“I doubt my silence is saying what you think.”
“Yeah?” He sounds hopeful.
I like Nick. Which is why this…isn’t a good idea. I can’t let him think anything even close to what he’s thinking right now. Because as much as I like him, I can’t imagine crossing that line. Holding hands with Nick. Sitting with other football fangirls watching the games.
I sigh and he taps his knuckles against the handrail of the catwalk. “Piper, you don’t have to talk to me. If you’re not into this, it’s cool.”
I laugh. “Nick, there isn’t a this. We’ve barely ever talked and now you’re suddenly, what? Interested in me?”
“Why do you think that’s so crazy?”
“It’s not.” I don’t know why my skin goes so tight and hot every time he talks about this. But he’s not like other guys. There’s no beating around the bush. No coy flirting. It’s all out there in the open. “I can tell you’re interested. But I can’t help but think it’s…situational.”
“Big word. You mean the Stella thing.”
“Yeah. I think maybe that started this. Maybe you think it connects us.”
“It does connect us.” He steps onto the platform then, disarming me with his closeness as much as his words. “We both think about that day. We both probably wish it had gone differently, that it hadn’t happened at all.”
He reaches down, messing with ropes at our feet while I stand there, unable to reply—equally unable to stop watching his shoulders bunch and flex as he works.
The Five-Finger Discount Club sign slips free and flutters down to the stage below. Nick is watching me again. There’s nowhere to go to gain personal space. It’s like standing in a broom closet with…well, with a football player.
Something in me snaps. I think it was the thing holding my words inside. “Yes, I wish I’d said something. I could have.”
“Maybe you could have, but I should have.” His voice is hard, catching me off guard, but he goes on, not waiting for a response. “You weren’t even involved—you barely knew Stella. But I’m friends with everyone who was out there. I could have stopped it, but I didn’t because I was staring at you.”
The breath I take catches in my lungs, refusing to come out. I feel my cheeks go crimson. Breathe. I need to breathe.
Nick moves for the ladder, and I remember how my lungs work. I pull air in and push it out. In and out.
He stops, ready to descend but still so close. “Just so we’re clear, Piper, I’m not suddenly interested. I’ve been interested. The only difference now is that you’re noticing.”
I force my hands into fists and Nick descends in silence. I let him go, because there is nothing to say. There’s nowhere to go.
Next year, I’ll be in college. Even if he weren’t in a different social universe, this isn’t the right time to start dating anyone. Before I know it, he’ll be catching touchdowns at State, while I’m hundreds of miles away at NYU.
It’s infallible logic. And it still doesn’t keep my heart from pounding when Nick looks up at me one last time.
• • •
I need a name by 9. Don’t forget.
Harrison’s face flashes in my mind as I read the message Friday afternoon.
The message ticks me off. It would be just like Harrison to delve out hard deadlines like this is a group project and not a probably illegal vigilante scheme. So, now what? I could confront him. Tell him I know, and end this whole mess right now. There’s a part of me that’s sure this is the wise choice. But another part remembers Jackson and Kristen. For years, they got away with everything. They were untouchable and now they aren’t.
It’s the closest thing to justice our school has seen in years. So how the hell is ending it the right choice?
I sigh, tossing my phone on my dresser. It’s going to have to wait for now. Manny made it crystal clear he’d throw a fit of epic proportions if I tried to punk out of the concert tonight.
I don’t even know the band—some grunge-metal-meets-electronic indie group that’s too obscure to find its way onto my iPod. Could be fun. And I just got things right with Manny. If I have any chance of talking him back into college, things have to stay good.
So I’m taking the time to deal with eyeliner. I’m also trading in my standard-issue jeans for a skirt that looks like it survived a war and a shirt that’s snug enough to prove I made an effort. The girl in the mirror still looks like me. A hotter, slightly older version of me, but at least Manny can’t accuse me of forgetting about our plans.
My phone rings and I pick it up, cringing at Manny’s blaring music.
“Are you ready yet or what?” he asks.
“I did offer to drive myself.”
“Yeah, but you said you’d love to talk. Which I assume means you’d love to try to remind me of all my potential or condemn me for my attendance record villainy?”
“Nope. No nagging. But I’d be lying if I said I was going to let it go forever. I still think you should consider—”
“Enough with the public service announcements. I’m in your driveway. Let’s roll.”
I scoff. “Have I told you how annoying you are?”
“Mission accomplished.”
That gets me laughing. “Give me two minutes.”
My mom is at the kitchen table when I walk in. I grab a water from the fridge and say hello. She’s got the cell phone bill laid out in front of her and when she looks up, her eyes are red. Has she been crying?
“Hey,” she says, frowning when she catches sight of my makeup and skirt. “Oh, wow. Remind me again I can trust you.”
“Skirt notwithstanding, my dignity will remain intact,” I say. “You okay? You look upset.”
She folds the phone bill and puts on a plastic smile. “All good. Except that my daughter looks like she stole her look from Cosmo.”
I shake my head. “Way too much black, not enough sequins. We’re headed to Dry Dock.”
“That place with the awful pizza?”
I shrug. “They bring in bands, so the food’s allowed to suck. Be home by midnight?”
“Be safe,” she says.
I lean in to kiss her cheek. Yeah, she’s definitely been crying. I start to ask, but then Manny honks outside, reminding me this probably isn’t the time.
We pay our ten dollars to a kid from my French class last year. The building is already packed. It’s also very quickly reminding me why I stopped coming. At least half the people here are from my grade, proving we seriously need more crap to do in Claireville, Indiana.
The place is a dive. There’s a stage on the back wall, a dance floor in front of it, and probably fifty tables arranged randomly around the room, all of which appear to be full. I also heard a bunch of voices from the patio when we came in, so God knows how many people are in here.
I check my phone. Forty minutes left before I need to text a name. I don’t even know what that means. What’s he going to do if I don’t? If it’s Harrison and I tell him I know, what will he do? Will he deny it?
“Are Connor and Hadley here?” I shout over the music being pumped out of overhead speakers.
Manny nods, looking around. “You order the pizza. I’ll find them.”
Naturally, the order window is at the back corner of the building, so I’ll have to weave my way across the sticky floor and through clusters of shrieking, hair-sprayed girls. It’s like a pep rally gone wrong.
I move through the crowd, turning sideways and dodging tables as I go. I try to take advantage of my high heels, but every path that seems to open up closes just before I arrive.
“Pardon me,” I say to a girl who’s gesturing with her cherry soda.
She turns and I realize who it is—Aimee Johnston.
“Piper!” She smiles widely. “How are you?”
“Not bad.”
&nb
sp; Candace grabs Aimee’s arm and then pauses, looking at me. She’s all frosty lips and thin brows, like always. Maybe it’s that she looks so sickly next to Aimee’s heart-shaped face and dark skin, but I’ll never get what Manny sees in that girl.
Still, I know my manners. “Hey, Candace.”
“Hey,” she says before turning away.
Aimee drops her voice and narrows her eyes. “Rude. Sorry about that. She’s been annoying me all night, but I promised the squad I’d take a study break.”
“Midterms were awful. How’d you do?”
She brightens. “Good! You know, not good enough to take number one, but whatever.”
It’s not whatever. You’d have to be blind to miss the way her face goes tight when she says that. And who the hell can blame her? She’s thrown everything but the kitchen sink into her work, and she’s always landed in Harrison’s shadow.
Aimee leans in, making sure her words are just for me. “Can you keep something quiet?”
Isn’t that the million dollar question these days? “Yeah, sure.”
“I heard a crazy rumor that Harrison might be cheating in chemistry, getting answers on his phone.”
My heart falters, finds its beat again. The glow under his desk—I wasn’t imagining it. “How? Did you see it?”
“No. Shay did. She sits up front by him. I saw him throw his phone in the bottom of his bag right when we walked into class, but Shay says he wasn’t using his normal phone, that it was a different phone.”
“A different phone?”
“Yeah, so the answers can’t be traced to him.”
And maybe so he can text somebody anonymously.
The blood’s draining out of my face so fast, my skin is tingling. Like it’s fallen asleep.
Harrison isn’t just a cheater. He’s selling papers; keeping a big, fat sin log; and orchestrating takedowns like he’s some noble, by-the-people justice guy. And I’m going along with it.
It felt better when I didn’t think about him being behind it, when I could believe it was someone…better.
“Hey, look, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Aimee says.
Crap. I can only imagine what my face looks like right now. Probably pretty bad, because she obviously thinks I’m disgusted with her.
“Aimee, no, we’re cool.” I reach for her arm, but my hand is cold and slick with sweat. So I let it drop. “It’s just a complete shock.”
For reasons you can’t imagine.
“Well, it’s never coming out, even if it’s true. Shay tried to talk to Mrs. Branson.”
“What did she say?” I ask.
“That it was a very serious accusation to bring against the most esteemed student in Claireville High.”
“She didn’t even listen to Shay?” It’s one thing for us to ignore each other, but Mrs. Branson is a teacher.
Aimee shakes her head. “She offered, but Shay said she had a bad feeling that nothing would come of it, except Mrs. Branson hating her more than she already does. That kid is bulletproof.”
“I guess,” I say, the things I know about Harrison going bitter on the back of my tongue. “But we could all watch him. Turn him in to the principal if it happens again.”
“Maybe. We don’t even have another serious test for two months though.” Candace tugs again and Aimee grins. “I’ve got to go.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t stress, okay? Everything works out, yeah?”
No, it really doesn’t. Harrison is getting away with everything—he’s snowing everyone. Everyone except me.
My hand grazes the phone in my pocket. I know things Harrison doesn’t want me to know. I just need to figure out how to use them without him turning the tables on me.
If I text him his own name as a target, maybe it’ll turn up the heat. Make him squirm until he realizes he has two options: take himself down or confess he’s the one texting me. It’s a no-brainer—he’ll fess up.
And then what?
Then I agree not to turn him in for the cheating—since I don’t have evidence anyway—as long as he agrees to let Aimee take the academic lead.
“Are you joining the cheerleading squad?” Manny’s voice jolts me out of my thinking. He’s standing behind me, arms crossed and brow arched.
“I…no…Aimee just—”
“Yes, smart girl bonding, blah, blah, blah. You do realize you haven’t ordered our pizza, right?”
“Oh my God, you had Cheetos in the car twenty minutes ago! I’m going already.”
“Don’t forget my soda!” he says.
He ventures over to Candace, who plays it coy, her smile tight when he approaches. But he’s wearing her down. I grin when her shoulders turn toward him, her pale cheeks just a little bit pinker. Then I see Aimee and my chest goes tight.
She catches me looking, mouths something to me: “It’s okay.” Does it twice, so she’s sure I see her.
I pull out my phone. It’s not okay now, but it will be. I’m going to make sure of it.
Harrison Copeland—Cheating and Selling Papers
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Texting Harrison’s name is different than Jackson or Kristen. It’s not just about nailing him as a cheater. I’m not his lackey anymore. I know every bit as much as he does, so we’re equal. And he knows it. When he doesn’t respond, I grin and slide my phone back into my pocket, prepared to wait him out and enjoy my evening.
My luck holds when I find the food line, which is miraculously short for so close to showtime. I walk up to the ordering window, a ten-foot wide hole in the wall that opens into the kitchen. The metal counter is chest high and spattered with cornmeal from the bottom of the pizzas.
Menu options aren’t great. Pizza, a sub—which is essentially a pizza on top of a bun—or some rubbery wings that I wouldn’t eat if threatened at gunpoint.
I pull out a twenty and lean against the counter, waiting for someone to arrive. Someone who looks a lot like Nick rushes out of the kitchen, a baseball hat backward on his head. Before I can tell my throat to stop going tight, I realize he doesn’t look like Nick.
He is Nick.
He comes up to the counter and stops short, watching me.
“I swear I’m not a stalker,” I finally manage. Way to put him right at ease, Woods.
He half smiles, dimples flashing before he’s back to business. “I only started this summer.”
“Right,” I say, and then I just stand there, taking in way too much of what’s going on behind that counter. He looks so different—the Ramones T-shirt he’s wearing and the thick line of a black tattoo I can see at the edge of his sleeve. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”
Tell me I did not just say that.
He just looks at me, his mouth a little open. Can I blame him? What’s he going to say? The last time we talked, he told me he was interested in me, and I basically told him to kiss off. Now I’m making cutesy comments about his tattoo?
Someone nudges me from behind. “Hey, are you going to order or what?”
“Give her a minute.” Nick’s eyes flash dangerously.
The nudger snorts. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll come out there and tell you again.” Nick presses closer to the counter. “Now, what can I get you?” That megawatt grin comes out again, and my insides curl up and purr.
This has bad idea written all over it. I have to get out of here. Right now. “I’ll have a large pepperoni and two Cokes, please.”
“I’ll bring it out to you,” he says.
I barely mutter a thank you before I bolt, pushing my way through the crowd. I’ve got no destination in mind—only escape. I’m halfway back to the door when I hear someone call my name.
I follow Manny’s wild waving over to the table, where Connor and Hadley are waiting, a couple of drinks between
them.
“Hey,” I say.
“How was the order window?” Manny asks with a wink.
“You knew he was there?”
“Oh, you like him and you know it,” he says, waving it off. “You get me a drink?”
“Your arsenic should arrive shortly.”
I check my phone. No message. It almost makes me grin more. For the first time since this mess started, I’m not the one second-guessing. I feel a rush of confidence and tap out another quick message.
Did you get that message? The one about Harrison?
I press send and have to hide a snicker behind my hand. And then Connor checks his phone, his smile faltering as he opens the message. My stomach falls end over end.
The table laughs, so I join in, but I don’t know what we’re talking about. The only thing I know is that Connor checked his phone two seconds after I sent my message. He could have been checking my message.
Paranoid.
I’m completely paranoid, right?
But Connor does see everything in this school. People love and trust him, so no one censors. He’s exactly the kind of person who could get every bit of the information in that book. But would he write it all down? Keep it in some diary gone bad?
I rub my suddenly cold arms and try to push the idea away. It’s ridiculous. I know him.
Still, my mind drags up memories of Connor’s persuasive argument on elitism last year in speech class. It was a great speech. He drew parallels between the social problems during the Civil Rights movement and the problems in modern-day high school. Afterward, we laughed about how many of the popular kids applauded, totally missing that the entire speech painted their crowd in a very ugly light.
Was that when this started? Was that speech the tip of some social justice plan?
Hadley’s hand suddenly covers mine. “Piper? You look pale as a ghost. Are you sick?”
Sick doesn’t touch what I’m feeling. I’m way past sick. Could I have been wrong about Harrison?
“I’m just a little hot.” I strangle out the lie, forcing myself to breathe.
“Let me check you.” Hadley pushes her hands against my forehead and cheeks. “God, you’re ice cold.”
Gone Too Far Page 10
