Westcott High

by Sarah Mello

  “Here you go,” said the server. “One vanilla shake.”

  “Thanks, Belinda.” Jacob watched her place his drink on the table.

  “You come here a lot or are you just good with names?” I asked him.

  “Both.” He began ripping the paper off his straw. “I come here to get away.”

  “Get away?” I blinked repeatedly. “Why would you want to get away from your house? It seems like paradise.”

  Jacob stabbed his milkshake with his straw. “Well, perception is not reality.”

  “You don’t think so?” I asked.

  “No. I think reality is reality.”

  “And . . . the reality is . . . your house isn’t paradise?”

  “It isn’t that,” he said. “I have great parents. But we don’t always see eye to eye.”

  “On what?”

  “Things I can’t really talk about,” he said. “Or don’t want to.”

  I nodded as I read the room. “You know, I heard only crazy people drink vanilla shakes.”

  “Who told you that?” he asked.

  “Someone who really likes strawberry shakes instead,” I replied.

  Dean and I would take long walks around my neighborhood a couple nights a week, and he’d always come bearing strawberry shakes. I loathed them, but he cautioned that chocolate shakes are too rich and vanilla shakes are for sociopaths.

  “Well, I happen to think strawberry shakes are disgusting.”

  I looked down at the table between us. It had just been cleaned, and I could see my reflection in it. And for a split second—I saw how heavy my eyes looked when my mind was fixated on Dean. “Yeah,” I said, wiping away the bleak reflection with my hand. “Me too.”

  “So, why did you two break things off?” Jacob asked me. “You and Dean?”

  “We didn’t,” I replied. “He did. Our dads had a fallout, which ultimately affected our relationship.”

  “Fallout?”

  “Mr. Ballinger was the manager at the sporting-goods store.”

  Jacob nodded. “Ah.”

  “Things got too crazy, and Dean eventually ended things with me.”

  “That seems pretty unfair to you,” Jacob said.

  The weight of that night forced my head lower. The ugly in both of us had come out to play, and we both said things we didn’t mean: about each other’s fathers, about money, and about each other. The stress of our dads’ business debacle poured into our relationship like leaking gasoline. Unbeknownst to me, Dean was holding a match. And while I thought the argument would blow over by the end of the car ride home, when he walked me to my door, he told me he couldn’t do us anymore.

  Before I knew it, everything caught fire.

  I always thought the worst part of a breakup is when emotions are still raw, and you’re wondering if you should run back in to save any remains. Or when you’re watching the scaffolds you spent years building being burned to the ground. But as I walked through the ash and felt the depth of the hole in my heart—I realized the worst part isn’t the fire. The worst part is when the fire is put out, and you’re left with nothing but yourself.

  Jacob swirled his straw around in his cup. “His loss,” he said. “What kind of guy lets a girl like you go over something so minor?”

  I looked into his brown eyes and quickly looked away. “I guess it wasn’t so minor.”

  “It’s crazy that your dad and his partner didn’t notice such large withdrawals,” he said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. My dad doesn’t notice a lot.”

  “Did they have many employees?” he asked.

  “They had a few teenagers who came and went. But Mr. Ballinger practically ran the store himself.”

  Jacob nodded. “Nice guy?”

  “The nicest.” My chin hit my chest. “But I don’t see him much anymore.”

  “Are you and your dad close?” Jacob asked.

  “We’ve drifted apart, but I suppose we will always be close.” I paused as my comment about my father reminded me of my feelings toward Dean. “Can you be both with a person? Distant and near?”

  Jacob took a sip of his shake. “Set the scene.”

  “Okay.” I accepted the challenge. “The scene is a love story. And the girl really likes the boy.”

  Jacob grinned. “Of course.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed, opening my hands in front of me. “She believes they’re meant for each other, making them near. But he doesn’t want her, making them distant. And she knows it’s crazy, because how can you feel both incredibly detached and locked in all at once? But she does. And she knows she shouldn’t want him, but she doesn’t know how to want anyone else. So there she sits . . . in nonsensical love with someone who isn’t even there.” I paused. “What would you say to that girl?”

  Jacob stared at me with intensity before his eyes plummeted toward his chest. “Well, I don’t know what I would say to her. But I think I would spend the rest of my life trying to become that guy.” He looked up at me. “Because he sure is one lucky idiot.”

  My eyes bounced back and forth between the table and Jacob. He stared at me with uncertainty, as if he wasn’t sure I would receive his comment well.

  “I . . . ,” I said softly, looking down at my lap as I grabbed the back of my neck with clammy hands. “I . . . um . . .”

  Just then, my eyes landed on a more pressing matter, down the hallway of the club, toward the sunroom. It pulled my body out of the booth like a magnet.

  “I have to go,” I said as I stood up, my heart still racing from his comment.

  Jacob placed his forearm on top of the booth and turned around. “Wait, where are you going?”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’ll text you later.” I walked down the club’s main hallway, my mind still at the booth with Jacob. I let out a deep breath before casually walking into the sunroom.

  “You alone?” I asked Kyle as he lay back against the long wicker couch. Sunlight streamed through several expansive windows and danced across his tanned skin.

  He looked up at me in despair. “Not anymore.” He lifted the pillow beside him and gestured for me to sit down.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I just came to think,” he said, gazing out the window at the miles of manicured golf courses. The grass was so uniformly cut and verdant that it looked like vast expanses of green carpet.

  “And watching golf helps with that? It puts me straight to sleep.” I looked around the room as I realized my jokes were going unappreciated. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Sonny.” Kyle exhaled. “I know you hate Cliff. I get it. But you don’t know him like I do. Nobody does. When the video of Lana was leaked, he lost his mind. It undoubtedly turned him into a bone-chilling asshole, but before the personality switch, he cried in my arms about her. It broke him. That’s why I know he couldn’t be a complete sociopath.”

  “And Ari?” I said.

  “She’s been the love of my life for years.” He stared down at his clasped hands. “I don’t know who I am without her, Sonny.” He paused. “I just don’t think she would hook up with my best friend. I mean, how could anyone do that?”

  I cleared my throat. “I guess the only way someone could do something like that is if they felt justified . . . in some strange way.”

  “Not Ari. She wouldn’t do that to me. She knows how much I love her.” He laughed. “Every broken, toxic part.”

  Kyle’s logic was twisted. It’s illogical to say you’ve fallen in love with a toxic person. Love is diametrically opposed to toxicity. But part of me understood his logic all too well. Part of me could relate, regardless of the contradictory statement. Because love isn’t logical. Love is twisted.

  “I’m not sure this is the right time to say this, but maybe you should figure out your feelings for Ari before you get in too deep with Casey. I know you two have been texting. A lot.”

  Kyle leaned his head back against the
top of the couch and stared at the ceiling fan. “She’s really sweet.”

  “And innocent,” I said.

  “And beautiful. And funny. And smart,” he added. “Maybe even smarter than you.”

  “Don’t get carried away.”

  Kyle dropped his chin to his chest. “I really like her, Sonny.”

  I could tell Kyle was torn between the two Cobalts—an unlikely battle for a powerful Violet like himself.

  “I just don’t want her to get hurt, okay?”

  He rocked his head back and forth. “I’m not going to hurt her,” he said. “I never could.” He stood up and sauntered over to the sunroom’s largest window, then pressed his fingers against the glass.

  “I think you should know Piper likely leaked the video.”

  Kyle rested his forehead against the glass, then lazily rolled his head in my direction. “Piper?”

  I knew Kyle was sober, but his depression made him look almost drunk.

  “We think she’s trying to distract us,” I said.

  Kyle looked back out the window. A man was taking a swing on a green hill, perfectly twisting his hips as if the act were orchestrated by a hidden puppet. “Or maybe you’re wrong about this whole thing,” said Kyle, opening his eyes to look at me. He pulled his head away from the window. “Maybe JC is lying.” He ran his hand through his hair repeatedly. “Maybe he’s trying to piece together what’s left of his reputation, and the only way to do so is by claiming he was framed. Other than a gut feeling from JC, and a riddle from Mr. Russell—what solid proof do we have?”

  “Kyle . . .”

  He followed my gaze across the golf course.

  Some secrets are never supposed to be discovered. But if you’re real lucky, when you’re least expecting it, the most incriminating secrets will show themselves.

  9

  Questions

  Questions. They come in many shapes and sizes. My dad once told me that smart people ask questions when they don’t know the answer, but geniuses ask even when they do. That begs the question—how do we know what to ask? Or better yet—how do we know what not to?

  “What is Piper doing here?” I asked.

  Kyle put his hands over his forehead. “Maybe she’s just playing a round.”

  I squinted, watching as Piper quickly walked across the green hills toward her golf cart. “Does she golf?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  Just then, we watched Piper stuff a manila envelope into her bag from across the way. She jumped into her golf cart, looked side to side, then drove off.

  Kyle took a step back; he stared at me in a fog. “What do you think that was about?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, staring out the window. “But I’m going to find out.”

  The following day, we stood together in the hallway, where I shared the unusual story with the group.

  JC punched the locker. “What the hell is she hiding? Why is she doing this to me?”

  “Don’t draw attention to yourself,” I said through gritted teeth. “Nobody can find out about this. Not until we find out what’s in that envelope.”

  “How do you presume we find out?” Buckets asked.

  “We break into Piper’s house on Saturday night,” I replied. “While she’s at the fall dance.”

  “The fall dance? You mean, the knockoff Halloween party?” Casey asked.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Don’t you think it will look suspicious if the six of us aren’t there?” Winston asked. “Especially if Piper has her eyes on us.”

  “We’ll go for half of it, and leave when we know she’s distracted,” I replied.

  Casey stepped in front of me. “I don’t know if we should do this, Sonny. I mean, breaking into our assistant principal’s house? If we get caught, you and Kyle are both off the Chosen Ten and the rest of us are completely annihilated.”

  “Or killed.” Winston scrolled through his cell phone. “I’m hoping this adventure takes me out.”

  “Look, we go in, we look for the envelope, and we get out. Piper’s house is minutes from the school. We’ll be back before anyone knows we’re gone.”

  “And how exactly do you think we’re going to get beyond their locked door?” Winston asked. “Or alarm?”

  I looked around the group. “I guess I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Man in the yellow hat,” Winston whispered to me.

  “I know the code,” JC said. “To the garage and alarm. It’s four zeros and a one. Pretty easy to remember.”

  “How do you know that?” Kyle asked.

  “I spent the weekend with Piper when Principal Clemmons went out of town last year,” he replied. “It was the best and scariest weekend of my life. I was looking over my shoulder every second for Clemmons.”

  We all looked at one another in confusion. No one could believe he had the guts to enter the forbidden house.

  “Well, I don’t think you should come, JC,” I said. “You have way more at risk than we do.”

  JC nodded and checked the time on his phone. “I have to get to first,” he said. “Mr. Singleton wants to talk to me about one of my assignments.”

  I watched JC walk away, then turned my attention back toward the group. “So? What do you say?”

  Buckets stepped forward. “I say this has gone too far. If we get caught, we could be kicked out of Westcott and possibly arrested.”

  “We aren’t breaking in to steal anything,” I said. “We’re just breaking in to look at something.”

  “I don’t think that’s a justifiable excuse in the eyes of the police,” Buckets said.

  I tossed my hands in front of me to help drive my point home. “If we can prove Piper framed JC, we can get him back on the wrestling team.”

  “Why do you care so much?” Winston asked.

  “Because I know what it feels like to have everyone shun you for something you didn’t do.” My mind flashed to Lana. “If JC didn’t do this, he deserves for his name to be cleared.” I glanced at Kyle. “He needs us, Ky.”

  Kyle exhaled, his eyes expressing concern. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “What if we get caught?” Casey asked.

  “We won’t,” I said with a vast amount of uncertainty. “Trust me.”

  Kyle glanced at Casey. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  “What about me?” I asked him.

  “You’re on your own,” he replied.

  I gently punched him in the arm, then looked at Buckets. “Are you in?”

  “Fine,” he said reluctantly as he shook his head. “I’m in.”

  “All right,” I replied. “We’ll meet outside the gym doors at seven. Everyone just lay low until then.”

  I nodded at the group, hoping to collect their approval. I wasn’t exactly sure I fully got it.

  “Casey”—Kyle pulled her to the side—“I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Uh-oh.” Winston pretended to adjust his scarf while he eavesdropped.

  I glanced at him and then turned my attention toward their conversation.

  “What’s up?” Casey tied the front of her oversized tie dye T-shirt into a knot, then pushed away strands of hair that had escaped from her messy ponytail. Tucked underneath her arm was a heavy book about tornadoes.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  She looked down at her book. “Oh, it’s just something I’m reading.”

  “Do you just enjoy reading about everyone’s worst nightmare or are you working on a project?”

  “Both,” she replied. “I sort of love tornadoes.”

  Kyle ran his finger over the edge of the book. “Really?”

  “Really.” Casey looked down and traced his finger with her eyes. “They’re pretty fascinating.”

  “Yeah?” Kyle’s finger left the spine of the book and gently grabbed a string of Casey’s hair. “How so?” He twirled her hair around his fingers as he waited for her reply.

  Casey’s ey
es dropped toward her hair and then shifted toward his. “You said you had a question.”

  He smiled and released her hair, breaking away from the tension between them. “Right.” He stepped back. “Do you, uh, do you want to go to the dance with me?”

  She took a deep breath as she hesitated, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wandering.

  “I wanted to ask you on the phone last night, but I thought putting you on the spot might increase my chances.”

  Casey finally exhaled. “I don’t know . . .”

  “We don’t necessarily have to go together in a date-type fashion. Maybe I could just pick you up?” he asked.

  Casey tilted her head. “So you want to drive me to the dance?”

  “That’s exactly it. To the dance, specifically. You’ll have to find your own way back.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . . I’d love to.”

  Kyle looked her up and down, softly biting his lip. “Just text me your address, and I’ll pick you up around six thirty.”

  “No!” Casey dropped her book.

  Kyle leaned down to pick it up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I’ll just meet you there, okay?”

  Kyle’s eyebrows drew together as he stood; he handed Casey her book. “Okay,” he replied. “I’ll take it.”

  Winston looked at them in disgust. “Ew. I can’t watch this.”

  “Would you hush?” I tapped Winston on his stomach.

  “Mark my words—she’s going to get hurt. I’m never wrong.”

  “You’re typically always wrong,” I said.

  “I wasn’t wrong about him.”

  I followed Winston’s eyes down the hallway as Dean approached us.

  Dean Ballinger. The lucky idiot.

  “Sonny, can we talk?” His voice was low. His head too.

  I thought I’d be nervous when the time came for me and Dean to talk. I thought it would feel like we were estranged or too far gone. But in that moment, as I looked into his tortured eyes—those eyes I missed seeing—I realized we hadn’t really gone anywhere.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Winston tugged down on his distressed jean jacket, then lifted his chin. “Dean.”

  Dean pressed his lips together. “Winston.”

  “I’d shake your hand, but I’m allergic to Norah,” Winston said.