Please Don't Tell

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Please Don't Tell Page 5

by Laura Tims


  I text Preston, praying he’s around and not at another nerdy club meeting.

  hey I know this is hypocritical since I was all flakey the other day but I rly need to talk to u. come over?

  I lie in bed and stare at the screen until my room darkens, my eyes burning. My mind’s stuck on him: Preston. Preston will fix this.

  An hour later, there’s a tap on my window. I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, but—it’s only him, one leg swung over the oak tree branch, twigs in his hair. He raps on the glass again. I let him in.

  “I am not aerodynamic enough for this.” He brushes leaves onto my carpet.

  He’s here, he came, he’ll fix it. I turn on the light. “You could have used the front door.”

  “I will literally scale oak trees to avoid uncomfortable and undesired familial social interaction. What did you need to talk to me about?”

  I reach for the letter and envelope. I hear him sigh through his front teeth.

  “Are you mad at me?” I ask, turning around.

  “Mildly.” He picks at a chin zit. “I want you to stop hitting people who make fun of me, because then everyone hears about it. It’s like putting a big spotlight on the fact that I’m a freak.”

  “You’re not—”

  “I don’t like the way it makes me feel, either.” His words are practiced. He rehearsed this. “Like you think I’m helpless.”

  “You’re right. It’s bad, I’m trash—”

  “You’re not trash! You make it very difficult to talk to you sometimes.”

  I sit on my bed. How can I ask him for help now?

  “Mom told me I should be honest with you about this.” He sucks in his bottom lip. “Please don’t decide to stop being my friend. I’m not that mad. Not end-of-relationship mad.”

  “I dunno why you always expect me to stop liking you.”

  “I don’t know why, either.” He rubs his forehead violently, sits next to me on the bed. “I’m sorry for being this way.”

  I take a deep breath. “When I was a kid, my parents were always like you’re the big sis, you gotta look out for the small sis even though I’m only eighteen minutes older than Grace. But then she stopped needing me.”

  “So what, I was your replacement protectee?”

  “At first,” I admit. “But that’s not the only reason I became your friend! You’re fun to talk to and we like the same stupid shit and you’re really helpful with figuring things out.”

  He tries to hide a smile. “What did you need help figuring out?”

  Right. Okay. Back to this. I take the envelope out, slide the photos and the note onto his lap.

  “Oh my God.” He blanches. “That’s Principal Eastman.”

  I dig my nails into my wrist as he reads the note. When he’s done, his eyes glaze over, his mouth slightly open. Then he shakes himself, lightly hits his own cheek. “We are not going to panic.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “We are definitely not going to do that.”

  “Right.”

  “Say it again, slower.”

  I breathe out. “Right.”

  “Obviously we need to find out who this is.” He crumples the edge of the envelope. His eyes are still glassy. “It must be someone who was at the party. You must’ve been drunk enough where they knew you wouldn’t remember it. And they must know why you hated him so much you might believe someone who said that you were the one who killed him.”

  Pres is a problem solver. I’m safe. I have him. I’m going to be okay.

  Unless I actually did—no don’t think about it.

  “You and me and Grace are the only ones.” I say it quietly, even though the treadmill’s still thumping down in the basement, loud enough for me to hear even from up in my room. “Grace doesn’t even know you know.”

  “She must’ve told someone.”

  “There’s less than zero percent of a chance she did that.”

  “Then we have to assume Adam told.”

  Told someone, maybe. Bragged about it, maybe. My gut clenches.

  “Which means that this person, the blackmailer, was friends with Adam.” He’s zoned into his thought process. “And obviously not a big Joy fan, if they’re doing this to you. Here is my theory.”

  “You have a theory already?”

  “We can’t assume Adam’s death was an accident anymore.”

  My hands go numb. “So you think I—”

  “No! God, no. Look, there’s only one reason someone would try to pin Adam’s death on you when everybody thinks it’s an accident. That’s if somebody did kill him. And they’re scared people’ll find out.”

  “You think the person who wrote this letter is a murderer.”

  “It’s the clearest motive.”

  “You think a murderer climbed the tree outside my window and left me this and, like, knows where I live.”

  “I didn’t say it was ideal.”

  I put my head between my knees and imagine the trapezoid, breathe with it.

  But Pres is in problem-solve mode. “They must have figured out a way to frame you, so nobody finds out what they did. But first, since it’s convenient, they’re going to use you to get revenge on someone else they hate—Principal Eastman. Two birds with one stone.”

  This still doesn’t fix it. But he’s getting there. He’s got this.

  I scrape myself together. “It’s like everything that was jumping around in my head all panicked is lined up neat in a row now.”

  “I’m good at this sort of thing,” he says. “And I think I have a pretty good guess as to who the blackmailer is.”

  I’m okay, I’m safe, he solved it. “Who?”

  “Cassius Somerset.”

  “What?” No way.

  “You saw his black eye? Cassius got in a fight with Adam at the party. I was there. He tackled Adam, and Adam punched him in the face.” He’s getting excited now. “It makes sense.”

  “Cassius was Adam’s best friend.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. He fits. Adam did something to make Cassius so angry that he’d attack him at his birthday party. Maybe even drunkenly push him when he was standing next to the quarry. Adam must have let slip what he did to Grace.” Preston smooths out the note again and again. “So he panicked. He knew you were blackout drunk that night. The only thing I’m hung up on is that Cassius has no reason to hate you this much.”

  I dig my nails again into the inside of my wrist. I saw Grace do it in middle school. She said the pain zapped her back to the present.

  “I never told you this because I hate thinking about it now,” I say slowly. “But Cassius and I hooked up over the summer. Maybe he has weird feelings toward me because of that.”

  “Joy.”

  “It’s Cassius, though. He protested the frog dissection in bio.”

  “Joy,” he repeats. “You do know that’s his little sister in the photos with Eastman?”

  “What?” I grab the photos. They don’t look alike. She’s slim, no trace of vitiligo.

  “Savannah Somerset. She’s a freshman this year,” he says. “That explains why Cassius wants Eastman to be publicly humiliated.”

  I want to believe him, I want all of this to be over before it starts. But it feels wrong. “If that’s his sister, he wouldn’t have me put these all over school.”

  “Maybe he’s mad at his sister, too.”

  “What are we even gonna do—confront him?”

  “We need a plan. If we’re right, he killed somebody. He’s dangerous.”

  “I’m more dangerous than Cassius Somerset.”

  “Quiet people, Joy. You can’t see into their heads.”

  I remember how I tried to get to know Cassius over the summer, how little he spoke when I did.

  “In the meantime, do you need help putting the pictures up tomorrow morning?” says Preston suddenly.

  I shrink away. “What?”

  “We have to assume Cassius has something to back this up. Some way to mak
e it look like you killed Adam. It wouldn’t be hard for the police to figure out you blacked out that night. You could be tried as an adult and sent to prison. Until we figure this out, we have to play along. This is murder, Joy.”

  “You’re sure—you think there’s no chance he’s telling the truth—”

  I said it without thinking: I’m more dangerous.

  “You are not capable of something like that,” he says firmly.

  I’m so exhausted. “Either way, I can’t spread these around. Imagine being Savannah, coming to school, seeing these pictures everywhere.”

  “It’s not ideal. But it’s better than you going to prison.”

  “I can’t, Pres. I need to take the pictures to the cops no matter what the note says.” My fingertips tingle again. “That is some creepy disgusting child porn shit.”

  “No, no, no.” He scratches convulsively at the zit on his chin. “You have to do it. Joy, please. You can’t go to jail.”

  I shake my head. “It isn’t so easy just to frame someone for murder, you know? Maybe the cops could investigate. Like look at fingerprints and crime stuff. And then, if it was me, they could tell me.”

  “Joy!”

  “And if it was, maybe I do deserve to go to jail,” I mumble. “That’s where they put people so they can’t hurt anyone.”

  “Stop it. Grace needs you.”

  “She barely talks to me lately.” I touch the rip on the side of my quilt. It’s been there since fifth grade, since Grace and I made sock monkeys and her scissors snagged in the fabric. She cried over it, she felt so bad. “We’re not the way we used to be.”

  He makes a weird noise that isn’t a word.

  “And my parents think I’m a failure anyway. I’m not going to college, Pres. I’m basically fucked after high school. Prison wouldn’t be so bad.” I’m dizzy. “They’d feed me and—I’d know what the rest of my life would look like.”

  “Forget about Grace, then.” His chin’s bleeding. “I need you.”

  “Pres, it’s okay.”

  “It is not okay.” He’s half yelling. I flinch. Downstairs, the treadmill noise stops. “I rely on . . . before I met you, it was horrible. I don’t need much. I just need one person. It’s stupid.”

  “It is not stupid.”

  “It’s stupid how I am. If something happened to you, I don’t think anyone else in the world would want anything to do with me.”

  My heart splits wide open. “You’d find a new person.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Suddenly Grace opens my door, a microwave popcorn bag in her hand. “Hey.”

  Pres shoves the photos under his thigh. They trade panicky nods. They’ve always been alarmed by each other.

  “Mom called and wanted me to tell you she and Dad are both going to be home in like fifteen,” she says carefully.

  If she moved the blanket just a little bit, she’d see the envelope.

  “Okay,” I say. And then a moment of awkward silence.

  “Whose sweatshirt is that?” she asks, accusatorily, pointing to my chair across the room.

  I turn and see Levi’s sweatshirt, the baseball cap jutting out of the pocket.

  “Nobody’s.”

  “Is that a guy’s sweatshirt?”

  “It’s mine.”

  She looks around my room for a second, all the pictures of us, all her old drawings. She crumples her nose, goes back out into the hall, and closes her door.

  “If your parents are coming home, I should go,” says Pres thickly.

  “I promise I’ll think about what to do,” I whisper.

  He takes the photos from under his thigh, shoves them back into the envelope so quickly I barely see him do it.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Preston—”

  “I’m going to go now.”

  “Wait,” I say, but he’s already halfway across my room, climbing out into the night.

  I spend the night awake, facing the window, a knife under my pillow, remembering every night I slept in Grace’s room so she wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

  “The tree branch outside my window is rotten,” I tell Mom in the car to school the next morning. “The big branch. The one on the tree that Grace fell off when she was a kid and sprained her ankle. It’s dead. Can Dad saw it off?”

  “I don’t know what all this is about trees, Joy.”

  I leave the car without saying good-bye.

  The photos are in my bag. I’m not—I can’t—do this. I’ll take them to the police station after school. Or talk to Savannah myself.

  Those are the good-person things to do.

  I’m early again. Preston’s always early, too, since he comes in with his mom. But I can’t find him. The last place I look is the art room. Eastman hangs the decent still lifes and the landscapes upstairs, to show them off on Parent Night. Down here, it’s bloated self-portraits, angry scribbles, a painting of someone in a bath full of knives. Art that makes adults uncomfortable.

  Something catches my eye by the sinks. There’s a painting of the quarry. But it’s nothing romantic. It’s a wound in the earth, blood splashing the trees. I squint. The name in the corner: Cassius Somerset. His art’s always been upstairs. Pastels, clouds, not the kind of thing a murderer would paint. I used to sneak extra minutes in the hallway after school to look at them.

  This bloody quarry, it’s the kind of thing a murderer would paint.

  I’ve dreamed about that night with him twice, muscle memory, his skin setting fires on mine. My cheeks ache with how hard I was smiling and then I have to curl up, digging my thumbnail into my palm, half-moon marks, because it should be a nightmare, not a dream.

  Kissing someone doesn’t mean you know them.

  I wander out of the room. The buses’ll be here in a few minutes. Pres vanishes when other people are around.

  I turn the corner, nearly bang into Levi.

  “Joy.” His expression’s weird. “I was looking for you.”

  “I forgot your sweatshirt at home,” I say, tired. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

  “It’s not that. I looked in my locker.”

  “For your sweatshirt?”

  He holds up a grainy printer-paper black-and-white copy of—

  No. No, how?

  “You were so messed up yesterday, and I didn’t even know for sure what I saw . . .” He kind of hugs himself. “But this photo I found in my locker—it was in your bag yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  I wrench open my backpack, find the envelope, grope for the edges of the photos and count. One’s missing.

  Preston. He took one last night, he made copies. He was so afraid I wouldn’t do it.

  How long would it take to slip one through the slats of every locker in the school?

  “This is the principal. Is this real?” Levi holds the copy away like it’s poisonous. “Did you put this in my locker?”

  I can’t speak, can’t move.

  Upstairs: the echo of the bus arrival stampede, everyone piling inside, shedding jackets. I start to walk, run. Have to find Savannah, have to get her out of the school—

  “Joy?” he asks, but I’m down the hall, fighting through the masses.

  And then a hundred locker doors open at once.

  FIVE

  June 30

  Grace

  “ONE STRAWBERRY SOFT SERVE, ONE VANILLA with rainbow sprinkles.” Joy glances at me eagerly.

  One childhood, two children: extra large ice-cream cones. Strawberry for her. Vanilla for me. “I don’t want one.”

  “Grace, seriously. Stop it. You’re not fat.”

  Which is something people always say to confirm that, yes, being fat is as bad as you think it is.

  “One small,” I tell the girl behind the counter.

  We sit in our old corner booth. The red pleather is peeling now. There’s more gum wadded to the underside of the table. When we were little, Joy would steal the cherry on Dad’s sundae and
hold it out to me, but I’d shake my head. I could always tell when she wanted something for herself. Sometimes they’d give us free ice cream for never ever fighting.

  Joy bites into her ice cream with her front teeth. “Remember that time we were spitting sprinkles and nailed that bald dude’s head?”

  “That was just something you were doing.”

  She doesn’t hear me. “And he wanted Dad’s phone number to get us in trouble, and I gave him the number for that sex hotline? This place is the best.”

  My ice cream’s melting. Dripping on my thumb. I tear open a pack of sanitary wipes from my bag. When I told her I needed to talk, she insisted we come here.

  “Remember when they had that sundae-eating contest, like if you could eat the whole thing, you wouldn’t have to pay for it? And Mom and Dad were freaking out because they thought we wouldn’t finish, but then I did?”

  She’s the hero of our childhood. The best part of every story. The knight in every game we played. I was the princess, and the point of me was to be afraid of dragons. But what does the princess do while the knight is having adventures? Nobody sees her.

  “Do you know how many calories are in that?” I ask.

  She shrugs, her ice cream half-gone already. “What did you want to tell me?”

  Soon I’ll have to eat mine or throw it away.

  “I have a thing for this guy,” I mumble.

  “Oh my God, Grace! What guy?”

  I brace myself. “Adam Gordon.”

  “Him? That guy is such a dick.”

  I shrivel up. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Duh.” She tosses back her hair. Curly and wild. I flat-iron mine straight every morning. Forty-five minutes.

  “You’re not always so good at secrets.”

  “I am too! Well, no, I’m not. But you’re the only person I’d get better for.” She crunches cone. “Can we go back to him being a dick, though? Nov hates him.”

  “So?”

  “I trust her taste in people.”

  My stomach is a hard rock. “November hates everybody.”

  “She doesn’t hate me,” she says a little smugly.

  “You’re so special.”

  “Why are you so weird about her?”

  “She’s the weird one.” I don’t like what I’m saying, but I say it anyway. “She was out of school for her whole sophomore year and nobody knows why. Supposedly she was into drugs.”

 

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