The S-Word

by Chelsea Pitcher

  “Love,” he corrects.

  “Totally.” I nod like I believe him. “So I get up to look, but I can’t see anything. That shelf of reference books is sitting in the middle of the desk. And I’m like, when did that get there?”

  Of course, I know when the shelf was moved. Right about the time Marvin volunteered to be the librarian’s aide.

  His blush confirms my theory. “Miss Marilyn thought it would remind us that you can look things up in books too,” he explains.

  “I bet someone suggested it to her.”

  “Maybe I did.” He wrinkles his brow. He’s got this zit trapped between two wrinkles that looks like it’s going to burst. “That proves nothing.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” I lean away, readjusting my top. “Anyway, I hear this panting, and it’s totally breaking my concentration, so I creep down the row of computers, all stealthy like.” I wink. “Even dumb cheerleaders know how to spy. And I peer through the reference books and out the other side.”

  “Oh God.” He’s shrinking in on himself.

  But my story’s just getting interesting. “And what to my wandering eyes should appear but a little scum bucket perving on the nastiest websites I could ever imagine.”

  “Please stop.”

  “I mean, this was not normal stuff. This wasn’t even normal hard-core. This was, like . . .” I open my hands, as if searching for the words. “I don’t even want to say. It was definitely the worst—”

  “Okay. I get it. Just—”

  “I’m not finished yet,” I say in singsong. “So after a minute this perv-master realizes the typing on the other end of the desk has stopped. And he starts to figure out what the typist is doing, and he totally freaks. He starts closing web windows like you wouldn’t believe but they just keep popping up. And he’s sweating and wheezing and I honestly think he’s going to cry so I start to slink away, figuring I don’t want to be the cause of an eighteen-year-old’s heart attack. And just as I disappear into a row of autobiographies, I hear the sound. That zap.”

  “Crap.”

  “Exactly,” I agree, nodding vigorously. “In his panic, this cretin drops to the ground and turns off the power strip that’s connected to all the computers. I lose seven pages of my fifteen-page paper. I miss the deadline. I get an F on the assignment.”

  “Why didn’t you just work at home like a normal person?” He narrows his eyes, but the movement looks forced, like he’s trying to appear disdainful. Really he’s scared, anyone can see it. His fingers tap out rapid rhythms on the table, and he can’t stop watching them. “Well?”

  Because my dad pawned his computer, like, months ago . . . because Mom protects her laptop more than she ever protected me—but I don’t say those things, because Marvin wouldn’t understand. He probably has separate laptops for homework, porn, and video games.

  “My computer crashed,” I lie. “And I had to take it in.”

  His smirk says that would never happen to him. It makes me so mad. He has all this high-tech equipment, but still he chooses to look up dirty things at school. What would compel him to do something like that?

  “Wait—why didn’t you work at home?” I demand.

  He shrugs like it’s the stupidest question in the world. Like I’m the stupidest girl, and he’s so goddamn smart it pains him to be in my presence. But his answer is less than satisfying. “I wasn’t working.”

  “Oh, you were working, all right. Working out a problem. Rubbing one—well, never mind. The point is, I told Mrs. Linn someone turned off the computers.”

  “You did?” His hands are curling and curling, but there’s nothing to hold on to.

  “I did. But she wouldn’t change the grade on my paper unless I told her who did it.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Why?” He catches my gaze.

  Because Lizzie begged me not to. Because she was such a good person, it made me want to be a better person too.

  “Because it would have ruined you,” I say, and that’s true as well. I do have compassion, or at least I used to. “The stuff you were looking at was bad, Marvin. Like, lock-you-up-and-study-you bad. I felt sorry for you.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  “Trust me, the feeling is passing.” I hold up my hands. “But as far as I can tell, I did you a big, fat favor, so you owe me one.”

  He takes a moment to answer. His shoulders are sagging, like his body’s too heavy to hold up. “What do you want?” he asks finally.

  “Just the name of the person who’s writing on the lockers. And bringing Lizzie’s diary to school. It has to be the same person, don’t you think?”

  “It seems likely,” Marvin agrees. “But I don’t know who’s doing those things.” He clears his throat when I go to speak. “I only know who was doing it before.”

  “Before? Before, when she . . . Oh my God. Tell me.” I touch his clenched hands, like we’re famed superheroes coming together to save the planet. Like we’re actually friends. “Please?”

  And then, just as Marvin opens his mouth, Kennedy McLaughlin slides into the seat next to mine. She’s got on these dark, low-rise jeans and a man’s white collared shirt. The loose fit of the shirt only enhances the possibility of what hides beneath. I expect Marvin to be drooling.

  But the look he gives Kennedy is pure hatred. “Speak of the devil,” he says.

  eight

  WERE YOU TWO talking about me?” Kennedy slides a roll of papers over to me. I hardly have time to catch my breath. Marvin saw Kennedy doing something to Lizzie. He witnessed it.

  He reaches for the pages.

  I slap his hand. “I don’t think so, computer boy.”

  He scowls as I put them in my bag. Yes, I glance at them. Yes, it’s Lizzie’s handwriting.

  “I found them in a locker,” Kennedy explains, just glancing at Marvin. “I figured you’d want them.”

  I don’t thank her. I can barely stop myself from glaring. Why did she lie to me?

  Why did I believe her?

  All I want, in that moment, is for her to disappear so that Marvin can explain, but I know that’s not going to happen. Kennedy sticks like glue when she wants to.

  “What was said?” She turns her golden gaze on Marvin. Already she’s picked up on his feelings about her. Smart lady.

  Smarter than me, apparently.

  “Huh?” I come back to the world slowly. Sitting here with the two of them, it’s like two universes are colliding. I don’t like it.

  “What were you saying about me?” she asks, batting dark lashes. Those lashes betray the fakeness of her hair color, but some things about her are real. Her wicked mind. Her razor-sharp wit. The ability to destroy a reputation in ten seconds flat.

  “Oh that.” I smile easily. At least, it looks easy. “We were arguing about who the hottest girl in school is.”

  Marvin jumps in. “Angie here said it was you, but I said—”

  “You were far too beautiful to be grouped in with the rest of us,” I finish for him.

  Kennedy gives me a grin. She knows better than to show her claws in mixed company. “Well, I think you’re both wrong. Jesse Martinez is the fairest in the land.”

  It takes me a minute to realize she’s not kidding. “He’s nice looking,” I say. “Kind of stuck-up, though. Or something.”

  Marvin takes a sip just so he can sputter at me. I think that’s why, at least. “Are you two joking? He’s a freak.”

  “Oh, right,” I reply. “Says the boy who’s into all sorts of things.”

  “What’s that, now?” Kennedy perks up.

  “Nothing,” Marvin says with me.

  Smooth. We should go on stakeouts together.

  He looks at his watch pointedly. “Well, I got to get to class. Ladies.” He tips his head at me. “Kennedy,” he snarls.

  “Wait.” I reach for his hand.

  But he’s too fast for me. “So nice chatting with you,” he says, ri
sing from his seat. He’s gone before I can think of a way to keep him. I feel Kennedy’s gaze locked on me. “What?”

  “Are you two dating?” she asks.

  I don’t give her the satisfaction of a disgusted reply. “We’re talking,” I say, which could mean a lot of things. “Why’d you follow me?”

  She pouts. “I thought this was our secret place.”

  “Not anymore,” I say. I can’t help it. If she did something to Lizzie, I don’t want her on my side.

  “Fine.” She slides out of the chair, all grace. “You’re welcome for the copies.”

  MARVIN PLAYS INVISIBLE for the rest of the day. Maybe he’s afraid of invoking Cheer Wrath. Or maybe he’s just full of it. I don’t know. Something about his tone rang true, and not because I want to blame Kennedy for Lizzie’s harassment. He seemed to genuinely hate her. I’m not sure he’d be able to fake that.

  Still, I can’t confront Kennedy yet. I have no evidence. Just Marvin’s implication that she’s guilty. If I’m going to go head-to-head with the most powerful girl in school, I’ll need more than that.

  Besides, we saw what a rumor did to Lizzie. I want facts.

  When the last bell rings, I do a quick survey of the rooms accessible to students. Lizzie’s epithet has been scrubbed clean from the lockers, but that hasn’t stopped it from showing up in other places. The upstairs girls’ room is its new favorite. The black scribbling mars a nearby stall. I slide my finger over the inscription.

  No smudges.

  That means the inscription’s been sitting a while, at least half an hour. But I know it wasn’t here yesterday. It doesn’t take a genius to decipher my next course of action. If the writing only shows up in the girls’ room, the clues point to the culprit being a girl. But if it shows up in both rooms . . .

  I know, I know. Sneaking into the boys’ bathroom is not every girl’s fantasy. But it’s not like I can trust a guy to do it for me. So that’s how I find myself leaning against the door to the boys’ bathroom, fingers pinching my nose, using my elbow to ease open the door, when Jesse passes by.

  “Hey.” I try to keep my voice casual.

  Jesse stops, slowly, and pivots to face me. I can’t help but notice his outfit, which is funny because I could barely tell you what I’m wearing without looking down to remind myself. My fashionista days have fallen by the wayside.

  Not so for Jesse. Today his clothes could have come from the girls’ or guys’ department. He’s got on pinstriped black pants and a crisp white shirt, not unlike the one Kennedy was wearing. Add to that suspenders and a pinstriped black fedora, and he’s ready to take on Hollywood in the Golden Age. Naturally, the hat’s pulled down.

  All hail the king of covert existence.

  Everyone can see the flashy clothes. No one can see the eyes.

  He makes an exception for me. “Oh, you remember me?” His voice is not hopeful. It’s full of disdain.

  “I need your help,” I say conspiratorially.

  He does a fluttery bow. “How can I be of service, Princess?”

  Ah, so I’m the Princess of Verity High. And apparently I treat my subjects like shit. Nice of him to inform me.

  I beckon for him to come closer. He glides over effortlessly. “Somebody’s written something in the girls’ bathroom,” I say.

  “Scandal!”

  “In Lizzie’s handwriting.”

  “Oh.”

  “As you know, I’m trying to catch the culprit.”

  “And send him to the guillotine, no doubt.” He makes a dramatic gesture, pointing off into the distance.

  “Try to stay with me.” I snap my fingers.

  He shows a hint of a smile. Maybe he likes sassy?

  I smile back, and it’s actually genuine. “So I’m trying to figure out if it’s just in the girls’ bathroom, or if it’s in the boys’ too. You dig?”

  “I follow you. You want me to check out the little boys’ room for you.”

  “No. I want you to give me the all-clear so I can check myself.”

  “Trust issues,” he sings. Still, in one fluid movement, he slips into the boys’ room. He’s back in less than a minute.

  “All clear?” I ask.

  “Clear as can be. But I didn’t see any of that writing in there.” He leans against the wall, crossing one leg over the other. His shirt looks bright against his golden-brown skin.

  I dip my head toward him. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

  “I guess you don’t.” He taps my nose with a finger. It startles me, how warm he is. “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “No offense,” I say, surveying the empty hall, “but I’m not in the mood lately.”

  And then I’m gone, into the abyss of toilet-papered tiles and rust-stained urinals. The only possible explanation for a smell this bad is a fountain of urine and a pile of old socks.

  I’m in and out as fast as can be.

  Jesse’s standing guard when I come out. Unfortunately, Drake is with him. My heart starts to race. I want to bolt, but I can’t leave without thanking Jesse. Plus, my legs have gone all wobbly. “Listen, Jesse—”

  “This is why you’re guarding the door?” Drake interrupts, brushing Jesse aside like a shopping cart. “What the hell, Angie?”

  “You were right,” I say to Jesse, taking small pleasure in sharing a secret with him in front of Drake.

  “Told you it was clean.” Jesse winks for added effect.

  “You and I have a very different definition of that.” We share a smile.

  Next to us, Drake is fuming. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Relax.” I almost touch his chest, the way I used to when his jealousy would surface. “We were out of TP in the ladies’.”

  If he knows I’m lying, he won’t call me on it. He’s got a vested interest in staying on my good side. He still thinks he might find a way back into my pants.

  What a waste.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say to Jesse, touching his shoulder lightly.

  He jumps at the touch. I think it surprised him more than it surprised Drake. “No problem,” he says.

  I turn to leave but something stops me. I’m wary of leaving the two of them alone together. “Don’t you have something to do?” I ask Drake. I motion to the bathroom.

  “It went away.”

  “Right.”

  “It did.”

  I wish I knew what he was thinking. Most people I can read, but Drake is locked tight with a padlock and chains. It’s hard to find a way in.

  “Fine,” I say, thinking on my feet. “Jesse, can you help me with one more thing?” The longer I look at the pair of them, the more I’m certain it’s a bad idea to leave them unsupervised. I’m pretty sure Drake would sucker punch Jesse in a heartbeat.

  Jesse looks at me funny, like he knows what I’m up to. “Sorry, I can’t.”

  I wonder if I’ve insulted him. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  “Sorry,” he says again. He begins to walk backward, lowering the bill of his hat. I let him go.

  “I need to talk to you,” Drake says when he’s, like, three feet away.

  “Not today, Drake.” I make a move to leave.

  He catches my arm. “It’s really important.”

  I slide out of his grasp, trying to pretend I hate the feel of him. “I have somewhere to be.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he says.

  “I don’t think you want to.”

  He comes up beside me, tucking a hair behind my ear. He leans in so only I can hear. “I want to.”

  Oh no. Not the voice. Gruff and tough Drake gets sweet faster than you would believe. That voice has melted me on many occasions. Soft in my ear. Lips tickling me. But it’s not going to get to me today. I don’t love him.

  I hate him.

  “Baby, please,” he murmurs, and my legs go wobbly again.

  God, do I hate him. I try to think of the bad things. Did he use those eyes on
Lizzie? Did he use that voice? But I can’t. I’m falling.

  I crash right into the truth.

  You don’t fall out of love with someone just because he betrays you. That love stays inside you, battling against the hate. Right now my love is battling my hate so hard I can barely breathe, and all I want to do is get away from him.

  Or fall into him.

  There is only one way out of this. I have to scare him away.

  “I’m going over to Lizzie’s,” I say. “I promised her dad I’d go through her older belongings. He’s running that charity thing for underprivileged kids.” I look up and meet his eyes. “He can’t even go into her room.”

  “Okay.” Drake nods, but his voice has the shakes. “Well, I’d go, but he doesn’t exactly—”

  “He’s not going to be there.”

  “Oh. Well, okay. I can . . .” He’s looking around, as if searching for signs of escape. I wonder what about this makes him so nervous. Is it simply the thought of being in a dead girl’s bedroom? Or is it the fear of facing the reality of Elizabeth Hart, the fear of seeing her as a human being? I think after they slept together he kept her as a fantasy, someone who drifted into his life for one night and then disappeared. I think it was a lot easier that way.

  “I wasn’t inviting you,” I say, backing away.

  He chases after me. “Do you really want to go there alone?” he asks, and it’s the worst thing he can say. I don’t want to go there alone. Not without Lizzie’s dad. Not with just myself and all that emptiness. I might sit down on the floor of her bedroom and never get up again.

  “I’ll be fine,” I lie.

  “Come on, Angie.” He’s close, but he’s not touching me now. And I’m just lost enough to believe it’s out of respect. “Let me help you. You always do everything alone.”

  “There was a time when I didn’t.” A time, like two months ago. “But I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Don’t punish yourself for my mistake,” he says, hand sliding up my neck.

  “I’ll keep my distance,” he says.

  “I just want to help,” he says.

  I’m shuddering now, and it’s not because I’m disgusted. “Fine. Let’s go,” I manage. I don’t really want to be around him. I don’t want to talk to him in any capacity. But he’s going to keep following me, and calling me, and looking at me until I agree to talk to him. And since doing this alone is suddenly terrifying, I opt to give him one final chance to speak. Whether or not I listen is up to me.