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 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 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.
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 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 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.”
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.
“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 ch
anges 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.
One of Us Is Lying Page 10