The notes are nauseating, from people who never knew her, who never cared enough to try. The popular kids who acted like she was invisible. The mean girls, who laughed whenever Brandon yelled at her to eat a cheeseburger. Now they’re all kicking themselves, wishing they’d paid more attention, because she’s all anyone can talk about.
Get better, Sparrow! Thoughts and prayers!
I know you’ll dance again, Swan Queen.
My heart is breaking for you.
I can’t stop crying. Please don’t die.
Do they actually believe she’s reading any of this? That she can see it from her hospital bed, through her swollen black eyes? Do they think their crocodile tears will bring her back? They don’t want her back. They’re hoping she dies. Then they can look hot in black dresses and sob at her funeral.
I pitch the bear and the swan into the trash, followed by the wilted rose, which smells rancid and foul. When I start tearing the notes off her locker, the shiny girls clustered in a tight little knot near the bathroom yell at me to stop. “Lucas!” shrieks Tahlia Jones, last year’s homecoming queen. “You’re ruining her memorial!”
“Memorials are for dead people, you idiot, and she’s not dead!” I snarl.
“At least not yet.” Willow Burke, a spray-tanned cheerleader, yawns and examines her French manicure. Last year she told everyone that Sparrow was anorexic and her father was sending her to a mental hospital in California. When that didn’t stick, she started a rumor that Sophie was a recovering cocaine addict. Sparrow hates her.
I pound the locker with my fist, which makes Willow nearly jump out of her snow-white Nikes. But it’s not enough to make them leave. I walk over, get all up in their false eyelashes and yell, “Shut up and get out of here, you freaking ghouls!”
They give me filthy looks, but book it down the hall.
I finish tearing the notes off the locker until all that’s left are scraps of tape and stray glitter. Leaning my head against the cool metal, I try to summon her, remembering the feel of her hand in mine, the way her eyes shine when we nail a fish dive. But I can’t do it. There’s a hole in my heart where she used to be.
The first bell rings, but I ignore it. No way I’m going to physics. I tried to do the homework last night, and the numbers swam on the page like evil little tadpoles.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, smell pomegranate juice and apricot shampoo.
“Oh my God, Lucas, what are you doing?” Delaney stares at the glitter on the floor, the tangle of twinkle lights sticking out of the trash bin, along with the stuffed swan’s crowned head.
“I’m cleaning up, Laney. What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re losing your mind, if you want to know the truth.”
“I don’t, actually. I’ve had enough truth to last me for the rest of my life. But thanks, anyway.”
She punches me on the arm. Hard. “I’m so mad at you. How’s that for some truth?”
“Lots of people are mad at me. You should get in line.”
“Lucas,” she says. “Come on, look at me. I’m not the enemy here.”
I turn to look at her. She’s wearing a fringed leather vest over an Alabama Shakes T-shirt, a pink chiffon dance skirt, black leggings, and the ever-present turquoise boots. A silver sheriff’s star is pinned to the vest. Her hair is tied back with a beaded piece of rawhide, and there’s a turkey feather tucked into her braid.
“Mixed signals today, Laney. Are you Wyatt Earp or Sacagawea?”
“Shut up. How come you won’t answer my texts? I don’t even know what happened at the police station, and that was, like, almost a week ago. It’s been total radio silence from you ever since the Honeysuckle Pond, and that is not fair, dude. I thought we were in this together.”
I sigh and pitch the last of the crap across the hall into the bin. “We are. I’m sorry. I’m just—I don’t know. Messed up.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“I know, Laney. I just can’t seem to figure myself out. One minute I’m crazy angry, and the next, I’m so scared I can’t even see straight. I’d rather be mad, to be honest.”
“Mad’s always better than sad. So tell me what happened.”
“Nothing to tell. Tommy Bayliss told me to beat feet. I saw Tristan, though. Yukking it up with his dad. That was special.”
“Douchebag passes from father to son. It’s a biological fact.”
“Damn, I love science.”
She smacks my arm again. “Don’t shut me out anymore, Lucas. I can’t take it. I’ve been writing lots of poems about what a turd you are.”
“I’m sorry, Laney. Really.”
“You suck. But I forgive you.”
Just then, Mr. Freeman, the principal and one of my dad’s diving buddies, comes walking down the hall.
“You guys going to class this morning?”
“Yes, sir,” says Delaney, at the same time I say, “No, sir.”
He smiles. “You might want to get your stories straight.”
“We were just talking,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “I guess we didn’t hear the bell.”
“It’s okay, guys. I’m not going to bust you.”
His eyes are full of kindness. Right now he doesn’t look like a principal. He looks like a dad.
“Here’s the deal,” he says, taking out the pad of yellow passes he carries in the pocket of his blue blazer. “I’m going to give you both a pass for the rest of the week. I want you to show up every morning. Go to homeroom, let your teachers know you’re here. But if you need to miss class and take some time to hang out with each other, or any of Sparrow’s friends, you have my permission. Just don’t leave campus. Also—”
He hesitates, seeing that the décor is gone from Sparrow’s locker.
“Also, I know you’d probably rather talk to each other instead of any of us, but you can always come talk to me. I’m a pretty decent listener. Dr. Ramirez and her counseling staff are available to you and anyone else who feels like they could use an ear. Or a shoulder. This is tough stuff for everybody, and we’re here for you.”
“Yes, sir,” we say. Delaney gives him a watery smile. “Thanks, Mr. Freeman. For, you know, understanding.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Spenser,” he says. “But maybe it would be a good idea to go to the commons or the cafeteria instead of hanging out at Sparrow’s locker. This can’t be helping. And next week I’ll expect you in class, participating, showing leadership, and making excellent grades. Understood?”
We nod. “Yes, sir. Understood,” Delaney says.
He gives us a little wave as he walks down the hall, tucking the passes back in his pocket. “Stay out of trouble,” he calls over his shoulder.
“‘So shines a good deed in a weary world,’” Delaney says.
For once, I don’t roll my eyes.
“I’m going to go write in the library,” she says. “You want to come with me?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll go get something to eat. I didn’t have any breakfast.”
“Will you be okay?”
If I can find Tristan and make him pay, I’ll be freaking awesome.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Laney. See you at lunch.”
When class lets out, I’m still sitting on the floor in front of Sparrow’s locker. How can I talk to Dr. Ramirez? How can I talk to anyone? How could they possibly understand that I’m drowning in guilt? I knew Tristan was evil to the core, but I let her convince me not to tell. I wanted to believe her, but I knew. And now she could die without hearing me say I’m sorry.
Without knowing that I love her.
20
One Week Later
“Are you seriously cutting class? Again?” Sam asks. “Freeman’s going to be on you like a donkey on a waffle.”
“We’re already busted because of yesterday. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
“But he understood, right?”
“He said he did, but he yelled at us anyway.”
When Sophie texted out of the blue that Sparrow was awake, Delaney and I flew out of the cafeteria, racing to the hospital without a word to anyone. But it was all for nothing. The doctors wouldn’t let us see her. Everybody told us to go back to school, that it was too soon. Sophie said Sparrow won’t talk to anyone, not even her. Not even Mr. Rose. If anyone touches her, she freaks out.
“It sucks you got in so much trouble and didn’t even get to see her.”
“Truth,” I say wearily. “You’d better get to class. If I go down in flames, I don’t want to drag you with me.”
“Okay, later. Lucas—I don’t want to get all sloppy on you or anything, but you know we’re all here, right? I mean, we’d do anything—”
“Sam, I know. Thanks. Go learn something.”
I can’t think about anything else but Sparrow, awake and afraid and silent. I can’t think at all. I can’t sit still. It’s like the ants under my skin have set themselves on fire. My brain is like a hamster in a wheel, whirring around and around, never getting anywhere. If I could just see her face. If I could say “I love you” just once, even if she told me she never wanted to see me again.
I find a place behind the boxwood hedge in the courtyard and press myself against the branches, trying to make myself invisible. I close my eyes, resting my head on my knees. I figure I can live for the next couple of days without AP English and Dr. Lipton gushing about the brilliance of Joseph Conrad. We’ve started Heart of Darkness, and on Monday I got in big trouble for asking if it was the autobiography of Tristan King. Now it’s Wednesday, and Delaney and I have to start a week of detention for leaving school grounds without permission. This makes us late for ballet. This means Levkova is also mad at us.
I chill against the bushes for half an hour or so, but then I get antsy. I need to get out of here. Even these shrubs smell like school, and it feels like all the windows are eyes, watching me. I shoulder my backpack and dig in my pocket for car keys.
My phone buzzes with a text. Caleb.
TK sighting. In the parking lot. Be chill.
Wherever you are, stay there.
What’s he doing?
I walk faster.
Word is he’s getting tutored after school. His parents are making him stay home, and Freeman thinks it’s better if he’s not around other humans.
Shoulda started that plan in kindergarten.
Looks like he’s waiting until everybody leaves. Be cool, bro. Do not mess with this. I am serious. Stay away.
I’m typing as I run through the halls.
I am always cool.
Hahahaha, no.
I haul ass to the east entrance, busting through the doors into the light of the outside world. The sky is bright blue, the air warm and still thick with what’s left of summer. His black car glowers way in the back, a stain against the redbrick wall of the field house. He’s leaning against the hood, texting. He is all alone.
I don’t think. My lizard brain takes over, moving my feet for me, clenching my fists, gritting my teeth. A loud roaring in my ears deadens everything around me, the sound of bells ringing, the rising cacophony of voices behind me, the metallic clang of lockers slamming.
Tristan looks up, surprised.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him hard against the wall. The breath whooshes out of him. Mouthwash and coffee.
“You sick, lying, evil bastard,” I say. “You beat her up and left her to die. You left her there!”
His eyes darken. “Get your hands off me, ballerina. You don’t have the chops for this. You know it, I know it. Walk away before you get hurt.”
He tries to push me away, but he doesn’t have any leverage. I am all up in his face. I slam him against the wall, harder this time. “You’re a monster. You know that, right?”
“I didn’t leave anyone anywhere,” he says. “You need to be real careful who you go around accusing, asshole.”
“You don’t scare me, Tristan. You never have.”
I don’t plan it; I’m not even thinking. I haul off and punch him in the face. Twice. I hear a sickening crunch, and his nose erupts in a fountain of blood. My barely healed hand screams in agony, but I don’t care.
From a distance, I hear somebody yell, “Fight! Fight!”
I punch him again and again. I can’t stop. He goes down like a sack of bricks, the front of his white T-shirt spattered with blood. He raises his hands to ward off the blows, but I do not stop. I couldn’t, even if I tried, which I do not want to do.
“How does it feel, Tristan? How does it feel to have your face bashed in by a ballerina?” I’m gasping, my breath harsh and ragged. He’s saying something through his split lip. His nose is weirdly askew on his face. His eyes are puffy, beginning to swell shut. He turns over and rises to all fours, retching.
“I’ll kill you for this,” he slurs, spitting blood onto the asphalt.
Strong arms pull me away, locking around my chest. Caleb. And Israel.
“Lucas. Lucas! Stop! Jesus, enough! You’re going to kill him!”
“That’s the whole point! Let me go,” I wheeze. “Come on, let me go!”
Tristan lies motionless, breathing wetly through his bloody mouth. I don’t think his nose works right anymore.
The crowd around us parts, and Mr. Freeman stands in front of me, shaking with fury. “Lucas!” he shouts. “What the hell did I say to you just last week? How is this staying out of trouble?” He kneels down beside Tristan and takes out his phone.
“Take him to my office, guys,” he says to Israel and Caleb. “Make sure he stays put until I get there.”
Kids I’ve known all my life are looking at me like they’ve never seen me before. Like I’ve gone crazy. Iz and Caleb half carry, half drag me to Mr. Freeman’s office.
Soon there are sirens.
* * *
While we wait for my mom, Mr. Freeman brings ice for my hand, which is already swollen and turning purple.
“It’s probably broken, Lucas. Most guys who’ve never thrown a punch before don’t do it right and screw up their fourth metacarpal. And no, I’m not going to tell you how I came by that information.”
I don’t know what I broke, only that it hurts like hell.
“You want to tell me what that was back there?”
“I don’t know. I guess I lost my mind when I saw him.”
“You think? That would be the understatement of the century.”
“He should be in jail.”
“Lucas, he hasn’t been charged with a crime. He’s denying everything, and his father has him all lawyered up. It’s his word against—well, basically no one’s, since Sparrow isn’t talking.”
“Everyone knows he did it.”
“That may be true, but it’s for the police and the legal system to figure out, certainly not you or any of your friends. In the meantime, you’ve really stepped in it. Please tell me he threw the first punch. Did he do anything to provoke you?”
“What, besides beat up Sparrow and leave her for dead?”
“Watch the tone, Lucas. You need to be careful about saying things like that. I meant just now.”
“No. He called me a ballerina, but he’s been doing that since we were kids.”
“Well, that’s one way to make a guy take a swing, though it doesn’t excuse you. You know about the zero-tolerance policy for fighting, so you’ll be cooling your heels at home for two weeks.”
He runs his hand through his hair, then takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Of all the kids in this school, Lucas, I never thought I’d be having this conversation with you.”
“Lucas?”
My mom is standing at the door, pale and worried, but also super-fierce, the way she always gets when anyone messes with her kids.
“What happened to your hand? You got in a fight? Doug, are you sure? Are you sure it was him?”
“Colleen, yes, I’m sure,” Mr. Freeman says. “I saw it with my own eyes. He beat the ever-loving bejesus out o
f Tristan King.”
I see the light dawning across my mother’s face.
“Ahhh,” she says. “Not exactly a surprise.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to take him home. Doesn’t matter who started the fight or who finished it—all participants are suspended immediately. I’ll make sure to have one of his buddies bring his work by the house so he won’t get behind.”
“Is Tristan okay?”
I roll my eyes, and my mother gives me the Look. Like she’s shooting poison darts out of her eyeballs.
“He’s a mess. EMTs brought him to Saint Germaine’s. I think his nose is broken, and he may have a couple of cracked ribs. Lucas got him pretty good.”
“Great.” She closes her eyes, shakes her head, takes a deep breath. “Just great. Come on, Lucas. Let’s go home. Thanks, Doug. I am so sorry about all this. Let me know how Tristan’s doing, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Will do. And, Lucas, one more thing. I know you’re hurting. But you have got to pull yourself together, or you’re going to do something that will affect the rest of your life, something you can’t walk away from. I sure would hate to see that. And so would your dad.”
I nod, pretending that I heard him, that his words made a difference, and walk outside again, into the beautiful day.
* * *
My mom stares out the windshield, her expression grim.
“Mom? How pissed off are you, on a scale of one to apoplexy?”
She drives her red pickup out of the parking lot and stops at the traffic light in front of the school. Fumbling in the console for her sunglasses, she glances at me as she turns onto the parkway that leads to Main Street.
“I’d say maybe seven, approaching eight. But I’m not the one with the anger issue here. What were you even thinking, Lucas, getting into a fight? What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, Mom.”
“I beg to differ. Honestly, if someone had told me a year ago that my son would beat the snot out of Tristan King the second week of his senior year—my sweet, kind, gentle boy, who can’t stand the sight of blood and cringes when his little sister loses a tooth—I’d have called them a liar.”
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