Social Suicide

by Gemma Halliday

  All they can. That wasn’t the most positive phrase. I was about to ask more when another car came around the corner, lights flashing red and blue. Apparently in addition to paramedics, my officer had called for backup. Unfortunately, as the car pulled to a stop at the curb, I recognized that backup.

  Tall, red-haired, round-bellied. And the one thing that could make my night worse.

  Detective Raley.

  I briefly contemplated running again, but since blisters were already bruising my heels, I nixed that idea, instead drawing myself up as tall as I could while he approached.

  “Hartley,” he said.

  “Detective Raley.”

  He took a deep breath, staring off into the tree line. “Why is it that whenever anything criminal goes on in this town, there you are?”

  “Great reporter’s instinct?”

  He shot me a look. Clearly his opinion differed on that one.

  “All right, let’s hear it,” he said, pulling a notebook and pen from his back pocket. “What were you doing here?”

  I pursed my lips together, not sure how much to tell him. Best-case scenario: Nicky was unconscious and certainly not talking to me tonight. Worst case: He was never talking to anyone again.

  “I was meeting Nicky,” I finally confessed.

  “Why?” he asked, bushy eyebrows frowning.

  “I was interviewing him for the school paper.”

  “About what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “School stuff.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave me an expectant look. “Well?”

  “Oh, did you mean, ‘will I be more specific’? Because ‘can’ implies an ability. I have the ability to be more specific, but if you’re asking if I have the intention of complying with a request to be more specific, then what you really mean is ‘will I be more specific.’”

  I watched Raley grind his back teeth together, his nostrils flaring. If I’d had to guess, he was employing some sort of anger management technique and mentally counting to ten.

  “Okay, will you please be more specific, Hartley?” he asked, his teeth still cemented together in a grimace.

  “Sure. What was the question?”

  A vein bulged in Raley’s forehead, and I was pretty sure he was one blood-pressure point away from a full-blown aneurysm.

  “Did you see who hit Nicky?” he asked instead, changing gears.

  “Kinda.”

  “Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “What does ‘kinda’ mean?”

  “It means I saw someone hit him on the head, but I couldn’t see who did the hitting. It was really dark and the guy was keeping to the shadows.”

  “Guy?” Raley asked, jumping on the word. “So it was a male you saw?”

  I bit my lip. “Honestly? I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  Raley sighed, flipping his notebook shut. “So you didn’t really see anything?”

  I bit my lip. “Sorry,” I said, sincerely meaning it. Maybe if I had gotten a good look, we’d both have our killer now.

  “Okay,” Raley said, resigned to my status as the worst witness ever. “I’ll have someone drive you home.”

  Considering the blisters were growing to astronomical proportions, I got in the car. (Besides, it wasn’t like he gave me much choice.)

  The first uniformed officer drove me home in silence, though the second he walked me to the front door, it was clear someone had called ahead to Mom.

  “Oh, Hartley!” She tackled me in the foyer, grabbing me in a hug so tight I felt it rearranging my internal organs.

  But honestly? After the night I’d had, I needed a spleen-displacing hug. I wrapped my arms around her middle and hugged back. After a long comforting moment, Mom pulled back to look at me.

  “Are you okay, honey?” she asked, her eyes searching my person for visible scars.

  I nodded, putting on my bravest face.

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t cry,” Mom said, hugging me again.

  Okay, so my bravest wasn’t all that brave at the moment.

  I sniffled, getting myself under control as the uniformed officer gave Mom a quick rundown of what had happened. When he was done, Mom looked about as aneurysm-close as Raley had.

  “God, Hartley, the park after dark? What were you thinking?”

  Which was totally unfair. I mean, it’s not like I knew I was going to witness a near murder. But, instead of arguing, I opted for the answer that would get me upstairs, in bed, and most important, out of these heels, the fastest.

  “Sorry.”

  “A deserted park?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You could have been killed!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  I shrugged. “Super-duper sorry?”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “It’s late. Go upstairs. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  I nodded, gladly making my escape.

  The next morning, true to her word, Mom cornered me before school, giving me a lecture on leaving the house after dark as she virtually force-fed me a plate of vegan bacon and I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Egg-Whites.

  And, as if the SMother wasn’t enough, by the time the first-period bell rang, I’d gotten two dozen texts asking if it was true that (A) Nicky was attacked in front of me (yes!), (B) I’d gotten Nicky attacked (no!), and (C) there would be a Sydney tribute before the homecoming game (which I’m pretty sure was sent to me by mistake, since Ashley was on the homecoming beat).

  By lunch, everyone had heard the news about Nicky, but there was one person who I knew would have the real deets. The instant I reached the cafeteria, I zeroed in on Drea, who was taking her tray of Tuesday Tacos to a table near the back.

  “Drea,” I called, hailing her as I approached.

  She looked up. Then shot me a death look. “You!” she yelled, pointing one finger my way.

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Uh, me?”

  “Because of you and your nosiness, Nicky’s in the hospital.”

  Honestly? It was more because of Nicky’s cheating-ness, but I decided this was not the time to point that out.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I asked instead.

  She sat down and popped the top on her chocolate milk. “Maybe. He has a skull fracture. And a concussion.”

  I cringed. “That sounds bad.”

  She nodded, her eyes turning red with the effort not to cry and ruin her mascara. “It is. He was unconscious for a long time, and now they’re keeping him in the hospital for a couple days for observation. And I can’t even see him,” she said, a sob escaping.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, putting a hand on her arm. “Listen, Nicky was at the park last night because he had something to tell me. Something about the test answers. I think he was going to tell me where he got them. Did he say anything to you about it?”

  Drea shrugged. “He said he was going to meet you, but he didn’t say why.”

  “Did he tell you where he got the answers?”

  She shook her head. “No. He said he couldn’t. He didn’t want to get me in trouble in case he ever got caught. He was protecting me,” she said, breaking down in a sob again.

  “Have you talked to Nicky since the attack?”

  She nodded. “Once. But he’s not supposed to be on the phone very long. He needs to rest.”

  “What did he say? Who attacked him?”

  She shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.”

  I pursed my lips together. “Look, Drea, this is a matter of life and death,” I told her, not being entirely overdramatic. “I need to talk to Nicky and find out what he knows.”

  Drea pulled out her cell and scrolled through menus. “They’re only letting family in to see him, but I can give you the number I have to call his room.”

  “Perfect.” I grabbed my own cell, typing in the number as Drea recited it.

>   I thanked her and stepped outside before hitting Send.

  Four rings in, a woman answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, hi. I wanted to speak to Nicky?”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Hartley. We’re friends from school,” I said, stretching the truth just a little.

  “I see. Well, this is Nicky’s mom, and I’m sorry, Hartley, but Nicky isn’t taking any calls right now. He’s been through quite an ordeal and needs his rest. I’ll tell him you called and that you’re thinking of him.”

  “It’s important!” I protested.

  “Thank you for calling,” she said. Then hung up.

  But I wasn’t giving up that easily.

  I slipped back into the cafeteria, scanning the rows of tables for Sam. I finally spotted her near the center of the room, seated next to Kyle. They were feeding each other bites of taco shell from Sam’s plate. Which in itself was cute enough to be slightly nauseating, but they had taken it over the top with their outfits today. Sam was wearing a pink T-shirt that said, “I like Boys,” and Kyle was wearing a baby-blue one with the word “Boy” in the center.

  I tried to ignore the oozing cuteness and made a beeline toward their table.

  “Hey. I need your help,” I said, plopping down next to Sam.

  “Dude!” Kyle said. “Everyone’s been tweeting about Nicky. Sucks.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’s kinda what I need help with.” I quickly filled Sam and Kyle in on what had happened the night before.

  “Someone clearly didn’t want Nicky to talk to me,” I finished.

  “Just like they didn’t want Sydney to talk to you,” Sam pointed out.

  “Whoa. Déjà vu, dude,” Kyle said.

  “Which is why we need to get to Nicky and fast,” I agreed. “If he really was hit by the person behind stealing the test answers, chances are the guy—”

  “Or girl,” Sam put in.

  “—will come back for him.”

  “So how are we going to do that?” Kyle asked. “Didn’t you say his mom isn’t letting him on the phone?”

  I nodded. “We need to talk to him in person.”

  “How?” Sam asked.

  I pursed my lips together. “We go to the hospital.”

  Sam shook her head. “But if his mom won’t let Drea see Nicky, what makes you think she’ll let us?”

  “She won’t,” I agreed. “Which is why we need to sneak in. And that’s where you come in.”

  It took a series of texts to Sam that spanned sixth and seventh periods to convince her that sneaking into a hospital room was not an offense that would go on her permanent record and ruin her chances at Stanford. By the time school got out, she was 90 percent on board with my plan, which was just enough to get her on the bus that ran down Los Gatos Boulevard to the hospital.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were hiking our book bags onto our shoulders as we pushed into the lobby. Immediately we were assaulted with the smells of disinfectant, rubbing alcohol, and latex gloves. I swallowed down the unpleasant memories of booster shots and penicillin the scents conjured up and made my way toward the room number Drea had supplied.

  After about four wrong turns, we found it. It was upstairs in the pediatric wing, at the end of a long hallway. Right in front of the nurses’ station.

  Sam and I casually walked past, peeking in the door. As I’d anticipated, standing vigil not only over the phone but over Nicky as well was a large woman with salt and pepper hair. I’d bet anything she was Nicky’s mom.

  “Okay, Sam, this is where you come in,” I said. “I need a really good distraction.”

  She bit her lip. “Fine. But you so owe me one after this.”

  I nodded. “Tell you what—I’ll forgive you for dressing me in those hecka-blisters heels.”

  She contemplated this for a moment. “Just be quick. I don’t know how long I can keep Mom away.”

  With that, Sam turned away and strode purposefully toward the nurses’ station. I watched her take a deep breath . . . then let it out on a sigh as she collapsed onto the floor.

  Immediately the nurse behind the desk dove toward her, calling out to another nurse, the two of them quickly surrounding her.

  As I’d hoped, Nicky’s mom came out of the room to see what the commotion was.

  It was now or never.

  I quickly slipped down the hallway and into Nicky’s room.

  He was propped up in bed, a tray of Jell-O in front of him and a TV in the corner playing a SpongeBob episode. There was a bandage wrapped around his head, and I could see that his long hair had been shaved off on one side.

  He looked up as I entered, blinking at me, confusion clear on his face as his concussed brain tried to figure out what I was doing there.

  “Hartley?” he asked.

  “Hey,” I said, quickly going to his side, one eye on the door, where I expected his mom to bust back in at any second. “We need to talk, and I don’t have much time.”

  “How did you get in here?” he asked, looking past me.

  I shook my head. “Not important. What is important is that you tell me what you were going to tell me at the park.”

  Nicky bit the inside of his cheek. He looked down at his hands. “I don’t remember.”

  He was the worst liar ever.

  “What do you mean, you don’t remember?” I asked, desperation kicking in.

  He looked up at me again. “I got hit on the head. I don’t remember.”

  “You’re totally lying.”

  “Prove it,” he said jutting his chin forward.

  Since I couldn’t, I changed tactics. “Who attacked you?”

  He shrugged. “I got hit from behind. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “But I saw you arguing with the person first! You must have seen his face then?”

  He paused, something flitting across his eyes. If I’d had to guess, I’d say it was fear. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Look, if you’re scared of this guy, the police can protect you. Just tell me what you know. Once it’s out in the open, you’ll be safe.”

  “Right.” He snorted. “Last time I decided to tell you something I got my head bashed in and ended up here,” he said, gesturing to the hospital room around him. “The only way I’m going to be safe is by keeping my big mouth shut.”

  “Nicky, please,” I pleaded. Sam could only play sick for so long. Any second now, his mom would be back.

  “I’ve said all I have to say.” He clamped his mouth shut for emphasis.

  “Nicky—”

  But that’s as far as I got, as Mom pushed through the doorway. Her eyes narrowed, clearly surprised to see me.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice holding a sharp edge that said a call to security was about half a second away.

  “Uh . . . I’m . . .”—I quickly grabbed a pillow from behind Nicky and fluffed it—“I’m a candy striper. Yeah, I volunteer here at the hospital. Just came in to make sure our patient is comfortable.” I gave Mom a big toothy smile as I replaced Nick’s fluffed pillow.

  Nicky opened his mouth to speak, but I shot him a death look.

  He clamped it shut again.

  “Oh,” Mom said, her posture relaxing. “In that case, do you have any magazines? I’d really love something to read in here.”

  “Absolutely,” I lied. “No prob. One magazine coming up!” I ducked my head to avoid Mom reading the lie plainly written there.

  Which was my fatal mistake.

  I would have totally gotten away without anyone being the wiser if I’d just watched where I was going instead of plowing headfirst into someone else.

  “Ohmigosh, I’m so sorry,” I said, whipping my eyes up.

  Straight to Detective Raley’s.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “HARTLEY,” RALEY SAID.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, hi. We meet again, huh?” I commented, doing a poor attempt at humor.

&n
bsp; Which, judging from the scowl on his face, was totally lost on him. He made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort and answered with a “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m . . . uh . . .” I quickly looked around the nurses’ station for any sign of Sam, but thankfully, my accomplice was long gone. “I’m . . . volunteering,” I said, going with the same story I’d told Nicky’s mom. It was almost the truth. I mean, I had offered to get Nicky’s mom a magazine, right?

  Raley narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Since when do you volunteer at the hospital?”

  “Since today,” I squeaked out.

  “Interesting timing.”

  I bit my lip, but since he hadn’t phrased it in the form of a question, I didn’t feel compelled to answer.

  Raley looked from me to the doorway to Nicky’s room. “You just came from that room?”

  I nodded. Slowly.

  “Nicky Williams’s room?”

  “Is it?” I asked, all mock innocence.

  Raley’s eyes narrowed into fine slits. “Listen, Hartley. Nicky has a severe concussion. He was attacked by someone who meant to put him out of commission.”

  I swallowed hard. “I know. I saw.”

  “Then you know this is not some game. Until we find out what happened to Nicky, I don’t want to see you anywhere near him.”

  “But I’m this close to finding out who killed Sydney,” I said, stretching the truth just a little.

  Raley cocked his head to one side. He took a step forward. Then in his most fatherly voice said, “Hartley, I’m sorry, kid, but Sydney killed herself.”

  I shook my head, feeling my hair whip my cheeks. “You’re wrong. It was Twittercide.”

  His eyebrows headed north. “It was what?”

  “Never mind. Look, she was killed. I’m sure of it. Nicky being hit practically proves it!”

  “Nicky being hit means he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You kids shouldn’t be in the park after dark.”

  “Seriously? You’re calling this a coincidence?”

  Raley crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, as far as I can tell, the only thing Nicky and Sydney have in common is you.” He shot me a pointed look.

  “Me?” I squeaked out. “You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with this.”