The Jodi Picoult Collection #3

by Jodi Picoult

  The silence shattered, laughter breaking it apart like glass. “God! How’d you know?” Courtney said.

  “Because Josie tells me everything, including when she’s sleeping over at your house. Now take me off speakerphone and let me say good night to her.”

  Courtney handed the receiver over. “Good answer,” Josie said.

  Matt’s voice was smoky with sleep. “Did you doubt it?”

  “No,” Josie replied, smiling.

  “Well, have fun. Just not as much fun as you’d be having with me.”

  She listened to Matt yawn. “Go to bed.”

  “Wish you were next to me,” he said.

  Josie turned her back on the other girls. “Me, too.”

  “Love you, Jo.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “And I,” Courtney announced, “am going to throw up.” She reached over and punched the disconnect button of the phone.

  Josie tossed the receiver on the bed. “It was your idea to call him.”

  “You’re just jealous,” Emma said. “I wish I had someone who couldn’t live without me.”

  “You’re so lucky, Josie,” Maddie agreed.

  Josie opened the bottle of nail polish again, and a drop spilled off the brush to land on her thigh like a bead of blood. Any of her friends—well, maybe not Courtney, but most of them—would have killed to be in her position.

  But would they die for it, a voice inside her whispered.

  She looked up at Maddie and Emma and forced a smile. “Tell me about it,” Josie said.

  * * *

  In December, Peter got a job in the school library. He was in charge of the audiovisual equipment, which meant that for an hour after school each day, he’d rewind microfilm and organize DVDs alphabetically. He’d bring the overhead projectors and TV/VCRs to classrooms, so that they were in place when the teachers who needed them arrived at school in the morning. He especially liked how nobody bothered him in the library. The cool kids wouldn’t have been caught dead there after school; Peter was more likely to find the special-needs students, with their aides, working on assignments.

  He’d gotten the job after helping Mrs. Wahl, the librarian, fix her ancient computer so that it stopped blue-screening on her. Now Peter was her favorite student at Sterling High. She let him lock up after she left for the day, and she made him his own key to the custodial elevator, so that he could transport equipment from one floor of the high school to another.

  Peter’s last job that day was moving a projector from a bio lab on the second floor back down to the AV room. He had stepped into the elevator and turned a key to close the door when someone called out, asking him to hold the door.

  A moment later, Josie Cormier hobbled inside.

  She was on crutches, sporting an AirCast. She glanced at Peter as the doors of the elevator closed, and then quickly down at the linoleum floor.

  Although it had been months since she’d gotten him fired, Peter still felt a flash of anger when he saw Josie. He could practically hear Josie ticking off the seconds in her head until the elevator doors opened again. Well, I’m not thrilled being stuck in here with you either, he thought to himself, and just about then the elevator bobbled and screeched to a halt.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Josie punched at the first-floor button.

  “That’s not going to do anything,” Peter said. He reached across her—noticing that she nearly lost her balance trying to lean back, as if he had a communicable disease—and pushed the red Emergency button.

  Nothing happened.

  “This sucks,” Peter said. He stared up at the roof of the elevator. In movies, action heroes were always climbing through the air ducts into the elevator shaft, but even if he stood on top of the projector, he didn’t see how he could get the hatch open without a screwdriver.

  Josie punched at the button again. “Hello?!”

  “No one’s going to hear you,” Peter said. “The teachers are all gone and the custodian watches Oprah from five until six in the basement.” He glanced at her. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “An independent study.”

  “What’s that?”

  She lifted a crutch. “It’s what you do for credit when you can’t play gym. What were you doing here?”

  “I work here now,” Peter said, and they both fell silent.

  Logistically, Peter thought, they’d be found sooner or later. The custodian would probably discover them when he was moving his floor buffer upstairs, but if not, the longest they’d have to wait was morning when everyone arrived again. He smiled a little, thinking about what he could truthfully tell Derek: Guess what, I slept with Josie Cormier.

  He opened an iBook and pressed a button, starting a PowerPoint presentation on the screen. Amoebas, blastospheres. Cell division. An embryo. Amazing to think that we all started out like that—microscopic, indistinguishable.

  “How long before they find us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Won’t the librarians notice if you don’t come back?”

  “My own parents wouldn’t notice if I didn’t come back.”

  “Oh, God . . . what if we run out of air?” Josie banged on the doors with a crutch. “Help!”

  “We’re not going to run out of air,” Peter said.

  “How do you know that?”

  He didn’t, not really. But what else was he going to say?

  “I get freaked out in small spaces,” Josie said. “I can’t do this.”

  “You’re claustrophobic?” He wondered how he hadn’t known that about Josie. But then again, why should he? It wasn’t as though he’d been such an active part of her life for the past six years.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Josie moaned.

  “Oh, shit,” Peter said. “Don’t. Just close your eyes, then you won’t even realize you’re in an elevator.”

  Josie closed her eyes, but when she did, she swayed on her crutches.

  “Hang on.” Peter took her crutches away, so that she was balancing on one foot. Then he held on to her hands while she sank to the floor, extending her bad leg.

  “How’d you get hurt?” he asked, nodding at the cast.

  “I fell on some ice.” She started to cry, and gasp—hyperventilate, Peter guessed, although he’d only seen the word written, not live. You were supposed to breathe into a paper bag, right? Peter searched the elevator for something that would suffice. There was a plastic bag with some documents in it on the AV trolley, but somehow putting that on your head didn’t seem particularly brilliant. “Okay,” he said, brainstorming, “let’s do something to get your mind off where you are.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe we should play a game,” Peter suggested, and he heard the same words repeated in his head, Kurt’s voice from the Front Runner. He shook his head to clear it. “Twenty Questions?”

  Josie hesitated. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

  After six rounds of Twenty Questions, and an hour of geography, Peter was getting thirsty. He also had to pee, and that was really troubling him, because he didn’t think he could last until morning and there was absolutely no way he was going to take a whiz with Josie watching. Josie had gotten quiet, but at least she’d stopped shaking. He thought she might be asleep.

  Then she spoke. “Truth or dare,” Josie said.

  Peter turned toward her. “Truth.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  He ducked his head. “Sometimes.”

  “You should,” Josie said.

  “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth,” Josie said.

  “Do you hate me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why,” Peter asked, “do you act like you do?”

  She shook her head. “I have to act the way people expect me to act. It’s part of the whole . . . thing. If I don’t . . .” She picked at the rubber brace of her crutch. “It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Truth or dare,�
� Peter said.

  Josie grinned. “Dare.”

  “Lick the bottom of your own foot.”

  She started to laugh. “I can’t even walk on the bottom of my own foot,” she said, but she bent down and slipped off her loafer, stuck out her tongue. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth.”

  “Chicken,” Josie said. “Have you ever been in love?”

  Peter looked at Josie, and thought of how they had once tied a note with their addresses to a helium balloon and let it go in her backyard, certain it would reach Mars. Instead, they had received a letter from a widow who lived two blocks away. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”

  Her eyes widened. “With who?”

  “That wasn’t the question. Truth or dare?”

  “Truth,” Josie said.

  “What’s the last lie you told?”

  The smile faded from Josie’s face. “When I told you I slipped on the ice. Matt and I were having a fight and he hit me.”

  “He hit you?”

  “It wasn’t like that. . . . I said something I shouldn’t have, and when he—well, I lost my balance, anyway, and hurt my ankle.”

  “Josie—”

  She ducked her head. “No one knows. You won’t tell, will you?”

  “No.” Peter hesitated. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “That wasn’t the question,” Josie said, parroting him.

  “I’m asking it now.”

  “Then I’ll take a dare.”

  Peter curled his hands into fists at his sides. “Kiss me,” he said.

  She leaned toward him slowly, until her face was too close to be in focus. Her hair fell over Peter’s shoulder like a curtain and her eyes closed. She smelled like autumn—like apple cider and slanting sun and the snap of the coming cold. He felt his heart scrambling, caught inside the confines of his own body.

  Josie’s lips landed just on the edge of his, almost his cheek and not quite his mouth. “I’m glad I wasn’t stuck in here alone,” she said shyly, and he tasted the words, sweet as mint on her breath.

  Peter glanced down at his lap and prayed that Josie wouldn’t notice that he was hard as a rock. He started to smile so wide that it hurt. It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls; it was that there was only one right one.

  Just then there was a knock on the metal door. “Anyone in here?”

  “Yes!” Josie cried, struggling to stand with her crutches. “Help!”

  There was a bang and a hammering, the sound of a crowbar breaching a seam. The doors flew open, and Josie hurried out of the elevator. Matt Royston was waiting next to the janitor. “I got worried when you weren’t home,” he said, and pulled Josie into his embrace.

  But you hit her, Peter thought, and then he remembered that he had made a promise to Josie. He listened to her whoop with surprise as Matt swept her into his arms, carrying her so that she wouldn’t have to use her crutches.

  Peter wheeled the iBook and projector back to the library and locked the AV room. It was late now, and he had to walk home, but he almost didn’t mind. He decided that the first thing he’d do was erase the circle around Josie’s portrait in his yearbook, take her characteristics off the roster of villains in his video game.

  He was mentally reviewing the logistics of that, in terms of programming, when he finally reached home. It took Peter a moment to realize something wasn’t right—the lights weren’t on in the house, but the cars were there. “Hello?” he called out, wandering from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen. “Anyone here?”

  He found his parents sitting in the dark at the kitchen table. His mother looked up, dazed. It was clear that she’d been crying.

  Peter felt something warm break free in his chest. He’d told Josie his parents wouldn’t notice his absence, but that wasn’t true at all. Clearly, his parents had been frantic. “I’m fine,” Peter told them. “Really.”

  His father stood up, blinking back tears, and hauled Peter into his arms. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged like this. In spite of the fact that he wanted to seem cool, that he was sixteen years old, he melted against his father’s frame and held on tightly. First Josie, and now this? It was turning out to be the best day of Peter’s life.

  “It’s Joey,” his father sobbed. “He’s dead.”

  Ask a random kid today if she wants to be popular and she’ll tell you no, even if the truth is that if she was in a desert dying of thirst and had the choice between a glass of water and instant popularity, she’d probably choose the latter. See, you can’t admit to wanting it, because that makes you less cool. To be truly popular, it has to look like it’s something you are, when in reality, it’s what you make yourself.

  I wonder if anyone works any harder at anything than kids do at being popular. I mean, even air-traffic controllers and the president of the United States take vacations, but look at your average high school student, and you’ll see someone who’s putting in time twenty-four hours a day, for the entire length of the school year.

  So how do you crack that inner sanctum? Well, here’s the catch: it’s not up to you. What’s important is what everyone else thinks of how you dress, what you eat for lunch, what shows you TiVo, what music is on your iPod.

  I’ve always sort of wondered, though: If everyone else’s opinion is what matters, then do you ever really have one of your own?

  One Month After

  Although the investigative report from Patrick Ducharme had been sitting on Diana’s desk since ten days post-shooting, the prosecutor hadn’t given it a glance. First she’d had a probable cause hearing to pull together, then, she’d been in front of the grand jury, getting them to hand down an indictment. Only now was she beginning to sift through the analyses of fingerprints, ballistics, and bloodstains, as well as all the original police reports.

  She’d spent the morning poring over the logistics of the shooting and mentally organizing her opening statement along the same path of destruction Peter Houghton had followed, tracking his movements from victim to victim. The first to be shot was Zoe Patterson, on the school steps. Alyssa Carr, Angela Phlug, Maddie Shaw. Courtney Ignatio. Haley Weaver and Brady Pryce. Lucia Ritolli, Grace Murtaugh.

  Drew Girard.

  Matt Royston.

  More.

  Diana took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. A book of the dead, a map of the wounded. And those were only the ones whose injuries had been serious enough to involve a hospital stay—there were scores of kids who had been treated and released, hundreds whose scars were buried too deep to see.

  Diana did not have children—hell, in her position, the men she met were either felons, which was awful, or defense attorneys, which was worse. She did, however, have a three-year-old nephew, who’d been reprimanded in his nursery school for pointing his finger at a classmate and saying, “Bang, you’re dead.” When her sister called up indignant and spouting about the Bill of Rights, had Diana thought that her nephew was going to grow up to become a psychopath? Not for a moment. He was just a kid, playing around.

  Had the Houghtons thought that, too?

  Diana looked down at the list of names in front of her. Her job was to connect these dots, but what truly needed to be done was to draw a line long before this: the tipping point where Peter Houghton’s mind had shifted, subtly, from what if to when.

  Her eye fell on another list—one from the hospital. Cormier, Josie. According to the medical records, the girl—seventeen—had been admitted overnight for observation after a fainting spell, and had a laceration on the scalp. Her mother’s signature was at the bottom of the consent form for blood tests—Alex Cormier.

  It couldn’t be.

  Diana sat back in her chair. You’d never want to be the one to ask a judge to recuse herself. You might as well announce that you doubted her ability to be impartial, and since Diana would be in her court numerous times in the future, it just wasn’t a smart career move. But Judge Cormier surely knew that she couldn’t addre
ss this case fairly, not with a daughter who was a witness. Granted, Josie hadn’t been shot, but she’d been hurt during the shooting. Judge Cormier would recuse herself, certainly. Which meant there was nothing to worry about.

  Diana turned her attention back to the discovery spread across her desk, reading until the letters blurred on the page, until Josie Cormier was just another name.

  * * *

  On her way home from the courthouse, Alex passed the makeshift memorial that had been erected for the victims of Sterling High. There were ten white wooden crosses, even though one of the dead children—Justin Friedman—had been Jewish. The crosses were nowhere near the school, but instead on a stretch of Route 10 where there was only floodplain for the Connecticut River. In the days after the shooting, there might be any number of mourners standing by the crosses, adding to the individual piles of photos and Beanie Babies and bouquets.

  Alex felt herself pulling her car off the road, onto the shoulder. She didn’t know why she was stopping now, why she hadn’t stopped before. Her heels sank into the spongy grass. She crossed her arms and stepped up to the markers.

  They were in no particular order, and the name of each dead student was carved into the crosspiece of the wood. Most of the students Alex did not know, but Courtney Ignatio and Maddie Shaw had crosses beside each other. The flowers that had been left behind at the markers had wilted, their green tissue wrappers rotting into the ground. Alex knelt down, fingering a faded poem that was tacked to Courtney’s memorial.

  Courtney and Maddie had come for a sleepover several times. Alex remembered finding the girls in the kitchen, eating raw cookie dough instead of baking it, their bodies fluid as waves as they moved around each other. She could remember being jealous of them—to be so young, to know you hadn’t yet made a mistake that would change your life. Now Alex flushed with chagrin: at least she had a life to be changed.

  It was at Matt Royston’s cross, however, that Alex started to cry. Propped against the white wooden base was a framed photograph, one that had been enclosed in a plastic bag to keep the elements from ruining it. There was Matt, his eyes bright, his arm hooked around Josie’s neck.