“Let me walk you in,” he says when he pulls up to the curb.
“No, thanks,” I tell him. “It would probably freak out my parents.”
Probably not exactly true, but I am twenty minutes past curfew and I really don’t want any more reasons for them to ask questions about the walking Adidas ad who dropped me home.
Nick turns off the engine. It’s weird and quiet, and I don’t know what to say or do, so I reach for the door handle and smile. “Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Wait,” he says, reaching across me to hold the door closed.
He pulls back enough to give me space, a muscle in his jaw tensing. “Piper, what you did tonight—”
A sudden rush of panic forces me to cut him off. “I drove a car, Nick. It’s not a big deal. Really.”
“Yes, it was. And you know it.”
I squirm. What I did tonight, sure. That was nice. But I tried to target Tate for a takedown. And deep down, some part of me still wants it. My gaze drifts to my front door. I want a cup of green tea and my dad’s old Led Zeppelin T-shirt, the one that’s buttery soft and hangs to my knees. The one that will take me away from all of this.
“Tate wasn’t himself,” he says out of nowhere. “He doesn’t even really drink.”
I can feel myself crumbling. The image of Tate, so awful and so broken, is seared into my mind; those weird, nonsense tears burning at my eyes again, so I shift closer to the door. “I’m glad he got home safe. I should go.”
He looks a little mad now, shoves himself back into his seat. “Will you stop acting like you lent me a pencil, for God’s sake?”
I want to run, but I can hear every breath shaking out of him in the quiet car. Each time he takes another one, I feel it in my chest.
I can’t do this. Every second I sit here, he’s pulling at things, things I don’t want in the open. I want to bury them deep. Forget about them forever.
“Just say something real,” he says, voice pleading. “Anything.”
My resolve crumbles.
“He was horrible to her,” I whisper, wishing I could pull it back in, but I can’t. The truth always finds its way out, I guess.
“Yeah.” The word’s like a torn stitch. “And it’s so messed up because he was crazy about her. You don’t even know.”
I close my eyes tight. “I don’t want to know.” When I open them, he’s watching me. When I look at Nick, I hurt for Tate, and Tate doesn’t deserve that. He’s one of the reasons Stella’s dead, and I can’t let that be okay.
Nick’s face closes off, like everything is being buttoned down for a storm.
“I still appreciate your help,” he says.
Something’s tearing on my insides. I want to reach for him. I want to tell him a thousand things about how I’m feeling and how damn confusing all of this is.
Because wrong is supposed to be wrong and right is supposed to be right, and it’s all a fat, gray mess and I hate it. I want to tell him all of that, but I don’t. I step out of his Jeep and watch him drive away.
• • •
Jackson’s pictures arrive in Saturday’s mail. I ordered them half out of habit and half because I expected my texting friend to request them. I’m learning quickly that I have no idea what I should expect.
Harrison hasn’t said a thing since the Got it last night before the Tate disaster. Maybe it means he’s done with this. It should be a good thing, but it feels…incomplete. Or something.
Dad taps the brown box of photos on the table in front of me, and I recoil like it’s a nest of cockroaches.
“Pure genius inside?” he asks with a wink.
I hide my failure to smile in a spoonful of granola.
“So, why were you late last night?” Mom asks.
I chew. Swallow. Prepare to spit out more lies. “Manny got wrapped up with some girl.”
“That boy needs to rein in his hormones. And you need to keep better track of the time.”
“Noted. Sorry.”
Dad claps his hands together. “Enough discipline.” He ignores Mom’s frown and jabs the box again. “Want to show us your latest and greatest?”
A punch to the gut would hurt less. “It’s duplicates. Homecoming stuff. I’m really behind, actually.”
I look toward the stairs. Mom wraps a cranberry muffin in a paper towel and hands it to me. A wholesome snack for their lying, scheming daughter.
I lock my bedroom door and open the box, sliding the pictures out around my desk. They’re strong photos. Good angles. Nice lighting. I analyze the pictures like I’m grading them.
The portraits of the crowd are good, but the ones of Jackson are better. I’ve got a phenomenal shot of him pacing—the TV in the background, his smile too predatory to be kind. And then the best of them all—his hands in his hair and his mouth screwed up in horror. There’s only one word for this shot: humiliated.
And he should be.
I slide open the bottom drawer, finding the notebook. I tuck Jackson’s pictures into the pocket, because where the hell else am I going to keep pictures of a guy watching a tape like—
Wait a minute.
I think back over the tape, and it hits me like something heavy. All those code names I wanted to uncover. I can figure out Jackson, at least.
I grab a notepad and scrawl out a quick list of everything I can remember from that tape. The gross crap with Marlow. Throwing a fit. Mocking Chelsea. Something’s going to be in there. He saw all of it. He knew what to look for.
I start scanning the pages fast, finding a couple of things that could be Marlow. Nothing jumps out, but then, I guess it’s all kind of vague. A lot of this book could be Jackson.
And then I find it. September 20th. Halfway down the list.
Shortstop imitates Chelsea’s compromised gait
My skin prickles. Chelsea doesn’t have a nickname. I don’t know why. Maybe because Harrison feels like it’d be shitty to nickname someone with so many challenges. Or maybe because he doesn’t think she’s worth one.
But Chelsea’s name isn’t the one I’m interested in. Jackson’s is. And his name is Shortstop.
I can’t chew my lip hard enough to keep my smile at bay. I pull out my metallic pens, a gift from some birthday past, and start moving through the book, beginning to end. I hesitate at first, my pen a hair’s breadth away from the paper.
This isn’t my book, but I doubt it’s something Harrison plans on passing around at the dinner table. Besides, he pretty much gave me an author’s invitation to add my own touch. I draw a careful metallic green circle around the first reference on page 4, and then again on page 6. Page 9. The Chelsea incident on page 10. And finally one more at the bottom of 11. Five times this jerk made someone suffer. So five times I write his real name above his nickname.
I flip to the back of the book, to a fresh new page. That’s where I paste his pictures, one on top of the other. I surround them with crisscrossing borders, the same ink that I used to highlight his deeds.
This book won’t fix anything on its own. It’s not a weapon unless it’s in the wrong person’s hands. For me, it’s a source of honesty. From Manny to my parents to my own vigilante side gig, my world’s sinking in lies. It feels pretty good to have something that’s true.
• • •
The yearbook team meets for lunch at Waffle World on Sundays. As usual, I’m early, which gives me time to enjoy my tower of praline pancakes in peace while I mock up an idea for my newly assigned yearbook pages on the back of a napkin.
Manny slides into the booth across from me, sporting a rumpled T-shirt and dark circles under his eyes.
I frown up at him. “You look like crap.”
“I was up late,” he says. “Though sadly, not because of Candace. So, did you bang the quarterback?”
“He’s not a quarterback and you
’re not funny,” I say, pointing at my crude napkin design. “What do you think?”
He shrugs and helps himself to the table coffee. “Tacey will want more pictures crammed in. So fill me in on your sweaty adventures.”
“There was no sweating. You’re disgusting. And why were you up so late?”
He scratches the back of his head. “If you must know, I’m trying to get that government paper done.”
I don’t like it. It’s not like Manny to do homework in advance, and I know that paper isn’t due until next week. Makes me wonder if he’s in trouble. Or if he’s messing with attendance records again. The thought makes my stomach go sour, but I keep my mouth shut.
“I thought you were done with the nagging.”
“I am!”
“Those eyes are nagging eyes.”
“Whose eyes are nagging?” Tacey asks, announcing her arrival.
I sigh. “No one’s. Let’s talk layout. I still have a ton of homework to deal with. Take a look at this idea. For the homecoming court spread.”
Tacey pulls out her laptop—scary idea with all the syrup on this table—and we dissect ten pages of the yearbook, which feels a little heavy on the throttle since the full book isn’t due for three months, but whatever.
“Okay, one more thing,” she says. “I want to add another page to the football layout.”
“The section we just finished?” I ask.
Tacey frowns. “I wanted one final page of the stadium. I think I’m going to put coach quotes on there.”
“I’ll do that,” I say, because I’m itching to have a reason to be behind my camera, to feel the heft of it in my hands and the thrill of a shot that I know is amazing the second the shutter snaps. Plus, I could definitely deal with a distraction right now.
“I’ll come with,” she says. “Do you need to stop and get your equipment?”
“It’s in the trunk,” I say.
Manny heads out, and Tacey and I pay the tab. We take my Subaru to the high school. The day’s cold with a flat, pale sky stretching overhead. Not the best light for a shoot. I snap a few from the front of the stadium and pull back to thumb through them. Everything is cast in pale gray, the sky bone white above us. Kind of haunting and gorgeous, but I know Tacey.
“It’s going to need to be black and white,” I warn her.
“You were born in the wrong decade.”
“Since I can’t imagine life before Nikon went digital, I doubt it. But you won’t like this lighting. Do you want to try another day?”
“No, grayscale will work. If I use red font, it will pop, right?”
I feel a little buzzed that she’s game for it. Black-and-white landscapes are my favorite. Maybe I could even leave the brick in color. And the chipped paint on the bleacher seats? Yeah.
“You’re going to love it. I’m going to go grab a few from inside.”
Tacey’s nose deep in her phone. “’Kay. I need to make a couple calls. Can I use your charger?”
“It’s in the car.”
Tacey disappears, and I close my eyes, savoring the solitude. One deep breath and everything falls away. The notebook, the texts, Nick, Tate—the smell of dry leaves and cold air clears them out. No more test shots. No more light checks. I stretch my fingers around my camera and start for real. It’s like seeing the place for the first time.
I take a few more pictures of the outside walls, first the front and then the concession stand. The field is still hidden to me, but I’m saving it, working my way into the stadium frame by frame. I slip into the hallway where I confronted Nick, catching some great shots of the light from the bleachers streaming onto the cement walk.
It gives me an idea for a shot of the field—a shot from behind the bleachers. I fold up the tripod and lean it against a wall, feeling the itch of excitement over doing something different.
I step into an alcove. Bleachers stretch overhead, wooden planks that have weathered sixty Indiana winters. I wonder how many first kisses have been shared under these bleachers.
Suddenly, I hear laughter and then a grunt. It’s coming from the field, but I can’t see anyone out there. I try again at the next set of bleachers, spotting two guys moving back and forth on the green. Tate and Jackson.
Something small and hard lodges in my chest as I watch the football sail back and forth between them. Tate misses a pass and the football thuds to the ground two sets of bleachers over. I start walking that way. I’m not sure why, because my jaw feels tight and hot, and I’d rather walk through fire barefoot than be near either of them. That doesn’t stop me from slipping closer and closer.
They’re both by the ball when I stop. If I go farther, they might see me. Tate’s tossing the ball from one hand to the other while Jackson scuffs the grass with his shoes, a scowl on his face.
“What’s with all the power passes?” Tate asks.
“What’s with you turning into a girl?”
Tate steps back. He doesn’t look good. He’s pale and his cheeks are sunken. I try to think about the way he was earlier this year—almost too handsome. The kind of guy who people figured might end up on TV or modeling somewhere. He’s a million miles from that now. Jackson stretches his thick arms overhead. “You’ve been moping for weeks. You didn’t even want to come today. Now you’re moaning that I’m throwing too hard.”
“I’m not moaning. You’re pissed and it’s obvious,” Tate says. “Your dad’s pissed about the eight-game suspension, huh?”
Jackson rockets another throw at Tate’s middle. He catches it and flings it back with a smirk. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Jackson shrugs. “He left my face out of it, so whatever.”
“It’s messed up, man. You should tell someone.”
“Why? So I can turn into a mopey little shit like you?”
Tate’s expression goes hard. “Maybe because if you stop getting punched in the kidneys, you’ll throw a better pass.”
The tension between them is painfully thick. It presses on me until I feel like I’ve been punched.
Jackson finally relents under Tate’s stare down. “I’ll make him pay, you know.”
“Your dad?”
“No. Whoever put that tape up. The same guy that took down Kristen.”
I stop breathing, my face going cold as the blood drains from it.
Tate shrugs one shoulder, looking off into the stands across the field. “It’ll blow over.”
“I’m not going to let it blow over. I’m going to find him. And make him pay.”
Jackson’s voice is cold enough to burn. My hands shake, and suddenly, I realize—they could see me. Not that it means anything. I’m a school photographer. I have an excuse to be anywhere.
But I’m also the girl who took pictures of Jackson watching that tape. The same one who took pictures of Kristen. If he starts connecting dots, he’s going to find me at the middle.
They don’t speak again. Eventually, Tate shuffles down the field, and Jackson throws him the ball. That’s about the time I start breathing again.
I back out of the stands carefully, making sure I don’t step wrong or bang into something that will give me away. The second I’m clear of the bleachers, I speed up. I just want to be out of here.
Tacey’s still on the phone when I get to the car, but she hangs up quickly after catching sight of my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Everything.
I start the engine and Tacey twists sideways. “We’re leaving? What about the pictures? Did you get enough? Why are you so shaky?”
“I have enough.”
I don’t have enough. I don’t even have one of the actual field from inside, but my hands are slick on the steering wheel and I can’t stay here one more minute. I pull out of the lot with the radio up, but it’s Jackson’s threat that’s ri
nging in my ears.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s the worst kind of dream, the kind where you know you’re sleeping and you still can’t wake up. Nick’s standing at my locker in his backward baseball hat with his hand stretched toward me. He says my name, and my whole body blooms when he smiles.
I touch his fingers, and Tate appears beside us in his stained shirt. But it’s not Tate. Not really. His eyes are white, a milky film covering the irises. Deep purple bruises shade the hollows of his cheekbones and his skin is gray blue. Corpse pale.
I try to look back at Nick, but I can’t tear my gaze away from Tate’s ruined eyes. Stella is here now too. She watches us with eyes that are cloudy like Tate’s, her skin withered and filthy. Nick says my name, but I can only see Tate’s chalk-white lips and Stella’s hair hanging in matted hunks around her shoulders.
“He’s coming for you.” Stella blinks her white eyes and I gasp, breathing in her rot.
Nick’s hand tightens around mine. Warm. Safe.
“Who’s coming?”
“I’m coming,” Nick says. But it isn’t Nick.
It’s Jackson.
He squeezes my hand until the bones in my wrist grind. I dig in my heels. Try to jerk free. But he has me. Oh God, he’s pulling me in.
I wake up with a shout, goose bumps trailing up my arms and legs.
It’s okay. I’m okay.
I press a hand to my chest and will my panting to slow. Three days after I saw him at the field, and I’m still on edge.
My bedroom is lit by the desk lamp I forgot to turn off, but it’s still dark outside. I check my phone on my nightstand. It’s too early to get up, even for a school day, but I’m not risking snoozing my way back into that nightmare.
I slip into the bathroom to take a quick shower, and return to my room, hair pulled into a wet ponytail. My stomach clenches at the brown envelope my mother left on my desk while I was sleeping. Kristen’s pictures came. I’m not really sure I want to look at these. But I have to.
I rip it open decisively, sliding the new pictures out one by one. I’m too low in the seats to get quality shots of the stage, but a few aren’t bad: Kristen at the podium, a pair of red-stained jeans blurring past her shoulder, one of the sign, one of kids pointing, and the one of her crying.
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