I pushed through the crowd, trying to find them. When I crossed to the wing where Kade had his next class, I saw Richie wave and bound up the stairs. Kade was halfway down the hall, almost at his classroom, when Mr. Reid passed by me. He slowed about ten feet behind Kade and kept that distance.
Without warning, Kade turned around, planting his feet shoulder-width apart. He stood in the middle of the bustling hallway and glowered at the principal. They squared off like gunslingers from the Old West. I hugged my viola to my chest as if I expected a blast to reverberate through the hallway.
But then Mr. Reid broke the stare. He turned and started walking back in my direction. Still frozen, I looked down the hall at Kade, who spun around and picked up his pace until he curved around the corner, out of sight. Mr. Reid looked me in the eye, nodding once as he moved past.
I was heading to my own class when the two officers from the assembly strutted toward me. My stomach dropped like an elevator in a bad movie. What if they’d found evidence, like a fingerprint on the handle of the storage-room door? No, we’d worn gloves. I didn’t need to worry. Kade was always prepared.
I dove face-first into the water fountain, then wiped the water off my forehead and fell in step behind them as they headed up the stairs. A mass of kids coming down parted to the side.
The policemen were heading toward the art room. I was pretty sure that Richie had pottery and sculpture class this period.
It was over, I knew it. One by one, they’d collect all of us. The sound of the crowd dulled, replaced by the roar of a waterfall in my ears. I bent over, my head below my heart, and stayed there until the dizziness passed.
I couldn’t believe my luck when they veered into the shop room. Kids swarmed the area like bees at a picnic. We didn’t have to wait long. The door flung open and the crowd hopped out of the way as Mark Lawrence stumbled out.
“This is bullshit,” Lawrence protested.
With the tip of his club, the buff cop—I think Mr. Reid had said his name was Officer Henderson—prodded Mark down the hallway. I was watching them go, trying to make sense of it all, when the other cop, Officer Price, stepped in front of me. “Let’s go, miss. Show’s over.”
I lowered my eyes and hustled in the opposite direction.
Had Dave ratted on Mark after all? I couldn’t believe he’d break the jock code of silence, especially after all this time.
The Kennedy High rumor mill lurched into action. Sidney Bishop told Nicole Haines that Mark Lawrence had beat up his girlfriend, who was recovering at Glenwood Community Hospital with a broken hand. I prayed it was true, because that would mean our plan for Dave had nothing to do with this latest development. But on my way to English, I saw Mark’s girlfriend weeping into some guy’s chest, wholly intact.
When the final bell rang, I ran home as fast as I could. I wanted to call Zoe and Nora from the privacy of my room. To my dismay, Dad was home. Just my luck—even workaholics took a break sometimes. I gave him the obligatory peck on the cheek and turned toward the stairs.
“Charlotte, I need to ask you something.”
No, not now! I didn’t want to think about someone else’s legal problems. I had plenty of my own. Or I might soon enough.
“I have a new client from Kennedy High,” he said. “Mark Lawrence. Name ring a bell?”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
“Good,” he said. “I don’t want you hanging out with boys like him. He’s been charged with battery against another student at Kennedy.”
“Who?” I said, too quickly. I tried again with an indifferent tone. “I mean, what other student?”
Dad peered at me over the rim of his tortoiseshell reading glasses. I took a breath, loosening my shoulders. “David something or other,” he answered.
I swallowed. “What happened?”
“I can’t discuss the case with you, but I thought you should know that I’m representing the Lawrence boy.”
“It’s going to be all over school tomorrow,” I said. “You can tell me the facts, right?”
He thought about it. “I suppose. It seems there was bad blood between them. David showed up at Mark’s house the other night. There was a struggle, and Mark put him in the hospital.”
“What did they fight about?” I asked, trying to repress the dread in my voice.
“That falls under the category of lawyer-client privacy, but I’m sure in time it will all come out.”
I thought about Dave’s parting words after he’d apologized to Richie. Something about having “business to do.”
Dad climbed the stairs, stopping beside me. I edged up a step. A deep-set wrinkle stretched across the bridge of his nose, connecting his eyebrows. I knew that look: it was an intimidating tactic my father used to pry confessions from the scum of the earth. I recognized two other techniques too: “personal-space invasion” and “calculated quiet.” My father labeled everything in an effort to educate me, but he forgot that I knew all his secrets.
I returned the silence, counting to myself in Spanish to make the time pass: Veintisiete … veintiocho … veintinueve …
Once people started talking, the game was over, Dad had told me. Sometimes they’d sink into a pool of lies until the only way to float to the surface was to reach for the truth. “Shut up or spill it,” was what he called that one. Well, I could wait it out, force him to talk first.
My plan worked, and he buckled. “Are you sure you don’t know these gentlemen, if I may use the term loosely?”
I countered his question with one of my own. “Is he hurt? The one in the hospital, I mean.”
“Of course he’s hurt, Charlotte. He wouldn’t be in the hospital if he weren’t. In addition to his already-broken arm, he has a busted knee and three broken ribs, but he’ll live. As soon as he was conscious, he ID’d Lawrence. Other than that, he’s not talking.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“No worries. Jack’s on it.”
Jack is my father’s seventy-two-year-old assistant. He likes to pull the senility act, asking the same questions over and over until the suspect gets so annoyed that he talks just to shut Jack up. The method’s unsophisticated, but surprisingly effective.
I wanted to ask more questions, but I knew better. “Good luck with the case.” I turned my back on him and continued up the stairs.
Our joke against Dave Harper had spun out of control. I locked the bedroom door behind me and did a belly flop on the bed. Don’t cry, I told myself. It didn’t work.
Dad rapped on the door. “Charlotte?”
I sucked in a breath. He knocked louder. With a sigh, I dragged myself to the door and flipped the lock. Dad pushed it open.
“Are you involved with one of those boys?” he drilled.
“Dave’s in my English class. I don’t really know him. Not well, anyway. But I can be upset that he’s in the hospital, can’t I?”
Dad’s scowl softened. “You’ve got a good heart, Charlotte. I suppose I forget about the human element since I see this stuff every day.” He lifted a hand to my cheek, catching one of my tears on his index finger. This little bit of tenderness made me want to bawl harder.
“You know, when you were little, we used to play chess together,” he said.
I nodded, not sure where he was going with the trip down memory lane.
“You got very good very fast, and it wasn’t long before you were beating me. So we entered you in a tournament, do you remember?”
“Yes,” I said. “I lost all my games.”
“Because you didn’t want to hurt your opponents’ feelings.”
Huh, funny I didn’t remember that part. But it sounded like something I’d do.
“If the music thing doesn’t pan out, you could be a lawyer,” he said. “But you’ll have to toughen up if you want to be successful.”
He walked away, leaving me to wonder how a person could practice insensitivity. I waited until he was out of sight, then kicked the door shut.
&n
bsp; THE GLOWING RED NUMBERS ON THE CLOCK SHIFTED FROM 11:59 to 12:00. I tried counting backward from a hundred. I even did the counting-sheep thing.
“Forget it,” I said out loud.
I should probably shrug the whole thing off. Dave was a jerk; he’d brought this on himself by bullying Richie. But still. If it hadn’t been for us, he wouldn’t be in a hospital with arm casts and leg casts and whatever it was they did for broken ribs.
I swung my feet to the floor. A pair of bloodshot eyes stared back from my mirror. I remembered reading that some of the world’s top models spread hemorrhoid cream around their sleep-deprived eyes to reduce swelling. Did Tiffany Miller dab on Preparation H after a late-night make-out session?
The image occupied my mind for a whopping twenty seconds before my thoughts snapped back to Lawrence. He’d found the perfect excuse to pulverize an enemy.
But that excuse had come from us. No, from me. It was my idea. If it weren’t for me, Dave would be at home right now. He’d still be a creep, but an uninjured creep.
I had to talk to Kade. The League didn’t need to be like this—we only needed each other to be friends, not some vengeful mission. I knew Kade would understand if I told him how much it was starting to bother me.
I pulled a sweatshirt over my pajama top, dabbed on some lip gloss, and popped a breath mint before tiptoeing down the stairs.
The Acura was in the repair shop, so I rummaged through makeup, coupons, and loose change in Mom’s purse until I hit the jackpot—the key to the minivan. Outside, I glanced at the carport and considered my bike. For a millisecond. It was definitely safer to drive a car than to bike in the dark. Sorry, Mom and Dad—this was a rule that required breaking.
The car started up, launching into an Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong CD. I ejected it and inserted the closest thing to cool I could find: Prince. That was as hip as my mother got.
As I backed out of the driveway, the car rocked over a curb. It was another mile or two before I felt comfortable behind the wheel of our giant familymobile.
I pressed down on the accelerator, glancing at the rising speedometer. I didn’t even notice the Highway Patrol car until its blue-and-red strobe lights flashed in the rearview mirror. I slammed on the brakes without thinking. Thankfully, the police car swerved around me, on its way to something more urgent.
I took the parking spot in front of Kade’s apartment as a sign from God, glad that no one was awake to watch my pathetic attempts at parallel parking. In the end, the fat butt of the mini-van stuck out into the street, but it was good enough for one in the morning.
Before I could chicken out, I ran to the building and buzzed apartment number 7. The call was answered by a click of the front door.
Four flights up, Kade’s door was open a crack.
“Hello?” I called out.
His voice floated through the dark room. “Hello, Charlie.”
When my eyes adjusted, I saw him sitting on the floor by the bookcase, the light from a candle climbing up his face. He motioned for me to join him.
Leave now! my brain ordered.
Don’t be so uptight! my body said.
I sank to the floor beside him. “Did you hear about Dave Harper?”
“It had nothing to do with us.”
“What do you mean? We made up the lies that—”
“Actions have consequences. And consequences take on a life of their own.” His fingers spread over mine, dwarfing my hand.
“But we started it …”
Kade shook his head. “It was Mark Lawrence’s decision. His responsibility, not ours.”
I tried to read his face in the dim light to see if he believed what he was saying. He looked unruffled, as always.
“So if a drunk driver smashes into someone, causing a chain reaction accident, then he’s only guilty for the damage to the car in front of him?” I fired out.
It was true: I was my father’s daughter.
The lone dimple on Kade’s cheek seemed to wink at me. “If it works for the insurance company, it works for me.”
“So I guess you’re not losing sleep over this.”
“Not over that.” He curved a finger down my exposed ankle. “Would you like some merlot?”
I was about to ask what merlot was, but Kade was already at the kitchen counter, uncorking a bottle of wine.
A piece of paper poked out from under the bookcase. A word at the top, “Recommendation,” caught my eye. Beneath that, a familiar name: “Richard Reid, Principal, Kennedy High School.” I glanced toward the kitchen. Kade was pouring the wine, his back to me. With the heel of my sneaker, I dragged the paper across the floor. The letter was addressed to a Judge Michael D. Lombardi and the Walter Jackson Juvenile Detention Facility.
Kade Garrett Harlin has received three misdemeanors in the …
Something—or someone—had ripped the paper in half, severing the rest of the sentence. The next line read: “Expulsion from Kennedy High, if needed, and possible detainment at …”
“Guess the cat’s out of the bag.” Kade loomed over me. He handed me the glass of wine. “Now you know why Dick Reid’s not my best friend.”
“I didn’t mean to be nosy,” I stammered. “I mean, it’s none of my business …”
Kade clinked his glass against mine. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you, Charlie.”
I took a small sip and decided I officially hated the taste of alcohol.
“I had a few minor scrapes with the law a while ago. Some judge asked Reid for an evaluation, and our beloved principal recommended expulsion from high school at the next hint of trouble. Seems he thinks I’m an excellent candidate for juvenile detention.” He smirked. “My probation officer, Mr. Sterling, was kind enough to leave this in his filing cabinet for me.”
“What kind of scrapes?” I asked.
“Stupid kid stuff. Stealing a golf club on a dare, a sandwich from the grocery store … stuff like that.”
My eyes wandered back to the form. “Alleged assault” and “stalking” and “sociopathic tendencies” leaped off the page. Before I could read more, Kade grabbed it, crumpling it in his fist.
“Mr. Reid thinks you should go to juvenile detention for shoplifting?” I asked, hoping he would fill in the blanks.
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself. “Dick has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to me.”
He threw the balled-up paper toward the kitchen trash can. It rolled behind the refrigerator. “He better watch his back if he’s going to mess with me.”
“Over shoplifting?” I asked again.
“Idle threats,” he muttered.
“But I thought you said he was after Richie?”
He offered me a hand, then pulled me to my feet. “We aren’t going to waste this lovely evening talking about that asshole, I hope.”
I followed him into the kitchen, merlot in hand. As he opened a cabinet and parted some cans of soup, I poured half the wine down the sink, then put the glass on the counter. He looked over his shoulder, and I smiled, picking it back up.
When I glanced down again, there was a maroon ring on the edge of the white Formica counter. I reached for the paper towels to clean it up. Kade kept his place immaculate, and I wasn’t about to reveal my slobby side.
As I leaned over to ditch the towels in the trash, I saw it. The oversized monitor had a hole in the screen. Its plastic siding, cracked. The keyboard looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Four letters were completely missing. I gasped out loud and Kade turned around, a battered shoebox in his hands. He eyed the remnants of his MacBook and shrugged. “It was a nice computer while it lasted.”
“What happened to it?” It would have been in better shape if a Mack truck had run over it.
Kade slapped his forehead. “I was supposed to meet a study group at the library, and I was carrying it without the case. Stupid, right? I tripped down the stairs, and it went flying.”
Wow, it must have really fl
own. Right into a brick wall. “Can’t you get it fixed?”
“Nah, it’s trashed. But it’s OK. My parents will replace it.”
I looked again at the broken MacBook, but this time, it wasn’t the cracks and dents and shattered keyboard that caught my attention. It was the torn piece of paper. The missing section of a report. The report that was now behind Kade’s refrigerator.
Kade took me by the hand, pulling me away. “I want you to know how much I trust you, Charlie.” He lowered the shoebox to the table and flipped the lid off. “I’ve never shown this to anyone.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. Not even Nora? I wondered.
He slid the box in front of me. Inside was a baseball cap, some jewelry, a pen, and a variety of other items.
“Does any of this look familiar?” he asked.
NEW YORK YANKEES, WORLD CHAMPIONS, 2000 was embroidered across the front of the cap. I’d seen it before. On Dave’s head.
“This is what I call my success box,” he said.
I reached for the lighter. “It’s Zoe’s, isn’t it?”
“I really wanted the burned grade book, but it stunk.”
Suddenly, I had no trouble seeing Kade as a shoplifter.
“You mean, these are from … ?” I hesitated, trying to think of a way to say it.
“Other plans,” he filled in. “It’s like getting souvenirs from the fair.”
I cringed at the analogy. He made it sound like it was fun and games.
“Do you like that?” he asked. For a second, I thought he was referring to my glass of merlot, but when I looked down, I realized I was fingering a gold wedding ring on a chain. The clasp was broken, and the loose ends were tied in a knot.
I dropped it back into the box. “Sure. It’s pretty.”
“Take it,” Kade urged, lifting it back out.
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Whose is it?”
He dangled the necklace over my palm. “Yours.”
I didn’t want something that had been stolen from someone else, even if I didn’t know the owner. But Kade insisted. I slipped it into my pocket. “Thanks.”
His hand rose to my cheek. I felt my blood rush to his touch. Could spontaneous human combustion really happen or was it an urban legend?
League of Strays Page 11
