Gone Too Far

by Natalie D. Richards

  I push that one under the pile. Part of me wants to turn it facedown, maybe even put it in my drawer. Instead, I pull out the notebook and choose a glittery pink pen. Just like I did with Jackson, I look for her sins.

  I’m starting to memorize these pages, but I check them again, entry by entry. Only two stand out, but I’m sure they’re her. One bragging about a stolen leather coat back in early October. And another lending a freshman advice on lifting makeup at the mall. Her nickname? Couture. I cross it out in both entries and write Kristen’s name above it. Then I paste her picture on the page behind Jackson’s, listing her sins again in shimmery pink script.

  Now what? Harrison hasn’t owned up to being the texter yet, but he’s obviously not going to take himself down. That means Kristen could be the last. Two takedowns. That’s it? I skim my finger down a line of entries. Cruelty and violence spelled out over and over. All these other people? They deserve justice too. I’m going to have to find a way to do this. Maybe without a partner.

  I keep working with my glittery pens, crossing out the names I’ve figured out, writing real names over the top. I hesitate at Manny’s name, and I hate it because it makes me a hypocrite. He’s guilty like all the rest, but he’s Manny. My friend. There’s more to him than these three entries.

  Which is why this book can’t get out. In the wrong hands, this thing could turn into a witch-hunt, and I can’t let that happen. Not to Manny. Not to anyone else who ended up in this book for stupid reasons.

  I have to choose carefully, and this book is only one piece of that choice. It’s a reminder of how bad it can get and why all of this is worth the risks I’m taking.

  My phone rings, and I pick it up without checking the number. “Hello?”

  “Piper? This is Nick.”

  A flash of milky irises from my dream sends a chill down my spine. I pull my feet up on my chair, hugging my knees close to my chest. It was just a nightmare. Not real.

  “Are you there?” he asks, and I realize I haven’t said anything since hello.

  “I’m sorry. Hi. What’s up?”

  “I was calling to see if I could drive you to school. I have something I want to ask you about.”

  I think of riding to school in his bumpy Jeep, his voice up close and personal.

  “You can’t just ask me now?” I ask, sort of squeaking.

  “I could. Wouldn’t mind the company though.”

  I smile and sigh at the same time. God, he’s making it hard to remember why I’m supposed to not like him.

  He chuckles like he reads all that by my sigh alone. “All right, I’ll spare you more awkward silence and just ask. Do you think there’s any chance Connor Jennings did the stuff to Kristen and Jackson?”

  I swallow hard and close my eyes. “No, I don’t.”

  “I know he’s your friend, but he’s some sort of computer genius, right?”

  “There are plenty of people slick enough to do it.”

  “Maybe, but Connor’s the kind of guy to stick up for people, right?”

  Right. But totally wrong. “Connor didn’t do it. I thought he did too, so I checked into it.”

  He sighs. “I thought it was a solid idea. After his speech last year, he obviously isn’t a fan of the popular kids.”

  I tilt my head, surprised he understood the speech but more bothered by his assumption. “Why do you think it’s about popularity?”

  Except I have targeted popular kids, haven’t I? I wasn’t thinking of their social status when I picked them, though. I wait for him to answer, listening to the silence scream “Liar, liar, liar!” at me.

  “C’mon, look at the people who have been taken down. Jackson? Kristen?”

  I can’t argue that they’re unpopular, so I don’t. “You think they didn’t deserve it?”

  “It’s not about what they deserve. Humiliating people isn’t going to fix anything. It’s just going to cause more problems.”

  “Why? Because your friends are getting what’s coming to them?”

  “No, because it’s going to go bad. The police are trying to get Kristen’s mom to press charges. Jackson’s on the damn warpath. It’s a mess.”

  “Well, it’s not your mess, right? I mean, you didn’t do anything, so you should be fine.”

  What am I doing? Why am I acting like this? Nick’s been nothing but decent to me, but God, I can’t see him apart from them. Jackson’s laughter from the hallway trails back to me and I shudder.

  I just wanted them to pay. For Stella. I thought that’s what this was for, but now?

  Nick sighs, bringing me back to the present. “Hey, I’m going to go. I’ll see you at school, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hang up the phone before he can say anything else—or maybe before I can make it worse than I already have.

  My fingers shake on the cover of the notebook. Malum non vide. See no evil. Except I’m starting to see evil everywhere. Even where it might not exist.

  • • •

  I look around the chemistry lab, feeling uneasy. I caught Harrison’s eye walking in and made a point to say hello and ask how he’s feeling since he was absent the first two days this week. And Harrison? Didn’t even flinch.

  He briefly explained that he’d been on a college tour—the kid is incessantly touring colleges—and then excused himself to his seat.

  If he is the texter, then he could win an Oscar for playing it cool. I’ve been staring at the back of his neck so hard it’s a miracle it hasn’t lit on fire, but he hasn’t looked back at me. Not once. What gives? The pressure should be eating him alive to fess up.

  I don’t know what it means or what to think. But if Harrison isn’t the guy, I’m pretty sure I’m screwed. Because I have no idea who else it could be.

  The minutes tick by and Mrs. Branson strolls up and down the aisles, commenting on our measurements and stir speed. Ten minutes before the bell rings, I feel my phone buzz in my backpack. It’s against the rules to check it during class, and usually it doesn’t go off, because anyone who’d text me is probably also in class.

  So, who is it? Mom? Dad? If it’s them, something’s wrong. Like one-of-them-is-in-the-emergency-room wrong.

  Way to wax theatrical, Woods.

  I need to chill. No one’s dead. It’s only nine minutes until the end of class, and I don’t need my phone confiscated for the rest of the day because I’ve decided to embrace my neurotic side. But I still reach for the loop of my bag with my toe and drag it closer.

  This isn’t smart. I can wait eight minutes to check a text message.

  I think.

  Screw it. I’ve never been big on patience.

  Mrs. Branson turns her back and I reach forward, my whole body on high alert as I slowly unzip the side pouch. I have got to get myself together. I’m not sneaking into a Homeland Security database here, I’m checking my phone.

  I snag the phone impatiently and cringe at how loud it is. Like opening candy in a quiet theater. In the next seat, Andrew Lane looks at me and then away, clearly not caring a bit.

  Mrs. Branson also doesn’t care. She’s fairly preoccupied showing one of her super-smart-person magazines to Harrison. Of course.

  I finally pull up the screen and deflate. It’s from the texter. Which means it can’t be from Harrison; my eyes have been on him like a second layer of skin.

  I pull it up.

  Be in the north parking lot in five minutes.

  Five minutes? My head shoots up, panicked. The north parking lot is easily a five minute walk from here, even if I didn’t have to stop by my locker for my camera. Plus, I got this text four minutes ago.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and launch my hand into the air, not bothering to wait for her to call on me. “Mrs. Branson, may I please use the restroom?”

  She looks up from her magazine—a
nd her golden child—with a look of bewilderment. “Miss Woods, there are five minutes left in this period.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  At the table up front, Shay snickers, and I shoot her a withering look. Mrs. Branson dismisses me with a wave, telling me it’s too close to period end to bother with a pass. Which basically means, she’s too busy fawning over Harrison to get up and write me one.

  Works for me. I’m way too late to wait. Once the classroom door clicks closed, I sprint down the hallway. I think of cartoon characters sliding around corners as I fly toward my locker, hoping against hope that no one in the office is watching the camera screens right now.

  I’m panting hard when I get there, my fingers spinning right then left then right again. The lock opens and I yank my bag over my shoulder. Camera in hand, I run, not even bothering to lock up. They can have my textbooks if they want them that badly.

  Because I can’t miss Harrison’s takedown. I didn’t even expect there to be a—

  Wait.

  My feet slow to an awkward jog. I just left him in advanced chemistry. If this is about a takedown, what am I doing going to the courtyard when he’s inside?

  Unless this isn’t a takedown for Harrison. Maybe they’ve turned the tables. Maybe this time I’m the target.

  Heart hammering, I look around. It’s so quiet I can hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. The murmur of teachers talking to their rooms.

  Ignore it.

  I could just slide my phone back into my pocket and get back to class. It’d be easy.

  But if I’m wrong…if I miss it because I’m afraid—no. No, I walked away from that scared girl the second I texted Jackson’s name. I can’t look back now.

  I push open the door to the courtyard, which is neither a court nor a yard. Really it’s a cluster of additional tables situated next to the teacher’s lot and the baseball fields. Still, the sky is blue and cloudless, and I know pictures out here will be wonderful. Crisp and bright with that kind of supreme clarity that only direct sunlight can offer.

  I’m not sure I’ll be so excited if I wind up being the subject.

  I stumble forward a few feet and spot something in the parking lot—a newer white sedan backed halfway out of its parking spot, almost like someone left it in neutral and it rolled out on its own. But that’s not what happened. I’m pretty sure whoever spray-painted the back windshield and the lid of the trunk pushed it here.

  I read the messages.

  Cheating Your Way

  Text for Answers!

  Cheating? Need Help?

  Dread settles in my stomach like a rock, but I follow my instinct and lift my camera. One, two, three pictures.

  And then I freeze in horror as I realize something. Holy crap, there are security cameras on this patio.

  I feel like I’m sinking in quicksand. Suffocating. I’m going to be caught.

  I lean in to take a ridiculous picture of one of the empty tables, but I know this is stupid. It’s too late to cover anything anymore. They’ll see me out here. They’ll put the pieces together. I’ve been at every one of these takedowns. Documenting them.

  I turn, oh-so-casually, and there it is. One of the cameras. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s more focused on the baseball fields. This lot is for staff only, so it’s probably not a place where they expect kids to be. I search the other corner, but that camera is definitely pointed at the tables behind me—the ones I just walked through to get here.

  I’m in a dead spot. From the look of it, the whole lot might be a dead spot. Maybe. I might get away with this.

  Is that even what I want anymore?

  I take a breath. So cold it burns.

  A shrill ringing blares out of speakers all around me and I jump, jaw snapping. Just a fire alarm. I bring a hand to my throat and will my pulse to slow down. My heart ignores me and races on because it already knows what I’m only just figuring out. This is no mandatory drill.

  Someone set this alarm off. Half of the school is going to be out here in two minutes. And whoever spray-painted this car planned it that way.

  The doors open and students pour out, tugging on jackets and clogging up the sidewalk and tables. Kids are laughing and talking as they move to line up. It takes a minute before someone sees the car. A pretty freshman spots it first, pointing with a gasp.

  It takes less than a minute for the lines to dissolve into chaos. Students press in closer to the parking lot. Whispers and murmurs ricochet from one group to the next.

  “Whose is it?”

  “No, you idiot, Mr. Stiers drives a Honda.”

  “Mrs. Stamper has a minivan, right?”

  “Somebody’s fired!”

  My mouth goes bone dry. Someone is going to get fired. And I’m pretty sure it’s Mrs. Branson.

  No. This isn’t right. This isn’t what I wanted. It was about Harrison. It wasn’t even about that—it was about letting Aimee win because she deserves it. And people should know that Harrison doesn’t. That’s what I wanted to show.

  But this is the truth. Just not the truth I wanted.

  It’s too much. I lift my camera, hiding behind the lens, safe with the metal body firm and true in my hands. I force myself to turn toward the approaching crowd to get a few shots. One of Mr. Goodard, his eyes falling to the car with a grave look. Another shot of teachers whispering just as harshly as the students, the messages on the car blurred behind their bent heads.

  A sudden sharp cry takes the breath right out of me. Mrs. Branson’s finally here. Her eyes are wide and she’s got a hand at her chest. The expression on her chalk-white face is beyond fear or regret. It’s panic, pure and simple.

  I snap one image of her. It’s the first picture I’ve ever hated myself for taking.

  The answers tumble together in the whispers and images around me. Lots of people knew a little. Put together the bits, and we see the whole picture. Chemistry was Harrison’s weakness, but he realized it too late to drop the class. A longtime student in Mrs. Branson’s AP science classes, Harrison trusted her. They somehow struck a deal.

  Some think it was her phone he used. Others think they’re sleeping together. Mrs. Branson’s close to sixty, so I doubt that, but it doesn’t matter. She’s finished. He’s finished. It’s over for both of them. It hits me like a hammer then: One bad call, that’s all it takes. One big mistake shot two futures apart in the most humiliating scene I’ve ever witnessed.

  This will haunt them forever. This will be on the news.

  A flush of regret creeps up my neck, hot and angry. I shrug my shoulders, trying to shake it off. It’s not my fault. They would have been caught anyway. It would have come out.

  But not like this.

  I’m like a stone dropped in still water. I sink away from the chaos until the only noise I hear is the sound of my guilt.

  The police—called for her car, I guess—pull into the parking lot while they’re still counting us. Nervous teachers bark at us to be quiet, but no one listens. My heart races and my feet shift, and I’m grateful Manny and Tacey are in different classes because I can’t talk right now.

  A police officer is taking pictures of the car when I finally catch sight of Harrison at the back of my line. He’s still close to the school, his face gray as ash. He looks like he’s about to walk in front of a firing squad and he’s probably not far from wrong. I’ve met his parents. Saw them rip him to pieces for a 93% in social studies in the fourth grade.

  The teachers start ushering us in, and I spot Mrs. Branson, who’s speaking with the policemen near her car. Mr. Stiers gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder, and Mr. Goodard’s expression is cool and professional. The face of a man who knows he’s about to lose a teacher.

  I feel sick. Guilty. Embarrassment is one thing, but this? It’s too much. This changes their lives forever.

&n
bsp; Stop it!

  They earned this. It was their choice. I’m as sure of it as I’ve ever been about anything and it shouldn’t feel this bad. But it does.

  I press a hand to my forehead as we push back into the building, the sunlight giving way to the dim school interior. I breathe deeply. I need to get a grip. I really do.

  The conversations inside are at a roar. Teachers bark at students, but it barely dims the noise. Everyone’s talking, pushing, texting. Harrison comes in behind me and the hallway falls silent.

  His mouth goes thin and hard as he steps away from the wall. For a minute, I think he might say something. To me. I know it’s not possible, but some part of me thinks he knows. That he’ll tell.

  Of course, Harrison’s got much bigger problems than me today. And so do I, because if Harrison isn’t the texter, then I have no idea who I’m working with.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I follow Harrison to the office because I have to be sure. I’ll play sick if I have to. It’s not really a stretch. In the end, I just can’t let this go without talking to him. I know he didn’t send that last text, but what if the pressure got to him? What if he orchestrated this whole thing today as a way out?

  I know it doesn’t track. But Harrison still feels right somehow. Maybe he’s not the texter, but he’s involved.

  I need to talk to him. And if I don’t do it now, I might never get the chance. After this mess, who knows what will happen? Suspension? A school transfer? I might not ever see him again.

  The secretaries aren’t at their desks, so apparently the apocalypse really is nigh. I can hear them back in the counselor’s office, no doubt discussing Mrs. Branson’s fate or Harrison’s.

  I sign my name on the office check-in list. Halfway through my W, I stop, my eyes drawn to the distinctive black writing above my line.

  It’s creepy that Harrison signed himself in for a disciplinary conversation. But that’s not what what’s choking the breath out of me. I owe that to the penmanship—writing I’ve only seen in one other place.