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. 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.
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.
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 helpl
ess. 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 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. 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 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.
&n
bsp; She doesn’t want the real answer. Robin’s answer-a-different-question-than-the-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.”
One of Us Is Lying Page 22