She rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever.”
The lights dim further as the program starts. Sister Rasmussen takes the stage. She doesn’t wear a traditional nun’s habit, though she does wear the customary black polyester-blend vest and matching pants. Her gray hair reflects the lights directed at the makeshift stage. She’s the youngest president St. Agatha’s has ever had, but she’s still in her sixties. I sometimes forget her age when I talk to her, because she seems so in tune with everything happening around her. But today, when she seems to be shouldering the weight of the entire student body, I can see every day of her sixty-some years etched on her face.
She clears her throat, and the low hum of dispirited conversation trickles to silence. My heart founders, lumbering lower in my rib cage than it should.
“Seven months ago, we lost one of our brightest students. Tyler Richland was a brilliant pupil, an esteemed classmate, and a Christian example to all of us. He made the ultimate sacrifice to save the lives of friends, both old and new. And his memory will be forever synonymous with integrity, compassion, and valor.”
Each word is a chiseled letter on a flat stone in a snowy graveyard. I haven’t been to Graceland Cemetery since I said good-bye to Tyler in December, but I will never forget the deep grooves of his name under my fingertips, the negative space of the lettering echoing the hole his absence left in my life. Leaves. And not just my life, if the sniffling and nose-blowing around me are any indication.
“Before we ask Tyler’s family to perform the dedication ceremony, designating this gymnasium as the Tyler Richland Athletic Center, I would like to turn the podium over to you. You knew Tyler best. I can think of no more fitting way to honor him than to have those of you whose lives he touched share your most treasured memories of Tyler with our community.”
The next hour is torture as student after student walks up to the podium and tells a tearful story of how Tyler affected them. I listen to every single one, trying desperately to suppress my memories with theirs.
“I was convinced I’d never be able to remember all my lines. I panicked and told Tyler I was going to quit the play. But he wouldn’t let me. I still remember him dressed in that ridiculous costume, putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, ‘You can’t leave me here alone with these yahoos.’ He barely even knew me. We’d talked maybe once since I started at St. Agatha’s. But he ran lines with me for a month….”
The voice from the stage fades into ambient noise as a too-strong memory bubbles to the surface….
“Well, I have the perfect remedy,” Tyler says. “Close your eyes.”
Out of curiosity, I humor him.
“Okay, open them.”
When I do, he’s making a ridiculous face—eyes crossed, head tilted forward, one finger stretching his mouth into a clownish grimace. I laugh reflexively. His face snaps back to its normal gorgeousness, his delighted smile echoing mine.
“Works on my little sister every time,” he says. “Ready for another one?”
I nod and close my eyes….
I come back to the present, holding my head. Another student has replaced the last. I focus on his words.
“…thought for a second he was going to flatten me. I mean, it was a crappy thing to do, I know. I hadn’t meant for things to get that out of hand. And he’d have had every right to beat me to a pulp. But Tyler stepped in, totally diffusing the situation before I ended up in the hospital. I owe him all my remaining teeth, if not more….”
And then I swirl under again….
Only when he pulls me to his chest and I am bound by his arms do I notice that I’m shaking.
After a few minutes, he says, “Where can I take you?”
“I don’t have any place. I don’t have anyone.”
“You have me,” he says, and my heart feels a little less like a prisoner of war….
Stop, I beg my sadistic brain, fixing my attention on Tyler’s best friend, Nick, who’s taking his turn onstage.
“…a thousand little things that all added up to my best friend. We did everything together from the time we were twelve. Every sport, every class, every party. It’s hard to feel like my life didn’t end when his did. Every day is a struggle. And the worst part is that I never…I never told him…”
And don’t I know how that feels? I finally give in and let Tyler drag me under.
“You mean everything to me. And that means I do whatever it takes to save you. Even if saving you means losing you.”
I stop arguing, but I’m breathing hard and glaring at him.
Tyler’s gaze softens. “Sam is not the only one who loves you…”
Bryn hands me a tissue. I stare at it, my eyes dry as a desert. But as soon as I touch the lotion-infused paper, the waterworks start. Thanks, Bryn. Thanks a lot.
After the last masochist leaves the stage, Sister Rasmussen steps up to the mike. “Thank you, everyone, for sharing those stories. As long as you carry Tyler’s memory with you, he will never truly be gone. Now, for the dedication, I will turn the podium over to Mrs. Richland.”
Tyler’s mom looks like a different person. She’s still the ice queen I remember, but there are deep cracks in her facade that weren’t there before. I flinch, dropping my gaze. This is the part I was dreading the most, seeing her. I avoided the newspapers, the online “news” articles, the media circus surrounding Tyler’s death and his father’s incarceration as much as I could. I didn’t want to see what I’d done to his mother or the rest of his family. I couldn’t stand the thought of watching stoic Mrs. Richland fall to her knees, knowing that I was responsible. I accidentally came across one grainy photo taken of Tyler’s family at his funeral and it almost choked me. Seeing her now is even worse.
“I officially dedicate this gymnasium to the memory of my beloved son, Tyler Atticus Richland. Lily, if you would light the candle….”
My eyes sweep to Mrs. Richland’s left, where Lily is openly weeping and lighting a lone candle on a table. The electric candles around me switch on as the community conveys its solidarity to Tyler’s memory.
“Why is Lily up there?” I whisper to Bryn and Murphy, as I recall that grainy photograph. It was small, black-and-white, and taken from a distance. The people were all dressed in heavy black clothing with black hats and sunglasses. But there was a girl. Half hidden behind Mrs. Richland. Her head down, long, dark hair shielding all but a sliver of her face from the camera…
“She’s Tyler’s sister,” Bryn says. “Didn’t you know that?”
I’d be mad, except what right do I have? She played me. And anyone who can do that has my grudging respect. Besides, she didn’t exactly try to hide her relationship to Tyler. She just never told me her last name, and I never asked. Tyler mentioned his sister, telling me that she was enrolled in an all-girls’ school across town. But he never said she was adopted, or that her name was Lily. Which just shows again how little I actually knew him.
“How long have you two known?” I say, glaring at them.
“Since she transferred here in March,” Murphy says. “You really didn’t know?”
Bryn gives him a look, and he shuts up. “We didn’t mention it, because you were having a rough time getting over Tyler’s death, and then everything happened with Skyla, and it just sort of…” She gestures vaguely. “You never brought it up, and we thought you didn’t want to talk about it, so we never brought it up. After a while it had been too long, and it just felt awkward….”
I count down from ten in my head. I really have just the worst minions ever.
“Well, this explains how she got Dean Porter to let me in the program. The dean is probably still wrecked over Lily’s dad.”
“Shhh,” says Carter, Murphy’s tech-club buddy, who elbows Murphy in the ribs and nods toward the bottom of the bleachers where Dean Porter is giving us the evil eye. “Moment of silence.”
Lily. Lily is Tyler’s sister. And everyone knew but me….Awesome. I pull out my phone and text Dani to come pick me
up. I’m not interested in spending more time in Murphy’s company right now.
After the ceremony, Lily leaves the stage with her mother, not so much as glancing in our direction. Sister Rasmussen comes over to our group, though. Part of me wonders if we’ll get chastised for interrupting the moment of silence. But recrimination is not really Sister Rasmussen’s style.
“Ms. Dupree,” she says. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in my office tomorrow, after you finish your finals.”
“Sure,” I say, though I’m on guard. Sister Rasmussen has been lenient with me, and I suspect has gone out of her way to shelter me from the dean the past few months. But we’re not exactly besties. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” she says. “I’d like to discuss your summer internship with you.”
“All right.”
Several PTA parents pull the president into a conversation, giving us the opportunity to join the river of students leaving the gym.
“What was that about?” Murphy asks.
“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
My phone beeps with a text. I check it, expecting to see Dani’s name pop up. Instead, the message is from Mike.
You okay?
Angela must have told him about the vigil. Or maybe he just remembered it was today. Or maybe he found out about the hit on me. Most likely scenario: Angela told him about the vigil.
Dealing. When are you coming back?
Next Saturday. Why?
The Chevelle should be done by tomorrow, so at least I won’t have to explain its absence. I’ll have a harder time explaining the contract killer if I haven’t gotten that taken care of by then.
No reason. How’s the investigation going?
“Who is it?” Murphy asks, peeking over my shoulder.
“Mike. He’s still in New York.”
“Good thing.”
It’s classified.
“Typical,” I say.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I pocket my phone. I have better things to do than wonder what Mike is up to anyway. “I’m going for coffee. Anybody want some?”
“I thought Dani said no Ballou,” Murphy says. I level a glare at him, and he throws up his hands. “All right, all right. It’s your funeral.” Bryn smacks him in the chest. “Ow. You know what I mean.”
When I walk through the door to the Ballou, Yaji, my barista buddy, takes one look at me, cuts off his chat with the customer at the register, and heads directly to the espresso bar. Good man.
Two and a half minutes later, I’m sitting in the far corner of the café, huddled over my cup like I’m all the passengers on the Titanic and it’s the only life vest. I lay my cheek on the plastic lid and close my eyes. For the briefest of moments, I manage to push away all the stress and fear and unanswered questions, and there is only the cup and me. It lasts for a mere handful of heartbeats, but it’s enough to slow my breathing and clear the mental clutter. It’s enough to make space for my inner grifter to take stock.
One: Lily. What is she up to? Why would she want to work for me while keeping who she is a secret? Did she transfer to St. Agatha’s just to take me down? If so, why help me by getting the dean to let me into the NWI internship?
Two: The contract killer. Who would put a contract out on my life? The only person who hates me that much is Petrov. And while I’m not naive enough to think that Petrov wouldn’t have influence outside of his jail cell, I just can’t see him hiring someone to kill me. It’s personal between him and me. If he ever gets even with me, he’ll pull the trigger himself. So then who? Someone who doesn’t want me getting too close to NWI? It’s possible, I suppose. The Chevelle wasn’t vandalized until after I first met Mrs. Antolini. And the first hit attempt happened after I wandered out of Bar63, which is somehow connected to NWI. But it’s not like I’ve gotten very far. I haven’t even made it to the NWI office yet. Besides, the timing might not mean anything.
I take a long swig from my coffee cup, and then rub my forehead. Too many connections, too many coincidences, too much going on at once. Like…
Three: The blue fairy. I’m no closer now to figuring out what that means than I was when Mrs. Antolini first mentioned it. Does it have to do with Victoria Febbi? And if so, does it have anything to do with my mom or that tuition check I got in December?
Or maybe it has something to do with…
Four: The Morettis. The dean is keeping a giant file on me with dossiers of people I’ve never heard of and can’t track down. On top of which, I have no idea how I fit into that picture. I can’t ask my mom. My dad either doesn’t know or isn’t telling me. And the dean sure as hell isn’t going to clue me in until she’s already tightening the noose.
The itch of someone watching me causes me to look up. Standing just in front of the coffee bar is Victoria Febbi, the dreadhead bartender from Bar63, holding a Ballou cup. She walks over and pulls a chair next to the couch I’m sitting on. She’s wearing jeans, a leather vest over a puffy cream-colored peasant shirt, and an uncertain expression.
“Look,” she starts, rolling the coffee cup between her hands. “I’m sorry about what happened at the bar the other day. I heard about it on the news.”
I lean back, confused. Why are we having this conversation? But then I realize it doesn’t matter why we’re having this conversation. We’re having a conversation. Perfect opportunity to pump her for info.
“No apology necessary. Unless you’re the one who put a hit out on me.”
She snorts dryly. “Nope, not me.” When she catches me studying her, she says, “Wait. You’re serious. Someone put a hit out on you?”
I shrug, careful not to reveal too much.
“You don’t know who?”
“I’m still working on the who.”
“Strange for a Loyola drama student to have made that serious an enemy.”
“It’s possible I wasn’t as honest about myself as I could have been.”
“It’s possible I guessed as much.” She smirks at me.
“I suppose that’s what makes you a ‘world class’ bartender.”
She huffs in irritation. “That stupid article. It wasn’t my idea. But the boss thought it would be good publicity.”
“The boss?” I ask. “I thought you owned the place.” I didn’t really think that, but I need to transition the conversation over to her side.
“Nah, I don’t own it. I’m just a peon.”
“Why Bar63? It’s kind of a weird name.”
“Why so curious all of a sudden?” she asks, raising a dark eyebrow.
“Just making conversation.” I bump up the wattage on my smile. “That’s what drew me, actually. The name.” Pro tip: A little truth goes a long way.
“Well, hopefully this doesn’t disappoint you, but it’s named after the address: 6341 North Broadway.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat deflated. I regroup quickly, though, thinking of Mr. Antolini’s receipts. “And you’ve been open since March?”
She nods.
I peel the sleeve off my cup, feigning nonchalance. “I heard about the bar from a friend who went before it opened. In February sometime. He said the booze was fifty percent off because you hadn’t gotten your liquor license yet.”
She snorts. “Your friend lied to you. Our first patron was served—legally—on March fourteenth. You should get better friends.”
The denial is not surprising. No one would admit to a stranger that they’d done anything illegal. And it’s entirely possible that the bar served Mr. Antolini and his NWI associates without Victoria’s knowledge. But there’s something twitchy in her answer—a microexpression that seems off. I surprised her just now, and she’s doing her best to hide it.
“Well, I should go. Try not to die, kid,” she says as she stands to leave.
“I always do,” I say. “Nice talking to you, Victoria. I’ll see you around.”
“Tori’s fine,” she says. “And no, you probably won’t.” She walks out
the door without a backward glance.
I check my phone for the time. No fewer than three texts from Dani at varying levels of panic asking me where I am. I totally forgot I’d texted her to come pick me up. At school. She knows me, so she’s probably on her way here, which is not going to end well for me.
I jump up, sloshing foam onto my hand. I swing my backpack onto my shoulder and head to the door. But before I get there, someone else walks in. I drop the cup and coffee splatters everywhere.
It isn’t Dani.
“Sam,” I say.
Dani comes in on Sam’s heels. Her angry expression turns surprised when she sees Sam. I barely notice her entrance, that’s how shocked I am myself. I didn’t realize until just now that some part of me thought I’d never see him again.
“Sam.” I clear my throat, which is clogged with so many conflicting emotions—fury, hurt, fear, hope—it doesn’t know which feeling to swallow first. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting coffee,” he says, his eyes as riveted to me as mine are to his. “And looking for you,” he admits.
My heart both shrivels and soars. I’ve missed him more than I thought. “I mean, why aren’t you in Georgia? At school?”
“I—” He blinks, his expression shuttering to guarded. “School ended last week. I met my parents in New York over the weekend. I just got back.”
“Why didn’t you text me that you were coming home? Or, you know, at all?”
“I’m here now.”
I’m distracted from needling him further by the catalog my brain can’t help but make of the differences this Sam has from my Sam. This Sam is roughly the same height but broader in the shoulders, with shorter hair and a haunted look. He’s torn. He’s harboring secrets and he’s not happy about it. He breaks eye contact first, bending to pick up my forgotten coffee cup. He even moves differently, with more purpose. More like Dani. I don’t like it. I want my Sam back. I want my Sam to never have left.
Dani skirts the spilled coffee to reach my side. “Why are you here? You were supposed to wait for me in the lobby.”
Trust Me, I'm Trouble Page 7