by Callie Rose
Goddammit.
My body jerks into motion, and I scoop up my discarded backpack before darting down the hall toward my Political Science classroom.
These fucking boys.
4
The rest of the morning is a blur of annoyed teachers and piles of make-up homework. I stop by the principal’s office on my lunch break and talk to Mr. Osterhaut.
Every single person in the building knows about what happened to my mom, so it’s not like it’s a total shocker that I’ve been absent this week. And it turns out he’s already gotten a call from Mr. Black asking him to excuse my absences due to a family trauma.
I’m not sure if Mr. Black’s call carried more or less weight than one from Mom would’ve, but Mr. Osterhaut purses his lips sympathetically as he leans back in his chair, resting his folded hands on the little shelf of his gut. He’s not a bad looking guy, probably in his mid-forties, but this job seems to have aged him a little prematurely.
“I understand this must be a very difficult time for you, Harlow. Unfortunately, the wheels of our institution don’t stop spinning, even in times of personal tragedy, and if you get too far behind, that will be a problem. But if you’re willing to do the work to make up what you missed and commit to maintaining your attendance going forward, your absences won’t be counted against you.”
Personal tragedy. That’s one way to put it, I guess.
I keep my snarky thoughts to myself though, shooting him a grateful look as I nod.
“Thanks, Mr. Osterhaut. I will. I’ve already gotten make-up assignments from half my teachers. I’ll make sure I get them from the others too.”
I stand, slinging my backpack over one shoulder, and am about to head out the door when the principal lifts one hand.
“Oh, and Harlow? No matter how difficult things are for you, I don’t want to hear about another altercation like the one you had with Savannah Harris earlier this semester… or this morning. Mrs. Morrison told me she heard yelling and profanity in the halls before first period.”
Great. I guess even though the sharp-faced woman only poked her head out of her classroom for a second, she managed to get a pretty good handle on what was going on anyway.
“I… won’t, sir,” I promise, hoping he can’t hear the lie in my voice.
I mean, I’ll try not to. But if Savannah keeps talking shit about my mom, I know that’s not a vow I’ll be able to keep.
“Good.” He nods, as if congratulating himself on setting another student on the straight and narrow path, then waves his hand again to dismiss me.
I see the four kings of Linwood in the hall a couple times as the afternoon creeps by, but I don’t acknowledge them. My heart thuds harder as I pass them by though, and I do what I can to wrestle my pulse back under control. I was dreading going back to school because of all the homework—work I’m not sure my distracted brain is really up to handling—but I forgot all about the thing that really makes it a struggle.
The people.
Savannah. Trent. The four boys who bullied me, won me over, and then betrayed me.
I wasn’t prepared to share space with all of them again, to be in the same building with them all for over eight hours a day, and by the time I finally burst through the front doors of Linwood just after three o’clock, I’m a mess of pent up emotions and tightly wound tension.
My usual solution when I feel like this is to find a poker game to crash—it’s the only thing I’ve found that makes me feel in control again when my life seems to be spinning out around me.
But I don’t think that’ll work this time.
Because it’s not my life that’s spinning out of control. It’s my mom’s. And playing poker won’t help her, even if we could use the extra money.
The only way I can help her now is by proving her innocence. Proving that the man in black was the one who killed Iris.
The only problem is, I have no fucking idea how to do it.
It takes me almost an hour to get back to the Black family mansion, so Lincoln is already home when I walk in. And I only know that because when I enter through the service door on the second floor, I hear him talking to his dad near his bedroom.
Linc’s room is in the same wing as mine, but it faces the front of the house while mine faces the back. He’s around the corner and down a long hallway, which feels way too close when you’re trying to avoid someone.
And it’s not like I’m trying to eavesdrop. But even though they’re both out of sight, their voices carry to me easily as I reach my bedroom. I pause with my hand on the doorknob, cocking my head.
“Principal Osterhaut is doing the best he can,” Mr. Black says, his voice full of the intense, almost over-the-top earnestness I’ve come to expect from him. “But I don’t think he’s ever dealt with anything like this before. He knows tensions are bound to run high, what with Iris and Harlow both having been students at Linwood. Kids will pick sides, things could get nasty—and I personally think he’s smart to try to cut that off right now. To get ahead of it before it becomes a real problem.”
“Yeah.”
Lincoln’s one-word response is curt, and I have a feeling he doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now.
“Now, I don’t know what this Savannah girl said or didn’t say to Harlow, but if there’s serious bullying going on, you need to tell someone about it. Let the teachers and administrators deal with it. That’s their job. But Osterhaut was clear there’ll be no tolerance for fighting of any kind, even if you’re just defending your girlfriend. So be smart, Linc.”
I freeze, my hand still clutching the knob, and the door to my room half open.
Lincoln Black isn’t my boyfriend.
And I’m not his girlfriend.
Even before things went to absolute shit between us, we hadn’t defined what exactly we were doing. But we were… something. What existed between us was intense and combustive, sweet and sexy. It was miles away from anything I’d felt with previous boyfriends—even official ones. It was on a different fucking plane entirely.
There was something between me and the other three kings of Linwood too, although I never quite had the guts to define it or examine it too closely.
Lincoln doesn’t respond to his dad’s words with any of his own, and his silence makes the twisted mess of emotions in my chest pulse like a bomb about to explode. I don’t know what I want him to say. If he confirmed his dad’s assumption that I’m his girlfriend, I’d probably march down the hall and slap him in the face. But if he denied it, I think it might break my heart.
Fucking hell.
“She’s a sweet girl. Smart. Beautiful. Tough.” Mr. Black’s voice softens slightly. “I can see why you like her. Just… be smart, all right, son? Don’t go getting yourself in trouble defending her honor. Mr. Osterhaut said he’ll let this afternoon’s incident go with a warning, but with all the craziness going on right now, he needs to run a tight ship. He can’t cut you any more slack. Got it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
I can practically hear Lincoln inching away from his dad, trying to end this conversation already. And Mr. Black either notices too, or he’s just said everything he needs to, because I hear him clap Linc on the shoulder before footsteps start down the hall.
As quietly and quickly as I can, I slip inside my bedroom, keeping the knob turned so the latch doesn’t make a noise as I close the door. Then I lean against the heavy wood, blinking as I stare into space for a few seconds.
Well, shit. No matter how sneaky Lincoln and I thought we were being, his dad obviously picked up on the fact that something was going on between us. But, like an out-of-the-way town that’s about a decade behind the rest of the country in fashion and music, Mr. Black hasn’t realized yet that things between me and his son have changed again.
And what did he mean by “this afternoon’s incident”? The almost-fight between me and Savannah was this morning—and the guys were all there, but they didn’t actually do anyth
ing that could get them in trouble.
Did something else happen later in the day?
What? When?
Why?
I scrub my hands down my face, shaking my head as I push away from the door. I don’t have time to get caught up in wondering what the fuck Lincoln and the rest of the guys were doing with Savannah. I’ve got what feels like a mountain of homework to catch up on, and although it’s not as good as finding the man in black, it’s one thing I know I can do for my mom—one bit of stress I can try to relieve her of.
That thought is a damn good motivator, and I spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in my room poring over books and writing papers. I sneak over to Mom’s apartment around seven to grab some dinner—I’ll need to get to the store soon, since the supplies in her kitchen are dwindling—and then hit the books again until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.
I shove the stack of textbooks to the floor, turn off the lamp, and crawl under the covers, pulling them up tight around my chin. Just as I’m starting to doze off, a light knock sounds at the door, and my eyelids fly open. My body goes rigid under the blankets, and I hold absolutely still, feeling my heart kick against my ribs.
The knock comes again—three soft raps against the wood.
But I don’t answer.
And a few moments later, whoever it is goes away.
Mr. Osterhaut told Lincoln’s dad pretty much the same thing he told me about the zero tolerance policy for altercations on school grounds, even if—or maybe especially if—they have to do with Iris’s death and my mom’s arrest.
I sure as fuck hope Savannah got the same lecture, since she’s far from an innocent bystander here. But regardless, I go out of my way to avoid her on Friday, not wanting to risk getting in trouble again. Between dodging her and avoiding the four kings, I feel like I spend most of the day ducking into corners or down random hallways.
When school lets out, I head for the bus stop at a fast clip. A quick glance over my shoulder as I reach the edge of campus reveals Lincoln and River stepping out through the front doors of Linwood.
River’s head snaps toward me like some sixth sense told him exactly where I’d be, and even though we’re too far apart to really see each other’s eyes, I can feel our gazes connect anyway.
I drag my focus away, picking up my pace even more. When I hop on the bus this time, I take the one headed in the direction of Fox Hill Correctional Center. I didn’t visit Mom yesterday, and I’m not letting another day go by without seeing her. I’ll have to spend the rest of the evening doing more homework catch-up, but I’d rather be late on a few assignments than skip seeing her.
The routine of getting checked in at the prison is starting to feel familiar, just like all the routines Mom and I developed when I was going through my cancer treatments. Sometimes I can’t believe how adaptable humans are, how quickly what should seem insane can start to feel normal. It can be both a good thing and a bad thing, I think.
Mom’s dressed in garish orange like always, and when I walk in today, she looks more tired than she did last time I saw her. It’s going on a week since she was arrested, and the thought of how much longer she might have to be here makes me feel queasy.
I sit down across from her and pick up the phone from its cradle. “Hey, Mom. How’re you doing?”
“Good. Good.” She smiles and nods, but this time it’s all fake.
“What happened?”
“Oh.” The smile drips off her face, and she chews her lip for a second, like she’s wondering if she should tell me.
“Mom. What happened?”
“I spoke with my lawyer this morning. Leda Koffman. She said…” Confusion and hopelessness flit across her face, and I lean closer, staring at her as she continues. “She told me the police found traces of Iris’s DNA on the front grill of my car. So—so that really helps their case.”
She says that last part matter-of-factly, as if she’s talking about some other murder investigation and some other woman who’s been wrongly implicated.
I shake my head, trying to process her words and deny them at the same time. “What does that mean? I mean, it doesn’t prove anything, does it? You didn’t do it, so how can they make it seem like you did?”
“I don’t know, kiddo.” She smiles softly, and even though this one is genuine, it breaks my heart anyway. Because there’s something that looks like resignation in it. “It doesn’t prove anything. But it gives them something solid and tangible to present in court. We’ll get to present our evidence too, and hopefully Leda can put together a strong case. I just… I don’t know.”
My stomach churns, unhappy about the pizza I ate in the cafeteria several hours ago, as I stare at my mom through the glass. Her brown eyes are dim, and she shakes her head, huffing a humorless laugh.
“I guess I should just hope Alexander is the judge assigned to the trial.”
“What?”
“Oh. Judge Hollowell,” she clarifies. “He’s the one I went out with a couple of times. Although I guess maybe he’d have to recuse himself because of that? I don’t know if having gone on a few dates qualifies as having some kind of previous relationship or not.” She sighs, reaching up to brush an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. “We never really had a spark, but I like to think he’d believe I’m not a murderer.”
“You went out with Judge Hollowell?”
I scrunch up my nose. I remember the guy from a couple of Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail parties. He was good-looking, in an older, George Clooney kind of way, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for Mom’s type at all. He seems a little too posh and polished for her, not to mention a little handsy. Although I got felt up by so many men at those parties, he’s in a giant fucking club.
My mom purses her lips, humor glinting in her eyes, and for a moment she looks more like her old self.
“All right, you. None of your sass now. I was lonely and new in town, and he asked me out. No harm, no foul. And he’s not a bad guy, just not a good fit for me.” She glances behind her and lowers her voice slightly. “And maybe it was fate or something. He’s a pretty well-known judge in town, I think. Maybe he’ll be able to help me somehow. It never hurts to have friends with a little bit of clout, right?”
I can tell she’s grasping at straws a bit, trying to find something to be hopeful about in the face of so much relentless shit, but I feel myself getting drawn along with her. We both need something to cling to, and hey, she’s not wrong. In Fox Hill, a lot really does seem to depend on who you know. We’ve got the Black family in our corner—for now, at least—and if she can get Judge Hollowell to help too, maybe that’ll turn things around.
“Yeah. Maybe so.” I shrug, tilting my lips up. “I guess it just depends on how bad you broke his heart when you dumped him.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ha ha. I didn’t dump him. It was a mutual realization that it wasn’t going anywhere. Your mom isn’t quite the heartbreaker you think she is, kid.”
“Tell that to every one of my classmates back in Bayard who had a crush on you,” I shoot back, lifting my brows. “And Dennis Keeland from down the street. And that guy from the PTA—what was his name?”
I keep going, making an elaborate list of everyone who’s ever had the hots for my mom, and we’re both laughing by the time I finish. It’s forced and fake, but… it feels nice.
It feels needed.
It still doesn’t stop me from crying on the bus ride home though.
5
My exciting Friday night is homework with a side of homework, and a little homework cherry on top.
At about nine p.m., there’s a knock on my door just like last night. A few seconds later, Lincoln’s voice murmurs, “Harlow?”
I don’t answer, and there’s a beat of silence before the doorknob jiggles as he tests the lock. Then there’s a dull thunk, which might be his forehead hitting the door. But I still don’t answer. I stay completely still and silent until I hear him walk away, even though I know he know
s I’m in here.
I can’t tell if I’m being cowardly or smart by refusing to talk to Lincoln—a little bit of both, maybe. I want to talk to him, and that’s what scares me the most. My mom needs me right now, and my priority has to be helping her. I can’t risk giving my trust to someone who doesn’t deserve it.
My eyeballs feel like they’re about to melt out of my skull by the time I finally turn the lamp off and crawl into bed, but I’ll take it.
The massive study sessions mean I’m getting caught up on missed work pretty quickly, and besides, I like being exhausted when I go to bed.
I’m less likely to have nightmares that way.
For the few weeks after Iris’s death, my dreams were haunted by horrifying images of her body flying through the air, of a man in a black ski mask staring at me from across a dark expanse, and of a small, still lump in the middle of the road. They got a little bit better for a while, but now they’re worse again.
Because now they’re a confusing mish-mash of images and emotions relating to both Iris’s murder and my mom’s arrest.
In my dreams, sometimes it’s the man in the black ski mask who bursts in on the cocktail party to take my mom away, but no one seems to realize how wrong that is, that he shouldn’t be allowed to take her. I keep trying to get to him, to pull his mask off and expose him, to make everyone see that he’s not the real detective, not even a real cop, but Dax’s arms band around me like iron, and I can never quite reach the man.
Or sometimes I dream about Iris’s death, except when the driver of the dark car gets out to check the body, gloved hands reach up to pull off the ski mask... and the face below is my mother’s.
The first time I had that nightmare, I sprinted to the bathroom and barfed as soon as I woke up, clinging to the toilet bowl while sweat cooled on my body.
But the upside of cramming my brain full of facts and figures for a half-dozen different classes is that it leaves less room for my cruel subconscious to fuck with me.