“Exactly. How did this happen?” Brianne gestures at the fallen laptop. “You guys were going out behind her back? How could you lie to me for so long? You always acted like you barely knew him, and now this….” She trails off, shaking her head in disbelief.
I ignore her questions. I don’t know what I can possibly say so that she’ll understand. “How did these get out?” I ask instead.
“I don’t know, but they’re everywhere,” Brianne warns me. “TMZ broke the story and it took off from there.”
I try to breathe, bending over and lowering my head to my knees.
“Nicole.” Brianne’s tone softens slightly. “What happened?”
“It was messed up,” I say under my breath, avoiding eye contact. “That’s why I didn’t tell you, or anyone else.”
“I thought you and Lana were friends,” she says, giving me a funny look. “Did you forget those months last year when I barely saw you outside orchestra, since you were so busy with Lana and her group? Why would you do this to her?” Brianne’s eyes harden with recognition. “I guess now I know why you came running back to us.”
I flinch.
“It’s not what you think. I’m sorry, I never meant—” I close my eyes, take a deep breath, try to explain. “We fell in love. It was real, the kind of thing you can’t fight. It’s just that simple. There wasn’t anything malicious about it.” The words sound familiar as they come out of my mouth, like a rehearsed speech, and then I remember: this is exactly how we put it to Lana, before the end of junior year. Tears well in my eyes, and I cover my face with my palms.
Brianne pats my shoulder awkwardly. I can tell she’s trying to be there for me, but she’s beyond thrown by all of this. She doesn’t recognize her friend anymore.
“But, Nicole…if it’s what you’re saying, if it was real love, then why were you sneaking around behind Lana’s back? Why didn’t you just tell her the truth instead of—instead of him cheating on her?”
“We did,” I whisper. “It wasn’t cheating. We were going to be together, but—but then—” I gesture to my face.
“The accident,” she breathes. Her eyes flash and suddenly she’s indignant on my behalf, instead of at me. “Don’t tell me he dumped you because of the scar?”
“No, but it…it changed everything.” I look away. “It felt like my punishment. And then when we could finally openly be together, imagining all those eyes on me and my face—I just couldn’t do it. Everything happened so quickly. It was too much.”
Brianne stares at me, eyes wide.
“Oh, Nicole. I wish you had told me all this before.”
“I know. I do, too. But…well, remember when you and JJ split up?”
Brianne stiffens at her ex’s name. They were camp counselors together, and she used to ecstatically mark off the days till summer by drawing big red hearts on her calendar. But that all stopped last fall.
“Obviously I remember. What about it?”
“You went from talking about him all the time freshman and sophomore year to not even mentioning his name anymore once you guys broke up. You didn’t even really tell me why you broke up,” I point out. “So we’re similar in that way. People like you and me, we don’t talk about our pain. We play it. We throw it all into our music instead of putting it into words.”
Brianne looks at me uneasily.
“I still say this is different—”
She stops midsentence as the sounds from the hallway grow louder, turning into a chorus of hisses coming at me from behind the closed door. I can make out two words: “Scarface” and “Slut.” Scar-faced slut. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I can’t stay here,” I tell Brianne.
She nods quickly.
“You should ask Higgins if you can take a leave of absence and go stay with your mom. I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
“But—but then I’d miss the Orchestra Showcase.” The thought is almost as terrible as staying here with the hissing at my back.
“It might be smart to stay offstage until this dies down, honestly,” Brianne says.
I know she’s right, but the thought twists my insides. If Chace is gone, and I can’t perform, then what do I have left?
“I guess I’ll just…just hide out in here until Higgins gives me the okay to go home.” I scuff my toe against the carpet. “What do you think I should do about Lana? I mean, we don’t talk anymore, but…part of me feels like I should say something about the pictures—”
Brianne cuts me off, shaking her head emphatically.
“Nothing you say will do any good at this point. If you want my advice, it’s to do what you probably should have done last year: stay away from Lana Rivera.”
I spend the rest of the dreary day locked in my dorm, sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. It seems I’m incapable of anything else. I don’t even have the stomach for the lunch Brianne smuggled through my door, not with the catcalls and hissing continuing unabated. It seems that every time one set of mean girls has to abandon their post outside my door to attend to their actual lives, another group takes their place. I’m dying to get out of here, but Headmaster Higgins still hasn’t responded to my email. And even when she does, that won’t stop the attacks online.
I finally call my mom back, and she’s every bit as hysterical as I expected.
“What in the world, Nicole? I couldn’t reach you all day, and suddenly your friend is dead and your picture is in the paper—” She bursts into tears.
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” I say automatically, but of course that’s an outright lie. “I’m going to try to come home.”
I hear her take a big gulp of air.
“But your scholarship—”
“Only for a little bit, until things…settle down. And only if the headmaster says it’s okay.” I glance at my locked door. Higgins will probably be glad to see the back of me, with all the distraction I’m causing.
“I’m going to talk to my boss, see if he has any lawyer recommendations.”
My blood turns cold.
“A lawyer? Why?”
Mom sighs heavily.
“Honey, the things they’re saying in the paper…and the boy’s parents are so powerful…I just want you to be protected.”
“So we had a relationship. How could anyone think that makes me a criminal?” I stare at my phone, aghast.
“I’m just trying to cover all our bases,” she says, attempting to sound reassuring. “They tend to look at the victim’s significant other first in these types of cases.”
“Then they should focus on Lana,” I say darkly.
The moment we hang up, my phone is back to vibrating again. This time it’s from Facebook, alerting me to all the new messages and posts on my page. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I log in.
Backstabbing, boyfriend-stealing, scar-faced slut, reads the first from Katie Minor, a girl in my Algebra II class. Did you kill him too?! reads another, from someone whose name I don’t recognize but whose profile picture is of a wholesome-looking woman cradling a baby. On and on the hateful and gossipy messages continue, attached to different names and different smiley profile photos that belie the cruelty underneath. My heart is palpitating in my chest, and I scroll up to Settings. Delete Account, it tempts me.
Yes, please.
Deleted. With that, I toss my phone across the room and bury my head in my hands.
“Play.”
My head whips up. What was that?
“It’ll make you feel better,” I hear him whisper. “Even if for just a little while.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms and I feel myself shiver, even as the room grows strangely warm.
“Chace?” I blurt out, my voice wobbling. “Is that…you?”
“The song you were playing when we met.” His voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, echoing across my dorm room walls. “Play that one. It’ll quiet them all.”
My whole body t
rembles. I want nothing more than for this to be real, but how can it be? I’m obviously hearing things, or having some kind of post-traumatic hallucination. Still, I get up and unpack my Maggini, following the illusion even if only to give myself something to do. I cradle the violin under my chin, position my hand on the bow. And as I play “The Immigrant Theme,” I feel something new, something almost supernatural, coursing through my veins, dripping from my hands into the music. When I finish the song, my body slowly coming back down to earth, I realize he was right.
My playing really did shut everyone up.
Just before six, the hour when I’d ordinarily be going down to dinner, I hear footsteps approaching my door.
“Nicole,” a female voice calls out—a voice that is decidedly not Brianne’s. “It’s Detective Kimble and Officer Ladge.”
My stomach plummets. I make my way to the door, keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid the stares of the stragglers who have nothing better to do than spy on my bedroom door. I’ve changed out of my uniform by now and am wearing a pair of flannel pajamas, which makes the scene inside my pocket-sized dorm room even weirder—me, a cop, and a detective filling the cramped space between my bed and dresser.
“How did the pictures get out?” I demand as soon as Detective Kimble closes the door behind her. I don’t mean to sound so accusatory, I know I should be on my best behavior in front of them. But I can’t help it.
“I’m afraid there was a breach,” Officer Ladge says mildly, as if it’s some unimportant, routine occurrence. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“But—but that shouldn’t have happened,” I sputter. “Those pictures were private, and now—now I can’t even leave my room!”
“Unfortunately, the photos ceased to be private the moment they were found on the body of a murder victim,” Detective Kimble says. “We hoped to keep this under the radar, too, but with all the news coverage on the case, it would have gotten out eventually.”
“We’re installing extra security at the school in light of all the attention the case is getting, and we’ll make sure to have your door manned at all times so you can feel safe.” Officer Ladge actually has the nerve to smile at me, as though this is going to make everything better.
“Thanks, but I’m actually going to go stay with my mom for a little while,” I tell him. “Hopefully by the time I come back—”
“That won’t be possible,” Kimble interrupts.
I’m sensing a pattern here. She’s obviously taken on the Bad Cop role, while Ladge pretends to be Mr. Nice(r) Guy.
“I’ve spoken to your headmaster,” she continues. “We need you to stay put until the investigation concludes.”
“What? Why?” I swallow hard. “I’m not in any trouble, am I?”
“No—” Officer Ladge starts to assure me, but Detective Kimble interrupts.
“Not yet. But it’s our job to investigate everyone closest to the victim, so we’ll need to keep you nearby for any further questioning. And as Officer Ladge said, we’ll assign you a security detail so that you can come and go to your classes safely.”
I slump into my desk chair, leaning my head against my knees.
“Is that what you came to tell me?”
“Actually, no.” Kimble pulls a laminated paper out of her coat pocket. “We have a warrant to search your room.”
“What?” I cry. Fear jolts through me as I spin around to take in my former haven of a bedroom, filled with my most precious music, my secret writings, mementos and photographs from before the accident. They can’t go through my things, they can’t.
“It’s all very routine,” Officer Ladge says in his attempt at reassurance. “We’ve done the same with the victim’s room, and a couple others. There could be important pieces of information in your possession that you’re not even aware of.”
I watch in panic as Detective Kimble pulls a plastic bag out of her briefcase and she and Officer Ladge slip on latex gloves. What the hell are they expecting to find in here? I keep my eyes on the floor so I won’t see them empty my desk, rifle through my chest of drawers, and examine the bottles of pain medication and tubes of scar cream lining my sink. But I can hear it all. And at the sound of arms lifting my violin case, I jump back to my feet.
“Not that! You can’t take the Maggini. She’s all I have.”
“We’re just looking,” Kimble says. I hold my breath as she opens the case and runs her unworthy fingers across the instrument, feeling underneath for something, anything, that could pass as evidence. But of course she finds nothing, and I’m able to exhale again as soon as she puts the Maggini back in its case. But now, glancing around my room, I see they’ve half emptied it. Framed photos, journals, my laptop—they’ve all been dumped into Kimble’s bag. They even had the nerve to go through my trash. Rage rises up inside me.
“When will you give everything back?”
“As soon as we’ve cleared it all for any important evidence,” Officer Ladge replies. “We’ll supply you a temporary replacement laptop for your schoolwork, or anything else you need.” Again with that smug smile, as though I should be thanking him for ransacking my room.
“One last thing,” Detective Kimble adds. “The victim’s parents have, of course, seen the photos. They want to speak with you.”
My head jerks up.
“His parents? When?”
“Tomorrow. We’ve arranged a meeting for you after class.”
Chace takes hold of my hand as we step into Le Rocquefort, the restaurant his parents chose for our first meeting. It’s the kind of fancy-schmancy place my own mom and dad would be at home in, complete with white tablecloths, Christofle silver, and menus with no prices listed. I’m no stranger to this kind of scene. I spent the bulk of my childhood tagging along with my parents to upper-crust establishments, surrounded by people three times my age. But tonight is different.
After almost two months of dating—including one month Facebook-official—I’m meeting Congressman and Mrs. Porter, and I’ve never cared more to be liked. Making a good impression is easy; I can do that with my eyes closed. But being actually liked and embraced by his family? That’s a different story.
“There they are.” Chace gestures to a corner booth.
I smooth down the sides of my skirt as we approach, my heartbeat picking up speed. It took me forever to choose an outfit for tonight, but I finally settled on a Chanel shift dress, a birthday gift from Mom. Even fashion-clueless Nicole agreed it was perfect. She was practically giddy as she ushered me out the door, telling me how gorgeous I looked. Let’s hope the Porters will feel the same; that they’ll rave about me as soon as I leave the room, just like Chace’s teammates do.
“Mom, Dad!”
Chace hugs them both, granting me a split second to study the Porters before it’s my turn to be on display. The congressman is taller in person than he appears on TV, with salt-and-pepper-streaked hair and sharp features set off by blue-gray eyes just like his son’s. His voice is deep as he greets us, his presence powerful. Mrs. Porter, on the other hand, seems a bit…well, mousy, if I’m being honest. She’s pretty enough for her age, with glossy brown hair and a very Kate Middleton–style coatdress. But she hangs back from her husband, her voice timid. Let’s just say she’s the polar opposite of my mother—which means I’ll probably adore her.
“You guys, this is the girl I’ve been telling you about. Lana Rivera.”
I step forward with my most winning smile, extending a hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Congressman and Mrs. Porter.”
“And you as well.” Congressman Porter shakes my hand with vigor. “I work with your mother at the Capitol, so I’ve been hearing about ‘the beautiful Lana’ from more than just my son.”
A happy flush heats my cheeks. So far, so good.
The waiter hurries to our table to pull out our chairs and we take our seats, with me seated between the two Porter men.
“So, how did you two meet?” Mrs. Porter as
ks, as the busboy fills our water glasses.
Chace grins at me.
“Lana was the Good Samaritan who took pity on me my first day. She showed me the ins and outs of Oyster Bay, and after that I kept noticing her everywhere I looked. Everything seemed a little brighter when she was around.”
My stomach gives a thrilling swoop at his words. It feels like every day I’m discovering new things to love about him, including what a romantic he is for a guy our age.
“Isn’t that sweet?” Mrs. Porter turns to her husband with a smile.
“Very.” Congressman Porter eyes me over the top of his menu. “So, did you two know of your political connection when you first met?”
“That our parents work together, you mean? Yes, we knew. The real surprise was that it didn’t deter us,” I say with a laugh.
“And what does Congresswoman Rivera have to say about it?” he asks with a slight smirk.
“Um, she’s happy, of course.”
“Really?” His eyebrow arches.
I look from Chace to his father. Am I missing something here? Why does he look so smug when asking about my mom? But just then the waiter appears at my elbow.
“Are you fine folks ready to order?”
We haven’t even opened our menus, but Congressman Porter starts rattling off a list of selections for the table, from foie gras starters to the Wagyu beef with pommes frites, and chocolate ganache “drizzled” with gold shavings for dessert. Someone apparently isn’t too concerned about the bill.
“So, tell us about yourself, Lana,” Mrs. Porter says in her soft voice, after her husband finishes ordering half the menu.
“Well.” I pause, contemplating the question I’ve been asked a zillion times and still loathe. “I spent my childhood in Manhattan, before my mom was elected and we moved to DC. I’m an only child, since my parents’ dual careers didn’t leave them much time for kids. But it’s never bothered me because I have a ton of friends who are like family, anyway.” What else? “Oh, and I love fashion and traveling. My grandparents live in San Juan, Puerto Rico, so we spend the first two weeks of summer vacation there every year.”
The Girl in the Picture Page 6
