Slide

by Jill Hathaway

  The bell rings, threatening reality. I want to escape into an alternate universe, one where I get to make out with Zane beneath the bleachers instead of wondering who killed Sophie Jacobs. Suddenly I understand the presence of that condom wrapper I saw under the bleachers last week. It was evidence of someone breaking away from the homework and lockers and lunch ladies—someone fleeing a world that lets a girl disappear and doesn’t ask questions.

  “Do you want to skip?” I ask, and the question is so out of nowhere it even surprises me.

  “And go where?”

  “I know a place.”

  Zane smiles. He doesn’t know that he is my refuge, the place I will go to escape.

  It’s colder this week. The wind whooshes beneath the bleachers, cutting through the thin material of my T-shirt. I should have thought out this plan better, brought my coat or something. But then Zane shrugs out of one side of his oversized corduroy coat, offering to let me share it with him, and I think everything is perfect.

  “So this is your place?” He looks around him, taking it all in. The candy bar wrappers. The cigarette butts. The mounds of dead leaves.

  “It’s not much,” I say. “But yeah. It’s where I go.”

  Zane nods. “It’s got a certain . . . mystique to it.”

  Mystique. Just the word to describe a place where you can see but can’t be seen, where you hear the things you don’t want to know. Just then, I realize why I’m so comfortable under the bleachers. Me lurking down here, it’s just like me sliding. I am a witness. Never a participant.

  “Something on your mind?” Zane asks, bumping into me playfully.

  There is actually something on my mind. I keep replaying the conversation I heard between Scotch and Amber. The thing he’d said about ruining his plans—would he go so far as to kill Sophie if she didn’t get an abortion? Is that too far-fetched?

  I feel like I need a new perspective. I could tell Zane the basics without revealing my secret. Maybe he’ll have some insight.

  “Okay, you know the girl who died? Sophie?”

  Zane nods.

  “Well, this officer came to our house, asking my sister questions about Sophie’s state of mind. He happened to mention Sophie was pregnant when she died.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. Anyway . . . I think I might know who the father was. You know Scotch Becker?”

  Zane groans. “Who could forget a guy named Scotch? He’s the charming fellow who suggested I come out after football. He said I seemed cool enough to get some of his castoffs.”

  I pause, the statement hitting a little close to home. “Gross. Okay, so the day Sophie died, I overheard Scotch telling one of his friends that he slept with Sophie.”

  Zane stares straight ahead. “That just . . . sucks.”

  I follow his gaze to the empty field. It’s easier to look at nothing when talking about these things than to look into Zane’s eyes and try to guess what he’s thinking. What I’m about to say might derail everything that’s happened between us in the past few days. Maybe he’ll think I’m crazy, paranoid like Samantha’s note in English class said.

  But maybe not.

  “Okay, so is it totally insane to think Sophie might not have killed herself?” I continue to not look at Zane. Instead, I pick up an orangey-brown leaf and start to shred it.

  A moment passes.

  “Um. What do you mean? If she didn’t kill herself, then who killed her?”

  Another moment.

  “You think Scotch killed her? Because of the pregnancy? You think he killed her and made it look like a suicide?” His voice sounds doubtful, but not like he thinks the idea is so out there I must be destined for a padded cell.

  “It’s a theory,” I say diplomatically. “Hey, Scott Peterson killed his wife when she was pregnant. And they were married. Scotch had a lot to lose. He’d probably have to give up his college scholarship and get a job at a car dealership or something. He’d never get out of Iowa.”

  Zane hunches forward and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess. Still, it seems like a big assumption—that he’d kill a girl over a lost scholarship?”

  I could tell Zane about what Scotch did to me freshman year. If I do, though, it’s like it turns me into Damaged Girl, and I don’t want that. I decide to shoot a different theory his way.

  “Okay, here’s another possibility. Kids have been talking about Sophie riding around with Mr. Golden. What if he’s the father? That would definitely be a motive to kill Sophie, wouldn’t it? His job would be at stake. He could go to jail for sleeping with a minor. But if he took her out and made it look like she killed herself, he’d be off the hook.”

  Zane twists his mouth, like he’s considering his words carefully. “Maaaaaaybe. Or maybe she just killed herself, Sylvia. I mean, that’s what people do when they feel like there’s no escape.”

  I feel the weight of his father’s suicide hanging between us. Zane, more than anyone, would know how each day could burden someone so much that they’d want to take their own life. The thing is, he didn’t know Sophie. If he did, maybe he’d be more willing to think outside the box.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Sylvia. I’m just saying that, when it comes to these things, the least complicated explanation is usually right. Sophie was pregnant. She didn’t know what to do. She was probably scared. She felt like she had no way out. Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.”

  I have to admit, he makes a good point.

  We are quiet for a while, and I just let the heat from his body seep into mine. Sharing his coat reminds me of when Rollins and I pretended to be Siamese twins. Except when I was with Rollins, my heart didn’t feel like it was going to slam its way right out of my chest.

  I hear a faraway bell. The period has ended. It’s time to return to my own personal hell, high school. Zane slips his half of the coat off and puts it around my shoulder, fully enveloping me with warmth.

  “Come on,” he says. “And try to avoid the broken glass. Can’t have you going to the nurse and meeting some other guy.”

  Zane and I mix with the stream of students flowing down the hallway. Someone catches my elbow, and I turn to see a blond cheerleader I used to be sort of friends with. Her eyes are bright, and she’s bubbling with excitement.

  “You missed it. Mattie and Amber got into a fight!”

  “What?”

  “Just now. Mattie called Amber a slut, so Amber punched her. It was. So. Insane.” The girl breaks away from me and launches herself toward someone else to broadcast the latest news.

  “What’s wrong?” Zane asks when he sees how white my face has become.

  “It’s my sister. Jesus, I’ve gotta find her. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sure, no problem. See you.” He squeezes my hand and then disappears into the crowd of people. I stand on my tippy-toes and survey the masses on their way to class, frantically searching for my sister’s face. She’s nowhere to be seen. I let the flow of bodies carry me down the hallway, passing classrooms and drinking fountains. As we pass the office, I spot Mattie through the window.

  Mattie and Amber sit outside the principal’s office, only one tacky orange chair between them. They avoid looking at each other, grimacing at their laps. My sister’s clothes are disheveled, the neckline of her cheerleading uniform ripped.

  Nasty emerges from his office. His mouth makes shapes and his finger points as he speaks, but I can’t hear him behind the smudgy window. He says something to my sister and then waves her out of his office like he’s tired of seeing her.

  She bursts through the door and almost slams right into me. “Vee!”

  I steer her toward the girls’ bathroom by her elbow. A senior in ridiculously high heels stands before a mirror, coaxing a contact lens back into place. She blinks a few times, picks up her pink purse from the counter, and brushes past us on her way out. All the stalls are empty, so I’m free to WTF all I want.

  “What happened?” I demand,
crossing my arms over my chest.

  Promptly, Mattie bursts into tears. “Amber’s such a bitch. She said Scotch knocked Sophie up and that’s why she killed herself.”

  I let out a deep breath. “She said that?”

  Mattie ducks into a stall and starts unrolling toilet paper. She dabs at her cheeks, wiping away the mascara streams coursing down her face. “Yeah, well, we were at my locker, and Samantha made some comment about Amber taking off with Scotch after the funeral. Amber hinted that he told her something big, and we kind of pushed her into telling us.”

  “And then she hit you?”

  Mattie shakes her head. “No. Amber said that’s why Sophie must have killed herself—because of the pregnancy. I got pissed because it’s like she was excusing herself from any responsibility. I mean, after what we did . . . So I asked her if she’d already forgotten about the picture we’d sent everyone, if she really thought that had nothing to do with Sophie’s suicide. That’s when she punched me.”

  I sigh. “Say no more.”

  Mattie dissolves into tears. I can’t stand the way she’s crying, knowing she blames herself for Sophie’s death. I want so badly to tell her that, although Sophie was unbearably hurt by her friends’ actions, she didn’t kill herself. I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth, and I hate myself for it.

  Instead, I pull her close and wrap my arms around her. “Mattie, you can’t blame yourself or Amber for Sophie’s death. There were other factors involved. Trust me. If you want to feel bad about making a mistake, go ahead, but make it a productive feeling. Don’t do anything like that again. But you can’t go around thinking Sophie is dead because of you.”

  Mattie pulls away slightly and looks me in the eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am, Mattie. I swear. You have to trust me.”

  She leans her head on my shoulder and sniffles. “I do.”

  After a moment, she pulls away and goes to the sink. She splashes water on her face and then smooths her hair. Meeting my gaze in the mirror, she offers a small smile. “Thanks, Vee.”

  “No problem. So what did Nasty say?”

  “He went easy on me because of Sophie’s death. He said he knew I was going through a lot, so he only gave me three days of in-school suspension. I’m supposed to go around and get stuff to work on.”

  In-school suspension is so not a big deal. Kids call it lockup, ironically. You have to sit in a little room attached to the teachers’ lounge and listen to the teachers gossip about who’s screwing who and who cheated on the Macbeth final exam. There’s a pop machine right outside the door, and if you play your cards right, you can nab a can of soda to make your stay more enjoyable. Not that I would know or anything.

  Mattie’s skin is all blotchy, and her eyes are red and puffy. A red welt is forming on her cheek, where I assume Amber hit her. She looks like she’s about to start crying again any minute.

  “Look, do you want me to go around and get your assignments for you?”

  “Would you?” she asks hopefully. “I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  “Sure. I’m not exactly in the mood for class.” To be completely truthful, I’m not exactly in the mood to run into Rollins after he snubbed me this morning.

  She pounces on me. “You’re the best!”

  I walk her to the teachers’ lounge. The window is covered in newspaper—probably so we can’t see the teachers partying during their prep periods. Mattie waves and ducks into the lounge. After she disappears, I try to figure out which of her classes to go to first. I decide to hit up her English class, since it’s the closest. Her teacher isn’t all that excited that I interrupted class, but she finds a Romeo and Juliet study guide and shoves it my way. Mattie’s other teachers are more pleasant and give me some worksheets to pass on to her.

  Next, I stop by her locker to get her textbooks. You can open 97.3 percent of the lockers at City High by punching them in just the right spot, so you learn really quickly to carry all valuables with you. Mattie’s locker, which she shared with Sophie, is a disaster. Photos are taped haphazardly on the inside of the door, among scribbled messages saying things like “Scotch is hawt” and “Mattie + Sophie = BFFEE” (Best Friends For-Effing-Ever).

  My eyes fall on one picture in the center of everything, the eye of the storm. Mattie stands between Sophie and Amber, and their arms are all around each other’s waists. From the way their faces are painted like cats, I can tell it’s from the state fair last summer. It seems like the picture was taken a million years ago. One of the girls is now dead, and the other two just mauled each other in the hallway. It reminds me how quickly things can change.

  On the bottom of her locker, under her gym shoes that smell like rotting broccoli, under a bunch of flyers advertising the cheerleaders’ car wash from September, under something suspiciously slimy in a paper bag, I find Mattie’s English textbook. I shake my head and pull it out, feeling a bit like the magician who snatches a tablecloth out from under a bunch of china.

  As I straighten up, I see Amber headed my way. Her hair hangs in long, messy clumps, and it’s pretty clear she’s been crying. It’s actually really sad. Between witnessing her crumpled on the bathroom floor of a funeral home and then later making out with Scotch Becker, the lowest of the low, I only feel pity for her.

  She stops at her locker and spins the knob. When she tries to pull the locker open, nothing happens. She tries again. And again. The locker stays shut. Finally, she releases a shriek and pounds on the metal before drooping in defeat.

  “Amber?”

  She turns her miserable face toward me.

  “Are you okay? Do you want some help?”

  She laughs bitterly. “I want a lot of things. Can you turn back time for me? Because that’d be great. I could go back and not be such an idiot. Not send that picture to everyone. Not be such a slut. Not get into a huge fight with my best friend.” She shakes her head.

  “I meant with your locker.” I push past her gently and pound on the door in just the right spot. It pops open.

  “Thanks,” she mutters, and pulls out her backpack. She shrugs it over her shoulders and slams the locker door. “Guess I’ll see ya later.”

  I watch her walk down the hallway and disappear around the corner.

  Maybe I’ve been wrong about Amber all along. Beneath that cold, bitchy exterior, it seems like she’s actually pretty vulnerable. She’s able to see the error of her ways, at least, and that’s more than you can say for some people. Once Mattie’s cooled off, I vow to put in a good word for Amber. They can help each other get past Sophie’s death.

  Armed with the English textbook and work sheets, I head toward the teachers’ lounge. In the detention room, Mattie is sitting with her back to the door, her head cradled in her arms. At first, I wonder if she’s crying, but when I touch her back and she turns toward me, her eyes are clear.

  I set the work sheets and textbook on the desk in front of her.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “No problem,” I reply. “You’d do the same for me.” In my head, though, I’m wondering if it’s true.

  When I turn to leave, Mattie grabs my arm.

  “No, really,” she says. “I appreciate you being here for me. I know we haven’t always gotten along . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. That’s what I’m here for.” I mean what I say, but as I turn to leave, I find myself wondering who I’m supposed to count on.

  After school, I fight my way through the crowd to get to my locker. It seems like everyone is yapping about the fight. I wish I had earplugs so I could stop hearing all the gossip about my sister and Amber.

  Just as I’m stuffing an orange notebook into the already-bursting seams of my poor bag, Rollins appears. He leans on the locker next to mine.

  “Hey. I heard about your sister. That sucks.”

  I give him a cold look. There’s something about him ignoring me this morning and now trying to act all buddy-buddy with me that rubs me the w
rong way.

  “So we’re friends now? Because I wasn’t sure after this morning . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” Rollins tries to look innocent. It’s infuriating.

  I feel like everything from the last couple of days is building up inside me, a crescendo of terror and anger and frustration. The need for release is so strong.

  I turn to face him. “Let’s review. You walk out on Friday night for no reason. When my sister’s best friend dies, you don’t call. You don’t text. Nothing. And now you’re avoiding me in the halls. Oh, yeah. I saw you this morning. As soon as you realized I was with Zane, you turned and walked away. Let me tell you something, Rollins. I need a friend right now. Get it?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches. He doesn’t say a word, just does a 180 and walks the other way, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “What was that all about?”

  Zane pops out of nowhere and stoops down to rest his arm on my open locker door. His grin is a mile wide—so bright and warm, I can almost feel the sun beating down on my face.

  “Nothing,” I mutter. “I’m just having a really heinous day.”

  “Hmmm,” he says, pressing one finger against his chin like he’s thinking hard. “There’s only one thing that makes me feel better when I’m having a bad day. Jelly doughnuts.”

  “What?” My stony face cracks into a smile.

  “Jelly doughnuts. They’re like an instant orgasm for your tongue. Come on, we’ll go get some. I know the best place.”

  I slam my locker door and let him lead me down the hall toward the parking lot.

  An hour and 89,467 calories later, we pull into my driveway. I’m still licking the cherry goodness from my fingers, sighing from the clump of sugar in my belly. The air in the car is sweet and comfortably warm.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Zane says, playing with the radio. He puts on some bad eighties music. It’s perfect.

  “Go for it.”