, yanking one away
from my twelve-year-old brother, Owen, and handing it to me. I look
down to see a white-clad bride with her legs wrapped around the
groom’s waist. Some underappreciated artist has managed to pack a
lot of lust into their tiny plastic faces.
“Classy,” I say. I should have guessed it was wedding-related.
Last week the kitchen table was covered with stationery samples, and
before that it was do-it-yourself floral centerpieces.
“That’s the only one like that,” she says with a hint of
defensiveness. “I suppose you have to account for all kinds of tastes.
Could you put it in the box?” She juts her chin toward a cardboard
box half-full of foam peanuts on the counter.
I drop the happy couple inside and pull a glass from the cabinet
next to our sink, filling it from the tap and finishing the whole thing
in two long, greedy gulps. “Cake toppers, huh?” I ask. “Do people still
use those?”
“They’re just samples from Golden Rings,” Mom says. Ever since
she joined the local wedding planners’ organization, boxes full of
stuff like this show up at our apartment every couple of weeks. Mom
takes pictures, makes notes of what she likes, and then packs it back
up to send along to the next wedding planner in the group. “Some of
them are cute, though.” She holds up one of a bride and groom
waltzing in silhouette. “What do you think?”
There’s an open box of Eggo waffles on the counter. I pull out the
last two and pop them into the toaster. “I think plastic people on top
of a cake isn’t really Ashton and Eli’s style. Aren’t they trying to keep
things simple?”
“Sometimes you don’t know what you want until you see it,”
Mom says brightly. “Part of my job is opening their eyes to what’s out
there.”
Poor Ashton. Addy’s older sister has been a dream neighbor ever
since we moved into the apartment across from them last summer—
giving takeout recommendations, showing us which washing
machines never eat your quarters, and sharing concert tickets from
her job as a graphic designer with the California Center for the Arts.
She had no idea what she was getting into when she agreed to help
Mom launch a side business in wedding planning by coordinating “a
few details” of her upcoming wedding to Eli Kleinfelter.
Mom’s gone a little overboard. She wants to make a good
impression, especially since Eli is something of a local celebrity. He’s
the lawyer who defended Nate Macauley when Nate was framed for
killing Simon Kelleher, and now he’s always being interviewed about
some big case or another. The press loves the fact that he’s marrying
the sister of one of the Bayview Four, so they reference his upcoming
wedding a lot. That means free publicity for Mom, including a
mention in the San Diego Tribune and an in-depth profile last
December in the Bayview Blade. Which has turned into a total
gossip rag since covering the Simon story, so of course they took the
most dramatic angle possible: “After Heartbreaking Loss, Area
Widow Launches a Business Based on Joy.”
We all could’ve done without that reminder.
Still, Mom has put more energy into this wedding than just
about anything else over the past few years, so I should be grateful
for Ashton and Eli’s endless patience.
“Your waffles are burning,” Owen says placidly, stuffing a forkful
of syrup-soaked squares into his mouth.
“Shit!” I yank my Eggos out with a whimper of pain as my
fingers graze hot metal. “Mom, can we please buy a new toaster? This
one has gotten completely useless. It goes from zero to scalding in
thirty seconds.”
Mom’s eyebrows come together with the worried look she always
gets when any of us talks about spending money. “I noticed that. But
we should probably try cleaning it before we replace it. There must
be ten years’ worth of bread crumbs built up in there.”
“I’ll do it,” Owen volunteers, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
“And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take it apart. I bet I can fix it.”
I smile absently at him. “No doubt, brainiac. I should’ve thought
of that first.”
“I don’t want you playing around with anything electrical,
Owen,” Mom objects.
He looks affronted. “It wouldn’t be playing.”
A door clicks as my older sister, Emma, leaves our bedroom and
heads for the kitchen. That’s something I’ll never get used to about
apartment living—how being on a single floor makes you acutely
aware of where everyone is, all the time. There’s nowhere to hide.
Nothing like our old house, where not only did we all have our own
bedrooms, but we had a family room, an office that eventually turned
into a game room for Owen, and Dad’s basement workroom.
Plus, we had Dad.
My throat tightens as Emma runs her eyes over the piles of
formally clad plastic people on our kitchen table. “Do people still use
cake toppers?”
“Your sister asked the exact same thing,” Mom says. She’s always
doing that—pointing out threads of similarity between Emma and
me, as though acknowledging them will somehow knit us back into
the tight sisterly unit we were as kids.
Emma makes a hmm noise, and I stay focused on my waffle as
she steps closer. “Could you move?” she asks politely. “I need the
blender.”
I shift to one side as Owen picks up a cake topper featuring a
bride with dark red hair. “This one looks like you, Emma,” he says.
All of us Lawton kids are some version of redhead—Emma’s hair
is a deep auburn, mine is a coppery bronze, and Owen’s strawberry
blond—but it was our father who really stood out in a crowd, with
hair so orange that his high school nickname was Cheeto. One time
when we were at the Bayview Mall food court, Dad went to the
bathroom and came back to see an older couple surreptitiously
checking out my dark-haired, olive-skinned mother and her three
pale, redheaded kids. Dad plopped down next to Mom and put an
arm around her shoulders, flashing a grin at the couple. “See, now
we make sense,” he said.
And now, three years after he died? We don’t.
—
If I had to pinpoint Emma’s least favorite part of the day…I’d be
hard-pressed, because there doesn’t seem to be a lot that Emma
enjoys lately. But having to pick my friend Jules up on the way to
school easily ranks in the top three.
“Oh my God,” Jules says breathlessly when she climbs into the
backseat of our ten-year-old Corolla, shoving her backpack ahead of
her. I turn in my seat, and she whips off her sunglasses to fasten me
with a death stare. “Phoebe. I cannot stand you.”
“What? Why?” I ask, confused. I shift in my seat, smoothing my
skirt when it rides up on my thighs. After years of trial and error I’ve
finally found the wardrobe that works best for my body type: a short,
flouncy skirt, preferably in a bold pattern; a brightly colored V-neck
or scoop-neck top; and some kind of stack-heeled bootie.
“Seat belt, please,” Emma says.
Jules clips her belt, still glaring at me. “You know why.”
“I seriously do not,” I protest. Emma pulls away from the curb in
front of Jules’s modest split-level house, which is just one street away
from where we used to live. Our old neighborhood isn’t Bayview’s
wealthiest by a long shot, but the young couple Mom sold our house
to was still thrilled to get a starter home here.
Jules’s green eyes, striking against her brown skin and dark hair,
pop for dramatic effect. “Nate Macauley was at Café Contigo last
night and you didn’t text me!”
“Oh well…” I turn up the radio so my mumbled response will get
lost in Taylor Swift’s latest. Jules has always had a thing for Nate—
she’s a total sucker for the dark, handsome bad-boy type—but she
never considered him boyfriend material until Bronwyn Rojas did.
Now she circles like a vulture every time they break up. Which has
caused divided loyalties since I started working at Café Contigo and
became friendly with Addy, who, obviously, is firmly on Team
Bronwyn.
“And he never goes out,” Jules moans. “That was such a missed
opportunity. Major friend failure, Phoebe Jeebies. Not cool.” She
pulls out a tube of wine-colored lip gloss and leans forward so she
can see herself in the rearview mirror as she applies a fresh coat.
“How did he seem? Do you think he’s over Bronwyn?”
“I mean. It’s hard to tell,” I say. “He didn’t really talk to anyone
except Maeve and Addy. Mostly Addy.”
Jules smacks her lips together, an expression of mild panic
crossing her face. “Oh my God. Do you think they’re together now?”
“No. Definitely not. They’re friends. Not everyone finds him
irresistible, Jules.”
Jules drops the lip gloss back into her bag and leans her head
against the window with a sigh. “Says you. He’s so hot, I could die.”
Emma pauses at a red light and rubs her eyes, then reaches for
the volume button on the radio. “I need to turn this down,” she says.
“My head is pounding.”
“Are you getting sick?” I ask.
“Just tired. My tutoring session with Sean Murdock went too
long last night.”
“No surprise there,” I mutter. If you’re searching for signs of
intelligent life in the Bayview High junior class, Sean Murdock isn’t
where you’ll find it. But his parents have money, and they’ll happily
throw it at Emma for the chance that either her work ethic or her
grades might rub off on Sean.
“I should hire you, Emma,” Jules says. “Chemistry is going to be
a nightmare this semester unless I get some help. Or pull a Bronwyn
Rojas and steal the tests.”
“Bronwyn made up that class,” I remind her, and Jules kicks my
seat.
“Don’t defend her,” she says sulkily. “She’s ruining my love life.”
“If you’re serious about tutoring, I have a slot free this weekend,”
Emma says.
“Chemistry on the weekend?” Jules sounds scandalized. “No
thank you.”
“Okay, then.” My sister exhales a light sigh, like she shouldn’t
have expected anything different. “Not serious.”
Emma’s only a year older than Jules and me, but most of the
time she seems more Ashton Prentiss’s age than ours. Emma doesn’t
act seventeen; she acts like she’s in her midtwenties and stressing her
way through graduate school instead of senior AP classes. Even now,
when her college applications are all in and she’s just waiting to hear
back, she can’t relax.
We drive the rest of the way in silence, until my phone chimes
when Emma pulls into the parking lot. I look down to a text.
Bleachers?
I shouldn’t. But even as my brain reminds me that I’ve already
gotten two late warnings this month, my fingers type OK. I put my
phone in my pocket and have the passenger door halfway open
before Emma’s even shifted into Park. She raises her eyebrows as I
climb out.
“I have to go to the football field real quick,” I say, hiking my
backpack over my shoulder and resting my hand on the car door.
“What for? You don’t want to be late again,” Emma says,
narrowing her light brown eyes at me. They’re exactly like Dad’s, and
—along with the reddish hair—the only trait she and I share. Emma
is tall and thin, I’m short and curvy. Her hair is stick-straight and
doesn’t quite reach her shoulders, mine is long and curly. She
freckles in the sun, and I tan. We’re both February-pale now, though,
and I can feel my cheeks redden as I look down at the ground.
“It’s, um, for homework,” I mumble.
Jules grins as she climbs out of the car. “Is that what we’re
calling it now?”
I turn on my heel and beat a hasty retreat, but I can still feel the
weight of Emma’s disapproval settling over my shoulders like a
cloak. Emma has always been the serious one, but when we were
younger it didn’t matter. We were so close that we used to have
entire conversations without talking. Mom would joke that we must
be telepaths, but it wasn’t that. We just knew one another so well
that we could read every expression as clearly as a word.
We were close with Owen too, despite the age difference. Dad
used to call us the Three Amigos, and every childhood photo shows
us posed exactly the same way: Emma and me on either side of
Owen, our arms around one another, grinning widely. We look
inseparable, and I thought we were. It never occurred to me that Dad
was the glue keeping us together.
The pulling apart was so subtle that I didn’t notice it right away.
Emma withdrew first, burying herself in schoolwork. “It’s her way of
grieving,” Mom said, so I let her be, even though my way of grieving
would have been to do it together. I compensated by throwing myself
into every social activity I could find—especially once boys started
getting interested in me—while Owen retreated into the comforting
fantasy world of video games. Before I’d realized it, those had
become our lanes, and we stayed in them. Our card last Christmas
featured the three of us standing beside the tree, arranged by height,
hands clasped in front of us with stiff smiles. Dad would’ve been so
disappointed by that picture.
And by me shortly after we took it, for what happened at Jules’s
Christmas party. It’s one thing to treat your older sister like a polite
stranger, and quite another thing to…do what I did. I used to feel a
wistful kind of loneliness when I thought about Emma, but now I just
feel guilt. And relief that she can’t read my feelings on my face
anymore.
“Hey!” I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I would’ve walked
right into a pole under the bleachers if a hand hadn’t reached out and
stopped me. Then it pulls me forward so quickly that my phone
slides out of my pocket and makes a faint bouncing noise on the
grass.
“Shit,” I say, but Brandon Weber’s lips are pressed against mine
before I can get anything else out. I shimmy my shoulders until my
backpack joins my phone on the ground. Brandon tugs at the hem of
my shirt, and since this is one hundred percent what I came for, I
help him along by untucking it.
Brandon’s hands move up and across my bare skin, pushing
aside the lace of my bra, and he groans against my mouth. “God,
you’re so sexy.”
He is, too. Brandon quarterbacks the football team, and the
Bayview Blade likes to call him “the next Cooper Clay” because he’s
good enough that colleges are already starting to scout him. I don’t
think that’s an accurate comparison, though. For one thing, Cooper
has next-level talent, and for another, he’s a sweetheart. Brandon, on
the other hand, is basically an asshole.
The boy can kiss, though. All the tension flows out of me as he
pushes me against the pole behind us, replaced with a heady spark of
anticipation. I wrap one arm around his neck, trying to pull him
down to my height, while my other hand teases at the waistband of
his jeans. Then my foot sends something skidding across the ground,
and the sound of my text tone distracts me.
“My phone,” I say, pulling away. “We’re going to smash it if I
don’t pick it up.”
“I’ll buy you a new one,” Brandon says, his tongue in my ear.
Which I don’t like—why do guys think that’s hot?—so I shove at him
until he lets go. His front pocket dings loudly, and I smirk at the
bulge there as I retrieve my phone.
“Is that a text, or are you just happy to see me?” I say, brushing
off my screen. Then I glance down and catch my breath. “Ugh, are
you kidding me? This again?”
“What?” Brandon asks, pulling out his own phone.
“Unknown number, and guess what it says?” I put on an affected
voice. “Still missing About That? I know I am. Let’s play a new
game. I can’t believe somebody would pull this crap after Principal
Gupta’s warning.”
Brandon’s eyes flick over his screen. “I got the same thing. You
see the link?”
“Yeah. Don’t click it! It’s probably a virus or—”
“Too late,” Brandon laughs. He squints at his phone while I take
him in: over six feet tall with dirty-blond hair, blue-green eyes, and
the kind of full lips a girl would kill for. He’s so pretty, he looks like
he could fly off with a harp any second. And nobody knows it more
than he does. “Jesus, this is a freaking book,” he complains.
“Let me see.” I grab his phone, because no way am I following
that link with mine. I angle the screen away from the sun until I can
see it clearly. I’m looking at a website with a bad replica of the About
That logo, and a big block of text beneath it. “Pay attention, Bayview
High. I’m only going to explain the rules once,” I read. “Here’s how
we play Truth or Dare. I’ll send a prompt to one person only—and
you can’t tell ANYONE if it’s you. Don’t spoil the element of surprise.
It makes me cranky, and I’m not nearly as nice when I’m cranky.
You get 24 hours to text your choice back. Pick Truth, and I’ll reveal
one of your secrets. Pick Dare, and I’ll give you a challenge. Either
way, we’ll have a little fun and relieve the monotony of our tedious
existence.”
Brandon runs a hand through his thick, tawny hair. “Speak for
yourself, loser.”
“Come on, Bayview, you know you’ve missed this.” I scowl when
I finish. “Do you think this went to everyone at school? People better
not say anything if they want to keep their phones.” Last fall, after
Principal Gupta shut down the latest Simon copycat, she told us she
was instituting a zero-tolerance policy: if she saw even a hint of
another About That, she’d ban phones at school permanently. And
expel anyone caught trying to bring one in.
We’ve all been model citizens since then, at least when it comes
to online gossip. Nobody can imagine getting through a school day—
never mind years—without their phones.
“No one cares. It’s old news,” Brandon says dismissively. He
pockets his phone and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me
close. “So where were we?”
I’m still holding my own phone, pressed against his chest now,
and it chimes in my hand before I can answer. When I pull my head
back to look at the screen, there’s another message from an unknown
contact. But this time, there’s no simultaneous text tone from
Brandon’s pocket.
Phoebe Lawton, you’re up first! Text back your choice: Should I
reveal a Truth, or will you take a Dare?
CHAPTER THREE
Knox
Wednesday, February 19
I scan the half-off clothing rack next to me with a feeling of
existential dread. I hate department stores. They’re too bright, too
loud, and too crammed full of junk that nobody needs. Whenever I’m
forced to spend time in one I start thinking about how consumer
culture is just one long, expensive, planet-killing distraction from the
fact that we’re all going to die eventually.
Then I suck down the last of my six-dollar iced coffee, because
I’m nothing if not a willing participant in the charade.
“That’ll be forty-two sixty, hon,” the woman behind the counter
says when it’s my turn. I’m picking up a new wallet for my mother,
and I hope I got it right. Even with her detailed written instructions,
it still looks like twelve other black wallets. I spent too long debating
between them, and now I’m running late for work.
It probably doesn’t matter, since Eli Kleinfelter doesn’t pay me
or, most days, even notice I’m there. Still, I pick up my pace after
leaving the Bayview Mall, following a sidewalk behind the building
until it narrows to nothing but asphalt. Then, after a quick glance
over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching, I approach the
flimsy chain-link fence surrounding an empty construction site.
There’s supposed to be a new parking garage going into the
hillside behind the mall, but the company building it went bankrupt
after they’d started. A bunch of construction companies are bidding
to take over, including my dad’s. Until then, the site is cutting off
what used to be a path between the mall and Bayview Center. Now
you have to walk all the way around the building and down a main
road, which takes ten times as long.
Unless you do what I’m about to do.
I duck under a giant gap in the fence and skirt around a halfdozen orange-and-white barrels until I’m overlooking a partially
constructed garage and what was supposed to become its roof. The
whole thing is covered with thick plastic tarp, except for a wooden
landing with a set of metal stairs along one side, leading to part of
the hill that hasn’t been dug into yet.
I don’t know who at Bayview High first had the bright idea to
jump the five-foot drop onto the landing, but now it’s a well-known
shortcut from the mall to downtown. Which, to be clear, my dad
would kill me for taking. But he’s not here and even if he were, he
pays less attention to me than Eli does. So I brace myself against one
of the construction barrels and look down.
There’s just one problem.
It’s not that I’m afraid of heights. It’s more that I have a
preference for firm ground. When I played Peter Pan at drama camp
last summer, I got so freaked out about getting flown around on a
pulley that they had to lower me to barely two feet off the stage.
“You’re not flying, Knox,” the production manager grumbled every
time I swung past him. “You’re skimming at best.”
All right. I’m afraid of heights. But I’m trying to get over it. I
stare down at the wooden planks below me. They look twenty feet
away. Did someone lower the roof?
“It’s a great day for someone to die. Just not me,” I mutter like
I’m Dax Reaper, the most ruthless bounty hunter in Bounty Wars.
Because the only way I can make this nervous hovering even more
pathetic is to quote a video game character.
I can’t do it. Not a real jump, anyway. I sit at the edge, squeeze
my eyes shut, and push off so that I slither down the last few feet like
a cowardly snake. I land awkwardly, wincing on impact and
stumbling across the uneven wooden planks. Athletic, I am not.
I manage to regain my balance and limp toward the stairs. The
lightweight metal clangs loudly with every step as I make my way
down. I heave a sigh of relief once I hit solid ground and follow
what’s left of the hillside path to the bottom fence. People used to
climb over it until somebody broke the lock. I slip through the gate
and into the tree grove at the edge of Bayview Center. The number 11
bus to downtown San Diego is idling at the depot in front of Town
Hall, and I jog across the street to the still-open doors.
Made it with a minute to spare. I might get to Until Proven on
time after all. I pay my fare, sink into one of the last empty seats, and
pull my phone out of my pocket.
There’s a loud sniff beside me. “Those things are practically part
of your hand nowadays, aren’t they? My grandson won’t put his
down. I suggested he leave it behind the last time I took him out to
eat, and you would have thought I’d threatened him with bodily
harm.”
I look up to a pair of watery blue eyes behind bifocals. Of course.
It never fails: any time I’m out in public and there’s an old woman
nearby, she starts up a conversation with me. Maeve calls it the Nice
Young Man Factor. “You have one of those faces,” she says. “They
can tell you won’t be rude.”
I call it the Knox Myers Curse: irresistible to octogenarians,
invisible to girls my own age. During the Cal State Fullerton season
opener at Café Contigo, Phoebe Lawton literally tripped over me to
get to Brandon Weber when he sauntered in at the end of the night.
I should keep scrolling and pretend I didn’t hear, like Brandon
would. What Would Brandon Do is a terrible life mantra, since he’s a
soul-sucking waste of space who skates through life on good hair,
symmetrical features, and the ability to throw a perfect spiral—but he
also gets whatever he wants and is probably never trapped in
awkward geriatric bus conversations.
So, yeah. Selective hearing loss for the next fifteen minutes
would be the way to go. Instead, I find myself saying, “There’s a word
for that. Nomophobia. Fear of being without your phone.”
“Is that right?” she asks, and now I’ve done it. The floodgates are
open. By the time we reach downtown I know all about her six
grandkids and her hip replacement surgery. It’s not until I get off the
bus a block from Eli’s office that I can go back to what I was doing on
my phone in the first place—checking to see if there’s another text
from whoever sent the Truth or Dare rules yesterday.
I should pretend I never saw it. Everyone at Bayview High
should. But we don’t. After what happened with Simon, it’s baked
into our collective DNA to be morbidly fascinated with this stuff. Last
night, while a bunch of us were supposed to be running lines for the
spring play, we kept getting sidetracked by trying to guess who the
unknown texter might be.
The whole thing was probably a joke, though. It’s four o’clock
when I push through the doors of Until Proven’s office building—well
past the twenty-four-hour deadline for whoever’s supposed to be
playing the game to respond—and the latest Simon wannabe has
gone silent.
I pass the coffee shop in the lobby and take an elevator to the
third floor. Until Proven is at the far end of a narrow corridor, next to
one of those hair replacement clinics that fills the entire hall with a
rank chemical smell. A balding guy comes out of its door, his
forehead unevenly dotted with wispy tufts of hair. He lowers his eyes
and slinks past me like I just caught him buying porn.
When I crack open Until Proven’s door, I’m immediately hit with
the buzzing sound of too many people crammed into too small a
space, all of them talking at once.
“How many convictions?”
“Twelve that we know of, but there’s gotta be more.”
“Did anybody call Channel Seven back?”
“Eighteen months, then released, then right back in.”
“Knox!” Sandeep Ghai, a Harvard Law grad who started working
for Eli last fall, barrels toward me from behind an armful of red
folders stacked up to his nose. “Just the man I was looking for. I need
forty employer kits compiled and sent out today. Sample kit’s on top
along with all the addresses. Can you get these out for the five o’clock
mail run?”
“Forty?” I raise my eyebrows as I take the stack from him. Until
Proven doesn’t only defend people who Eli and the other lawyers
think are wrongfully accused; it also helps them find jobs after
getting out of jail. So every once in a while, I mail out folders full of
résumés and a cover letter about why hiring exonerees, as Eli calls
them, is good for business. But we’re usually lucky if one local
company a week is interested. “Why so many?”
“Publicity from the D’Agostino case,” Sandeep says, like that
explains everything. When I still look confused, he adds, “Everyone
turns into a concerned corporate citizen when there’s a chance for
free PR.”
I should’ve guessed. Eli’s been all over the news after proving
that a bunch of people convicted on drug charges had actually been
blackmailed and framed by a San Diego police sergeant, Carl
D’Agostino, and two of his subordinates. They’re all in jail awaiting
trial, and Until Proven is working on getting the phony convictions
reversed.
The last time Eli got this much press was for the Simon Kelleher
case. Back then, Eli was the lead story on every news show after
getting Nate Macauley out of jail. My dad’s company hired Nate a
couple of weeks later. He still works there, and now they’re paying
for him to take college classes.
After Bronwyn Rojas left for Yale and Until Proven started
looking for another high school intern, I figured Maeve would take it.
She’s tight with Eli, plus she was a big part of why Simon’s plan
unraveled in the first place. Nobody would’ve looked at Simon as
anything except a victim if Maeve hadn’t tracked down his secret
online persona.
But Maeve didn’t want the job. “That’s Bronwyn’s thing. Not
mine,” she’d said, in that voice she uses when she wants to end a
conversation.
So I applied. Partly because it’s interesting, but also because I
wasn’t exactly fighting off other job opportunities. My father, who
tells anybody who’ll listen that Nate Macauley is “one helluva kid,”
never bothered asking if I wanted to work at Myers Construction.
To be fair: I suck at anything tool-related. I once wound up in
the emergency room after hammering my thumb to a pulp when
hanging a picture. But still. He could’ve asked.
“Five o’clock,” Sandeep repeats, cocking finger guns at me as he
backs away toward his desk. “I can count on you, right?”
“I got it,” I say, looking around for some empty space. My gaze
lands on Eli, who’s the only person at Until Proven who gets an
entire desk to himself. It’s stacked so high with folders that when he
hunches forward while talking on the phone, all you can see is his
mad scientist hair. By some miracle, the table behind him is empty.
I head that way, hoping that maybe I’ll get a chance to talk with
him. Eli fascinates me, not only because he’s ridiculously good at his
job but because he’s this guy you probably wouldn’t look at twice if
you passed him in the street. Yet he’s so confident and, I don’t know,
magnetic or something. Now that I’ve worked with him for a few
months, it doesn’t surprise me that he has a gorgeous fiancée, or that
he manages to get people who are involved in criminal cases to spill
all kinds of things they probably shouldn’t. I want him to teach me
his ways.
Plus, it would be great if he learned my name.
I haven’t even made it halfway across the room, though, before
Sandeep yells out, “Eli! We need you in Winterfell.”
Eli rolls his chair back and peers around the folders. “In what?”
“Winterfell,” Sandeep says expectantly.
When Eli still looks blank, I clear my throat. “It’s the small
conference room,” I say. “Remember? Sandeep gave them names so
we could tell them apart. The other one is, um, King’s Landing.”
Sandeep, like me, is a huge Game of Thrones fan, so he named the
rooms after two locations in the story. But Eli’s never read the books
or seen an episode of the TV show, and the whole thing confuses the
hell out of him.
“Oh. Right. Thank you.” Eli nods distractedly at me, then turns
back to Sandeep. “What was wrong with just saying ‘the small
conference room’?”
“We need you in Winterfell,” Sandeep repeats, his voice edging
into impatience. Eli stands with a sigh, and I get a wry smile as he
passes. Progress.
I spread my files across the empty conference table, lay my
phone beside them, and start assembling employer packets. As soon
as I do my phone starts buzzing with a string of texts from, of course,
my sisters. I have four of them, all older than me, all with K names:
Kiersten, Katie, Kelsey, and Kara. We’re like the Kardashians, except
without any money.
My sisters will start a group conversation about anything.
Birthdays, TV shows, current boyfriends or girlfriends, exes. Me,
frequently. It’s a nightmare when they all start caring about my love
life or my future at once. Knox, what happened with Maeve? She
was so nice! Knox, who are you taking to prom? Knox, are you
thinking about colleges yet? Next year will be here before you know
it!
But this time, they’re talking about Katie’s surprise engagement
on Valentine’s Day. She’ll be the first Myers to get married, so there’s
a lot to discuss.
They go quiet eventually, and I’m halfway through the packets
when another text comes in. I glance down, expecting to see one of
my sisters’ names—probably Kiersten, because she has to have the
last word on everything—but it’s a private number.
Tsk, no response from our first player. That means you forfeit.
I expected better from you, Phoebe Lawton. No fun at all.
Now I get to reveal one of your secrets in true About That style.
Crap. I guess this is really happening. Though, how bad could it
be? Simon never bothered featuring Phoebe on About That, because
she’s an open book. She hooks up a lot, but she doesn’t cheat on
people or break them up. And she’s one of those girls who flits easily
between Bayview High social groups, like the invisible boundaries
that keep most of us apart don’t apply to her. I’m pretty sure there’s
nothing anyone could say about Phoebe that we don’t already know.
Gray dots linger for a while. The anonymous texter is trying to
build suspense, and even though I know I shouldn’t take the bait, my
pulse speeds up. Then I kind of hate myself for it, and I’m about to
put my phone facedown on the table when a text finally appears.
Phoebe slept with her sister Emma’s boyfriend.
Hold up. What?
I look around the Until Proven office like I’m expecting some
kind of group reaction. Sometimes I forget I’m the only high school
student here. Everybody ignores me, since they have shit to deal with
that actually matters, so I look back at my phone. It’s gone dark, and
I press the Home button to reactivate the screen.
Phoebe slept with her sister Emma’s boyfriend.
This can’t be real. First off, does Emma Lawton even have a
boyfriend? She’s one of the quietest, least social girls in the senior
class. As far as I can tell, she’s in an intimate relationship with her
homework and that’s it. Plus, Phoebe wouldn’t do that to her sister.
Right? I mean, I don’t know her well, but there are rules. My sisters
would draw blood over something like that.
More texts appear, one right after the other.
What’s that, Bayview? You didn’t know?
Shame. You’re behind on your gossip.
Here’s a little advice for the next time we play:
Always take the Dare.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maeve
Thursday, February 20
I should know the protocol for checking in with someone who just
got their deepest, darkest secret leaked to the entire school. I’m kind
of rusty, though. It’s been a while.
I was at Café Contigo yesterday doing homework when the texts
about Phoebe came through. As soon as she took a break from
serving tables and checked her phone, I knew the gossip was true.
The look on her face was exactly the same as Bronwyn’s eighteen
months ago, when the About This copycat site that Jake Riordan
kept up after Simon died revealed she’d cheated in chemistry. Not
just horror, but guilt.
Emma came barreling through the café door soon after, redfaced and shaking. I almost didn’t recognize her. “Is this true? Is that
why you’ve been acting so weird?” she choked out, holding up her
phone. Phoebe was at the cash register counter next to Luis’s father,
taking her apron off. I’m pretty sure she was about to play sick and
get out of there. She froze, eyes round, and didn’t answer. Emma
kept coming until she was inches away from Phoebe’s face, and for a
second I was afraid she might slap her. “Was it while we were
dating?”
“After,” Phoebe said, so quickly and emphatically that I was sure
that was true, too. Then Mr. Santos sprang into action, putting an
arm around both Phoebe and Emma and shepherding them into the
kitchen. That was the last I saw of either of them for the night.
I thought Mr. Santos had been quick enough to keep their fight
private until I noticed two sophomores from the Bayview High
baseball team approaching the counter. “Takeout for Reynolds,” one
of them said to the waiter, who was suddenly covering the entire
room plus the cash register. The other boy never looked up from his
phone. By the time I got home and checked in with Knox, he’d
already heard everything.
“Guess the latest Bayview gossipmonger knows their dirt,” he
said.
Last night, I kept wondering if I should text Phoebe: You okay?
But the thing is, even though I’ve always liked her, we’re not friends.
We’re friendly, mostly because I spend way too much time where she
works, and because she’s one of those extroverted people who talks
to everyone. She gave me her number once, “just so you’ll have it,”
but I’ve never used it before, and it felt like a weird time to start. Like
I was curious instead of concerned. Now, heading downstairs for
breakfast, I still don’t know if that was the right call.
Mom’s sitting at the table when I enter the kitchen, frowning at
her laptop. When Bronwyn was here we used to always eat breakfast
at the kitchen island, but something about sitting next to her empty
stool makes me lose my appetite. Mom would never say it, because
Bronwyn being at Yale is a lifelong dream for both of them, but I
think she feels the same way.
She looks up and flashes me a bright smile. “Guess what I got?”
Then her eyes narrow as I pull a box of Froot Loops from the cabinet
next to the sink. “I don’t remember buying those.”
“You didn’t,” I say. I fill a bowl to the brim with rainbow-hued
loops, then grab a carton of milk from the refrigerator and take a seat
beside her. My dad comes into the kitchen, straightening his tie, and
Mom shoots him the evil eye.
“Really, Javier? I thought we agreed on healthy breakfast foods.”
He only looks guilty for a second. “They’re fortified, though.
With essential vitamins and minerals. It says so right on the box.” He
grabs a few from my bowl before I add milk and pops them into his
mouth.
Mom rolls her eyes. “You’re as bad as she is. Don’t come crying
to me when your teeth rot.”
Dad swallows his cereal and kisses her cheek, then the top of my
head. “I promise to endure all cavities with the appropriate level of
stoicism,” he says. My father moved to the States from Colombia
when he was ten, so he doesn’t have an accent, exactly, but there’s a
rhythm to the way he speaks that’s a little bit formal and a little bit
musical. It’s one of my favorite things about him. Well, that and our
mutual appreciation of refined sugar, which is something Mom and
Bronwyn don’t share. “Don’t wait on me for dinner, okay? We’ve got
that board meeting today. I’m sure it’ll go late.”
“All right, enabler,” Mom says affectionately. He grabs his keys
from a hook on the wall and heads out the door.
I swallow a giant mouthful of already-soggy Froot Loops and
gesture toward her laptop. “So what’d you get?”
She blinks at the shift in conversation, then beams. “Oh! You’ll
love this. Into the Woods tickets, for when Bronwyn is back next
week. It’s playing at the Civic. You can see how Bayview High stacks
up against the professionals. That’s the play the drama club is doing
this spring, right?”
I eat another spoonful of cereal before answering. I need a
second to muster the appropriate level of enthusiasm. “Right.
Fantastic! That’ll be so fun.”
Too much. I overdid it. Mom frowns. “You don’t want to go?”
“No, I totally do,” I lie.
She’s unconvinced. “What’s wrong? I thought you loved musical
theater!”
My mom. You have to give her credit for how tirelessly she
champions every single one of my passing interests. Maeve did a
play once. Ergo, Maeve loves all plays! I was in the school play last
year and it was—fine. But I didn’t try out this year. It felt like one of
those things that I’d done once and could now safely put on the shelf
of experiences that don’t need to be repeated. Yep, tried it, it was all
right but not for me. Which is where I put most things.
“I do,” I say. “But hasn’t Bronwyn already seen Into the Woods?”
Mom’s forehead creases. “She has? When?”
I chase the last of the Froot Loops with my spoon and take my
time swallowing them. “Over Christmas, I thought? With, um…
Nate.”
Ugh. Bad lie. Nate wouldn’t be caught dead at a musical.
Mom’s frown deepens. She doesn’t dislike Nate, exactly, but she
doesn’t make a secret of the fact that she thinks he and Bronwyn
come from, as she puts it, “different worlds.” Plus, she keeps
insisting that Bronwyn is too young to be in a serious relationship.
When I remind her that she met Dad in college, she says, “When we
were juniors,” like she’d matured a decade by then. “Well, let me try
to catch her and check,” Mom says, reaching for her phone. “I have
thirty minutes to return them.”
I smack my forehead. “You know what? Never mind. They didn’t
see Into the Woods. They saw The Fast and the Furious part twelve,
or whatever. You know. Same thing, pretty much.” Mom looks
confused, then exasperated as I tip my bowl to loudly guzzle the pink
milk.
“Maeve, stop that. You’re not six anymore.” She turns back to
her laptop, brow furrowed. “Oh, for God’s sake, I just checked my
email. How can there be so many already?”
I put down my bowl and grab a napkin, because all of a sudden
my nose is running. I wipe it without thinking much more than It’s
kind of early for allergies, but when I lower my hand—oh.
Oh my God.
I get up without a word, the napkin clutched in my fist, and go to
our first-floor bathroom. I can feel wetness continuing to gather
beneath my nose, and even before I look in the mirror I know what
I’ll see. Pale face, tense mouth, dazed eyes—and a tiny river of bright
red blood dripping from each nostril.
The dread hits so hard and so fast that it feels as if someone’s
Tasered me: there’s a moment of cold shock and then I’m a
trembling, twitching mess, shaking so hard that I can barely keep the
napkin pressed to my nose. Red seeps into its cheery pattern as my
heart bangs against my rib cage, the frantic beat echoing in my ears.
My eyes in the mirror won’t stop blinking, keeping perfect time to the
two-word sentence rattling through my brain.
It’s back. It’s back. It’s back.
Every time my leukemia has ever returned, it’s started with a
nosebleed.
I imagine walking into the kitchen and showing the bloody
napkin to my mother, and all the air leaves my lungs. I can’t watch
her face do that thing again—that thing where she’s like a time-lapse
movie, aging twenty years in twenty seconds. She’ll call my dad, and
when he comes back to the house, all his cheeriness from this
morning will be gone. He’ll be wearing that expression that I hate
more than anything, because I know the internal prayer that
accompanies it. I heard him once after I’d nearly died when I was
eight, the words in Spanish barely a whisper as he sat with his head
bowed next to my hospital bed. “Por favor, Dios, llévame a mi en su
lugar. Yo por ella. Por favor.” Even though I was barely conscious, I
thought, No, God, don’t listen, because I reject any prayer that has
my dad asking to take my place.
If I show my mother this napkin, we’ll have to climb back on the
testing carousel. They’ll start with the least invasive and least painful,
but eventually you have to do them all. Then we’ll sit in Dr.
Gutierrez’s office, staring at his thin, worried face while he weighs
the pros and cons of equally horrible treatment options and reminds
us that every time it comes back, it’s harder to treat and we must
adjust accordingly. And finally we’ll pick our poison, followed by
months of losing weight, losing hair, losing energy, losing time.
Losing hope.
I told myself the last time, when I was thirteen, that I would
never do it again.
My nose has stopped bleeding. I examine the napkin with my
best effort at clinical detachment. There’s not that much blood,
really. Maybe it’s just dry air; it’s February, after all. Sometimes a
nosebleed is just a nosebleed, and there’s no need to send people into
a frenzy about it. My pulse slows as I press my lips together and
inhale deeply, hearing nothing but air. I drop the napkin into the
toilet and flush quickly so I don’t have to watch thin threads of my
blood fan into the water. Then I pull a Kleenex from the box on top of
the toilet and wet it, wiping away the last traces of red.
“It’s fine,” I tell my reflection, gripping the sides of the sink.
“Everything is fine.”
—
Bayview High’s new gossip game sent two texts this morning: an
alert that the next player would be contacted soon, and a reminder
link to the rules post. Now everyone is reading the new About That
website en masse at lunch, absently shoving food into their mouths
with their eyes glued to their phones. I can’t help but think that
Simon would be loving this.
And if I’m being perfectly honest—I don’t mind the distraction
right now.
“I’m still mostly surprised that Emma had a boyfriend,” Knox
says, glancing at the table where Phoebe is sitting with her friend
Jules Crandall and a bunch of other junior girls. Emma is nowhere in
sight, but then again, she never is. I’m pretty sure she eats lunch
outside with the only friend I’ve ever seen her with, a quiet girl
named Gillian. “Do you think he goes here?”
I grab one of the fries we’re sharing and swirl it in ketchup
before popping it into my mouth. “I’ve never seen her with anyone.”
Lucy Chen, who’d been deep in another conversation at our
table, swings around in her chair. “Are you guys talking about
Phoebe and Emma?” she asks, fixing us with a judgmental stare.
Because Lucy Chen is that girl: the one who complains about
whatever you’re doing while trying to horn in on it. She’s also this
year’s literal drama queen, since she has the lead in Into the Woods
opposite Knox. “Everybody needs to just ignore that game.”
Her boyfriend, Chase Russo, blinks at her. “Luce, that game is
all you’ve been talking about for the past ten minutes.”
“About how dangerous it is,” Lucy says self-righteously.
“Bayview High is a high-risk population when it comes to this kind of
thing.”
I suppress a sigh. This is what happens when you’re bad at
making friends: you end up with ones you don’t particularly like.
Most of the time I’m grateful for the easy camaraderie of the drama
club group, because they keep me company even when Knox isn’t
around. Other times I wonder what school, and life, would be like if I
made more of an effort. If I ever actively chose somebody instead of
just letting myself get pulled into whatever orbit will have me.
My eyes stray toward Phoebe, who’s chewing with her eyes
straight ahead. Today must be rough, but she’s here, facing it headon. She reminds me of Bronwyn that way. Phoebe is wearing one of
her usual bright dresses, her bronze curls tumbling around her
shoulders and her makeup perfect. No fading into the background
for her.
I wish I’d texted her last night after all.
“Anyway, I’m sure we all know who’s behind this,” Lucy adds,
jerking her head toward a corner table where Matthias Schroeder is
eating alone, his face barely visible behind a thick book. “Matthias
should’ve been expelled after Simon Says. Principal Gupta’s zerotolerance policy came too late.”
“Really? You think Matthias did this? But Simon Says was so
tame,” I say. I can’t bring myself to dislike Matthias, even though my
name was all over his short-lived copycat blog last fall. Matthias
moved here freshman year, right around the time I started coming to
school more, and he never really fit in anywhere. I’d watch him sidle
past groups that either mocked or ignored him, and I knew that
could easily have been me without Bronwyn.
Chase grins. “That guy had the worst gossip ever.” He puts on a
breathless voice. “Maeve Rojas and Knox Myers broke up! Like,
yeah, dude. Everybody already knows and nobody cares. Most
drama-free breakup ever. Try again.”
“Still,” Lucy sniffs. “I don’t trust him. He has that same
disgruntled-loner vibe that Simon had.”
“Simon didn’t have—” I start, but I’m interrupted by a booming
voice behind us calling out, “What’s up, Phoebe?” We all turn, and
Knox lets out a muted “Ugh,” when we see Sean Murdock leaning
back in his chair, his thick torso twisted in the direction of Phoebe’s
table. Sean is Brandon Weber’s most assholish friend, which is really
saying something. He used to call me Dead Girl Walking freshman
year, and I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t know my actual name.
Phoebe doesn’t answer, and Sean pushes his chair away from the
table with a loud scraping noise. “I didn’t know you and Emma were
so close,” he calls over the chattering buzz of the cafeteria. “If you’re
looking for a new guy to share, I volunteer my services.” His friends
start snickering, and Sean raises his voice another notch. “You can
take turns. Or double-team me. I’m good either way.”
Monica Hill, one of the junior girls who’s always hanging around
with Sean and Brandon, gasps loudly and slaps Sean on his arm, but
more like she’s trying to egg him on than stop him. As for Brandon,
he’s laughing harder than anyone else at his table. “In your dreams,
bro,” he says, not even glancing in Phoebe’s direction.
“Don’t get greedy just cause you’re hitting that,” Sean says.
“There’s plenty of Lawton love to go around. Right, Phoebe? Twice as
nice. Sharing is caring.” He’s cackling now. “Listen to me, Bran. I’m a
poet and I know it.”
It’s too quiet, suddenly. The kind of silence that only happens
when everyone in a room is focused on the same thing. Phoebe is
looking at the ground, her cheeks pale and her mouth pressed into a
tight line. I’m half on my feet with the overwhelming need to do
something, although I have no clue what, when Phoebe raises her
head and looks directly at Sean.
“Thanks but no thanks,” she says in a loud, clear voice. “If I
wanted to be bored and disappointed, I’d just watch you play
baseball.” Then she takes a large, deliberate bite from a bright green
apple.
The hum in the room erupts into full-on hoots and catcalls as
Chase says, “Damn, girl.” Sean’s face turns an ugly red, but before he
can say anything one of the lunch workers steps out from the
kitchen. It’s Robert, who’s built like a linebacker and is the only
person at Bayview High with a louder voice than Sean. He cups his
hands around his mouth like a megaphone as I sink back into my
seat.
“Everyone gonna settle down in here, or you need me to get a
teacher?” he calls.
The noise volume cuts in half instantly, but that only makes it
easier to hear Sean’s parting words as he turns back toward his table.
“Spoken like the slut you are, Lawton.”
Robert doesn’t hesitate. “Principal’s office, Murdock.”
“What?” Sean protests, spreading his hands wide. “She started
it! She came on to me and insulted me all at once. That’s a violation
of the school bullying policy.”
Resentment surges through my veins. Why am I keeping quiet,
exactly? What on earth do I have to lose? “Liar,” I call out, startling
Knox so much that he actually jumps. “You provoked her and
everyone knows it.”
Sean snorts over the murmur of agreement in the room.
“Nobody asked you, Cancer Girl.”
The words make my stomach plunge, but I roll my eyes like it’s
an outdated insult. “Ooh, burn,” I snap.
Robert folds his tattooed arms and takes a few steps forward.
Rumor has it that he used to work in a prison kitchen, which is pretty
solid job training for what he does now. In fact, it’s probably why he
was hired. Principal Gupta learned at least a few things from last
year. “Principal’s office, Murdock,” he growls. “You can go on your
own, or I can take you. I promise you will not like it.”
This time, I can’t hear whatever Sean mutters under his breath
as he gets to his feet. He shoots Phoebe a death glare as he passes her
table, and she gives it right back. But once he’s gone, her face just
sort of—crumples.
“Someone’s getting detention,” Chase calls in a singsong voice.
“Try not to die, Murdock.” I suck in a breath, and he grimaces
apologetically. “Too soon?”
The bell rings, and we start getting our things together. A few
tables over, Jules takes Phoebe’s tray and whispers something in her
ear. Phoebe nods and loops her backpack over one shoulder. She
heads for the door, pausing beside our table to let a knot of
sophomore girls push through the narrow space between chairs.
They all look back at her and burst into muted laughter.
I touch Phoebe’s arm. “Are you all right?” I ask. She looks up,
but before she can answer I spot Lucy approaching from her other
side.
“You shouldn’t have to put up with that, Phoebe,” Lucy says, and
for a second I almost like her. Then she gets that self-righteous look
on her face again. “Maybe we should tell Principal Gupta what’s
going on. I’m beginning to think this school would be better off if
nobody had a phone in the first—”
Phoebe whips around in her direction, eyes blazing. Lucy gasps
and stumbles backward, because she’s overdramatic like that.
Although Phoebe does look poised for an attack, and when she
speaks, her voice is ice cold.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Phoebe
Thursday, February 20
“Bizarre,” I say to Owen.
He leans forward on his stool at the kitchen island, scrunching
his face in concentration. “Can you use it in a sentence?”
“Um…” I hesitate, and he lets out a small sigh.
“There’s one the back of the index card.”
“Oh. Right.” I flip the card I’m holding and read, “The bizarre
movie was so strange that we left the theater in stunned silence.”
“Bizarre,” Owen says. “B-A-Z-A-A-R.” Then he grins expectantly,
like he’s waiting for the same thumbs-up I’ve given for a dozen words
straight.
I blink at him, flash card in hand. There aren’t a lot of things that
could distract me from the past twenty-four hours, but Owen getting
tripped up while practicing for his middle school spelling bee is one
of them. He’s usually at high school level with that kind of stuff.
“No,” I tell him. “You spelled the wrong word.”
“What?” He blinks, adjusting his glasses. “I spelled the word you
gave me.”
“B-A-Z-A-A-R is, like, a marketplace. The word for strange is
spelled B-I-Z-A-R-R-E.”
“Can I see?” Owen asks, holding his hand out for the flash card. I
don’t usually help him with anything school-related, but guilt over
being such a horrible sister to Emma prompted me to offer when I
got home. He was so pleasantly surprised that now I feel even worse.
I know Owen wants more attention from Emma and me; it’s obvious
from how much hovering he does. My brother is nosy by nature and
gets worse when we have friends over. He wanders into my room
constantly when Jules is around, and he trails Emma to her tutoring
sessions at the library sometimes. We both get annoyed with him,
even though I know—and I’m sure Emma does, too—that he just
wants to be part of things.
It would be so easy to invite him in, but we don’t. We stay in our
lanes.
“Of course!” Fresh guilt makes my voice overly sweet, and Owen
darts me a confused look as he takes the card.
We’re alone in the apartment, with Mom at her office manager
job and Emma—not here. I’ve barely seen her since Mr. Santos
pulled us into the Café Contigo kitchen and suggested we go home
and talk. Emma agreed, but as soon as we left the restaurant she took
off for her friend Gillian’s house and spent the night there instead.
She wouldn’t answer any of my texts and avoided me at school.
Which was kind of a relief, except for the part where it’s only
postponing the inevitable.
“Huh. I always thought it was the other way around.” Owen
drops the flash card onto the counter and blows a raspberry. “That’s
embarrassing.”
I resist the urge to ruffle his hair. He’s not a little kid anymore,
although he still acts like one. Sometimes I feel like Owen froze in
time after Dad died, perpetually nine years old no matter how much
taller he gets. Owen is smarter than either Emma or me—he tests at
near-genius levels, and he keeps our old laptop running and synced
with everyone’s phones in ways that mystify the rest of us. But he’s so
emotionally young that Mom has never had him skip a grade, even
though he could easily do the work.
Before I can reply a key turns in our front door lock, and my
heart starts to pound. It’s too early for Mom to be home, which
means Emma is finally making her appearance.
My sister comes through the door with her backpack slung over
one shoulder and a duffel bag on the other. She’s dressed in a pale-
blue oxford shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back with a navy
headband. Her lips are thin and chapped. She stops short when she
sees me and lets both bags drop to the ground.
“Hey,” I say. My voice comes out like a squeak, then disappears.
“Hi, Emma!” Owen says cheerfully. “You won’t believe how bad I
just messed up a spelling word.” He waits expectantly, but when all
she can manage is a strained smile, he adds, “You know the word
bizarre? Like when something is really strange?”
“I do,” Emma says, her eyes on me.
“I spelled it B-A-Z-A-A-R. Like the shopping place.”
“Oh well, that’s understandable,” Emma says. She looks like
she’s making a massive effort to speak normally. “Are you going to
try again?”
“Nah, I got it now,” Owen says, sliding off his stool. “I’m gonna
play Bounty Wars for a while.” Neither Emma nor I reply as he
shuffles down the hallway to his bedroom. As soon as the door closes
with a soft click, Emma folds her arms and turns to me.
“Why?” she asks quietly.
My mouth is desert-dry. I grab for the half-full glass of warm
Fanta that Owen left on the counter and drink the whole thing down
before answering. “I’m sorry.”
Emma’s face tightens, and I can see her throat move when she
swallows. “That’s not a reason.”
“I know. But I am. Sorry, I mean. I never meant…it’s just, there
was this party at Jules’s house the night before Christmas Eve, and
Derek—” She flinches when I say the name, but I keep going. “Um, it
turns out that he knows Jules’s cousin. They went to band camp
together. They both play saxophone.” I’m babbling now, and Emma
just stares at me with an increasingly pinched expression. “I went to
the party to hang out with Jules, and he was…there.”
“He was there,” Emma repeats in a dull monotone. “So that’s
your reason? Proximity?”
I open my mouth, then close it. I don’t have a good answer. Not
for her, and not for myself. I’ve been trying to figure it out for almost
two months.
Because I was drunk. Sure, but that’s just an excuse. Alcohol
doesn’t make me do stuff I wouldn’t otherwise do. It just gives me a
push to do things I would’ve done anyway.
Because you were broken up. Yeah, for three whole weeks.
Emma met Derek at Model UN over the summer, and they dated for
five months before he ended things. I don’t know why. She never told
me, just like she never talked about their dates. But I saw firsthand,
in our uncomfortably close quarters, how much time she always
spent getting ready. They might eventually have gotten back together
if Derek and I hadn’t smashed that possibility to bits.
Because I liked him. Ugh. That’s the cherry on top of my baddecision sundae. I didn’t even, much.
Because I wanted to hurt you. Not consciously, but…sometimes
I wonder if I’m edging toward an uncomfortable truth with this one.
I’ve been trying to get Emma’s attention ever since Dad died, but
most of the time she just looks right through me. Maybe some
twisted corner of my brain wanted to force her to notice me. In which
case: mission accomplished.
Her eyes bore into mine. “He was my first, you know,” she says.
“My only.”
I didn’t know, because she never told me. But I’d guessed as
much, and I know that Derek holding that place in her life makes all
of this even worse. I feel a sharp stab of regret as I say, “I’m sorry,
Emma. Truly. I’d do anything to make it up to you. And I swear to
God, I didn’t tell anyone, not even Jules. Derek must have—”
“Stop saying his name!” Emma’s shriek is so piercing that it
startles me into silence. “I don’t want to hear it. I hate him, and I
hate you, and I never want to talk to either one of you again as long
as I live!”
Tears start spilling down her cheeks, and for a second I can’t
breathe. Emma almost never cries; the last time was at Dad’s funeral.
“Emma, can we please—”
“I mean it, Phoebe! Leave me alone!” She stalks past me into our
bedroom, slamming the door so hard that it rattles on its hinges.
Owen’s door swings slowly open, but before he can pop his head out
and start asking questions, I grab my keys and get the hell out of our
apartment.
My eyes are starting to swim, and I have to blink a few times
before the person waving at me in the hallway comes into focus. “Hi,”
Addy Prentiss calls. “I was just going to check if your mom’s home—”
She pauses when she gets closer, her pixie features scrunching in
concern. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Allergies,” I say, wiping my eyes. Addy looks unconvinced,
so I talk faster. “My mom is still at work, but she should be back in
an hour or so. Do you need something before then? I could call her.”
“Oh, there’s no rush,” Addy says. “I’m planning Ashton’s
bachelorette party and I wanted to run some restaurant ideas by her.
I’ll just text her.”
She smiles, and the knot in my chest loosens a little. Addy gives
me hope, because even though her life fell apart when Simon’s blog
revealed her worst mistake, she put things back together—better
than before. She’s stronger, happier, and much closer to her sister.
Addy is the queen of second chances, and right now I really need the
reminder that those exist.
“What kind of places are you thinking?” I ask.
“Something low-key.” Addy makes a wry face. “I’m not sure I
should even use the term bachelorette party. That conjures a certain
image, doesn’t it? It’s just a girls’ night out, really. Someplace where I
can get in.”
I have a sudden impulse to invite Addy to come with me, even
though I have no idea where I’m going. I was just looking for an
escape hatch. But before I can come up with a good reason to hang
out, she glances back at her door and says, “I’d better go. I need to
order stuff for Ashton’s wedding favors. Maid of honor duties are
never done.”
“What kind of favors?”
“Candied almonds in bags. Super original, right? But Ash and Eli
both love them.”
“Do you want help putting them together?” I ask. “I’ve become
kind of an expert on wedding favors now that my mom’s constantly
testing them out.”
Addy beams. “That would be amazing! I’ll let you know when I
have them.” She turns back to her apartment with a little wave.
“Enjoy wherever you’re headed. It’s beautiful out.”
“I will.” I stuff my keys into my pocket, the boost in mood I got
from talking to Addy fading as quickly as it came. Emma’s words
keep looping through my brain as I take the elevator down to the
lobby: I hate him, and I hate you, and I never want to talk to either
one of you again as long as I live. Addy and Ashton might not have
gotten along before last year, but I’ll bet they never had that
conversation.
When the doors spring open, I cross fake-marble floors and push
through the heavy glass door into bright sunshine. I didn’t grab my
sunglasses when I left, so I have to shade my eyes as I walk to the
park across the street. It’s small, the length of a street block, and
popular with hip young Bayview parents because of the toddler-sized
climbing gym and nearby Whole Foods. I pass through the arched
entrance, skirting around two little boys playing catch, and head for
the relative quiet of a shaded corner with an empty bench.
I pull my phone from my pocket with a sinking feeling. I got
dozens of texts today, but other than confirming that none were from
Emma, I couldn’t stand to look at them. I wish, for about the
hundredth time today, that I’d realized this particular Simon copycat
was the real thing.
I ignore the texts from people I don’t know well, and zero in on a
few from Jules:
You could have told me, you know.
I don’t judge.
I mean, that was shady but we all make mistakes.
My stomach drops. Jules was great today, a shield between me
and the rest of school. But I knew she was hurt that she found out
about Derek at the same time as the rest of Bayview High. We usually
tell each other everything, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her this.
Jules’s last text to me reads, Monica’s giving me a ride home.
You need one? I wish I’d read that before walking the two miles from
school to my apartment. Except…Monica? Since when do she and
Jules hang out? I picture Monica’s gleefully phony outrage toward
Sean during lunch and have a feeling that it started as soon as she
saw the chance to dig up more dirt.
The next text is from a number I don’t recognize and don’t have
programmed into Contacts. Hi, it’s Maeve. Just checking in. You
okay? Maeve’s never texted me before. It’s nice that she bothered, I
guess, and that she stood up to Sean at lunch today, but I don’t really
know what to say back. I’m not okay, but there’s nothing that Maeve
—with her perfect parents, her perfect sister, and an ex-boyfriend
who’s now her best friend because even the people she dumps don’t
get mad at her—can do about it.
Brandon: Come by? Parents are out ;)
My face flames and my temper spikes. “I can’t believe you,” I
growl at my screen. Except I can, because I’ve always known that
Brandon cares less about me than he would about a new pair of
football cleats. Laughing at me during lunch is totally in character,
and I should have known better than to hook up with him in the first
place.
Unlike Emma, I’ve had a lot of boyfriends. And while I haven’t
slept with all of them, I did whenever it felt right. Sex always felt like
a positive part of my life until last December, when I slipped into
Jules’s laundry room with Derek. Then I ran straight from him to
Brandon, despite all the gigantic red flags that should’ve warned me
away. Maybe after I’d screwed up so badly with Derek, I didn’t think
I deserved any better.
But I do. One mistake shouldn’t condemn anyone to a future
filled with Brandon Webers. I delete Brandon’s message, then his
number from my phone. That gives me a half second of satisfaction
until I see the next text.
Unknown: Well that was fun, wasn’t it? Who’s up for…
I can’t see anything else in the preview. I debate deleting this
one, too, without reading any further, but there’s no point. If this
twisted little game is talking about me, I’ll hear about it eventually.
So I click.
Well, that was fun, wasn’t it? Who’s up for another round?
Then there’s, like, fifty responding texts from Bayview students
begging for more. Assholes. I scroll through them until I get to the
last one from Unknown:
The next player will be contacted soon. Tick-tock.
And then I remember why About That was so popular for so
long. Because even though I hate Unknown, and it freaks me out that
they revealed a secret I thought would never get out, and the idea of
another Simon Kelleher prowling around Bayview High is straightup nauseating—I can’t help being curious.
What’s going to happen now?
CHAPTER SIX
Knox
Saturday, February 22
I’m about to kill my sister.
“Sorry, Kiersten, but you’re in my way.” With a flick of my
thumb on the controller, Kiersten’s Bounty Wars avatar crumples to
the ground, blood gushing from her neck. My sister blinks, fruitlessly
presses a few buttons, and turns to me with an incredulous scowl.
“Did you just slit my throat?” She glares at the television screen
as Dax Reaper steps over her lifeless body. “I thought we were
working together!” Our geriatric golden retriever, Fritz, who’d been
half-asleep at Kiersten’s feet, lifts his head and lets out a wheezy
snort.
“We were,” I say, taking one hand off my controller to scratch
between Fritz’s ears. “But you outlived your usefulness.”
Dax agrees with me on-screen. “It’s a good day for someone to
die,” he growls, sheathing his knife and flexing his muscles. “Just not
me.”
Kiersten makes a face. “This game is vile. And I’m starving.”
She’s sitting next to me on our basement sofa and shifts closer to
nudge my knee with hers. Kiersten lives an hour away and doesn’t
usually spend her Saturdays with us, but her girlfriend is teaching in
Japan for six weeks and she’s at loose ends. “Come on, pause your
ridiculously buff alter ego and get some lunch with me.”
“You mean my doppelgänger,” I say. “The resemblance is
uncanny.” I put down my controller and flex one arm, then instantly
wish I hadn’t. What’s the opposite of ridiculously buff? Pathetically
spindly? Kiersten and I look the most alike of any of our siblings,
down to our spiky short hair, but she has much better muscle tone
from rowing crew on the weekends. Usually, I try not to call attention
to that fact.
Kiersten ignores my sorry excuse for a joke. “What are you in the
mood to eat?” She holds up her hand before I can speak. “Please
don’t say fast food. I’m ancient, remember? I need a glass of wine
and some vegetables.” Kiersten is thirty, the oldest of my four sisters.
They were all born one right after the other, and then my parents
thought they were done until I showed up a decade later. My sisters
treated me like a living doll for years, carrying me around so much
that I didn’t bother learning to walk until I was almost two.
“Wing Zone,” I say instantly. It’s a Bayview institution, famous
for its extra-hot wings and a giant inflatable chicken on the roof.
Now that Bayview’s getting trendy, new people are starting to
grumble that the chicken is tacky and “doesn’t fit the town aesthetic.”
Direct quote from a letter to the editor in last week’s Bayview Blade.
So the Wing Zone owners are doubling down; on Valentine’s Day,
they strung a garland of blinking red neon hearts around its neck
that still hasn’t come off. That’s some professional-level petty, and
I’m all for it.
“Wing Zone?” Kiersten frowns as we head for the basement
stairs, Fritz padding behind us. “Didn’t I just specifically request
vegetables?”
“They have celery sticks.”
“Those don’t count. They’re ninety-nine percent water.”
“And coleslaw.”
“One hundred percent mayonnaise.”
“The lemon-pepper wings have…citrus?”
“Here’s a life lesson for you, Knox. Fake fruit flavoring is not,
and never will be, a vegetable.” Kiersten looks back at me as she
opens the basement door, and I give her the kind of hopeful,
ingratiating smile that works on absolutely nobody except my sisters.
“Ugh, fine,” she groans. “But you owe me.”
“Sure,” I say. She’s never going to collect, though. That’s the
upside of having sisters who think they’re your mom.
Our basement opens into the kitchen, and when we get upstairs
my dad’s sitting at the table, hunched over some paperwork. He
looks a lot more like Dax Reaper than I do. Now that he owns his
own company Dad doesn’t necessarily have to do hands-on
construction work, but he still does, which makes him the most inshape guy in his fifties I know. He glances up, and his eyes flick past
me—the boring kid who still lives at home—and twinkle at Kiersten.
“Didn’t know you were still here,” he says. Fritz, who’s always
liked my alpha male father better than anybody, leans adoringly
against his chair.
She sighs. “Knox roped me into video game hell.”
Dad frowns, because he thinks video games are a waste of time.
As opposed to actual sportsball games, which he’d love for me to
play. But he just waves the folder he’s holding at me and says, “I’ll
leave this for you to take to work on Monday.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Letter of intent. We’re gonna hire a couple of the D’Agostino
exonerees,” he says. “I got a packet in the mail the other day from
Until Proven.”
Great, except he didn’t get it in the mail. I brought it home and
put it on his desk. With a note. Which, I guess, he never even noticed.
Kiersten beams. “Fantastic, Dad! Way to set an example for local
businesses.”
My father and Kiersten are a strangely amicable pair. He’s this
conservative, macho, old-school guy who somehow gets along better
with my bleeding-heart lesbian sister than he does with anyone else.
Maybe because they’re both athletic, take-charge, self-starter types.
“Well, it’s worked out well so far,” Dad says, pushing the folder to
one corner of the table. “Nate’s a good worker. And you know, he got
A’s in both the classes we covered last semester. Kid’s a lot brighter
than he gets credit for.”
I mean, he gets plenty of credit in this house. But okay.
“It’s so great that you’re doing that for him,” Kiersten says, and
the genuine warmth in her tone makes me feel like a prick. I don’t
have anything against Nate, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s the
son my father wishes he had. I grab my sweatshirt from the chair
where I dropped it earlier, pulling it on as Kiersten adds, “Want to
come to lunch, Dad? We’re getting wings.” She only grimaces a little
on the last word.
“No thanks. I need to get back to work and finish up our
proposal for the mall parking garage. It’s been sitting empty for
much too long and frankly, it’s both an eyesore and a hazard.” He
frowns and turns back to me. “One of my guys said he heard a rumor
that kids have been cutting through the site. You seen anything like
that, Knox?”
“What? No. Definitely not!” I practically yell it, way too loudly
and emphatically. God, my father makes me nervous. His frown
deepens, and Kiersten tugs on my arm.
“All right, we’re off. See you later!” We’re through the front door
and halfway down the driveway before she speaks again. “Work on
your poker face, Knox,” she mutters, pulling a set of keys out of her
bag and aiming them at her silver Civic. “And stop taking shortcuts
through abandoned construction sites.”
It’s a sunny but cool Saturday. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt
up as I slide into the passenger seat. “It was just a couple times.”
“Still,” Kiersten says, climbing in beside me. “It’s my duty as
your significantly older sibling to remind you how Not Safe that is.
Consider yourself warned.” She turns the motor, and we both wince
as music blasts through the car at top volume. I always forget how
loudly Kiersten plays her radio when she drives alone. “Sorry,” she
says, turning it down. She glances into the rearview mirror and starts
to back out of our driveway. “So, I barely got to talk to you during
that creepy bounty hunter game. It’s still bullshit that you killed me,
by the way. Not over it. But what’s new with you? How’s the job,
how’s the play, how’s school?”
“It’s all good. Well, pretty good.”
She taps the blinker and prepares to turn out of our road. “Why
only pretty good?”
I’m not sure where to start. But I don’t have to, because
Kiersten’s phone rings. “Hang on,” she says, her foot still on the
brake as she roots through her bag. “It’s Katie,” she says, handing me
the phone. “Put her on speaker, would you?” I do, and Kiersten calls,
“Hey, Katie. I’m in the car with Knox. What’s up?”
My second-oldest sister’s voice, tinny from the speaker, starts
ranting about something that’s pink but was supposed to be peach.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. “Katie, stop,” Kiersten says,
inching onto the main road that will take us to Bayview Center. “I
can’t even understand you. Is this about…flowers? Okay, Bridezilla,
let’s take it down a few notches.”
I tune them out, unlocking my own phone with a prickle of
anticipation. Like everybody else at Bayview High this weekend, I’ve
been waiting for a text from Unknown. But there’s been nothing. I’m
guessing whoever their target was decided to take the Dare, and now
I don’t know what to expect. It’s new territory. Simon never bothered
with that kind of gamesmanship.
Is it wrong that I’m kind of…I don’t know, interested? I
shouldn’t be, after what happened to Phoebe. Not to mention last
year’s months-long shit show. But there’s a video game quality to all
this that has me weirdly hooked. Like, I could just block texts from
Unknown and be done with it, but I don’t. Hardly anyone at Bayview
High has, as far as I can tell. What did Lucy Chen call us at lunch the
other day? A high-risk population. Conditioned to respond to the
right kind of prompt like overstimulated lab rats.
Or lemmings. That was Simon’s preferred term.
A text from Maeve pops up while I’m scrolling. Hey, a bunch of
us are getting together Friday when Bronwyn’s in town. You in?
Maybe, I reply. Is it spring break?
No, she’s just here for the weekend. Ashton’s bachelorette party.
Also, we’re seeing Into the Woods. She adds the grimacing emoji,
and I send three of them back. I’m already sick of that play, and
we’re still weeks away from performing it. My singing range is
microscopic, but I ended up with a lead role anyway because I’m one
of the only guys in drama club. Now my throat hurts constantly from
all the straining, plus rehearsals are messing with my Until Proven
work schedule.
It’s weird, and kind of uncomfortable, to realize you might’ve
started outgrowing a thing that used to almost be your whole life.
Especially if you’re not sure what else to do with yourself. It’s not like
I’m tearing it up at school, or work. My biggest contribution at Until
Proven so far is seconding Sandeep’s suggestions for the conference
room names. But I like it there. I’d intern more hours if I had the
time.
We’re in downtown Bayview before Katie finally hangs up.
Kiersten shoots me an apologetic glance as she pulls into a parking
lot across the street from Wing Zone. “Sorry we got interrupted by a
quote, floral emergency, unquote. Which is not a thing. Who’ve you
been texting while I was ignoring you?”
“Maeve,” I say. The battery on my phone is almost dead, so I
shut it off and put it back into my pocket.
“Ah, Maeve.” Kiersten sighs nostalgically. “The one that got
away.” She pulls into a spot and cuts the engine. “From me, I mean. I
was shipping you two hard. I had your couple name picked out and
everything. Did I ever tell you that? It was Knaeve.” I groan as I open
my door. “But you seem fine. Are you fine? Do you want to talk about
it?”
She always asks that, and I never accept. “Of course I’m fine. We
broke up a long time ago.”
We exit the car and head for an opening in the parking lot gate.
“I know, I know,” Kiersten says. “I just don’t understand why. You
guys were perfect for each other!”
It’s times like these that, as great as my sisters are, I kind of wish
I had an older brother. Or a close guy friend who liked girls. Maeve
and I weren’t perfect, but that’s not a conversation I know how to
open up with Kiersten. I don’t know how to open it up with anyone.
“We’re better as friends,” I say.
“Well, I think it’s great that…Huh.” Kiersten stops so suddenly
that I almost bump into her. “What’s with the crowd? Is it always this
busy on a Saturday?”
We’re within sight of the restaurant, and she’s right—the
sidewalk is packed. “No, never,” I say, and a guy in front of me turns
at my voice. For a second, I don’t recognize him, because I’ve never
seen him outside of school. But there’s no mistaking Matthias
Schroeder, even out of context. He looks like a scarecrow: tall and
thin with baggy clothes, wispy blond hair, and strangely dark eyes. I
find myself peering at them too closely, wondering if they’re real or
contact lenses. “Hi, Knox,” he says tonelessly. “It’s the chicken.”
“Huh?” I ask. Is he speaking in code? Am I supposed to reply
The crow flies at midnight or something? Kiersten waits expectantly,
like I’m about to introduce her, but I don’t know what to say. This is
Matthias. He got suspended for copycatting Simon Kelleher last fall.
We’ve never spoken before. Awkward, right?
Matthias points upward with one long, pale finger. I follow his
gaze to Wing Zone’s roof, and then I can’t believe I didn’t notice it
sooner. The inflatable chicken’s red heart necklace is finally gone—
and so is its head. Well, it’s probably still there, but somebody’s stuck
what looks like the head of the Bayview Wildcat mascot costume
onto its neck. Now the whole thing has turned into some kind of
freaky oversized cat-chicken, and I can’t look away. I snort but choke
back a full-on laugh when I catch Kiersten’s exasperated expression.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she mutters. “Why would someone do
that?”
“Yuppie revenge?” I ask, but then immediately reject the idea.
The kind of people who complain about an inflatable chicken
lowering their real estate values aren’t going to be any happier about
this.
“You don’t get it?” Matthias asks. He looks hard at me, and God,
that kid is weird. I can practically hear Maeve saying He’s just lonely,
which might be true, but it’s also true that he’s weird. Sometimes
things are related, is my point.
My stomach growls. It knows we’re in close proximity to wings
and it’s not happy about the delay. “Get what?” I ask impatiently.
“Always take the Dare, right?” Matthias says. He gives me this
stiff little salute and turns on his heel, slipping through the crowd.
Kiersten looks mystified. “What’s his deal?”
“Beats me,” I say distractedly, pulling out my phone to turn it
back on. There are two texts waiting from Unknown:
DARE: Put the Bayview Wildcat mascot’s head onto the Wing
Zone chicken.
STATUS: Achieved by Sean Murdock. Congratulations, Sean.
Nice work.
The second text comes with a photo of the Wildcat-slashchicken. Up close, like it was taken by somebody standing right next
to it. Everything around it is dark, which makes me think the headswapping happened last night, but attention didn’t reach critical
mass till the Wing Zone lunchtime crowd appeared.
More texts start piling up, from Bayview High kids responding to
Unknown.
Nailed it!!!
Bahahaha I can’t stop laughing
Epic af Sean
Lmaooooooo
Disappointment claws at my gut. As soon as I moved to Bayview
in seventh grade, Sean—along with Brandon Weber—made my life
hell with hilarious games like How Many of Knox’s Books Can We
Fit into One Toilet? Even now, Sean likes to ask me how my “fag hag”
sister is doing, because he’s a Neanderthal who doesn’t know what
his crap insults mean. If there’s anyone at Bayview I would’ve liked
to see taken down a peg by this game, it’s him. But all this is going to
do is swell Sean’s meathead even bigger.
There are no consequences for guys like him and Brandon. Ever.
“Your phone is going nuts,” Kiersten says. “What are your
friends talking about?”
I turn it off and shove it into my pocket, wishing I could shut
down all my useless rage that easily. “It’s just a stupid group text
getting out of control,” I say. “They’re not my friends.”
And neither is Unknown. Which I should’ve known from the
start, obviously, but now I really know it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maeve
Thursday, February 27
I can’t stop grinning at Bronwyn. “It’s so weird that you’re here.”
“I was here less than two months ago,” she reminds me.
“You look different,” I say, even though she doesn’t. I mean, the
side braid is a cute style I haven’t seen before, but other than that she
hasn’t changed a bit. She’s even wearing her favorite ancient
cashmere sweater, so old that she has to roll up its sleeves to hide
how frayed the cuffs are. It’s the rest of the world that seems brighter
when she’s around, I guess. Even the chalk-scrawled specials on Café
Contigo’s blackboard wall look extra vibrant. “You need to come
home for grad school, okay? This distance thing isn’t working for
me.”
“Me either,” Bronwyn sighs. “Turns out I’m a California girl at
heart. Who knew?” She dunks a spoon into her latte to redistribute
the foam in a thin layer. “But you might not even be here then if you
go to school in Hawaii.”
“Bronwyn, come on. We both know I’m not going to the
University of Hawaii,” I say, chasing my last bite of alfajore with a sip
of water. My voice is light, casual. The kind of tone that says I won’t
go there because I’m not an island person and not I won’t go there
because I had another nosebleed this morning. It was minor,
though. Stopped within a few minutes. I don’t have any joint pain,
fever, or weird bruises, so it’s fine.
Everything’s fine.
Bronwyn puts down her spoon and folds her hands, giving me
one of her serious looks. “If you could be anywhere in five years,
doing anything at all, what would you pick?”
Nope. We are absolutely not discussing this. If I start talking five
years in the future with my sister, all my careful compartmentalizing
will vanish and I’ll crack open like an egg. Spoiling her visit, her
semester, and a million other things. “You can’t analyze my future
right now,” I say, grabbing another cookie. “It’s bad luck.”
“What?” Bronwyn’s brow creases. “Why?”
I point to the clock on the wall, which has been reading ten
o’clock since the batteries died a week ago. “Because that’s broken.
Time is literally standing still.”
“Oh my God, Maeve.” Bronwyn rolls her eyes. “That’s not even
an actual superstition. That’s just something you and Ita made up.
She says hi, by the way.” Now that Bronwyn lives in Connecticut, she
gets to see our grandparents regularly. Our grandfather, Ito, is still a
visiting lecturer at Yale. “Also that you’re perfect and her favorite.”
“She did not say that.”
“It was implied. It’s always implied. Sunday dinners with Ito
and Ita are basically Maeve Appreciation Night.” Bronwyn sips her
coffee, suddenly looking pensive. “So…if today is already bad luck,
does that mean we can talk about me and Nate maybe being broken
up for good this time?”
“Bronwyn. What is with you guys?” I shake my head as her
mouth droops. “Why can’t you figure this out? Your entire
relationship started from talking on the phone, for crying out loud!
Just do that for like, three months at a time and you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know,” she says unhappily. She takes off her glasses and
rubs her eyes. I brought her here straight from the airport, and she’s
obviously a little jet-lagged after her cross-country flight. She’s
missing some classes to be here, which Dad isn’t wild about, but
Mom can’t resist bringing Bronwyn home for an extra day when she
visits. “We’re just never in sync anymore,” she says. “When I’m
feeling good about things, he’s feeling like he’s holding me back.” She
puts up finger quotes with a grimace. “When he starts talking about
what we should do over spring break, I wonder if I made a mistake
not signing up for that volunteer trip I was interested in. Then I think
about him living in that house with all those roommates, and girls in
and out all the time, and I get so jealous that it makes me irrational.
Which is not like me.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree. “Plus, you live in a dorm, so. Same thing.”
“I know,” she sighs. “It’s just so much harder than I thought it
would be. Everything I do or say feels wrong with him.”
I don’t bother asking if she still loves Nate. I know she does.
“You’re overthinking it,” I tell her, and she snorts out a laugh.
“Oh, you think? That’d be a first.” Her phone vibrates on the
table, and she makes a face at it. “Is it four already? Evan’s outside.”
“What? Evan Neiman?” My voice ticks up on the last name.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Giving me a ride to Yumiko’s,” Bronwyn says, draining the last
of her latte. “She’s having a bunch of people from our old Mathlete
team over to watch something Avengers-related. Don’t ask me what.
You know I don’t care.” She stuffs her phone in her bag and peers
into its depths. “Ugh, did I forget my prescription sunglasses? I’m so
bad at keeping track of those. I hardly ever need them in
Connecticut.”
“Why is Evan taking you? Isn’t he at Caltech?”
Bronwyn is still rooting around in her bag. “Yeah, but he and
Yumiko hang out sometimes. And he was at Yale last month for a
Debate Club Smackdown, so…aha! Here they are.” I clear my throat
loudly and she finally glances up, her bright blue glasses case in one
hand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Evan?”
She shifts in her chair. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You getting a ride from your ex, after you just finished angsting
about how you can’t make things work with your other ex, is not a
big deal?” I fold my arms. For someone so smart, my sister can be
ridiculously naïve. “Come on. I spent half my life in a cancer ward
and even I know that’s a bad idea.”
“Evan and I are just friends who happened to date a long time
ago. Like you and Knox.”
“No, it’s not at all like me and Knox. That was mutual. You
dumped Evan for Nate and Evan moped about it for the rest of senior
year. He wrote poetry. Have you forgotten ‘Kilns of Despair’?
Because I have not. And now he’s driving two and a half hours on a
Thursday to watch Iron Man with you?”
“I don’t think it’s Iron Man,” Bronwyn says doubtfully.
“Focus, Bronwyn. That’s not the point. Evan is carrying a torch,
and everybody knows it except you.” I brandish the saltshaker at her
like it’s covered in flames, but I end up spilling it, and then I have to
do the whole over-the-shoulder ritual. Bronwyn takes advantage of
my distraction to get to her feet and corral me in a one-armed hug.
She’s starting to look worried, but her ride is outside, and I can
practically see the wheels turning in her head as she calculates the
awkwardness quotient of backing out now. Too high.
“I have to go. See you at home,” she says. “I’ll be back before
dinner.” She loops her messenger bag over one shoulder and heads
for the door.
“Make good choices,” I call after her.
I glance around the café as the door shuts behind her. Phoebe is
working today, her brow knitted in concentration as she jots down an
order from two beanie-wearing hipsters. Ever since Sean Murdock’s
infuriating Wing Zone triumph, people have been acting like Bayview
High Truth or Dare is a hilarious new game. A text went out
yesterday from Unknown—The next player has been contacted. Ticktock—and now everyone is taking bets on who it is and what they’ll
choose. Given how the first two rounds have gone, odds favor the
Dare.
It’s like everyone at Bayview High has forgotten that Simon was
a real person who ended up suffering more than anyone from the
way he used gossip as a weapon. But all you have to do is look at
Phoebe’s sad eyes and hollow cheeks to know there’s nothing funny
about any of this.
I pull my laptop out of my bag and open the new About That
website, where Sean’s Wing Zone chicken photo is prominently
displayed. There’s a comment section below, and when people aren’t
congratulating Sean, they’re speculating about the identity of
Unknown.
It’s Janae Vargas, guys. Finishing what Simon started. I don’t
buy that one for a second. Simon’s former best friend couldn’t get out
of Bayview fast enough when she graduated. She goes to college in
Seattle now, and I don’t think she’s been back once.
Madman Matthias Schroeder, obvs.
Simon himself. He’s not dead, he just wanted us to think he is.
I open another browser tab and type AnarchiSK—Simon’s old
user name—into the search bar. I used to Google that name all the
time, back when I was trying to figure out who might have it in for
Simon. There are thousands of results, mostly from old news articles,
so I narrow the search to the past twenty-four hours. One link
remains, to a Reddit subforum with the words Vengeance Is Mine in
the URL.
The skin on the back of my neck starts to prickle. Simon used to
post his revenge rants on a forum called Vengeance Is Mine, but that
was on 4chan. I should know; I spent hours reading through them
before I sent a link to the Mikhail Powers Investigates show. Mikhail
ran a spotlight series on Simon’s death, and as soon as he covered
the revenge forum it got overrun with fake posts and rubberneckers.
Eventually, the whole thing shut down.
At least, that’s what I thought. In the half second before I click
the link, the words He’s not dead, he just wanted us to think he is
don’t seem as far-fetched as they should.
But the page is nearly blank except for a handful of posts:
My teacher needs to btfo or I will kill him for real.—Jellyfish
I almost pounded his face in today lol.—Jellyfish
Well now you can’t kill him. What did AnarchiSK always tell us? “Don’t be so
obvious.”—Darkestmind
Fuck that guy. He got caught.—Jellyfish
The café door opens and Luis steps inside, wearing a faded San
Diego City College T-shirt and a backward baseball cap over his dark
hair. He spots me and does one of those chin-jut things he and
Cooper are always doing—jock-speak for Yeah, I see you, but I’m too
cool to actually wave. Then, to my surprise, he shifts course and
heads my way, dropping into Bronwyn’s recently vacated seat.
“What’s up, Maeve?”
My white blood cell count, probably. God, I’m fun.
“Not much,” I say, pushing my laptop to one side. “You coming
from class?”
“Yup. Accounting.” Luis makes a wry face. “Not my favorite. But
we can’t spend every day in the kitchen. Unfortunately.” Luis is
getting a hospitality degree so he can run his own restaurant one day,
which is the kind of thing I never would have guessed when he was a
big man on campus at Bayview.
“You just missed Bronwyn,” I say, because I assume that’s why
he stopped at my table. The two of them aren’t close, exactly, but
they hang out occasionally because of Cooper. “She’s at Yumiko’s if
you…” And then I trail off, because the Venn diagram of Luis’s and
Bronwyn’s social overlap starts and ends with Cooper. I’m pretty
sure Luis isn’t planning to attend the Bayview Mathlete movie night.
“Cool.” Luis flashes a smile and stretches his legs out under the
table. I’m so used to Knox sitting with me that Luis’s presence is a
little disconcerting. He takes up more space, both physically and…
confidence-wise, I guess. Knox always looks as though he’s not sure
he’s supposed to be wherever he is. Luis sprawls out like he owns the
place. Well, in this particular case his parents do, so maybe that’s
part of it. But still. There’s an ease to him that, I think, comes from
being athletic and popular his entire life. Luis has spent years at the
center of one team or another. He’s always belonged. “I had a
question for you, actually.”
I can feel my face getting red, and cup my chin in both hands to
hide it. I wish I weren’t constantly attracted to the kind of guys who
either ignore me or treat me like their little sister, but here we are. I
have no defense against the cute jock demographic. “Oh?”
“Do you live here now?” he asks.
I blink, not sure if I’m disappointed or caught off guard.
Probably both. “What?”
“You’re in this restaurant more than I am, and I get paid for it.”
His dark eyes twinkle, and my stomach drops. Oh God. Does he
think I’m here for him? I mean, yes, catching sight of Luis in one of
those well-fitting T-shirts he always wears is typically a highlight of
my day, but I didn’t think I was being obvious about it.
I narrow my eyes at him and aim for a detached tone. “Your
customer appreciation skills need work.”
Luis grins. “It’s not that. I’m just wondering if you’re familiar
with this thing called outside? It has sun and fresh air, or so I’ve
heard.”
“Pure rumor and speculation,” I say. “Doesn’t exist. Besides, I’m
doing my part for the Bayview economy. Supporting local business.”
Then I drink the rest of my water to force myself to shut up. This is
the longest conversation I’ve ever had alone with Luis, and I’m
working so hard at playing it cool that I barely know what I’m saying.
“That would be a better argument if you ever got anything
besides coffee,” Luis points out, and I laugh in spite of myself.
“I see those accounting classes are paying off,” I say. He laughs
too, and I finally relax enough that my face returns to a normal
temperature. “Do you think you’ll take over from your parents
someday? Run Café Contigo, I mean?”
“Probably not,” Luis says. “This is their place, you know? I want
something of my own. Plus I’m more interested in the fine dining
scene. Pa thinks I’m full of it, though.” He mimics his dad’s deep
tone. “Tienes el ego por las nubes, Luis.”
I smile. Luis’s ego is in the clouds, but at least he knows it. “He
must be happy you’re interested in the family business, though.”
“I think so,” Luis says. “Especially since Manny can’t make toast
without burning it.” Luis’s older brother, the one named after their
dad, has always been more into cars than kitchens. But he’s been
working at the restaurant since he got laid off from an auto repair
shop. “He’s helping out tomorrow night and Pa is all, Please don’t
touch anything. Just wash dishes.” Luis takes his cap off, runs a
hand through his hair, and puts it back on. “You’ll be here, right? I
think Cooper might make it after all.”
“He will?” I ask, genuinely happy. All of Bronwyn’s and Addy’s
friends are getting together at Café Contigo before Ashton’s
bachelorette party tomorrow night, but last I’d heard Cooper’s
schedule was still up in the air.
“Yup. We’re a big enough crowd now that Pa’s giving us the back
room.” Luis glances at a door frame in the rear of the restaurant,
where hanging beads separate a small private dining area. “Hope it
doesn’t get too busy once people hear Cooper’s gonna be around. The
actual table only fits, like, ten.” He starts counting on his fingers.
“You, me, Coop, Kris, Addy, Bronwyn, Nate, Keely…who else? Is your
boyfriend coming?”
“My what? You mean Knox?” I blink when Luis nods. “He’s not
my boyfriend. We broke up ages ago.”
“Really?” Luis’s eyebrows shoot up. God, when you graduate you
just fall right out of the gossip loop, apparently. “But he’s always here
with you.”
“Yeah, we’re still friends. We’re not going out anymore, though.”
“Huh,” Luis says. His eyes flick over me, and my cheeks heat
again. “Interesting.”
“Luis!” Mr. Santos pokes his head out of the kitchen. He’s much
shorter and rounder than any of his sons, even the preteen ones.
They all get their height from their mom. “Are you working or flirting
today?”
I duck my head and pull my laptop back in front of me, hoping
that I look busy instead of deflated. I was having such a good time
talking to Luis that I almost forgot: this is standard operating
procedure for him. He’s great at turning on the charm, which is why
half of Café Contigo’s customer base is made up of girls between the
ages of fourteen and twenty.
Luis shrugs as he gets to his feet. “I’m multitasking, Pa.”
Mr. Santos’s eyes shift toward me, his eyebrows pulled together
in exaggerated concern. “Is he bothering you, mija? Say the word and
I’ll throw him out.”
I force a smile. “He’s just doing his job.”
Luis pauses at the edge of the table, shooting me a look I can’t
decipher. “You want anything? Coffee or…coffee?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I say. My smile is more of a grimace now, so
I let it drop.
“I’ll bring you some cookies,” he says over his shoulder as he
heads for the kitchen.
Phoebe’s passing by just then, and she pauses, lowering her
empty tray to watch Luis’s retreating back. “Why did that sound
dirty?” she asks wonderingly. She kicks at my foot and lowers her
voice. “He’s so cute. You should make that happen.”
“In my dreams,” I mutter, returning my eyes to my computer
screen. Then I let out a startled yelp of pain when Phoebe kicks me
again. Harder. “Ow! What was that for?”
“For being dense,” she says, dropping into the chair across from
me. “He’s into you.”
“Are you kidding?” I gesture toward the kitchen door as though
Luis were standing there, even though he’s not. “I mean, look at
him.”
“Look at you,” Phoebe says. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of
those pretty girls who insists she’s not pretty. That’s tired. You’re hot,
own it. And you like him, right? You should let him know instead of
getting all weird and frowny when he flirts with you.”
“I’m not weird and frowny!” I protest. Phoebe just tilts her head,
slowly twisting a coppery curl around one finger until I add, “Most of
the time. Besides, Luis flirts with everyone. It doesn’t mean
anything.”
Phoebe shrugs. “That’s not my impression. And I’m pretty good
at reading guys.” It’s a simple statement of fact, but as soon as she
says it the whole mess about her and Emma’s boyfriend pops into my
head, and I can’t keep my eyes from widening reflexively. Phoebe
bites her lip and looks away. “Although I realize I have zero
credibility in that department at the moment, so I’ll let you get back
to—whatever,” she says, pushing her chair away from the table.
My hand is on her wrist before I realize what I’m doing. “No,
wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to act judgey
but…apparently I’m weird and frowny in lots of situations.” She
almost smiles, so I feel brave enough to add, “Look, I know what all
this must be like for you. I went through it with Bronwyn last year,
so…I’m a good listener if you ever want to talk sometime. Or even,
you know, just hang out and set our phones on fire.”
I’m relieved when Phoebe laughs. I don’t have a lot of practice
reaching out to people who haven’t sought me out first, and I half
expected her to edge away and never talk to me again. “I might take
you up on that,” she says. Then her face falls, and she plucks at a
stray thread on her apron. “Emma’s so mad at me. I keep trying to
apologize, but she won’t listen.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Maybe you just need to give her a little more
time.” Phoebe nods gloomily, and I add, “I hope she’s not mad at just
you. I mean, you weren’t the only person involved. Her ex was, too.”
Phoebe makes a face. “I don’t know if they’ve even talked since
she found out. I don’t dare ask.” She cups her chin in one hand and
gazes thoughtfully at the brightly colored mosaic tiles mounted on
the wall next to us. “I wish I knew how the whole thing got out in the
first place. I mean, obviously Derek must’ve told someone, because I
sure as hell didn’t. But he lives in Laguna. He doesn’t know anybody
here.”
“How’d you run into him, then? After he and Emma broke up, I
mean.”
“Christmas party at Jules’s house,” Phoebe says. I raise my
eyebrows, and she adds, “But Jules doesn’t know him. Derek was
there with her cousin. I don’t think they even met that night.”
“Okay,” I say, filing that nugget of information away for future
reference. If there’s one thing last year taught me, it’s to be wary of
coincidences. “Well, here’s something that might interest you. Hang
on a sec.” My laptop screen has gone dark, so I hit a key to bring the
Reddit forum back. “I was Googling some stuff related to Simon and
last year, and…” I refresh the page so it’ll display any newer posts,
then trail off in confusion. The short thread I was just looking at has
disappeared, and there’s nothing left on my screen except the forum
heading. “Wait. What happened?”
“What?” Phoebe asks, moving her chair so she can peer at my
laptop. “Vengeance Is Mine? Why does that sound familiar?”
“It’s the name of the revenge forum Simon Kelleher used to post
on last year, except this one’s in a different location.” I frown,
tapping a finger on my chin. “So weird. I was going to show you a
thread that mentioned Simon, but it’s gone.”
“Did you try refreshing?” Phoebe leans across from me to hit the
arrow button next to the search bar.
“Yeah, that’s what made it disappear in the first place. It was—”
“Is that it?” Phoebe interrupts when three new posts pop up.
“No,” I say, scanning the short lines. “Those are new.”
True, Jellyfish. He did get caught.
But his inspiration lives on in Bayview.
And he’d fucking love the game I’m playing right now.—Darkestmind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Phoebe
Friday, February 28
I send the texts to Jules rapid fire on Friday afternoon, one after the
other.
You’ve been busy huh?
Feel like doing something tonight?
I have to work but only till 8.
Want to meet me there?
Then I sit on the edge of my bed, gazing around the room I share
with Emma. It’s smaller than the bedroom I had to myself in our old
house, and crammed with twice as much stuff. Mom got a worker’s
comp settlement from Dad’s company when he died, and while she
never talked about how much it was, I thought it was enough.
Enough that she wouldn’t have to go back to work unless she wanted
to, and we could stay where we were.
Now Mom works at an office manager job she hates, and we live
here. When we moved last summer, she told us that downsizing to an
apartment was about convenience, not money. But nobody except
Owen believed her.
I get up and wander to Emma’s side of the room, which is
pristine compared to mine. Her bed is neatly made, every wrinkle
smoothed away from the scalloped white coverlet. There’s nothing on
her desk except the laptop we share, a coffee mug filled with colored
pencils, and a notebook with a Monet print on the cover. I have a
sudden urge to open the notebook and scrawl a message in the most
apologetic color I can find. Pale pink, maybe. Emma, I miss you. I’ve
been missing you for years. Just tell me how to make this up to you
and I’ll do it.
Emma is at the library, and even though we’re barely speaking
the emptiness of our room almost tempts me to knock on Owen’s
door and offer to play Bounty Wars. I’m saved by the chime of my
phone and glance down in surprise to a return text from Jules. She’s
been cool toward me ever since the Derek reveal, and I wasn’t
expecting a quick response.
Is that thing tonight? With Cooper Clay and everybody?
Yeah, around 6. It’ll be packed, though. You probably want to
avoid that scene and just come at 8 when I get off.
The pre–Ashton’s bachelorette party get-together at Café
Contigo started spiraling out of control once people heard Cooper
might be there. Dozens of Bayview students who don’t even know
him are saying they’re going now, and I’m not sure the Santoses are
ready for that kind of crowd.
Will Nate be there?
I sigh as I text back, Probably. Guess I’ll be seeing her a lot
earlier than eight o’clock.
My phone rings, startling me. Jules wants to FaceTime. I hit
Accept and her face fills the screen, grinning expectantly. “Heyyy,”
she says, sounding like her usual self. “Do you have time for a
wardrobe consult?”
“Of course.”
“Which of these says, I’m way more fun than your ex and I live
right here? This…” Jules holds up a plunging sequined tank top and
waves it for a few seconds, then drops it and picks up a black ruffled
halter. “Or this?”
Ugh. I don’t want to encourage Jules in her Nate Macauley
obsession. Even if Bronwyn weren’t still in the picture, I’m pretty
sure he and Jules would be a terrible pairing. Jules likes to be joined
at the hip with whoever she dates, and I don’t think that’s Nate’s
style at all. “They’re both gorgeous,” I say. Jules pouts, so that’s
obviously the wrong answer. “But if I had to choose, the black.” It’s a
little less revealing, anyway.
“All right, the black it is,” she says breezily. “I’m going to watch
some makeup videos and try to nail a smoky eye. See you tonight!”
She waves and disconnects.
I toss my phone onto my rumpled comforter—it’s balled up in
the middle of my bed because I’m such a restless sleeper, especially
lately—and grab an elastic from my end table. I pull my hair into a
ponytail as I stand and cross to the bedroom door. When I yank it
open, Owen almost tumbles inside.
“Owen!” I pull my ponytail tighter and narrow my eyes at him.
“Were you eavesdropping?” Rhetorical question; he totally was. The
longer my cold war with Emma goes on, the worse of a snoop Owen
becomes. As though he knows something isn’t right, and he’s trying
to figure out what it is.
“No,” Owen says unconvincingly. “I was just…” A loud knock
sounds on the front door, and he gets a total saved by the bell look
on his face. “Going to tell you that someone’s at the door.”
“Sure you were,” I say, and then I frown when the knock sounds
again. “Weird. I didn’t hear the intercom.” I’m assuming it’s some
kind of delivery, but normally we have to buzz people through the
front door before they can come upstairs. “Did you?”
“No,” Owen says. “Are you going to answer it?”
“Let me see who it is.” I cross the living room and press one eye
against the peephole. The face on the other side is distorted, but still
irritatingly familiar. “Ugh. You have got to be kidding me.”
Owen hovers beside me. “Who is it?”
“Go to your room, okay?” He doesn’t move, and I give him a
gentle shove. “Just for a few minutes, and then I’ll come play Bounty
Wars with you.”
Owen grins. “All right!” He scoots away, and I wait to hear the
click of his bedroom door before undoing the deadbolt.
The door swings open to reveal Brandon Weber in the hallway, a
lazy smirk on his face. “Took you long enough,” he says, stepping
inside and shutting the door behind him.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, suddenly all too aware of
the fact that I took my bra off when I got home from school. “What
are you doing here? Who let you into the building?”
“Some grandma was coming out when I got here.” Of course.
That’s how the world works when you’re Brandon Weber; doors just
open up whenever you want them to. He looms over me, way too
close, and I step back as he asks, “How come you’re not answering
my texts?”
“Are you for real?” I scan his pretty, pouty face for a hint of
comprehension, but there’s nothing. “You laughed at me, Brandon.
Sean was being a total creep, and you joined right in.”
“Oh come on. It was a joke. Can’t you take a joke?” He moves
closer again, putting one hand on my waist. His fingers dig into my
thin T-shirt, and his lips curl into a smug smile. “I thought you liked
to have fun.”
I push him away, anger buzzing through my veins. I’ve been the
bad guy all week: the one who betrayed her sister and deserves
whatever she gets in return. It’s almost a relief to be mad at someone
besides myself for a change. “Don’t touch me,” I snap. “We’re done.”
“You don’t mean that.” He’s still smiling, clueless as ever. He
thinks this is a game, one where he makes all the rules and I’m lucky
just to get a chance at playing. “I miss you. Wanna see how much?”
He tries to move my hand toward his crotch, and I yank it back.
“Knock it off. I’m not interested.”
His face darkens as he pulls me toward him again, harder than
before. “Don’t be a tease.”
For the first time since he arrived, I feel a spark of apprehension.
I’ve always liked how strong Brandon is, but right now—I don’t. I’m
still angry, though, and use that adrenaline to wrench out of his
grasp. “Really? Let me see if I have this straight. If I do what you
want, I’m a slut. If I don’t do what you want, I’m a tease. What I want
doesn’t count, but you’re the big man at Bayview no matter what.
Does that about sum it up?”
Brandon snorts. “What are you, some kind of feminazi now?”
I bite back another angry retort. There’s no point. “Just leave,
Brandon.”
Instead, he lunges forward and mashes his lips against mine,
sending a wave of horrified shock through my entire body. My hands
are up in an instant and I press against his chest with all my
strength, but his arms snake around my waist, anchoring me in
place. I twist my head and almost spit to get the taste of him out of
my mouth. “Stop it! I said no!” My voice comes out as a low hiss
because somehow, even though my heart is about to pound out of my
chest, I’m still worried about scaring Owen.
Brandon doesn’t listen. His hands and his mouth are
everywhere, and I don’t know how to make him stop. I’ve never felt
so small, in every possible way.
He forces another kiss on me, moving his body just enough that
I can get an arm free. I keep my lips pressed tightly together against
his probing tongue, reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair. I pull his
head backward, then let go and slap him as hard as I can across the
face. He lets out a surprised grunt of pain and loosens his grip. I twist
away and shove him with enough force to make him stumble
backward. “Get out!” This time I scream, the words scraping raw and
rough across my dry throat.
Brandon stares at me, slack-jawed with shock, my handprint
seared red across his pale cheek. His mouth twists and I take a step
back, poised to run I don’t even know where, when Owen’s door
bursts open. “Phoebe?” He pokes his head around the door frame,
eyes wide. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Brandon was
just leaving.”
Brandon barks out a bitter laugh, his eyes flicking from me to
Owen. “What’s up, little man?” he says, his mouth twisted in a sneer.
“Nothing to see here. Just your sister being a whore. But I guess your
family knows all about that, right? Especially Emma.” I inhale
sharply and clench my fist, my sore palm stinging with an almost
overwhelming urge to hit him again. Brandon’s eyes gleam, his
parting shot landed. He opens the door and lifts one hand in a jaunty
wave. “See you around, Phoebe.” Then he shoves his hands into his
pockets and backs down the hallway, his eyes never leaving my face.
I slam the door shut and click the deadbolt. After that I can’t
seem to move, my hand frozen on the lock. “Phoebe?” Owen asks, his
voice small.
My forehead presses against the closed door. I can’t. I cannot
have this conversation with my little brother. “Go back to your
room.”
“Are you—”
“Go back to your room, Owen. Please.” I hear footsteps and a
soft click. I wait another beat until I let the tears fall.
None of this would be happening if Dad were here. I know it,
down to my core, that I’d be a better, smarter, stronger person if he
hadn’t died. I remember that day like it was yesterday: me and
Emma both home sick with the flu, curled on opposite sides of the
couch in our old house, covered in blankets. Mom was in the kitchen
getting us Popsicles when her phone rang. I heard her harried Hello
—we were starting to wear her out at that point—and then she went
silent. “Is it serious?” she finally asked, in a voice I’d never heard
before.
She appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, clutching her
phone in one hand and a half-melted Popsicle in the other. “I have to
leave you for a little while,” she said in that same robotic tone. Purple
liquid dripped down one arm. “There’s been an accident.”
A horrible, impossible, nightmare of a freak accident. My dad
used to work as a supervisor at a granite manufacturing plant in
Eastland, directing workers as they maneuvered giant slabs of stone
to be cut into countertops. A forklift carrying one jammed at exactly
the wrong moment—and that was all the detail I ever wanted to
know. Nothing else mattered, anyway, except the fact that he was
gone.
“I miss you,” I say against the door. My eyes are squeezed shut,
my cheeks wet, my breathing ragged. “I miss you, I miss you, I miss
you.” The words are a drumbeat in my head, still steady after three
years. I don’t think they’ll ever go away. “I miss you.”
—
It’s a relief to be at work that night, surrounded by people. And I do
mean surrounded: I’ve never seen Café Contigo so crowded. Not only
is every table full, but Mr. Santos brought out all the extra chairs that
are usually stored in the basement and it’s still not enough. People
are standing in groups against either side of the wall, shuffling back
and forth as I weave through them with a drink-laden tray for Addy
and her friends.
I push through the beaded curtain that separates the back room
from the main restaurant. There’s only one large table here, more
than half-filled with familiar faces: Addy, Maeve, Bronwyn, Luis, and
Cooper. A handsome, dark-haired boy gets up from beside Cooper as
I approach the table and stretches his hand toward my tray with a
questioning look. “Can I help?” he asks. “Will it mess you up if I start
taking these off?”
I smile at him. I’ve never met Cooper’s boyfriend, Kris, but I
recognize him from press photos, and I like him instantly. He must
have waited tables himself at some point, if he knows the importance
of a balanced tray. “From the middle is great,” I say.
The room is supposed to be private, but as Kris and I pass drinks
around, people keep trickling in and craning their necks at Cooper.
Most of them duck right back out, but a group of girls linger beside
the entry, whispering to one another behind their hands until they
dissolve into near-hysterical giggles.
“Sorry this is so weird,” Cooper murmurs as I hand him a glass
of Coke. I haven’t seen Cooper in person since he graduated last year,
and I can’t fault the entryway girls for being star-struck. His hair is
longer and attractively tousled, he’s very tan, and he fills out his
white Cal Fullerton T-shirt impossibly well. Looking straight at him
is a little like staring into the sun.
“Well, you’re Bayview’s favorite boy,” Kris says, settling himself
back down beside Cooper. Cooper takes his hand, but his expression
is preoccupied and a little tense.
“Now, maybe,” he says. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”
I don’t blame him for not trusting all the adoration. I remember
how some people treated him when they learned he was gay—not just
kids at Bayview High, but adults who should’ve known better.
Cooper’s been keeping most of the asshole comments at bay since
spring training by being almost perfect every time he pitches. The
pressure must be unbelievable. Eventually he’s going to have to lose,
because nobody can win forever. What happens then?
The boldest girl in the group of gigglers approaches Cooper.
“Can I have your autograph?” She hands him a Sharpie, then puts
one foot on the bottom rung of Cooper’s chair and turns so her thigh,
bare beneath a short skirt, is angled in front of him. “Right there.”
“Um.” Cooper looks completely flummoxed as Addy stifles a
laugh. “Could I just…sign a napkin or something?” he asks.
I’m in and out of the room as it fills up, bringing more drinks
and snacks that seem to disappear as soon as I put them down.
“How’s everyone doing back there?” Addy asks when I’m on my fifth
trip from the kitchen.
“Great, except Manny’s dropped, like, three orders of empanadas
so far,” I say, setting a plate between her and Bronwyn. “Here’s the
lone survivor. Enjoy.”
Maeve is seated on Bronwyn’s other side, wearing a scoop-neck
black T-shirt that’s more fitted than what she usually goes for, and
really flattering. It has a cute design that looks like a bouquet of
flowers at first but is actually a bunch of cartoony little monsters. I
can’t stop checking it out. Neither can Luis, although I’m pretty sure
our reasons are different.
But Maeve doesn’t notice either of us, because she keeps staring
at the entryway. I follow her gaze as the beads part once again and
Nate Macauley walks through. The only empty chair remaining is all
the way at the other end of the table, until Maeve jumps up. “You
look like you could use some help, Phoebe,” she says, moving quickly
to my side. I don’t, but I let her grab a random assortment of
silverware off the table anyway.
Nate sits in Maeve’s vacated chair, brushing his knuckles against
Bronwyn’s arm. When she turns, her entire face lights up. “Hi,” she
says, at the same time Nate goes, “Hey,” and then he says, “You look
—” while Bronwyn says, “I was hoping—” They stop and smile at one
another, and all I can think is that Jules has no shot whatsoever.
Nate leans closer to Bronwyn to say something in her ear, and she
turns her entire body toward him when she laughs in response. She
brushes at his jacket like there’s something on it, which is the oldest
trick in the book. It totally works when he catches hold of her hand
and wow, that did not take long at all. I’m about to turn away and
give them some privacy when another voice rings out.
“Whew, it is packed in here!” A nerdy-hipster-looking boy in an
ice-blue polo shirt stands beside the beads, fanning himself as he
glances around the room. It’s Evan Neiman, Bronwyn’s ex-boyfriend,
who as far as I know wasn’t invited to this little get-together. Evan
spots the last empty chair and drags it as close to Bronwyn as he can
manage. “Hey, you,” he says, leaning across the table with a moony
grin. “I made it.”
Bronwyn freezes like a deer in headlights, eyes wide behind her
glasses. “Evan? What are you doing here?” she asks. All the
animation leaves Nate’s face as he drops her hand and tips his chair
backward. Bronwyn licks her lips. “Why aren’t you in Pasadena?”
“I couldn’t miss the chance to see you again before you leave,”
Evan says.
Nate returns his chair to the floor with a bang. “Again?” he asks,
with a pointed look toward Bronwyn. He doesn’t look mad, exactly,
but he does look hurt. Bronwyn’s eyes dart between him and Evan,
who keeps beaming like there’s no tension in the room whatsoever. I
can’t tell if he’s clueless or diabolical. “Besides, you left your
sunglasses in my car,” Evan adds, holding up a bright blue rectangle
like a trophy.
Maeve is standing beside me, frantically wiping a napkin across
a clean knife. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she mutters.
I tug the knife from her hand. “They do that in the kitchen, you
know.”
“Please take me there,” she whispers. “I can’t watch.”
I give her my tray and we move toward the door, but pause when
a hand whisks the beads to one side and a girl enters. I don’t
recognize Jules at first; she’s really rocking whatever smoky eye
tutorial she watched. Her dark hair is flat-ironed and she’s wearing
the sequined tank top with a pair of skintight jeans and high-heeled
sandals. Objectively, I have to admit that her boobs look amazing in
that shirt. “Hey, Ju—” I start, but she puts her finger to her lips.
She crosses a few feet to the table. Nate has pushed his chair
away like he’s about to get up, but Jules stops him with a hand on his
shoulder. Before he can move, she straddles him so that she’s sitting
on his lap, her chest pressed against his, and then she grabs his face
between both of her hands and kisses him. Hard and deep, for what
feels like ages although it can’t be more than a few seconds. I hope. A
light flashes at the other end of the room, and I catch sight of Monica
holding up her phone as she leans through the beaded curtain.
Nobody reacts until Jules gets up as quickly as she sat down,
flipping her hair and turning toward the exit. Then Nate slowly wipes
a layer of Jules’s lip gloss from his mouth with a bemused
expression. Cooper looks worried, and Addy looks furious. Bronwyn
looks like she’s about to cry. And Evan Neiman is grinning like he
just won the lottery.
I let out a yelp of pain as Maeve drops the serving tray she was
holding onto my foot. Jules catches my eye, and before she slips
through the beads she gives me an exaggerated, triumphant wink.
Always take the Dare, she mouths at me.
Friday, March 6
REPORTER: Good evening, this is Liz Rosen with Channel
Seven News, bringing you an update on our top news story:
the untimely death of yet another student at Bayview High.
I’m here with Sona Gupta, principal of Bayview High, for the
administration’s reaction.
PRINCIPAL GUPTA: A point of clarification, if I may. This
particular tragedy did not happen at Bayview High. On the
school grounds, that is.
REPORTER: I don’t believe I said that it did?
PRINCIPAL GUPTA: It seemed implied. We are, of course,
devastated at the loss of a cherished member of our tight-knit
community, and committed to supporting our students in
their time of need. We have many resources available to help
them process their shock and grief.
REPORTER: Bayview High is a school that became
infamous nationwide for its corrosive culture of gossip. Are
you concerned that—
PRINCIPAL GUPTA: Excuse me. We’re veering onto a
topic that’s unrelated to the subject at hand, not to mention
quite unnecessary. Bayview High is a different school today
than it was eighteen months ago. Our zero-tolerance policy
toward gossip and bullying has proven highly effective. We
were even profiled in Education Today Magazine last
summer.
REPORTER: I’m not familiar with that.
PRINCIPAL GUPTA: It’s very highly regarded.
CHAPTER NINE
Knox
Monday, March 2
It’s a reflex to check my phone, even at work. But there’s nothing new
from Unknown on Monday. The last texts were from Friday night:
DARE: Kiss a member of the Bayview Four.
STATUS: Achieved by Jules Crandall. Congratulations, Jules.
Nice work. Accompanied by a picture of Jules on Nate’s lap, kissing
him as though her life depended on staying attached to his face.
The next player will be contacted soon. Tick-tock.
I’m kind of glad I had rehearsal and couldn’t make it to Café
Contigo on Friday. Maeve said the night went downhill fast after
Jules interrupted dinner. Plus, the whole restaurant turned into such
a mob scene that they ran out of food and Cooper had to leave
through the back entrance.
“In this particular instance, the contributing cause is false
confession,” Sandeep says beside me. We’re sharing a desk today at
Until Proven, and he’s been on the phone nonstop since I arrived. He
holds a pen in one hand, tapping it rhythmically on the desk while he
talks. “So I don’t see that it applies. What? No. Homicide-related.”
He waits a few beats, pen tapping. “I can’t confirm that yet. I’ll call
you back when I can. All right.” He hangs up. Until Proven still has
desk phones—big, clunky things with actual cords plugged into the
wall. “Knox, can you order some pizza?” Sandeep asks, rolling his
shoulders. “I’m starving.”
“Sure.” I pick up my iPhone, because I don’t even know how to
work the desk ones, then put it back down when Eli materializes in
front of us. He looks different, but I can’t figure out why until
Sandeep speaks up.
“You cut your hair,” he says. Eli shrugs as Sandeep leans back in
his chair and spins in a semicircle, his fingers steepling beneath his
chin. “What’s up? You never cut your hair.”
“I assure you that I do,” Eli says, pushing his glasses up on his
nose. He looks a lot less like Einstein now. “Do you have the Henson
file?”
“Is this a wedding thing?” Sandeep asks. “Did Ashton
make you?”
Eli rubs his temple like he’s trying to draw out some patience.
“Ashton and I don’t make one another do anything. Do you have the
Henson file or not?”
“Um.” Sandeep starts sifting through the piles on his desk.
“Probably. It’s here somewhere. What do you need?”
“The name of the convicting DA.”
“I have it,” I say, and they both turn toward me. “Not the file, but
the name. I made a spreadsheet. Hang on.” I pull up Google Docs
and tilt my laptop toward Eli. “It has all the basic background
information on the D’Agostino convictions. Names, dates, addresses,
lawyers, things like that. I noticed you keep asking for that stuff,
so…” I trail off as a crease appears on Eli’s forehead. Was I not
supposed to do this, maybe? It’s all publicly available information, so
I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong by putting it into one
document.
Eli’s gaze roves across my screen. “This is great. Can you share it
with me, please?”
“Um, yeah. Of course,” I say.
He meets my eyes. “What’s your name, again?”
“Knox. Knox Myers.” I smile a little too widely, happy to be
noticed for once.
“Thanks, Knox,” Eli says sincerely. “You just saved me a lot of
time.”
“Eli!” Somebody yells from across the room. “Judge Balewa on
line one for you!” Eli takes off without another word as Sandeep
punches me lightly in the arm.
“Look at you, getting praise from the big man! Nice job, kid,” he
says. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. I still want that pizza. And
could you sort the mail?”
I order a few extra-large pizzas for the office, then grab a stack of
envelopes from a tray next to the front door and bring them back to
my chair. Some of it’s registered and I’m not supposed to open that,
so I put those aside for Sandeep. A lot of it’s bills, and those go into
another pile. Then I sort through what’s left. Mostly, it’s requests for
Until Proven to take on a particular case. It’s surprising how many
people write letters instead of emailing, but I guess they’re hoping to
stand out. Until Proven gets way more pleas for help than it could
ever handle, even if it tripled its staff.
I pick up a letter-sized envelope with Eli’s name scrawled across
the front. I tear it open and there’s a single sheet of paper inside. I
pull it out and read the few short sentences:
You messed with the wrong people, shithead.
I’m going to fuck you like you fucked us.
And I’ll enjoy watching you die.
I recoil like somebody punched me. “Sandeep!” I croak. He looks
up from his laptop with a quizzical expression, and I shove the paper
toward him. “Look at this!”
Sandeep takes the letter and reads. He doesn’t look nearly as
shocked as I expected. “Oh yeah. We get these sometimes. I’ll log it in
the death threats file.”
“The what?” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice. “There’s a
whole file?”
“Death threats come in during every big case,” he says matter-offactly. “Disgruntled assholes blowing off steam, for the most part, but
we need to document everything.” He scans the sheet of paper again
before folding it and putting it back into the envelope. “At least this
one doesn’t contain hate speech. Eli gets a lot of anti-Jewish rhetoric.
Those go in a special file.”
“Jesus,” I say weakly. My pulse is racing uncomfortably fast. I
knew Until Proven lawyers had to deal with a lot of crap, but I never
imagined anything like this.
Sandeep pats my shoulder. “Sorry, Knox. I don’t mean to be
blasé. I know these are disconcerting, especially the first time you see
one. It’s par for the course in this line of work, though, and we have
procedures in place to deal with it.” His brow knits in concern as he
takes in my clammy, probably ghost-pale face. “Are you feeling
unsafe? Do you want to go home?”
“No. I’m not worried about me.” I swallow, watching Eli through
a conference room window as he gestures animatedly. “But Eli—”
“Is used to it,” Sandeep says gently. “He chose this line of work,
and he’s not afraid of people like this.” Disgust settles over his
features as he tosses the envelope onto the desk in front of us.
“They’re cowards, really. Hiding behind a screen to threaten and
intimidate, instead of doing something meaningful to improve their
situation.”
I glance at my phone, full of gloating texts from Unknown.
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
—
I’d planned on going straight home after work, but when five o’clock
rolls around I’m still rattled and out of sorts. Where are you? I text
Maeve as I walk toward the elevator, holding my breath to avoid the
pungent aroma of the men’s hair club.
She answers right away. Café Contigo.
Want some company?
Always.
There’s a bus sitting in traffic a few yards ahead of me, and I jog
to make it to the stop as it pulls up. My phone is still in my hand as I
board, and it buzzes when I sit next to an old woman with tight gray
curls. She beams at me as I dig out my earphones and plug them into
my phone, giving her a polite smile before I stuff the buds into my
ears. Not today, Florence.
Imagine Dragons blasts while I read a text from Kiersten.
Download this. New messaging app for family chats. I follow the
link for something called ChatApp. The icon is a text bubble
surrounded by a lock.
Never heard of it, I text back. What’s wrong with the ten apps I
already have?
Kiersten sends a shrug emoji. Idk. Kelsey wants it. Syncs easier
with her laptop or something. Our middle sister is a technology
dinosaur who prefers messaging via computer instead of phone.
Better privacy, too.
Oh good. Wouldn’t want Katie’s top-secret wedding details
to leak.
Ha. Ha. Did Wing Zone fix the chicken yet?
Yes, it’s fully a chicken once more. With a leprechaun hat in
anticipation of St. Patrick’s Day. Kiersten replies with six laughing
emojis and a couple of shamrocks.
I finish downloading the new app, and once I sign up I see four
invitations waiting for me, from Kiersten, Katie, Kelsey, and Kara.
I’m not ready for the sisterly deluge, though, and exit the app
without accepting any of them. It’s practically my stop anyway, so I
get up and make my way to the doors, hanging on to a pole for
balance as we lurch toward the sidewalk.
Café Contigo is just a block away from the bus stop. When I get
inside Maeve is at her usual corner table, a cup of coffee in front of
her and her phone in one hand. I pull out my earbuds and take the
seat across from her. “What’s up?”
She lays her phone down on the table. It vibrates twice. “Not
much. How was work?”
I don’t want to get into the death threats just yet. I’d rather not
think about them. I gesture to her phone, which vibrates again. “Do
you need to get that?”
“No. It’s just Bronwyn, sending pictures from some play she’s
watching. The set’s really great, apparently.”
“Is she into that kind of thing?”
“She thinks I am. Because I did a play once.” Maeve shakes her
head in amused exasperation. “She and my mom are exactly alike.
Any time I show the slightest interest in something, they hope it’s my
new life’s passion.”
A waiter comes by, a tall, thin college student named Ahmed,
and I order a Sprite. I wait until he walks away to ask, “How’s
Bronwyn doing after that whole mess on Friday? Did she and Nate
break up again?”
“I’m not sure you can break up when you never officially got
back together,” Maeve says, resting her chin in her hand with a sigh.
“Bronwyn’s not talking about it. Well, she talked about it at length on
Saturday, but now that she’s back at Yale she’s totally clammed up
about Nate. I swear to God, that place short-circuits all her emotions
or something.” She takes a sip of coffee and makes a wry face. “She
thinks Nate was into it. The kiss from Jules, I mean. Which wasn’t
my read on the situation at all, but Bronwyn won’t listen.”
“Did you tell her it was part of a game?”
“I tried.” Maeve bites her lip. “I didn’t want to go into too much
detail, because she’d freak if she knew there was even a slight
connection to Simon. And she was already so upset about Nate. That
stupid picture Monica took was all over social media this weekend.
Which reminds me…I’ve been meaning to show you something.”
Maeve swipes at her phone a few times, then holds it out to me. “I
found this the other day. You remember that revenge forum Simon
used to post on?” I nod. “Well, this is a new version, except now the
posts disappear after a few hours.”
“What?” My eyebrows shoot up as I take her phone. “How do
you know that?”
“I found it when I was searching Simon’s old user name last
week. There was a post a while back that mentioned Bayview, and
something about a game.” She drums her fingers restlessly on the
table. “I can’t remember exactly what it said. I wish I’d taken a
screenshot, but I didn’t know then that the posts disappear.”
I scan the handful of posts on the page. Somebody named
Jellyfish is seriously pissed off at his teacher. “Okay, so…you think
what, exactly? That this Jellyfish person is running the Truth or Dare
game?”
“Not him specifically,” Maeve says. “That guy seems to have a
one-track mind. But maybe that other poster is involved. It’s weird,
don’t you think? That the texting game starts by referencing Simon,
and then this revenge forum pops up and does the same thing?”
“I guess,” I say uncertainly. Seems kind of tenuous, but then
again, Maeve knows a lot more about tracking vengeful gossips than
I do.
“I should set up a monitoring service or something. Like
PingMe,” she says thoughtfully. At my puzzled expression, she adds,
“A tool that notifies you when a website updates. It’s faster than a
Google Alert. Then I could keep track of these disappearing
conversations.”
Her eyes get a faraway look. Even though I think she’s getting
way too obsessed over a random Internet post, I can tell she won’t
listen if I tell her so. Instead, I hand back her phone without
comment. When she takes it, her sleeve pulls up on her arm,
exposing an angry-looking purple bruise. “Ouch, how’d you get
that?” I ask.
“What?” Maeve follows my eyes, and I hear her breath catch. She
pales and goes so still that she looks like a statue. Then she pushes
her sleeve down as far as it can go, until the bruise is completely
covered. “I don’t know. Just—banged something, I guess.”
“You guess?” Her eyes are on the floor, and unease stirs in my
gut. “When?”
“I don’t remember,” she says.
I run my tongue over dry lips. “Maeve, did…did somebody do
that to you?”
Maeve’s head snaps up, and she lets out a startled, humorless
laugh. “What? Oh my God, Knox, no. I promise, nothing like that
happened.” She looks me straight in the eye, and I relax a little. If
there’s one thing I’ve learned about Maeve, it’s that she’s incapable of
maintaining eye contact when telling even the whitest of lies. You
should never, for example, ask what she thinks of your new haircut if
you’re not fully prepared to handle the truth. I learned that the hard
way when I decided to go a little shorter last week.
“Okay, so…” I pause, because now I can’t remember what we
were talking about, and Maeve’s gaze wanders over my shoulder. She
waves, and I turn around to see a thin boy with strawberry-blond
hair and glasses hovering a few feet away from us.
“Hi, Owen,” Maeve calls. “Phoebe’s not working today.”
“I know. I’m picking up takeout.”
Maeve lowers her voice as Owen approaches the counter. “That’s
Phoebe’s little brother. He comes here a lot after school, even when
he’s not getting food. Just to hang out and talk with Phoebe or Mr.
Santos when they’re not busy. I think he’s kind of lonely.”
Somehow, this whole texting game mess turned Maeve and
Phoebe into friends, which is the only silver lining so far. Maeve’s
been kind of lost since Bronwyn graduated, and Phoebe could use
somebody on her side. Slut-shamey crap about her is still flying
around school, and her friend Jules eats lunch with Monica Hill’s
clique now. I guess Jules found her own silver lining: social climbing
via Truth or Dare success.
Mr. Santos appears from the back and hands Owen a large
brown paper bag, then waves away the bill Owen tries to give him.
“No, mijo, put that away,” he says. “Your money’s no good here. How
is school? Phoebe tells me you have a big spelling bee coming up.”
Owen starts talking a mile a minute, but I’m not really paying
attention because I’m still thinking about the relieved look on his
face when he put the money away. My mom was an insurance
adjuster on Mr. Lawton’s worker’s comp settlement after he died. I
remember her telling my dad, when she didn’t know I was listening,
that she thought the company’s payout for the accident was a lot less
than it should have been. I don’t think Melissa Lawton realizes how
quickly that money will go when nothing’s coming in, she’d said.
When Owen finally turns away from the counter, he has a big
smile on his face. He needed that, I think. Some kind of dad figure,
or a big brother, maybe. I get it. I know what it’s like to grow up
surrounded by older sisters who might be great but can’t tell you how
you’re supposed to function as a guy in the twenty-first century.
When Owen passes by our table I find myself saying, “Hey, do you
like Bounty Wars?”
Owen pauses and gestures to his T-shirt with his free hand. “Um,
yeah.”
“Me too. I’m Knox, by the way. I go to school with Phoebe.”
Maeve nods and smiles, like she’s confirming my trustworthiness.
“Who’s your avatar?” I ask.
Owen looks a little cautious, but answers me readily enough.
“Dax Reaper.”
“Mine too. What level are you on?”
“Fifteen.”
“Damn, really? I can’t get past twelve.”
Owen’s entire face lights up. “It’s all about weapon choice,” he
says earnestly, and then bam, he’s off. The two of us talk Bounty
Wars strategy until I notice the bag he’s holding is starting to soak
through with grease from whatever’s inside. “You should probably
get that home, huh?” I say. “People must be waiting for dinner.”
“I guess.” Owen shifts from one foot to the other. “Are you and
Phoebe friends?”
Good question. Not exactly, although now that Phoebe is
spending more time with Maeve at school she is also, by default,
spending more time with me. In the snake pit that Bayview High has
turned into lately, that’s probably close enough. “Yeah, sure.”
“You should come over and play Bounty Wars with us
sometime. I’ll tell Phoebe to invite you. See ya.” Owen waves as he
turns away. Maeve, who’d been scrolling through her phone the
whole time, nudges my knee with hers.
“That was really nice,” she says.
“Stop calling me that,” I grumble, and she smiles.
A tall kid with shaggy brown hair comes through the door,
holding it open for Owen to slip out under his arm. He scans the
room, his eyes flicking past me and Maeve without much interest and
pausing on a waitress arranging condiment baskets in the back. He
looks like he’s only a year or two older than I am, but there’s
something a little too intense about his gaze. Mr. Santos, counting
receipts at the register, glances up and seems to notice it too. “Good
evening,” he calls.
The guy crosses half the dining room with his eyes still on the
waitress’s back. She turns, displaying a middle-aged face that doesn’t
match her bouncy ponytail. Intense Guy shifts his attention to Mr.
Santos. “Yo, Phoebe here?” His voice is too loud for the small space.
Mr. Santos leans on the counter, arms folded. “I can help you
with whatever you need, son,” he says. No mijo for this kid.
“I’m looking for Phoebe. She works here, right?” Mr. Santos
doesn’t answer right away, and the guy’s jaw gets tense. He shoves
his hands into the pockets of his green hunting jacket. “You
understand English or what, señor?” he asks in a mocking Spanish
accent.
Maeve sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth, but Mr.
Santos’s pleasant expression doesn’t change. “I understand you
perfectly.”
“Then answer my question,” the kid says.
“If you have a food order, I am happy to take it,” Mr. Santos says
in the same even tone.
“Look, old man—” The kid strides forward, then stops short
when Luis and Manny emerge from the kitchen one after the other.
Luis pulls a towel from his shoulder and snaps it hard between his
hands, making every muscle in his arms stand out. It’s probably the
wrong time to wish I had another guy’s moves, but damn, Luis is
smooth. Somehow, he manages to come across like Captain America
while wearing a grease-spattered T-shirt and a bandana.
Maeve notices, too. She’s practically fanning herself across the
table.
Manny’s not as athletic as his brother, but he’s big and burly and
plenty intimidating when he crosses his arms and scowls. Like he’s
doing now. “They need you in the kitchen, Pa,” he says, his eyes
locked on Intense Guy. “We’ll take over out here for a while.”
Intense Guy might be an ass, but he’s not stupid. He turns right
around and leaves.
Maeve’s eyes linger on the counter until Luis goes back into the
kitchen, and then she turns toward me. “What the hell was that
about?” she says. Her phone vibrates again, and she makes a
frustrated sound in her throat. “God, Bronwyn, give it a rest. I don’t
care about set design nearly as much as you think I do.” She picks up
her phone and angles it so she can see the screen clearly, then pales.
“Oh no.”
“What?” I ask.
She holds her phone toward me, amber eyes wide. Maeve Rojas,
you’re up next! Text back your choice: Should I reveal a Truth, or
will you take a Dare?
CHAPTER TEN
Maeve
Tuesday, March 3
If I text you a Truth or Dare prompt, you have 24 hours to make a
choice.
I’m at Café Contigo with a full cup of coffee that’s gone ice cold
because I keep rereading the About That post with the Truth or Dare
rules. It’s three fifteen on Tuesday, which means I have a little less
than three hours before the “deadline.” Not that I care. I’m not doing
it, obviously. I was in the middle of the whole Simon mess, and I
refuse to take part in anything that makes light of what happened. It
was a tragedy, not a joke, and it’s sick that someone is trying to spin
it into a fun game. I won’t be Unknown’s pawn, and they can do
whatever they want in return because I don’t have anything to hide.
Plus, in the grand scheme of things: who cares about Unknown.
I toggle away from About That to Key Contacts in my list of
phone numbers. There are five: my parents, Bronwyn, Knox, and my
oncologist. I press my fingertips against the large purple bruise on
my forearm and can almost hear Dr. Gutierrez’s voice: Early
treatment is absolutely critical. It’s why you’re still here.
I dial his number before I can think too much about it. A woman
picks up almost instantly. “Ramon Gutierrez’s office.”
“Hi. I have a question about, um, diagnostics.”
“Are you a patient of Dr. Gutierrez?”
“Yes. I was wondering if…” I scrunch down in my seat and lower
my voice. “Theoretically, if I wanted to get some tests run to…sort of
check my remission status, is that the kind of thing that I could do
without my parents being involved? If I’m not eighteen.”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “Could you tell me
your name and your date of birth, please?”
I grip the phone more tightly in my suddenly sweaty palm. “Can
you answer my question first?”
“Parental consent is required for treatment of minors, but if you
could—”
I hang up. That’s what I figured. I turn my arm so I can’t see the
bruise anymore. Last night I found one on my upper thigh, too. Just
looking at them fills me with dread.
A shadow falls across my table, and I look up to see Luis
standing there. “I’m staging an intervention,” he says.
I blink, confused. Luis is entirely out of context in my mental
space right now, and I have to forcibly shove away thoughts of cancer
wards and anonymous texting before I can focus on him. Even then,
I’m not sure I heard right. “What?”
“Remember that outdoors you don’t believe in? I’m going to
prove you wrong. Let’s go.” He gestures toward the door, then folds
his arms. After the scene with Mr. Santos and the rude kid yesterday,
I kind of can’t stop looking at them. Maybe Luis could do that towel
snap another two or three or twenty times.
He waits for a response, then sighs. “Conversations usually
involve more than one person, Maeve.”
I manage to unfreeze my tongue. “Go where?”
“Outside,” Luis says patiently. As though he’s speaking to a small
and not particularly smart child.
“Don’t you have to work?”
“Not till five.”
My phone sits on the table in front of me, mocking me with its
silence. Maybe if I call again, I’ll get a different person and a different
answer. “I don’t know…”
“Come on. What do you have to lose?”
Luis gives one of his megawatt smiles, and what do you know,
I’m on my feet. Like I said: I have no defense against his particular
demographic. “What did you have in mind, in this alleged outdoors?”
“I’ll show you,” Luis says, holding open the door. I look left and
right when we hit the sidewalk, wondering which way we’re going to
walk, but Luis pauses at a parking meter and starts unchaining a
bicycle leaning against it.
“Um. Is that yours?” I ask.
“No. I pick locks on random bikes for fun,” Luis says, detaching
the chain and looping it beneath the bike’s seat. He flashes me a grin
when he’s finished. “Of course it’s mine. We’re about a mile from
where I want to take you.”
“Okay, but—” I gesture at the empty space around us. “I don’t
have a bike. I drove here.”
“You can ride with me.” He straddles the bike so he’s standing in
front of the seat, hands on the outer edge of the bars to hold the
frame steady. “Hop on.”
“Hop—where?” He just looks at me, expectant. “You mean the
handlebars?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you do that when you were a kid?” Luis asks. Like
he’s not talking to somebody who spent most of their childhood in
and out of hospitals. It’s sort of refreshing, especially now, but the
fact remains that I don’t even know how to ride a bike the normal
way.
“We’re not kids,” I hedge. “I won’t fit.”
“Sure you will. I do this all the time with my brothers, and
they’re bigger than you are.”
“With Manny?” I ask, unable to keep a straight face at the
mental image.
Luis laughs, too. “I meant the younger ones, but sure. I could
haul Manny’s ass if I had to.” I keep hesitating, unable to picture how
any of this is supposed to work, and his confident smile fades a little.
“Or we could just walk somewhere.”
“No, this is great,” I say, because Luis with a disappointed face is
just too weird. People who never get told no are so bad at hearing it.
Anyway, how hard can it be, right? The saying It’s as easy as riding a
bike must exist for a reason. “I’ll just…hop on.” I gaze uneasily at the
handlebars, which don’t strike me as having any seatlike properties,
and decide there’s no way I can bluff my way through this. “How do I
do that, exactly?”
Luis slips into coaching mode without missing a beat. “Face
away from me and step over the front wheel, with one leg on either
side,” he instructs. It’s a little awkward, but I do it. “Put your hands
behind you and grab hold of the handlebars. Brace yourself, like
this.” His hands, warm and rough, close briefly over mine. “Now
push down to lift yourself up and—yeah!” He laughs, startled, when I
rise in one fluid motion to perch on the handlebars. Even I’m not
sure how I did that. “You got it. Pro skills.”
It’s not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever done, and it feels
more than a little precarious. Especially when Luis starts pedaling.
“Oh my God, we’re going to die,” I gasp involuntarily, squeezing my
eyes shut. But then Luis’s chin is on my shoulder as a cool breeze hits
my face and honestly, there are much worse ways to go.
He’s a fast and assured cyclist, navigating a nonstop route to the
bike path behind Bayview Center. The path is wide and almost
empty, but every once in a while a speck appears ahead of us and
then, before I know it, Luis has passed whoever it is. When he finally
slows and says “Hang on tight, we’re about to stop,” I see a wroughtiron gate and a wooden sign beside it that reads BAYVIEW ARBORETUM.
My descent is a lot less graceful, but Luis doesn’t seem to notice
as he chains the bike to a post. “This okay?” he asks, pulling a water
bottle from the bike’s holder and drinking half of it in a few gulps. “I
thought we could walk around for a while.”
“It’s perfect. I don’t come here often enough.”
We start down a smooth gravel path lined with cherry blossom
trees that are just starting to bloom. “I love it here,” Luis says,
shading his eyes against the afternoon sun. “It’s so peaceful. I come
here whenever I need to think.”
I sneak a glance at him, all bronzed skin and broad shoulders
and that quick, easy smile. I never imagined that Luis was the sort of
person who would go somewhere because he wanted a quiet place to
think. “What do you think about?”
“Oh, you know,” Luis says seriously. “Deep, profound things
about humanity and the state of the universe. I have those kind of
thoughts all the time.” I tilt my head at him, eyebrows raised in a go
on gesture, and he meets my eyes with a grin. “I’m not having any
right now, though. Give me a minute.”
I smile back. It’s impossible not to. “How about when you’re not
pondering existential crises? What sort of ordinary things do you
worry about?”
“Staying on top of everything,” he says instantly. “Like, I have a
full load of classes this semester plus extra practicum because I’m
trying to graduate early. I work twenty to thirty hours a week at
Contigo, depending on how much my parents need me. And I still
play baseball every once in a while. Just pickup games with guys
from school, nothing like the schedule I was on when I played at
Bayview with Cooper, but we’re trying to get a league together. Oh,
and I help out with my brothers’ Little League team sometimes. It’s
all good, but it’s a lot. Sometimes I forget where I’m supposed to be,
you know?”
I don’t know. When Luis was at Bayview, I thought all he did was
play sports and go to parties. “I had no idea how much you have
going on,” I say.
He glances toward me as we approach a rose garden. It’s early in
the season and most buds are just starting to open, but a few showoffs are in full bloom. “Is that a polite way of saying you thought I
was a dumb jock?”
“Of course not!” I stare at the roses so I don’t have to meet his
eyes, because I totally did. I always thought Luis was a nice enough
guy by Bayview athlete standards—especially when he stood by
Cooper when the rest of Cooper’s friends turned on him their senior
year—but not much else.
Except gorgeous, obviously. He’s always been that. Now he’s
tossing out all these hidden depths and making himself even more
appealing, which is frankly a little unfair. It’s not like my crush needs
more encouragement. “I just didn’t realize you had your life figured
out already,” I tell him. “I’m impressed.”
“I don’t, really. I just do stuff I like and see how it goes.”
“You make it sound so easy.” I can’t keep the wistful tone out of
my voice.
“What about you?” Luis asks. “What do you spend your time
thinking about?”
Lately? You. “The philosophical underpinnings of Western
civilization. Obviously.”
“Obviously. That goes without saying. What else?”
Dying. I catch myself before it slips out. Try to keep the
conversation a little less morbid, Maeve. Whether something
horrifying is going to be texted to hundreds of my classmates in, oh,
about two point five hours. God. It hits me, all of a sudden, that Luis
has been nothing but straightforward with me, and I can’t manage to
tell him a single true thing. I’m too wrapped up in self-doubt and
secrets.
“It’s not a trick question,” Luis says, and I realize that I’ve been
silent all the way through the rose garden. We’re in a mini-meadow
of wildflowers—all bright colors and tangled greens—and I still
haven’t told him what I spend my time thinking about. “You can say
anything. Music, cat memes, Harry Potter, empanadas.” He shoots
me a grin. “Me.”
My stomach does a flip that I try to ignore. “You caught me. I
was just wondering how many flowers it would take to spell your
name out in rose petals across the lawn.”
“Fifteen,” Luis says instantly, then gives me a look of wide-eyed
innocence when I snort. “What? It’s a very common occurrence. The
gardeners won’t even let me come here during peak season.”
My lips twitch. “Tienes el ego por las nubes, Luis,” I say, and he
smiles.
His hand brushes against mine, so quickly that I can’t tell if it’s
on purpose or by accident. Then he says, “You know, I almost asked
you out last year.” My entire body goes hot, and I’m positive I heard
him wrong until he adds, “Coop didn’t want me to, though.”
My pulse starts fluttering wildly. “Cooper?” I blurt out. What the
hell? My love life, or lack thereof, is none of Cooper’s damn business.
“Why?”
Luis laughs a little. “He was being protective. Not a fan of my
track record with girls when we were in school. And he didn’t think I
was serious about making a change.” We’re halfway past the
wildflowers, and Luis glances at me sideways. “I was, though.”
My breathing gets shallow. What does that mean? I could ask, I
guess. It’s a perfectly valid question, especially since he’s the one who
brought it up. Or I could say what’s running through my head right
now, which is I wish you’d followed through. Want to try again?
Instead, I find myself forcing out a laugh and saying, “Oh well, you
know Cooper. He always has to be everyone’s dad, doesn’t he? Father
knows best.”
Luis shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he says, his voice
low and threaded with what almost sounds like disappointment. “I
guess he does.”
Bronwyn used to tell me, when we were younger, that I had
crushes on unattainable boys because they were safe. “You like the
dream, not the reality,” she’d say. “So you can keep your distance.”
And I’d roll my eyes at her, because it’s not like she’d ever had a
boyfriend back then either. But maybe she had a point, because all I
can bring myself to say is, “Well, thanks for the intervention. You
were right. I needed it.”
“Any time,” Luis says, sounding like his usual carefree self. It
hits me with dull certainty that if there was any chance for something
to happen between us, I just let it pass.
—
After dinner, I’m restless and anxious. There are now three items on
my list of Things I Can’t Stand to Think About: nosebleeds and
bruises, the Truth or Dare prompt that’s hitting its deadline in fifteen
minutes, and the fact that I’m an utter emotional coward. If I don’t
do something that at least feels productive, I’m going to crawl right
out of my skin. So I take out my laptop and perch on my window
seat, then plug my earbuds into my phone and call Knox.
“Is there a reason you’re using voice technology?” he asks by way
of greeting. “This is such a disconcerting mode of communication.
It’s weird trying to keep a conversation rolling without nonverbal
cues or spell check.”
“Nice speaking with you too, Knox,” I say drily. “Sorry, but I’m
on my laptop and I need my hands free. You can let the conversation
lapse at any point.” I type a bunch of search terms into Google and
add, “Have you ever wondered how somebody can block their
number from showing up in a text?”
“Is that a rhetorical question or are you going to tell me?”
“I’m looking it up right now.” I wait a few beats until my screen
fills. “There are three ways, according to wikiHow.”
“Are you sure wikiHow is the authority on this subject?”
“It’s a starting point.” I clear my throat. To be honest, it’s
embarrassing to remember how eighteen months ago, I was hacking
into Simon’s About That control panel to grab evidence the police
had missed, and now? I’m Googling wikiHow entries. I wish I
understood mobile technology half as well as computer and network
systems. “So, this says you can use a messaging website, an app, or
an email address.”
“Okay. And this is helpful why?”
“It’s foundational knowledge. The more important question is,
how do you trace a number from an anonymous message?” I frown at
my screen. “Ugh, the top Google result is from three years ago. That’s
not a good sign.”
Knox is quiet for a while as I read, and then he says, “Maeve, if
you’re worried about Unknown then maybe you should just text back
Dare. Those are harmless.”
“Jules kissing Nate wasn’t harmless.”
“True,” Knox concedes. “But it could have been in different
circumstances. If Nate and Bronwyn were solid, she might’ve been
annoyed at Jules planting one on her boyfriend, but she would’ve
gotten over it. She wouldn’t have been mad at him for it, anyway. Or
Jules could’ve picked someone else and made it into more of a
friendly thing. Like a kiss on the cheek.” His voice turns musing. “Or
maybe that would have been considered cheating the game.”
A window pops onto my screen, and I pause. It’s a PingMe alert:
The website you are monitoring has been updated. I’ve been getting
these constantly for Vengeance Is Mine, on both my phone and my
laptop, and I’m starting to regret setting it up. There’s nothing
useful, just lots of creepy venting. At least Jellyfish seems to have
calmed down lately. Still, I open a new browser tab anyway and type
in the familiar URL.
This time, there’s a string of posts by someone named
Darkestmind—and as soon as I see the name, I recognize it as the
person who piqued my interest in the first place. The one who
mentioned Simon, and Bayview.
“Knox,” I say eagerly. “Darkestmind is posting again.”
“Huh? Who’s doing what?”
“On the revenge forum,” I say, and hear Knox sigh through the
phone.
“Are you still stalking that place?”
“Shh. I’m reading.” I scan the short string of posts:
Cheers to all of us who are GETTING SHIT DONE this week.
And by us, I mean Bayview2020 and me.
Tip for the uninitiated: don’t screw with us.
“He’s talking about Bayview again,” I report. “Or more
specifically, someone who has Bayview in their user name. I’ll bet it’s
someone who goes to school with us.”
“Or—now, this is just a thought, but hear me out—maybe it’s a
weird Simon fanboy who uses the name because they’re a weird
Simon fanboy. Which we know, because they’re hanging out on a
weird Simon fanboy subforum,” Knox says.
I take a screenshot of the posts before hitting Refresh. “Are you
being sarcastic?” I ask mildly. I’m not surprised Knox isn’t taking me
seriously; Bronwyn didn’t either until my research made national
news on Mikhail Powers Investigates.
“Very.”
When the page reloads, I yell so loudly and triumphantly that
Knox lets out a muted “ow” on the other end of the line. “AHA! I
knew it!” I say, my chest thumping with excitement. “There’s a new
post from Darkestmind and listen to what it says: I’ve always
wanted to out-Simon Simon and damn it, I think I have. More to
come soon. Tick-tock. Tick-freaking-tock, Knox! That’s exactly what
Unknown says when they’re getting ready to send another Truth or
Dare prompt. It’s the same person!”
“Okay. That is admittedly interesting,” Knox says. “Could be a
coincidence, though.”
“No way. There are no coincidences when it comes to this sort of
thing. He mentioned Simon, too, so there’s that whole gossip-as-aweapon connection. This is our guy.”
“Great. So now what? How do you find out who Darkestmind
actually is?”
Some of my excitement ebbs away. “Well. That’s Phase Two,
obviously, and I will get to that…later.”
Knox’s voice fades, like he’s holding his phone at a distance.
“Okay, yeah, sorry. I’ll be right there.” He returns at normal volume.
“I have to go. I’m at work.”
“You are?” I ask, surprised. “Don’t you have play rehearsal
tonight?”
“Yeah, but there’s a ton going on at Until Proven and my
understudy could use the practice, so I skipped.” Knox says it like it’s
no big deal, but I can’t remember him ever missing a rehearsal
before. “Listen, Maeve, it’s almost six, so—if you’re gonna text back
Dare, now would be the time.”
“No way. I told you, I’m not playing their game.” Even as I say it,
though, I swallow hard and look at the clock on my laptop. Five fifty-
nine.
I can’t tell if Knox’s answering sigh is frustrated or resigned.
“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Phoebe
Tuesday, March 3
Emma, the queen of punctuality, is late.
I’ve been standing at her locker for five minutes after last bell,
and there’s no sign of her. We’re supposed to go to Owen’s spelling
bee together—presenting a united front so Mom can stay clueless
about the fact that we’re not speaking—but I’m starting to get the
uneasy feeling that my sister has ditched me.
Two more minutes, I decide. Then I’ll call it, and walk.
I shift a few feet to my right to scan the hallway bulletin board
while I wait. BE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO MAKES EVERYBODY FEEL LIKE
SOMEBODY, a rainbow-lettered poster tells me, except someone’s
crossed out SOMEBODY and written SHIT under it.
Oh, Bayview High. You are nothing if not consistent.
A shoulder bumps mine, and I half turn. “Sorry!” Monica Hill
says breezily. She’s in her basketball cheerleading uniform, her
platinum hair pulled back with a purple-and-white ribbon. “Checking
out your ad? It’s so nice that you and Emma are going into business
together.”
“We’re not,” I say curtly. I have no idea what she’s talking about,
but it doesn’t matter. Monica is tight with Sean and Brandon, so her
fake-friendly act doesn’t fool me. Besides, she’s been trying to steal
my best friend for weeks. And succeeding, I guess, considering Jules
told her about the Dare instead of me.
Monica’s lips curl into a small smile. “Your flyer says different.”
She reaches across me and taps a familiar pale-blue sheet of paper
that says Emma Lawton Tutoring across the top. My sister puts
them up all over school, with her phone number and a list of
subjects: mathematics, chemistry/biology, Spanish. But this
particular ad says more than that, in a Sharpie scrawl beneath
Emma’s neat printing:
Threesomes (special offer with Phoebe Lawton)
Contact us on Instagram!
I swallow against the lump in my throat as I stare silently at my
Instagram handle written across the bottom of the page. Payback
from Brandon, I guess, for me throwing him out of the apartment
last week. That asshole.
There’s no way I’m giving Monica the satisfaction of a reaction,
though. Whatever I do or say right now is going straight back to
Brandon. “Don’t you have a game to go to?” I ask. Then a hand
reaches over my shoulder, catching the blue sheet by one corner and
yanking it off the bulletin board.
I turn to see Emma in her usual headband and oxford shirt, her
face a smooth mask as she crumples the ad in one palm. “Excuse
me,” she says to a smirking Monica. “You’re trash. I mean, you’re
blocking the trash.” Emma reaches around Monica to toss the paper
ball into a recycling bin, then tilts her head toward me, still perfectly
calm. “Sorry I was late. I had a few questions for Mr. Bose after
history. Ready to leave?”
“Ready.”
I follow her long strides down the hallway, almost running to
keep up. My mind is churning as we go. Does this mean Emma
forgives me? Or at least doesn’t hate me anymore? “Thanks for that,”
I say, my voice low as we push through the doors leading to the
parking lot.
Emma slides me a sideways glance that’s not friendly, exactly,
but it’s not angry, either. “Some people take things too far,” she says.
“There are limits. There have to be limits.”
—
The auditorium at Granger Middle School is exactly like I remember:
stuffy, overly bright, and smelling like musty fabric and pencil
shavings. The front half of the room is filled with folding chairs, and I
spot Mom waving energetically from the third row as soon as Emma
and I enter. A heavy curtain is pulled across the stage, and a middleaged woman in a baggy cardigan and knee-length skirt steps through
it. “We’ll be starting in just a few minutes,” she calls, but nobody
pays attention. Mom keeps waving until we’re practically on top of
her, then pulls her bag and her coat from the two seats beside her,
shifting her knees to one side so we can get past her and take our
seats.
“Perfect timing,” she says. My mother looks pretty today, her
dark hair spilling around an autumn-toned scarf that makes her olive
skin glow. The sight of it cheers me up, because it reminds me of
what my mother was like when I went to Granger Middle School—
always the best-dressed parent at every school event. Mom has a lot
of natural style, but she hasn’t made much of an effort since Dad
died. Working on Ashton and Eli’s wedding has definitely been good
for her state of mind. She plucks lightly at Emma’s sleeve and adds,
“I could use your help with a couple of wedding tasks.”
Emma and Mom put their heads together, and I surreptitiously
take out my phone. Emma actually talked to me on the ride over, and
I didn’t want to spoil our fragile truce by checking Instagram. But I
need to know how much shit I’m getting.
Notifications flood my screen as soon as I pull up my account.
So, a lot.
My last post was a work selfie that got twenty comments. Now it
has more than a hundred. I read the first one—yes hi sign me up for
threesomes 101 please—and immediately click away.
“Welcome, families, to Granger Middle School’s annual spelling
bee!” My heart is already thudding against my rib cage, and the loud
voice booming through a microphone ratchets it up another notch.
It’s the same woman who spoke before, standing behind a lectern on
one corner of the auditorium stage. Ten kids, Owen included, are
arranged in a line beside her. “Let me introduce the scholars who will
be dazzling you with their spelling prowess today. First up is our only
sixth-grader in the contest, Owen Lawton!”
I clap loudly until the principal moves on to the next kid, then
return my attention to my phone. It’s like I just yanked off a
bandage, and now I can’t help but poke the wound beneath. I set my
Instagram account to private, which I obviously should have done a
week ago, and scroll to my message requests. They’re full of guys I
don’t know begging me to “tutor” them. One of them just puts a
phone number. Does that ever work? Has any girl in the history of
the world texted a stranger because he slid his digits into her DMs?
I’m about to hit Decline All and erase them from my account forever
when a name at the bottom of the screen catches my eye.
Derekculpepper01 Hi, it’s Derek. I was
That’s all I can see without opening the message. Ugh, what does
Emma’s ex want? We haven’t spoken since the night in Jules’s
laundry room. We never exchanged numbers, obviously, or he
wouldn’t be going through Instagram now. If he’s going to apologize
for telling someone about us, I don’t care. Too late.
I eye Decline All again, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Hi,
it’s Derek. I was hoping we could talk sometime. Can you text me?
With a phone number.
Well, that raises more questions than it answers.
I cup my hand around my phone so it blocks the screen from
Emma’s line of sight and navigate to Derek’s profile. He has literally
no selfies. His entire Instagram feed is pictures of food or his dog.
Who does that? It’s not as if he’s terrible-looking. Just sort of
unmemorable.
Emma coughs lightly, and I sneak another look at her. I would
rather chop my own arm off and beat myself senseless with it than
talk to Derek Culpepper again, and I’m pretty sure Emma feels the
same way. That leaves Derek as the only person in our twisted
triangle who’s interested in reopening the channels of
communication, and nobody cares about him.
“And now let’s begin with our first word of the day, for Owen
Lawton. Owen, can you spell bizarre for us, please?”
I look up just in time to catch Owen’s eye as he grins and gives
me what he thinks is a stealthy thumbs-up. I put my phone away and
try to smile back.
—
A couple of hours later, Mom is at a Golden Rings wedding planner
meeting and Emma and I are in our room. I’m stretched out on my
bed with a textbook on my lap, and Emma is at her desk with
headphones on, her head bobbing silently to whatever music she’s
playing. We’re not being social, exactly, but everything feels less
tense than it has for a while.
A knock sounds on our door, and Owen pokes his head in.
“Hey,” I say, sitting up. “Congratulations again, brainiac.”
“Thanks,” Owen says modestly as Emma pulls her headphones
off. “It wasn’t really a contest, though. Nobody else at that school can
spell.”
“Alex Chen made a solid showing,” Emma points out.
Owen looks unconvinced. “You’d think an eighth-grader would
know how to spell parallel, though.” He perches on the edge of my
bed and angles toward me. “Phoebe, I forgot to tell you.” His glasses
are a mess of smudges, so I pull them off and wipe the lenses with
the hem of my T-shirt. His eyes look unfinished without them. “You
have to invite your friend over. Knox something?”
“I have to—what?” I blink in surprise as I hand his glasses back.
He settles them unevenly on his nose. “How do you know Knox?”
“I met him at Café Contigo. He plays Bounty Wars,” Owen says,
like that’s all the explanation I should require.
Emma wrinkles her brow at me. “You and Knox Myers are
friends?”
“We’re friend-adjacent,” I say.
She nods approvingly. “He seems like a good guy.”
“He is,” I say, and turn back to Owen. “Why do you want me to
invite Knox over?”
“So we can play Bounty Wars. We talked about it at Café
Contigo,” Owen explains, and now all of this is starting to make
sense. My brother misreads social cues a lot. Knox was probably
being nice, asking about Owen’s favorite game while he waited for
our food to be ready. I don’t know Knox well, but he seems that type:
the sort of boy parents love because he’s friendly to kids and old
people. Polite, clean-cut, and completely nonthreatening.
It confused me when I realized he and Maeve were going out a
while back, because they made such an odd couple. She’s the subtle
kind of pretty that slides under the radar, but once you start noticing
her you wonder how you missed it. Maybe it’s the eyes; I’ve never
seen that dark-honey color on anyone else. Or the way she sort of
glides around Bayview High like she’s just passing through and
doesn’t worry about the same kind of stuff the rest of us do. No
wonder Luis Santos can’t take his eyes off her. Them I can see
together. They match.
It’s a shallow way to look at things, but that doesn’t make it less
true.
Knox has potential, though. Add a few pounds, get a better
haircut, amp up the confidence, and—wham. Knox Myers could be a
heartbreaker, someday. Just not yet.
Owen is still looking at me expectantly. “Knox and I aren’t really
the kind of friends who go to each other’s houses,” I tell him.
His lower lip juts out in a pout. “Why not? You let Brandon
come over.”
My chest constricts at the memory of Brandon’s slimy tongue
trying to invade my mouth. “That’s not—”
“Brandon Weber?” Owen and I both jump as Emma’s voice
spikes an octave. “That creep was in our apartment? Why?” I don’t
answer, and her expression gradually morphs from horrified to
thunderous. “Oh my God. Is that who you’ve been hooking up with
lately?”
“Can we not do this right now?” I say, with a pointed glance
toward Owen.
But Emma’s face has gone red and splotchy, which is always a
bad sign. She yanks her headphones from around her neck and
stands up, stalking toward me like she’s about to shove me across my
bed and into the wall. I almost flinch before she stops a foot away,
hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ, Phoebe. You are such an idiot.
Brandon Weber is a piece of shit who doesn’t care about anyone
except himself. You know that, right?”
I gape at her, hurt and confused. I thought we were finally
getting past the Derek situation, and now she’s mad at me about
Brandon? Did she…Oh God. Oh please no. “Were you involved with
Brandon too?” I burst out.
Emma’s mouth drops open. “Are you for real? I would never.
Can you honestly think—no, of course you can’t. That’s the problem,
isn’t it? You don’t think. You just do. Whatever you want.” She goes
back to her desk, piling her notebook on top of our laptop and
hugging them both to her chest. “I’m going to the library. I can’t get
anything done in this shithole.”
She leaves, slamming the door behind her, and Owen stares after
her. “Are you guys ever gonna stop being mad at each other?” he
asks.
I let my shoulders slump, too tired to pretend I don’t know what
he’s talking about. “Eventually. Probably.”
Owen kicks his legs back and forth so his sneakers scuff against
the floor. “Everything’s ruined, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice so low it’s
barely audible. “Our whole family. We have been since Dad died.”
“Owen, no!” I wrap an arm around his thin shoulders and pull
him toward me, but he’s so stiff that he just leans uncomfortably
against my side. Everything in me aches as it hits me, all of a sudden,
how long it’s been since I hugged my brother. Or my sister. “Of
course we’re not ruined. We’re fine. Emma and I are just going
through a rough patch.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re too little, too
late. I should’ve been comforting Owen for the past three years, not
just the past three minutes.
Owen disentangles himself from my arm and gets to his feet.
“I’m not a little kid anymore, Phoebe. I know when you’re lying.” He
opens the door and slips through, shutting it more quietly than
Emma did, but just as emphatically.
I flop down on my bed and stare at the clock on my wall. How is
it only seven o’clock? This day has been going on forever.
A text tone chimes from somewhere in the depths of my tangled
comforter. I don’t have the energy to sit up, so I just root around with
one hand until I find my phone and drag it a few inches from my
face.
Unknown: Tsk, no response from our latest player.
That means you forfeit, Maeve Rojas.
Now I get to reveal one of your secrets in true About That style.
My eyes go wide. Maeve didn’t tell me she’d been picked, even
though we’ve been hanging out at school lately. That girl is either
seriously reserved or has avoidance issues. Maybe both.
Still, there’s nothing to worry about. Maeve isn’t full of
embarrassing secrets, like me. Unknown will probably just rehash
that old story about her puking in some basketball player’s basement
when she was a freshman. Or maybe it’ll be about her crush on Luis,
although that’s so glaringly obvious that it doesn’t really qualify as a
secret. Either way, I wish the text would come through so I can stop
obsessing over this stupid game.
And then it does.
Unknown’s latest piece of gossip fills my screen. I blink five or
six times, but I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. No. No way. Oh no.
Oh hell no.
The omg what?!? messages start pouring in, so fast I can’t keep
up with them. I bolt upright and scramble to press Maeve’s number,
but she doesn’t pick up. I’m not surprised. Right now, there’s another
call she’d better be making.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Knox
Tuesday, March 3
The guy in King’s Landing is sweating up a storm. Twitching,
rocking, constantly rubbing one hand over his jaw while he talks with
Sandeep in the closed conference room. “It’s weird how guilty
innocent people can look, sometimes,” I say to Bethany Okonjo, a
law student who’s one of Until Proven’s paralegals.
We’re stationed at a desk outside the conference room, collating
news coverage about the D’Agostino case. Bethany shrugs and
reaches into a drawer for more staples. “And vice versa, right?” she
says. “Guilty people can look innocent as hell. Take our friend here.”
She holds up a long feature article about Sergeant Carl D’Agostino,
accompanied by a picture of him wearing his cop uniform and a big
grin. His arm is around a college-aged kid who’s holding a plaque.
“Funny how they use this, and not his mug shot,” she adds, tossing
her braids over one shoulder. “None of the people he framed got that
kind of kid-glove treatment when they were arrested.”
I glance at the caption under the photo. The week before his
arrest, Sergeant Carl D’Agostino commended San Diego State
University students for excellence in community peer mentoring. “I
never really thought about it that way,” I say, scanning the first few
paragraphs of the article. “But you’re right. This is all about what a
great guy he was until—whoops, major scandal. Like he just
accidentally stumbled into framing seventeen people.”
I add the article to my pile and glance at the clock on the wall
next to the conference room. It’s almost seven at night. I’ve never
stayed this late, but I’m starting to think I’m the only person at Until
Proven who leaves on time. The office is still buzzing, every desk full
and littered with empty pizza boxes and Coke cans. Bethany picks up
her discarded crust and nibbles on the edge. “They gave that
classmate of yours the same treatment. Jake Riordan, remember
him?” Like I could forget. “Star athlete involved in Simon Kelleher
case,” Bethany says in her newscaster voice. “Oh, you mean involved
like how he tried to kill his girlfriend? That kind of involved?”
“That was bullshit,” I agree.
Bethany snorts. “The justice system works very differently when
you’re white, male, rich, and good-looking.” She nudges the last piece
of pizza toward me. “Good to know, I guess, if you ever decide to turn
to a life of crime.”
I pick up the slice, but it’s so cold and congealed that I can’t
bring myself to take a bite. “I’m only two of those things.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, kid.”
Eli passes by, holding a phone with a familiar case that he waves
at me. “Knox. This is yours, right? You left it in the copy room. Also,
Maeve is calling.” He looks at my screen. “Was calling. You just
missed her.”
I thought my phone had been strangely quiet. “Sorry about that,”
I say, taking it from him. I register a surprising number of texts
before I lay it on my desk like a busy professional who doesn’t have
time for Bayview High gossip. Eli finally knows my name and has
started giving me more interesting stuff to do. I don’t want to blow it
by acting like a phone-obsessed teenager in front of him. Even
though I am. “Do you need anything?”
Eli runs a hand through his newly shorn hair. “I need you to go
home. There are child labor laws, or so Sandeep keeps telling me,
and we’re probably violating them. Especially since we’re not paying
you. Anyway, call Maeve back and then get out of here, all right?
Everything else can wait until tomorrow.” He glances at Bethany,
who’s still stapling news articles. “Bethany, can you sit down with me
and review next week’s court schedule?”
“Yeah, sure.” She gazes around the crowded office. “Should we
go in Winterfell?”
Eli rolls his eyes. He’s never going to get used to those names.
“Fine.”
They leave, and I eye my phone warily. I really do hate making
calls, but maybe Maeve’s on her laptop again and can’t text. I press
her name, and she picks up before it’s even rung once.
“Oh thank God.” Her voice is low, breathless. “I was afraid you
wouldn’t call me back.”
The sweaty guy is pacing circles around Sandeep in the
conference room, distracting me. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m only kidding
about being allergic to phone calls. Mostly.” The line goes so silent
that I think we’ve been disconnected. “Maeve? You there?”
“I…yeah. Um, what are you up to?”
“Still at work, but I’m gonna leave soon.”
“Okay. Right. Have you…” She trails off, and I think I hear an
audible gulp. “Have you been checking your phone?”
“No. I left it in the copy room for, like, an hour. What’s up?” I
look at the wall clock again, and it hits me. “Shit. Your Truth or Dare
text came, didn’t it? What did it say? Are you all right?”
“Oh God.” Maeve’s voice thickens. “I’m sorry, Knox. I am so, so
sorry.”
“What? Maeve, you’re starting to freak me out.” I pause, alarm
snaking through my gut as her breath hitches. “Are you crying?”
“Um…” She definitely is. “So, I think…okay. I’m going to read
you the text from Unknown because, um, I don’t want you to have to
read all the comments to get to it. Because they’re stupid and
pointless like always.” Maeve draws in a shaky breath. “But before I
do—I need you to know I didn’t say that, okay? Not exactly that. I
wouldn’t. I’ve been racking my brains and I can only come up with a
single conversation that’s even a little bit pertinent but I swear to
God, it was a lot more nuanced than that. And it was with Bronwyn,
who would never breathe a word, so I honestly don’t know how this
even happened.”
“Maeve, seriously. What’s going on? Who do I need to fight?”
“Don’t.” She groans the word. “I, okay. This is what it said.
Maeve Rojas, um…” I hear a deep breath, and then the rest of the
words come out in a rush. “Maeve Rojas dumped Knox Myers
because he can’t get it up.”
What. The. Fuck.
I listen to Maeve’s ragged breathing for a minute. Or maybe
that’s mine. When she tentatively asks, “Knox? Are you—” I
disconnect. The phone drops out of my hand, bouncing lightly on the
desk, and I let it stay facedown while I press my fists to my forehead.
What the fuck. My heart’s pounding out of my chest. No. No
way. The entire school did not just read about the most humiliating
moment of my life. Which was private. And supposed to stay that
way forever.
Maeve and I—God. It was stupid. We talked about it for months,
losing our virginity, like it was some project we had to finish before
we could graduate high school. That should’ve been a clue, that we
were so practical about it. But we thought we wanted to, and then my
parents went out of town for their anniversary, so there it was:
opportunity.
I was so nervous, though. I did a couple shots of my dad’s vodka
before Maeve came over, because I thought that’d calm me down, but
all it did was make me dizzy and a little nauseated. And then we were
kissing and it just…wasn’t working. Any of it. I could tell she wasn’t
into it either, but we’d, like, committed. I didn’t know how the hell I
could just tap out all of a sudden. Especially since guys are supposed
to be born ready.
It was a massive relief when Maeve pulled away and asked if we
could take a break for a minute. Then she buttoned her shirt back up
and said, “Do you ever feel like maybe we’re trying too hard to be
something we’re not?”
I was grateful to her then. For getting it. For not making a big
deal. For being as non-awkward as possible, both then and later, so I
could pretend it hadn’t happened. I’d almost convinced myself that it
didn’t. Until now.
Because she told people. More people than Bronwyn, I’m sure,
because Bronwyn’s not the type to spread gossip.
It doesn’t even matter who it was. Damage done.
I turn my phone over. There are new messages from Maeve that
I ignore, opening the giant group text from Unknown instead. I don’t
want you to have to read all the comments to get to it, Maeve had
said. Because they’re stupid and pointless like always.
And prolific. There must be a hundred of them.
Sorry about the soft serve, man.
I know a great pharmacy in Canada where you can bulk order
Viagra.
Maybe it’s because she’s not a dude.
Jesus. How the hell am I supposed to show up at school
tomorrow? Or ever? Or get up on a stage next month to perform Into
the Woods, singing in front of everybody? Bayview High is ruthless.
One incident is all it takes to define you for the rest of your life, and I
just found mine. At our twentieth reunion, Brandon Weber and Sean
Murdock will still be laughing about this.
“Knox?” I jump at Eli’s voice. He and Bethany are approaching
my desk, laptops in hand. “I thought you were going home.” I scrape
a hand across my face and he peers at me more closely, frowning.
“You all right? You look sick all of a sudden.”
“Headache,” I croak. “No big deal. I’m just gonna—yeah. I’m
gonna go.” I grab my phone and get unsteadily to my feet as Eli
watches with an increasingly furrowed brow. He sets down his laptop
on the corner of the desk.
“Let me give you a ride. You’re really pale.”
I hesitate. What’s a worse place to be while dick jokes pile up on
my phone: in a car with my boss, or on a bus next to some
grandmother I’ll never see again? It’s no contest. “No, I’m good,” I
force out. “Totally fine. See you tomorrow.” I’m almost at the door
when I feel a tug on my arm. I half turn, my temper spiking too fast
to hold it in. “I said I’m fine!”
“I know,” Bethany says. “But you probably still want this.” She
presses the strap of my backpack into my hand.
“Right. Sorry.” I feel a surge of guilt, avoiding her eyes as I
shoulder my backpack. I’m still pissed off, but none of this is
Bethany’s fault. I wait until I’m in the elevator, doors safely shut
behind me, to find a better target.
Texts from Maeve are at the top of my message list:
I’m so sorry.
I never meant to hurt you.
Can we talk?
There’s a lot I want to say, but I settle for short and to the point.
Go to hell, Maeve.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Maeve
Wednesday, March 4
The first person to greet me at school Wednesday morning is Sean
Murdock, and he does it by grabbing the front of his pants. “Climb on
any time you want a real man,” he leers, thrusting his hips while
Brandon Weber cackles behind him. “Satisfaction guaranteed.”
My face burns with the kind of combined horror and shame I
haven’t felt since Simon Kelleher wrote a scathing blog post about
me freshman year. This time, though, I can’t slink into the shadows
to get away from it all. For one thing, my sister’s not around to fight
for me. And for another, I’m not the only one affected.
“First off, gross,” I say loudly. “Second, that stupid game is lying.
Nothing like that ever happened.” I spin my combination and yank
the door to my locker so hard that I lose my grip and slam it into my
neighbor’s. “You’re an idiot if you believe everything you read. Well,
you’re an idiot regardless. But either way, it’s not true.”
That’s my story, and come hell or high water, I will stick with it.
“Sure, Maeve,” Sean smirks. This is a sucky time to find out he
knows my name after all. His eyes travel up and down my body,
making my skin crawl. “Offer still stands.”
Brandon laughs again. “Literally,” he says. He puts his hand up
for a high five, but Sean just looks confused.
Laughter echoes in the hall, and Sean brightens as he turns in its
direction. There’s a group of people clustered around the bay where
Knox’s locker is. “Looks like your boyfriend’s here,” Sean says. “Well,
ex-boyfriend. Can’t blame you for that. Hope he likes his present.”
My heart sinks as he and Brandon saunter down the hall toward the
growing crowd. I grab a random assortment of books that probably
aren’t even what I need for class, stuff them into my backpack, and
slam my locker door closed.
I’m halfway to Knox’s locker when someone grabs hold of my
arm. “I wouldn’t,” Phoebe says, pulling me to a stop. Her curly hair is
in a high ponytail that swings when she turns her head to look
behind us. “You being anywhere near him right now is only going to
make things worse.” She doesn’t sound mean, just matter-of-fact, but
the words still sting.
“What’s going on?”
“Limp noodles glued to his locker. In a—shape. You can probably
guess.” She shrugs in what she clearly wants to be a breezy manner,
but the tense lines of her mouth don’t match. “Could’ve been worse.
At least noodles are easy to get off.” Her jaw twitches. “I mean,
clean.”
I slump against the locker beside me. “Oh God. They’re such
assholes. And it’s not even true.” I raise my voice. “I never said that.”
I dart a glance at Phoebe, testing out the lie on somebody with
significantly more brain cells than Sean.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, in that same breezy-yet-bitter
voice. “People will believe what they want anyway.”
I grimace in frustration. “The worst thing is, I was actually
making progress in figuring out who’s doing this. Not fast enough,
though.”
Phoebe blinks. “Say what?”
I catch her up on the latest revenge forum posts from
Darkestmind. “I’ll bet that last one was about me,” I say, holding out
my phone so Phoebe can see the screenshot I took. More to come
soon. Tick-tock.
She sucks her lower lip in between her teeth. “Hmm. Maybe?
Still doesn’t give you any idea who’s talking, though.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But you’d be surprised. People who think
they’re being stealthy and anonymous give themselves away all the
time.” Simon certainly did.
“Can I give you some advice?” Phoebe asks. I nod as she leans
against the locker beside me, her face serious. “I was thinking about
this stupid game all last night, and how it has everybody dancing like
puppets on a string. Whoever’s behind Truth or Dare is on a massive
power trip. And the thing is, we’re giving them that power. By
caring. Reacting. Spending all our time worrying about who’s next
and what’s true. We’re feeding the beast and I, for one, am done. I
blocked Unknown last night, and I think you should too. Back away
from the revenge forum. Stop handing those anonymous weirdos the
attention they want so much. If everyone ignored them, they’d stop.”
“But everyone won’t ignore them,” I protest. “This is Bayview
High we’re talking about. The gossip capital of North America.”
Phoebe gives a little toss of her head. “Well, we have to start
somewhere, don’t we? I’m officially opting out of this mess.”
“Sounds great in theory,” I say. “I don’t disagree. But that’s not
going to help Knox at this particular point in time.”
“People are making way too big a deal of this,” Phoebe says. She
edges a little closer and lowers her voice. “It’s not uncommon, you
know. Especially during a first time. Was there alcohol involved, by
any chance?”
I resist the urge to bash my head against the locker, but just
barely. “Please don’t.” Then, because I’m desperate to understand
what happened and Knox isn’t speaking to me, I add in a whisper, “I
don’t know how anyone could have found out. I only told Bronwyn
and she would never say anything.”
“Are you sure?” Phoebe arches a skeptical brow, and I guess I
can’t blame her for asking. She doesn’t exactly have an ironclad bond
of sisterly trust with Emma.
“Positive. Maybe Knox told somebody. He has a lot more friends
than I do.”
Phoebe shakes her head emphatically. “No way. A guy would
never.”
My throat aches. “He hates me now.”
The bell rings, and Phoebe pats my arm. “Look, this sucks and of
course he’s upset. But you didn’t actually do anything so terrible. The
fact is, girls talk about this kind of stuff. People talk about this kind
of stuff. He knows that. Just give him some time.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, and then my heart jumps into my throat as I
spy Knox’s familiar gray sweatshirt headed our way. His backpack is
slung over one shoulder, his head down. When he gets close enough
for me to see his face, he looks so miserable that I can’t keep quiet.
“Hi, Knox,” I call, my voice wavering on his name.
His mouth twitches downward, so I know he heard me. But he
walks past us without saying a word.
Phoebe pats my arm again, harder. “More time than that.”
—
The rest of the day doesn’t get any better. Flaccid penis pictures start
showing up everywhere: on lockers, classroom doors, bathroom
walls, even at the kitchen lunch line. Former prison worker Robert
tears one down while I grab a soggy turkey sandwich that I have no
intention of eating. “What fresh hell are these monsters up to now?”
he mutters, with an expression that’s equal parts mystified and
apprehensive.
It’s pushed every other worrying thought from my head. The
nosebleeds and bruises can wait. Unknown’s identity—I don’t care
anymore. Phoebe was right: whoever it is isn’t worth all the time and
attention I’ve been giving them. I need to focus my energy on fixing
this mess with Knox. I mean, I have a measly five people in my Key
Contacts, and he’s the only one who’s not related to me or getting
paid to keep me from dying. I can’t let this ruin our friendship.
After the last bell, I head for an Into the Woods rehearsal,
hoping for one last chance to talk with him. I make my way slowly
down the aisle of the auditorium, simultaneously scanning the small
crowd and counting how many lights are blazing above the stage. If
it’s an even number, Knox will forgive me today. Ten, eleven,
twelve…thirteen.
Damn it. Doubly unlucky.
Knox is nowhere in sight, and it doesn’t look as though rehearsal
has started yet. There are only two people onstage, and when I get
closer I see that one of them is Mrs. Kaplan, the drama teacher, and
the other is a sullen-looking Eddie Blalock.
“But I don’t know the part,” Eddie says. He’s a sophomore, small
and thin with dark hair that he gels into stiff points.
“You’re the understudy.” Mrs. Kaplan plants her hands on her
hips. “You were supposed to have been learning the role of Jack for
the past two months.”
“Yeah, but.” Eddie scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t.”
Mrs. Kaplan heaves a bone-weary sigh. “You had one job,
Eddie.”
Lucy Chen is perched on the edge of a chair in the front row,
leaning forward with both her arms and legs crossed. She looks like
an angry human pretzel.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She presses her lips together so tightly that they almost
disappear. “Knox quit,” she says, her eyes fixed on Eddie like a bird
of prey. “In related news, Eddie sucks.” I inhale a shocked breath,
and Lucy seems to register who she’s speaking to for the first time.
“So, thanks a lot for ruining the play and everything.”
My temper flares. I’ll blame myself all day long, but I draw the
line at Lucy doing the same. “This isn’t my fault. It’s that horrible
game—”
“Do you mean the horrible game that I said we should report two
weeks ago?” Lucy lifts her chin. “If anyone had listened to me, it
probably would’ve been shut down by now and none of this would
have happened.”
God, I hate when Lucy’s right. “Maybe we should tell someone
now,” I say, my eyes straying to Mrs. Kaplan.
“Oh no you don’t,” Lucy snaps. “She has enough to worry about.
Besides, everyone knows how to win this game by now. Just take the
Dare. You’d have to be out of your mind to do anything else.”
Phoebe’s words in the hallway come back to me then. Whoever’s
behind Truth or Dare must be on a massive power trip. And the
thing is, we’re giving them that power. “Or we could all jointly block
this creep’s number and stop playing altogether,” I say. Then I pull
out my phone so, finally, I can do exactly that.
—
“Mija, you’ve been here through dinnertime and haven’t eaten a
thing. Are you all right?”
I look up from my laptop at Mr. Santos’s voice, startled when I
see a baseball cap jammed over his unruly curls. He only wears that
when he’s leaving Café Contigo for the night, and he’s usually the last
one here. Then I realize how empty the restaurant is.
“I’m fine. Just not hungry.” I was too anxious to sit at a dinner
table with my parents tonight, so I told them I was meeting Knox
here. That was a big fat lie, unfortunately. I can’t even get him to text
me back. And I’m way too stressed to eat. I’ve just been staring
blankly at the history paper I’m supposed to be writing for…hours,
apparently.
Mr. Santos makes a tsk noise. “I don’t believe that. I think we
just haven’t found the right food to tempt you. Maybe you need a
good old-fashioned Colombian recipe. What’s your favorite?” He
shudders a little. “Please don’t say salchipapas.”
I manage a laugh. Bronwyn refused to eat hot dogs when we
were kids, so we’ve never had the traditional Colombian dish of them
cut up and mixed with French fries. “Definitely not. We’re more of an
ajiaco family.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll make it for you.”
“Mr. Santos, no!” I lunge for his sleeve as he turns for the
kitchen. “I mean, that’s so nice of you, but ajiaco takes hours. And
you’re closing.”
“I’ll make a fast-food version, Argentinean-style. It’ll take fifteen
minutes.”
Oh God. I can’t believe I’m such a sad puppy that this impossibly
kind man thinks he has to work overtime to make me dinner. At least
I’m in long sleeves so he can’t see that I’m covered in bruises, too.
“I’m honestly fine, Mr. Santos. It’s really not—”
“I’ll make it,” calls a voice behind us. Luis is leaning against the
half-open kitchen door, a grease-spattered gray T-shirt stretched
tight across his shoulders. It’s ridiculous how good it looks on him.
“Go home, Pa. I’ll close up.” He crosses halfway to the dining room
and holds up his right hand. I’m not sure what he’s doing until Mr.
Santos reaches into his pocket and tosses Luis a set of keys.
“Works for me,” Mr. Santos says, and turns back to me with a
gentle smile. “Don’t look so guilty, mija. He needs the practice.”
He waves amiably and shuffles out the door. I let him disappear
around the corner of the building before I stand and stuff my laptop
into my bag with an apologetic look at Luis. “Listen, just go home. If
he asks, I’ll tell him you fed me. I’m not even hungry.” My empty
stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble loudly. Luis raises his
eyebrows as I fold my arms tightly over my rib cage. My stomach
growls again anyway. “At all.”
“Come on.” A half smile teases the corners of his mouth. “It’s not
like you’re not going to help.” He turns and disappears into the back
of the restaurant, leaving me no choice but to follow.
I’ve only ever glimpsed the kitchen from the dining room before,
bright and chaotic and bursting with noise. Now it’s so still and silent
that Luis’s voice echoes when he gestures to the row of appliances
behind a long, well-worn metal table. “Here’s where the magic
happens.”
I put my hands on my hips and look around the kitchen with
what I hope is professional interest. “Very impressive.”
“Hang on a sec. I need to get out of this shirt, it’s a disaster.”
Luis goes behind a tall, freestanding rack of metal shelves and grabs
something white out of a duffel bag. Before I can fully register what
he’s doing, he’s pulled his T-shirt over his head and put on a clean
one. I get a flash of shoulder muscles and then he’s done, stuffing the
old shirt into his bag and replacing it on the shelf.
I wish I’d known that was about to happen so I could’ve paid
better attention.
Luis crosses to an industrial-sized refrigerator and pulls open
the door. “Let’s see…oh yeah, we’re all set. We have chicken and
potatoes already prepped for tomorrow. Not the right kind of potato,
but it’ll do. No corn, but I can make that quick.” He starts pulling
ingredients out and laying them across the counter, then selects a
knife from a rack on the wall and hands it to me. “Can you chop some
scallions?”
“Sure.” I take the knife gingerly. It’s the smallest one in the rack,
but I’ve never handled anything quite so deadly-looking.
“There’s a cutting board below the counter.”
There are several. I shuffle through them, wondering if plastic or
wood is better, but since Luis didn’t specify I end up just grabbing
the one on top. I lay the scallions across it and turn them a few
different ways, trying to figure out the best angle for cutting. By the
time I’m halfway through the bunch, Luis looks like he’s been in the
kitchen for hours. Pots are steaming, garlic is sautéing, and the
chicken and potatoes are chopped into small, neat pieces. Luis puts
down his knife, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, then
glances my way and grins.
“Take your time with that.”
I laugh for the first time all day. “I’m the worst prep assistant
ever.”
“You haven’t seen Manny in here.” Luis adjusts a knob on a
burner, and I speed up the rest of my chopping so I can finish and
watch him work. He moves around the kitchen like he does on a
baseball diamond: fluid and confident, as though he’s thinking ten
steps ahead and knows exactly where he needs to be at all times. It’s
the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
He reaches for a pair of tongs and glances my way, catching me
staring. Busted. My cheeks flame as his crease in a smile. “What’s
going on with you today?” he asks. “You were hunched over your
computer for hours out there.”
“I…” I hesitate. There’s no way I can tell him the whole story. “I
had a bad day. Knox and I had a fight. And, um, I think it’s my fault.
Scratch that. I know it’s my fault.”
I watch his reaction carefully, because Luis still has friends at
Bayview High. It’s possible he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
Though, if he does, he hides it well. “Did you tell him that?” he asks.
“I tried. He’s not talking to me right now.”
Luis takes my cutting board full of scallions and dumps them
into a bubbling pot. It smells amazing. I’m not sure how it’s going to
be stew in ten minutes, but I won’t question his methods. “That
sucks. You have to give people a chance to apologize.”
“It’s not his fault,” I say. “He’s just hurt. Stuff got out that
shouldn’t have, and now everyone is gossiping and it’s a giant mess.”
Luis grimaces. “Man, I do not miss that school. It’s fucking toxic
there.”
“I feel like I’m the one who’s toxic.” The words slip out of me
before I think, and as soon as I say them my eyes start stinging.
Damn it. I take the cutting board to the sink and rinse it so I can keep
my head down.
Luis leans against the counter. “You’re not toxic. I don’t know
what happened, but I do know that. Look, everybody does stuff they
shouldn’t. I was an ass at Bayview a lot of the time. Then that whole
situation with Jake and Addy and Cooper started getting bad, and
things changed.” He’s cleaning the station in front of him now, as
quickly as he did the prep work. “I used to talk to Pa about what was
happening at school and he’d say, ‘Who do you want to be? The guy
who goes along or the guy who stands up? This is the time to
decide.’ ”
I put the cutting board away. “It was great, the way you stood up
for Cooper.”
“Nate stood up for Cooper,” Luis corrects. A muscle in his jaw
twitches. “All I did was not pile on. And I should’ve stood up for
Addy way before that. I wasn’t a badass like you, helping those guys
from the start. But you can’t change the past, you know? All you can
do is try harder next time. So don’t give up on yourself just yet.”
At this moment, I’ve never wanted to do anything as much as I
want to grab his face and kiss every inch of it. Which should make
me feel guilty after what happened today with Knox but instead
makes me edge closer to Luis. I’m suddenly beyond tired of never
doing what I want or saying what I feel.
I mean, I could be dead in six months. What’s the point in
holding back?
Luis moves toward the stove and turns the burner down. He
picks up a timer from the counter and twists it slightly. “This needs
five minutes to simmer.” He goes back to his station, wiping his
hands on a towel, and I make up my mind. I move toward him until
the space between us is nearly closed and put my hand on his arm. If
nothing else, I’ve been wanting to do that for ages. My pulse starts
thrumming as I ask, “What should we do for the next five minutes,
then?”
Luis goes still, and for one horrifying second I think he’s going to
burst out laughing. If he does, I won’t have to worry about cancer
because I’ll die on the spot. Then his mouth curves in a slow smile.
He glances down beneath lashes that are so long and thick, they
almost look tangled. His hands circle my waist. “I don’t know. You
have any ideas?”
“A few.” I bring one hand to the back of his neck and lean into
him, sliding my fingers into his hair. It’s softer than I expected, and
his skin is warm from the stove and the bright lights above us. I
pause to catch my breath because it’s almost too much, the way every
nerve in my body is buzzing with sensation when nothing’s even
happened yet.
Then Luis kisses me, his lips a gentle press of heat against my
mouth. Soft and almost sweet, until I wind my arms around his neck
and pull him closer. He kisses me harder, picking me up in one
smooth motion and putting me on the counter behind us. There’s no
place for my legs to go except…around his waist. The softest groan
escapes him as he slides his lips along my jawline and down to my
neck. My hands find their way under the hem of his T-shirt, and
every scattered thought that was still bouncing around in my brain
dissolves when I feel his muscles contract beneath my fingertips. We
keep kissing until I lose all sense of time and place, and the only
thing I want is more.
A sudden noise brings me back to myself. Someone’s whistling
off-key, and heavy footsteps are coming our way. I pull away from
Luis, face burning when I realize how far up his shirt my hands have
gotten, and the intentional way I’ve twisted the fabric. I was seconds
away from yanking it over his head.
Luis’s eyes look drugged until he registers the noise. Then he
frowns and disentangles from me, moving toward the door. “What
the hell?” he mutters. I hop off the counter, weak-kneed, and try to
smooth my hair. A second later Manny bursts into the kitchen, still
whistling.
“What up, L?” He holds out his hand for a fist bump that turns
into a shoulder punch when Luis doesn’t respond. “Why are you still
cooking?”
“I’m making something for Maeve,” Luis says. His voice isn’t
nearly as friendly as it usually is when he talks to his brother. “What
are you doing here?”
“Oh hey, Maeve.” Manny catches sight of me and waves. “I forgot
my gym bag, and it’s got my wallet in it. Damn, that smells good. Did
you make extra?”
Luis stares, arms folded, as Manny crosses over to the bubbling
pot on the stove and peers inside. “Dude,” Luis says. “Read the
room.”
“What?” Manny asks, giving the ajiaco a stir. The timer goes off
just then, making me jump. “Is it done?”
“I should go,” I say abruptly. My cheeks are still burning, my
head spinning. I can’t believe I just threw myself at Luis after
everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. I mean, I
can, but still. I’m both a walking cliché and a terrible friend. “Thanks
for everything, Luis, but I’m still not hungry and I should probably
just…go.”
Manny glances between Luis and me and seems to finally catch
on. “Oh hey, no. Stick around. I’m just gonna grab my wallet and
head out,” he says, but I’m already through the kitchen door. I pull
my laptop bag off the chair where I left it without breaking stride,
and head for the exit. I’m probably both a jerk and a wimp for
leaving, but it’s too much to process all at once; embarrassment and
guilt on top of the sort of intense physical attraction I wasn’t sure I
was even capable of until just now. At least I finally know what all the
fuss is about.
What all the fuss is about. Oh my God.
The memory hits right as I push through the front door. I’d said
that to Bronwyn, when I was telling her about my disastrous night
with Knox. “I wasn’t disappointed,” I told her. “Just relieved. The
whole time we were kissing, I didn’t feel anything. All I could think
was I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”
I’d said it here. At my usual table, in public. Where anyone could
have heard.
I’m an idiot.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Phoebe
Thursday, March 5
Today is shaping up to be a better-than-average day.
For one thing, Emma is sick. It’s not like I’m happy about her
being locked in the bathroom puking her guts out, but breakfast is a
lot less tense without her glaring at me. Plus, now I have the car and
can offer Jules a ride. I’ve been walking to and from school lately to
give Emma space, which means Jules has been either taking the bus
or getting a ride from Monica. And I miss her.
The second reason today sucks less is this: for the first time in
weeks, I feel like the Truth or Dare game isn’t hanging over my head.
I know it’s still out there, but not having to worry about it buzzing
across my phone is a huge relief. I never realized that out of sight,
out of mind could be so powerful. When I get dressed I reach for my
favorite skirt, which I haven’t worn for a while because it’s also my
shortest skirt, and the familiar swish of fabric around my legs makes
me feel more like myself than I have for a while.
“You look nice, honey,” Mom says when I enter the kitchen area.
She does too—she’s wearing one of her old sweater dresses paired
with chunky jewelry and boots, and I smile when I grab the car keys
from their peg beside the door. Mom and I aren’t as similar
personality-wise as she and Emma are, but we both use fashion to
express ourselves more than anyone else in our family does. If I’m
reading Mom’s outfit correctly, she’s feeling more like her old self,
too. Which makes a third reason to feel good about today.
When I pick up Jules, she grins at the sight of me in the driver’s
seat. “What happened to Miss Stick Up Her Ass?”
I feel a stab of defensiveness for Emma, but I don’t want to argue
with Jules when I’ve barely seen her all week. “Stomach virus,” I say.
Jules laughs as she slides into the front seat instead of the back.
“Too bad, so sad. I could get used to this.” She flips the radio until it
lands on a Beyoncé song, then fastens her seat belt as I pull away
from the curb. We sing along for a few verses, and I’m starting to
relax into the familiar rhythm of her company until she says, “So, I
heard about a thing.”
“What thing?”
“Coach Ruffalo bought a bunch of tickets for one of Cooper
Clay’s games at Fullerton. He’s giving them out to anyone at Bayview
who wants them. Including recent grads.” She smacks her lips
together like she’s about to devour her favorite dessert when I don’t
reply. “We should go. I bet you anything Nate will be there.”
“Probably, but…” This time I can’t hold my tongue. “Don’t you
think it’s maybe time to give that up?”
Her voice gets cool. “Give what up?”
“It’s just—Nate knows you’re interested, right? You kissed him.
He’s a pretty straightforward person, from what I’ve seen. If he
wanted to follow up, I think he would’ve by now.” She doesn’t
answer, which I hope means she’s considering the point, so I press
on. “The thing is, I saw Nate and Bronwyn talking at Café Contigo
before you showed up that night and…I think the two of them are the
real deal. I don’t think it matters that she’s three thousand miles
away. She’s still the one he wants. She’ll probably always be the one
he wants.”
“Great,” Jules says flatly. “Thanks for the support.”
“I am being supportive,” I protest. “You’re amazing and you
deserve somebody who knows it. Not a guy who’s in love with
someone else.”
Jules flips the sun visor down and peers into its mirror, running
a finger under each eye to catch microscopic mascara flecks.
“Whatever. Maybe I should go for Brandon now that he’s available.”
My stomach lurches as I turn in to the Bayview High parking lot.
“Jules. No.” I didn’t tell her about Brandon assaulting me at my
apartment, but she has to know he’s the one who put up the sex tutor
ad. And she definitely saw him crack up when Sean made fun of me.
I can’t believe she’d joke about hooking up with him after that. Or,
even worse—not joke.
“Slow down, Phoebe Jeebies, or you’re going to hit that guy.”
Jules narrows her eyes at the tall, skinny boy who passes in front of
the car. “Oh, never mind, it’s Matthias Schroeder. Go ahead and mow
that freak down.” She tucks a strand of pin-straight hair behind her
ear; she’s been using a flat iron ever since the night she kissed Nate.
“Such a weirdo. He looks like he beats off to erotic Star Wars fanfic,
don’t you think?”
I press my brakes, a vein in my temple starting to throb. Jules is
punchy today, her teasing skirting the edge of mean in a way it
doesn’t usually. I roll down my window and call, “Sorry, Matthias!”
He looks startled and darts away. “I try not to think about him,
period,” I mutter as I navigate into a parking space.
We get out of the car and head for the back entrance. I drop my
keys into my bag as Jules checks her phone. “I thought we’d have
another text from Unknown by now,” she says.
I freeze. “What?”
“You know. The next player has been contacted. Tick-tock.”
She grins, and the last of my patience runs out. “I wouldn’t
know, because I’m not playing,” I snap, yanking the door open. “That
stopped being a super fun game as soon as it made Emma hate me,
and it’s only gone downhill from there. But you do you, I guess.”
“You need to chill,” Jules says as I stomp into the hallway. I
don’t bother telling her to find another ride home. I’m sure she was
planning on it anyway.
—
School is almost over before I run into Knox in person, but I’ve seen
the taunts left for him all day. Limp dick pictures are everywhere.
The noodles are gone from his locker, but when I pass by it on the
way to health class—which is the only class he and I have together—a
giant pill bottle with VIAGRA scrawled across the front is duct-taped
there instead.
I slow as I approach, feeling a tug in my chest as I watch Knox
yank the bottle off and stuff it into his locker. Health class is going to
be horrible for him. We’re covering the male reproductive system,
which is bad enough on a normal day, but torture on one like this.
Especially since Brandon and Sean are both in the class. Impulsively,
I walk over and tap Knox on the shoulder. He flinches and turns, and
looks relieved when he sees it’s only me.
“Hi,” I say. “Wanna skip?”
His brow furrows. “Huh?”
“Do you want to skip last period?” I dig into my bag and pull out
my keys, spinning them on one finger. “I have a car today.”
Knox looks utterly confused. “What do…how does that even
work?”
“We leave school instead of going to class, and go someplace fun
instead,” I say, enunciating each word slowly. “It’s not rocket science,
Knox.”
His eyes dart around the hallway, like we just committed a
felony and the authorities are closing in. “Won’t we get in trouble?”
he asks.
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal if you aren’t chronic about it. Your
parents get a robocall, and you tell them you went to the nurse’s
office, but it was really busy and she never checked you in.” I spin the
keys faster. “Or, you could just go to health class.”
At this point, I’m kind of hoping he says no. It starts to hit me, as
everyone who passes us stares, that I’m going to bring all kinds of
shit down on myself by being seen with him today. But then Knox
slams his locker door closed and says, “The hell with it. Let’s go.”
No backing out now.
I keep my eyes straight ahead as we walk down the hall, willing
myself not to run for the exit. There’s a hushed, urgent voice in my
head that sounds a lot like the narrator in a wildlife show I used to
watch with my dad: Rapid movement will only draw attention from
the hungry pack. Behind us, I hear Brandon hoot about something,
but we’re too far away for it to be us. I think. Still, I’m relieved when
we push through the doors of the back stairwell.
“Welcome to your life of crime,” I say to Knox as we exit the
building into a light sprinkling of rain. His eyes widen, and I roll
mine. “It’s not an actual crime, Knox. Have you seriously never
skipped a class before?”
“No,” he admits as we descend the stairs. “I’ve gotten the perfect
attendance award for two years running.” He grimaces. “I have no
idea why I just told you that. Pretend I didn’t.” There’s a faint
clanging noise ahead of us, and we both pause as someone jumps
over the back fence behind the parking lot. I recognize Matthias
Schroeder’s tall frame and pale-blue hoodie just before he lopes into
the woods behind school. Looks like we’re not the only ones skipping
health class. It’s a nightmare for nerdy guys everywhere.
When we reach the car, Knox pulls on the handle like he’s
expecting it to be open, but our Corolla’s power locks failed years
ago. I unlock my door, climb into the driver’s seat, and reach over to
let him in. “So, where are we going?” he asks.
I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I start the engine and turn
on the windshield wipers against what’s now a steady rain. “Well, it’s
not very nice out, so we can forget about the beach or a park,” I say,
navigating for the exit. “We could drive to San Diego if you want.
There’s this coffee shop I like that has live music some afternoons.
The only thing is—” I’m so busy talking that I don’t notice I’m about
to pull into the main road while a car is passing, and I have to slam
the brakes to avoid it. Knox and I both lurch forward against our seat
belts, hard. “I don’t drive all that much, and I’m kind of bad in traffic.
And rain. So we could go to Epoch Coffee in the mall instead.”
“Epoch Coffee is good,” Knox says, massaging his shoulder.
We lapse into silence, and I feel a lightning-quick flash of rage
for us both. It’s bullshit that I’m getting shamed for having sex, and
Knox is getting shamed for not having it. Meanwhile nobody’s
attacking Derek or Maeve, even though they did the exact same
things we did. Or didn’t do. People like to think they’re open-minded,
but if you toss a tired gender stereotype in their path they’ll run with
it every time. I don’t understand why the world insists on stuffing
kids into boxes we never asked for, and then gets mad when we won’t
stay there.
If I start ranting about that, though, I’ll never stop. And I’m
pretty sure Knox needs a different kind of distraction right now. So I
talk all the way to the Bayview Mall about whatever comes to mind:
TV shows, music, my job, my brother. “He wants you to come over,” I
tell Knox as we pull into the mall parking lot. It’s full on such a rainy
day, but I get lucky when a Jeep pulls out from a front-row spot right
when I’m cruising past. “Apparently you made quite an impression.”
“Bounty Wars fans are a tight-knit bunch,” Knox says. I take the
Jeep’s spot and cut the engine, frowning at the downpour outside my
window. We’re as close as we can get to the mall entrance, but we’re
still going to get soaked before we make it inside. Knox unclips his
seat belt and reaches for his backpack, then straightens and looks at
me full-on for the first time since we got into the car. His brown eyes
have nice gold flecks in them, which I file away in my Knox Is Going
to Be Hot One Day mental folder. “Thanks for doing this.”
“No problem.” I open my door and duck my head against the
rain, but it only hits me for a few seconds before Knox is suddenly at
my side, holding an umbrella over both our heads. I grin up at him.
“Wow, you’re prepared.”
He smiles back, and I’m glad I rescued him from the fiery pits of
health class hell. “Former Boy Scout,” he says as we head for the
entrance. “If we need to build a fire later, I can do that too.”
Once we get to Epoch Coffee, we snag a prime corner table. Knox
offers to get our drinks, and I pull out my phone while I wait for him
to get back. I haven’t been on Instagram since deleting all the gross
comments last week, and I check it now to see if going private has
kept the trolls away. It has, for the most part, although I have a
bunch of new message requests. Most are from guys I don’t know,
except one.
Derekculpepper01 Hey, I don’t mean
I frown at my screen and click the full message. Hey, I don’t
mean to be a pain in your ass or anything, but I’d really like to talk
to you. Can you text me? Or call if you’d rather.
“No, dickhead, I can’t,” I say out loud as Knox returns to the
table.
He freezes halfway to handing me my drink. “What?”
“Not you,” I say, accepting the iced coffee. “Thank you.” I
hesitate before explaining further, but then I figure, what the hell.
Nothing distracts you from your own problems like hearing about
somebody else’s. “So, you know that whole Truth or Dare drama with
me and my sister, right? Well, the ex-boyfriend in question keeps
messaging me and I don’t know why. I don’t care, either, but it’s
annoying. He’s annoying.”
“Social media sucks,” Knox says. He’s dumped a small mountain
of sugar packets onto the table and grabs three, tearing them open
together. His shoulders hunch as he stirs them into whatever he’s
drinking. “I haven’t been on since—a while. I can’t deal.”
“Good,” I say. “Stay away. I hope you’ve blocked Unknown’s
number, too.”
“I have,” Knox says grimly. He’s starting to look miserable again,
so I quickly change the subject, and for the next hour we talk about
everything but the texting game. Every once in a while, I wonder if I
should bring up Maeve, but—no. Too soon.
When Knox glances at his phone and announces that he has to
leave for work, I’m surprised at how fast the time went by. I have to
leave too; I’m supposed to be helping Addy and Maeve put together
Ashton’s wedding favors this afternoon.
I use a stray napkin to wipe the iced coffee condensation rings
from our table and pick up my almost-empty drink. “Do you want a
ride?” I ask, following Knox out of Epoch Coffee and into the main
mall thoroughfare.
“Well, it’s in San Diego.” Knox looks nervous, like he’s
remembering every near-fender-bender from the ride over. To be
fair, there were a lot for a mile-and-a-half drive. “That’s pretty far out
of your way.” We reach the mall exit and push through the doors. It’s
still overcast, but the rain has stopped. “I’ll just take the bus.” He
glances at his watch. “There’s one leaving in ten minutes. If I cut
through the construction site behind the mall, I can make it.”
“Okay, well—” A familiar giggle stops me, and I turn to see Jules
crossing the parking lot with Monica Hill. They’re walking at an
angle, toward the side of the mall instead of the front door. When
they’re a few feet away from us, Jules notices me and stops short. She
grabs onto Monica’s arm to make her stop, too.
“Heyyy,” Jules says, with about half her usual enthusiasm.
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes flick toward Knox and widen.
Monica suppresses a laugh and whispers something in Jules’s ear.
I can feel my cheeks turning beet red. I hate that I’m
embarrassed to be seen with Knox in front of Jules and Monica,
especially after we had such a good time hanging out. But I am. “Just
getting coffee,” I say.
“So are we,” Jules says, even though they’re obviously not
headed for Epoch Coffee. “Too bad we missed you.”
“Yeah, too bad,” Monica echoes. They keep standing there, so
clearly waiting for me to leave that I want to stay just to annoy them.
Except Knox is hovering awkwardly beside me, making everything a
hundred times worse. God, what if they think this is a date? And why
do I even care?
Ugh. The hell with them.
“Well, bye,” I say to no one in particular, and stalk off to my car.
When I get inside, though, I don’t turn it on right away. Instead, I
rest my head on the steering wheel and let myself cry for a good
fifteen minutes about losing a friend I’ve had since elementary
school. It’s just one more thing in a long line of casualties from the
Truth or Dare game, but still. It sucks.
Then I drive home in a haze, making turns on autopilot until the
loud blare of sirens makes me jump. My heart starts to pound,
because I know I haven’t been paying attention, and I probably
violated ten different traffic rules. But as I slow down, the flashing
lights appear in front of me instead of in my rearview mirror. I pull
to the side of the road as two police cars, followed by a fire engine,
roar past me in the direction of the Bayview Mall.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maeve
Thursday, March 5
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Addy says, popping a candycovered almond into her mouth.
We’re both on the couch in Ashton’s apartment, and Phoebe is
sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table. The three
of us are putting candy into little netted bags, tying them with blue
ribbon, and lining them up in rows on the table. They’re favors for
Ashton and Eli’s wedding, which all of a sudden is less than a month
away.
I pick up a ribbon and position it around a filled bag.
“Everything,” I say.
Addy takes her time chewing and swallowing. “Everything,” she
repeats. “Because you made out with a hot guy who cooked you
dinner?” She shakes her head and reaches for another almond. She’s
eaten almost as many as she’s bundled. “You have some serious firstworld problems, girl.”
She doesn’t know the half of what my problems are, but that’s
not her fault. I’m the one who’s been keeping secrets. “I practically
mauled him,” I correct. “And then I ran out on him.” Every time I
think about last night, I cringe. Luis probably does, too. I avoided
Café Contigo today but still secretly hoped he’d get in touch. He
didn’t.
“Just talk to him,” Addy says.
Phoebe heaves a dramatic sigh. “Thank you. I keep trying to tell
her that.”
I don’t answer, and Addy taps me lightly on the arm. “It’s not a
weakness to let someone know you like them, you know,” she says.
I do know. I’ve been telling myself that for weeks, trying to
change. But I still can’t bring myself to do it. “Then why does it feel
like it?” I ask, almost to myself.
Addy laughs. “Because rejection sucks. I’m not saying Luis is
going to reject you,” she adds hastily when my head snaps up.
“He super is not,” Phoebe murmurs, her brow knitted in
concentration as she ties a careful bow.
“I mean in general,” Addy continues. “We’re all afraid of putting
ourselves out there and not getting anything in return. The thing is,
though, nobody looks back on their life thinking, ‘Damn, I wish I’d
been less honest with the people I care about.’ ”
Before I can answer I hear the sound of a key turning in a lock,
followed by the squeal of hinges and the click of heels. Ashton pokes
her head around the small vestibule that leads into the apartment’s
open-concept living-dining area, loaded down with bags and a stack
of mail. “Hi,” she calls. She crosses the room and drops the envelopes
onto the edge of the coffee table, beaming when she catches sight of
the wedding favors. “Oh, thank you so much for doing this! They look
amazing. I got pad Thai from Sweet Basil. Did you guys eat, or do you
want some?”
“We ate,” Addy says. She ties another bow, sets the netted
candies down, and starts thumbing through the mail.
“All right,” Ashton says, returning to the kitchen area. She sets
her bags on the counter, then comes back and perches on the arm of
the sofa. “Addy, are you around Saturday night? Eli’s cousin Daniel is
coming into town and I was thinking we could all go out to dinner.”
Addy looks up at her blankly, and Ashton adds, “Remember? I told
you about him. He’s going to be a groomsman in the wedding, and
he’s transferring to UCSD next fall. He’s studying molecular biology.”
Ashton nudges Addy’s foot with hers and smiles. “He saw that
picture of you and me at Mom’s last week on Eli’s Instagram, and
now he really wants to meet you.”
Addy wrinkles her nose. “Molecular biology? I don’t know. I
might be busy.”
“I think you’d like him. He’s very nice. And funny.” Ashton
swipes her phone a few times before holding it out to Addy. “This is
Daniel.”
Phoebe rises and peers at Ashton’s phone. I lean closer to Addy
so I can see, too, and can’t help the admiring ooh that comes out
when I catch sight of Daniel’s picture. That is one seriously cute
molecular biologist. “He looks like the lost Hemsworth brother,” I
say.
Phoebe tilts her head for a better view. “Is that a filter, or are his
eyes actually that blue?”
“No filter,” Ashton says.
“All right, then.” Addy nods so quickly, I’m afraid her neck might
snap. “Saturday it is.”
Ashton takes her phone back and gets to her feet, looking
pleased. “Great, I’ll have Eli make reservations someplace fun. I’m
going to change clothes and inhale my dinner, then I’ll help you
finish the wedding favors.” She disappears into her bedroom, and
Phoebe settles herself back on the ground, reaching for another
netted bag. Addy rips into a large, thick envelope with a pleased aha
noise.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Addy tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “It’s from this
school called Colegio San Silvestre in Peru,” she says.
I feel a sudden stab of panic. No, you can’t leave me too. “Are
you going there?”
She laughs. “No. Well, not as a student. It’s an elementary
school. But there’s this summer program where the kids learn
English, and they hire counselors from other countries. I was
thinking of applying. You don’t have to speak Spanish because you’re
supposed to have all your conversations in English so the kids can
practice. I’ve been looking into teaching programs around here for
next year, and I thought it would be good experience. Plus, I’d get to
travel. I’ve never even left the country before.” She flips slowly
through the glossy pages of a brochure. “Ashton says I can keep
living with her and Eli however long I want, but at some point I have
to figure out what’s next. And I am not moving back in with my
mom.”
Addy’s mother is the definition of a party mom. The last time I
saw her, right before Addy moved in with Ashton, she offered me a
glass of wine while her twenty-something Tinder date checked out
my ass. She hasn’t been all that involved in wedding planning, except
to text Addy pictures of every potential mother-of-the-bride dress
she tries on.
“Sounds great,” I say, peering at the brochure over Addy’s
shoulder. “Can I see?”
Addy hands it to me with a smile. “You should look into it, too.
You don’t have to be a high school graduate to apply. We’d have fun.”
She’s right, we would. I can’t think of anything I’d like better
than a summer with Addy in South America, actually. But I can
barely plan for next week, with all the crap going on with my life.
Who knows what kind of shape I’ll be in by the time applications are
due? Still, the brochure draws me in with beautiful pictures of the
school and the kids, and I’m flipping through with increasing interest
when Ashton comes running out of her room.
She’s barefoot, and her blouse is untucked as though she’d
paused halfway through getting changed. “I just got a text from Eli,”
she says breathlessly, her eyes roving over the coffee table. “Where’s
the remote?”
“I think I’m sitting on it.” Addy twists and reaches to pull it out
from behind a cushion. She blinks, surprised, when Ashton snatches
it from her hand. “Jeez, Ash, what’s the rush?”
Ashton perches beside her on the arm of the sofa and aims the
remote at the television. “There’s been an accident,” she says. The
screen springs to life, and Ashton clicks away from the E! Network. “I
think they’re covering it on Channel Seven—yeah. Here it is.”
A stone-faced news anchor sits behind a shiny, semicircular
desk, the words Breaking News scrolling in all caps behind him.
“Reporter Liz Rosen joins us now at the scene,” he says, aiming an
intense stare directly into the camera. “Liz, what can you tell us?”
“Ugh. Her.” Addy frowns as a dark-haired woman in a blue
blazer fills the screen. Liz Rosen practically stalked Addy, Bronwyn,
Cooper, and Nate last year while they were being investigated for
Simon’s death. Then Addy’s brow furrows as she leans forward,
craning her neck for a better look. “Is she at the mall?”
“Thank you, Tom,” Liz says. “We’re continuing to bring you the
latest from Bayview, where tragedy has occurred at an abandoned
construction site. The story is still developing, but what we know so
far is that a group of local teens were in a blocked-off area when one
boy fell through the roof of a partially constructed building. Another
boy was also injured, although it’s not yet clear how. And we just got
word, from one of the officers here, that the young man who fell
through the roof has been confirmed dead.”
My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the familiar scene over
Liz’s shoulder. “Oh my God,” Addy says. A half-dozen sugared
almonds slip through her fingers and onto the floor.
Phoebe gasps and scrambles to her feet. “Knox,” she breathes.
“He cut through there.”
“I know,” I say, my eyes glued to the television. “He’s always
saying how mad his dad would be if he knew. And no wonder. It
really was dangerous.”
“No,” Phoebe says urgently. “I mean he cut through there today.
On his way to work, right before I came here.”
Oh my God. Knox.
My entire heart seizes as a yellow banner reading TEEN DIES IN
CONSTRUCTION SITE ACCIDENT appears at the bottom of the screen.
Helpless, flailing panic rushes through me, and I fumble under piles
of netting on the coffee table for my phone. “It can’t be him,” I say.
My voice shakes, and I force more conviction into it. If it sounds true,
maybe it will be true. “He’s fine. I’m going to call him right now.”
Liz continues to talk. “There are still a lot of unknowns. Police
say they have yet to notify the next of kin, so they have not released
the name of the deceased. It’s also not clear what type of injuries the
second teen has sustained. However, we understand that they are not
life-threatening, and that the young man has been transported to
Bayview Memorial Hospital for treatment.”
My call to Knox goes straight to voice mail, and just like that, I
start sobbing uncontrollably. “He—he’s not answering,” I manage to
choke out as Addy puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me
close.
“Let me call Eli,” Ashton says. “Hang on. I left my phone in my
room.”
My head is buried in Addy’s shoulder as the desk anchor’s deep
voice turns mournful. “Of course, the town of Bayview is no stranger
to tragedy, Liz.”
“Turn it off,” Addy says tightly.
“I can’t…I can’t find…” Phoebe sounds like she’s in tears, too. “I
think Ashton took the remote with her.”
“That’s absolutely true, Tom,” Liz Rosen says. “The town is still
recovering from the shocking death of Bayview High student Simon
Kelleher eighteen months ago, which made national headlines. It
remains to be seen how this story develops, but we’ll continue to
monitor and provide updates as they happen.”
I clutch Addy’s arm like a life preserver, my stomach twisted
with fear and sick regret. If anything happened to Knox, and I never
got the chance to make up with him…
“He’s okay. Knox is okay!” Ashton’s voice fills me with such
intense relief that I can finally look up. “But he’s the one in the
hospital. Eli doesn’t know what happened yet. I’ll take you there right
now.”
Addy keeps her arm around me as we stand. I feel as unsteady as
a newborn fawn; none of my limbs are working properly as I lurch
toward the door. “Does Eli know who died?” I manage to get out.
Ashton nods, her pretty face somber. “Yeah. It was a boy named
Brandon Weber. Did you know him?”
There’s a loud thud from near the door. Phoebe, who’d been
gathering all our backpacks and bags from where we’d left them,
goes rigid with shock and they fall from her hands.
—
Two hours later, we finally get to see Knox.
Only family was allowed to visit at first, and his parents and
sisters had to go in shifts. Information has been coming in spurts,
and we’re not sure how much is true. But a few things are starting to
repeat consistently, both on the news and in the texts flying across
our phones.
One: Brandon died trying to take a shortcut through the
construction site.
Two: Sean, Jules, and Monica were all with him at the time.
Three: Knox has a concussion but is otherwise fine.
Four: Sean Murdock saved Knox’s life by knocking him to the
ground when he tried to rush after Brandon.
“Sean Murdock.” Phoebe keeps repeating the name like she’s
never heard it before. She’s sitting with her knees drawn up to her
chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her eyes are glazed,
her cheeks pale. She looks almost catatonic, and I don’t think the
news about Brandon has sunk in yet. It hasn’t for me, either. “You’re
telling me Sean Murdock saved Knox’s life.” She says it like you’d
say, You’re telling me dogs can now talk and drive cars.
Addy wrinkles her brow. “Sounds familiar, but I don’t remember
him.”
“He’s—” I almost finish with a total asshole but stop myself in
the nick of time. Whatever else happened, Sean lost his best friend
today. And might have saved Knox’s life, although I’m having as hard
a time as Phoebe is wrapping my brain around that one. “He was
Brandon’s friend. He and Knox are…not close.”
Knox’s sister Kiersten emerges from the hospital corridor,
followed by two of his other sisters. Kiersten’s eyes search the
waiting area until they land on me. “Maeve, we’re going to meet up
with my parents in the cafeteria for a while. Knox is getting tired, but
he’s still okay to see people. Do you and your friends want to say
hello?” She smiles so kindly that I’m positive she has no clue about
the texting game, or what’s been going on between me and Knox over
the past couple of days. “He’s right around the corner in room 307.”
I jump to my feet, pulling Phoebe and Addy with me. “Yes,
please. How is he?”
“He’ll be fine,” Kiersten says reassuringly. “They’re keeping him
overnight for observation, but everything looks good.” Then her
resolutely cheerful expression slips a little. “Well, almost everything.
Prepare yourself. Poor kid’s face is a little rough.” She squeezes my
arm as we pass by her.
Hospitals make me anxious, and I need to take a second to steel
myself at the door to Knox’s room. This section of Bayview Memorial
doesn’t look anything like the cancer ward, which is a lot more
modern and high-tech, but the antiseptic smell and harsh fluorescent
lighting are the same. I absorb the details of the room—the outdated
pastel paint job, the framed print of a sad-looking vase full of
sunflowers, the ceiling-mounted television in one corner, the thin
curtain separating an empty bed from Knox’s—before my eyes settle
on him. Then I gasp.
“I know,” Knox says through puffy lips. “I’ve looked better.”
He’s in regular clothes with only a small bandage on one side of
his head, but his face is almost unrecognizable. One eye is blackened
and half-closed, his nose is red and swollen, and the entire right side
of his face is a giant bruise. I drop into the chair beside his bed and
try to grab hold of his hand, but he tucks it beneath the threadbare
blanket before I can.
I can’t tell if it’s coincidental timing or purposeful avoidance,
and I remind myself it doesn’t matter. At least he’s okay. “What
happened?” I ask, at the same time Phoebe says, “Sean did this?” She
drags a chair from the corner of the room and drops into it beside
me.
“Not so many questions at once,” Addy says. “When I had a
concussion, that kind of thing gave me an instant headache.” She’s
still standing, her eyes on the television screen in the corner. “Hang
on. They’re about to interview Sean Murdock.” She leans over me to
pick up the remote on Knox’s bedside table and points it toward the
television to turn up the volume.
“Fantastic,” Knox says flatly as we all look up.
Liz Rosen from Channel Seven is holding a microphone out to
Sean, who’s standing with his hands clasped like he’s about to pray.
They’re in front of someone’s house, the twilight sky a deep blue
behind them. The words LIVE UPDATE: LOCAL TEEN RECALLS FATAL
ACCIDENT flash along the bottom of the screen as Liz says, “Thank you
for taking the time to speak with us, Sean, after such a traumatic day.
Can you tell us in your own words what happened?”
Sean towers over Liz. He hunches his shoulders like he’s trying
to make himself look smaller and says, “It’s all kind of a blur, but I’ll
try. A bunch of us were at the mall, and then we wanted to go
downtown. We were trying to save a little time, and—God, that
sounds so stupid now, doesn’t it? Like, we should’ve just walked the
regular way. But we’d cut through the site before. Lots of kids do it;
we didn’t think anything of it. Anyway, Bran was joking around like
always, and then he jumped, and then…” Sean ducks his head and
puts a hand to his temple, obscuring his face. “Then all of a sudden
he wasn’t there.” Phoebe makes a strangled little noise beside me,
and I reach for her hand. Unlike Knox, she lets me take it.
Brandon is dead.
Brandon Weber is dead.
Brandon.
Weber.
Is. Dead.
I can repeat the words a dozen times in my head, a dozen
different ways, and it still doesn’t seem real.
“It must have been a terrible shock,” Liz says.
Sean nods, his head still down. I can’t tell if he’s crying or not. “It
was,” he says.
“Did you understand immediately what had happened?”
“We couldn’t really see into the…under the roof. But we knew it
was bad when he fell through.”
“And what happened with the second boy? The one who’s
injured?”
“That kid—he was in shock, I think. He ran straight for the edge
after Brandon, and all I could think was that he was gonna fall
through, too. I panicked. I did the only thing I could think of to stop
him in his tracks.” Sean finally looks up, his mouth twisted in a
regretful grimace. “I punched him. I think I ended up hurting him
kinda bad, and I’m sorry about that. But at least he stopped, you
know? At least he’s safe.”
“Bullshit,” Knox says quietly.
We all turn toward him. “Is that not what happened?” I ask.
Knox touches the bandage at his temple and winces. “I…don’t
actually remember,” he says haltingly. “Everything’s a blur from the
time I left Phoebe until I woke up with somebody shining a light in
my face. But I can’t imagine myself chasing after Brandon when he
just fell through a roof. I mean, I’ve been around construction sites
my whole life, you know? That’s not the kind of thing I’d ever do.”
“Maybe you weren’t thinking straight,” Addy says. “I wouldn’t
be.”
Knox still looks skeptical. “Maybe. Or maybe Sean is lying.”
Addy blinks. “Why would he do that?”
Knox shakes his head, his face tensing as though the movement
hurts. “I have no idea.”
Sunday, March 15
REPORTER: Good evening, this is Liz Rosen with Channel
Seven News. I’m live in the studio with special guest Lance
Weber, whose sixteen-year-old son, Brandon, died tragically
at the abandoned construction site behind the Bayview Mall
just ten days ago. Mr. Weber, my heartfelt condolences for
your loss.
LANCE WEBER: Thank you. My wife and I are beyond
devastated.
REPORTER: You’re here tonight, you told our producers,
because you want answers.
LANCE WEBER: That’s right. I’ve been a businessman for
more than half my life, Liz, and in business the bottom line is
accountability. Yet I can’t get any of the entities involved in
this horrible tragedy—the construction company, the mall,
even town officials—to step forward and provide details
about what I am sure are multiple instances of negligence
that contributed to my son’s death.
REPORTER: Are you saying that you believe one of those
organizations—or perhaps all of them—are at fault?
LANCE WEBER: I’m saying that something like this
doesn’t just happen, Liz. There’s always a responsible party.
One Day Later
Reddit, Vengeance Is Mine subforum
Thread started by Darkestmind
Where the hell are you Bayview2020?
ANSWER. MY. CHATS.
Don’t you dare fucking ghost me.—Darkestmind
This isn’t a joke.
I know where to find you.
And I’m not afraid to let this whole thing go up in flames.
I’ll do it just so I can watch you burn, too.—Darkestmind
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Phoebe
Monday, March 16
“I really appreciate the ride,” Knox says.
Emma buckles her seat belt and shifts the car into reverse. “No
problem.”
It’s been a week and a half since Brandon died, and nothing in
Bayview feels quite the same. On the plus side, Knox and I have been
hanging out more, enough that Emma and I drive him home from
school sometimes. On the far, far worse side, Jules and Sean are a
couple all of a sudden. I thought I was hallucinating the first time I
saw them making out in the hallway. “The trauma brought us
together,” I heard her tell another girl in English class. Her eyes had
the glazed devotion of a cult member. “We need each other.”
From what I’ve heard around school, it looks as though the
Truth or Dare game ended with the Knox/Maeve bombshell—which
makes me wonder if the whole point of the game was to mess with
her. After all, she’s the one who turned the tide against Simon last
year. Maybe one of his acolytes decided to get his revenge. If so, job
well done, because she and Knox are still barely speaking and it’s
making her miserable. Which sucks, but at least nobody at Bayview
is talking about that stupid game anymore.
Another possibility, I guess, is that Brandon was behind the
game all along and used it to help his friends win popularity points
while messing with people he didn’t like. But since the game kicked
off with an ugly secret about me while Brandon and I were hooking
up, I can’t think about that for too long without wanting to throw up.
Meanwhile, Sean’s started up a weird little bromance with Knox.
He’s suddenly calling Knox “my man” and yelling at anyone who tries
to make a limp dick joke. Which is confusing for people, since he’s
the one who started them in the first place. Knox still can’t remember
what happened at the construction site the day Brandon died.
And Brandon—Brandon is buried and gone.
His funeral was last weekend, the first one I’d gone to since my
father’s. I’d never felt such a confusing mash-up of emotions—shock
and disbelief and sadness, but also some anger still. It’s strange,
mourning someone who’d been legitimately horrible to you. When
the priest eulogized Brandon, I felt like he was talking about a boy I’d
never met. I wish I had, because that guy sounded great.
So much potential, wasted.
“Am I taking you to Until Proven, Knox?” Emma asks. She’s back
to being calmly polite toward me, and hasn’t mentioned Derek once
since Brandon’s funeral. Maybe his death shocked her out of her
anger, or maybe it’s just that I finally have a friend she likes. She
doesn’t even mind giving Knox the occasional lift to San Diego.
“No, I’m not working,” Knox says. I glance at him in the rearview
mirror, cataloging the state of his bruises like I do every day. The
ring around his eye is still purple, but his cheek and jaw have calmed
down to a yellowish color. If he wore makeup, he could totally cover
it up with the right foundation. “Just home, thanks.”
“You should come over,” I say impulsively. “Play that Bounty
Wars game Owen keeps asking about.” My brother has been subdued
lately, picking up on the sad vibe running through our house since
Brandon died. A video game session with someone new would be the
perfect way to cheer him up.
“Yeah, sure,” Knox says. Then he frowns and leans forward.
“Does the car feel kind of—lopsided to you guys?”
“Always,” I say. “It’s ancient.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Emma says. “Something’s
not right.” She turns in to the parking garage beneath our building
and pulls into our assigned spot. I grab my bag as she climbs out and
steps backward to look at the driver’s-side front tire.
“It’s going flat,” she groans as I get out.
Knox crouches down and examines the tire. “Looks like you
picked up a nail,” he says.
I pull out my phone, only to see the power drained to nothing.
“Emma, can you text Mom to call Triple A?” I ask. “I’m out of
battery.”
My sister shakes her head. “I lost my phone, remember?”
Emma lost her phone almost a week ago. Mom had a fit and said
she couldn’t afford a new one and Emma would have to pay for it out
of her tutoring money. So far, Emma hasn’t replaced it, which is
unfathomable to me. I can’t go an hour without my phone, let alone a
week. But Emma acts like she doesn’t even miss it.
“Do you have a spare tire?” Knox asks. “I can change it.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
Knox flushes as he opens the trunk. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m
not completely useless.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I say quickly, moving beside him to give his
arm a reassuring pat. “I’ve just never met anybody who knows how to
change a tire before. I thought it was a lost skill.” Which is true, but
also: if I’d been asked to guess Knox’s car repair abilities on a scale of
one to ten, I would’ve said zero. He doesn’t need to know that,
though.
“My dad wouldn’t let me and my sisters take driver’s ed until we
learned. It took me a month but whatever.” He pulls on a latch in the
trunk I didn’t even know was there and slides away part of the floor
to reveal a tire beneath. “Oh wow, it’s even regular size. Old cars are
the best.”
Knox changes the tire, so slowly and painstakingly that I debate
sneaking upstairs to charge my phone so I can call Mom and plead
for an assist from AAA, but eventually he finishes. “You still need a
new tire, but this will get you to a repair shop,” Knox says. It’s kind of
cute how nonchalant he’s trying to sound when he’s obviously proud
of himself.
“Thanks so much,” Emma says with genuine warmth in her
voice. “You’re the best.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Knox says as we walk to the elevator.
“You guys have been carting me all over town.”
“Well, you’re injured,” I say, pressing the Up button.
“Nah, I’m fine now. Doctors gave me a clean bill of health at my
last checkup,” Knox says, leaning against the wall while we wait. His
bruises look worse under the harsh fluorescent light of the garage.
“Anyway, according to my dad it serves me right.”
Emma gasps as the doors open and we step inside. “What?”
Knox instantly looks regretful. “That came out wrong. Those
aren’t his exact words or anything. He’s just mad that I tried to cut
through the construction site.”
I frown. “He should be glad you’re alive. Mr. Weber would trade
places with him in a heartbeat.” Brandon’s father has been on every
major San Diego news channel recently, threatening to sue the mall,
the bankrupt construction company that started the parking garage,
and the entire town of Bayview. “Did you catch him with Liz Rosen
last night?”
“Yeah. He was really ranting,” Knox says. The elevator stops on
our floor and we all step into the hallway, which smells faintly of
caramel and vanilla. Addy must be making cookies again. “I guess
you can’t blame him, though. I mean, that construction site is a
hazard. My dad’s been saying so for months. Plus Brandon’s an only
child, so it’s like their whole family is gone all of a sudden. You
know?”
“I know,” I say with a pang of sadness.
Emma’s been quiet since we got off the elevator. When we get
into the apartment she mutters a muted “Gotta study” and heads for
our bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Knox holds up his hands, streaked black from tire grease.
“Where can I wash these?”
I lead him to the kitchen sink and turn on the faucet, pouring
dish detergent into his outstretched palms. “I like your place,” he
says, gazing at the large windows and exposed brick.
“It’s all right,” I say grudgingly. And it is—for a hip young couple
with no kids. I’ll bet Knox wouldn’t find it so charming if he tried to
squeeze his entire family inside, though. “Do you want something to
drink? I’m getting a ginger ale. Owen won’t be home for another ten
minutes or so.”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thanks.” Knox dries his hands on a dish
towel and perches on one of our kitchen island stools while I grab a
couple of glasses. It occurs to me, suddenly, that Knox is the only guy
from Bayview High who’s ever been in this apartment besides
Brandon. I don’t invite a lot of people over, especially not boys. And
of course, I hadn’t invited Brandon.
But he came anyway.
“You okay?” Knox asks, and I realize I’ve been frozen in place
holding two glasses for I have no idea how long. I give myself a little
shake and put them on the island.
“Yeah, sorry. I just—zone out sometimes lately. You know?”
“I know,” Knox says as I pull a bottle of ginger ale out of the
refrigerator. “Last night there were blueprints all over our kitchen
table and I almost had a heart attack when I realized they were from
the parking garage site. My dad’s been helping investigators piece
things together. They’re trying to understand why the roof collapsed
on Brandon and nobody else. People have been taking that shortcut
for months.”
I pour us both a half glass of ginger ale, letting it fizz to the top
and then recede before I pour some more. “Well, Brandon is—he was
—a lot bigger than most kids at school.”
“Yeah, but the landing should’ve been engineered to bear more
weight than that.”
“Have they found anything?”
“Nothing my dad’s told me about. But he probably wouldn’t,
anyway.” Knox rubs his bruised jaw absently. “He doesn’t really
share work stuff with me. He’s not like Eli.”
I hop onto the stool next to him and sip my drink. “Do you like
working with Eli?”
“Love it,” Knox says, instantly brightening. “He’s great.
Especially when you consider the amount of crap he has to put up
with on a daily basis.”
“Like what?”
“Well, with the kind of law he practices, he’s just constantly
hounded. By other lawyers, cops, the media. Plus people who either
want him to take their case, or are mad because he took someone
else’s.” Knox takes a long gulp of ginger ale. “He even gets death
threats.”
“Seriously?” I ask. My voice shakes a little on the word. Eli is
always treated like a hero in the media, which I thought was a good
thing. It never occurred to me that that kind of visibility could be
dangerous.
“Yeah. Another one came in yesterday. Seems like it’s from the
same person, so they’re taking it a little more seriously. Sandeep—
that’s one of the lawyers who works there—says they’re usually oneoffs.”
I put my glass down with a clatter. “That’s horrible! Does Ashton
know?”
Knox shrugs. “I mean, she must, right?”
“I guess.” A shiver inches up my spine, and I give way to a fullbody shudder to get rid of it. “Ugh, I’d be so scared. I get creeped out
by random Instagram messages.”
Knox’s brow knits. “Are you still getting those? From, um…” He
glances toward my closed bedroom door and lowers his voice.
“Derek, or whoever?”
“Not lately. Here’s hoping he’s given up.”
Our lock jangles noisily, for so long that I get off my seat and
cross to the door. “Owen, despite the fact that he recently rewired a
toaster, still hasn’t fully mastered the art of the key,” I explain,
flipping the deadbolt and pulling open the door so my brother can
enter.
“I heard that,” Owen says, dropping his overloaded backpack
onto the floor. “Who are you—oh, hi.” He blinks at Knox like he’s
never seen him before. “Wow, your face is…ouch.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” Knox says.
“Knox is here to play Bounty Wars with you, Owen!” I say
cheerfully. “Doesn’t that sound fun?” Knox furrows his brow at me,
like he can’t figure out why I’m speaking to my preteen brother like a
toddler. I can’t, either, so I stop talking.
“Really?” Owen’s face lights up with a shy grin when Knox nods.
“Okay, cool.”
“You want to show me your setup?” Knox asks.
The two of them disappear into Owen’s room, and I feel a
strange mix of appreciation and regret as I watch them go. I have a
sudden image of myself ten years from now, running into Knox on
the street when he’s gotten cute and has an amazing job and an
awesome girlfriend, and kicking myself for not having been able to
see him as anything but a friend in Bayview.
I finish my ginger ale and rinse my glass. My hair hangs heavy
around my shoulders, begging for a ponytail. I start gathering my
curls back and head for the hallway, cracking open our bedroom
door. “Emma? I’m just getting an elastic.”
Emma is sitting on her bed, sipping from a giant Bayview
Wildcats tumbler cup. I walk to my dresser, stepping over a pile of
clothes on the floor, and root around in the top drawer until I find a
sparkly pink elastic. “I think I’ve had this since third grade,” I say,
holding it up to Emma. Then I notice the tears slipping down her
cheeks.
I close my drawer and cross to her bed, shooting her a nervous
look as I perch lightly on the corner edge. Even though we’ve been
getting along better lately, I’m still never one hundred percent sure
she won’t tell me to get lost. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She swipes at her face, upsetting her balance enough
that liquid from the cup sloshes over her hand. “Oopsie,” she
mutters, lifting the tail of her shirt to dab at the spill. There’s
something familiar and yet not familiar about the fumbling motion.
Familiar, because I’ve done it dozens of times. Not familiar, because
she hasn’t.
I stretch my hair elastic between two fingers. “What are you
drinking?”
“Huh? Nothing. Water.”
Emma doesn’t drink alcohol—not at parties, because she doesn’t
go to them, and definitely not at three o’clock in the afternoon in our
bedroom. But she slurs the last word so badly that there can’t be any
other explanation. “Why are you drinking and crying?” I ask. “Are
you feeling sad about Brandon?”
“I didn’t even know Brandon,” she mutters into her cup, her eyes
filling again.
“I know, but—it’s still sad, right?”
“Could you go?” Emma asks quietly. I don’t move right away,
and her voice gets even lower. “Please?”
Emma hasn’t said please to me in a while, so I do what she asks.
But it feels wrong to click our bedroom door shut behind me—like
even though I’m giving her what she wants, it’s not what she actually
needs.
—
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly, and I have to pry Knox away
from Owen at five o’clock. My little brother has a serious man crush.
“Will you come back?” he asks plaintively.
“Sure,” Knox says, putting his controller down. “I have to learn
some new moves first, though, so I can keep up with you.”
“I’ll drive you,” I say. I peeked in on Emma once since I left her,
and she looked sound asleep. I keep wondering if I misunderstood
the whole scene—maybe she really was drinking water? And just
being extra clumsy?—but chances are good she shouldn’t be behind a
wheel. Either way, I hope she wakes up as her usual self by the time
Mom gets home.
Knox winces, probably remembering all my near-accidents the
last time I drove him, but doesn’t protest as I lead him to the
elevator. “Thanks for being such a good sport,” I tell him when the
doors close. “That was a lot of Bounty Wars time.”
“It’s fine,” Knox says. He puts his hands in his pockets and leans
against the back of the elevator as it descends. “Owen is a great
player. He has this whole strategy mapped out that’s really—” He
shakes his head. “Let’s just say I was outmatched.” We stop, and
when the doors open I step out first to lead us to the car. “The weird
thing is, though…the game reminded me of something.”
I reach the Corolla and unlock the driver’s side. “What do you
mean?”
Knox doesn’t answer until he’s settled in the passenger seat
beside me. “Like, you know it’s a bounty hunter game, right?” I nod.
“So, there’s different ways you can kill people. You can shoot them or
stab them, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Or you can be more creative. I had my target on top of a
building and I was about to throw him over, like you do, and it
reminded me of being at the construction site the day Brandon died.
Then I got hit with this…” He blinks as we exit the dark garage into
still-bright sunshine, and lowers the visor in front of him. “This—
memory, I think.”
“A memory?” I repeat, glancing over at him. “Of Brandon?” My
skin prickles at the thought. I’m not sure I’m ready to hear anything
new about what happened to Brandon that day.
“No,” Knox says slowly. “Of Sean. It’s just a flash, but…all of a
sudden, in my mind’s eye, I saw him standing at the edge of the
construction site with his phone held up in front of him. Like he was
taking a picture, or a video. And then he yelled, ‘What the fuck are
you doing here, Myers?’ ”
“Wait, really?” I turn, staring at him.
Knox braces himself against the dashboard as a horn blares.
“That was a stop sign,” he says.
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” I slow down and raise an apologetic hand
toward whoever might be giving me the finger from another car. “But
are you serious? I mean, it definitely sounds like Sean, but…why
would he say that?”
Knox makes a frustrated noise as he rubs his temple. “Beats me.
That’s all I remember. I don’t even know if it’s real.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, considering, as we make the short
drive to Knox’s house. Sean’s whole punching Knox to save him story
has never made much sense, but Monica and Jules were there too,
and they’ve never contradicted him. Of course, Sean and Jules are
joined at the hip now, so…there’s that.
“Maybe you should play some more Bounty Wars with Owen
and keep jogging your memory,” I tell Knox as I pull into his
driveway.
He grins at me and unclips his seat belt. “I have a feeling that’s
gonna happen anyway. Your brother might be small, but he’s
persistent.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Knox
Tuesday, March 17
Prom is two months away, Knox!
Who are you going with?
You can’t leave this till the last minute.
Christ, my sisters. I’m tempted to close ChatApp without
answering and finish my homework in peace, but they’ll just track
me down via text. I’ll probably take a friend, I finally reply.
Kiersten jumps in, lightning-quick. Who? Maeve?
Yeah, right. Kiersten has no clue. I’m closer to her than any of
my other sisters, but I didn’t tell her about me and Maeve when it
happened, and I sure as hell didn’t let her know that I’d been
Bayview High’s favorite erectile dysfunction joke for a while. My
thoughts have been in a tug-of-war since yesterday; part of me wants
to let Sean’s story stand so that mine doesn’t flare up again, and the
other part wants to know what the hell he’s up to.
Probably not Maeve, I respond to Kiersten. I wonder, fleetingly,
if Phoebe might go with me. As friends, obviously, because she’s so
far out of my league that I’d have to be delusional to expect anything
else. But I think we’d have fun.
Maeve and I still aren’t great, or even good. Everything that
happened with Brandon was the perfect excuse not to talk about this
crap, so we haven’t. And the longer we don’t, the harder it is to start.
Maybe that’s okay, though. Maybe staying friends with the ex I failed
at losing my virginity with has been a problem all along.
I stretch to look at the digital alarm clock on my bedside table
from my seat at my desk. Almost eight. I’m usually in for the night at
this point, but I’m restless. I could use a short trip somewhere, and
maybe a snack. I think about the alfajores at Café Contigo, and my
mouth starts watering. Phoebe is working tonight, and Maeve’s been
avoiding that place like the plague for some reason. It’s as good a
destination as any, so I head for the stairs.
I’m halfway down when I hear my father’s voice. “It looks like
there may have been structural support issues, but it’s hard to be
sure given how long the site was untouched.” My parents are in our
kitchen; I can hear the faint clatter of ceramic against wood as they
empty the dishwasher. “The fact remains, though, that the kids were
trespassing. Including ours. So if Lance Weber does decide to sue, he
might wind up with a counter lawsuit on his hands.”
I freeze where I am, one hand on the banister. Shit. Am I getting
sued?
“Lance has some nerve.” Mom’s voice is tight. “I hope this is just
the grief talking. I feel for him, of course, because—my God. To lose
your son. It’s a nightmare. But for Lance to bring up the possibility of
a lawsuit after the strings he pulled to keep Brandon out of trouble—
it’s beyond hypocritical.”
I inch closer, straining my ears. What is she talking about?
“That was a mistake from the start,” Dad says grimly. “The case
never should have been settled that way. Not for something like that.
All it did was show Brandon that actions don’t have to have
consequences, which is a terrible lesson. Especially for a kid like
him.”
Mom breathes out a heavy sigh. “I know. I still regret not
pushing harder. I think about it all the time. But it was my first year
at Jenson and Howard, and I was trying not to make waves. If that
came across my desk now, I’d treat it differently.”
I wait for my father’s response, but all I hear is a throaty growl
and the sound of dog nails clicking across linoleum. Fritz enters the
living room, snuffling loudly until he spots me. His tail starts
wagging, and his snuffles turn into an excited whine. “Shh,” I hiss.
“Sit.” Instead, he keeps whining and pokes his nose through the
staircase railing.
A chair scrapes across the kitchen floor. “Knox?” my mother
calls. “Is that you?”
I thud the rest of the way downstairs, Fritz tailing me into the
kitchen. My mother is leaning beside the sink, and my father is
sitting at the table. “Hey,” I say. “What were you guys talking about?”
Dad gets that closed-off, irritated look he’s had ever since I was
released from the hospital. “Nothing that concerns you.”
Mom gives me her best good-cop smile. “Do you need
something, sweetie?”
“I’m going out for a while.” Does she look relieved? I think she
does. “But I heard you guys talking about Brandon. Was he in some
kind of trouble?”
“Oh, sweetie, that’s not important. Just your dad and me talking
business.”
“Okay, but…” I’m not sure why I’m not letting this go. Usually
one steely glare from my father is enough to shut me up, and he’s
already given me two. “Your firm did a case with him? You never told
me that. What was it?”
Mom stops smiling. “Knox, my work is confidential and you
know that. I wasn’t aware you were listening or I wouldn’t have
spoken. I’ll ask you not to repeat anything you heard here, please.
So.” She clears her throat, and I can practically see her stuff the
entire subject into a Do Not Revisit box. “Where are you going?”
I’m not getting anything out of her, obviously. And my dad’s a
lost cause. “Café Contigo. Can I take your car?”
“Sure,” she says, too quickly. “Have fun but be home before
eleven, please.”
“I will.” I pull her keys off the rack on our kitchen wall with the
uncomfortable certainty that I’m missing something important. But I
don’t know what.
—
“What’s up, my man?”
Crap. I came here to see Phoebe, not my new best friend, Sean.
But she’s not here and he is, holding up one meaty paw for a high
five.
I give in reluctantly. “Hey, Sean.”
“What are you up to?” Sean asks. He’s leaning against the
counter, waiting for his order, totally chill. Shooting the shit like he
didn’t watch his best friend die less than two weeks ago. Christ, I
hate him.
Ever since that maybe-memory popped into my head, I can’t
stop thinking about it: Sean standing at the edge of the construction
site with his phone trained on something. And then everything goes
blank, like a TV shutting off, and I hear his voice: What the fuck are
you doing here, Myers?
Did that actually happen? Or am I imagining things?
I wish I could be sure.
Sean is still talking. “I’m picking up dinner for my girl. Food here
sucks, but she likes it. What can you do, right?”
“Yeah, right.” I pull out a chair in a corner table near the register
and set my backpack down but don’t sit. Sean’s phone is dangling
from his hand while he waits. He’s not the type of guy who deletes
incriminating pictures or videos, I don’t think. He doesn’t have that
much common sense. I clear my throat and lean against the table as
Luis comes out of the kitchen with a brown paper bag. “So, hey,
Sean,” I say. “Can I ask a favor, man?”
Oh hell. That sounded ridiculous. I don’t know how to talk to
guys like Sean. He cocks his head, looking amused, and I keep
plowing ahead. “Do you think I could borrow your phone? I have to
look something up and I left mine at home.”
Sean pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. “Knox, my man,” he
says, extracting a twenty. “You did not. Your phone’s in the side
pocket of your backpack.”
I drop into my chair, defeated. I’m beyond pathetic. “Oh yeah. So
it is. Thanks.”
“How’s it going?” Sean says to Luis, and they do a complicated
fist bump. Sean plays baseball too, well enough that he was on
varsity when Cooper and Luis were seniors. “We miss you on the
team, man. You going to Fullerton Thursday for Coop’s game?”
“Of course,” Luis says, handing Sean his change.
“Me too, brother.”
“See you there.”
“Sweet.” Sean turns from the register. “Catch you tomorrow, my
man,” he says as he passes my table, holding out his hand for yet
another high five. I slap his palm, mostly so he’ll get the hell out of
here. He’s useless to me now that my sad attempt at espionage
fizzled.
I could’ve used Maeve’s skills tonight.
When the door closes behind Sean, Luis grabs a glass and a
pitcher of water from the bar and brings them over to my table. He
sets both down and fills the glass. “Why’d you want his phone?” he
asks.
“I, what?” I fumble. “I didn’t.”
“Come on.” Luis drops into the chair across from me with a
shrewd look. “You looked like somebody kicked your puppy when he
pointed yours out.”
“Um.” We regard each other for a few seconds in silence. I don’t
really know Luis, other than the fact that he stuck by Cooper when
almost nobody else did. Plus Phoebe thinks he’s great, and his dad is
basically the nicest guy on the planet. I could have worse allies, I
guess. “He took a video I want to see. But I don’t think he’d give it to
me if I asked directly. Actually, I know he wouldn’t.”
“What kind of video?”
I hesitate. I don’t even know if it’s really there. The whole thing
could be a product of my scrambled brain. But maybe it’s not. “Of the
construction site the day Brandon died.”
“Huh.” Luis is quiet for a moment, scanning the room to see if
anybody else needs his attention. They don’t, and he turns it back to
me. “Why do you want it?”
Good question. “I can’t remember much about that day, because
of the concussion,” I say. “Some of the things that people tell me
happened don’t make sense. I guess I’d like to see it with my own
eyes.”
“Luis!” Manny pops his head out of the kitchen. He’s like a funhouse mirror image of Luis: bigger, broader, and a lot more
confused-looking. “Do we make guac with garlic or without?”
Luis looks pained. “Jesus, Manny. You ask that every day.”
“So…with?”
“I gotta go,” Luis sighs, getting to his feet. “You want anything?”
“Alfajores,” I say. “But no rush.”
He leaves, and I gaze around me. Now what? I’d been relying on
Phoebe to keep me company, and I don’t really know what to do with
myself alone in a restaurant. What did Maeve used to do for all those
hours? I pull out my phone but immediately put it back when I see I
have thirty-seven ChatApp notifications. Maybe later.
The door opens, and a guy my age walks in. I squint until I place
him—it’s Intense Guy from a few weeks ago. The one who came
looking for Phoebe until Manny and Luis scared him off. I glance at
the counter, but nobody’s there. This time, the guy doesn’t stride
forward but drops into a corner table and slouches low in the seat.
Ahmed, one of the servers, heads over to bring him water. They
speak briefly, but nothing about the conversation seems to raise red
flags for Ahmed, who leaves the table with his usual pleasant but
preoccupied expression.
Intense Guy puts his head down when Manny makes a brief
appearance at the counter, but otherwise he scans the room like he’s
watching a movie. Ahmed brings him a cup of coffee, and the guy just
keeps sitting and staring without drinking it. I’m glad now that
Phoebe’s not working, because I have the feeling he’s looking for her
again.
Why? Who the hell is this guy? Emma’s ex Derek, maybe? I’ve
already forgotten his last name. I grab my phone and pull up
Instagram, but it’s pointless—there are millions of Dereks.
After about fifteen minutes of me watching Intense-Guy-slashMaybe-Derek watch the room—which is just as riveting as it sounds
—the guy tosses a bill on the table and takes off without ever having
touched his coffee. I’m left with the same vague, uneasy feeling I had
in my parents’ kitchen earlier.
I’m missing something.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maeve
Thursday, March 19
Cooper tenses, winds up, and hurls a blistering fastball across home
plate. The opposing batter looks like he’s swatting at a fly when he
misses, and the entire stadium erupts into cheers. The batter, down
on strikes, hurls his bat toward the dugout in frustration and stalks
away.
“Poor sport,” Kris murmurs beside me, putting out an arm so
Cooper’s grandmother, seated on his other side, can lean against him
while she gets to her feet for a standing ovation. She does it every
time Cooper strikes somebody out, which has been a lot this game.
It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
We’re at Goodwin Field at Cal State Fullerton on Thursday
night, part of a capacity crowd watching Cooper pitch against UCLA.
The stadium seating is like a horseshoe around the field, and we’re
almost directly behind home plate in a section that’s full of Bayview
High students, past and present. I got a ride here with Addy, who
corralled Nate as soon as he showed up and is forcing him to be
social. I think I caught a glimpse of Luis sitting with a bunch of
Cooper’s ex-teammates, but I looked away before I could be sure.
After two weeks of total silence, I don’t even know what I’d say if I
ran into him tonight.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I expect a text from Bronwyn,
who’s been checking in on Cooper throughout the game, but it’s just
my mom asking what time I’ll be home. I still can’t get used to how
quiet my phone is ever since I disabled the PingMe alerts. I’m glad I
listened to Phoebe about that, especially since the Truth or Dare
game ended on its own. I’d like to think whoever did it stopped out of
respect for the fact that Bayview High is mourning Brandon, but it’s
more likely they just realized they’d lost everyone’s attention.
Every once in a while I still wonder who was behind it all, and
whether they had a personal grudge against Phoebe, Knox, and me.
But I guess that doesn’t matter. My real problem is that I haven’t
figured out how to make things up to Knox. Now that I’ve managed
to alienate both him and Luis, my social circle has shrunk once again
to Bronwyn’s friends.
Well, and Phoebe. At least she’s still speaking to me.
Cooper throws one of his infamous sliders, and the UCLA batter
just stands there looking confused while it’s called a strike. “You
might as well sit down right now, young man,” Cooper’s
grandmother calls. “You’re already out.”
My mood lifts a little as I lean toward Kris. “Nonny heckling
batters might be my favorite thing ever.”
He smiles. “Same. Never gets old.”
“Do you think Cooper will go to the majors next year?” I ask.
“Not sure.” Kris looks extra-cute in a green polo that brings out
his eyes, his dark hair full of golden glints from sitting in so many
baseball stadiums. “He’s really torn. He loves being at school, and
the team has been great. Not just about baseball, but—everything.”
Kris gestures wryly to himself. “The majors, on the other hand, still
aren’t particularly welcoming to gay players. It’d be a tough
transition, especially with all the added pressure. But the reality is,
his game won’t advance the way it needs to if he stays at the college
level much longer.”
I watch Cooper on the mound, disconcerted by how impossible it
is to recognize him from this distance. With his hat pulled low over
his face, he could be anyone. “How do you make that choice?” I ask,
almost to myself. “Between what you need and what you want?” I feel
like my sister’s going through her own version of that.
Kris’s eyes are on Cooper, too. “You hope they become the same
thing, I guess.”
“What if they don’t?”
“I have no idea.” Kris sucks in a breath as the batter makes
contact with Cooper’s next pitch, but it’s a harmless grounder that
the shortstop fields easily. “The Padres keep checking in,” he adds.
“They really want him, and they have a high draft position this year.”
“Would it be an easier decision if he could stay local? He’d still
have to travel a ton, obviously, but at least he’d be close to home.”
I don’t mean Bayview, exactly, and I think Kris knows that. He
allows himself a small smile. “It might.”
I smile back through a tangle of conflicting emotions. On one
hand, it feels strange to be here with dozens of other Bayview High
students in such a cheerful atmosphere, two weeks after Brandon
died. On the other, it’s a relief to be focused on something positive
for a change. I’m happy for Kris and Cooper, because they deserve
every good thing, and I’m excited about their future.
Not so much about mine, though.
I push up the sleeve of my long-sleeved T-shirt to trace the
outline of another bruise. I feel like a peach left too long on a
windowsill, right before it collapses on itself. Deceptively smooth on
the outside, but slowly rotting at the core.
And then I feel it: moisture trickling through my nose again. Oh
no. Not here.
I grab a tissue from my bag and press it against my face, rising to
my feet at the same time. “Bathroom,” I say to Kris, stepping over
him and Nonny with a murmured apology on my way to the aisle.
The steps are clear, with nearly everyone in their seats and focused
on Cooper, so I’m able to make my way to the women’s room quickly.
I don’t look at the tissue until I’m in a stall with the door locked
behind me.
Bright red.
I collapse onto the toilet seat and the tears come, silently but so
hard that my shoulders shake. Despite my best efforts at pretending
none of this is happening, it is, and I don’t know what to do. I feel
isolated, hopeless, terrified, and just plain exhausted. Tears mix with
blood as I swipe tissue after tissue over my face, until I finally rip at
least three feet of toilet paper out of the dispenser and bury my head
in the entire thing.
Both the tears and the nosebleed stop around the same time. I
stay where I am for at least another inning, letting my breathing even
out and my heart rate slow. Then I stand, flush my mass of tissues
and toilet paper, and leave the stall. I splash water on my face at the
sink, staring at my reflection in the hazy mirror. Could be worse. My
eyes aren’t all that red, and I’m not wearing any makeup to smudge. I
run a brush through my tangled hair, wash my hands, and step
outside onto the concourse.
The restrooms are around the corner from the concession stand,
and the first thing I see is a small knot of familiar faces: Sean, Jules,
Monica, and Luis. Jules is wrapped so tightly around Sean that she’s
in danger of spilling the tray of snacks he’s holding. Monica keeps
touching Luis’s arm, batting her eyelashes at him. They’re all
laughing and joking like they’re on the greatest double date of their
lives and don’t have a care in the world.
For a second, I hate them all.
“All right, man, thanks,” Luis says, handing something to Sean.
“I gotta go.”
Monica gives a flirty little pout. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
she asks. “After we bought all these snacks? Somebody has to share
the popcorn with me.”
“No way. I wouldn’t miss Coop. I’ll see you guys back in the
seats, okay?” The other three turn away, still laughing, and Luis
heads in my direction. I should duck into the women’s room again,
but my legs refuse to cooperate.
He stops a few feet away when he spots me. “Maeve, hey.” His
brow furrows as he looks more closely. “Everything okay?”
Maybe my eyes aren’t quite as normal as I’d hoped. “Fine,” I say.
I cross my arms and push away the memory of my crying spell in the
bathroom. “He’s an asshole, you know.”
“What?” Luis turns around, like he thinks I’m talking about
someone behind him. “Who?”
“Sean. He’s been horrible to Knox and Phoebe and…other
people.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, we played ball together, so.” He shrugs like
that’s the only explanation needed. My temper spikes and I’m glad
for the distraction.
“So you’re bros,” I say sarcastically. “Awesome.”
Luis goes still, his eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”
“It means you all stick together, don’t you? Dudebros unite, and
who cares about anyone else.” My skin prickles with residual fear,
misplaced anger, and something else I can’t put a name to. “I guess
he can do whatever he wants as long as he throws a ball far enough.”
“Dudebro,” Luis says flatly. “That’s what you think of me?”
“That’s what you are.” I don’t even know what I’m saying
anymore. All I know is that it feels good to unleash some of the
frustration that’s been building inside me for weeks.
His jaw ticks. “I see. Is that why you dropped off the face of the
earth?”
“I didn’t—” I pause. Okay, maybe I did. But he didn’t knock
himself out looking for me, either. My nose tingles, and dread rushes
up my spine. Another nosebleed is going to start again soon, I can
tell. “I have to go. Enjoy your popcorn.”
Oh. So that’s the other thing I’m feeling. Jealous.
“Hang on.” Luis’s voice is commanding enough that I pause. His
shoulders are squared, his face tense. “I was hoping to run into you
tonight. I wanted to get your number, finally.” My heart does a stupid
leap despite itself, then crashes back down when he adds, “Now that
I know how you feel about dudebros, I won’t bother you, but there’s
still something I want to send you. It’s for Knox, actually, but you’re
the one here, so.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Can you tell
me your number? Once you have these you can go ahead and delete
me from your phone or your life or whatever.”
I’m seized with regret, but also with the certainty that I’m about
to start bleeding in front of him. I recite my number quickly, and
Luis presses a few keys before putting his phone away. “Might take a
while to come through. They’re big files. Tell Knox I hope it helps.”
He strides away just as a trickle of blood escapes my nose. It
starts to fall faster, even dripping onto my shirt, but I don’t move to
wipe it away. I don’t know what just happened, other than the fact
that I was horrible to Luis for no good reason, and trampled
whatever might’ve been going on between us straight into the
ground.
Which sucks, but it’s not even close to my biggest problem right
now.
“Maeve. What the fuck.”
I look up to see Nate carrying a full cup of soda in each hand, his
eyes flicking from my face to the blood on my shirt. I’ve never told
him what nosebleeds mean for me, but from the look on his face,
Bronwyn did. Something breaks inside me, and before I can get hold
of myself, I start crying again.
Nate tosses both sodas into a nearby trash can without another
word. He puts an arm around me and leads me out of the main
concourse to a side area with a few scattered picnic tables. It’s not
private, exactly, but we’re the only ones there. He sits us both down,
his arm still wrapped around my shoulders. I collapse into him,
sobbing against his chest for I don’t know how long. Nate keeps
pulling crumpled napkins out of his pocket until he runs out and I
have to press them together in a damp, bloodstained mess. All I can
think, while I clutch Nate’s jacket and he keeps a steady hand on my
arm, is that I’m finally not alone with this.
When I sit up at last, wiping my eyes, he says, “Bronwyn didn’t
tell me.”
I dig a tissue out of my purse and blow my nose. “She doesn’t
know.”
Nate’s dark-blue eyes widen. “Your parents didn’t tell her?”
“They don’t know, either. Nobody does.”
“Maeve. What the fuck,” he says again. It doesn’t seem like the
sort of comment that needs a reply, so I don’t. “But doesn’t this…I
mean, just to make sure I’m understanding things here. This is
something that happens when you relapse, right?” I nod. “So you
can’t…You have to…Why? Why would you keep something like this
to yourself?”
My voice is low and hoarse. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“What what’s like?” Nate asks.
“Relapsing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s just—everything changes. Everyone is sad. Normal life stops
and we all climb on this miserable treatment roller coaster that only
goes down. It’s horrible and it hurts in every way possible, and the
worst thing is, it doesn’t work.” I’d start crying again if I weren’t
completely spent. I sag against Nate’s shoulder instead, and his arm
tightens around me. “It never works for long. Four years is the
longest ever. I thought maybe I’d never have to do it again and I…I
don’t know if I can.”
Nate is quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” he says finally. “I get
that. But this is your life, Maeve. You have to try. Don’t you think?”
I’m so unbelievably tired. If I closed my eyes now, I’d sleep for
days. It’s not a comforting thought. “I don’t know.”
“If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for your family, okay?”
Nate’s voice gets urgent. “Think about your mom and dad. And
Bronwyn. How would they feel if you…If something happens, they’ll
drive themselves crazy wondering whether things could have been
different if you’d trusted them enough to tell them.”
I stiffen. “It’s not about trust.”
“But that’s what they’ll think.” I don’t reply, and he presses. “You
know it’s what Bronwyn will think. She’ll blame herself for not being
here, or not guessing. And it will eat at her for the rest of her life.”
Damn him. He just poked my Achilles’ heel, and he knows it.
When I sit up, he already looks relieved. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll talk to
my parents.”
As soon as I say it, a wave of relief crashes over me, washing
away some of the dread that’s been building for weeks. It hits me,
then, how badly I’ve wanted to tell them, but I’d let myself get frozen
with fear and indecision. I needed a push.
Nate exhales a long breath. “Thank Christ.”
“You need to do something for me in return, though,” I warn. He
raises his eyebrows, quizzical. “Get your head out of your ass when it
comes to my sister.”
Nate’s surprised laugh breaks the tension enough that I smile,
too. “Listen, Maeve. You don’t have to worry about Bronwyn and me.
We’re endgame.”
I wipe a stray tear from the corner of my eye. “What does that
mean?”
“It means we’ll wind up together eventually. It might take a year
for us to sort everything out, or two, or ten. Whatever. But it’ll
happen.”
“Maybe you should tell her that,” I suggest.
He gives me that famous Nate Macauley grin that always turns
my sister into a puddle. “She knows. She might not admit it yet, but
she knows.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Phoebe
Friday, March 20
“You guys need to see this,” Maeve says, pulling out her phone.
She looks positively green, although it might just be the lighting
in here. We’re backstage in the Bayview High auditorium, sitting on
the floor of some little side room that the drama club uses as an
office. I didn’t even know it existed. A desk and chair take up half the
space, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves against one wall hold props,
books, and folded costumes. The walls are covered in faded
Broadway posters, and everything is coated in a thin layer of dust.
“What is it?” I ask. I’m positioned between her and Knox, which
is where I always end up when the three of us are together lately.
Knox might not be the school joke anymore, but that doesn’t mean
things are okay between him and Maeve. He only came because she
insisted, with surprising force.
“A video that Luis gave me,” Maeve says. “I got it yesterday but—
I had kind of an intense night with my parents. Some family stuff
going on…Anyway, that’s not really the point. The point is, I didn’t
watch it until a little while ago. Luis sent a bunch of videos, I think
because he didn’t know what was important, and he clearly didn’t go
through it all himself, because he would have said something if he
had, because—”
“Maeve,” I interrupt. “Maybe you should just play the video.”
“Yes. Okay.” She unlocks her screen and opens her photos. “But
just to set it up a little more—this is from Sean Murdock’s phone. It
was taken the day Brandon died.”
I gasp. Knox, who’d been slouching listlessly beside me, sits bolt
upright. “Wait. What?” he asks. He scrambles around me until he’s
sitting next to Maeve and can stare directly at her phone. “How did
Luis get it?”
“I think he borrowed Sean’s phone last night at Cooper’s game,”
Maeve says.
“Oh my God, Knox,” I say, realizing what she has. “It’s the video.
You were right!”
Maeve’s forehead creases as her eyes dart between us. “You guys
already knew about this?” she asks. She sounds both confused and
hurt.
“I don’t know what’s on it,” Knox says. “I had a memory come
back of Sean recording something at the construction site but I didn’t
know what it was.” He’s practically vibrating with tension as he grips
Maeve’s arm. “Play it.”
She taps Play, and my pulse starts racing when an image of
Brandon fills the screen, his hair tousled by the wind. He’s standing
right at the edge of the construction site, looking down, and tears
spring to my eyes. I almost forgot how beautiful he was. I used to
spend entire class periods dreaming about those lips. “This is fucking
boring,” he says, and his familiar voice sends chills down my spine.
“Why couldn’t I have gotten something like yours?” Brandon
continues, twisting to look at someone behind him off camera. “Or
even yours.”
“What are you waiting for, pretty boy?” Sean’s voice, in a high
falsetto, comes at us loud and clear. “Not scared of a little jump, are
you?”
“I’m disappointed,” Brandon says, putting his hands on his hips.
“There’s no glory in this. I should do a backflip or something.”
“That would be amazing,” comes a girl’s breathless voice, and my
heart stutters. Jules.
“At least you get to play,” comes another voice that I recognize as
Monica’s. “Who or what does a girl have to do to get a freaking Dare
around here?”
“Holy shit—” Knox starts, but I shush him.
“Me,” Brandon says, and Sean cackles.
“For a guy who’s not scared, Branny, you sure are talking a lot,”
he taunts. “Come on. Let’s capture you for posterity. Jump,
motherfucker! Jump, jump, jump!”
Jules and Monica pick up the chant, and they’re clapping, and oh
my God, this is so horrible that I actually whimper. “Does he…do you
see him…” I stammer. Then Brandon bends his legs in preparation to
jump, and I can’t. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my face tightly
against Maeve’s shoulder. I hear the crash anyway.
“Fucking hell!” Sean’s voice comes out like a scream, high and
terrified. “Bran! What the fuck just happened!” I can hear Jules and
Monica screaming, too, and I cautiously raise my head to look at
Maeve’s screen. The video is nothing but dirt and grass, the ground
pitching below Sean as he moves. “Bran! Are you—holy shit.”
“Where is he?” Jules asks tearfully.
“He fell through the fucking roof!” Sean yells. His phone is still
aimed at the ground, recording. Monica says something I can’t hear.
Then there’s a couple minutes of low, urgent conversation that’s
impossible to catch until Sean’s voice comes through again, loud and
clear: “What the fuck are you doing here, Myers?” And then the
screen goes black.
“Jesus,” Knox says weakly.
Maeve swallows hard. “You guys got the gist of that, right?” she
asks. “The game didn’t end with Knox and me, after all. Brandon was
doing a Dare.”
“Yeah. Got it.” I blink back tears and press my hands to my
stomach. If I’d eaten lunch before watching that, I’d have thrown it
up. “Oh my God. That was horrible.”
Maeve puts a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I should’ve
warned you better. I keep forgetting that you guys, um, hung out for
a while.” She turns to Knox. “I think you were right. It doesn’t seem
like Sean punched you to help you. But I’m still not sure why he did.”
Knox’s eyes remain glued to her dark phone. “Me either. I
thought seeing that would jog my memory, but it didn’t.” We’re all
quiet for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts, until Knox adds,
“Maeve, you said Luis sent a bunch of videos. Are there any other—”
“No,” she interrupts quickly. “There’s nothing else about
Brandon. The rest is just…personal stuff.” She goes bright red when
she says it. Even though I’m still numb with shock, my mouth twists
into a grimace.
“Ew. Please don’t tell me you accidentally watched a Sean sex
tape.”
Maeve looks like she just sucked on a lemon. “No, but there was
a…shower selfie.”
“Oh my God.” I stare at her in horrified commiseration. “Was
it…”
“Full frontal,” she confirms, shuddering at the memory.
Knox snorts out a humorless laugh. “Imagine how much fun we
could have with that if we were assholes like him.” Then he frowns
and massages his temple. “So, what should we do about the video?
Should we tell someone?”
“Well,” I say cautiously. “It doesn’t change anything, does it? It’s
still a shitty accident, except now they’d all get in trouble for lying.” I
don’t care about Sean or Monica, but there’s Jules to consider. “And
then…the Truth or Dare game would be out there. Teachers would
know about it, so we’d lose our phones at school. And parents would
know.” I glance at Knox to see if that’s sinking in, and sure enough,
he looks appalled at the thought. I’m sure he doesn’t want his
parents learning his Truth any more than I want my mother to hear
mine.
“Right,” Knox says decisively. “It doesn’t change anything.”
I turn toward Maeve. She’s usually the first to jump in with an
opinion, but she’s been quiet for a while. Now that my eyes have
gotten used to the drama club office lighting, she doesn’t look as
green anymore—but she does look exhausted. Dark circles ring her
eyes, and her usually shiny hair is pulled back into a dull, messy bun.
“What do you think?” I ask.
Her amber eyes droop. “Whatever you guys want to do.” She
picks up her messenger bag and loops it around her shoulder. “I have
to go. I have a doctor’s appointment in half an hour.”
I pluck at her sleeve. “Everything okay?”
“Sure. Fine. It’s just…” Maeve glances between Knox and me and
bites her lip, her face conflicted. Then she seems to make up her
mind about something. “It’s just that I might not be around as much,
for a while. Depending on how things go today. I’ve been having…
symptoms. The sort of things that used to happen before I relapsed.
So I’m getting that checked out. We’re starting with a blood test, and
then we’ll see what’s next.”
My mouth falls open, and I’m rooted to the spot as Maeve gets to
her feet. But Knox isn’t; he jumps up with her, knocking his knee
hard against the desk. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Maeve, what the
hell? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She gives him a wry half smile. “We haven’t exactly been
talking.”
“Yeah, but that—that doesn’t matter. Not compared to this.”
Knox runs a hand through his hair and snatches his backpack up
from the ground. “I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t,” Maeve protests. “You have class.”
“I’ll cut. Phoebe showed me how.”
“It’s true,” I volunteer, but neither of them is paying attention to
me.
Maeve twists her hands together. “My parents are taking me. I
don’t think they’d want a committee in my oncologist’s office.”
“Then I’ll wait in the lobby. Or the parking lot.” Knox slips his
backpack over his shoulders and grips the straps so tightly that his
knuckles turn white. “God, Maeve, I’m sorry. I feel like shit that I
didn’t know about this.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Maeve says. “I do.”
“You tried. I wouldn’t listen.”
I get the feeling, suddenly, that I’m intruding on an overdue
conversation. I stand and enfold Maeve in a quick, hard hug. “I
better go,” I say into her hair. “Good luck. I’m thinking all the good
thoughts for you.” She murmurs her thanks as I slip through the
office door.
I part the velvet curtains onstage and descend the side staircase
onto the auditorium floor. My thoughts are in a whirl, pinballing
between Maeve’s news and the video I just saw. When I reach the
back of the auditorium, I almost trip over a sneakered foot jutting
into the aisle.
“Hey,” Matthias Schroeder says. “I have a message for you.”
He’s sitting in the back row, a brown paper bag in his lap,
clutching half a sandwich. I pause and take him in: light blue hoodie
with some Star Wars character I don’t know, skinny black jeans, and
weirdly jaunty red sneakers. His wispy blond hair is too long,
hanging in his eyes. “You have a message for me?” I ask, skeptical.
Matthias and I have never spoken before. “And you, what? Had to
trip me before you could tell me?”
“I waved at you the entire time you were walking up the aisle,”
he says. “You didn’t notice me. Anyway, I had English with Emma
before lunch and she doesn’t feel well so she took your car and went
home. I guess she doesn’t have a phone, or whatever.”
“Oh. Okay.” I look at him warily. “How did you know I’d be
here?”
“I followed you,” he says. His expression gets defensive when my
eyes pop. “I’m not, like, creeping on you. I was gonna tell you in the
caf but you came here instead. I eat lunch here sometimes anyway,
so I waited for you.”
He takes a bite of sandwich. It’s made with thin white bread and
some kind of pale pink lunchmeat, a wilted leaf of lettuce poking out
of one side. It’s the loneliest-looking vegetable I’ve ever seen. When
he places the sandwich on his paper bag, I can see indents where his
fingers were pressing. “Well, thanks for letting me know,” I say.
I should go then, probably, but instead I hitch my backpack
higher on my shoulder. “Did you have anything to do with the Truth
or Dare texting game?” I ask abruptly.
Matthias looks startled. “What? No. Why would you think that?”
Everybody thinks that, I almost say. “You started Simon Says.”
Matthias looks down at his sandwich. “That was different.”
“How?”
“I just wanted to know what it was like.” It’s dim in the
auditorium, but I can still see Matthias’s cheeks flush. “To have
people pay attention.”
“They paid attention to the Truth or Dare game, too.”
“I said that wasn’t me.” Matthias seems surprised at the sound
of his own voice echoing through the empty room. He lowers it. “I
wouldn’t even know how to find out that stuff. The secrets. Nobody
talks to me. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“I’m talking to you.”
“Yeah, well.” Matthias tosses the rest of his sandwich into the
paper bag and crumples the whole thing into a ball. “We both know
that won’t last.” He unfolds his lanky frame to stand up and I feel—I
don’t know. Like I shouldn’t let him be right.
“If you don’t want to eat lunch here tomorrow, you could, um,
eat with us,” I tell him.
Matthias stares at his red sneakers, looking mildly alarmed. “I
don’t think so. Thanks, though.” He darts away before I can respond,
and it’s probably just as well. I don’t know what we’d talk about for
more than a few minutes anyway.
—
It’s hot for March—not the best day for me to get ditched by a sick
Emma—so I’m grumpy and sweating by the time I trudge onto my
block. My phone rings, and I curse at it under my breath. Hardly
anyone calls me except my mother, so I don’t even have to look at the
screen before I answer. “Hey, Mom,” I say, pulling out my keys as I
approach the front door of our building.
Her voice is harried. “Hi, Phoebe. Is Emma with you? Can you
put her on?”
I insert my key in the lock with one hand and twist it to the right.
It doesn’t budge, and I grunt in annoyance as I pull it out to try
again. Everything in this building looks great on the surface but
works like actual crap. “She’s not with me,” I say distractedly.
Mom heaves a frustrated sigh. “I don’t understand. This isn’t like
her!”
“Huh?” My mind is only half on her words as I wrestle with the
key until the lock finally gives. “What isn’t like her?” I ask, pulling
the door open.
“To just not show up like this. She’s supposed to be doing a
walk-through for me at the restaurant where Ashton and Eli are
having their rehearsal dinner. The manager could only be there this
afternoon and I can’t leave work, so I asked Emma to go in my place.
We had a whole list of questions prepared, but she never showed up.
And she still hasn’t replaced her phone, so I can’t even call her.”
I’m in the lobby now and pause in front of one of the potted
plants. Mom is right. That’s not like Emma at all, even if she isn’t
feeling well. She’s dragged herself to tutoring sessions when she had
a fever. “She’s sick,” I say. “She left school early. Didn’t she tell you?”
Mom exhales into my ear. “No, she didn’t. Okay. What’s wrong
with her? Is it that stomach thing again, or—”
“I don’t know,” I interrupt. “I haven’t seen her. She asked
somebody at school to tell me she was leaving, and I just got home.” I
cross the lobby to the elevator and reach it right as the doors are
starting to close. I stick my hand between them until they spring
back open, and smile apologetically at the old woman standing off to
one side. She lives on our floor, so the button is already pressed. “Do
you want me to go to the restaurant instead?”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, Phoebe, but it’s too late. The manager
already left. I’ll figure something else out. Could you please check on
your sister and call me back?”
“Okay,” I say. Mom thanks me and disconnects as the elevator
chimes. I’m kind of anxious about Emma now, because how sick does
she have to be to forget she was supposed to help Mom out? That’s
the kind of thing I’d do.
I open our apartment door and it’s completely silent when I walk
in. “Emma?” I call, pulling off my ankle boots. I leave them beside
the door and drop my keys and bag on the kitchen island, then pad
toward our bedroom. “How are you feeling?”
There’s no response. The door is closed, and I push it open.
Emma is lying on her bed in a messy tangle of blanket and sheets.
For once, her bed looks exactly like mine. She’s out cold, breathing
steadily through her half-open mouth. As I move closer, she lets out
a little snore. I stub my toe against something on the floor and step
into a patch of wetness. Emma’s Bayview Wildcats tumbler is lying
beside her bed, and I pick it up and sniff inside. I wrinkle my nose
and recoil. Gin, this time.
“Jesus, Emma.” I don’t know whether to be disgusted or
worried, so I settle on both. “What the hell is going on with you?”
I grab some Kleenex from my dresser and bend down to mop up
the spill, wincing when my knee connects with something sharp. It’s
the edge of Emma’s phone charger, lying useless on the floor since
she still hasn’t replaced her phone. She keeps borrowing mine any
time she wants to look something up and doesn’t have the laptop
handy, which is annoying because—
I pause, damp tissues dangling from one hand. Whenever Emma
asks to borrow my phone, I hand it over without question. Half the
time, I leave her alone in our room with it. What if she opened my
Instagram and saw the messages from Derek? I never deleted them.
Is that the kind of thing that might send her spiraling?
“Phoebe?” Emma’s sleepy voice startles me so much that I
almost fall over. Her eyes flutter open and lock on me. “What’re you
doing?”
“Cleaning up your mess,” I say, sitting back on my haunches.
“There’s half a cup of gin on the floor. You’re not actually sick, are
you? You’re drunk. Do you even remember that you were supposed
to help Mom with Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner?”
Emma blinks slowly at me. “I need to ask you something.”
My frustration rises. “Did you hear a word I just said?”
“Did you love him?” she asks hoarsely.
I swallow hard. Crap. She definitely saw the messages from
Derek. “No. That was a huge mistake and it’s over. I wish it had never
happened.”
She snorts out a humorless laugh. “I know it’s over. I’m not an
idiot. It’s just that I never imagined…I didn’t think…” Her eyes
droop, or maybe close. I can’t really tell from this angle.
“Didn’t think what?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, and I get to my feet again, her Bayview
Wildcats tumbler in my hand. I’m about to leave when I hear a
whisper from Emma’s bed, so faint I almost miss it. “I didn’t think
he’d keep going.”
“Keep going with what?” I ask. But the snores start up again, so I
guess that’s all I’m going to get out of her for now.
I bring the cup into the bathroom and rinse it thoroughly,
adding a few drops of liquid soap until it smells like lemons instead
of alcohol. My head is pounding like I’m the one who drank God only
knows how much straight gin. When I’m finished, I dry the cup with
a hand towel and place it on the back of the toilet. Then I lean against
the sink, meeting my tired eyes in the mirror. I don’t know what’s
going on with my sister, or what I should do about it. I don’t want to
worry Mom when she’s been so much more cheerful lately. I could
try talking to Emma’s friend Gillian, maybe, but Gillian pretty much
hates me after the whole Derek reveal. When she sees me at school,
she looks right through me. There’s nobody else I can turn to who
knows Emma well enough to help.
It almost makes me consider messaging Derek back. Almost. But
not quite.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Knox
Friday, March 20
Sandeep frowns at the envelope and holds it up to the light. “Yeah, I
think it’s the same person who sent the last couple of threats. The
label has the exact same font.”
Bethany is perched at the edge of the desk Sandeep and I are
sharing. She squints and leans closer. “Font? That looks like
handwriting.”
“That’s how it’s designed,” Sandeep says. He reaches into the
desk drawer for a Ziploc and drops the envelope inside, squeezing
out all the air in the bag and sealing it before he holds it up to
Bethany. “But look at the kerning. It’s too even.”
“The what?” Bethany asks.
“Kerning. The spacing between the individual letter forms,”
Sandeep explains. “It’s a typography term.”
Bethany rolls her eyes as she gets up and heads back to her desk.
“You’re such a nerd.”
“It’s not nerdy to care about fonts!” Sandeep calls after her.
“Typography is an art form.”
Bethany sticks her tongue out at him and grabs her bag. “If you
say so. I’m out, boys. Don’t stay too late.”
I swivel in my desk chair beside Sandeep. “Aren’t you going to
open it? Read what’s inside?”
“Later. When I’m wearing gloves,” he says. I frown, confused—
why would he need gloves?—and he adds, “At this point, we’ve gotten
enough threats from this particular individual that we need to hand
it over to the police. I want to contaminate the envelope as little as
possible before then.”
I can’t take my eyes off the envelope. The last note I read is still
seared into my brain: I’ll enjoy watching you die. “What do you
think this person’s so mad about?” I ask.
“The threats aren’t specific, but if I had to guess, it’s the
D’Agostino case,” Sandeep says, so promptly that I can tell he’s
thought about this a lot. He pushes the Ziploc bag into one corner of
the desk. “People get very angry when police officers are accused of a
crime, but that anger is often displaced toward the accuser or the
victim. The conflict between obedience to authority and personal
conscience is well documented.”
“Right,” I say, although I only got about half of that. When
Sandeep launches into professor mode, he’s a little hard to follow.
Plus I’m distracted, checking my phone for updates. Maeve’s
oncology appointment ended four hours ago, and she told me when
we left the office that they wouldn’t have results for a while. “They’re
rushing it, but it still might take a few days,” she’d said. “Lab hours
are hard to predict.” Still, I keep hoping that “rushing it” means “this
afternoon.” We’re in the twenty-first century, after all.
This morning, I was still mad at Maeve. I was okay with the fact
that holding a grudge might lose me a friend. But that was when the
loss wasn’t a tangible, permanent thing. Now, I can’t stop thinking
about how rare it is to have someone you can be completely real with,
even when things get raw and uncomfortable and a little scary.
Especially then.
All I want is for my friend to be okay.
“Anyway, try not to worry too much. We’ll take care of it.” I blink
at Sandeep’s voice, and the office comes back into focus. He slides a
pile of folders toward me across the desk. “In the meantime, Eli
needs somebody to give him the details about next week’s court
schedule and I, my friend, am not it.” He runs a hand over his
already-smooth dark hair. “I have a date.”
I sneak one last look at my phone. Nothing. Six thirty on a
Friday probably isn’t prime time for medical updates. “What about
those child labor laws you’re always going on about?” I ask.
“They cease to exist when I have a date,” Sandeep says, jerking
his head toward the smaller conference room. “Eli’s in Winterfell. He
just needs the basics on his calendar for now. Make another one of
your magic spreadsheets. He loves those.” Then he tugs at his collar,
looking guilty. “Unless you need to get home. I mean, it is kind of
late.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I don’t mind the long hours at Until Proven,
because what the hell else would I be doing on a Friday night?
Besides, Eli and Sandeep and Bethany and everybody else act like my
presence here matters—like things work better when I’m around. It’s
a good feeling.
Sandeep grins and gets to his feet, stuffing his laptop into his bag
and slinging it over his shoulder. “Good man. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Hang on,” I call, grabbing a black leather jacket off the back of
his chair. “You forgot your coat.”
Sandeep pauses midstep and turns with a quizzical expression.
“What? I didn’t bring a coat.” He peers at the jacket I’m holding up,
and his face clears. “Ah, I think that’s Nate Macauley’s. He stopped
by around lunchtime to talk with Eli about a case study on Simon
Kelleher. He might publish it in the Harvard Law Review.”
“Nate might?” I ask, confused.
Sandeep laughs. “Sure. Harvard always takes submissions from
teenagers with no legal training. No, Eli might. But only if all the kids
are comfortable with it. Anyway, just give that to Eli—he’ll get it back
to Nate.”
“I could drop it off,” I say. “One less thing for Eli to worry about.
It’s on my way.” I’ve never actually been inside the sprawling old
house where Nate rents a room, but it’s only a couple of streets away
from mine. Maeve points it out every time we drive past.
“You sure?” Sandeep asks, and I nod. “You’re the best,” he says,
cocking finger guns at me as he continues backing out the door. Then
he’s gone, and I head for the conference room.
Eli’s on the phone when I enter Winterfell and he waves me into
a chair. “I promise I won’t,” he says. “I’ll shut my phone off.” His
tone is a lot warmer than it is when he’s talking to a client or another
lawyer, so I would’ve guessed this wasn’t a business call even if he
hadn’t added, “I love you more, angel. I’ll see you soon.” He puts his
phone down and gives me a distracted nod. “I need to fit everything
into four days next week. Come Friday, I’m off the clock.”
“Wow, yeah.” I pull a set of folders from the top of the stack.
“Can’t believe you’re getting married in a week. You ready?” I don’t
know why I’m asking him that, except it seems like the sort of thing
guys ask each other.
Eli grins. “I’ve been ready for a year. I’m just glad she is.”
“Ashton is awesome. You lucked out,” I blurt, and then I feel like
an idiot because shit, that was insulting, wasn’t it? But Eli just nods.
“Luckiest guy on the planet,” he says. He steeples his fingers
under his chin and gives me a thoughtful look. “I can tell you one
thing, though. High school me couldn’t have imagined that someday
I’d be building a life with somebody as fantastic as Ashton. Back
then, the only time girls paid attention to me was when they wanted
help with their homework. I didn’t even have a date until I was
nineteen.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.” Eli shrugs. “Takes a while for some of us. Good thing
life is long and high school is short, although it doesn’t feel like it at
the time.” He gestures at one of the folders in my hand. “Is that
Carrero? Let’s start with that.”
“Yeah,” I say, and hand it to him. That was a transparent attempt
to make me feel better about the fact that I’m here every Friday
night, and you know what? It kind of worked.
—
I hear Nate’s house before I see it. It’s barely nine o’clock, but the
sounds of rap music and laughing voices greet me at the corner, and
only get louder as I approach the run-down old Victorian. Their
neighbors must love them.
I ring the bell, but it’s a lost cause. Nobody’s going to hear me, so
I crack the door and step inside. The music is so loud that the scarred
wooden floor is practically vibrating, and I’m immediately hit with
the smell of popcorn and stale beer. I’m in a narrow hallway in front
of a staircase with a curved banister, where a group of kids a little
older than me are yelling at a girl perched at the top. “Do it!” they
call, raising red cups in the air. The girl slides down the banister and
crashes into the knot of people below, scattering them like bowling
pins.
“Noooo!” moans a guy in a vintage concert T-shirt, stumbling
into me as his drink sloshes onto the floor. “Party foul!” He grabs my
arm to steady himself and adds, “Don’t try that at home.”
“Is Nate here?” I ask loudly. The guy cups his hand around his
ear like he can’t hear, so I raise my voice even more. “IS. NATE.
HERE.”
“Upstairs,” the guy yells back.
I hesitate, looking for a coatrack or someplace else where I could
leave Nate’s jacket, but there’s nothing. So I head up the staircase,
pressing against the wall to avoid people going up and down. I’m
almost at the top when the girl who slid down the banister grabs hold
of my shirt and hands me a cup full of beer. “You look like you need
to catch up,” she shouts into my ear.
“Um, thanks.” She’s looking at me expectantly, so I take a sip.
It’s warm and sour. The narrow hallway is crowded with people, but I
don’t recognize any of them. “Do you happen to know where Nate
is?”
The girl gestures to a closed door at the end of the hall. “Being
antisocial, like always. Tell him to come out and play.” She reaches
over to ruffle my hair. “You’re cute, Nate’s friend, except for this.
Grow it out. Makes you look like you’re in high school.”
“I am in—” I start, but she’s already sliding down the banister
again.
I reach the door she pointed me toward and hesitate. I don’t
know if Nate’s going to hear me knock, but I can’t just go in, right?
What if he’s with somebody? Maybe I should leave the jacket on the
floor and get out of here.
While I’m debating, the concert T-shirt guy from downstairs
suddenly appears beside me. He slams into Nate’s door, pushing it
open and leaning into the room. “Come to my fucking party,
Macauley!” he yells. Then he spins around and runs back toward the
stairs, cackling. I’m alone in the doorway when Nate, who’s sitting at
a desk in the corner of a small room, turns around.
“That wasn’t me,” I say, lifting my hand in greeting. I’m still
holding the cup of beer.
Nate blinks at me like I’m a mirage. “What are you doing here?”
he asks. At least, I think that’s what he says. I can’t really hear him,
though, so I step into the room and close the door behind me.
“You left your jacket at Until Proven,” I say, crossing toward the
desk so I can hand it to him. “I told Eli I’d drop it off. Maeve told me
where you live.”
“Shit, I didn’t even notice it was gone. Thanks.” Nate takes the
jacket from me and tosses it onto the foot of his unmade bed. Other
than that his room is relatively neat, especially compared to the rest
of the house. Japanese movie posters cover the walls, but there’s not
much else here besides the desk, the bed, a low dresser, and an open
terrarium containing a large, yellow-brown reptile. I jump when it
scratches one claw against the glass. “That’s Stan,” Nate says. “Don’t
worry about him. He barely moves.”
“What is he?” I ask. He looks like a miniature dinosaur.
“Bearded dragon.”
God damn it. Even Nate’s pet is cooler than mine.
“So you made it through the obstacle course downstairs, huh?”
Nate asks.
“Is your house always like this?”
Nate shrugs. “Only on weekends. They usually clear out by ten.”
He leans back in his chair. “Hey, you have any update on Maeve? She
said you were going with her to the doctor today, but that’s the last I
heard from her.”
“Nothing yet. She doesn’t think she’ll hear till Monday at the
earliest.” I shove my free hand into my pocket with a rush of guilt.
Instead of feeling jealous of Nate like usual, I should thank him for
being a better friend to Maeve than I was. “I’m glad you convinced
her to tell her parents. I didn’t even know. I feel like a jerk.”
“Yeah, well, don’t beat yourself up about it. Nobody knew,” Nate
says, tapping the pencil he’s holding against the desktop in front of
him. The desk is empty except for a battered laptop, a stack of books,
and two pictures—one of a kid posing with two adults in front of
what looks like a Joshua tree, and the other of Nate and Bronwyn.
She’s behind him, her arms around his neck while she kisses his
cheek, and he looks happier in the picture than I’ve ever seen him
look in person. Nate’s eyes linger on the photo, and I start to feel like
an intruder. I’m about to back away when I catch sight of his laptop
screen. “Are you doing…construction homework?” I ask.
“What?” Nate looks down with a short laugh. “Oh. No. I’ve been
helping your dad document cleanup work at the mall site where
Brandon Weber died. We have to take pictures of everything for the
investigation.” He gestures to the screen. “These are bugging me, so I
keep looking at them.”
“Why?” I ask, curious. My father won’t tell me anything about
the site investigation. The pictures on Nate’s computer don’t look like
much. Just piles of shattered wood on a rough cement floor.
“Because of what’s not there, I guess. There’s not all the debris
you’d expect when a well-constructed landing crashes down. Some of
the beams don’t even have any joists so, like, how were they
supposed to stay up in the first place?” Nate narrows his eyes at his
computer. “But the beams have holes like joists used to be there, so…
if you were totally paranoid, you’d almost think somebody messed
with the landing.”
“Messed with it? Are you serious?” I lean forward, intrigued, and
drain half my beer before remembering I have to go home after this.
I set the cup down at the corner of Nate’s desk and look more closely
at the photos. They still look like nothing to me.
Nate shrugs. “Your dad thinks it’s weird, too, but the company
working on this was crap at their job and left shitty records. So we
can’t be sure of anything.” He taps his pencil again. “Your dad really
knows his stuff. Guys at work are always talking about how other
companies cut corners, but he never does.”
My first instinct is to be petty and say I wouldn’t know. But
there’s an almost wistful tone to Nate’s voice, like he’s imagining
what it would’ve been like to grow up with a dad who runs a
respected business instead of one who abandoned his kid for a
whiskey bottle. And when you put it like that—yeah, my father issues
pretty much pale in comparison. So I just say, “He really likes
working with you. He tells me that all the time.”
Nate half smiles as the door bursts open, startling us both.
Concert T-shirt Guy leans against the frame, looking flushed and
sweaty as he points toward Nate. “Dude,” he slurs. “Hypothetically
speaking. If a bunch of us decide to streak through the
neighborhood, are you in?”
“No,” Nate says, rubbing a hand across his face as he turns to me
with a weary expression. “If I were you, I’d take that as my cue to
leave. Trust me.”
—
When I get home from Nate’s, my dad is alone at our kitchen table.
It’s the same table we’ve had since I was a kid, a wooden monstrosity
that could seat all seven of us comfortably. I used to be squished in
the middle next to the wall—the worst, hardest-to-access spot for the
youngest kid. I can sit anywhere I want now, since there are only
three of us left in the house, but somehow I still find myself
squeezing into that chair every night.
Dad is writing on a yellow legal pad, surrounded by a pile of
what look like blueprints. He’s wearing a Myers Construction T-shirt
that used to be black but has been washed so many times that it’s
turned pale gray. “You’re home late,” he says without looking up.
Fritz is snoring lightly at his feet, paws twitching like he’s dreaming
about taking a walk.
I go to the refrigerator and pull out a Sprite. I need to wash the
taste of sour beer out of my mouth. “My internship is really busy,” I
say. “Since Eli’s getting married next week.”
“Right.” Dad scratches out a note on his pad. “Good to see you
stick with something, I guess.”
I pop the top from my soda and take a gulp, watching him over
the rim as something inside me deflates. Your dad really knows his
stuff, Nate said tonight. It’s true, but Dad never shares any of that
with me. All I get are these pointed little comments. I usually ignore
them, but tonight I’m not in the mood. “What’s that supposed to
mean?” I ask.
Dad keeps writing. “Your mother said you quit that play you’re
in.”
“So?” I prod. “Why do you care? You haven’t been to one of my
plays in years.”
He finally looks up, and I’m struck by how deeply etched the
lines in his face are. I could swear they weren’t so prominent
yesterday. “I care because when you make a commitment to
something, you should stick with it.”
Yeah. You should. Unless you’re the laughingstock of the entire
school and being onstage is only going to make it a hundred times
worse. I would’ve ruined that play for everyone in it, even though
most of them don’t see it that way. Lucy doesn’t; she’s still not
talking to me.
And if I’m being totally honest, it wasn’t that hard a decision to
make. I stopped caring about acting a while ago, but neither of my
parents noticed. Dad acts like he wants me to change, but he doesn’t
really. Any time I try something different, he dismisses it.
But I can’t tell my father that. I can’t tell him anything.
“I had too much else going on,” I say. He lets out a small,
dismissive snort and goes back to his paperwork. Resentment swirls
through my gut, making me bolder than usual. Or maybe it’s that
half beer I had. “Did you say something?” I ask. “I couldn’t hear you.”
Dad looks up, eyebrows raised. He waits a beat, and when I don’t
look away, he says, “If you think you have too much going on, with
the number of video games you play and the amount of time you
spend on your phone doing God knows what, then I pity your future
employer when you have a real job.”
My stomach drops. Jesus. Say what you really mean, Dad. He
basically just called me useless. “Until Proven is a real job. I work
hard there. I work hard in general. You’d know that, if you’d ever
given me a shot working with you.”
He frowns. “You’ve never had any interest in working with me.”
“You never asked!” I blurt out. “It’s a family business,
supposedly, but you treat Nate Macauley like he’s more of a son than
I am.” My mother must not be at home, because my voice is rising
and there’s no sign of her. Usually, this is when she steps in to play
peacemaker. I gesture at the blueprints, my head still full of what
Nate said in his room. “You won’t even tell me what’s up with the
mall site investigation, and I was there when Brandon died!”
Dad’s face gets thunderous. Uh-oh. That was the wrong card to
play. I want to sink into the floor as he leans forward and points his
pencil at me.
“You. Were. Trespassing,” he says, stabbing the pencil forward
with every word. “And about to take an incredibly dangerous
shortcut that I had specifically told you not to take. You could have
been the one who died. I thank God every day that you didn’t, but I’m
livid that you were in that position in the first place. You grew up
around construction work, Knox, and you know better. But you have
zero respect for what I say, or the work I do.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Shame makes my face
burn. He’s right on all counts except the last one. Does he really
think I don’t respect his work?
When I don’t answer, Dad waves the pencil at me again. “Don’t
you have homework to do? Or television to watch?”
Dismissed, like always. But this time, I can’t blame him, and I
don’t know how to apologize or explain myself. Especially since he’s
turned back to his work like I’m already gone. So I head upstairs with
my Sprite, even though Nate’s words keep running through my mind,
burrowing into the groove of foggy half memories from the day
Brandon died.
If you were totally paranoid, you’d almost think somebody
messed with the landing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Maeve
Monday, March 23
Knox is already in the drama club office when Phoebe and I get there
at lunch, seated on the floor with an oversized Tupperware container
in front of him. Phoebe peers into it, her expression quizzical, as she
settles beside him. “Are you eating empty hot dog rolls for lunch?”
she asks.
“Of course not,” Knox says. “They have peanut butter inside.”
Phoebe wrinkles her nose. “That’s weird.”
“Why? It’s just different-shaped bread,” Knox mumbles around a
large bite. He swallows, takes a gulp of water from the bottle in front
of him, and turns to me. “Any news from your doctor?”
He must have texted me that question a dozen times since
Friday. But I don’t mind; I’m just glad we’re getting back to normal.
“No, but the lab is open regular hours today, so hopefully I’ll hear
something soon,” I say. Phoebe rubs my arm encouragingly and pulls
a bottled smoothie out of her bag, popping the top and taking a sip of
the thick purple liquid inside. I didn’t bring anything, but my
stomach is knotted way too tightly to eat.
“So why did you want to have lunch here instead of the
cafeteria?” I ask Knox.
Knox inhales the rest of his first sandwich and chases it down
with another drink of water before responding. “I wanted to talk to
you guys about something without people eavesdropping,” he says,
wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“And by people, you mean Lucy,” I mutter. I’m still not over her
giving me a hard time when I was looking for Knox at play rehearsal.
“Or Sean,” Knox says. “Or Monica, or Jules.” Phoebe raises her
eyebrows, and he adds, “Or anybody, basically. Something’s been
bugging me all weekend, so I want to see if you think it’s weird or if
I’m overreacting.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” I say, but I’m only half listening as I
pluck at the beaded bracelet on my wrist. Ita gave it to me for luck
the last time I went into the hospital, more than four years ago. I
haven’t worn it since and it’s a little tight, but—that ended up being a
good day. So maybe today will be, too. “What’s up?”
“Okay, well, here’s the thing. I saw Nate Friday night—don’t
ask,” he adds, when my eyebrows shoot up. “It’s a long story, workrelated, not important. Anyway. Nate was looking at all these
pictures from the construction site where Brandon fell. You know
how I told you my dad is helping investigate the accident?” We both
nod, and Knox continues, “Well, Nate says he thinks someone
could’ve messed with the landing Brandon jumped on.”
“Messed with it?” I echo. Now he has my full attention. “Like
how?”
Knox shrugs, his mouth tight. “Removed some supports, I
guess? I don’t really know. I wanted to ask my dad, but…he wasn’t in
a great frame of mind. And Nate said the whole thing’s inconclusive,
anyway. But all weekend, I kept thinking about what that could
mean. Why would anybody deliberately screw with an abandoned
construction site? And that’s when I started wondering…do you think
there’s any possibility that somebody wanted Brandon to get hurt?
Like, was actually targeting him by giving him that Dare?”
Phoebe chokes on her smoothie, and I pound her on the back.
“Are you serious?” I ask while she coughs. Knox nods. “Like who?”
He spreads his hands wide. “Not sure. Sean, maybe? He was
right there when it happened, and he gave me a concussion when I
got too close. Maybe he wanted Brandon out of the picture so he
could finally be top dog at Bayview, or something.”
“Huh.” I prop my chin in my hands and stare at a poster for
Wicked on the wall, a bold graphic print of a green witch with a sly
smile. I think about the conversation I had with Lucy Chen in the
auditorium during the Into the Woods rehearsal, right after Knox
quit the play. Everyone knows how to win this game by now, she’d
said. Just take the Dare. And she was right. After seeing what
happened to Phoebe and me versus what happened to Sean and
Jules, nobody at Bayview High who’d gotten a prompt would have
done anything except text back Dare. Especially someone as
competitive and confident as Brandon.
Still—this is Sean Murdock we’re talking about. “I don’t know,” I
say slowly. “Sean has always struck me as more of an in-your-face
bully. Not to mention a short-term thinker. I can’t picture him
setting up something this elaborate.”
Phoebe looks doubtful, too. “Your dad might’ve just meant that
the construction company didn’t do their job properly. They went
bankrupt, right? That’s probably because they’re bad at constructing
things.”
“Entirely possible,” Knox says.
“They’re not done investigating the site yet, are they?” Phoebe
asks. Knox shakes his head. “So maybe let your dad finish, and see
what the final report says? The video’s not going anywhere. We can
share it anytime.”
It all sounds perfectly reasonable—but there’s a little voice in the
back of my mind urging me to turn PingMe back on. Just to keep an
eye on any ongoing chatter related to the Truth or Dare game. I take
my phone out of my pocket and reactivate the alerts, then jump when
it rings in my hand. When I look down at the screen my heart nearly
stops. Dr. Ramon Gutierrez.
“Oh my God, you guys.” My voice is low, strangled. “It’s my
oncologist.”
“Do you want us to stay or go?” Phoebe asks.
“I don’t—” I can’t think.
Phoebe stands as my phone continues to ring, grabbing Knox’s
arm to haul him to his feet. “We’ll give you some privacy but we’ll be
right outside.” She circles me in a one-armed hug while
simultaneously shoving Knox out the door. “It’ll be okay.”
My phone is still ringing. Oh God, it’s not. It stopped. I missed it.
I stare at the screen until my phone locks, then unlock it with
shaking hands and call back.
“Ramon Gutierrez’s office,” says a cool female voice.
I can’t talk. I should have asked Phoebe to stay.
“Hello?” comes the voice again.
“Um. Hi,” I croak. My palms are sweating so badly, I don’t know
how I’m managing to hang on to my phone. “This…this is Maeve…” I
lose my words again, but she catches enough.
“Oh, Maeve, of course. Hold on, I’ll put you right through.”
I slide my bracelet up and down my wrist, the smooth glass
beads reassuringly cool beneath my clammy fingers. It’ll be okay,
Phoebe said. Everyone says that, and sometimes they’re right. But
I’ve lived years on the other side of okay. I’ve always expected that,
sooner or later, I’d wind up there for good.
“Maeve Rojas!” I don’t recognize the hearty tone as Dr.
Gutierrez’s at first. “I just got off the phone with your mother, and
she gave me permission to reach out to you directly while she—well.
She needed a moment.”
Oh God. What does that mean? But before I can torture myself
with possibilities, Dr. Gutierrez keeps going. “I’m calling with good
news. Your blood work is one hundred percent normal. Your white
cell count is fine. I’ll speak to your parents about running further
diagnostics if they want additional reassurance, but as you know, this
particular test has not steered us wrong before. As far as I’m
concerned, your remission is not compromised.”
“It’s not?” The words aren’t sinking in. I need him to say it a
different way. “My leukemia isn’t back?”
“That’s correct. There is no indication in your blood work that
the leukemia is back.”
I let out a deep, shuddering sigh as all the tension I’ve been
storing up over the past month flows out of me, leaving me light-
headed and boneless. My eyes fill and quickly spill over. “But the
nosebleeds…and the bruises…”
“You do show signs of an iron deficiency, which is obviously not
something we like to see in someone with your history. So we’re
going to nip that in the bud with a vitamin prescription and more
frequent check-ins. Also, I’d suggest you start putting Vaseline inside
your nose twice a day. Your membranes are inflamed, which is
exacerbating the issue.”
“Vitamins and Vaseline. That’s it?” The words slip out of me flat
and numb, with none of the buoyant relief that’s fizzing through my
veins. My mouth hasn’t caught up with my heart yet.
“That’s it,” Dr. Gutierrez says gently. “I’ll talk to your parents in
greater detail about follow-up and monitoring. This was a frightening
bump in the road, but in my opinion it truly is just that.”
“All right,” I manage, and then he says some other things but I
don’t hear them because I’ve already dropped my phone into my lap
and put my head in my hands so that I can full-on bawl my eyes out.
Hinges squeak and I smell floral shampoo as Phoebe kneels on the
ground and wraps her arms around me. Knox crashes into me from
the other side.
“We eavesdropped. I’m sorry, but we’re so, so happy,” Phoebe
chokes out.
I can’t speak enough yet to tell her Me too.
—
I need a few minutes by myself after the news. As much as I
appreciate Phoebe and Knox being there, I’m relieved when they
leave and let me pull myself together. I want to talk to my parents
but the lunch bell is about to ring, so I send quick texts with a
promise to call later. I already know what their reactions must be: so
happy I’m not dying that they won’t even be mad at me for keeping
them in the dark for weeks.
Which, I’m only starting to realize, is something I need to sort
out if I’m ever going to truly move on from being the sick girl. For
most of my life, I’ve gotten a free pass for the things I do wrong.
Hardly anyone gives me a hard time or holds a grudge. Even Knox
came around once leukemia reared its ugly head again.
It’s not a crutch I ever asked for, but I’ve been leaning on it
anyway.
I send one final text to a number that I saved to Contacts instead
of deleting like he’d suggested:
Hi Luis, it’s Maeve. I’ve been meaning to thank you for the
video. It was helpful. Also, I’m sorry for what I said at Cooper’s
game. I didn’t mean it. Not that this is any excuse, but I was having
a bad day and took it out on you.
I really am sorry.
I’d like to talk more sometime, if you would too.
Then I drop my phone in my bag. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Phoebe
Thursday, March 26
The graffiti scrawled across the dividing wall next to the paper towel
dispenser in the girls’ first-floor bathroom is brand-new, written in
wavering blue ink. Phoebe Lawton is a total…Except I can’t read the
last word, because somebody crossed it out with a black Sharpie.
Thank you, unknown benefactor who is probably Maeve. Then again,
no. She’d have covered the whole thing so I wouldn’t see my name.
My hands don’t even shake as I’m washing them. At this point,
personalized graffiti in the bathroom is nothing. In the past few days
I’ve gotten two more Instagram messages from Derek, cleaned up
after my sister twice, and flunked a science test because I can’t
concentrate in this hellhole. Plus Maeve keeps texting me
screenshots of that forum she’s gotten obsessed with all over again,
where somebody named Darkestmind constantly yells WHERE ARE
YOU BAYVIEW2020? Like it’s some kind of Missed Connections
board for freaky loners.
Me? I’m just relieved that school is over for the day, and I can
forget about Bayview High for a few hours.
I’m pulling a paper towel from the dispenser when the door
opens, and a second later Jules appears. “Oh, hi,” I say, flustered. I
haven’t talked to Jules since I watched the video Luis took from
Sean’s phone. I barely see her at school anymore, unless you count
all the times I’ve skulked past her hallway makeout sessions with
Sean.
“Heyyy,” Jules says, her eyes flicking toward the graffiti. She
doesn’t look surprised. I’d love to think she’s the one
who halfheartedly crossed it out, because at least that would mean
she still cares a little bit about me. But it’s just as likely that she
wrote it in the first place, considering how far up Sean’s ass she is
now. She’ll even lie for him—something I’d never have believed
possible if I hadn’t seen the video with my own eyes.
I toss my wet paper towel in the wastebasket. “How’s Sean?”
Her mouth purses as she pulls out a tube of lip gloss and
unscrews the top. “Don’t pretend you care.”
Watching her outline a perfect pout makes me acutely aware of
my own dry lips. I pull a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm from my bag,
grimacing when I realize it’s coconut flavored. My least favorite. I
swipe it across my mouth anyway. “He must miss Brandon, though.”
Jules’s eyes go flat as they meet mine in the mirror. “What’s that
supposed to mean?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I just feel bad for him.” Even to my own ears,
the words sound fake. Sean hasn’t been acting like someone who lost
his best friend. If anything, he’s swaggering around Bayview High
more than ever.
Do you think there’s any possibility that somebody wanted
Brandon to get hurt?
Knox asked that, and I brushed it off as too ridiculous to even
consider. Still, Sean was standing right next to Brandon when he
died, egging him on. Sean sounded shocked and terrified in that
video, but let’s face it—he’s proved since then that he can play a part
when he has to.
I gaze at my reflection in the mirror, and tug on my ponytail to
tighten it. “Pretty scary to know it could have been any one of you,
huh?” I ask.
“What?” Jules blinks at me, confused.
“Any one of you could have fallen through that landing. Since
you were all going to take the same shortcut.”
Jules’s face is blank for a few seconds too long. She’s not a
particularly good liar once you know to look for it. “Oh yeah,” she
says finally.
“Just random chance that Brandon went first,” I add. I don’t
know why I’m still talking, or what I’m hoping to get out of the
conversation. Jules won’t confide in me. She picked her side a while
ago. But there’s still part of me hoping to spot a crack in her armor,
some sign that we could talk like we used to.
Hey, Jules, did you know that lying to the police could get you
in trouble?
Don’t you think Brandon’s parents deserve to know what really
happened?
Did you ever think your new boyfriend might be a sociopath?
“I don’t really like to talk about it.” Jules smacks her lips and
drops the tube of gloss in her bag, then flips her hair over one
shoulder and turns for the door. “I have to go. Sean and I have plans
after school.”
“Me too,” I say. Her eyebrows shoot up. “I mean, I have plans
too.”
Sort of. I’m working. But I’m bringing friends, so it counts.
Jules looks at me appraisingly. She knows my social options are
pretty limited right now. “You and Knox?” she guesses. The disdain
in her voice is clear enough that I know exactly what she’s implying.
I resist the urge to say It’s not a date. “And Maeve.”
Jules smirks and heads for the door, yanking it open. “Well, that
sounds like a fun ménage à trois.”
I stomp after her, trying to marshal some kind of comeback, but
as soon as she hits the hallway she’s engulfed in the octopus-like
embrace of Sean Murdock. “Baby,” he growls, suctioning himself to
her face. I skirt around them, my jaw clenched, suddenly wishing I’d
tried to make the Nate thing happen while I had the chance.
—
Café Contigo is quiet for a Thursday, and by four o’clock most of the
people in the restaurant are staff. Mrs. Santos, who’s making a rare
appearance at the cash register, gestures me over when my only
customer gets up to leave. Ahmed, the other waiter on duty, is
leaning against the counter beside her, his eye on the table full of hip
young Bayview moms sitting in his station with expensive strollers.
They’re all wearing cute yoga clothes, their hair in carefully messy
ponytails. The babies have been quiet since they arrived, but one of
them has started to fuss.
“Hush, hush,” the baby’s mother says in a singsong voice,
moving the stroller back and forth. “You’re okay, go back to sleep.”
Ahmed looks wary, and I don’t blame him. I have five cousins under
the age of three, and I know for a fact that as soon as one baby starts
to cry the rest will join in solidarity.
“Why don’t you go ahead and clock out, Phoebe,” Mrs. Santos
says. She’s tall and slender, with expressive dark eyes and elegant
cheekbones. Luis gets his good looks from her. “Addy will be in at
five, and Ahmed can handle the room until then.”
“Okay,” I say, starting to untie my apron.
Ahmed, still hovering beside Mrs. Santos with his eyes on the
yoga mom table, asks, “Did you give Phoebe that thing, Mrs. S?” We
both blink at him, and he clarifies, “The note?”
Mrs. Santos makes a tsk sound and shakes her head. “I
completely forgot! My apologies, Phoebe. Ahmed said someone
dropped this off for you earlier.” She roots under the counter and
hands me a sealed envelope with my name scrawled across the front.
“A young man. What did he say again, Ahmed?”
“That you were expecting it,” Ahmed says. The blondest yoga
mom waves her hand to catch his attention, and he starts across the
room toward her.
“Expecting what?” I ask, but he doesn’t hear me. I pull my apron
off and stash it behind the counter, heading for the table where
Knox, Maeve, and Luis are sitting. Luis is working, supposedly, but
he’s been sitting and talking for the past hour. I could swear that
every time I look over, his chair is a little closer to Maeve’s. She’s
been looking especially pretty since she got her test results back, and
today she’s wearing a fitted T-shirt with shimmery gold threading
that brings out the honey color of her eyes. That unexpected clean
bill of health has her practically glowing. Or maybe something else
does.
I rip the envelope open as I walk, curious, and pull out a single
sheet of paper. “Are you done for the day?” Maeve asks, but I only
half hear her. My heart jumps into my throat as I read the words in
front of me:
What’s with the disappearing act?
We need to talk.
Meet me at the gazebo in Callahan Park at
5:30 today.
DO NOT ignore this like you’ve been
ignoring everything else.
What the hell? “Ahmed!” I call. He’s striding toward the kitchen
at a rapid clip but pauses at my urgent tone.
“What?”
I wave the note. “Who left this?”
“I told you. Some guy.”
“But who?”
“He didn’t give his name. Just—a guy. He’s been here before.”
“What’s going on?” Maeve asks. I hand her the note. Her eyes
scan the page and she inhales sharply. “Whoa. Who is this from?”
“I don’t know,” I say helplessly. The only person I’ve been
ignoring lately is Derek, and I never imagined that actual stalking
was his style. But then again, other than the most ill-advised ten
minutes of my life in Jules’s laundry room during her Christmas
party, it’s not like I’ve spent quality time with the guy.
I wave frantically at Ahmed, who’s trying to escape into the
kitchen again. “Ahmed, wait! Could you please come here for a
second?”
Maeve reads the note out loud to Luis and Knox as Ahmed
approaches. Suddenly we’re all talking at once, tripping over one
another. Finally Maeve raises her voice above everyone else’s. “Hang
on. The guy who left this, you said he’s been here before?” She tilts
her head questioningly at Ahmed, who nods. “What did he look
like?”
“I don’t know. Standard white dude.” Ahmed shrugs. “Little
older than you guys, maybe. Brown hair. Pale. Kinda tall.”
That’s Derek, Derek, and Derek. Which puts my mind slightly at
ease. At least Derek is a known quantity, sort of.
Knox’s eyes get wide. “That sounds like…was the guy intenselooking?” he asks.
Ahmed frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”
“You know—focused. Serious,” Knox says. “Like he’s got a onetrack mind.”
One of the babies at the mom table starts flat-out wailing, and
Ahmed tugs at his shirt collar. “Look, I have to put in their order,
okay? Be back in a minute.”
He hurries away and I turn to Knox, confused. “Why are you
asking that?”
“Because that description Ahmed just gave reminds me of
someone I’ve seen here before.” Knox turns to Maeve and taps her
arm. “You remember that guy who came in a while back? The one
who was a dick to Mr. Santos and kept asking about Phoebe? The one
Luis and Manny chased off?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I burst out. “When did this happen?”
“I remember,” Luis says. “It was a few weeks ago, wasn’t it?” He
leans back in his chair, arms folded, and Maeve sneaks a glance at
him with color rising in her cheeks. She looks like she just completely
lost track of the conversation. I’m tempted to snap my fingers in her
face and remind her that she’s supposed to be worrying about me
right now, not staring at Luis’s admittedly nice biceps. Priorities.
“Yeah. I didn’t think much of it at the time,” Knox says, looking
apologetic. “I thought it was just some jerk, but he came back a
couple nights ago. Here, I mean. Ordered a coffee, sat around, then
left without drinking it. I started wondering if it was maybe Derek,
trying to find you because you’re ignoring his messages.”
I glare at him, hands on my hips. “Why are you just telling me
this now?”
“I haven’t been thinking straight,” Knox says defensively. “I have
a concussion.”
“You had a concussion. Two weeks ago.”
“The effects can linger for years,” Knox informs me. He drums
his fingers on the table. “Besides, I wasn’t sure it meant anything.
But do you think it might be him? Is Derek a tall, pale, brown-haired
guy?”
“Yeah, he is.” I say. “I personally wouldn’t describe him as
intense-looking, but to each their own, I guess.” Maeve hands the
note back to me, and I stuff it into my pocket, my mind spinning.
Would Derek really do this—show up at my job and leave a
threatening note just because I’ve been ignoring his Instagram
messages? He never acted aggressive or possessive around Emma. As
far as I know, anyway.
“Who’s Derek?” Luis asks.
All I can think is thank God he’s out of the gossip loop. It gives
me hope that there’s life after Bayview High that doesn’t include
ongoing, detailed analysis of everybody’s worst mistakes. “Long
story,” I say, “but he’s someone I’ve been blowing off lately.”
“Do you have a picture of him?” Luis asks. “We all saw the guy.
We could tell you whether it’s him or not.”
“Great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” Maeve asks. Luis
smiles, and she gives him another lingering look that, in my opinion,
answers the question.
“No,” I say. “I mean, I can look him up right now but he never
posts pictures of himself…” I take out my phone, open Instagram,
and pull up Derek’s profile to see if he’s updated it recently. His
entire feed is still nothing but animals, food, and artsy pictures of
tree branches. I show it to Knox, who makes a face.
“No selfies? What kind of weirdo is he?” Then he glances at the
clock on the wall, which Mr. Santos finally fixed. “Callahan Park is in
Eastland, right? We could make it there before five thirty if we leave
now.”
“I’m not meeting him!” I protest, but Knox holds up a placating
hand.
“I don’t mean that. But maybe we can, like, spy on him. See if it’s
Derek. Then you can report him for harassment or something.” He
pulls out his wallet and removes a few bills, putting them on top of
the twenty that’s already on the table. “We could go to my house first
and grab my binoculars so we don’t have to get close.”
“Binoculars?” I’m almost distracted for a second. “What do you
have those for?”
Knox looks mildly baffled. “Doesn’t everybody have binoculars?”
“No,” Maeve and I say at the same time.
Luis’s brow furrows. “You think that’s a good idea? This guy is
practically stalking you, Phoebe. Maybe you should tell the police, let
them handle it.”
“But I don’t know for sure if Derek wrote the note,” I say. “His
Instagram messages were a lot more polite.” I turn to Maeve. “Can
you drive us?”
She twists her dark hair over one shoulder and nods. “Yeah, of
course.”
“I’ll come with you,” Luis says instantly. “It’s quiet here, I can
leave.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to sound as relieved as I feel. I love
Knox and Maeve, but they’re not exactly my first picks as backup if
anything goes wrong. Whoever this guy is, Luis scared him off once,
and I’m pretty sure he can do it again. “It’s a plan, then. Let’s do a
little stalking of our own.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Maeve
Thursday, March 26
“This is pointless,” Phoebe grumbles. “I can’t see anything.”
We were over half an hour late to Callahan Park, thanks to rush
hour traffic, but as soon as we pulled into a metered spot in front of
the fence we spotted a lone figure sitting on the gazebo steps. It’s
directly within our line of sight, but too far away to see anything
clearly, even with Knox’s binoculars at full strength. Phoebe’s been
fiddling with them for almost five minutes, but she still can’t make
out who it is.
I turn to face her in the backseat. “Do you want to leave?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No way. We’ve come this far,
and he’s right there. I just need to get a little closer.” She peers
through the window. “Hmm. Check out the climbing structure on the
playground. There’s a little house on top that would be perfect. If I go
in there, I could see a lot better.”
Luis frowns. “We said you’d stay in the car.”
“Look at the path to the playground, though. It has those tall
bushes. He’ll never see me coming,” Phoebe insists. “Plus the play
area is nice and crowded. I can get up there all stealthy-like.” She
pokes Knox in the arm. “Can I have your sweatshirt?”
“Um, okay.” He removes it with a bemused expression and
hands it over. Phoebe pulls the faded gray hoodie over her pink shirt
and zips it up.
“This smells nice,” she says. “Did you just wash it?”
“No.” Knox looks guilty. “Not for a while, actually. Sorry.”
“Oh.” Phoebe shrugs. “Well, you smell nice, then.” She lifts the
hood over her head and stuffs her bright curls beneath it. “There.
Incognito. And I’m short, so I can pass for a kid.”
Luis is still frowning. “I’ll go with you,” he says, but Phoebe
shakes her head.
“He’s seen you before, and you stick out too much. I’ll take
Knox.”
“Sure, why not,” Knox mutters. “I am utterly unobtrusive, after
all.”
I bite my lip and glance at the gazebo. The boy is pacing now,
circling the small structure. “I don’t know, Phoebe. Whoever this guy
is, he’s starting to freak me out. Maybe we should just leave.”
“Not without getting a look at him,” she says doggedly. “I need to
know if it’s Derek.” She pops the door open and tugs at Knox’s sleeve.
“Are you coming or what?”
“Obviously I am.” Knox sighs and turns to me. “Text us if he
makes a move, okay?”
“He won’t. He’ll never see us coming,” Phoebe says confidently. I
think she’s probably right, but my stomach still twists as she and
Knox get out of the car. I lose sight of them almost immediately on
the woodsy path, then catch a glimpse of them weaving through the
playground.
“This is fucked up,” Luis mutters in the passenger seat beside
me. “Is this what it was like last year when you and Bronwyn were
following Simon’s trail?”
“Not really,” I say. “I only ever did online stuff. Bronwyn staked
out a guy once, but he was harmless. He ended up helping us out,
actually.” I jump at my phone vibrating with a text and look down at
it. It’s from Knox. We’re here. “They made it,” I report, and text back,
Is it Derek?
She hasn’t looked yet. A lens popped out of my binoculars so
we’re putting it back.
“They’re having technical difficulties with the binoculars,” I tell
Luis.
He flashes a smile. “Equipment failure. Always happens at the
worst possible time.”
I nod and think about making a joke back, except I’m suddenly
hyperaware of the fact that I’m alone with Luis for the first time since
I yelled at him at Cooper’s game. We’ve texted back and forth since
then, and he accepted my apology. But I haven’t said any of the
things that I really want to say. Just like always.
“So,” I blurt out, right as he says, “Listen,” and then we both
pause. “You first,” we say at the same time. Luis laughs a little, and I
smile awkwardly. Then I gather up my courage and say, “No, you
know what? Me first. If that’s okay.” Because if he says something I
don’t want to hear, then I won’t tell him my thing. And even though
my heart is practically pounding out of my chest at the thought of
being fully honest with him, I still want him to know.
His eyes lock on mine, his expression unreadable. “Okay.”
Deep breath. “I wanted to talk about what I said at Cooper’s
game…” I trail off and swallow, trying to loosen my throat so I can
get the rest of the words out. But I’ve already started wrong, because
Luis shakes his head.
“I told you, forget about that.” He brushes my arm with his
hand, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of a fading bruise. “I get it.
You were in a bad place.”
“It’s not that. I mean yes, I was, but that’s not the only reason I
was rude.” His hand stills but stays where it is. The heat from his
skin radiating into mine is making it hard to think, but I don’t want
to pull away. I just need to get a couple more sentences out. “I was,
um, jealous.” I can’t look at him right now, so I stare straight ahead
at my car’s control panel. “I saw you with Monica, and I got jealous
because it looked like you were on a date and I—I wanted that to be
me. Because I like you, Luis. I have for a while.”
There. I said it.
I inhale quickly, still not looking at him, and add in a rush, “It’s
totally fine if you don’t feel the same way, because we can still be
friends and I won’t be weird about it—”
“Whoa, hold up,” Luis interrupts. “Can I answer before you
answer for me?”
“Oh.” My face flames, and I stare so hard at the dash that I’m
surprised the numbers on my odometer don’t move. “Yes. Of course.
Sorry.”
Luis’s hand moves down my arm until his fingers lace with mine,
and he tugs lightly at my hand. “Look at me, okay?” he says quietly. I
turn my head, and there’s such a soft, open expression on his face
that I feel a spark of hope. “I like you too, Maeve,” he says, his dark
eyes steady on mine. “I have for a while.”
My heart skips and then soars. “Oh,” I say again. I’ve forgotten
all the other words.
His lips quirk. “So, should we do something about this? Or
would you rather keep torturing me from a distance?”
My smile back feels big enough to take over my entire face. “We
should,” I manage. “Do something.”
“Good,” Luis says. He touches my face and leans in close. My
eyes flutter shut and warmth floods my veins as I wait for his lips to
meet mine—until my lap buzzes loudly. We both startle and pull
back. “Damn it all to hell,” I mutter in frustration, snatching up my
phone. “I forgot we were on a stakeout.”
Luis laughs. “Never a dull moment with you. What’s up?”
I read Knox’s text, blink a few times, and read it again. “Phoebe
says it’s not Derek.”
“Really?” Luis sounds as surprised as I feel. “Then who is it?”
“She doesn’t know. She says she’s never seen him before.”
Luis frowns. “That’s weird.”
My phone buzzes with another text from Knox. He’s leaving.
“Oh!” I grab Luis’s arm. The figure we’d been watching at the
gazebo is suddenly a lot closer. “That’s him.” Intense Guy is cutting
across the grass and through the edge of the playground, but he
doesn’t spare a glance for the climbing structure where Phoebe is. He
pushes past a group of kids and heads for the park exit. At this
distance, there’s no mistaking the same person who confronted Mr.
Santos a few weeks back. There are two paths he could take out of the
park, and he chooses the one leading almost straight to my car.
“Shit. He’s coming right this way,” I say, looking down to shield
my face. The guy barely flicked his eyes over me at Café Contigo, but
better safe than sorry. “Duck, Luis.” Instead, Luis does exactly what
he shouldn’t do, which is lean forward for a better view. “Stop!” I
hiss. “Don’t let him see you, he’ll recognize you!”
“So?” Luis says. Honest to God, he might be the hottest guy I’ve
ever seen, but he’s useless in a stakeout situation. I try to push him
back, but he’s still craning his neck and Intense Guy is right there,
about to cross in front of the car, so I have no choice except to grab
hold of Luis’s face and kiss him.
I mean, I probably have other choices. But this is the best one.
I’m twisted awkwardly, held back by my seat belt until Luis
reaches around me and unbuckles it. I break our kiss to slide out
from behind the wheel. He pulls me closer, lifting me into his lap,
and I return my hands to either side of his face. His arms feel warm
and solid around me, holding me in place as we stare into each
other’s eyes for a beat. “Beautiful,” he breathes, and I melt. Then his
lips crash against mine, and it’s happening again—the heat, the
dizziness, and the desperate need to be as close to him as possible.
His thumbs sweep over my cheeks, my fingers are twisted in his hair,
and the kiss goes on and on until I’ve completely forgotten where we
are and what we’re supposed to be doing.
Right up until the loud rap on the window.
Oh God. It all comes rushing back as I look up, expecting to see
Intense Guy glowering down at us. Instead, Phoebe cocks her head
and waves, smiling brightly. Knox is still a few yards behind her,
head down as he stuffs his binoculars into their case. She turns and
positions herself in front of the window, her back to us.
I have no memory of this happening, but at some point either
Luis or I reclined the seat so that we’re practically flat. “Um. So.” I
reach across Luis’s lap for the button, and can’t keep from laughing
as the seat starts slowly rising while we’re still tangled up together.
“This is the recline function,” I say, smoothing my hair.
“Good to know.” Luis kisses my neck, his palm warm against my
waist. “Thanks for the demonstration.”
“No problem. I do this for everybody. It’s important to know
how a vehicle operates.” Reluctantly, I slide off Luis’s lap and behind
the wheel. Then I squeeze his hand, feeling giddy that apparently I
can do that now. “To be continued?”
He smiles and squeezes back. “Definitely.”
“Well!” Phoebe opens the rear door and crawls across the seat.
The hood of Knox’s sweatshirt is still up, the laces pulled tight
around her face. Knox follows and closes the door behind him. He
seems preoccupied with his binoculars. I’m pretty sure Phoebe ran
interference quickly enough that he didn’t see anything with Luis and
me. “I have officially never seen that guy before in my life. I have
absolutely no idea who he is.”
“So now what?” I ask. “Should we—”
“Shit, here he comes!” Knox pulls Phoebe toward him, pressing
her into his shoulder as she lets out a strangled yelp. I duck down
automatically in my seat, but Luis—of course—stays where he is. He
really is terrible at this. “Sorry,” Knox says in a calmer voice as he
releases Phoebe. “But he just drove past us. Don’t worry, he didn’t
look our way.”
Phoebe leans forward and peers between the front seats. “The
blue car?” she asks. When Knox grunts in agreement, she taps my
shoulder. “Follow him. Let’s see what this weirdo does when he isn’t
stalking girls he’s never met.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Knox
Thursday, March 26
A couple of hours after we leave the park, we have a license plate
number, an address, and a name. Sort of.
“The car is registered to David Jackson,” Maeve reports, her eyes
on her laptop screen. “So maybe David Jackson is Intense Guy?”
We’re sitting at my kitchen table after dropping off Luis and Phoebe.
My parents are out to dinner with the neighbors, so we’re eating
buttered noodles and carrot sticks because that’s the extent of my
culinary repertoire. Luis, I am not. In more ways than one.
Yeah, I saw. I’m trying to be happy for them. It’s not like I’m
jealous. It’s just—for once in my life, I’d like somebody to have that
kind of reaction to me. Maybe that only happens to guys like Luis,
though. “Great,” I say, unlocking my phone to open Instagram.
“That’s a super uncommon name. If I search it I get…too many to
count.”
Maeve frowns. “I’m Googling his name and the town and—hmm.
Nothing interesting.” We tailed the blue car to a tiny ranch home in a
rundown section of Rolando Village, which the city’s assessor
database tells us belongs to a couple named Paul and Lisa Curtin.
Maeve thinks it must be a rental. “There’s a local dentist with the
name David Jackson. He has terrible Yelp reviews.”
“Well, Intense Guy does seem like he’d have a bad bedside
manner. Or chairside, I guess,” I say. “But he’s a little young to have
made it through dental school.”
Maeve bites into a carrot stick and Fritz, who’s sitting between
us, snaps his head toward her with a hopeful look. “You wouldn’t like
carrots,” she assures him, petting the graying patch of fur between
his ears. Fritz looks unconvinced. I lean across him so I can see
Maeve’s screen better, and she angles it toward me. “This David
Jackson is in his fifties,” she says. “This one just retired from a gas
company…” Maeve clicks to the second page of results, then sighs
and leans back in her chair. “They’re all old.”
“Maybe David Jackson is Intense Guy’s father,” I say. “Dad owns
the car, and his kid is driving it?”
“Could be. That doesn’t help us much, though.” Maeve catches
her lower lip between her teeth, looking pensive. “I wish Phoebe
would talk to her mom about what’s going on.”
On the ride home from Rolando Village, all of us tried to
convince Phoebe to tell Mrs. Lawton about Intense Guy and the note.
But Phoebe wouldn’t go for it. “My mom has enough to worry about,”
she insisted. “Plus, this is obviously a case of mistaken identity. He’s
looking for a different Phoebe.”
I can understand wanting to think that. And I hope it’s true.
Although I feel sorry for Different Phoebe if it is.
An alert flashes across Maeve’s laptop screen. The website you
are monitoring has been updated. God, she has PingMe synced to
everything. I swallow a groan as Maeve opens a new browser tab and
brings up the Vengeance Is Mine forum. I’d rather plug David
Jackson’s name into social media platforms for the next hour than
wander down this weird rabbit hole again.
Then a string of messages pops up:
Fuck you, Phoebe, for not showing up.
Yeah I used your name.
WE HAD A DEAL—Darkestmind
My jaw drops as Maeve turns to me, eyes wide. “Oh my God,”
she says. Fritz whines softly at the tension in her voice. “This cannot
be a coincidence. Do you realize what this means?”
I do, finally. I’ve made fun of Maeve the entire time she’s stalked
the Vengeance Is Mine forum, because I didn’t believe there was any
connection between the delusional ramblings on there and what’s
been going on in Bayview. Now these messages are smacking me in
the face with how wrong I’ve been. I point at the user name on the
screen in front of us. “It means Darkestmind and Intense Guy are the
same person.”
“Not only that,” Maeve says urgently. Fritz drops his head on her
knee, and she strokes one of his floppy ears without taking her eyes
off the computer. “I’ve thought all along that Darkestmind is the
person behind Truth or Dare. Remember? He kept talking about
Bayview, and a game, and he even said tick-tock, just like Unknown
always did. So if I’m right about that—Intense Guy is also Unknown.
The three strands we’ve been following all lead to a single person.”
“Shit.” I’ve been staring at the messages from Darkestmind for
so long that the words are starting to waver. “So you’re saying we just
followed the Truth or Dare texter?”
“I think we did,” Maeve says. “And he officially does not go to
Bayview High. I knew it wasn’t Matthias,” she adds, almost to
herself. “You could tell that little taste of visibility he got from Simon
Says terrified him.”
“Okay, but…” I blink a few times to clear my vision. “What the
hell is this guy even talking about? He says he and Phoebe had a deal.
A deal for what? Ruining her life at school? It doesn’t make any
sense.”
“I don’t understand that part, either,” Maeve mutters. Her face
gets thoughtful. “Do you think it’s possible there’s something she’s
not telling us about all this?”
“Like what?”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Like maybe she really does
know the guy, but it’s a bad-breakup kind of thing and she doesn’t
want to talk about it.” Then she grimaces. “Really bad. That guy
looked like he was out for blood.”
Out for blood. The words strike a chord in me, and I sit up
straighter. “Hold up,” I say. “I just had a thought. Let’s assume we’re
right, and that Intense Guy equals Darkestmind equals Unknown. By
the way, let’s stick with one nickname, because this is getting
confusing. I vote for Intense Guy. That’s the most descriptive, and
also, I came up with it. Anyway. Does Intense Guy have some kind of
bone to pick with Brandon?” I gesture at Maeve’s screen. “I mean,
this is a revenge forum, right? Nate thinks someone might’ve messed
with the construction site landing. Intense Guy led Brandon there
with a Dare. So maybe that wild theory I tossed out the other day was
actually right, and he hurt Brandon on purpose.”
“But why?” Maeve asks. “Do you think he was jealous, maybe?
Because Brandon was hooking up with Phoebe?” Her hand stills on
Fritz’s head. “The whole game kicked off with a rumor about Phoebe
and Derek, didn’t it? Maybe this guy can’t stand the thought of her
with anyone else.”
“Maybe,” I say slowly. “But you weren’t with Phoebe in the
playground. She genuinely seemed clueless about him. And I was
thinking along different lines, more like—” Maeve’s phone buzzes
and I pause. “Is that Phoebe?”
Maeve picks up her phone. Her entire face changes, taking on a
rosy glow like somebody just injected her with pink champagne.
“No,” she says, fighting a smile as she lets go of Fritz so she can text
with both hands. “I’m just going to…answer this real quick.”
“Tell Luis I said hi,” I say, gazing around the kitchen. Fritz pokes
his nose into Maeve’s thigh a couple of times, then sighs and flops
onto the floor when he can’t get her attention back.
My eyes land on my mother’s black laptop bag, sitting in the
empty chair where she always leaves it when she gets home from
work. Being an insurance adjuster isn’t a nine-to-five job, and Mom
usually hauls her laptop out at least once a night to work on a case.
But right now, she and my dad should be gone for at least another
hour.
When Maeve finally puts her phone aside, I say, “Maybe we’ve
been asking the question from the wrong angle.”
“Hmm?” She still looks a little fizzy. “What question?”
“You asked why Intense Guy, in particular, would hate
Brandon,” I remind her. “But maybe we should be asking this
instead: what could Brandon have done that would make anybody
hate him enough to want him gone?”
Maeve knits her brow. “I don’t get it.”
“I was just thinking about a conversation I overheard between
my mom and dad. You and I weren’t talking then, so I didn’t mention
it, but I’ve been wondering about it ever since. My parents were
saying how ironic it would be if Mr. Weber sues the construction site,
because of some lawsuit involving Brandon that Mom’s company
settled three years ago. And my dad said something like, ‘The case
shouldn’t have gone that way. All it did was show a kid like Brandon
that actions don’t have consequences.’ When I asked them about it,
they clammed up and said it was confidential. But maybe if we knew
what happened back then, we’d know why somebody would go
through this much trouble to target Brandon.”
“So are you going to ask your mom again?” Maeve says.
“No point. She wouldn’t tell me.”
“What if you told her about all this?” Maeve asks, gesturing at
her computer. “I mean, your dad already thinks Brandon’s accident
was sketchy, right? But he doesn’t know it was part of a game that
deliberately led Brandon to the construction site. We’re the only ones
besides Sean, Jules, and Monica who know that, because we’re the
only ones who saw the video from Sean’s phone.”
I swallow hard. “We could, I guess. But the thing is…basically,
my dad thinks I’m an idiot.” Maeve starts to murmur a dissent that I
wave off. “It’s true. He does. And if I come at him with this, ranting
about texting games and anonymous forum posts that disappear, and
how I think some rando I followed to a park is behind it all? He’d
never take me seriously.”
“Okay,” Maeve says cautiously. She looks like she wants to argue
the point, but all she says is, “Then I guess we’ll just have to wait and
see if your parents connect any of the same dots. They’re the experts,
after all.”
“I don’t want to wait,” I say. “I want to know what Brandon did
three years ago that was bad enough to get him involved in some
kind of hush-hush settlement.” I lean over and grab my mother’s
laptop case by its handle, hauling it onto the table between Maeve
and me. “This is my mom’s work computer.”
Maeve blinks, startled. “Are you suggesting we…hack it?”
“No,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. I’m suggesting you hack it. I don’t
know how.”
I open the case, pull out a black, blocky PC that looks like it’s
from the early aughts, and push it toward her. She lays a hand on the
cover and hesitates, her eyes wide and questioning. “Do you really
want me to do this?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Can you?”
Maeve makes a dismissive psssh sound. “Challenge accepted.”
She opens the cover and presses the power button. “If your mom
is running an old version of Windows there are some login
workarounds—although, before I try that, what year was Kiersten
born?” I tell her, and she murmurs, “Kiersten plus birth year equals…
okay, no. What about Katie?” We repeat the process, and Maeve’s
brow furrows. “Wow, I get six more tries before the system locks me
out. That’s way too many. Kelsey is the year after Katie?”
“Yeah, but—” I pause when she grins widely, turning the screen
to face me as it powers up to an old picture of a family hiking trip.
“You’re kidding me. That actually worked?”
“Parents are the single worst threat to any type of cyber
security,” Maeve says calmly, flipping the screen back toward her.
“Okay, let’s search all documents for Brandon Weber.” She types,
then leans back in her chair, squinting. “Nothing. Maybe just
Weber.” She presses a few more keys, then grimaces. “Ugh, that’s a
lot. We’re cursed with common last names tonight. Emails, phone
directories, a bunch of other stuff…” She keeps scrolling and
muttering to herself while I load our empty dishes into the
dishwasher and top off the glasses of Sprite we’ve been drinking.
Then I sip mine while she works.
“I think I’ve figured out your mom’s naming system,” Maeve
says after a few minutes. “Cases are all tagged a certain way. So if I
put those keywords in and cross-search with Weber…that’s a much
smaller universe of files. And this was three years ago, you said?”
“Yeah. When my mom first started at Jenson and Howard.”
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, and she cracks a small smile.
“Okay, we’re down to two documents. Let me try opening one.” She
double clicks and nods, as though she just got exactly the result she
was expecting. “Password protected, but—”
Fritz suddenly sits bolt upright, barking madly, and takes off
running for the front door. Maeve and I both freeze except for our
eyes, which snap toward one another in mirrored panic. The only
time Fritz ever moves like that is when a car pulls into our driveway.
“I thought you said your parents weren’t coming home till later,”
Maeve hisses. She starts shutting down the computer as I scramble
to my feet and follow Fritz. He’s still going berserk, and I hold his
collar as I open the door and peer outside. The headlights shining
into my eyes are a lot smaller than I expected.
“Hang on,” I call to Maeve from the doorway. Fritz keeps
barking, his tail thumping against my leg. “Don’t put the computer
away. It’s Kiersten.”
Maeve pauses. “Would she be okay with what we’re doing?”
“Oh hell no. But I can distract her for a few minutes. Email
yourself the files, okay? Come out to the driveway when you’re done.”
I open the door just enough to push through without letting Fritz
out, and jog down the front steps. My movement triggers our garage
floodlight as Kiersten’s headlights flicker off. Her car door opens,
and she steps onto the driveway. “Hey!” she calls, waving both hands
in greeting. “I was nearby for a work thing so I just wanted to—”
Before she has a chance to finish, I’m hugging her so hard that I
almost knock her over. “It’s so good to see you!” I yell, lifting her as
far off the ground as I can manage.
“Um, okay. Wow.” Kiersten pats my back gingerly. “Good to see
you too.” I lower her onto the driveway without releasing her, and
her pats get a little harder. “You can let go now,” she says. Her voice
is muffled in my shirt. I keep clinging, and she practically punches
me between the shoulder blades. “Seriously. Thank you for the
enthusiastic welcome, though.”
“Thank you,” I say, hugging her tighter. “For gracing us with
your presence.”
“For what? What do—” Kiersten stiffens and pulls back, craning
her neck so she can get a good look at my face. “Knox, are you
drunk?” She sniffs me noisily, then uses three fingers to pull down
the skin beneath my left eye. “Or high? Are you on something right
now?”
What the hell is keeping Maeve? “I’m fine,” I say, disentangling
myself hastily. “I’m just happy to see you because I wanted…” I pause
for a few beats, searching my brain for something that will hold
Kiersten’s interest enough to make her forget we’re still standing in
the driveway. She narrows her eyes and taps a foot, waiting.
I swallow a sigh and say, “Relationship advice.”
Kiersten’s entire face lights up as she claps her hands together.
“Finally.”
Maeve comes out the front door then, her laptop bag slung over
one shoulder. Kiersten’s eyes pop, and she turns to me with a hopeful
expression. “Not that relationship,” I mutter as Maeve waves. “Still
friends.”
“Too bad,” Kiersten sighs, and holds out her arms for a hug from
Maeve. As Maeve strides past me to greet her, she whispers, “Got
them.” Whatever she found better be good, because I’m about to give
up at least an hour of my life for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Phoebe
Thursday, March 26
When I get home my mother is out, at another Golden Rings
wedding planner get-together. She’s left a note for me on the kitchen
island: Emma’s still not feeling well. Owen has eaten & there are
leftovers in the fridge. Can you make sure he does his homework?
I set the note down with a sigh. I’d told my friends I wasn’t going
to say anything to Mom about what just happened at Café Contigo
and Callahan Park, and I meant it. But a not-small part of me is tired
of feeling like my own parent. It’s not my mom’s fault, I know that.
She’s doing the best she can. But I ache when I think of how I used to
crawl into her lap when I was little and spill all my problems. It felt
so good, getting them out.
Those were kid-sized problems, though. Broken toys and bruised
knees. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I tried to explain the
past six weeks of my life. Or Emma’s. Whatever’s going on with my
sister, one thing is clear: she doesn’t have anyone she feels like she
can confide in, either.
It sucks we can’t be that for each other.
The apartment is quiet, except the faint video game sounds
coming from Owen’s room and the hum of the dishwasher. The one
and only thing about our apartment that’s better than our old house
is that the dishwasher actually works. We used to have to hand-wash
everything before loading it into the dishwasher, which always struck
my dad as funny. “It’s the world’s most expensive drying rack,” he’d
complain. Every once in a while he’d try to fix it, but all of his usual
handiness deserted him when it came to that dishwasher. The last
time he’d tried, water ended up pouring out of a pipe in our
basement closet.
“We should just get a new dishwasher,” I’d told him as I helped
position plastic beach buckets on the closet floor to catch the water. I
didn’t think about what things cost, back then. A new dishwasher
didn’t mean much more to me than new sneakers.
“Never,” Dad said bracingly. “This dishwasher and I are locked
in a battle of wills. One day, I will prevail.”
Now I realize that we couldn’t afford it. After he died we could
suddenly afford everything—Mom took us to Disneyland, even
though we were too old except Owen. She marched us through rides
during the day, and cried into her hotel room pillow at night. We had
new clothes and phones, and she got a new car so Emma and I could
have hers. Everything was perfect and shiny and we didn’t want any
of it, not really, so we didn’t mind when it stopped.
I kick the base of our quiet, efficient dishwasher. I hate it.
I’m not hungry, so I open the cabinet beneath the sink and
conduct my new ritual: checking Mom’s alcohol supply. Last night, a
lone bottle of tequila remained. Today it’s gone. It’s sort of shocking
that Mom hasn’t caught on to what’s been happening with Emma,
but then again, Emma has all of us well-trained to trust that she’ll
always do what she’s supposed to. If I didn’t share a room with her, I
wouldn’t know either. And I wouldn’t have this sick, worried feeling
in my stomach every time I walk into the apartment. I never know
what I’m going to find, or how to make any of it better.
This has to be the end, though, now that Emma’s gone through
all of Mom’s alcohol. My introverted, straitlaced sister can’t possibly
have connections for getting more. With a sigh, I shut the cabinet
door and head for our room to check on her. Chances are, she’s left a
mess for me to clean up again.
When I crack our door, the first thing that hits me is the sound—
a low, gurgling noise. “Emma?” I ask, pushing through. “You okay?”
She’s lying on her bed, twitching. At first I think she’s breathing
in mucus, like she has a terrible cold, but then it hits me—she’s
choking. Her eyes are closed, her lips blue, and as I watch in horror
her entire body starts to convulse. “Emma! Emma, no!”
The word sounds like it’s being ripped out of me. I lunge forward
to grab her shoulders, almost tripping over the tequila bottle on the
floor, and haul her onto her side. She’s still making the gurgling
sound, but now it’s mixed in with a wheezing noise. “Emma!” I
shriek, hitting her back in a panic. Then her entire body contracts
and a stream of vomit pours from her mouth, soaking both my shirt
and her sheet.
“Phoebe?” Owen peers around the door. “What’s happening?”
His mouth falls open when he sees Emma. “What…what’s wrong
with her?”
Emma gags once, then flops motionless on the bed. I prop her up
so her head is angled on the pillow and vomit can continue to trickle
out of her slack mouth. “Get my phone. It’s on the island. Call 911.
Tell them our address and that someone here has alcohol poisoning.
Now,” I add, when Owen doesn’t move. He darts out of the room as I
grab the edge of Emma’s sheet and try to clean out her mouth. The
sour stench of vomit finally hits me, and my stomach rolls as I feel
wetness seeping through the front of my T-shirt.
“How could you do this?” I whisper.
Emma’s chest is rising and falling, but slowly. Her lips are still
tinged blue. I lift her hand and feel for her pulse beneath the clammy
skin of her wrist. It hardly seems to move, especially in contrast to
how fast mine is racing. “Owen! Don’t hang up! Bring me the phone!”
I yell.
Owen returns to the bedroom, clutching my phone to his ear.
“This lady says someone’s coming,” he whimpers. “Why is she
poisoned?” he adds, his voice quavering as he stares at Emma’s limp
figure. Her hair is hanging in her face, too close to her mouth, and I
push it back. “Who poisoned her?”
“Nobody,” I grit out. Not literally, anyway. I can’t speak to
whoever or whatever has been poisoning her mind these past few
weeks, but I’m starting to think it’s not Derek. If Emma managed to
avoid falling apart after she found out he and I slept together, surely
she wouldn’t nearly kill herself over a few unanswered Instagram
messages. There has to be something else going on here. I reach my
hand out to my brother. “Give me the phone.”
He does, and I hold it to my ear. “Hello, help, I don’t know what
to do next,” I say shakily. “I got her on her side and she threw up so
she’s not choking anymore, but she’s also not moving. She’s hardly
breathing and I can’t, I don’t know—”
“All right, honey. You did good. Now listen so I can help you.”
The voice on the other end is no-nonsense but soothing. “An
ambulance is on the way. I’m gonna ask you a few questions, and
then we’ll know what to do until they get there. We’re in this
together, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Tears start slipping down my cheeks, and I take a
deep breath to steady myself. I try to focus on the woman’s voice,
instead of fixating on the two questions that keep rattling around in
my brain.
Mine: How could you do this?
And Owen’s: Who poisoned her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Maeve
Friday, March 27
My sister is crushing me, but in the nicest possible way.
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve only been home from school for
half an hour. Bronwyn, who just took a Lyft from the airport, has her
arms wrapped around my shoulders while I press my phone to my
ear in my bedroom, trying to make sense of what Phoebe is telling
me. “Well, that’s good, right?” I ask.
“I think so.” Phoebe sounds exhausted. When she didn’t show up
at school today, I was worried something else might have happened
with Intense Guy. Knox and I sent her a bunch of increasingly urgent
check-in texts, and she finally answered one during lunch to let us
know she was at the hospital with Emma. She’d been there most of
last night, she said, until her mom insisted she go home and try to
sleep. She went back first thing this morning.
“They’re still giving her fluids, but they stopped the oxygen
therapy,” Phoebe says now. “They say there shouldn’t be any longterm effects. But they’re talking about addiction treatment when she
leaves the hospital. Like rehab or something. I don’t even know.”
“Did Emma say why she’s been drinking?” I ask.
“No. She hasn’t been awake much, though.” Phoebe sighs
through the phone, long and weary. “It’s just one thing after another
in this family.”
My throat tightens. Before I heard about Emma, I’d been itching
to tell Phoebe everything we’d learned about Intense Guy last night,
and press her to think harder about whether she might have come
across him before. But I can’t put that on her now. One crisis at a
time. “Can I do anything to help?” I ask.
“Thanks, but I can’t think of anything. I should go. I need to
make my mom eat something. I just wanted to let you know Emma
will survive.” She says it lightly, like it was never in question, but I’ve
been anxious ever since her text came through earlier today. All I
could think was Phoebe can’t lose anybody else.
“Text if you need me,” I say, but Phoebe’s already disconnected.
I drop my phone so I can hug my sister back. Her familiar applegreen shampoo smell engulfs me, and I relax for the first time in
days. “Welcome home,” I say, my words muffled against her
shoulder. “Sorry Bayview is a horrible mess again. I missed you.”
When she finally lets go, we settle onto my window seat. Our
usual spot, just like she never left. Both our parents are still at work,
so the rest of the house is quiet. “I don’t even know where to start
with everything that’s been happening around here,” Bronwyn says,
folding one leg beneath her. She’s wearing black leggings and a fitted
V-neck Yale T-shirt. Points to her for a cute, yet comfortable,
airplane outfit. “Emma is all right, though?”
“Yeah. Phoebe says she will be.”
“God.” Bronwyn shakes her head, eyes wide. “This town is falling
apart. And you…” She grabs one of my hands and gives it a shake.
“I’m mad at you. I’ve been fighting with you in my head all week.
How could you not tell me what you were going through?” Her face is
an equal mix of affection and reproach. “I thought we told each other
everything. But I didn’t have a clue any of this was happening until it
was already over.”
“It turned out to be nothing,” I say, but she only tugs harder on
my hand.
“Spending weeks thinking you’re deathly ill again isn’t nothing.
And what if you’d lost valuable treatment time? You can’t do that,
Maeve. It’s not fair to anyone.”
“You’re right. I was…” I hesitate, looking at our intertwined
hands as I try to come up with the right words. “The thing is, I don’t
think I’ve ever really believed I’d make it out of high school. So I tried
not to get too attached to people, or let them get too attached to me.
It’s just easier for everyone that way. But I could never do that with
you. You wouldn’t let me. You’ve always been right here, getting in
my face and making me feel things.” Bronwyn makes a tearful,
strangled sound and squeezes my hand harder. “I guess, while you
were gone, I forgot how that’s actually better.”
Bronwyn is crying for real now, and I am, too. We cling to each
other for a few minutes and let the tears flow, and it feels like
washing away months of regret for all the things I should have said
and done differently. You can’t change the past, Luis said the night
he made me ajiaco in the Café Contigo kitchen. All you can do is try
harder next time.
And I will. I’m not repaying love with fake indifference anymore.
I’m not going to pretend I don’t want my life, and the people in it, so
badly that I’m willing to break all our hearts if the worst does
happen.
Bronwyn finally pulls away, wiping her eyes. “Swear you’ll never
do anything like that again.”
I trace my finger twice across my chest. “Cross my heart, hope
not to die.” It’s our childhood promise, modified by Bronwyn during
my first hospital stint ten years ago, when she was eight and I was
seven.
She laughs shakily and glances at her Apple watch. “Damn it,
almost four. We didn’t even get to the good stuff about Luis, but I
need to go to Addy’s. We’re handling prep for the rehearsal dinner
tonight so Mrs. Lawton can be with Emma.”
“Are you staying for the dinner?” I ask.
“No, that’s just for the wedding party. I’ll leave once Addy and I
get everything squared away, then come back for the afterparty.”
“Do you guys want help?” I ask, even as my eyes stray to my
laptop. I’d been trying to open the files I pulled from Knox’s mother’s
computer before Bronwyn got here, with no luck. Mrs. Myers is a lot
more careful about protecting her files than her network access. But I
think I’m getting close.
“No, two of us will be plenty. It’s probably overkill, honestly, but
I can’t let Addy do this alone.” Bronwyn grimaces. “She means well,
but she’s not the most organized person around.”
“Can you believe Ashton and Eli are getting married tomorrow?”
I say. “I feel like they just got engaged.”
“Same,” Bronwyn says. “Life comes at you fast.”
“Do you need a ride to Addy’s?” I ask.
Bronwyn’s mouth curves in a small smile. “I have one.”
I follow her gaze down to our driveway just as a motorcycle pulls
in, and I can’t help the pleased laugh that escapes me. “Well, well,
well. This feels like déjà vu.” We’d been sitting in this exact spot the
first time Nate ever came to our house. I pluck at Bronwyn’s sleeve as
she full-on beams out the window, watching Nate take off his helmet.
“What’s going on?”
“I called him after you told me what happened at Cooper’s
baseball game. Hearing how he’d been there for you. Everything he
and I had been arguing about seemed so pointless after that. We’ve
been talking every night since. And watching movies.” Her gray eyes
are bright as she stands up, smoothing down the front of her shirt.
“It’s almost like he’s right there with me, even with the distance. I
haven’t felt that way since I left.”
“Hmm, interesting.” I tap a finger against my chin, trying to look
thoughtful while fighting off a grin. “So basically, if I’m
understanding you correctly, my fake leukemia brought the two of
you together? You’re welcome.”
A brief frown interrupts Bronwyn’s glow. “That’s not the correct
conclusion to draw from this.”
I nudge her sneaker with mine. “Look who’s been keeping
secrets now, Bronwyn. And here I thought we were supposed to tell
one another everything.” My voice is teasing, though, because I
couldn’t possibly be less mad at her.
Color rises higher in her cheeks, and she doesn’t meet my eyes.
Mostly, I think, because she can’t tear hers away from the window.
Nate’s still on his motorcycle, waiting patiently. He doesn’t bother
coming to the door; I’m sure he knows exactly where we are. “It’s
only been a few days,” she says. “I guess I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“You know he’s crazy about you, right?” I ask. “More than ever? I
was practically dying in front of him and all he could think about was
you.”
Bronwyn rolls her eyes. “You were not dying.”
“Well, Nate didn’t know that, did he?”
“I really love him,” she says quietly.
“News flash: we know. You haven’t been fooling anyone.” I give
her hip a gentle shove. “Enjoy the ride. I’m assuming you and Nate
have plans once dinner prep is over, so I’ll see you guys at the
afterparty.”
She leaves, and I stay at my window seat until I see her emerge
onto the driveway. Nate gets off his motorcycle just in time to catch
Bronwyn as she goes flying toward him. Her arms wrap around his
neck as he spins her around, and I turn away with a smile so they can
have their reunion kiss in private. “Endgame,” I say to the empty
room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Maeve
Friday, March 27
“Is there a word for stalking your friend’s stalker?” Knox asks in a
low, musing voice.
“Congenial pursuit,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“That’s two words. And terrible.”
It’s almost eight thirty on Friday night, and we’re settled into a
window table at a coffee shop in Rolando Village. Bronwyn is with
Nate, Luis is working, my parents are at a charity event, and I
couldn’t stand rattling around my house alone for two hours while I
waited for the afterparty at Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner to start.
So I called Knox. Neither of us could talk about anything except
Intense Guy. Talking turned into driving, and here we are.
The coffee in this place is awful, but the view is ideal. We’re
almost directly across from the house we followed Intense Guy to
from Callahan Park.
“There’s something comforting about knowing he’s at home,”
Knox says. The driveway was empty when we got here, but the blue
car pulled up a few minutes later, and we watched Intense Guy enter
the small ranch house alone. He hasn’t left since.
“I know,” I say absently, my eyes on my laptop screen. I brought
it along so I could keep working on opening the documents I pulled
from Knox’s mother’s computer. Knox has his computer too, and he’s
been using it to Google “David Jackson” with the usual useless
results.
Knox sucks down half a Sprite with one noisy pull on his straw
and asks, “What time do we have to leave to get to—where is Ashton
and Eli’s party, again?”
“Talia’s Restaurant, on Charles Street,” I say. “We can hang out
here for another twenty minutes or so.”
“Great,” Knox says, glancing around the nondescript coffee shop.
The walls are prison-gray, the tables and chairs are grade-school
cafeteria style, and the baked goods displayed on the counter look
like they’ve been there for a while. The barista yawns as he erases hot
chocolate from the chalkboard menu behind him and tosses an
empty Swiss Miss cardboard box into the trash. “Do you think
Phoebe will be there?”
“I doubt it. She’s pretty much living at the hospital right now.”
Suddenly the document in front of me springs open, and I give Knox
a triumphant smile. “I’m in! Got the first one open. This is…hmm.
Probably not relevant. It’s something to do with a case settled for the
Weber Reed Consulting Group in Florida.” I scan the first few pages
quickly, then close the document and pull up the second. “Let me try
the other one.”
“Nice work, Sherlock,” Knox says. He looks pensive, though, and
rubs a hand over his face as he gazes out the window. “I wish we had
the same luck digging dirt up on this guy. We’re right across the
street from him, and we still don’t know who he is. Has the revenge
forum said anything interesting lately? Or worrying?”
I have Vengeance Is Mine open in another browser and I’ve
gotten a couple of PingMe alerts since we’ve been here, but it’s just
ranting from names I don’t recognize. “Nothing from Darkestmind,”
I say. “He’s been quiet since that post about Phoebe.”
Knox shifts restlessly in his seat. “What did the note he left at
Café Contigo say again? He didn’t sign it with an initial or anything,
did he?”
“No,” I say decisively, and then I pause. I read that note pretty
quickly, after all, and I wasn’t in the calmest state of mind. “I don’t
think so, but let’s double-check.” I tear my eyes away from my
screen, where the headline SETTLEMENT ON BEHALF OF EAGLE GRANITE
MANUFACTURING CORPORATION, EASTLAND CA has popped up, to dig my
phone out of my bag. I open my photos and scroll until I find the
right one. “I took a picture,” I say, handing the phone to Knox. “See
for yourself.”
Knox squints, and then every bit of color drains from his face.
His head snaps up, his expression tense. “What. The. Hell.” Before I
can question the quick-change demeanor, he adds, “Why didn’t you
show this to me before?”
I blink. Is he mad at me? “What are you talking about? I read it
to you at Café Contigo.”
“That’s not the same thing!” he insists.
My scalp prickles at the decidedly un-Knox tone of his voice.
“How is it not the same thing? You know what it says.”
“But I didn’t know how it looks.”
“I don’t—”
He thrusts my phone at me, cutting off my next bewildered
question. “I’m talking about the font. How the note was written. You
know, this type that looks like handwriting but isn’t? I’ve seen it
before. The latest batch of death threats at Until Proven used it.”
“What?” I ask. When Knox doesn’t answer right away, I repeat,
“What?”
“Yeah…hang on,” Knox says. He puts my phone down and turns
to his laptop, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Sandeep thought the
threats were related to the D’Agostino case, so I’m gonna…I have a
bunch of stuff in my G drive.” He angles the computer so I can see
his screen. “This is a spreadsheet of everybody involved in the
D’Agostino case. I’ll check for David Jackson.” He types the name
into the search bar, and neither of us breathes until it comes up
blank.
“Try just Jackson,” I say.
This time we get a result right away: Officer Ray Jackson,
defendant. Accused of assisting Sergeant Carl D’Agostino in
blackmailing and framing seventeen innocent people for drug
possession. Age: 24. Status: In jail, awaiting trial.
“Huh,” I say. “Ray Jackson. Maybe he’s related to David
Jackson?”
“Maybe,” Knox says. He’s still tapping away, eyes glued to the
screen. “Hang on, I indexed all the media coverage too. Let’s see if
they mention family.” He’s silent for a couple of minutes, then angles
his screen toward me. “This article includes Jackson and brother in
it somewhere.”
A news clip fills the screen, showing Sergeant D’Agostino with
his arm around a clean-cut young guy holding a plaque. “I remember
this article,” Knox says. “I read it with Bethany. It’s about D’Agostino
giving some mentoring award.” He points to the caption. “The week
before his arrest, Sergeant Carl D’Agostino commended San Diego
State University students for excellence in community peer
mentoring.”
“Okay, so that’s D’Agostino,” I say. “What does it say about
Jackson?” Both our eyes race over the page, but mine are faster. I
almost gasp when I see it. “Ironically, one of the at-risk youths
receiving peer mentoring was Ray Jackson’s younger brother
Jared, 19, on probation last year for petty theft,” I read. “Program
officials said Jared Jackson excelled in the program and now works
part-time for a local construction company.” I turn toward Knox. “Is
there a picture of Ray Jackson anywhere?”
“Yeah, not in this article, but…” Knox pulls up another news
story with thumbnail photos of each of the accused officers. He clicks
on the one marked Ray Jackson, then enlarges it until it fills half the
screen. At that size, even though it’s a little blurry, there’s no
mistaking the similarity around the mouth and eyes between Ray
Jackson and the guy we trailed to and from Callahan Park.
“Intense Guy is Jared Jackson,” I breathe. “Ray Jackson’s
brother. He must be. The age is right, and the face is right. They’re
definitely related.”
“Yeah,” Knox says. “And the note he left for Phoebe is identical
to the ones we’ve been getting at Until Proven, so…Jared Jackson
must also be the person who’s been sending threats to Eli.” His brow
furrows. “Which makes a twisted kind of sense, I guess, since Eli put
his brother in jail. But what’s his problem with Phoebe?”
“I don’t know, but we’d better tell Eli,” I say. Knox reaches for
his phone, but I’ve already pressed Eli’s number on mine. Within
seconds his voice fills my ear: This is Eli Kleinfelter. I’m not checking
voice mail until Monday, March thirtieth. If you need immediate
assistance with a legal matter, please call Sandeep Ghai of Until
Proven at 555-239-4758. Otherwise, leave a message. “Straight to
voice mail,” I tell Knox.
“Oh right,” Knox says. “He promised Ashton he’d shut his phone
off all weekend. So they could get married in peace.”
Unease nips at my stomach. “Guess we’ll have to tell him in
person, then. It’s almost time to leave for the party, anyway.”
“Hang on.” Knox’s fingers move across his laptop’s trackpad. “I
just plugged Jared Jackson into Google and there’s a lot here.” His
eyes flick up and down the screen. “So, yeah, he was arrested for
stealing from a convenience store right after he graduated high
school. Got probation, did that mentoring program, started working
for a construction company.” Something tugs at my subconscious
then, but Knox is still talking and the fragment disappears. “He
doesn’t seem to have had any run-ins with the law since. But there’s a
bunch of stuff here on the fallout from his brother’s arrest…”
He goes silent for a minute as he reads. “It doesn’t mention their
dad by name but I’ll bet that’s David Jackson. He has lung cancer,
and they lost their house after Jared’s brother went to jail. So, that
sucks, obviously. Understatement. And their mom…oh shit.” Knox
sucks in a sharp breath, raising troubled eyes toward me. “The mom
killed herself on Christmas Eve. Well, they think it was suicide. She
overdosed on sleeping pills, but she didn’t leave a note.”
“Oh no.” My heart drops as I stare at the Jacksons’ house, dark
except for the yellowish glow of a lamp silhouetted in a first-floor
window. Everything about the house looks forlorn, from the crooked
lampshade to the lopsided blinds. “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, it is.” Knox follows my gaze. “Okay, now I feel bad for
Jared. He’s had a shit time. Maybe this is all just some twisted way of
blowing off steam.”
“Maybe,” I say, and then I jump as the lamp in the Jacksons’
window suddenly goes off, plunging the house into darkness. The
door opens, and a shadowy figure emerges. Knox pushes his laptop
to one side and fumbles with the zipper on his backpack, rooting
around in it until he pulls out his binoculars. “Seriously?” I ask as he
brings them to his eyes. We’re the only ones in the coffee shop except
the barista, who’s been ignoring us since we got our drinks, but still.
This is not exactly a stealthy way to keep tabs on your nemesis. “You
brought those?”
“Of course I did. They have night vision mode.” Knox adjusts the
outer lenses and leans forward, peering through the window as the
figure steps onto a section of the driveway illuminated by a nearby
streetlight. “It’s Jared.”
“I could tell that without binoculars.”
“He has a backpack and he’s getting into the car.”
“Knox, I can see him perfectly fine—”
A PingMe alert flashes across my screen. The website you are
monitoring has been updated. I minimize the document from Mrs.
Myers’s computer and navigate to the Vengeance Is Mine forum.
Tick-tock, time’s up. Guess I’ll just fucking do it myself.—
Darkestmind.
My blood chills. I don’t know what the words mean, but I know
beyond a shadow of a doubt that they can’t be good. I slam my laptop
closed and stuff it into my bag. “Come on, we need to follow him,” I
say. “He’s up to something.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Knox
Friday, March 27
Maeve shoved her bag at me before she got behind the wheel, and
now I’m holding too much crap to put my seat belt on as she tears
out of Jared Jackson’s street. I drop my backpack by my feet but
keep hold of Maeve’s bag. “You need anything in here?” I ask.
“Could you take my phone out?” Maeve asks, eyes on the blue
car in front of us. It turns a corner, and she follows. “Just in case.
You can put it in the cup holder.”
I do, and then I look down at the MacBook sticking out from her
still-open bag. I almost forgot what she’d been doing until Jared
Jackson drove every other thought from my head. “Hey, what was
that second document you opened? The one from my mom’s
computer?” I ask. “Was there anything about Brandon in there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to look at it. Do you want to
read it now? It’s still open, I just minimized it.”
“Might as well.” I pull out Maeve’s computer, stuff her bag next
to my backpack on the floor, and position the MacBook on my lap. I
open the cover and click on the document icon at the bottom of the
screen. “Is this it? Settlement on Behalf of Eagle Granite
Manufacturing Corporation…wait. Hang on a second.” I frown.
“Why does that sound familiar?”
“It’s local, isn’t it?” Maeve asks. “I think it had an Eastland
address.”
“Yeah.” I skim over a bunch of stuff I don’t understand until I
reach the company name again and start to read. “Worker’s
compensation settlement negotiated by Jenson and Howard on
behalf of Eagle Granite Manufacturing Corporation, concerning the
accidental death of…Oh shit.” I can feel my eyes getting wide as I
take in the familiar name.
“What?” Maeve asks distractedly. Jared is kind of an erratic
driver, and she’s speeding a lot more than she normally would to
keep up with him.
“The accidental death of Andrew Lawton. That’s Phoebe’s dad. I
forgot my mom handled that case when it happened.” I think back to
Owen gratefully pocketing a twenty-dollar bill at Café Contigo, and to
Phoebe’s apartment, which is nice but a lot smaller than average for
a family of four in Bayview. “Mom always said Mrs. Lawton didn’t get
nearly as much money as she should have,” I say.
“That’s awful,” Maeve says. Jared exits the highway, and she
follows. I look up from her screen and register a familiar sign for
Costco flashing past us; we’re not far from home. She grips the
steering wheel more tightly and adds, “Did you search for Weber?”
“I’m looking.” Reading while riding in a car makes my stomach
roll, but I keep scanning paragraphs until my eyes finally catch on
the name. “Lance Weber, executive vice president in charge of
manufacturing for Eagle Granite Manufacturing Corporation,” I
read. My skin starts to prickle. “Lance Weber. Isn’t that Brandon’s
father’s name?”
I hear Maeve’s breath hiss between her teeth as she quickly
changes lanes to stay behind Jared’s car. “Yeah. My parents were just
talking about him the other night. My dad’s done business with Mr.
Weber before, and he’s definitely a big deal in manufacturing. He
works for an aircraft supplier now, though.”
“Well, I guess he didn’t used to.” I keep reading, until I come to a
paragraph that makes every hair on my body stand on end. I reread it
twice to make sure it really says what I think it does, and then I say,
“Maeve. Holy hell.”
“What?” she asks. I can tell she’s only half listening because she’s
concentrating so hard on keeping up with Jared’s NASCAR moves, so
I tap her arm for emphasis.
“You need to pay attention. For real. Mr. Lance Weber
acknowledges that on October seventh, which was Take Your Child
to Work Day at Eagle Granite Manufacturing Corporation, his
thirteen-year-old son was present on the manufacturing floor.
Despite repeated admonitions to stay away from equipment, Mr.
Weber’s minor son mounted a forklift and operated its controls for
what one worker reported as a five-minute period. That same
forklift jammed shortly thereafter while transporting the slab of
concrete that ultimately crushed Andrew Lawton.”
I look up from the document at Maeve’s pale, rigid face. Her eyes
are still trained on Jared’s car. “That was Brandon. It has to be,” I
say. “Messing around with a forklift that killed Phoebe’s father. Shit.
Brandon fucking Weber.”
Now, the conversation I overheard between my parents makes
perfect sense. The case never should have been settled that way, my
dad had said. By “that way,” I’m guessing he meant keeping
Brandon’s involvement out of any public documentation of the
accident. All it did was show Brandon that actions don’t have to
have consequences. For a second, I’m so angry at the mental image
of Brandon screwing around with a piece of heavy machinery—
Brandon, as usual, doing whatever he wanted and not caring how it
might affect somebody else—that I forget he’s dead.
And then I remember. The thought settles on my chest,
compressing my lungs so it’s hard to breathe. “Well, I guess that
answers my question, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“What question?”
“About who has a reason for hating Brandon enough to want
him gone.” I stare at the red taillights in front of us until they go
blurry. “It’s Phoebe.”
“Phoebe?” Maeve echoes in a small voice.
“We kept wondering if maybe she knew Intense Guy, right?
Seeing as how he’s been chasing her all over town, talking about
some deal they made on a revenge forum.” My stomach churns as
every disturbing, damning thing we’ve uncovered about Jared in the
past few hours comes crashing up against the girl I’ve gotten to
know. Sweet-faced, sharp-tongued, impulsive Phoebe Lawton.
“Maeve. Do you think there’s any way she could’ve…”
“No,” Maeve says instantly.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Phoebe had no clue about this,” she says urgently. “She can’t
have. She was hooking up with Brandon! She’d never do that if she
knew he’d had anything to do with her father’s accident. Plus, she
wouldn’t spread horrible gossip about herself.” Then she hesitates. I
can almost see the gears in her mind sifting through memories of
Simon Kelleher and Jake Riordan, and all the twisted things the two
of them did to get revenge last year—on people whose wrongs were a
hell of a lot tamer than Brandon Weber’s. “I mean,” she says with
less certainty, “someone would have to be a stone-cold killer with an
unbelievably good game face to pull that off. Right?”
“Right.” I try to laugh like it’s ridiculous, because it is. Except for
the part where it makes as much sense as anything else that’s
happened over the past few weeks. If it weren’t for Brandon’s
carelessness, Phoebe’s father would still be alive, and her whole life
would be different. What does knowing something like that do to a
person?
I take a minute to register our surroundings, and it hits me with
sickening certainty that we have an entirely different problem right
now. And as horrible as the last train of thought was, this is even
worse. “Maeve, do you realize where we are?”
“Huh?” she asks, tense and distracted. “No. I’ve been staring at
Jared’s license plate for the entire drive. I don’t even—” She lets her
eyes rove for a second, and her face gets as pale as mine feels. “Oh.
Oh my God.”
We’re on Charles Street in Bayview, the sign for Talia’s
Restaurant glowing white to our left. Eli and Ashton’s rehearsal
dinner afterparty is happening right now, and we’re supposed to be
there. But we’re late, because we’ve been busy tailing the guy who
sent Eli death threats for weeks. And that guy just pulled into a
parking spot across the street and, finally, cut his engine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Knox
Friday, March 27
“Okay, no,” Maeve says, her voice tight. “This has to be a coincidence.
He’s not going to Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner. How would he
even know where it is?”
“You’re always saying there are no coincidences,” I remind her.
Pressure starts to build behind my eyes. “And people can find
anything online. Haven’t we just proven that?”
I sound calm, but I’m not, because shit, this is bad. I’m only just
starting to grasp how bad this is. Maeve has pulled off to the side of
the road, a few parking spots behind Jared in the metered spaces
that line Charles Street. He’s still in his car.
“Oh God, oh God,” Maeve groans. “We have to try Eli again.”
“He won’t pick up,” I remind her, desperation making me
hoarse. Of all the times for Eli to go off the grid.
“Then I’ll call Bronwyn. She should be there by now. Oh God,”
Maeve says again, covering her face with her hands. “Bronwyn is
there.”
Everyone is there, I think. Except Phoebe and her family, even
though they were supposed to be until Emma wound up in the
hospital yesterday. Christ, I can’t even think about that right now.
Maeve is shaking so badly that she’s having trouble placing the call,
and I take her phone from her. “I got it,” I say. But Bronwyn’s
number goes straight to voice mail, too. “She’s not answering.”
“Try Addy,” Maeve says.
I do, with the same results. “Why is no one picking up?” I yell in
frustration, banging my fist on my knee. “We’re Generation Z, for
God’s sake. Our phones are supposed to be permanently attached to
our hands.”
Maeve’s only response is a gasp, and I look up from her phone to
see Jared standing at the edge of the road, waiting for cars to pass.
My heart starts jackhammering in my chest as I hand Maeve’s phone
back to her and pull out my own. Then I set it to Video, and train it
on Jared as he starts to walk.
“We need to go, too.” Maeve says. She grabs my arm when I
lower my phone. “No, keep recording. But follow him, okay? I’m
going to call the police and tell them…I don’t even know. Something.
I’ll be right behind you after that.”
A horn honks as I climb out of the car, shielding my eyes against
oncoming headlights. I wait for another car to roar past, then I cross
to the sidewalk as Jared rounds a fence in front of Talia’s. The
restaurant is sandwiched between an office building and a bank, both
closed and dark at this time of night. Small outdoor seating areas
flank the front door on either side. I can hear murmured voices and
laughter from somewhere at the back of the building. The night is
windy and a little foggy, mist swirling around the streetlight closest
to the restaurant. I expect Jared to head for the front door, but he
goes around the side instead.
I hesitate as he disappears, and Maeve comes up behind me,
breathless. “Where is he?”
“He went around back. Should we try to find Eli?”
“Let’s see what he’s doing first.”
Voices get louder as we approach the rear of the restaurant. I
pause when we reach the corner, poking my head out just enough to
take in the scene in front of me. Talia’s has a raised, open-air deck
that’s about eight feet off the ground, surrounded by a wooden
railing. White lights are strung everywhere, music is playing, and
people stand in clusters on the deck, talking and laughing. I’m at an
awkward angle, but I think I see the back of Cooper’s head.
Jared is on one knee and has the backpack in front of him. My
phone is still recording, so I lift it again and aim it for him. He
reaches inside, and for one heart-stopping second, I think he’s about
to pull out a gun. Options flash through my brain: tackle him? Yell?
Both? But when he takes his hand out, it’s empty. He zips up the
backpack and tosses it beneath the deck. Then he rises in a low
crouch. I yank Maeve’s arm, backpedaling with her until we’re at the
front of the restaurant. “Stairs,” I whisper, and we run for the
entrance, flattening ourselves against the wall beside the door.
Jared emerges a few seconds later from the side of the building.
He strides quickly across the parking lot, looking straight ahead the
entire time. We watch him until he disappears around the fence.
“What’s he up to?” Maeve breathes.
I pull up the video I just took and send it to Eli. “I don’t know,
but I think we’d better get that backpack.” I shove my phone into my
pocket and grab Maeve’s hand. Her palm feels reassuringly cool and
dry in mine. “Come on.”
We retrace our steps to the back of the building. The space
beneath the deck isn’t open like I’d thought it would be when I
watched Jared throw his backpack from around the corner. It’s thick
wooden lattice, except for a squat, narrow crawl space in the middle.
I kneel and reach an arm in, sweeping it in every direction, but I can’t
feel anything other than dirt and rocks.
Maeve hands me her phone, lit with the flashlight app, and I
shine it inside. The backpack is almost directly in front of me but at
least six feet away. “It’s there. I’m going in,” I say, taking a deep
breath. I don’t dislike closed spaces as much as heights, but I’m not a
fan either. As soon as my head is inside the crawl space, though, I
can tell the rest of me won’t fit. Nobody would ever call my shoulders
broad, but they still won’t make it through. I reverse course and sit
on my haunches next to the opening.
“Maybe we should tell everybody to leave,” I say, wiping my chin
against my shoulder. My face is a gross combination of sticky and
gritty from just a few seconds in the crawl space. “Something bad is
in that backpack, or he wouldn’t have put it there.”
Maeve drops to her knees beside me. “Let me try.” She ducks her
head through the opening, twisting her body so her shoulders are at a
right angle. She’s a lot narrower than I am and manages to slide the
rest of the way through. The backpack emerges soon after, shoved
out of the crawl space by Maeve’s dirt-streaked hands. She follows,
forcing her shoulders through with a painful grimace as I lift the
backpack by one strap. It’s a faded tan color, ripped along one side
and heavy. I tug at the zipper and shine Maeve’s phone inside.
Maeve coughs and brushes a cobweb from her hair. She’s
covered in dirt, and her right arm is bleeding from a long, jagged
scrape. “What’s in there?”
“Something round and metal,” I report. “It has a lot of wires
and…switches, or something.” Alarm starts coursing through my
veins, making me sweat. God, I wish I’d paid more attention to my
father when he used to explain how stuff works. “I can’t be sure, but
this looks a lot like somebody’s idea of a homemade bomb.” My voice
cracks on the last word.
Maeve’s eyes get wide and scared. “What do we do?”
I’m frozen, indecisive. I want this to be somebody else’s
problem. I want Eli to check his damn phone. He’s up there
somewhere, and if I yell loud enough I could probably get his
attention. But I don’t know how much time we have.
“We have to get rid of it,” I say, scanning the area. We’re in luck,
sort of, because the space behind Talia’s is nothing but grass until
you get to a bike path a hundred yards away. Tall bushes line the
back of the path, and if I have my geography right, the Bayview
Arboretum is right behind them. Which closes at six, so it has to be
deserted this time of night.
I sprint for the bike path, Maeve right behind me. That’s not
what I intended—I thought she’d stay by the deck, but there’s no
time to argue. I’ve never run so fast in my life, and it still feels like it
takes me forever to reach the edge of the path. When I get there, I
pause for a few seconds, panting. Is this far enough? I really hope so,
because I’m afraid of hanging on to this thing much longer,
especially with Maeve next to me.
I hold my arm out to one side, the backpack dangling from my
hand like I’m getting ready for a discus throw. “I wish Cooper were
here,” I mutter. Then I take a deep breath, twist my body halfway
with my arm fully extended, and hurl the backpack as hard as I can
over the bushes lining the edge of the arboretum. I watch it sail into
blackness and I grab Maeve’s hand. “Okay, let’s get out of here and
get help.”
We’re about to turn and run when a faint, familiar voice floats
out from behind the bushes, stopping us in our tracks. “The fuck was
that?” someone says.
My heart thuds to a stop, then drops to my shoes. Maeve freezes,
her eyes as round as saucers. “Nate?” she breathes, and then she lifts
her voice in a piercing scream. “Nate, run! This is Maeve. That was a
backpack with a bomb inside, from someone who’s been threatening
Eli. You have to run toward the restaurant, now!”
We hear a loud rustling sound, and I tug at Maeve’s hand. “We
have to run too. I don’t know how much time—”
“Maeve?” comes a girl’s voice.
Maeve gasps and screams again, loud and panicked. “Bronwyn?”
Jesus Christ. Nate and Bronwyn picked the worst time possible
for a moonlight stroll in the garden.
Maeve lunges forward, and I wrap an arm around her waist to
stop her. “Other way, Maeve! I’m sorry, but we have to go the other
way!” I start dragging her backward, yelling toward the arboretum as
I do. “This isn’t a joke, you guys! Run!”
Two people crash through the bushes hand in hand, and I catch
the silhouette of a flowing skirt against the dim moonlight. I’m still
pulling Maeve along the grass, not making nearly as much progress
as I’d like. As the figures running toward us get closer I can see Nate
doing the same with Bronwyn, trying to use his momentum to pull
her forward. Somehow, despite Maeve’s best efforts, I’ve managed to
get her more than halfway across the grassy space between the
restaurant and the bike path.
“Come on!” I grit out in frustration. “Nate’s with her! This isn’t
helping!” Maeve finally stops fighting me, and we race the rest of the
way across the lawn until we’re a few feet from the restaurant. Voices
rise as people start to gather at the railing, their confused faces lit by
the twinkling white lights.
“Get inside!” I gesture with the hand that’s not holding Maeve’s
arm. I still don’t trust her to stay put. And then, because nobody’s
paying any attention, I pull out my trump card. “There’s a bomb in
the arboretum! Everybody get inside!”
The words use the last bit of lung capacity I have left, and I pant
painfully as shouts and gasps fill the air. Nate and Bronwyn are
almost halfway across the grass now. Nothing’s happened yet, so I let
myself feel a small burst of relief. Somebody who knows what the
hell they’re doing can take over now. Maybe it’s not even as bad as
we think, maybe we have plenty of time, or maybe the backpack was
something else entirely—
When an explosion rips through the air, the noise is deafening.
Maeve and I both throw ourselves onto the ground as an orange ball
of fire erupts from behind the bushes. I reach up instinctively to
cover my head, but before my vision is blocked I look across the grass
to where Nate and Bronwyn were just seconds before. I see white
smoke billowing high and fast into the air, fragments of God only
knows what swirling within it, and nothing else.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Phoebe
Friday, March 27
“Careful, not so close. You’ll burn yourself.”
I’m eight years old, sitting between my father and my sister in
front of a small bonfire on the beach. It’s a special trip, just the three
of us. Mom’s staying home with Owen, who’s too little to toast
marshmallows. But I’m good at it, holding my stick the right
distance from the flames, rotating my marshmallow carefully until
every side is bubbling brown. I’m better than Emma, because she’s
too tentative and won’t get her marshmallow close enough to toast.
It’s kind of satisfying, that I’m better than Emma at something.
That almost never happens.
“Mine is no good,” Emma says fretfully. She sounds on the edge
of tears.
“Let me help you,” Dad says, putting his hand over hers and
holding her stick in place. And then I feel upset that I have to toast
my marshmallow alone, so I shove my stick too far in the flames
and let it catch fire.
“I need help too!” I say.
Dad lets out an exasperated chuckle and takes the stick from
me, blowing out the flaming marshmallow. He pokes the stick down
in the sand between us so it stands upright, and the charred
marshmallow on top instantly starts to droop. “Phoebe, you were
doing fine,” he says. “Save the cries for help for when you really
need it.”
“I did need it,” I say sulkily, and he puts an arm around me.
“Your sister needed it a little more,” he whispers in my ear. “But
I’m always here for both of you. You know that, right?”
I feel better nestled against the warmth of his side, and sorry I
didn’t let Emma enjoy her perfect marshmallow. “Yes,” I say.
He kisses the top of my head. “And make sure you’re there for
each other too. All of you. The world can be a rough place, and you
guys need to stick together. Okay?”
I close my eyes and let the flames dancing in front of me paint
my lids orange. “Okay.”
—
The beeping wakes me up. A machine in Emma’s room whirs to life
and I do too, sitting bolt upright in my corner chair. I shove my hair
out of my face as my dream-memory fades and I remember why I’m
here. “Emma,” I croak. I’m half on my feet when a nurse enters the
room.
“It’s all right,” she says, fiddling with a knob on the machine
behind Emma. “We’re going to give her a little more fluids, that’s
all.” My sister remains motionless on her bed, asleep. The room is
dim, and I’m alone except for my sister and the nurse. I have no idea
what time it is, and my throat is paper dry.
“Can I have some water?” I ask.
“Of course. Come to the nurses’ station with me, hon. Stretch
those legs.” The nurse disappears into the hallway. Before I follow, I
take another look at Emma, so silent and still that she might as well
be dead. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket and finally send the
text I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
Hi Derek, it’s Phoebe. Call me.
I leave the room, still feeling groggy, and find Emma’s nurse
waiting for me in the hallway. “Where’s my mom?” I ask.
“Took your brother home to bed. There’s a sitter coming, and
she’ll be back once he’s settled,” the nurse says.
A clock in the hallway reads ten fifteen, and the floor is quiet
except for the muted conversation of three nurses clustered around
the central desk. “Someone needs to clear those kids out of the
waiting room,” one of them says.
“I think they’re all in shock,” says another.
The woman who gave me the water makes a clucking noise as
she leans her forearms on the counter surrounding the desk. “This
town is going to hell in a handbasket. Kids dying, bombs going off—”
“What?” I almost choke on my water. “A bomb? What are you
talking about?”
“Tonight,” the nurse says. “At a wedding rehearsal dinner, of all
things. There was a homemade explosive device planted by some
disturbed young man.”
“Aren’t they all,” another nurse says coldly.
My skin prickles, nerves jumping. “Wedding rehearsal? In
Bayview? Was it—” I grab my phone out of my pocket to check for
new texts, but before I can, one of the nurses says, “Talia’s
Restaurant.”
I drop my cup with a loud clatter, sending water splashing across
the floor. I start shaking from head to toe, practically vibrating, and
the nurse closest to me takes hold of my shoulders, speaking quickly.
“I’m so sorry, we should have realized you might know people there.
It’s all right, someone got the bomb off the premises before it could
do significant damage. Only one boy had more than superficial
injuries—”
“Are they here?” I look wildly around me, as though my friends
might be right around the corner and I just hadn’t noticed them yet.
The nurse lets go of my shoulders and picks up my discarded
cup. “There’s a group in the waiting room closest to the ER
downstairs.”
I take off for the stairs before she can say anything else, my
sneakers pounding against the linoleum. I know exactly where to go;
I sat in that waiting room last night after the EMTs brought Emma
in. It’s one floor down, and when I push through the stairwell door
into the hallway I’m immediately hit with a buzzing noise, much
louder than upstairs. Several scrub-clad people are standing with
their arms folded in front of Liz Rosen from Channel Seven, who
looks camera-ready in a sharp red suit and perfect makeup. “No
media beyond this point,” a man says as I slip behind them.
The waiting room is packed, standing room only. My heart
squeezes at the sight of so many people I know, looking more
devastated than I’ve ever seen them. Bronwyn, her face stained with
tears and her pretty red dress torn, is sitting between her mother and
a middle-aged woman I don’t recognize. Cooper and Kris are holding
hands next to Addy, who’s hunched forward and gnawing on her
cuticles. Luis is on Addy’s other side with Maeve on his lap, and he’s
holding her while she slumps motionless against his shoulder, eyes
closed. Her right arm is wrapped in a white gauze bandage. I don’t
see Ashton, or Eli, or Knox anywhere.
Only one boy had more than superficial injuries…
I pick my way toward Maeve first, my throat tight with worry. “Is
she okay?” I whisper.
“Fine,” Luis says. “Sleeping. She crashed ten minutes ago.” His
arms tighten around her. “Long night.”
“A nurse upstairs told me about the bomb.” Saying the word out
loud doesn’t make it any less surreal. “What happened?”
Addy runs a hand over her face. “How much time do you have?”
Kris gets to his feet and gestures to his chair. “Here, have a seat.
I need the restroom. Anybody want a drink or anything else while
I’m up?”
“I’d kill for a Diet Coke,” Addy says wearily. Kris circles the room
taking additional requests as I drop into his chair.
“Is Knox okay?” I ask anxiously. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s fine,” Addy says, and I exhale with relief. “The hero of the
night, in fact, along with this one.” She reaches over to lightly stroke
Maeve’s arm. “He, Ash, and Eli are talking to the police. Maeve was
supposed to go too, but she conked out and they said to let her rest.
Knox can give them the whole story, I guess. They were together all
night.”
I file that away. “Who’s hurt? The nurse said someone was hurt,”
I say, glancing around the room and trying to catalog who’s missing.
“Is it—”
My eyes catch sight of Bronwyn’s distraught face again right
before Addy says, “Nate.” I gasp and she quickly adds, “He’s going to
be all right, they say. It’s just—he and Bronwyn were closest to the
bomb when it exploded. He was basically a human shield over her, so
he took the brunt of it.” She reaches up a hand to twist one of her
small gold earrings. “It was…do you remember the Boston Marathon
bombing? How it was this pressure cooker thing with nails and stuff
inside?” I manage to nod, even though I can’t believe we’re actually
having a conversation in the middle of the Bayview Memorial
Hospital waiting room about bomb techniques. “Same type of thing.
They were pretty far away, thank God, but Nate’s arm is kind of torn
up, so they have to remove…”
She hesitates, and my breath catches in my throat. “His arm?”
“No! No, no,” Addy says quickly. She tugs harder at her earring.
“God, sorry. I was trying to remember the word for, like…flying bits
from a bomb.”
“Shrapnel,” Luis says. I go limp with relief as Addy nods.
“But he’ll be okay?”
“That’s what they say. I don’t know how bad his arm is injured,
though.” Addy lowers her voice, flicking her eyes toward the middleaged woman sitting next to Bronwyn. “It’ll be terrible if he can’t
work. Nate needs that money so he can stay in his apartment. His
mom’s living with his dad, even though they don’t really have a
marriage anymore, because his dad’s still in and out of rehab and
somebody has to take care of him. It’s so tense in that house. That
can’t be Nate’s life again. It just can’t.”
There’s too much information coming at me all at once, but still
so much I don’t understand. “Why would anybody do something like
this?” I ask. “You said Knox and Maeve are heroes. What did they
do?”
Addy exhales. “It’s still sort of jumbled up. We haven’t had much
of a chance to talk to either of them, so we don’t have the full picture,
but…there was this guy Jared Jackson, I guess? His brother is one of
the police officers in the news for framing people on fake drug
charges. He’d been sending threatening letters to Eli, and he decided
to follow through on them tonight. Knox and Maeve were tailing him
—I’m not clear how they knew to do that, to be honest—and followed
him straight to Talia’s.” She shudders and hunches down in her chair
again. “We’d probably all be dead if they hadn’t. The bomb was
literally right below the deck we were standing on.”
“At least police arrested the guy pretty fast,” Luis says grimly.
“Thanks to Maeve and Knox,” Addy says. “Knox caught the
whole thing on video. The worst thing is, police were there, at the
restaurant. Eli took precautions because of the threats. But they were
inside. Nobody planned for this.” Her lips form a tight line. “Like, is
this my sister’s life now? She has to deal with terrorists and death
threats? I love Eli with my whole heart, I really do, but this is
horrible.”
Maeve stirs but doesn’t wake, and Luis presses a light kiss on the
top of her head. “Is the wedding still on for tomorrow?” he asks.
Addy sighs. “I don’t even know.”
My phone starts ringing in my pocket. I pull it out and stifle a
groan when I see that it’s Derek, calling me back already. His timing
sucks, but I don’t want to play phone tag with him. Might as well get
it over with. Maybe by the time I’m done, Knox will be back to
explain more of what happened tonight. “I have to take this,” I
murmur to Addy.
I stand and pick through the crowded waiting area until I’m in
the corridor. “Hello,” I say, plugging my free ear with my index
finger.
“Phoebe, it’s Derek. I’m really glad you got in touch.” His voice
sounds far away, and if I didn’t already know who it was, I’d never
have recognized it. I have no idea who this person really is, I think
as I lean against the wall.
“Why,” I say flatly.
Derek clears his throat. “Well, to be honest, the thing is…ever
since that party at your friend’s house, I can’t stop thinking about
you. I feel like we could have something special if—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I don’t realize I’m yelling until a
passing nurse gives me the evil eye. I lower my voice. “Do you realize
Emma is in the hospital?”
“She’s what?” Derek sounds bewildered. “No. How would I know
that? I haven’t talked to Emma in months. What happened?”
“She’s falling apart! And I think it has something to do with what
happened between you and me—which, by the way, was not special.
It was stupid. But anyway. Emma found out about us last month, and
now she’s suddenly drinking herself to death. So who did you blab
to? Did you stop to think for one second that running your mouth
might get back to Emma?”
“I…” Derek falls silent, the sound of his breathing the only sign
that he hasn’t disconnected. I’m feeling a surge of righteous
satisfaction that my words must have hit their mark when he adds,
“Phoebe, I told Emma. The day after it happened.”
I plug my ear harder against the noise of the corridor. I can’t
have heard him right. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
“I told Emma about you and me. I felt like shit and I figured you
were gonna tell her, so I just…wanted to get it off my chest, I guess.”
“You told Emma,” I repeat. I pull the phone away from my ear
and stare at it, like that’ll help me make sense of his words, and a
series of texts from my mom flashes across the screen:
Phoebe, are you still here?
The nurses said you went downstairs.
I need you back in Emma’s room.
Right now.
Oh shit. That doesn’t sound good. I bring the phone back to my
ear just long enough to tell Derek “I have to go” before I disconnect
and retrace my steps upstairs.
—
I was steeling myself for lots of things when I reached Emma’s room,
but a police officer wasn’t one of them.
“Um. Hi,” I say nervously, clutching my phone as I step inside.
Mom is sitting beside Emma’s bed and the police officer is standing
at its foot. The gray-haired nurse is writing something down on
Emma’s chart. Emma herself is still asleep. I gaze at her peaceful
face, wishing I could see directly into her brain. Emma knew about
Derek and me. She knew. Even when she confronted me in Café
Contigo, red-faced and almost crying, waving her phone like it was
the first time she’d ever heard the news.
Unless Derek is lying. But why would he? My head aches, my
brain working overtime trying to connect the dots on all the new
information that’s hit me tonight.
Mom’s strained voice pierces my tangled thoughts. “Phoebe, this
is Detective Mendoza with the Bayview Police. He has some
questions for you.”
“For me?” I tear my eyes away from Emma as the nurse
straightens.
“You can stay here, if you like,” she says, crossing to the door.
“We can close this for a few minutes and give you privacy. Just press
the call button if the patient needs me.”
I hover next to the door after it closes, and Detective Mendoza
clears his throat. “Phoebe, I’ve already explained this to your mother,
but you are not being accused of anything related to this evening’s
events. Your presence for the entirety of tonight is accounted for.
However, we’d like your cooperation as we build the case against
Jared Jackson, and to do that effectively we need to understand your
relationship with him.”
“My…what?” I wish I had my cup of water back. My throat is
suddenly so dry that it hurts. “I don’t have a relationship with him. I
only just learned his name downstairs.”
“We’ve spent the past hour interviewing Mr. Jackson about his
motivations for tonight’s events at Talia’s Restaurant. We also seized
his phone, which he claims has months’ worth of correspondence
with you. He says he met you in an online forum called Vengeance Is
Mine in late December, that the two of you bonded over family
tragedies, and eventually agreed to, as he put it, take out one
another’s enemies. Mr. Jackson says he fulfilled his end of the
bargain when he executed a texting-based Truth or Dare game at
Bayview High that led to Brandon Weber’s death earlier this month.”
My legs suddenly go weak, and I barely make it into the corner
chair. “I don’t understand. Brandon…what about Brandon?” I dart
my eyes toward Mom, who stirs beside Emma’s bed like a
sleepwalker trying to wake up.
“Wait. Brandon Weber?” she asks thickly. “You didn’t mention
him before.”
Detective Mendoza looks down at a notepad in his hand.
“According to Mr. Jackson, he used gossip about Bayview High
students—yourself and your sister included—to kick the game off.”
He glances up at me briefly, then back at his notes. “The actions that
led to Brandon Weber’s death were the result of a Dare issued to
him. Mr. Jackson made use of his background in construction work
to remove supports from beneath that landing, causing Brandon to
fall to his death. In return, you were supposed to help Mr. Jackson
get revenge on Eli Kleinfelter, for putting Mr. Jackson’s brother in
jail. However, Mr. Jackson says you fell out of touch after Brandon
Weber’s death, and became unresponsive to his attempts to contact
you. Thus tonight’s attack. He decided to take matters into his own
hands, and conclude the deal without you.”
Unresponsive to his attempts to contact you. We need to talk.
That’s what the note I got at Café Contigo yesterday said. If I’m
understanding Detective Mendoza correctly, Jared Jackson must
have sent that. And set up the entire Truth or Dare game…for me.
Which makes no sense whatsoever. Even putting aside the insane
idea that I’d agree to hurt Eli—how could a person I’ve never met
believe I made a deal with him? And that I wanted Brandon dead?
I’m going to be sick. “No. That’s not…I wouldn’t in a million
years do anything like that,” I say. An image flashes through my
brain of Brandon in my apartment, assaulting me and hurling
insults. In that instant, I hated him. Did I tell the wrong person?
Who did I tell? How could Jared Jackson even know about it, or
about me? “Why would I? Brandon and I aren’t…we didn’t get along
all the time, but he wasn’t my enemy.”
Detective Mendoza’s tone doesn’t change: calm and
unemotional, like his notes are a textbook he’s using to teach a class.
“Mr. Jackson says you told him how Brandon Weber contributed to
your father’s death by causing a forklift to malfunction during a
critical point in its operation.”
Everything inside me stills. I forget how to breathe. The tears
that had been gathering behind my eyes freeze. My heart, which was
just pounding loudly in my ears, is suddenly so silent that I wonder,
briefly, if I’m dead.
“What.” I push the word through numb lips, cold and flat. It
doesn’t seem like enough. There have to be more words. I search my
brain for them. “Did. You say.”
A strangled cry bursts out of Mom. “I never wanted you kids to
know, Phoebe. What was the point of knowing something like that?
I’m so sorry I didn’t prepare you for it. But you could have talked to
me. Why didn’t you talk to me?”
Brandon. Dad. This is a nightmare. I’m asleep and having the
worst dream of my entire life. I pinch my arm, as hard as I can. I
don’t even feel it, but I don’t wake up, either.
“I didn’t,” I finally say. “Know any of that.”
“According to Mr. Jackson, the two of you discussed this in great
detail,” Detective Mendoza says. “When you first told him about the
accident, he looked you up online and saw media coverage of your
mother’s wedding planning business. That’s why he proposed the
revenge pact—he knew you could provide access to Mr. Kleinfelter.”
For the first time, Detective Mendoza’s voice gets the tiniest bit
gentle. “You were still processing a traumatic revelation when you
met him. The law understands that, especially when we have your
full cooperation. Can we count on that?”
“No.” My voice gains strength, finally, because the hell with this.
The only thing I know for sure right now is that I had no clue who
Jared Jackson was before tonight. “Jared Jackson is wrong, or lying.
I never met him online or in person. I didn’t know Brandon had
anything to do with what happened to my dad until right this
second.” Everything’s coming unglued now: tears fall, my heart
accelerates, and my voice shakes. “I didn’t do any of this.”
“Then how would Jared know that Brandon was involved in your
father’s accident, Phoebe?” Detective Mendoza asks. Not like he’s
mad. More like he’s genuinely curious.
I open my mouth. Close it.
“I told him.”
I blink, utterly confused. Did I just say that?
Detective Mendoza’s head swivels from me to Emma’s bed. My
eyes follow. She’s sitting up, pale but alert. Her hand is folded in my
mother’s. “I told him,” she repeats in a low voice. “And I told him I
was Phoebe.”
Mom’s face goes rigid with shock as Detective Mendoza moves
closer to the foot of the bed. “Are you saying you executed this
revenge pact with Jared Jackson, Emma?” he asks.
“I…no,” Emma says haltingly. “Not like you said. I met him
online, and I pretended to be my sister because I was mad at her
for…other stuff.” She flicks a glance at me, and I flush. “And I told
him what happened to my dad and he—he said we could help one
another.” Emma’s voice trembles as she pulls her hand from Mom’s
and starts fumbling with the edge of her hospital blanket. “But he
never mentioned Eli. I had no idea they even knew one another. And
as soon as the Truth or Dare game started, I hated it. I regretted
everything. I told Jared to shut it down, and he said he would.”
Her voice shakes harder, and her eyes fill. “But the game kept
going. I didn’t understand why, but I was afraid to get in touch with
Jared again. I kept hoping he’d get bored and stop. And Brandon…”
Emma lets out a choked cry as tears spill down her cheeks. “Brandon
wasn’t supposed to die.”
I hear my own sharp intake of breath as Detective Mendoza asks,
“What was supposed to happen to Brandon?” The gentler tone from
before is entirely gone.
Emma hesitates, and my mother speaks before she can. “That
might be enough for now,” Mom says, the shell-shocked look on her
face slipping away. Her shoulders straighten, like something’s finally
clicking into place, as she adds, “I think we should hold off on any
further conversation until we have a lawyer present.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Maeve
Saturday, March 28
“Ladies and gentlemen, here they are. Being introduced for the first
time as husband and wife, please welcome Eli Kleinfelter and Ashton
Prentiss!”
The crowd in the hotel ballroom gets to its feet for a standing
ovation as Eli leads Ashton onto the dance floor. Everyone is
clapping so loudly that we nearly drown out the music. Last night,
Ashton and Eli told everyone that they still planned to get married
today but understood completely if people didn’t want to come.
We all did, down to the last guest. Except the Lawtons. The
wedding is basically uncoordinated at this point, because Mrs.
Lawton has her hands full elsewhere.
Nobody knows what really happened between Emma Lawton
and Jared Jackson. Eli was only able to get bits and pieces of
information last night and this morning. From what he can tell,
Emma stumbled across paperwork for her father’s worker’s comp
settlement shortly after Christmas. She was angry enough to look for
Simon’s old revenge forum, where she met Jared Jackson and told
him what Brandon had done. Jared raised the idea of a revenge pact,
and Emma didn’t immediately shut him down. But after that, it gets
murky.
According to Eli, Emma says she stopped talking to Jared right
after the Truth or Dare game launched. She insists she didn’t know
Brandon was going to die, or that Eli was a target. And Jared insists
that she did.
The rest of us are just waiting for the truth to come out.
I don’t know how Eli managed to worry about Knox and me in
the middle of all this, but he made sure we knew that Phoebe’s only
involvement was Emma using her name. “Phoebe is no longer a
person of interest to the police,” he told us.
Phoebe herself texted Knox and me right before we left for the
wedding:
I love you both.
Thanks for what you did.
I’m so glad you’re ok.
I can’t say anything else right now so please don’t ask.
I’m sorry.
I wish things were different, and that she could have been part of
today. Ashton and Eli’s wedding ceremony turned out to be the
perfect antidote to yesterday’s trauma. Watching them exchange
their vows reminded everybody that love and hope and beauty still
exist, even when things seem impossibly dark. My mood has been
lifting steadily all day, and now that Ashton and Eli are moving
across the dance floor—unsteadily, because Eli cannot dance, but
beaming at one another—I almost feel normal.
Addy, who was in tears for most of last night, stands smiling at
the edge of the dance floor in a beautiful, ice-blue maid of honor’s
dress. She’s holding a bouquet of white roses in one hand, and the
arm of cute groomsman-slash-molecular-biologist Daniel with the
other. He bends toward her ear and says something that makes her
laugh so hard that she almost drops her flowers.
“Ashton looks gorgeous,” Bronwyn says. She’s standing beside
me at our reception table, her hand firmly in Nate’s. I don’t think
she’s let go of him since he was discharged from the hospital this
morning. Nate’s the least formally dressed of us all, since he couldn’t
manage to get anything except a T-shirt over his sling. Surgeons
removed five chunks of metal from his left arm last night, and he’s
bandaged up to his shoulder. He’ll have scars for life, probably, but
he’s incredibly lucky that he doesn’t have nerve damage.
And that he works for Mr. Myers. Knox’s dad came to the
hospital last night to let Mrs. Macauley know that the company’s
disability policy will cover Nate’s salary while he recuperates.
“For how long?” Mrs. Macauley asked nervously.
“As long as it takes,” he replied.
Now, Nate grins at Bronwyn and me. “Eli looks like he’s about to
keel over.”
“I’m pretty sure this is his first time on a dance floor,” I say.
Nate nods. “I believe it.”
Bronwyn gazes around the crowded ballroom. “Where’s your
date?” she asks me.
“Talking to Mom and Dad,” I say, pointing a few tables over to
where Mom is smiling brightly at Luis and Dad just clapped him on
the shoulder.
My sister scowls as she watches them. “Oh, this is so not fair.
Luis has been your boyfriend for five minutes and they’re already
falling all over him. It took a year before Mom and Dad even started
to warm up to…” She glances toward Nate, who’s still on her other
side, and catches herself. “Anyone else.”
Nate slips his good arm around her waist and pulls her close,
nuzzling her neck. “What are you talking about?” he teases. “Your
parents love me. Always have.”
The DJ picks up his microphone again as the music changes to a
pulsing beat. “Everyone, please join the happy couple on the dance
floor!”
Kris grabs hold of Cooper’s hand and starts to pull. “Come on.
You’d better get ready, because I am a dancing machine at weddings.
We’re not stopping until the music does.”
Cooper blinks as he follows. “There’s still so much I don’t know
about you, isn’t there?”
“Let’s dance,” Bronwyn says to Nate.
“Can’t.” He holds up his bandaged arm. “I’m injured.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Your legs aren’t.”
Nate grimaces and raises a hand to his forehead. “I feel dizzy all
of a sudden,” he says, sinking into the chair behind him. “I think I
might pass out.” When Bronwyn leans over him with a worried
expression, he grabs her around the waist and pulls her onto his lap.
“I probably need CPR. You’re certified, right?”
“You’re the worst,” Bronwyn complains, but she’s already started
kissing him before she finishes the sentence.
I look over at my parents’ table, where Luis is still making polite
conversation. Another check mark in his pro column: Good with
Parents. I’d suggest he give Nate lessons, but I think the whole
sacrificing himself to save Bronwyn deal might’ve finally won them
over. When Mom looks our way, she doesn’t even glare at the
makeout session happening to my right.
Luis and I spot one another at the same time, and I can’t help
but smile when he heads toward me. That boy in a suit—wow.
We meet up on the edge of the dance floor, and he holds out his
hand. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” I say. He spins me deftly so my skirt twirls in a
glittering circle before he pulls me close. I put my head on his chest,
breathing in his clean, soapy smell, and he brings his lips to my ear.
“How are you?”
It’s a hard question to answer. I tilt my head so I can meet his
eyes. “Right this second, really good. Today was beautiful. In general,
though…” A shiver goes through me, raising goose bumps all over my
body. “Things aren’t great, are they? I’m scared for Ashton and Eli
and everybody he works with. Nobody knows what’s going on with
Emma. And Brandon is still gone.” My voice breaks a little. “If we’d
figured out who Jared was sooner…”
Luis’s arms tighten around me. “There’s no possible way you
could have seen into that guy’s head any earlier than you did. Don’t
even go there. You did great, Maeve. You saved lives, you know. You
and Knox.”
That part doesn’t seem real yet. My brain won’t let me imagine
an alternate scenario where we don’t get Jared’s backpack away from
the restaurant. “I guess.” I want to feel something good, something
happy, so I wind my arms around Luis’s neck and rise up on my toes
to steal a soft kiss from his lips.
“One of these days,” he says when I pull away, “I’m going to put
the moves on you first.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. It worked; my mood is
lifting again. “Looking forward to it.”
“Maybe when I take you on a real date.”
I look around. “Is that not what this is?”
“Nah, there’s too many other people. Plus we’ve been stuck
inside all day. You know how I feel about inside.”
“You’re unnaturally prejudiced against it, yes. Where would you
go instead? If, for example, we decided to do something tomorrow?”
“La Jolla Cove,” he says instantly. “I’d take you kayaking.”
I gulp. Oh God, not the beach. And the ocean. But then again,
maybe all that would be different with Luis. A lot of things are. Still, I
narrow my eyes at him. “Kayaking? Sounds like work.”
“I’ll do it all,” he promises.
“Is this what dating you is going to be like? You’ll just cart me
around various scenic areas in greater San Diego?” It doesn’t sound
bad, actually.
He grins. “I’ll teach you how to kayak, if you want. It’s fun, I
swear. My family goes all the time in the summer. They’d love for you
to come.”
I like the direction of this conversation, but…“I might not be
here then,” I say. His eyebrows rise. “I think I’m going to apply to be
a counselor at this school in Peru with Addy. If I get accepted, I’d be
there all of July and August.”
I’d been thinking about the possibility ever since I saw that
brochure at Addy’s apartment, and even more after getting a clean
bill of health from Dr. Gutierrez. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I
tried to count up the positive things that have come out of this
horrible experience. Luis, definitely. Becoming friends with Phoebe.
Learning that Knox and I will always be able to count on one
another. And believing enough in my future to make plans for it.
“Two whole months? Damn.” Here comes Luis’s disappointed
face again, until he shakes it off with a regretful smile. “I mean, that
sounds great. Obviously. Just make sure you come back.”
“I will. I promise.” Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a
familiar figure alone at an empty table. I’ve been keeping tabs on
Knox, because every once in a while his cheerful façade cracks, and
he starts drooping under the weight of last night. Now looks like one
of those times. I pull away from Luis and squeeze his arm. “I’m just
going to check on Knox, okay? He looks like he could use some
company.”
“Sure,” Luis says. I turn to go, but he tugs me back and cups my
cheek, bending down to plant a slow, lingering kiss on my lips. My
breath catches in my throat, and when he pulls away he’s smiling.
“That’s one.”
“Yeah, well. You still have some catching up to do.” I blow him a
kiss over my shoulder and head for Knox.
When I reach him he’s standing, a folded napkin in one hand.
“Hey,” he says. “I think I’m gonna head out.”
“What? No! The reception just got started.”
“I know, but—I’m wiped.” Knox loosens the knot on his tie and
tugs it downward. His hair is messy, his eyes shadowed with dark
circles. “It’s been a long day. Plus I thought I’d see how Phoebe’s
doing, and bring her some cake.” He lifts the napkin in his hand, and
now I notice the pearly white frosting poking through.
“They cut the cake already?” I ask. “How did I miss that?”
“They didn’t,” Knox says. “But one of the servers told me there’s
extra in the kitchen in case anyone wants to take some home. She
gave me a slice to give to Phoebe.”
“That’s really nice of you.” Impulsively, I step forward and
squeeze his free hand. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”
At some point, probably soon, our weird romantic history is
going to leak outside of the Bayview gossip circles. The Jared
Jackson story is huge, and reporters are already sniffing around for
details. Mikhail Powers’s crew has been calling my house nonstop.
Mikhail himself even sent a giant bouquet of colorful, exotic flowers
with a note: My deepest admiration and respect, always, to the
strong young women of the Rojas family.
“Don’t be swayed by his charm,” Bronwyn lectured when I told
her. Mikhail Powers has coaxed my sister into interviews more than
once. They never go badly, but she always tells herself afterward that
she’s not going to do it again. Until she does. “If you do talk to him,
though, tell him I said hi.”
I don’t plan on it. But I’ve lived through a media circus before,
when Simon died. People won’t rest until every Truth and Dare of the
texting game has been exposed and analyzed—including what
happened between Knox and me. I’ve made my peace with it, though,
and I hope he doesn’t care any more than I do. Neither of us has
anything to explain, or be embarrassed about. We’re lucky, that’s all.
Beyond lucky to have each other.
He squeezes my hand back with a crooked grin. “So are you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Knox
Saturday, March 28
Mrs. Lawton greets me at the door, looking like she hasn’t slept in a
week. She does her best to rally, though, giving me a wan smile. “Hi,
Knox. Don’t you look handsome.”
She doesn’t ask me how the wedding went, and I don’t offer.
There are some conversations it’s better not to have when things are
this raw. “Thanks.” I can make out the muted sounds of a video game
somewhere in the apartment, and I hope Owen doesn’t appear. I
can’t pretend to care about Bounty Wars right now. “Is Phoebe
around?” I ask.
Mrs. Lawton hesitates. “I’m so sorry, Knox, but Phoebe probably
shouldn’t be talking with other witnesses in the Jackson case right
now. It’s a delicate time.”
“No, I totally get that. Phoebe already said. I promise I won’t ask.
But I thought she could use a friend. Also…” I dig into my pocket and
pull out a folded piece of paper. “I wanted to give you this. From Eli.
It’s a list of lawyers you could call, if you’re looking for referrals or
anything like that. He says they’re good.”
Eli emailed me the list before he left his apartment for the
ceremony. Until Proven can’t touch the case, obviously, given our
involvement, he wrote. But Emma should get representation as soon
as possible. There’s growing precedent for courts coming down
hard on kids who are seen as inciting others, both in person and
online. Even when they pull back, like Emma did.
If she did. I want to believe Emma, but it’s hard to imagine that
Jared would see the Truth or Dare game all the way through without
her being involved. Plus, there’s the fact that she must’ve fed this guy
gossip not only about Phoebe and Derek—which is seriously messed
up—but me and Maeve. Even though neither of us has ever done a
thing to her. I actually thought she liked me. So who even knows
what Emma is capable of.
You sure she’s telling the truth? I wrote to Eli.
He responded instantly. Whether she is or not, she needs good
representation.
One of these days, I hope to be the type of person who worries
about a girl who was allegedly part of a revenge-swapping plot to
destroy me. I’m not there yet, though. I’m glad the hospital is
keeping Emma for observation another day so there’s no chance I’ll
run into her now.
“How incredibly kind.” Mrs. Lawton’s eyes get filmy when she
takes the paper. “Please give him my thanks.” She rubs her temple
and offers a weak smile. “I suppose a few minutes with Phoebe
couldn’t hurt. You’re right—she could use a friend. It would cheer her
up immensely to see you, I’m sure. She’s on the roof deck.”
“Thanks so—” I was about to step inside, but I pause on the
threshold. “Sorry. The what?”
“There’s a new roof deck on the building. They just finished
putting the railing up last week. Phoebe’s there. You can take the
elevator to the top floor, and there’s a stairwell right next to it that
leads to the roof.”
“Oh.” My fear of heights has gotten ten times worse since
Brandon died, and a roof is the last place I want to be right now. It’s
okay, though. I’ll just stay in the middle, where you can’t see over the
edge. Then it’s more like a floor. A floor without walls or a ceiling.
Crap. “Okay. So. I’m just going to go on the…roof.” I try to give her a
confident wave when I head down the hallway, but I don’t think I
pull it off.
The elevator has mirrored doors, which I could do without on
the ride to the top floor. My untucked shirt is a wrinkled mess and
my half-mast tie is askew. My hair looks like I combed it with a
Weedwacker. At least it’s finally growing out, I guess. When the
doors open, I find the stairwell and climb two short sets of stairs to a
heavy metal door. I push against it, and I’m immediately hit in the
face with a gust of wind.
Right. Of course. Because the only thing worse than being on a
roof is being on one so windy that you could blow right off.
I tamp down the thought and take a few tentative steps forward,
until I spot Phoebe leaning against what looks to be a very flimsy
railing. “Hey,” I call, and she turns. “I brought you some cake.”
Phoebe lifts her hand in an anemic wave, but stays where she is,
so I guess I’m going over there. I owe her, probably, after thinking
for even a nanosecond in Maeve’s car last night that she could’ve
been involved in this mess.
“You brought me what?” Phoebe asks when we’re close enough
to talk. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun on the top of her head,
tendrils flying everywhere in the wind. She’s wearing what look like
pajama bottoms and a tank top. I’d think she’d be freezing, but she
doesn’t seem to notice the chill in the air.
“Cake,” I gulp, holding it out when I’m a foot away. That’s the
absolute closest I can get to that deathtrap of a railing. “Wedding
cake. From the…wedding.” For a second she looks like she’s going to
cry, and regret seizes my chest. Was this a dumb thing to do? Then
she smiles and takes it from me.
“Thanks. That’s really nice of you.” She breaks off a piece and
eats it, then holds out the napkin. “Want some?” she asks through
her mouthful.
“Nah, I’m good.” I stuff my hands into my pockets and try to
figure out where to look. Cold sweat has started to coat my face.
There’s nothing but open sky around us, which is making me dizzy,
so I focus on Phoebe’s face. Even when it’s covered in crumbs, that’s
hardly a chore. “How are you?”
Phoebe’s stuffing cake into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in
days. Which is possible, I guess. She says something I can’t
understand, and I wait for her to swallow. “Shitty,” she says when
she does, taking another huge bite of cake.
“I guess, yeah. Sorry.”
She swallows again and brushes crumbs from the corners of her
mouth. “But you! I didn’t get a chance to thank you. For figuring
things out, first of all, and for saving everybody. Things would be so
much worse if…” Her voice wavers. “If anybody besides Brandon…oh
God.” She folds the empty napkin in half so the clean side is facing
outward and presses it against her eyes. “I’m sorry. Every time I
think I’m done crying I start again.” Her shoulders shake as she
slumps against the railing, choking out noisy sobs. “I can’t stop. I
don’t know when it’s going to stop.”
I’m frozen for a few seconds, torn between her total misery and
the terrifying void behind her. Then I step forward, ignoring the way
my head spins and my stomach dips when I’m right at the edge, and
pull her into an awkward embrace. “Hey. It’s okay.” I pat her back as
she cries against my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”
“How?” she wails. “Everything is horrible. My dad is dead
because of Brandon, and Brandon’s dead because of us!”
“Not you,” I say, but she only sobs harder. I hold her for I don’t
know how long, until she’s finally cried out and starts taking deep,
uneven breaths. One of her palms is flat against my chest, and she
looks up at me through swimming eyes.
“Knox, your heart is beating out of your chest.”
“Yeah.” I blink, trying to get rid of the spots dancing in my line of
vision. “The thing is—I’m scared of heights, and this railing is…it
does not look safe. Or tall. It’s not really tall enough for my liking.”
“Oh my God.” She lets out a tearful laugh and, to my
indescribable relief, pulls me away from the edge until we’re nearly
at the center of the roof. “Why didn’t you say something? I could’ve
bawled on your shoulder here just as easily.”
“Well, you know.” My dizziness recedes to a manageable level. “I
try not to make a big deal out of what a coward I am.”
“Coward?” She stares at me, wiping her cheeks. “Are you kidding
me? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” I drop my eyes,
embarrassed, and she laughs softly. “Do you know what I thought,
back there? I thought your heart was beating so fast because of me.”
“What?” I’m so startled that I practically yelp, and Phoebe makes
a face.
“You don’t have to look so horrified.”
“I’m not horrified. At all,” I say quickly. “It’s just—that’s not a
thing I would consider, even, because…” I trail off and rub the back
of my neck with one hand. “I would have no shot, obviously. You’re
way too hot for me. Not that I spend a weird or inappropriate
amount of time analyzing how hot you are, but—”
And then I can’t talk anymore, because Phoebe is kissing me.
Her mouth is soft and hard at the same time, colliding with
mine, and every nerve ending I didn’t know I had catches fire. She
tastes like sugar, and she’s all curves and warm skin. She lifts my
shirt, trailing her fingers across my stomach and down toward the
waistband of my pants, and my brain almost short-circuits. Not
entirely, though, because when I lift my hands to cup her face, I feel
the wetness of fresh tears.
“Phoebe.” I pull back reluctantly, already missing the feel of her.
She’s breathing as heavily as I am and her eyes are glazed. I swipe a
thumb across the tear tracks on her face. “That was amazing, but…I
think you’re really sad right now. And worried, and just—probably
not in a good place to be doing this.”
She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a whimper and a
moan. “God, I’m such a disaster. You must hate me.”
“What? No! Are you kidding? Believe me, I would like nothing
more than for you to try that again in, say, a week. Or whenever
you’re feeling better. If you want to. But if you don’t, that’s okay,
too.”
She exhales a shuddering breath. “Do you have any idea how
great you are?”
“Not really, no.” I adjust the front of my pants, which is kind of
uncomfortable thanks to the bulge Phoebe’s groping brought on. She
catches the motion and smirks a little through her tears. “Let the
record show, though, that all systems were go,” I add. “In case there
was any doubt, after…you know.”
She starts giggling so hard that I’d be embarrassed if I weren’t
relieved to see her mood lift. “Oh my God, you actually made me
laugh. I wasn’t sure that was still possible.” She swipes at her eyes
with the back of her hand. “Thank you. I needed this. All of it.”
“Good. I’m glad.” I take her hand and pull her toward the
stairwell. “Could we please leave this roof now?”
—
It’s late when I get home. I’ve been walking everywhere tonight: from
the reception to Phoebe’s apartment, and then from Phoebe’s
apartment back to my house. It’s been hard to breathe since
yesterday, and the cool air helps a little.
My lips are still tingling from Phoebe’s kiss as I open our front
door. I’ve relived that moment a few hundred times on the walk
home. It was a one-time thing, probably, and that’s okay. It doesn’t
have to be awkward. If Maeve and I could make it through the entire
school knowing about our not–first time, one sad kiss on the roof is
nothing.
And who knows, maybe Phoebe meant it. Wouldn’t that be
something?
The kitchen and living room lights are on, and I can hear the
sound of some sort of ball game on television when I get inside. It’s
past my mother’s bedtime so it’s probably just my dad watching, and
he doesn’t like to be interrupted in the middle of a game. I drop my
house keys on the table and head for the staircase.
“Knox?” Dad’s voice stops me. Footsteps follow until he’s framed
in the kitchen doorway, a bottle of Bud Light in one hand. The faint
yellowish glow of our light fixture deepens every crease in his face.
“How was the wedding?”
“Oh.” I’m blank for a minute. The wedding already feels like it
was months ago. “It was…good, I guess. You know. As good as it
could be, under the circumstances.”
He nods heavily. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Nate was there,” I add. “He looked good. He was joking around,
didn’t seem like he was in too much pain or anything.” I clear my
throat. “It’s really great, what you’re doing for him. You know, the
disability stuff. Everybody kept saying…how great it was. Is. Will be.”
Jesus. You can stop babbling anytime, Knox.
“Company policy,” Dad says stiffly.
“I know, but, like…you make the policy,” I point out.
To my surprise, his face breaks into a smile. “I guess I do.”
It’s as good a time as any to say what I’ve been meaning to tell
him for a while. “Dad, I’m really sorry about cutting through the mall
site. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s not that I don’t listen to you, or
respect your work. I do, a lot. I was just being thoughtless.”
The lines of his face soften. “Well. You’re seventeen. That’s
gonna happen sometimes, I guess.” He takes a gulp of beer and looks
at the floor. “I owe you an apology, too. I shouldn’t have said you’re
not a hard worker. I know you are.” His voice gets gruff. “And
another thing. You were smart last night, and brave, and even though
I wish you’d kept yourself a little safer in that situation, I’m so proud
of what you did. I’m proud of you, period. Always.”
Oh hell. I made it through the past twenty-four hours without
crying and now my dad, of all people, is going to make me do it. Then
he’ll probably take everything he just said back because I’m such a
wimp. Before I lose it, though, Dad sets his beer down on an accent
table, lets out a choked sob of his own, and yanks me into a bonecrushing hug. Which hurts a little, but—all things considered?
Worth it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Phoebe
Wednesday, April 1
I take my time getting out of the car in the school parking lot
Wednesday morning. I’ve been gone since Sunday, staying with
Owen and my aunt a few towns over. Mom thought we needed a
break, and she was probably right. Owen is still there, because he’s a
genius and is months ahead on his schoolwork. But I can’t stay away
forever.
I’m scared to be here. Scared of what people will think, and say,
now that the truth is starting to come out. I’m afraid they’ll hate
Emma—and me. I can’t blame them, because most of the time I hate
us, too. Emma for starting this mess, and me for giving her a push off
the deep end by hooking up with Derek at the worst possible time.
And I hate Brandon for what he did three years ago, but not
enough that I’m not sick with regret about what happened to him. I
know the thoughtless mistake of a spoiled thirteen-year-old doesn’t
deserve this.
Everything hurts, basically. All the time.
My phone chimes in my bag, and I pull it out to a text from
Knox. Don’t be nervous. We have your back.
I send a thumbs-up emoji in return, my stomach fluttering. I
keep replaying our time on the roof in my head—not just the kiss,
which warmed my whole body from the inside out, but the way Knox
held me at the railing for so long, even though he was scared out of
his mind. And the way he made me laugh when I thought I’d
forgotten how. Plus, he looked surprisingly hot with his wrinkled
shirt and his messy hair, his face all lean and haunted from the night
before.
Maybe I just have a thing for wounded heroes. Or maybe Future
Phoebe, who could appreciate someone like Knox, isn’t as far away as
I thought.
My phone dings again. Maeve this time. Come inside. Bell’s
about to ring.
Argh. Can’t avoid it forever, I guess. I get out of my car, lock the
door, and trudge toward the back entrance. My eyes are on the
ground, so when I reach the stairs I almost bump into the couple
kissing passionately against the railing. “Sorry, my bad,” I mutter,
then freeze when they pull apart.
My stomach drops. It’s Sean and Jules. Literally the last two
people I wanted to see. I can’t even imagine what Sean is going to say
to me—no, I don’t need to imagine it, because he’s opening his big
stupid mouth right now and why can’t I move, this is going to be
horrible.
“Hey, Phoebe,” he says.
It’s so different from what I expected that I’m struck mute.
Jules disentangles herself and shoves lightly at Sean’s arm. “Go
inside,” she tells him. “I’ll meet you at my locker.” To my shock, he
does as she says, lumbering up the stairs and disappearing through
the door without another word.
“You trained him,” I say. Then I want to sink through the ground
because God, that was rude, and neither of them deserves it at this
particular moment in time.
But Jules smiles. “Sean has some seriously toxic male role
models in his life, but he’s trying. He’s not as bad as you think,
Phoebe.”
I guess she’s right. Especially since I thought at one point that he
might’ve started the whole texting game in order to kill his best
friend. Joke’s on me, I guess, that it was actually my sister who did
that. Allegedly.
But there’s still one thing I need to know. Maybe it’s been in the
media coverage already, but I’ve been avoiding that like the plague. I
lean against the railing, shifting my weight from one foot to the
other. “Why did you guys lie, Jules? About why Brandon jumped?”
A pink tinge washes across her cheeks. “It’s just—Sean thought
we’d get in trouble, you know? He said it would be better if people
thought it was just a shortcut and then we wouldn’t have to explain…
everything.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Including
what the game said about you and Emma.”
“Sean didn’t care about that,” I say. That might be rude, too, but
I know it’s true.
“No,” she admits. “I did, though.” I believe her. “And Sean didn’t
mean to hit Knox that hard, honestly. He panicked.”
“So he never thought Knox was running after Brandon,” I say.
Just to be sure.
Jules’s mouth twists. “No. He was freaking out, and Knox was…
there.”
“Are you going to get into trouble?” I ask. “For lying, I mean?”
She sighs. “The police aren’t happy with us, but we’re so not the
main issue right now. They told us that as long as we cooperate going
forward, we’ll be okay.” She licks her lips and lowers her eyes. “Is
Emma—”
I don’t let her finish. “I can’t really talk about Emma.”
Jules nods quickly, almost like she’s relieved. “I understand.”
She probably doesn’t, though. It’s not only because I’m not
allowed to say anything that hasn’t been approved by Emma’s new
lawyer—who I’m supposed to meet for the first time later today—but
because I don’t know anything the rest of the world hasn’t already
heard. I’ve barely seen or spoken to Emma since I left her hospital
room Friday night.
I know what she told Detective Mendoza. And I know she spoke
up when she could have left me hanging out to dry. But that’s it.
The bell rings. Jules and I both stay put, shifting our backpacks
and shuffling our feet. “I wish I’d tried harder to talk to you about all
this,” I finally say.
“I wish I had, too,” Jules says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I
just got so caught up with Sean.”
“I’m glad you’re happy.” It’s a lie, because I can’t imagine any
sort of happiness with Sean Murdock that doesn’t end with deep
regret and possibly an STD, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut
about that for once. There are worse things, I guess, than having an
oaf for a boyfriend.
Jules links her arm in mine and pulls me toward the stairs.
“Come on, Phoebe Jeebies. Let’s get you back on track.”
—
“I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me, Emma,”
Martin McCoy says, leaning his forearms on our kitchen table.
They’re lean and covered with freckles. My sister’s new lawyer has
bright orange hair, just like my dad’s, and for some reason that
makes me trust him. “Jared Jackson’s actions are caught on video,
and there’s no question about his culpability in the Talia’s Restaurant
bombing. Furthermore, he admitted to causing Brandon Weber’s
death, despite there being no suspicion of his involvement at the
time.” Martin rubs his temple, like Jared’s unsolicited confession
hurts his lawyerly brain. “As far as I can tell, he did that purely to
implicate you. To bring you down with him. And his lawyer has a
mountain of chat transcripts”—he gestures to a thick manila folder
on his right—“that he alleges were with you, agreeing to a revenge
pact and planning the Truth or Dare game.”
Emma looks nervously at the folder. “Have you read them?” she
asks.
She showered before Martin got here, so she’s looking more like
her usual self. Her dark red hair is still damp, pulled back with a
headband, and she’s wearing one of her favorite oxford shirts. She
missed the top button, but still. Progress.
“Not yet,” Martin says. “They arrived in my office just before I
left to come here. But I’d like to hear your version first, anyway.”
I’m sitting next to Emma, wondering if I’m going to get kicked
out of the conversation at some point. I’ve already told Martin
everything I know about Jared. Now Mom keeps looking at me
uneasily, like she’s wishing I’d stayed at my aunt’s house with Owen.
I kind of feel the same way. But if I have to be in this apartment, I’d
rather know what’s going on than be stuck in my room alone. So I
stay quiet, and stay put.
Emma bites her lip. “I mean. Mom told you, right? I did talk to
him a lot. At first.”
Mom shifts in her seat, but before she can answer, Martin says,
“Explain to me exactly how you met Jared, what the two of you
talked about, and how things ended. Don’t sugarcoat or leave
anything out. I can’t help you unless I know the full story.”
My sister takes a deep breath, and I do too. Here we go.
Emma’s voice takes on a mechanical quality, like she’s gearing
up for a long speech. “It’s true, what Jared said about how we met
online. I was going through a bad time. I’d just found out that
Phoebe and my ex-boyfriend hooked up, and I was really upset.” I
stare at the faux wood grain of our kitchen table, studiously avoiding
Mom’s eyes, because that was a shitty conversation I never want to
repeat.
“That was bad enough,” Emma continues. “But then I was
looking through Mom’s files, trying to figure out how much money
we have set aside for college, and I found the settlement paperwork
from Dad’s accident. I was…so angry.” Her eyes are nothing but
pupil. “When I read about what Brandon did, I hated him so much
that I couldn’t think straight. I wanted—I don’t even know. I wanted
to do something. I remembered Simon Kelleher’s old revenge forum,
and I went looking for it. It had moved, but I found it eventually. I
made up a name and signed on. I met Jared there, and we started
talking. We sort of—bonded, I guess. He suggested we talk offline
with ChatApp. We used real names then. Well, I used Phoebe’s
name.”
She darts a guilty look at me, and I try to keep my expression
neutral. It stings that Emma did that, but it’s like Jules said earlier:
so not the main issue right now.
“I unloaded about everything to him,” Emma says. “He was a
good listener.” She makes a face, as though it pains her to admit that.
“Jared said Brandon sounded like the kind of person who’d never
had to face a consequence in his life. And that he could help me
figure out a way to get even, if I’d help him do the same.”
“But he didn’t tell you his story?” Martin asks. “You weren’t
aware of his connection to Eli Kleinfelter?”
“No,” Emma says emphatically. “I didn’t know anything about
that until Detective Mendoza told me. He said Jared figured out
Mom was Eli’s wedding coordinator and decided to…use me.” She
swallows hard. “All Jared told me was that someone had ruined his
brother’s life, and his mom killed herself because of it. I felt horrible
for him.” Emma flushes and looks down at the table. “Jared said we
could start with me. He thought we should do something to…hurt
Brandon. So he wouldn’t be able to play football anymore, and then
he’d know what it’s like to lose something important.”
“Did you agree to that?” Martin asks evenly.
Emma licks her lips. “Yes,” she says quietly, briefly closing her
eyes at the shocked noise my mother can’t hold back. “At the time it
seemed…fair.”
My heart is in my throat, threatening to choke me, but Martin’s
calm tone doesn’t change. “And who came up with the Truth or Dare
game?”
“Jared,” Emma says. “He liked the idea of using Simon’s…
legacy, he called it, to create a gossip-based game that Bayview High
students wouldn’t be able to resist. The idea was to build the game
slowly, until it got to the point that Brandon would take a Dare
without question.”
Emma tenses, and I hear her foot start tapping rhythmically on
the floor. “Jared said people are easy to figure out. If you’ve ever
played Truth or Dare, you know most people will take the Dare.
Because they want to seem…daring, I guess. Plus nobody wants to
deal with the truth. But first, we had to make sure people paid
attention. We needed to launch the game with a real piece of gossip
that nobody knew, something juicy and true and ugly. After that,
Jared said, we just had to target people who would play along, and
the game would be off and running.”
“Okay,” Martin says. “So you needed somebody to not engage in
order to kick things off, and you needed a big secret about them. Did
you provide that to Jared?”
Emma stills her tapping foot, and the only sound in our kitchen
is the faint ticking of the clock above my head. Then she takes a deep
breath and says, “Yes.” Mom swallows another strangled sound as
Emma continues, “I was pretending to be Phoebe so I said, ‘Well, I
slept with my sister’s ex, is that an ugly enough secret for you?’ ” I
flinch as though she slapped me as Emma continues. “And Jared was
like, ‘You seriously want to use that?’ And I said…” Emma’s voice
gets so low that I have to strain my ears to hear her. “I said, ‘Sure,
why not? It’s not like I care about my sister. If I did, I wouldn’t’ve
done it in the first place.’ ”
I’m going to cry. Or throw up. Probably both. I want Emma to
stop talking, but unfortunately Martin doesn’t feel the same way.
“Okay,” he says. “And did you provide other names to Jared? People
you thought would play along and take Dares?”
Emma nods. “Yes. I tutor Sean and I used to drive Jules to
school, so I was pretty sure they’d love the attention.”
“What about Maeve Rojas?” Martin asks.
“That was Jared’s idea,” Emma says. “He wanted Maeve
involved, because she was part of everything that happened with
Simon. That was a thing with Jared—he thought about Simon a lot.
He wanted to be smarter than him, and fool somebody who Simon
couldn’t.” Her cheeks redden as she looks down. “Maeve was
supposed to take the Dare, like everybody else, but she didn’t play
along. And I have no idea how Jared found out about her and Knox. I
wouldn’t—I would never have told him that, even if I knew. I like
them both.”
It hurts more than I would’ve thought at this point, when I
should be getting numb, to hear Emma say that after admitting she’d
tossed me under the Jared bus.
“And what happened when the game launched?” Martin asks.
“It was horrible.” Emma’s voice breaks on the word. “People
were so awful. All I could think about was this quote—I can’t
remember where I read it, but it goes something like Holding on to
resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person
to die. That’s exactly how I felt. I didn’t want revenge anymore. I just
wanted it to stop.” She shoots me an imploring look. “I’m sorry,
Phoebe. For all of it.”
I curl my hands into fists on my lap so I won’t say the first thing
that springs into my mind, which is: You can shove your apology
right up your ass, Emma. Because I know what it’s like when your
sister refuses to forgive your worst mistake. “I…it’s okay,” I grit out.
“In your statement to the police, you said you’d asked Jared to
end the game and he agreed,” Martin says. “Is that accurate?”
Emma nods. “Yes. He was mad, and we argued. But eventually
he said he’d drop it, because it wouldn’t work if I wasn’t all in. I
deleted ChatApp from my phone, and I thought that would be that.”
Her voice breaks again. “But the game kept going. Then Brandon
died and…” Tears start falling fast, streaming down her face and onto
her dry, cracked lips. “I didn’t know what to say or do. I was so
scared all the time. I started drinking to try to calm down, and then I
couldn’t stop. I broke my phone and threw it away because I thought
it might get me in trouble. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything,
I’m so sorry.” She crumples against Mom, who holds her gingerly,
like she’s not sure how Emma is supposed to fit against her anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I won’t cry, too. It’s all beyond
horrible. All I can think is This never would have happened if Emma
and I were still close. Emma and I would still be close if Dad hadn’t
died. Dad wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for Brandon. It’s the worst
kind of vicious circle, and I’m starting to see how it could take over
your mind.
Martin lets Emma cry for a few minutes, sifting through his
folder until her sobs turn to sniffles. When she finally detaches from
Mom and wipes her eyes, he says, “I know that was difficult. Are you
all right to continue?” She nods. “Can you tell me exactly when you
stopped corresponding with Jared? The date and, ideally, the time?”
Emma takes a shaky breath. “I mean—it was pretty much right
after the text about Phoebe went out. I spent the night at my friend
Gillian’s house, but I couldn’t sleep. I started messaging Jared, and
we argued until he agreed to stop the game. I logged off and went to
bed, right before midnight, I think. That’s the last I ever spoke to
him.”
Martin’s looking at the papers in front of him. “That would be
February nineteenth, then. Is this the conversation you’re referring
to?” He hands Emma a sheet of paper, and she nervously licks her
lips as she takes it.
“Are these printouts?” she asks. “Of our ChatApp
conversations?”
“Yes,” Martin says. “Pulled from the burner phone Jared used.
Just skimming them, it looks like they’re consistent with what you
told me, right up through February nineteenth. As you stated, you
asked him to stop the game and, after some initial dissent, he
agreed.” For the first time since I met him, the lines around Martin’s
mouth get grim. My skin starts to prickle even before he says, “But
after that, we have a problem.”
“What do you mean?” Emma licks her lips again as Martin holds
up another sheet of paper.
“This is a transcript from the morning of February twentieth,” he
says. “When the conversation between ‘Phoebe’ and Jared started
right up again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Phoebe
Wednesday, April 1
My stomach drops as Mom says, “Emma,” in a low, warning tone.
Emma turns to her, wide-eyed, and Mom adds, “You need to tell
Martin everything.”
“But I did,” Emma insists, looking shocked. “That’s not possible.
Let me see.”
Martin hands her the paper, and I edge closer so I can read it,
too.
Phoebe: Sorry about what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it.
Jared: Didn’t mean what? That I’m “too extreme” and you’re out?
Phoebe: Yeah. I freaked for a sec but I’m on board now.
Phoebe: Let’s do this.
“No, no, no!” Emma drops the paper like it’s on fire, staring at it
with what seems like genuine confusion. “That’s not me. I never
communicated with Jared again after the night at Gillian’s.” She
looks beseechingly between Mom and Martin, like she can get them
to believe her through sheer force of will. “I swear to God. I swear on
Dad’s grave. Can’t you…I don’t know, check the IP address or
something?”
Martin looks grim again. “I’ll see how trackable the technology
is, but messaging apps are tricky. Now, if we had your phone, we
could possibly work with that. Is your device entirely
unsalvageable?”
Emma flushes and drops her eyes. “Yeah. I smashed it with a
hammer and threw it into a dumpster. I don’t even know where it is
anymore.”
“I see.” Martin’s tone is calm, but he can’t be happy about that.
Mom leans forward, her voice tense. “Isn’t it possible this young
man wrote all those chat messages to himself once Emma stopped
talking to him?” she asks. “He’s obviously disturbed.”
“It’s possible,” Martin says. “Jared was certainly under an
enormous amount of mental strain from his brother’s arrest, his
father’s illness, and his mother’s suicide. That may be a theory worth
advancing, particularly if the later correspondence shows a marked
difference in speech patterns.”
Emma stretches out her hand like a drowning person who just
spotted a life preserver. “Can I see more of them?”
“Of course.” Martin hands her a sheaf of papers and a pencil.
“Here’s the rest of the February twentieth conversation. If you see
anything that strikes you as dissonant, make a note.”
Emma starts reading, and I do the same. After “Phoebe” returns
and promises to keep the game going, Jared spends a good half page
patting himself on the back for his brilliance. “Phoebe” agrees—and
as I read those responses, a tiny spark of hope takes hold of me. This
truly doesn’t seem like Emma’s messaging style. “Phoebe” is using
way too many lols and question marks, for one thing. And the flattery
toward Jared seems excessive. Could Mom’s Hail Mary theory
actually be right?
Then I read to the bottom of the page.
Jared: This game is genius. You can make people do whatever you want.
Jared: Doesn’t matter how strange it is, people will do it.
Phoebe: The more bazaar the better right? lol
I swallow my gasp just in time. My heart starts pounding, so
hard that it’s physically painful, as I read the last sentence again. Not
bizarre. Bazaar. I glance at Emma, whose face has gone red and
splotchy. When her eyes meet mine, I know she’s seen it too.
I’m frozen in my chair. I have absolutely no idea what to say or
do. I just keep thinking about all the little things that meant nothing
until now:
My sneaky brother always listening at our doors.
My tech-savvy brother networking all our devices.
My lonely brother hanging out at Café Contigo, where Maeve
told Bronwyn what happened between her and Knox.
My scared brother watching Brandon insult me.
My sad brother saying Our family is ruined after Emma and I
fought about Brandon.
And, oh yeah. My spelling bee champion brother making a rare
yet memorable error. The reunion between “Phoebe” and Jared
happened before I’d had the chance to correct him.
I’m starting to feel light-headed and take a deep, steadying
breath as I mentally slot my brother into the events of the past few
weeks. He fits. Owen could have been monitoring Emma’s
conversations with Jared all along—everything from our father’s
accident, to plans for the Truth or Dare game, to Emma’s decision to
pull out. And when she did, he could’ve easily stepped in. He
probably would have been a lot more careful about covering his
tracks than Emma was, too. The whole thing must have seemed like a
video game to him: the ultimate Bounty Wars challenge, planning
one move after the other.
Right up until Brandon died.
Emma lays the sheet of paper on the table so carefully that you’d
have to be watching closely to see her hand tremble. “Can I see the
last page, please?” she asks. “The very end of the transcripts?”
Martin thumbs through the sheaf he’s holding and hands it to
her. “Correspondence stops the day Brandon Weber died,” he says.
I force myself not to look at Emma as we both start to read:
Phoebe: That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Jared: Sure it was. It’s what you wanted.
Phoebe: I…don’t think I did.
Jared: He deserved it. It’s done. You’re welcome.
Jared: But we’re only half finished. Now it’s my turn.
Jared: Hello?????
Jared: Say something.
Jared: Don’t you dare fucking ghost me.
Then it ends. I don’t move except to shift my gaze toward Emma,
waiting for her reaction. She meets my eyes again, and for the first
time in years, we have a conversation with no words. Just like we
used to when we were kids, reading the thoughts written across one
another’s faces. Invisible to anyone else, but perfectly clear to us.
Emma glances down, notices the undone button on her oxford
shirt, and neatly fastens it. Then she looks up, pale now but
composed, and pushes the transcript toward Martin. “I think my
mother is right,” she says. “Jared is delusional. This is nothing more
than him talking to himself once I stopped speaking to him. And
nobody can prove differently, can they?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One of us is lucky, and by that, I mean me. In my third book, I not
only got the chance to revisit characters and a setting that I love, but
I did it with the same phenomenal publishing team that has
supported me from the start.
Endless thanks to Rosemary Stimola and Allison Remcheck for
seeing the spark of possibility in that early query for One of Us Is
Lying and for guiding this sequel (along with my career) with such
insight and care. There’s no one I’d rather have in my corner.
Krista Marino, sometimes I try to imagine what my books would
look like without your editorial brilliance, but that’s too terrifying a
thought for this thriller writer to contemplate for very long. Thank
you for helping me find the beating heart of “the Maeve book” and
build a story that could both follow its older sibling and stand on its
own.
Delacorte Press—where do I start? I’m so thankful to Barbara
Marcus, Beverly Horowitz, and Judith Haut for giving my books, and
me, such a wise and welcoming home. I’m constantly in awe of all the
talented, dedicated professionals I have the pleasure of working with
on a daily basis, including Monica Jean, Kathy Dunn, Dominique
Cimina, Kate Keating, Elizabeth Ward, Kelly McGauley, Adrienne
Weintraub, Felicia Frazier, Becky Green, Enid Chaban, Kimberly
Langus, Kerry Milliron, Colleen Fellingham, Heather Lockwood
Hughes, Alison Impey, Kenneth Crossland, Martha Rago, Tracy
Heydweiller, Linda Palladino, and Denise DeGennaro.
Thank you to the incredible staff of Penguin UK, especially Holly
Harris, Francesca Dow, Ruth Knowles, Amanda Punter, Harriet
Venn, Simon Armstrong, Gemma Rostill, and Kat Baker, for being
my literary home away from home. I hope we publish many more
books together, and not only because that will mean more
personalized cupcakes.
Thanks also to Jason Dravis, my amazing film agent, and to the
agents who helped this book find homes around the world:
Clementine Gaisman and Alice Natali of Intercontinental Literary
Agency, Bastian Schlueck at Thomas Schlueck Agency, and Charlotte
Bodman at Rights People. Thank you also to John Saachi and Matt
Groesch of 5 More Minutes Productions and Pete Ryan and Erica
Rand Silverman at Stimola Literary Studio. Huge shout-out to my
amazing critique partners Erin Hahn, Meredith Ireland, and Kit
Frick for helping me make sense of early drafts, and for being
generally awesome people and friends.
Special thanks to my brother-in-law Luis Fernando for your help
with translation, and thanks to the rest of my family for all your
support: Mom, Dad, Lynne, Jay, April, and Julie. Lots of love to the
next generation, who continually impress me with the young adults
you’re becoming: Kelsey, Drew, Ian, Zachary, Aiden, Shalyn,
Gabriela, Carolina, Erik—and my son, Jack, who is funny, loyal, kind,
and officially taller than me.
Finally, thank you to all the readers who keep coming along on
this journey with me, because none of this happens without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the
Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University.
She is the New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying,
Two Can Keep a Secret, and One of Us Is Next. Her work has been
published in more than forty countries.
karenmcmanus.com
BOOKS BY KAREN M. McMANUS
One of Us Is Lying
One of Us Is Next
One of Us Is Back
Two Can Keep a Secret
The Cousins
You’ll Be the Death of Me
Nothing More to Tell
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Karen M. McManus, LLC
Front cover photographs (left to right) copyright © 2023 by annebaek/GettyImages, Morsa
Images/GettyImages, Peter Bannan/GettyImages; all other photographs used under license from
Shutterstock.com.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House
Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House
LLC.
Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9780593485019 (trade) — ISBN 9780593485026 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN
9780593485033 — ISBN 9780593705339 (int’l. ed.)
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
Penguin Random House LLC supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse
voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized
edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or
distributing any part in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing
Penguin Random House to publish books for every reader.
ep_prh_6.1_144303411_c0_r0
OceanofPDF.com
Contents
Cover
Books by Karen M. McManus
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contacts
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
OceanofPDF.com
For my readers
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
PART ONE
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTER ONE
Addy
Monday, June 22
“Are we seriously watching this?”
Maeve lifts the remote, then her eyebrows. The coordinated challenge
annoys me because she knows perfectly well that we are, in fact, watching
this. This is the entire reason that we’re sitting in front of the television on a
beautiful summer day.
“You didn’t have to invite me over,” I remind her, snatching the remote
before she has a chance to toss it across the room. I click the On button,
then press Channel until I find the station I’m looking for. “I was perfectly
fine at home.”
“You’re never perfectly fine after one of these,” Bronwyn pipes up
from the corner of an overstuffed sofa. The Rojas media room is a much
more comfortable place to watch TV than my living room, with the added
benefit that there’s zero chance of my mother poking her head in. I forgot,
though, that this enhanced viewing experience would come with a heaping
dose of concern. Bronwyn returned from Yale for the summer a couple of
weeks ago and immediately started trying to take charge of my life like the
bossy older sister I already have.
Not that I’m complaining. I’ve missed talking to her in the Bayview
Four group chat, which we really need to rename now that it’s nine people
strong: me; Bronwyn; Nate Macauley; Maeve and her boyfriend, Luis
Santos; Cooper Clay and his boyfriend, Kris Becker; and Maeve’s fellow
Bayview High rising seniors Phoebe Lawton and Knox Myers. It’s a very
coupled-off group chat, with the exception of me and those last two.
Possibly only me, since nobody fully buys Phoebe and Knox’s insistence
that they’re just friends.
Bayview Crew, maybe? I pick up my phone and edit the group chat
name. It doesn’t look half bad.
“Who’s this guy?” Maeve asks, squinting at the screen. “Is he going to
introduce—”
“No,” I say quickly. “This isn’t the Eastland High program. That starts
at three o’clock. This is…I have no idea, actually.”
“A town council meeting,” Bronwyn says. Of course she’d know; she
probably watches this kind of thing for fun. “Looks like they’re wrapping
up a budget vote.”
“Thrilling. But at least that matters.” Maeve props her bare feet up on
the coffee table a little too aggressively, wincing as her heels slam into the
marble top. “At least it deserves a platform. Which is more than you can
say for—”
“It’s local cable, Maeve,” I interrupt. “They’re not picky about their
programming.”
My voice is even but my heart thuds uncomfortably, and I’m torn
between wishing I were by myself and feeling grateful that I’m not. The
town councilman we’re watching announces that the meeting is over, and
the scene fades as interim music begins to play. Bronwyn, Maeve, and I sit
in silence for a few beats, listening to what sounds like a weirdly plucky
instrumental version of “The Girl from Ipanema.”
Then a half-filled school auditorium appears on screen with the words
Eastland High School: Summer Seminar Series superimposed along the
bottom. Before I can react, Bronwyn abruptly launches herself off her sofa
and onto mine, flinging her arms around me.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” I mutter, dropping my phone onto
the cushion.
“You’re not alone, Addy,” Bronwyn says in a fierce whisper. The smell
of green apples surrounds me: Bronwyn’s distinctive shampoo, which she’s
used for as long as I’ve known her. And probably a lot longer than that,
since Bronwyn is nothing if not a creature of habit. One time, when Nate
was being extra mopey about their long-distance relationship, I gave him a
bottle of it wrapped with a big red bow. He got annoyed, which was the
entire point—it’s never not fun to crack Nate’s cooler-than-thou façade—
but he also kept it.
“Obviously,” I say, spitting a strand of hair from my mouth. Then I
sink into the hug, because I actually do kind of need it.
“Good afternoon, Eastland High, and welcome to the start of our
summer seminar series.” The man behind the podium doesn’t introduce
himself, probably because he doesn’t have to—he’s likely a teacher or an
administrator. Somebody in charge of shaping the minds of teenagers who
look a thousand years younger than I feel, even though I turned nineteen
just a few months ago.
“Look at all those eager beavers. School let out two weeks ago, and
they’re already back,” Maeve says as the man continues with what Principal
Gupta liked to call “housekeeping”—all the random announcements that
have to be crammed in before any type of school-related event can start.
“Good old Eastland High. Remember when you stalked Sam Barron in their
parking lot, Bronwyn?”
“I did not stalk him,” Bronwyn says, although she technically did. It
was a necessary evil, though. Solving the mystery of Simon Kelleher’s
death hinged on Sam—the boy Simon had paid to create a distraction while
we were in detention the day he died. It was the biggest, most horrifying
story ever to hit Bayview. Until a few months ago, when a Simon copycat
launched a deadly game of Truth or Dare that nearly got all of us blown up
at my sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner.
Sometimes, I deeply question why any of us continue to live in
Bayview.
“I lightly interrogated him,” Bronwyn adds. “And it’s a good thing I
did, or…” She trails off as all our phones buzz in unison.
“Bayview Four is lighting up,” Maeve reports before I can reach for
mine.
“I think we should change it to Bayview Crew,” I say.
“Fine by me,” Maeve says with a shrug. “Kris says to stay strong,
Addy. He also wants to know if you’re still up for waffles tomorrow
morning. I happen to like waffles, too, in case that’s relevant information
for the two of you. Luis says Fuck that guy. He’s not talking about Kris,
obviously; he means—”
“I know who he means,” I say as the Eastland High speaker raises his
hand to quiet the restless chatter that’s started up among the audience.
“All of us at the Eastland High Summer Seminar Series realize that
there are many other things you could be doing on a beautiful June
afternoon,” he says. “It’s a testament to the importance of today’s special
topic that you’re here instead.”
“Special, my ass,” Maeve mutters, tucking a strand of hair behind one
ear. It’s exactly the same shade of dark brown as Bronwyn’s, but she
recently cut it into a cute, choppy bob. After a battle with childhood
leukemia, Maeve spent the first few years of high school trying to get out
from behind Bronwyn’s shadow, and I think her final form emerged when
she stopped echoing her sister’s signature ponytail.
“Shhh,” Bronwyn hisses, before finally releasing me.
“At Eastland High, we want to inspire you to dream and achieve, but
we also want to prepare you for the harsher realities of life,” the speaker
continues. “The decisions you make as high school students today will
shape the trajectory of your future for years to come, and the wrong choice
can have devastating consequences.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Maeve asks. “A wrong choice?”
“Maeve, I swear to God—” Bronwyn starts.
“Quiet!” The word bursts out much more loudly and angrily than I
intended, startling Bronwyn and Maeve into silence. I’d feel shame at the
misdirected rage, which neither of them deserves, if I weren’t such a giant
ball of stress. Because any minute, I’m going to see…
“Nobody knows that better than today’s guest. He’s here through an
educational partnership with the California Department of Corrections, to
speak frankly with you about how his actions derailed what was once a
bright and promising future. Please welcome our speaker, who’s a current
inmate at the East Crenshaw Juvenile Detention Facility and a former
student from neighboring Bayview High—Jake Riordan.”
Bronwyn squeezes my arm and Maeve inhales sharply, but other than
that, I’ve managed to cow them into temporary silence. Not that it matters;
if they spoke, I wouldn’t hear a word over the blood pounding in my ears.
Jake Riordan.
My ex. The love of my life, once upon a time, when I was too naïve
and insecure to see who he really was. I knew he could be jealous, and if
you’d pressed me back then—which nobody except my sister, Ashton, ever
did—I might have admitted that he was controlling. But I never would have
imagined that when I cheated on him, he’d get revenge by teaming up with
Simon to frame me for murder, then nearly kill me when I tried to expose
him.
Oh, right. Jake wasn’t actually trying to kill me, according to his very
expensive lawyer. Lack of specific intent, she said, along with a lot of other
legal buzzwords piled onto his defense that, ultimately, kept him from being
tried as an adult.
At the time, a lot of people called it a sham of a trial, especially when it
was over and Jake was sentenced to a juvenile facility until the age of
twenty-five. Everything he did—not just to me and my friends, but to
Simon—boiled down to a whopping seven and a half years behind bars.
The headlines screamed “Privilege on Display!” and there were a halfdozen online petitions urging the judge to impose a harsher sentence.
But memories are short.
Jake’s been a model prisoner ever since he went in, and last December,
a true crime show ran a profile on him that was, as the Bayview Blade said,
“surprisingly sympathetic.” Jake was humble. He was remorseful. He was
committed to helping other young people avoid the same mistakes he’d
made. And then, barely two weeks after my sister’s wedding at the end of
March, Juror X surfaced.
Or rather, his former girlfriend did—a woman who claimed she’d
gotten hundreds of texts about Jake’s trial from one of the jurors while it
was happening. Turns out, Juror X kept her up to date with a constant
stream of confidential information and visited news sites that he was
supposed to keep away from. When screenshots surfaced on BuzzFeed,
Juror X panicked, tried to delete his Internet history, lied under oath, and
basically gave Jake’s legal team the opening they’d been looking for to ask
for a new trial.
Juror X’s real name is Marshall Whitfield, which the Internet
collectively discovered within a few weeks of the story breaking. He’s now
gone underground after being doxed, and I might feel sorry for him if he
hadn’t tossed a grenade into my life.
Now Jake’s case is pending, and in the meantime, he’s started what
Maeve sarcastically calls the Jake Riordan Rehabilitation Tour. The school
visits aren’t always televised, but when they are…I watch. I can’t help
myself.
“He looks terrible,” Maeve says, glaring at the screen.
She’s not entirely right. Jake looks older than nineteen, but not in a bad
way. He’s still handsome, his brown hair cropped short and his eyes a
piercing, summer-sky blue against too-pale skin. He’s clearly working out
more than ever, which you can tell despite the shapeless khakis he’s
wearing. He approaches the podium to scattered applause, his head bowed
and his hands clasped in front of him. No handcuffs, of course. Not for a
school visit, although the three officers sitting in folding chairs off to one
side are armed and ready for trouble.
But Jake never gives them any.
“I’m here to tell you about the worst time of my life,” he says in a low,
earnest tone, which is how he always starts. And then, with his hands
gripping the edge of the podium and his eyes locked on the students in front
of him, he tells them about the worst time of mine.
He’s clever. He talks a lot about pressure, undue influence, and duress,
as though he were Simon’s reluctant, clueless patsy instead of his eager
conspirator. According to Jake, he doesn’t even remember attacking me and
Janae Vargas in the woods behind her house; all he wanted, he claimed
during the trial, was for us to stop threatening him. Us, threatening him.
That didn’t go over well in the court of public opinion, though, so he’s
careful to avoid the topic during school visits. If anyone mentions me, he
quickly segues into a monologue about how his poor choices hurt everyone.
Especially him.
Next November, it will be two years since that awful night in the
woods. A lot of good things have happened since then: I moved in with my
sister, I made new friends, and I graduated high school. I took some time off
so I could figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and I’ve decided it’s
going to involve teaching. I got my first-ever passport last month, so that
Maeve and I can travel to Peru at the end of July to be counselors for an
English immersion program. After that, I’ll start applying to college. My
dad, although he’s still the definition of a hands-off parent, came through
with an offer to help with tuition.
The ticking clock of Jake’s release has always been far enough away
that I could believe I’d be ready once it wound down—older and wiser,
settled into the kind of busy, important life where I’d barely think twice
about my convict ex being back on the streets.
It never occurred to me, until recently, that the clock could be reset.
“What does Eli say about all this?” Maeve asks as Jake continues his
well-rehearsed monologue. My sister’s husband heads up a legal-defense
nonprofit, so he’s our go-to expert for anything crime-related. Even though,
as Eli has pointed out to all nine members of the Bayview Crew at one time
or another, we rarely listen to him until it’s too late. “Does he think Jake’s
going to get a new trial? Or that he’ll be released, or—”
“Eli is busy thinking about who’s going to cover for him during
paternity leave,” I remind her. My sister Ashton’s surprise pregnancy—
she’s due in November—is why I’ve moved back in with my mother. Mom
and I haven’t always been on the best of terms, but being excited about the
baby has given us something to bond over. Lately, that bonding mostly
consists of coming up with grandmother names that won’t make her sound
old. Current leader: Gigi, because Mom refuses to consider my suggestion
of Insta Gram.
“Eli can think about more than two things at once,” Bronwyn says.
“Especially if you let him know how worried you are.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, eyes on the screen. My voice is muffled,
though, by how hard I’m gnawing on my knuckle.
Jake has wrapped up his speech and started taking questions from the
kids. A boy sitting in the front row asks, “What’s the food like in prison?”
“In a word? Awful,” Jake says, with such perfect timing that everyone
laughs.
“Do you get to see your mom and dad?” a girl calls out. The camera
jerkily pans her way, and I catch the flash of another girl’s coppery curls
behind her. It almost looks like—but, no. I must be seeing things. Still,
when I glance at Maeve, she’s squinting at the television with a puzzled
frown.
“Not as often as I’d like, but yes,” Jake says. “They haven’t given up
on me, and their support means the world. I hope I can make them proud
again someday.”
“Barf,” Maeve says, but even she sounds slightly less sarcastic. The
Jake Riordan Rehabilitation Tour is that good.
Another boy raises his hand, and Jake acknowledges him with a chin
lift. It’s such a familiar gesture—the way he’d greet our friends in the
hallway of Bayview High, one arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders—
that I shiver. “If you could go back in time, what would you do differently?”
the boy asks.
“Everything,” Jake says instantly. He gazes directly into the camera,
and I recoil as though he’d just entered the room.
There it is.
That’s what I’ve been waiting for—the reason I keep torturing myself
by watching these. I don’t want to see it, but I need to acknowledge that it
exists. That glint in Jake’s eye. The one he can’t hide for a full Q&A
session, no matter how hard he tries. The one that reflects all the anger he’s
pretending he no longer feels. The one that says, I’m not sorry.
The one that says, What would I do differently?
I wouldn’t get caught.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTER TWO
Phoebe
Monday, June 22
I hunch lower in my seat, wishing I’d thought to wear a hoodie even though
it’s eighty degrees outside and the Eastland High School auditorium doesn’t
have AC. I knew there might be cameras here, but usually the kids who sit
way in the back, like I am, aren’t the type to ask questions.
I know Addy watches these things. What am I supposed to say if she
sees me? How do I explain…this?
Deny, deny, deny, Phoebe. You’re good at that.
“Any further questions?” The man who introduced Jake Riordan gets
up from the front row to stand beside him. “We have time for one more.”
Are you truly sorry?
Would you ever hurt someone again?
What made you like this?
Those are the questions I need answers to. I can’t bring myself to ask
them, but I keep hoping that maybe someone else will.
Instead, a girl calls out, “Are you getting a new trial?”
Jake ducks his head. “I try not to think about that,” he says. “It’s out of
my hands. I’m just living the best life I can, one day at a time.”
I search what I can see of his face and think, Please let that be true.
Like half my classmates, I had a crush on Jake Riordan once. He was a
junior when I was a freshman, and he and Addy were already the It Couple
of Bayview High. I used to watch them glide through the hallways back
then, marveling at how glamorous and grown-up they seemed. When they
split up after Simon Kelleher’s death, I’m embarrassed to admit that my
first thought was Maybe I have a chance with him now. I had no idea how
unhappy Addy had been, or what Jake was capable of doing. He hid his
dark side incredibly well. A lot of people do.
I know how stressed Addy is, and I wish I could talk about it with her
—really talk about it, not just offer empty reassurances. But I can’t. I cut
myself off from that possibility back in April, and now the only person I
can confide in is my older sister, Emma. Who moved to North Carolina to
live with one of our aunts as soon as she graduated two weeks ago, and
might as well be on the moon considering how infrequently she returns my
texts.
What’s done is done, she said before she left. We had our reasons.
—
“Sorry, I’m sorry I’m so late, and thank you so, so much!”
My words are breathless, tumbling over one another as I scurry
through Café Contigo to reach Evie, one of the new waitresses, who’s
ringing up a takeout order at the cash register. I asked her to cover the
beginning of my shift, knowing I wouldn’t make it back from Eastland in
time, but I hadn’t anticipated so much traffic. I’m more than an hour late,
and Evie, who’s been working since the café opened at ten a.m., has every
right to be annoyed.
Instead, she gives me a cheerful smile. I wish Evie could bottle her
always-positive attitude and sell it, because I would definitely buy. “No
worries, Phoebe,” she says, handing a bulging paper bag to one of our
regulars. “I told you to take your time.”
“The doctor’s office was so crowded,” I murmur, grabbing an apron
from under the counter and wrapping it around my waist. Then I pull an
elastic from my pocket and yank my hair back into a haphazard ponytail.
All my hair doesn’t make it through the elastic, but whatever—speed is of
the essence here. “Okay, I’m ready. You can go.”
“Relax, Phoebe. Grab a drink or something. And maybe check out your
hair in the mirror before you try to serve tables like that,” Evie says with a
grin, tugging at the end of her own bleached-blond braid.
“What?” I ask, just as Luis Santos, Maeve’s boyfriend, comes out of
the kitchen, stops in his tracks, and starts to laugh.
“Nice horn,” he says.
“Oh God,” I mutter, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror that
lines the far wall. Somehow, I’ve managed to make myself look like a
deranged unicorn. I pull out the elastic, wincing as a few strands of hair
come with it, and sink into a chair beside the register. “I’m a disaster. Is
your mom mad that I’m late again?”
“She’s not here. Pa is,” Luis says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I love
both his parents, but Mr. Santos is by far the more lenient boss. “We’re not
all that busy, anyway. It’s too nice out. Speaking of which.” His smile
widens as the bell on the café door jangles and Maeve steps inside, waving
to us with both hands as she crosses the room. “There’s my cue to take off.
Maeve and I have big plans. Hey, beautiful.”
“Hi,” Maeve says with not quite her usual level of enthusiasm, even as
she melts into Luis for a kiss. I turn away, wishing happy couples didn’t
send such a stab of jealousy through me. It’s your choice to not be part of
one, I remind myself, but that doesn’t help. Mostly because it doesn’t
actually feel like a choice.
“You rode here, right?” Luis asks expectantly.
“In a manner of speaking,” Maeve says, scuffing the toe of one sneaker
against the tile floor. Luis raises his eyebrows, and she says, “Mostly, I
walked it.” He sighs, and she adds, “I’m sorry, but I don’t see why I need to
get better at riding a bicycle when you’re perfectly capable of doing it for
both of us.”
“You can’t ride on my handlebars forever,” Luis says.
“Why not?” Maeve counters. “It’s not like I’m going to outgrow
them.”
“Heading for the bike path again?” Evie asks, hiding a smile. Luis
bought Maeve a bicycle a couple of weeks ago, determined to make up for
the fact that she never learned how to ride one between cancer treatments
when she was a kid, but it’s slower going than he expected. Maeve doesn’t
so much ride the bike as she straddle-walks it. Or just regular walks, while
resentfully wheeling the bike beside her.
“It’s going to be great,” Luis says with what seems like misplaced
optimism.
Maeve rolls her eyes and turns to me, one arm still around his waist.
“Phoebe, it was the weirdest thing. I was watching Jake’s school visit
earlier—”
Luis’s smile vanishes. “Fuck that guy,” he growls. There aren’t many
things that pierce Luis’s laid-back vibe, but his former friend is one of them.
“I know.” Maeve gives his arm a comforting squeeze before turning
back to me. “I saw a girl in the audience who had your exact hair and…”
My heart sinks as her eyes rove over my sparkly tank top, which wasn’t
exactly designed to be overlooked. “Shirt.”
“Really? That’s so weird,” I say, busying myself with creating a less
ridiculous ponytail. “I meant to watch, but I got stuck at the doctor’s. How’s
Addy holding up?” I hate lying to Maeve, but I’d hate it even more if she
knew what I was lying about.
“Same,” Maeve says. She looks like she’s about to say more, but she
pauses as the door jingles again and a familiar figure enters the café.
“Owen! What’s up, bud?” Luis asks as my not-so-little-anymore
brother approaches the counter. “Jesus, did you grow another foot?”
“No,” Owen mutters, because he’s humorless like that lately.
“Your order’s on the counter,” Evie tells him. She doesn’t need to add
It’s on the house, because Mr. Santos never lets my brother pay.
“Thanks,” he says in the same monotone, grabbing his takeout without
even glancing my way. Maeve catches my eye with a rueful grin, like, He’s
thirteen, what can you do? I force myself to smile back, even though my
stomach twists as Owen slouches out the door and lets it slam closed behind
him.
“Good talk, Owen,” Luis says, and Maeve lightly punches him.
Almost three months ago, when Owen was still twelve, Emma and I
learned that he’d posed online as Emma—who’d been posing as me—to
chat with a boy who’d roped Emma into a revenge-swapping plan. The boy,
Jared Jackson, promised he’d make my ex-boyfriend, Brandon Weber, pay
for the fact that Brandon had caused a forklift accident that killed our father
three years ago. In return, Emma was supposed to help Jared get revenge on
Addy’s brother-in-law, Eli, who’d helped send Jared’s crooked-cop brother
to jail. Emma got cold feet and bailed—but Owen stepped in and kept the
pact going.
Then Brandon died in what everyone thought was an accident, as part
of a Truth or Dare game that Jared set up. When Owen abruptly stopped
communicating, Jared decided to get revenge on his own and plant a bomb
at Eli’s wedding rehearsal dinner. If Knox and Maeve hadn’t stopped him,
everyone at that restaurant could have died. Instead, Jared was arrested and
promptly gave me up as his accomplice. Emma, who’d landed in the
hospital after weeks of guilt-fueled binge drinking, confessed that it was
actually her. But we didn’t realize Owen was involved until we read chat
transcripts between him and Jared and saw a word Owen misspelled while
practicing for a spelling bee: bazaar instead of bizarre.
In that moment—seated at our kitchen table with our mother and
Emma’s lawyer—my sister and I made a silent pact to keep that information
to ourselves. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else, because it was clear
from Owen’s messages to Jared after Brandon died that he hadn’t
understood what he was doing. My sweet, innocent, still-grieving little
brother never meant for Brandon to get hurt.
But almost immediately, doubts started creeping in. I knew I couldn’t
tell anyone—especially not Maeve and Knox, after they’d risked their lives
to stop Jared—and the secret made me feel horribly isolated once Emma
moved away. Owen turned thirteen a few days later, becoming tall and
sullen seemingly overnight, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how he was
the same age Brandon was when he accidentally killed our father. And how,
if Brandon had ever taken responsibility for that, he might still be alive.
So now I lie to my friends, semistalk Jake Riordan, and compose latenight texts to my sister that I’m too afraid to send:
What if Owen turns into another Brandon?
Or another Jake?
Do you think we did the wrong thing?
Do you think we should tell someone?
—
By the time work is over and I’ve helped Mr. Santos close, I know I should
drive straight home. It’s almost eleven o’clock, I’m exhausted, and I’ve got
an early shift tomorrow. But when I come to a fork in the road that leads to
my house, I take the opposite direction.
I can’t help it. Consciously or not, I’ve been looking forward to this all
day.
When I reach a familiar house, I park in the drivew