I never considered him as a scholarship contender. I don’t know much about the Pierce family, but since he drives a fifteen-year-old pickup truck, I doubt they’re loaded. Am I really okay with maybe taking away his shot at college?
A voice reminds me that I should be fine. It sounds a whole lot like Stella DuBois. And I’m pretty sure I agree with it.
“That’s…huge,” Tacey says with wide eyes.
“Things like this should happen every day,” Manny says, looking dreamy. “It’s like Christmas. There’s Connor. I’m going to fill him in.”
I don’t call after him to tell him that Connor was there. Come to think of it, I didn’t tell him I was there either. Not that he would have listened if I did. I’m clearly persona non grata right now.
Manny meets Connor in the middle of the cafeteria. They share a fist bump, and even from here I can see how animated Connor is. People all around are buzzing, and why shouldn’t they be? Jackson Pierce, reigning king of the upper echelon, just got smacked down a whole lot of notches. After how many years of us all putting up with his crap? Too many.
Yeah, this needed to happen.
I pull out my phone and navigate to the message I closed earlier. Because maybe Manny’s right. Claireville High could stand a little more justice. And since no one else seems to be offering, maybe I am the girl for the job.
Because Jackson’s not the only one who turned Stella’s world upside down that morning.
I send a text with Tate’s name and have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. That’s when I see him. Standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and his backpack at his feet.
Nick again. And he’s staring right at me for the second time this morning.
Whatever this is, I’m ready to deal with it. Nick’s eyes are flashing in a way that tells me he knows things, so I should be freaking out. I don’t know why I feel so calm. I don’t know why I get up at all, crossing the cafeteria with long strides.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m pretty sure Marlow will lose her mind if she finds me in close proximity to her boyfriend again, but I’m over that. I don’t stop until we’re maybe four feet apart.
“Nick Patterson,” I say, inclining my head.
He smiles. “Piper Woods.”
He smells like laundry detergent, and his thumbs are hooked in the pockets of his jeans. We stand there for a minute, until I feel too stupid just gazing at him with an amused expression carefully settled on my face.
I clear my throat. “So, are you doing a little recreational stalking here?” Okay, too much. I really need to filter. Or maybe muzzle altogether.
“Stalking? Wow.” The corner of his mouth curls up and my insides flutter. Okay. Weird. But it’s a weird morning, so I’m not going to dwell.
I laugh a little awkwardly. “Sorry. But did you want to say something?”
“Not sure I should. I mean, we’re not friends. Right?” He looks awfully friendly for someone who isn’t.
I grin back. Can’t help it. I point at our table, where everyone’s watching with interest. “See my table? It’s situated somewhere between Art Land and Mathlete County.”
He tips his head, his chin jerking toward his own table. “So, let me guess, I live in Jock World? We’re not friendly neighbors?”
“It’s a long-standing boundaries dispute.”
“Our own little Gaza Strip?”
“Exactly.” I really wish I could stop smiling.
Wait a minute, is this flirting? Again? Because his smile matches mine, and I’m way, way too aware of how green his eyes are. Crap, it really looks like flirting.
I stumble back a step, feeling the smile slide off my face. I need to regroup. This isn’t normal. Not for me. Boys with girlfriends do not float my boat. They don’t even hoist the sail, so I’ve got no idea why I’m suddenly playing eye-footsie with this one.
“Nick?”
Marlow. Ah, nothing like the shriek of a harpy girlfriend to bring me back to my senses.
My shoulders tense, but Nick doesn’t move.
“You should go handle that, right?” I ask him.
“What do you mean?” His voice hasn’t just chilled. It’s positively arctic.
“Well, isn’t that your girlfriend?” I say, though I don’t mean to put so much emphasis on “girlfriend.”
He blows out a breath, looking frazzled. “Hell if I know.”
He doesn’t look at me again, just shoulders past me on his way to Marlow. The fight that follows isn’t exactly loud, but I’m tuned in like a specialized satellite dish. I know I need to be as far away from this as possible, but I just keep standing there, my hands curled into fists and my breath coming too fast while Nick tries to move Marlow somewhere more discreet.
Too bad she’s bent on a scene.
“Is this what it’s going to be?” she asks.
Nick’s voice is low and unmistakably angry. “You really want to do this in the cafeteria?”
“Well, you seem to think it’s the place to hook up with another girl. And, really, Nick? Piper Woods?”
I can feel the heat climbing fast up my neck and cheeks.
“You wanted to break up,” he says, as softly as he can. “Again. Which I think makes this episode four.”
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t. And believe it or not, I do have a say in this.”
“You know what, Nick? You don’t have a say in anything. Because we’re done.”
Marlow flies past me, trailing perfume and righteous indignation in her wake. Nick looses a disbelieving laugh before heading to the opposite door. And me? I just stand there while my heart makes every effort to pound its way out of my chest.
Tacey walks up, and I force myself to unclench my jaw. She touches my arm, and I look up, finding her eyes wide.
“Did I just hear Marlow break up with Nick?”
“I’m not sure. Sounded mutual,” I say, cheeks hot and palms slick as I tug out my phone, checking the time. “We should go. It’s getting late.”
Her hand on my arm stops me. “Piper, she said your name. Do you have something to do with this? With that?”
The words slip out of me unbidden but absolutely true.
“I think I might.”
• • •
Tate’s too obvious. We can’t make this all about Stella.
The response to my text comes in when I’m flipping through the mail on my dining room table. I abandon the latest issue of Popular Photography to read it again.
How is this not about Stella? Why should Tate get away with everything he said if Jackson doesn’t? Just because he doesn’t make my skin crawl quite the same way doesn’t make him any less guilty.
I finally reply.
I thought we were doing this for Stella.
What happened to Stella is done. We need to focus on the future. On who we can still save.
It’s scary. Tate was as obvious as Jackson, but finding someone else? I feel an uncomfortable weight settle in my middle.
Still, maybe he’s right. Maybe stopping this kind of crap before it turns tragic is the whole point.
I sigh, staring down at the phone. Knowing that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I ignore the opportunity.
I need time to find someone.
By 7 Friday. I need time to work up a plan.
I toss my phone facedown on the kitchen table with a sigh. Mom takes a seat across from me, a big mug of tea in her hands.
“Tacey driving you crazy?” she guesses.
“No, it’s nothing,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ears and smiling. “How was Idaho?”
“Good. No paperwork issues,” she says. Mom’s an adoption liaison. She’s told me more than once that the movies have it all wrong. The only real drama in adoptions is m
issing signatures and transposed numbers. She nods at me. “I got you something.”
She heads to her briefcase and sorts through what seems like a thousand papers tucked in beside her laptop. She pulls out a slim, familiarly shaped rectangle and I scoot to the edge of my chair, my fingers practically itching for it.
It’s silly. I know it’s only a postcard. But it’s our thing. She always looks for a special print, one that will appeal to me.
“Well, are you going to look at it?” she asks.
“Of course I am.” I flip it over.
It’s an ancient barn, half-collapsed and wood gone gray, but it’s nestled in this impossibly green valley with a cloudless, cobalt sky stretching overhead. I love the visual of stark decay in this lush setting.
“It’s genius,” I tell her, smiling. “Perfect.”
“You’ve taken better,” she says, as she always does. And when she looks at me, the set of her chin tells me she absolutely believes it.
We share a smile, and then my dad comes in from the garage. The studio. The cave where he spends his time when she’s home.
“One of these days, she’s going to bring you a real souvenir,” he says.
The words might as well be a pinch on the arm. He knows better. But when I give him a look that tells him as much, he winks at both of us. “Settle down, ladies. I’m teasing.”
Mom’s face drops, but she keeps her voice friendly. “I thought we could do Chinese.”
“Ah, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a meeting.”
“A meeting?”
Dad runs a hand over his hair. “Yeah. With the university.”
She brightens and asks something about whether or not he’ll be teaching again, and he says something that doesn’t really confirm or deny it, and I pick at my nails and wish I could transport myself to pretty much anywhere else on earth. Mom’s tensing up across from me, and I can hear my dad’s hands squeak on the back of my chair, he’s gripping it that tight. I feel the irony of my placement, wedged into the distance between them.
The doorbell rings and I bounce to my feet, thrilled to have a reason to go. “I’ll get it.”
Tacey’s standing outside, wearing a ridiculous pink-and-black tracksuit that no one who doesn’t live on the Hollywood A-list could get away with. She stretches up on the balls of her equally hideous and obviously new sneakers. “Want to go for a run?”
My brows arch so high I think they brush my hairline. “Not unless there’s an ax murderer standing behind me.”
She stops the stretching and frowns. “You know, you could stand a few more healthy choices in your life too. I’m at six pounds and counting.”
“I’ll listen when this starts being about health and stops being about your dress size,” I say. “You’re gorgeous. And women everywhere would kill for your rack.”
“Yes, but they want it on top of your legs,” she says.
“With Marlow Crane’s face.” I smirk and then glance back at my house. Like I’d want to wade back into that cold war.
“All right, I’ll come with you—”
“Yes!”
“—but we walk. And I’m bringing my camera.”
“Fine. Then we’re talking about homecoming layouts.”
“I can handle that.”
Tacey checks her curly ponytail with her hand. “Good. Go, quick, before I freeze out here.”
I zip back inside to tell my parents and grab my camera. We’re not even at the end of the block before Tacey gives up on me having any useful input on yearbook business. After some silence, she heaves a weighted sigh.
“All right, I give. I get that you want to go to Darfur and take pictures of people dying in gutters, but what do you have against homecoming? Every time I bring it up, you zone out.”
“I don’t have anything against it. I just don’t have anything for it either.”
“Which makes no sense. You do remember that you went to prom last year, right? You wore a dress. It wasn’t the worst time of your life.”
“Yes, Crazy, I went with you. And mashed my fingers in Manny’s car door.” It was the climax of a pretty dull night, and the only part I remember with any clarity. “But it’s not homecoming, I swear. I’m…distracted.”
She nods. “I think you need a date.”
“I don’t need a date.”
“Going out can be fun. When’s the last time you had a date?”
I shrug. “I went out a few times this summer.”
“Eric doesn’t count.”
A mental picture of him flashes through my head—dark hair, slender fingers, and a low, soft voice like an old song. I shake my head, irritated on his behalf. “Eric totally counts.”
“He only lives here in the summer when he’s spending time with his dad,” Tacey says. “I’m talking about someone with potential. Someone like…Nick Patterson.”
She keeps right on marching, her arms pumping as if she doesn’t know I’m staring daggers into the back of her head.
“Yes, that’s a swell idea. I’ll go on a date. With Nick. Maybe I can pick up some pom-poms and we can talk about his wide receivers.”
“First, don’t try to talk football. It’s tragic. Second, don’t act like the cafeteria situation didn’t happen. Plus, he’s been watching you for at least a month. There’s something there.”
“Tacey, have you even met me? He is a football player. A football player.”
“So? He’s a seriously hot football player, and what do you have against athletes anyway?”
I walk faster, until I have to hold my camera against my chest so it doesn’t bounce. “You of all people should know what. Forget that. Let’s talk about you for a minute.” I stop suddenly, pointing at her ridiculous outfit again. “What’s going on with this getup?”
She stumbles over her feet, a flush creeping up her neck. It’s not like Tacey to be quiet. Not ever.
“Tacey.” I say her name like a teacher calling her out for texting in class.
Her shoulders bunch around her neck, and then she blows out a huge sigh. “Fine, I was at the mall. Kristen was there with Candace and a couple of other girls.”
I frown. The stripes on that tracksuit, the fit—it’s all wrong for Tacey. And Kristen would damn well know it. “The same Kristen who baited us to that party?”
“It was three years ago, Piper! How long are you going to hold a grudge?”
“I’m not holding a grudge. I’m choosing to learn from my mistakes!”
“Well, I don’t want to live in the past. They were nice to me, okay?” She says it like that because she knows I’m probably not going to believe her. And she’s right. I don’t. That tracksuit is a fashion assault and Tacey’s the victim. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen Kristen do this, but how do I say that to her?
Tacey feels bad enough about her body. How many pictures have I shown her where her cheekbones and wide smile just pop, and yet she’d point at her chin or arms with a groan?
Tacey takes a breath. “She said it looked perfect. She even told me about this fashion club she’s going to start in school, ‘Putting Your Best Foot Forward’ or something like that.”
“Are you even listening to yourself? Tace, I love you, but this is Kristen. You’re not only believing her, but you’re also taking her advice to buy what I’m guessing was a two-hundred-dollar matchy-matchy outfit? I thought you said your parents were bro—”
“I paid for it with my money!” she says, eyes hot.
I bite my lip, because I shouldn’t have gone there and I know it. “That was crappy. I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re better than that, Tace. Than them.”
“But I’m not better than them if I care how I look? If I want to feel good about myself?”
“Of course I want you to feel good about yourself! But it’s Kristen. She’s mean and sh
e steals almost everything she wears.”
“I know how Kristen is. I know what she does and I’m not cool with it.” She stops, adjusting her ponytail. “But I don’t have your unshakable confidence. It’s just…when she’s nice, or even pretending to be nice, I feel like it’s my chance to prove it to her.”
“To prove what?”
“That I’m not the pathetic little nobody she thinks I am.”
My heart sinks and then burns. Why does someone like Kristen Green get to determine who counts and who doesn’t? How does that even happen?
I step closer to Tacey. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about your parents.”
“I’m familiar with your brand of tactlessness.” She winks after she says it though, and then takes a right on a street beside the railroad tracks.
My eyes are drawn to the rise of grass and gravel, one slender gray-brown line of track showing through where the trees are thin. Tacey’s new sneakers slap rhythmically at the asphalt. It makes me think of Stella’s steps that night, what they might have been like.
Would she have raced forward or dragged her feet? Would I have heard the tinny strains of music coming from her headphones as she passed?
I look over at Tacey, her hands brushing unconsciously over her middle even now. With me.
I bump her lightly with my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think you have a great sense of style. And I still say the camera loves you.”
Tacey smiles. She opens her mouth to say something, but then we hear a train whistle.
The sound cuts through me, winding my insides until I feel tight and breathless. Tacey shivers, looking over at the tracks. I don’t have to ask to know she’s thinking about Stella too.
We both kind of stumble to a halt, staring at the approaching train. When that whistle wails again, I ache down to the center of my bones.
Don’t think about her climbing that gravel hill, her long hair whipping all around. Don’t think about the scream of the train brakes, desperately trying to stop.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and pull up my text messages. I don’t know why I’m doing this now. Maybe I just need a distraction from the steady, rumbling approach of the engine. Or maybe I think it’s a sign, some way of Stella telling me this is the one I should choose.
Gone Too Far Page 7
