by Sarah Mello
I could hear her thumping heart beating through her chest.
“Are you insinuating that I did it?” Piper asked.
“Maybe,” I replied.
“That’s your angle, Sonny? That I framed my own boyfriend? That I what—snuck into my dad’s office, got my hands on the answer key, and planted it in JC’s bag when he wasn’t looking?”
“That’s eerily specific,” Winston mumbled.
“What would I gain from framing him?” she asked.
“Maybe nothing,” I said. “Or maybe everything.”
Her innocent eyes turned sinister. “I would appreciate it greatly if you would stop trying to snoop around. I lost someone I really cared for because of his poor choices, and I'm trying to move on.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Piper, you know you can talk to me, right? You can trust me.”
Piper was the definition of brains and beauty. Every teacher praised her. Every girl wished she looked more like her. Every guy wanted to date her. Perhaps it was because she was inaccessible—like an expensive porcelain doll tucked far away on the highest shelf.
But behind the powdered skin and picture-perfect report cards, Piper was just a girl. A girl like me, fighting to define herself in a place where others did it for you.
She stared blankly into my eyes as the flickering porch light made shadows on her face. “You’re one of the good ones who still thinks trust exists.” She stepped away, beginning to shift toward her car.
I matched her movement, stopping her before she could get too far. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Piper? Anything at all?”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Anything,” I said.
Piper paused for what seemed like an eternity. “There is one thing,” she said.
I leaned in, desperate for her reply.
“You’ll be sorry if you don’t drop this.” She walked down my porch steps, opened her car door, and turned to face us. “And by the way—this is Westcott, Sonny. You’re never the only one anywhere.” She slammed her car door and sped off into the stale California night.
“What in the hell was that?” Winston asked.
“That was a cover-up,” I replied. “True Westcott style.”
Sometimes, girls free-fall. Sometimes it’s by choice, other times by mistake. But sadly, once your feet have left the ledge, there’s no going back.
7
shadows
Shadows. Dark areas where light is blocked by an object. When I was little, I loved to skip alongside the silhouette of my shadow down the sidewalks of Westcott. I found it comforting that my shadow always walked ahead of me, or beside me, and I never had to question whether or not it was there, or why it was there. But as I got older, I realized there are other types of dark areas. Ones you can’t see. Ones that don’t follow you around while you stroll through town like a giddy schoolgirl—but instead stay tucked away in those black, scary places. And those dark areas, you always have to question.
I pulled up my text thread to ensure I had the correct address. Jacob’s house was remarkable. It was all white brick, which paired nicely with the glistening green grass. Each sagebrush bush was perfectly trimmed to hit the bottom of every crisp black shutter. The long stone pathway leading up to the porch was welcoming, though I still felt unsettled approaching the tall, dark doorway.
His doorbell played a fancy song.
“You’re here,” Jacob said as he opened the door.
“So I am,” I replied.
Seeing Jacob outside of school felt a bit odd—especially given the circumstances of our arrangement. He was wearing a worn T-shirt and sweats. I wished I felt as comfortable as he looked.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” He held out a hand to usher me in.
I walked inside, stepping onto the pristine black marble tile.
“I don’t know that ‘humble’ is the correct word,” I said, gaping at the tall white columns in the entryway.
“Yeah, well, I have to keep up with my fellow purples.”
“My house does not look like this, I can assure you.”
“No?”
“Well, I guess one of them does.”
“Oh, so you have two homes?” he asked. “How humble.”
I gave him a coy glare. “My parents are divorced. My father lives on the hillside—just about five minutes from here.”
“Coach Dirk, right?” He led me into his exquisite kitchen.
I sat down on a white leather barstool, pulling myself closer to the white marble countertop. It had a particular shine to it. “That’s him.”
“Wrestling, correct?” Jacob pulled out a gallon of iced tea from his stainless-steel refrigerator.
“Right.”
“Well, I’m sure you know a lot about wrestling, but what do you know about the basketball team? Do you have any insight on the competition or tryout process?” he asked.
My mind quickly flashed to Dean. “I’d say it’s pretty competitive. Every sport at Westcott is.”
“Back in Long Beach, being on the team just meant that you’re part of a brotherhood,” he said. “Something tells me Westcott is a bit more cutthroat.”
“Well, you’re certainly offered brotherhood. But if you want to stand out, you will have to cut their throats.”
Jacob grabbed two glass cups out of a light gray shaker cabinet and placed them on the counter. “You’re witty, you know that?” He poured in the tea.
“That’s what years of writing will do to you.”
“What exactly do you write?” He handed me a glass.
“I don’t want to bore you.” The cool tea swam through my body as I took a sip.
“I doubt you will,” he said.
“Just . . . stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Fiction, mostly.”
“Fiction. Mostly.” Jacob tossed a crumpled-up paper towel into the trash can five feet away. “You have a way with words.”
I tilted my head to the left. “And tell me again why you’re worried about the tryout process?”
He smiled. “I heard Norah’s boyfriend plays.”
At the mention of Norah’s boyfriend, I sunk into my barstool.
“Do you know him?” Jacob asked.
I paused, likely longer than I should have.
“Sonny?”
“Not anymore,” I replied.
Jacob studied me. “Hey, we can, uh, we can wait in my room if you want. My dad is on a call. He should be finished soon.”
“Sure.” I swallowed my nerves.
His joggers clutching his ankles, Jacob led the way upstairs. I counted the wood steps as I watched his bare feet climb each one. We approached the landing, and Jacob opened his bedroom door. The décor smacked me straight in the face.
“Wow. This is—”
“Underwhelming?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I said, feeling jealous.
Jacob plopped down on his white comforter. The tufted dark gray headboard bounced against the wall behind it. “My mom’s an interior decorator. She went a little crazy.”
“In general or specifically while decorating your room?” I looked around at the black-and-white artwork covering the walls.
Jacob stared at the ceiling, giving thought to my question. “Maybe both.”
“What does it feel like to be such a great athlete?” I asked, standing in front of his bookshelves. I found myself admiring his rows of medals and shiny gold trophies.
“Someone’s gotta do it, you know?” He propped himself up against his headboard.
“Well, thank you for your bravery,” I replied.
“I actually have a ton more where that came from,” he said. “I wanted to build custom shelves to display them all, but my mom said it would mess with the feng shui, so she wouldn’t allow it.”
“You’re incredibly deprived, you know that?”
Jacob tossed a suede throw pillow at my back. “All right, that’s two in a row! Enough with your wit!�
��
Smiling, I kneeled down to pick up the pillow, then walked over to a beanbag chair in the corner of the room and sunk into it.
“I love your room,” I said. “It’s so . . . clean?”
He stared at me. “Why thank you.”
Just then, I spotted a picture frame tucked carefully underneath the big fluffy chair.
“Who’s this?” I pulled the metal frame toward my face.
Jacob clasped his hands behind his head and sighed. “That . . . is Claire.”
“Is she your—”
“Girlfriend,” he said. “Well, she was my girlfriend. From back home.”
I ran my thumb over the glass, captivated by this stranger. Her eyes were bright, the kind of eyes I wish I had. Her beautiful dark brown hair fell out of her messy ponytail and lay across Jacob’s face. He was nestled into her neck as she smiled into the camera and snapped the photo.
“Bad breakup?” I asked.
“Something like that,” he said. “She passed away last year.”
I glanced up at him from the floor, taken aback by his reply.
Jacob took a deep breath. “Distracted driver. We dated for a year, and then, just like that, she was gone. She was on her way to one of my basketball games when—” He choked on his words.
I put the picture frame back down.
“I guess basketball hasn’t been the same for me since. Trying out for the team would sort of be a big deal for me—if I try out.”
I twisted my thumbs, searching for the right words to say. “What was she like?”
Jacob’s heavy eyes floated around the room. “Ah, she was smart. Very funny. Caring. She loved to read . . . and eat.”
“Sounds like my kind of girl,” I said.
“Her favorite thing to do was trying out different brunch spots around town on Saturdays. She’d wake me up at seven in the morning, scared we wouldn’t have enough time in the day if we didn’t hurry. I’d wake up to her prying my eyes open. Literally. We must have eaten at every restaurant—ever.”
“Expensive date.”
Jacob stared off into his bedroom and smiled a little. “She was worth it.”
I traced my fingers over the pattern on his jute rug. Perhaps I didn’t know the first thing about Jacob, or the past he’d been dragging around like thousand-pound chains on his ankles. Maybe he wasn’t the type of guy who would go for the prettiest and meanest girl in school. Perhaps he was just searching. Searching for anything to remind him of what he’d lost. Chasing the high of a love he once felt, scared to death he may never feel it again.
“She sounds lovely,” I said.
“She was,” he replied. “She actually, uh, she actually was a lot like you.” Jacob’s eyes scanned my body.
“You must be Sonny.” Mr. Harrison suddenly appeared. He stood inside of the door frame, then slowly walked into Jacob’s room. He moved smoothly in a navy suit and shiny loafers that could blind you.
I broke the intense eye contact I shared with Jacob and stood up to meet him. “Mr. Harrison, I am such a fan of yours.”
“I have fans?” he asked. His voice was loud and confident. “And call me Ron, please.”
Jacob put his head down. He pressed his lips together and looked up at me from his bed. He was bothered by his father’s interruption, and it was painfully obvious.
“I followed the Farrah Klein case,” I said. “I knew she was innocent.”
“Me too,” Ron replied.
“Dad, Sonny would like to interview you for her end-of-year paper,” Jacob said.
“Ah, you’re one of the Chosen Ten?” Ron asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “So it seems.”
“Impressive. I hear there’s some intense competition.”
“Which is why I felt telling this story from your angle would produce a powerful paper,” I said. “I was two seconds away from having to write about body shaming or bullying.”
Ron’s dark eyes were hard to read. “Well, who needs that when you can write about a dozen grisly murders?” He paused. “I’d be happy to help. Why don’t we head to my office?”
I looked at Jacob. “You coming?”
“If you want me to,” he replied, rolling his feet off the edge of the bed.
I nodded.
“Then sure.” He stood to his bare feet.
We followed behind Ron as we made our way toward his office. Jacob walked closely beside me down the hallway. His arm brushed up against mine as we strolled. I looked down at his hand, which was swaying slowly by his side. I watched as his hand grazed mine, and they almost met . . . almost.
“Sorry for the mess—working on a new case,” Ron said as we eventually reached his office door and walked inside. He motioned for me to have a seat in one of the two brown leather chairs planted in front of his desk. “Sonny, your dad is Dirk Carter, yes?”
“Pops, she isn’t here to talk about her family,” Jacob said, collapsing into the second leather chair and looking at me in apology.
“No, it’s okay.” I nestled in. “He is.”
“Funny enough,” said Ron, “me and a couple of my buddies from my firm back in Long Beach were old customers of his.”
“The sporting-goods store on Baron Street?” I asked.
“That’s the one.” Ron loosened his maroon tie. “I actually purchased my gym equipment from his shop when I realized I was too busy to go to the actual gym and needed a home one. Apparently he had the newest and coolest inventory.”
“Newest and coolest.” I nodded. “Doesn’t sound like him.”
Ron cleared his desk, letting out a small laugh as he shuffled his papers. “No?”
“I’m surprised the store on Baron is still around,” I said. “The manager embezzled a ton of money and nearly sunk it entirely.”
“Wow.” Ron sat down in his leather armchair. “Hope your dad tossed him in jail.”
I shook my head. “His partner wanted to, but my dad convinced him to let him walk.”
“I see,” Ron replied. “Your dad must be a good man.”
“Yeah.” I paused. “He can be.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I found out he was a coach here at Westcott. I only wish he were the basketball coach, so my son here could learn from the best.”
I looked over at Jacob, whose mind seemed to be in an entirely different room altogether. He wasn’t present, and it was noticeable. “Jacob just informed me that he’s trying out for the team.”
“Uh, no,” he said, joining the conversation. “I said I’m thinking of trying out.”
“Oh, come on, son,” Ron said. “Don’t be shy. You’ve been practicing all week.”
Jacob bristled, shifting in his seat. “Not really.”
“Jacob was the MVP on his team back home.”
“Wow, that’s an accomplishment for a sophomore,” I replied.
“He ran circles around the seniors,” Ron said. “He’s got some pretty raw talent.”
Jacob looked down at his lap, picking the strings on his sweats.
“I hear there are some good players on the team already. I think he’s just a little nervous that he won’t shine the same way he did back home,” Ron said.
Jacob stared out of the office window, the sun hitting his cheeks. “From what I saw the other day in the gym, there’s just one guy who’d be my direct competition.”
“Dean?” I asked.
He turned back around to face me. “Yeah,” he replied. “Dean.”
“Maybe Sonny here could give you the skinny on Dean’s weak spots. All in good fun, right?” Ron stared at me once again with those hard-to-read eyes, then rapped his knuckles on the desk. “So, Farrah Klein.”
After many hours of gruesome stories, Jacob held open the front door, and we walked outside.
“You know, had I known this case had so many layers to it, I’m not so sure I’d have picked it for my paper,” I said.
“It’s a long one,” Jacob replied as we walked to my car. “I ca
n’t count the endless hours I’ve been forced to hear about it.”
“Your dad’s nice.”
Jacob dribbled a basketball down the driveway. “For the most part.”
“Hey,” I said. “Before I go, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Sure.” He balanced the basketball against his right hip.
“I heard Norah wasn’t at Dustin Coleman’s summer party,” I said.
Jacob’s eyes zoned in on me. “Who told you that?”
“A couple of people,” I replied.
He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Maybe whoever told you that didn’t see her.” He rolled his neck from side to side.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
Jacob exhaled. “What do you want me to say?”
“Did you lie?” I asked.
“Not on purpose.”
“So on accident?”
“You think I’m lying about liking Norah?” he asked. “Why would I make that up? I like her.” He paused. “A lot.”
I quickly looked away, unsure of why his statement caused me to shrink.
Jacob’s eyes looked apologetic. “I mean . . . I . . .”
“I get it.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Red dress. Fate. All the things.”
“Right.” He seemed unconvinced. “I’m sorry but I’ve got to run. I’m meeting JC on the courts.”
I exhaled slightly, temporarily setting my suspicions aside. “Okay.”
He spun the basketball on his finger. “I’ll text you later,” he said before walking toward his Jeep.
I walked to my car and opened the door. “Hey!” I yelled in the direction of Jacob before I stepped inside.
He spun around. “What’s up?”
“I think you should try out,” I said, swallowing my selfish desire to keep him as far away from Dean as possible. “For the team.”
Jacob’s eyes were heavy, but hopeful too. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I will.”
I watched him hop into his Jeep. He sped down the winding street, leaving me in a whirlwind of dust and confusion.
They say no good things happen on street corners. Especially things that occur so close to midnight.
The tall metal light post towered over me as I waited in distress. I wrapped myself in my blue jean jacket, kicking the pavement with my dirty Converses. The air was thick, and my nerves were multiplying on top of the sidewalk as each minute passed. I pulled out my cell phone to check the time, my eyes skimming the dark street. It was time for our meeting.
