I’m heading to lunch to sit with Seth, hold his hand, pretend like everything is normal and I’m the best girlfriend on the planet, but just before I get to the lunchroom, Juliette comes rushing toward me.
“You know I love you, right?” She hooks her dark hair behind her ears the way someone rolls up their sleeves to prepare for a fight.
I give her a faux smile. “I do. What do you want?”
“Okay, so I’m a little overextended.”
“What’s new?” Juliette is constantly volunteering for stuff. I even bought her a magnet for her locker that has this smiling lady from the 1950s on it with the caption “Stop me before I volunteer again.” I figured it would be a constant reminder that she should stop sticking her name on sign-up sheets. But Juliette is addicted to making herself useful.
“Well,” she says, “I need you to take my place showing a couple new kids around the school.”
My stomach flips when I think of the delivery I’m being forced to make this afternoon. I shake my head. “Don’t think I can, Jules. I’ve got an errand to run. Besides, isn’t the whole tour thing the student council’s job? And shouldn’t you be doing this the first week of school instead of like a month in?”
“Like I said. I’ve been a little overextended. Besides, if you do this for me, you can say you worked with the student council in your app to U of M.”
I scowl, realizing she’s right.
She flashes a smile, knowing she’s won. “The tour won’t take long, and you know the school just as well as anyone. Besides, the other council members and I have to be at the Halloween dance planning meeting.”
“It’s only September,” I say.
“Halloween’s a big deal. We have lots to prep for.”
I think about Ty and the drugs. Deliver this here. Thursday night. But, I guess, night has lots of hours in it. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do your tour.”
She jumps up and down. “Thank you! And now it’s your tour, Miss Student Council Inductee. Just go to the main office after school, and the secretary will have two new students waiting there for you.” She hugs me fast. “And I really do love you. Unconditionally.”
“I know.” But I’m only half certain of that unconditional part. Her love for me could turn conditional real quick if she knew all about the how, when, and why of the illegal activity I’ll be doing directly after I complete her school tour.
Jack
In the cafeteria, I can’t stop watching Bleacher Girl—or Tessa, as Sam and Carver told me today when I asked. When I fell into her in the hallway, I didn’t want to move. She smelled like vanilla and berries. And she was so surprised, her lips turned into this adorable rosy-pink O. Seriously, I almost licked her and then had to get myself under control so she wouldn’t get a feel for how much I wanted to lick her.
Several tables over, she leans into Pineville High’s quarterback. He throws his arm over her small shoulders. His fingers sink into her long, silky blond hair.
“Dude, why you looking so pissed off?” Carver asks me, butter from the roll he’s eating smeared on his chin. Unlike Sam, whose mayor of a mom has drilled into him which fork to use when, how to shake hands, and other endearing social graces, Carver has very little manners and is often a downright pig when it comes to food and girls.
Carver shoves a second whole roll into his mouth as I glance again at Tessa leaning against that football player. I decide I need to let off a little steam. I flash Carver and Sam a smile, then pick up my hot lunch roll in one hand and a handful of limp spinach from my lunch tray in the other.
“Oh, shit.” Sam points a tiny pretzel stick at me. “This can only end badly, dude. Maybe you better rethink this one.”
I sit up straight and adjust my voice to Pre-Battle War General tone. “Listen, my friends. This right here”—I hold up the spinach ceremoniously—“it’s a social inevitability.” I beat my fistful of roll against my chest. “I am who I am.” I wave my fist at the lunchroom of students. “And they are who they are. We’ve all had our pasts, and every road has led to this point. I have no choice but to hurl this overcooked vegetation and gluten-filled roll at them, and their heads have no choice but to receive it.”
I stand to finish my speech.
“So in essence, this is the culmination of seventeen years of development, seventeen years in the making, and therefore, in the grand scheme of things, who are you or anyone to stand in my way?”
“That’s pretty karmic, dude,” says Carver.
“Existential, actually,” I say.
“Can you at least aim away from my shirt?” Sam fingers his orange-and-yellow plaid button-up. “I don’t feel like changing before next hour.” He crunches on the pretzel.
My fingers itching to hurl the spinach, I glance over at Tessa. Her gaze flits from my full hands to my face. She scowls. I give her a shrug, then throw in a smile and a wink. But she suddenly stills, looking toward the door.
I look behind me. In full police uniform, billy club, firearm, and all, Fogerty 2 stands at the cafeteria entrance. Principal Levy is with him. They scan the room, searching for someone. And I know, without a doubt, I’m the “someone” they want.
It doesn’t take them long. I mean, I’m standing up, clutching food, and smiling wide. Fogerty 2 and Principal Levy stalk my way. The lunchroom quiets, all eyes watching. And I take in a breath, find that place of piercing clarity to determine how to get out of this with style.
I clear my throat theatrically. “Sam?” I project. “Did we forget about our lunch date with the authorities? Weren’t you supposed to bring the baguettes and cheese?”
Sam sits frozen, eyebrows lifted so high, they’re buried in his hairline. Carver chokes on his roll. They’re not helping.
“Dalton,” Fogerty 2 says.
I give him a smile. “Officer Fogerty. You must have really missed me to come all this way to see me.”
“Hardly,” he grunts.
“Well, we seem to be missing the baguettes and cheese, but I can offer you some of our school’s fine cuisine.” I open my palms, exposing the balled-up roll and spinach.
A couple of kids giggle. Fogerty 2 winces at the mess in my hands.
Principal Levy pipes up. “Mr. Kearns and Mr. Malowski, can you gentlemen please head down to the main office and wait for me there?”
Sam and Carver turn matching colors of pale, collect the remains of their lunch, and head out of the room.
“Let’s go, Dalton,” Fogerty 2 says. “We’ve got a situation to discuss.”
I drop the food onto the table and wipe my hands with a stack of paper napkins. Principal Levy takes my elbow and leads me toward the cafeteria exit. I cast a quick look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Tessa. She stares at me with the silent question What did you do?
I give her another wink, like I’m not at all worried. But truthfully, Fogerty 2’s brother never hauled me out of a lunchroom to bust me. This Fogerty sibling, on the other hand, is playing some hardball.
• • •
We walk past Principal Levy’s office, where Sam and Carver are sitting, legs bouncing, hands folded, and worry smeared all over their faces.
“Heads up, lads,” I shout, trying to sound motivational. “Bravery is a rampart of defense.”
“What the hell’s a rampart?” Carver asks.
“Stop talking,” Principal Levy snaps as he and Fogerty 2 march me into VP Barnes’s office.
“Thanks, Principal Levy. I’ll handle it from here.” VP Barnes waves toward her office to guide me in. “Mr. Dalton, welcome.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I say.
“I’m sure. Have a seat.” She points to the hard-backed chairs in front of her desk. They look like 1920s schoolhouse chairs.
Fogerty 2 holds his hand out. One of the black cutouts of male genitalia we’d stuck all over Pineville’s deer
signs dangles from his fingers.
Before I even think, I say, “There you go again, standing around with your dick in your hands.”
“Jack! Enough!” VP Barnes says.
“Sorry, Ms. Barnes.” My tone is sincere. “But I had to seize that one.”
She shakes her head. “Jack, hear Officer Fogerty out.” The skin on her wide face is dry and reptilian. But her eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, hold less anger and more anxiety. So I shut up, nod, and give Fogerty 2 my attention.
He leans in, towering over me. “I know this is what you were up to when I caught you, Sam, and Carver out on State Street.”
“And they aren’t sitting in this room with you and me because . . .” The Fogerty brothers don’t have a vendetta against them.
“Because I saw you closest to that road sign when I got there, Dalton, which tells me you were the one putting these up.” He shakes his hand holding the dick.
Stick to the facts. Being in the presence of a crime scene doesn’t prove that I’m the criminal. I pinch my eyebrows together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Should I search your vehicle, Dalton?”
“Sure.” I’d cleared any trace of contact paper from Sam’s car and mine and ditched it in a Dumpster as soon as we were done porno-graphing the town’s deer signs. “But when you go into my car, could you dust a little in there? All this fall mold and pollen is killing my allergies.”
Fogerty 2’s brown bushy eyebrows flatten. “What about your house? Should I go see what’s going on inside your home?”
His words chill me instantly. He knows my brother died under Mom’s drunken watch, but he doesn’t know the crazy underneath that. The thought of him, or anyone, seeing Mom drunk, falling-down wasted makes my chest feel tight. But the thought of him seeing Mom ranting about her invisible friends freaks me out way more. He’d for sure call Child Protective Services. Or my dad. But not before he called the psych ward on Mom.
I force my voice to stay even. “I can assure you, Officer, you’d be wasting your time. There is no proof at my house.”
He gives a spastic wave of the deer genitals. “You want proof, Dalton. I’ll give you proof. I can always dust this dick for fingerprints. But—” His right eye twitches and his breath comes out in a shallow burst. “Ms. Barnes here has talked me into letting her handle this.”
I look at VP Barnes, surprised. She nods, her thick helmet hair shifting as one solid piece. And I feel the upper hand returning. Ms. Barnes is bound to be easier to handle than the cops.
“So, Dalton,” Fogerty 2 continues, “if I walk out of here without you, you better do absolutely every single thing Vice Principal Barnes says.” He points his meaty finger at me. “One screwup, and I’m hauling you in for defacing public property and calling your parents. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good,” he says.
“You’re fun,” I say.
“And you’re a menace to society.” Fogerty 2’s cavernous nostrils flare.
“Well,” I say, “I’m sure whatever Pineville’s much-loved and very compassionate vice principal here”—I give VP Barnes a nod; she doesn’t nod back—“has in store for me, it will keep me in line.”
“Let’s hope so,” Fogerty 2 says, “because if you don’t stay out of trouble and stick to Ms. Barnes’s exact terms, all deals are off.” He waves his well-endowed hand and then walks out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Ms. Barnes clasps her stubby-fingered hands on the desk in front of her. She gives me a leathery smile. “Ready to hear the deal I cut for you, Mr. Dalton?”
• • •
It could be much worse.
“That’s all you want?” I’m totally surprised. “Don’t you want me to sit in detention every day for the rest of the year or pick boogers off desks? Scrub toilets? Kiss Principal Levy’s butt more? Seriously, don’t you think this punishment is a little weak?”
“No. It’s a lot, I think.” She leans back in her chair. “Fifteen night-shift hours for hospital maintenance at Worton County Hospital and ten hours of math tutoring a week here at Pineville High seems like a heck of a lot of commitment to me.”
“But it’s just work,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows fly up. She gives me an amused look. “Yes. Good, honest work.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Barnes. I know you think I’m a screwup, but I know all about hard, honest work.”
“I know you do, Jack.” She nods. “I know a lot more about you than you think.”
“And I already have two jobs. I need that money.” How do I drop the flower shop I’ve been at since I was twelve? And I can’t just up and ditch Tony and the car wash. And no way will I stop visiting Ben Croeden, Maria, and all those people who love listening to me play violin. I dig them too much.
“Your schedule’s your problem, Jack.” I notice she’s officially stopped calling me Mr. Dalton, like we’ve become closer or something. “This is the deal. Take it or leave it.”
I shake my head. “I just don’t get what difference it makes if I do one job or the other.”
“First of all, I’ve made sure the shifts you’ll get at the hospital will get you off the streets during prime troublemaking hours. And secondly, those hands of yours”—she points at my fingers—“and that brain in your head”—her finger flits toward my face—“I know how good you are at fixing things. I know you fixed Hallend Music’s indoor speaker system in less than an hour after they’d had two electricians come out to try. I’m in there a lot, since I play piano.”
I glance at her short, chunky fingers in disbelief.
“And I’ve seen your SAT scores,” she says. “You’re gifted at math. You need to start applying that to something that helps people. Tutoring will look good on your college applications if you haven’t already applied anywhere.”
I don’t tell her I don’t plan to go to college. I have a feeling it will just be another thing she pressures me to do.
“So”—she rounds the desk to stand in front of me—“choose, Jack. You can do the work I’m asking you to do. Or I can call Officer Fogerty right now and have him dust for prints.” Her thin lips tense. “No doubt he’ll want to get your mom involved.”
The idea of Mom forced to have more interaction with him terrifies me.
“Fine,” I say, feeling backed into a corner. “I’ll take your deal.”
“Good choice, Jack.” She shakes my hand. “Your first shift at the hospital starts Saturday night at eight. Your first tutoring session is tomorrow directly after school in the media center. If you don’t show up to either, or show up inebriated, drugged, or otherwise incapacitated, someone will tell me, and you’ll be in violation of our agreement. Officer Fogerty will be thrilled. Understand?”
“Clearly.” I give her a defeated look, then get up to head to my next class.
“Oh, and, Jack?” she says, stopping me. “Let’s be very clear.” She swallows, pausing dramatically. “It took everything I had not to laugh watching Officer Fogerty with a penis stuck to his hand.” The grooves in her face deepen as she smiles. She bows her head and busts out laughing.
I let loose, too, and for a long moment, we sit there and laugh at Fogerty 2’s expense. And when I leave, Ms. Barnes somehow seems a little more like one of the good guys.
Tessa
Seth walks me to my fourth-hour class, his hand in mine. But all I can think about is how I swore the police had come for me. For the drugs in my locker. And instead, Jack got hauled out of the lunchroom by a cop.
Now I keep thinking how he’s probably getting into serious trouble right now. But I don’t know why I’m even wasting brain synapses on him. I’m sure he deserves whatever he gets. It’s just that, on his way out of the cafeteria, the last person he looked at was me.
“You okay?” Seth asks.
; “Yeah,” I say too quickly.
We pass by the art room. I do everything I can not to look in or to sniff at the scent of clay and paint wafting from the doorway. But I can’t help it. And the minute I see the controlled chaos of brushes and paintings drying and people putting on aprons as they get ready to create, my chest tightens until I want to cry.
In February, when Grandma Leighton unveiled her plans for the rest of my life to me and my parents, my senior-year schedule got instantly rearranged. Economics replaced the psychology class I was excited about. My cherished art elective was stomped out of existence by a speech and communications class, apparently good for leadership. Now the closest I’ve come to art recently is doodling a camera on my arm with pen during my boring second-hour class.
Inside the art room, Mrs. Gretta, my favorite teacher in existence, waves at me. Like she misses me. And I have to turn away before I actually cry.
“Hey there,” Simone Channing calls, strutting up to us. And my already sour mood moves to beyond bitter.
Simone lays a hand on Seth’s shoulder as if he doesn’t already see her, as if I’m not standing right there. Seth doesn’t move away either.
“Did you hear what happened?” Simone’s whole body is jittery with excitement like she has just gorged on gossip and is about to puke it all over us. She leans between Seth and me, but more toward him, and says slowly, “Someone hit Emma Hadley.”
“Hit?” Seth asks. “You mean, like, punched her?”
Emma’s stalled blue car flashes in my head. Her arms waving as I pass by.
“No, silly. Not punched.” Simone pushes her face so close to his, I think she might go in for a kiss. “Someone hit her this weekend with their car and then took off.”
Her words scrape through me like jagged ice chips. Cold. Painful. All she needed was a ride. Or maybe just a cell phone. But I didn’t stop.
“A hit-and-run?” Seth asks.
Simone nods, her model-worthy features filled with excitement over this gossip.
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