Gwen huffed in relief. “Thank you. I owe you a hot chocolate for that.”
“Good. Let’s take this back to my place. We can burn it—and the rope.”
They trooped back, sticking to the far side of the bridge and ducking under the police tape. Emma led Gwen another half mile into the wood. “You trying to get me lost?” Gwen said.
Emma snorted. “You were part of the Lorne Outdoor initiative.” They both were. JLH gave extra credit for it. “Not my fault if you can’t remember how to use a compass.”
At last they found the dark lump of Emma’s tent. Gwen waited outside while Emma rummaged around, coming out at last with a granola bar and a fire starter. A few minutes later the fire was crackling, covering their silence with something a little friendlier. Emma coiled the rope around the edge of the fire and tossed the wig on top.
“I guess this is what the police mean when they say vagrants in the woods,” Gwen said, stretching her boots toward the fire.
“I have to move a lot. Doesn’t give me much time to write the West posts and keep up on your scintillating activities,” Emma replied. “At least I have service, though. Mostly.”
They fell silent again. The fire snapped and smoked. Finally Emma said, “You know I’m sorry about Lizzy, right?”
Gwen rolled her shoulders. “Why should I know that? It’s not like you ever told me.”
“I didn’t know how,” Emma said softly.
Gwen snorted at that. Her dark eyes reflected the red-orange of the fire. “It’s not hard. ‘Hey, Gwen. I’m sorry your sister died.’ See?”
“I just—couldn’t believe she was gone. Like that.”
Gwen opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. Then she said, “Neither could I.” She took a stick and poked at the soggy rope. “You sure this is worth giving up your shot at the scholarship?”
“You’re risking it, too. The Devino Scholarship gets revoked if you have a record,” Emma said.
Gwen leaned forward to warm her hands, tugging off her gloves and stretching her fingers toward the fire. “Lizzy’s worth it to me.”
“Me too,” Emma said. At Gwen’s sidelong glance she flushed. “She is. All the girls who got . . . destroyed by him. They deserve justice. And hey, if I’m smart enough to pull this off, maybe I’m smart enough to get to college another way. Or maybe I don’t need college at all.” Her white teeth flashed as she smiled humorlessly. “When you’re the head of your own company, maybe you’ll remember who helped you get there, and I can be your secretary. Then I’d get a good job and you could boss me around all day. Win-win.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “You’d make a terrible secretary.”
“Why do you think I offered?” Emma countered.
They grinned at each other, and the ice between them cracked a little.
Gwen’s phone chimed as it connected to Emma’s hot spot. She pulled it out and squinted at the screen, then hit the CALL BACK button, bringing the phone slowly to her ear. “I thought we agreed, no contact.”
“It’s about Lizzy’s phone.” Claude’s voice was tinny but clear on the other end. “I’ve been calling you. What are you doing?”
“Tying up loose ends in the woods,” Gwen replied. “What’d you do, lose it?”
“No.” Claude’s tone was frosty enough to sound like Mum’s. “The police have it. It’s still in custody. But they can’t open it. So unless we have the password, we can’t open it.”
And any evidence inside was useless.
“Don’t worry. Emma and I will talk about it. I’ll tell you the revised plan tomorrow,” she said.
“You and Emma are going to buddy-buddy it?” Claude was clearly skeptical.
“Best young minds in Lorne,” Gwen replied, and hung up.
The woodsmoke had taken on a dark tint, and an acrid stench rose from the fire. Emma leaned away, wrinkling her nose, and Gwen coughed as a stinging tendril invaded her throat.
“It’s the wig,” Emma wheezed, fumbling for a stick to pull the polyester wig out of the fire. The best young minds in Lorne apparently forgot that polyester doesn’t burn.
Gwen talks until she’s hoarse. She forgets the way the couch springs dig into the backs of her thighs, the way the duct tape squeaks every time she shifts. Her parents go pale and silent, and they make no effort to get rid of their tears.
Talking is like drawing out a poison. When Gwen’s finally finished, she feels like someone has tapped into her and pulled all the anger out, all the sorrow and disappointment and bitterness. She feels empty, but ready to be filled with something better.
“You’ll probably have to go to court,” Dad says. “Even if it’s just to testify.”
Gwen nods. She’s known that from the beginning. She’s known the scholarship might get revoked because of her arrests, or her cheating, or because she’s gay, or just because she attracted too much attention in this screwed-up world. But she’s also proved she can change the world, and she doesn’t need any scholarship to do that.
Mum pulls Gwen in, until her head is resting on her shoulder. “This place . . . likes to dwell on things. Your father and I think it’s time to move on.” She squeezes. “When you go away to college, we’re moving, too.”
Gwen’s breath hitches. If they move, she’ll never have to see Lorne again. She’ll probably never see Avery again, either, but that thought is a fleeting one, eclipsed by a strange rootlessness. She’s never wanted to live here, but she’s never lived anywhere else, either.
“Moving’s expensive.” Especially in Colorado now. “And you’ll have to start over. . . .”
Dad makes a noise in the back of his throat. “They always need construction workers. And that’s why I’ve been working late—studying at the office. I’m getting certified in accounting and in operating heavy machinery. Mr. Mecklin says that’ll open managerial positions.” He reaches over and squeezes her hand.
Maybe, Gwen lets herself think. Maybe things will be all right.
34
The Self-Serving Rebel
Claude’s mom picks her up at the station. She’s led out and handed over with cold politeness; it seems the good officers of Lorne aren’t pleased she won’t be staying overnight. After all, the sexually active girl is usually either dead or ruined by the end of the story.
Mom puts an arm around her shoulders and doesn’t let go until they’ve trooped down the treacherous icy steps outside the police station and over to the car. Claude can feel her shaking with the effort to keep it together in front of the cops. The Vanderly women have always maintained their public image.
They get in the car. Mom’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. She looks straight ahead. “Claude, I need to know now. That man who got shot—Silverman.”
Claude knows what’s coming. “What about him?”
“Did you do that?” Mom takes a deep breath. “I’m not trying to judge you or trick you or turn you in. But I need to know. If you shot him in self-defense, we’ll get a good lawyer—”
“Mom, I didn’t,” Claude says.
She half expects Mom to ignore her. No one else is going to believe she didn’t do it. But Mom stops saying anything at all.
Claude focuses on the upholstery of her seat, the cold takeout coffee in the cup holder between them, the dirt-rimmed piles of snow at the edge of the parking lot. Heat prickles at the corners of her eyes. She feels small, exposed. She kept the mask on for the cops, but she can’t do that now.
At first Mom doesn’t even breathe. Then she takes a desperate, shuddering gasp, and props her elbows on the steering wheel. Her shoulders shake. She sits like that for a long time, and Claude doesn’t know what to do besides lay her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“Fuck,” Mom whispers. She grabs a paper napkin and noisily blows her nose. “Claude, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t.” Claude’s voice cracks. She can’t be strong anymore. She still feels the sinking, twisting shame of dealing pills even thoug
h she knew she shouldn’t, of being powerless under someone else’s probing fingers. She wanted to cut out all the places he touched, but the best she could get was cheap liquor to numb it. She thought she could define her own sex life, but she could never control how others define it. And then she started to let them define it for her.
“I failed you,” Mom says.
“No,” Claude begins, but Mom pulls back.
“I did.” Mom wipes under her eyes and sniffs. “If I’d been a better mom, we’d have talked about this. I was so busy showing you how far single moms could go, I couldn’t see what was happening right in front of my eyes.” Another tear slips out. She dabs at it with her finger.
“Mom, stop.” Now she’s crying. “You’re the strongest person I know, and I . . . wasn’t. You would’ve kicked him in the balls or something.” And she’d been so shocked, so scared, she’d just let it happen. “And who was going to believe me?” she asks bleakly. Guys hit on her all the time, and she enjoys it. She’s encouraged it before, too. Maybe she’s so used to it, she doesn’t know when she’s not encouraging it. Maybe she was asking for it, like everyone says. She never said no before, they whisper. She just regrets it now.
Mom turns so that she can take Claude by the shoulder. Claude can see her drawing on that strength, using it to straighten her spine and fill her face with fire. “Claude, you are strong. Strength isn’t just kicking a guy in the balls. Sometimes it’s persevering through hell. Sometimes it’s maintaining your self-respect. And nothing you do ever means you deserve to be assaulted.” She squeezes.
Claude draws her knees up to her chin. “I know,” she whispers. It’s just, there’s only one Mom to tell her that she has a right to her body. And there are millions of boys ready to tell her that their sexuality is all her fault.
“Sex isn’t wrong. I’ve told you that your whole life, and I still believe it.” Mom’s hand moves up to smooth Claude’s hair. “Predation is wrong. Ken Garson is wrong. And you dealing pills was wrong, but that’s not a valid excuse for what he did. You don’t ever have to be someone else’s excuse.”
You don’t ever have to be someone else’s excuse. Claude wonders how the world would be if everyone thought that.
They drive home in the snow, taking it slow, not really talking. There will be time enough to talk, and right now Claude feels like her eyelids are turning inside out every time she blinks. The world shifts in and out of double vision, hazing over in a picture of white and neon. She wants to sleep and then go for a drive. She’s been trapped in Lorne for the past three days, and the only break she got was breakfast burritos in the forest.
“Thank god it’s you.” She offered the burrito. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” Emma snatched it, fumbling at the aluminum foil with her gloves. “Still warm,” she groaned.
They sat by the fire. Emma ate her entire burrito in less than a minute, so Claude gave up the other half of hers. “Missing real food?”
“You have no idea.” Emma smiled down at the burrito half. A lump of avocado stuck out on one side.
“People, find yourselves a love who looks at you the way Emma Baines looks at her burrito,” Claude quipped.
Emma rolled her eyes and took another bite.
“Snow called for tomorrow,” Claude said. “And Mom says the police have asked for a canine search team.”
Emma finished the second burrito and put a hand over her stomach, sighing. “Bring me another tomorrow,” she said.
“You should be on the other side of the mountain tomorrow,” Claude replied. “If the police show up with dogs, you’re not going to get away.”
Emma shook her head. “I have to finish the blog. And we’ve already had screw-ups. If you need me . . .”
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” The blog was a provocation, not worth blowing Emma’s cover.
“Of course I’m afraid. Mostly I’m afraid that he’ll figure it out.” He wasn’t her dad. “So keep him distracted for me. And the police, if you can.”
“It’s still a bad idea for you to stay in Lorne,” Claude said.
“I’ve done without a mom for seven years. You don’t have to step in now,” Emma snapped.
They were silent for a moment. Then Claude laughed. “You think your mom would help you fake your death and frame a pedophile? I’m so much worse than a mom. So when even I say you have to get out—”
“I know what I have to do.” Emma crumpled the aluminum foil into a ball. “Believe me, getting out of Lorne has always been at the top of my bucket list. And I want to do it soon. It’s just . . . hard. I always knew I’d be leaving, but I sort of thought I’d be leaving under different circumstances.” As valedictorian with a full scholarship.
Claude looked over at her, sitting on her overturned log, staring at the cold firepit. Even in the dark her eyes shone with a hunger—a hunger to succeed, a hunger to destroy everything that ever hurt her. A hunger to be validated. Unease spread up Claude’s back like a chill. “Just be careful, all right?”
“I’m always careful,” Emma said. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Jesus,” Mom mutters as they pull up to the house, bringing Claude back to the here and now. “How long has he been here?”
Mrs. Schill’s mom van is parked in the slope of the driveway. As they pull up, the door opens and Jamie hops out.
“I’ll tell him to go,” Claude says. “Just give us a minute?”
Mom sighs. “All right. A minute. But I don’t want him coming in tonight, not even for a cup of coffee.”
“Got it.” Claude leans across the stick shift and throws her arms around Mom. Mom hugs back, squeezing tight, like she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to hug Claude again.
Jamie’s self-consciously studying the ground when Claude gets out of the car. “Um,” he says.
“I’m going inside,” Mom says pointedly. One minute, she mouths at Claude before stomping up to the front door.
“Hi,” says Claude. She leans against Mom’s car. A little curl of brown hair sticks out from under Jamie’s cap, and she wants to tuck it back under. So she does. He inhales sharply as her fingers brush his forehead.
“I’m really glad you didn’t do it,” he blurts. Red flushes over his cheeks and down his throat.
“Thanks.” Claude waits a moment, but he doesn’t seem keen on saying anything more. “Me too.”
Maybe this is a bad idea. She never wanted a relationship, and this is why—the constant fumbling and stuttering, wondering if everything she’s said is the wrong thing. She’s confident when she knows where she stands, one way or another. Right now, things are just . . . awkward. She never had a problem talking to Jamie before.
But her hand is still on his forehead, and instead of dropping it, she brings it around to cup his cheek. And she thinks about what she’d normally say, and what she might say instead. . . . “You can’t come in.” His face falls, just a fraction. “Tonight. But I’ll ask my mom if you can come over tomorrow.”
“Or . . . you could come to my place,” he says. “In the daytime. I’ll teach you how to play Gotham City, aka the greatest Batman game of all time. Or I’ll show you my spreadsheet comparing the teachers of Jefferson Lorne to prime numbers.” Claude raises an eyebrow and Jamie goes even redder, but he seems determined to keep talking now. “You said when all this was over you might be . . . um.”
“Interested?” Claude supplies.
“Yeah. Wait. Hang on.” He fumbles with the door to his car. Easing it open, he turns. Claude hears a faint rustling.
When he turns back, she bursts into laughter. Jamie holds a mock bouquet of striped lollipops, Jolly Ranchers, Snickers bars, and a packet of M&Ms. He wrapped it with a carefully cut and taped Cheetos bag.
“I thought you’d freak out if I brought you real flowers,” he says, and she laughs again.
Her laughter seems to encourage him. “Claude Vanderly,” he says formally, clearing his throat, “will you be my girlfriend? Will you
sit next to me at lunch and steal my fries? Will you make me watch all the bad movies you like?”
“They’re not bad,” she murmurs.
He ignores that. “Will you walk into my house through the front door? Will you try going out with me?”
It’s not giving up her independence. It’s not chaining herself to the patriarchy. It’s taking a step. Hell, the step probably won’t last till prom. Who knows? She wraps her hands around the junk and leans in. “Okay,” she says.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and kisses her.
It’s a gentle kiss—maybe it will be good to take things slow, for once. And she promised Mom she wouldn’t invite him in, anyway. She can feel his smile against her mouth, breaking wide open, and she smiles, too.
35
The Airhead Cheerleader
The holiday market buzzes, still busy despite the fact that it’s a Sunday evening and Lorne hasn’t exactly been in a holiday mood. Avery’s family goes every year, and this year is no exception. It will take bigger problems than a murder-assault case to keep the Crosses from showing their faces at a community event.
Avery’s not sorry. She’s desperate for fresh air. The minute she got home this morning, her phone was confiscated and she was installed on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa and the promise that she’s grounded for the rest of her life. She can’t tell if her parents are proud of her. It’s like they want to pretend nothing happened.
The press came this morning. The Crosses said that Avery needs rest. That she was a little angel and they never lost faith. They sat in the living room, keeping the bay windows clear, the room brightly lit, so that the photographers could get their shots of the family united. Healing.
When they were alone again, Avery’s dad looked at his lap, jaw clenched. Her mom traced little circles on the quilt over her chair and finally broke the silence. “Aves . . . why didn’t you tell us?”
Because they would have told her to do what made her look good, not what would have helped her. She thought of the way her father dismissed Lily Fransen and said, “It was hard.”
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