Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

“Please,” he says, and for the first time, desperation enters his tone.

  My brain flashes on that moment in the woods, when his arm was broken and his ankle was sprained and I had to drag him out. I don’t want this image, not right now, but my thoughts don’t care what I want. I stop on the stairs.

  “He was the one to turn your dad in,” says Connor, his voice coming in a rush like he expects me to cut him off again. “I thought—I thought he knew you were in on it. I thought it was all true. I thought you’d been lying to me the whole time. You and your dad were so—you were so close—”

  “Stop. Connor. Stop.” My throat tightens. I don’t want to think about my father or how close we were. I don’t want to think about Bill’s turning my best friend against me on the worst night of my life.

  He stops.

  I draw a long breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Rob—”

  “I wasn’t helping him.” I look at him. “I wasn’t. You could have just asked me.”

  “I know.” He swallows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know everything was like this.”

  “So what?” I make a disgusted noise. “God, do you know what you sound like? Dad wouldn’t let me call you. You’re not ten.”

  That pops his pity balloon. He sets his jaw and glares at me.

  I set mine and glare back.

  “What’s going on?” says Mom. I didn’t even see her appear at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Connor was just leaving,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

  Okay, whatever. I don’t care. I turn and head for my room. I try to close the door in his face, but he catches it and wrestles for control.

  He never used to be stronger than me, but he is now. He muscles his way inside.

  I expect him to throw a punch, but he doesn’t. He closes the door and sits down in front of it. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

  “Fine. Sit there.” I go into my bathroom and brush my teeth even though it’s only seven o’clock. Then I lose my jeans, climb into bed, and click the light off.

  Connor doesn’t move.

  I’m barely tired, but I stare at the ceiling, listening to his breathing.

  I have an endless supply of patience. I can outlast him for sure.

  At midnight, he’s still sitting there. Well, he might be lying in front of the door. I’m not entirely sure, but I heard him change position.

  By two a.m., I’m still awake. I don’t know how to fix anything with Maegan. I have no idea whether I’m doing the right thing with Owen. I hate Connor—but I miss him, too.

  His father is awful. It’s never been a secret—at least not to me. He drives Connor into the ground, and nothing Connor does is ever good enough. I imagine Connor getting my panicked, hysterical call and going to his father, asking for help.

  It’s easy to imagine, because I know how I would react.

  My father would have thrown me into the car and started calling, trying to find out what was going on.

  My father would have gotten Connor out of the house and into our car. He would have played interference with the cops and rescue workers. He wouldn’t have left Connor’s side.

  Maybe that’s why I never considered this scenario. I always thought about what I would have done. What my father would have done.

  I never considered that even though our lives once looked very similar from the outside, they were nothing alike on the inside.

  I look over. Connor is still awake, though he’s lying on the hardwood floor, his eyes on the ceiling.

  I pull one of the extra pillows off my bed and fling it at him. “Fine. Tell me what happened in the game against Carroll.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Maegan

  Tuesday morning brings overcast skies and a bitter cold front. The air smells like snow when I step outside, and the wind bites at my cheeks. The only people I seem to be getting along with now are my parents, and I think that’s only because they’re so mentally tied up in what’s going on with Samantha.

  She still hasn’t told them who the father is.

  She still hasn’t seen a doctor or made a decision about what she wants to do.

  She still hasn’t said a word to me.

  I can add her to the list of people who are irritated with me, right along with Rob, Rachel, Drew, and Owen.

  It’s a miracle I’m going to school at all, honestly.

  Mom has a business meeting out of town today, so one of her coworkers picked her up. It’s a rare day I get the car to myself for school. I click the remote to unlock the doors, when I hear Samantha’s voice behind me.

  “Hey.” She gives a little cough. “Megs.”

  I stop and turn. Her hair is piled in a knot on top of her head, and she’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt and jeans. Zero makeup. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Do I know you?”

  I’m aiming for only mildly passive aggressive, not bitchy, but Sam scowls and glances away.

  Okay, whatever. I open the car door. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait.”

  I sigh. “What?”

  “I was wondering if you would go with me somewhere.”

  I slide my phone out and glance at the time. “I need to be at school in fifteen minutes. Where do you need to go?”

  She opens her mouth, then hesitates and wraps her arms around herself. “It’s fine. Never mind.”

  “No, Sam, it’s fine. What, do you need something from the drugstore?”

  She looks up and meets my eyes. “No. I want …” Her voice falters, but she steels her nerve and narrows her eyes. “He won’t return my calls. He’s blocked me everywhere. I want to confront him.”

  “David?” I whisper.

  “Yeah. David.”

  I try to work this out in my head. She goes to school over two hours away. “Does he live around here?”

  “No.” She looks at me like I’m being an idiot. “Megs, forget it. It was stupid.”

  I jingle the keys in my hand. It’s not stupid. I can tell. I want to offer to let her take the car if she can drop me off at school, and those words almost spill out of my mouth. But then I consider what she just said.

  “I’d have to cut school,” I say carefully. “I think they send out an e-mail if you don’t show up.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “You want to cut school?”

  “Well. I don’t want to.” I swallow. I’d get in a ton of trouble if Mom and Dad found out. We’d be right back where we were last spring. “But what are you going to do? Confront him in his classroom?”

  “Yes.”

  I was kidding. “Whoa.”

  She flinches. “You think it’s stupid? I mean, he’s blocked me everywhere. His wife hung up on me. It’s the only place I know he’ll be.”

  “But your scholarship—”

  “I don’t care. I can’t keep hiding. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t do this alone. It’s not fair.”

  I’m not sure what to say.

  Samantha’s shoulders slump a little. “You think it’s a terrible idea.”

  I don’t know if it’s a horrible idea—or a great one.

  Somehow this conversation feels similar to the one Owen and I had over the lunch table yesterday. Owen was right. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is simple and straightforward and easy.

  I do know it’s not right that Samantha is miserable and alone and this guy somehow gets to decide to cut her out of his life like it’s nothing, when she has no choice but to deal with the fallout.

  “If you want to go, I’ll go with you.” I clear my throat. “I don’t know how to get around the e-mail thing.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” says Sam. “I’ll call and pretend to be Mom.”

  “You think they’ll believe you?”

  She smiles, and it’s somehow both hesitant and exultant. “I know they will. I used to do it all the time.”

  Our drive is full of loud music and road trip snacks and many—ma
ny—bathroom breaks for Samantha. I worried that she would be morose and silent, but if anything, she’s over the top, singing bawdy songs and flicking popcorn at me. I know now from the events at Connor Tunstall’s house that this is Sam’s way of disguising stress: being the ultimate party girl.

  With a start, I wonder if this was how she dealt with stress in high school, too. She always made the athletic pressure seem like something that would roll right off her back, like excelling in lacrosse was a gift she was born with and not a skill that was honed to a razor’s edge with every hour spent on the field. To everyone else, Samantha looked vivacious and carefree, but was she really drowning inside the whole time?

  I wish I’d known before. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt the need to measure up without feeling any stress myself. Maybe I wouldn’t have tried to cheat.

  We’re thirty minutes away and giggling about a prank call they played on the radio, when Sam falls silent. It’s such an abrupt shift that I reach out to lower the volume.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She bites at the edge of her thumbnail, and her voice is very quiet. “What am I doing, Megs?”

  “You’re going to confront David.” I hope my voice sounds strong and full of conviction.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Do you want me to turn around?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Do you still want to do this?”

  “Yes. Maybe. Probably.” She jerks her thumb out of her mouth. “Damn it. Yes.”

  I hesitate.

  Samantha looks over. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? He calls campus security and throws me out of his classroom?”

  “Is that a possibility?” My voice is strangled.

  “No. Maybe.”

  “Aren’t you worried about school canceling your scholarship?”

  “I don’t know if I can go back there, Megs. Either way.” She looks over, and her face starts to crumple. “You know? Knowing all this happened? Like—” Her breath hitches. “Like, how am I supposed to go to class every day, knowing he’s right there, on campus? The baby’s daddy? Or the no-more-baby’s daddy? How am I supposed to do that?” She’s crying full out now. “How, Megs?”

  I reach out and take her hand, and she grips mine tightly. “I don’t know.”

  As abruptly as her tears started, they stop. She sniffs hard and wipes at her face. “Enough of this. I want to do it. I want to get it done.”

  I glance at the navigation app on my phone. We’re less than ten minutes away. “Do you know where he’ll be right now?”

  Her eyes are clear now, full of fury. “Absolutely.”

  I’m slightly familiar with the campus from driving Samantha down here to move in, but back in August, the large brick buildings were charming, trees dripping with leaves as the summer sun beamed down. Today, a bitter chill clings to everything. The barren trees and overcast sky leave the campus looking sinister instead of welcoming.

  Or maybe that’s the current of dread running through Mom’s car.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I offer as I pull into a parking place in front of Guilder Hall, the building Samantha indicated.

  “Oh, no. I’m doing it.” She’s out of the car before I even have the vehicle in park.

  I hustle to keep up with her. She’s the old Samantha again, bold and fearless, storming into the building the way she used to storm across a lacrosse field. The hallways are hushed, doors closed, as teachers speak to smaller groups of students. We pass all those, walking until we come to a set of wooden double doors.

  Sam grabs the handle without hesitation and breezes through. I can barely keep up with her.

  “Wait,” I hiss. Surely she must need a plan of some sort.

  She doesn’t wait. She doesn’t stop. The doors slam shut behind us, and we round a turn—only to find ourselves looking up at a hundred students or more.

  Whoa. Of course it would be a packed lecture hall and not a group of half a dozen freshmen talking about Chaucer.

  I’m staring at the students, so it takes me a moment to realize Sam is staring at the professor. This must be DavidLitMan.

  He looks older than he did in the Instagram photograph. His hair is slightly thinning in front, and his jaw is a bit too pudgy. He wears a button-down oxford shirt with khakis. Nothing amazing about him at all.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” Sam grinds out. She’s practically breathing fire.

  I almost miss the slight paling of his cheeks, but he recovers quickly and clears his throat. “Miss Day. We’re in the middle of class. If you’d like to talk about your missed work—”

  “I don’t want to talk about missed work.”

  “Well, then, you’re welcome to make an appointment—”

  “Are. You. Insane?”

  A titter of laughter runs through the class. David—can I call him David?—glares at them and they fall silent.

  Sam takes a step closer to him. Her hands have formed fists at her sides.

  I wonder if she’ll hit him. I wonder if I should stop her.

  Probably best that she not commit assault in front of a hundred witnesses.

  “I want to talk to you,” she says, her voice quiet and vicious.

  “I’m asking you to leave,” he says.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “You’re putting your grade in danger, Miss Day. I’ve told you before that I will not tolerate disrespect—”

  “You think I care about my grade?”

  “I’m asking you to leave. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving until you talk to me. You can block my calls. You can have—you can have your—your wife—” Her voice hitches. Oh no. She’s going to lose it.

  I stop next to her and wrap her hand up in mine.

  I don’t know if it’s her emotion, or the rapt attention of the students behind us, but DavidLitMan seems to lose his cool. His cheeks have reddened, and he glares at us. “Go!” he snaps. “I’m not having this conversation in class.”

  “I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” Samantha says. A tear snakes its way down her face.

  He moves a step closer to us, turning his back to the class. “I could lose my job here,” he hisses. “Just—just go to my office. We’ll work it out, okay?”

  Samantha draws a big indignant breath—but then David adds, “I still love you. I want to work it out. I just—I can’t do it here.”

  That breath slides out of her lungs.

  No, I think. No.

  But Samantha is nodding. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”

  She takes a step back. Turns for the door.

  My strong, amazing sister. It’s all a front. Inside, she’s as insecure and desperate as I am. As we all are, really.

  I grab her arm and hold her there. “No,” I say. “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” says David. “I have a class to teach.”

  “No,” I say again.

  Samantha sniffs and looks at me. “Megs. What—”

  “You don’t love her,” I snap, and I make sure I’m loud enough that the back row is getting a good earful. “If you loved her, you wouldn’t have blocked all her calls. You wouldn’t have refused to talk to her or meet with her or discuss what you did together.”

  His face has turned beet red. “Young lady, you are way out of line.”

  “No, you are out of line,” I say. “You don’t love her. You don’t have any business telling her you love her.” I’m so angry, I’m yelling now. “You had sex with a student. You’re disgusting. And now she’s pregnant, with your baby, and you think you can make it all go away by whispering that you still love her?”

  He takes a fury-filled step toward me, and he looks so menacing now that I’m worried he’s going to hit me.

  Samantha shoves me to the side. “Don’t you dare touch my sister.”

  “I wasn’t—” He rakes a hand through his hair. Sweat has beaded up on his forehead. You could hear a pin drop in this classroom. “I didn�
��t do anything. I don’t know what you girls think you’re pulling—”

  “I’m pregnant,” Samantha yells at him. “I’m not pulling anything. I’m pregnant. With your baby. And you need to deal with it, because I can’t do this by myself.”

  Then she bursts into tears. I pull her against me. She sobs against my shoulder.

  David stands there, and his expression is some mixture of anger and defeat and regret and fear. A lot of fear.

  But no compassion. No sympathy.

  “Come on,” I murmur to Sam. “Let’s go.” I glare at David. “I’m telling my father who you are. He’s a cop. So worry about more than your job.”

  It’s not really a threat—we live out of state and whatever he did with Samantha was consensual. But David goes pale again anyway.

  We’re halfway down the hallway when running steps come slapping down the tile behind us. I turn, expecting David to be barreling down on us, but it’s a pretty girl with waist-length dark hair. She’s slender and athletic like my sister.

  “Oh,” says Sam. She swipes at her face. “Hey, Vic.” A loud sniff. “Megs, this is Victoria. She plays midfielder.”

  Victoria has no time for niceties. “Is that true?” she says, her voice hushed. “Is that where you’ve been?”

  Sam nods hard, then buries her face in my shoulder again.

  “Tell Coach that I’ll call her tonight,” Sam says, and somehow Victoria makes that out from the muffled sobs on my shoulder, because she nods.

  “It’ll be okay,” she says. She puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.” She glances at me. “I’m glad Sam has a sister to lean on.”

  I hug Sam tighter. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Rob

  “You look like crap,” says Owen.

  “Tell me how you really feel.” We’re sitting at our usual lunch table. Connor is sitting at his. I don’t feel like anything was resolved last night … but I don’t feel like the tension between us is the same as it was yesterday. By the time my alarm went off, he was gone.

  Maegan isn’t in school today. I keep looking at our text messages and want to send her one, but I don’t have the courage to do it.