I remembered Thomas’ English Muffin closing her computer window when I’d walked into the journalism room.
Mom, I thought, with increasing alarm. What did you do? By making Fresh Start’s tests the only way to measure knowledge and progress, what did you do? It wasn’t her fault. But a remarkably high number of people were not to blame, and getting higher. “And the thing is,” BM said, his voice rising, “her grades were good.”
He turned his chair so he was looking at Mr. Donovan, who reluctantly looked back.
“No, they weren’t perfect,” BM admitted, “but she would’ve worked for it. You didn’t need to change her scores. You needed to teach her better.”
“Well, my debate team isn’t so lucky,” said Mr. Donovan, a fire in his voice. “If I didn’t meet the test quota, they would’ve lost their funding. What about them? What about their college prospects? I wanted to make a difference for them. Memorizing random dates and facts until you’ve regurgitated them onto a multiple-choice test and not a second longer wasn’t helping them become better scholars! Debate means something to them. Forming arguments, seeing both sides of an issue, learning to think critically, facing their fears of public speaking—they lived for that one Saturday a month they could shine. They needed something in their lives to be proud of. I couldn’t take that away from them.”
I thought of their third-place trophy in the cabinet in Mr. Donovan’s classroom, how he kept it polished and gleaming.
“I know it was wrong. I didn’t think I had a choice. My contract’s up for renewal every single year. Every bonus I made went straight into to the team fund: bus rentals, travel expenses, photocopies, books, food for after-school practice …”
“You have a choice now,” I said. “How many zeroes are you willing to add to the number five?”
“You’re a cold son of a bitch,” BM snarled.
“Wait’ll you find out who the bitch in question is,” Bridget said. “Fresh starts for all?”
I ignored her. If I acknowledged her words in any way, I would lose it. “Opening bid is five hundred dollars. Who’s got it?”
“It’s kind of sick how much you’re enjoying this,” Bridget said.
“Says the girl who planned on doing the exact same thing.”
“I don’t have much money,” said BM.
“You don’t have five hundred dollars? What about your car? Mine’s called Amelia, and she’s been having some trouble lately. I could use an upgrade.”
“Five hundred fifty,” said Mr. Donovan, looking ill.
“Six hundred,” said Bridget.
“She’s just going to turn around and blackmail the rest of us,” Posey protested. “It’ll never end! She shouldn’t be allowed to bid.”
“Easy fix. Outbid her,” I enunciated.
“Five thousand,” Posey shot back.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said, and laughed.
“My car’s worth six,” BM blurted out. “You can have my car.”
Mr. Donovan swallowed. “This is madness. If I’m losing my job anyway, I can’t be spending this kind of money.”
“Then I guess you better hope Posey wins, since you both want the same thing,” I said. “Pool your resources.”
“I can contribute two hundred more,” he said weakly.
“Six thousand seven hundred fifty,” Posey told me promptly.
“What do you need the money for?” Bridget asked me. “You’re getting seventy percent off tuition as it is.”
“Maybe I want to take Ellie to prom.”
“Where? Vegas?”
My phone beeped. “Oh, good! It’s the pizza,” I said. “Just kidding. It’s an off-site bidder. Just kidding—”
Posey leapt toward me and grabbed my shirt collar in her bony fist. “Quit screwing around. Make a decision.”
I peeled off her fingers and shoved them at her, turning away to hunch over my phone and read the text message that had just come in. It was from Ryder: “Nailed ’em.”
One down, one to go. I was feeling mighty pleased with myself.
“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Six thousand seven hundred fifty … going once, going twice—”
“My car, plus oil changes, tire rotations, and maintenance for a year, on the house,” BM cried out. “I work part-time at a gas station.”
“Tempting. At seventy-five bucks a pop, once a month, that’s about … Hmm, I was never good at multiplication. Too bad you weren’t my math teacher,” I said to Mr. Donovan. “Then it wouldn’t matter.”
“Seven grand, final offer,” said Posey.
BM jumped up and hurled his folding chair against the wall. “I don’t have anything else to give you.” He got in Posey’s face. “You ruined her life. Live with that, puta. All of you.”
The folding chair still had some fight left in it, so for good measure, BM kicked it over and left the room.
“Where’s my flash drive?” said Posey.
“Where’s my money?” I said.
“In two installments once I turn eighteen next month.”
“No. First installment now, and make it five grand since you obviously have access to that much, and I give you a copy of the flash drive. Second installment arrives, I give you the original.”
“Fine. Right now?”
“Right now.”
She pulled a variation of the Velvet Rope pose from her party, one hand on her hip, other hand extended and open, as if still waiting for me to produce my invite.
“It’s not on me,” I snapped. “You think I’ve been carrying it around? Did you see what Maria’s brother did to that chair? Meet me in the park in twenty minutes. Can you get the cash by then?”
In response she produced a check from her purse. The original five grand intended to buy off Salvador.
“It’s already made out to Charlie Dixon. How’d I say your name this time?” she retorted.
Everybody went their separate ways.
As we’d planned, BM was waiting for me in the backseat of my car, crouched low.
“Seven thousand,” he marveled. “I didn’t think she’d take the bait.”
“Sorry to be such a jerk in there. I had to get the numbers up, had to make you sound desperate,” I said.
He scratched his nails through his hair. “I couldn’t think of anything else to sell. I should’ve gone higher.”
“No, any higher and she would’ve gotten suspicious. I liked your shtick about working at a gas station, though.”
BM smirked. “I am but a humble pobrecito Mehican. People like her can’t imagine me in pre-med.”
“It was inspired. And you got more than what she was going to pay your sister,” I reminded him.
He looked conflicted. “I wanted to let Maria decide what to do with the drive. I hate letting that spoiled princess get away with hurting her. But the most important thing is putting a dent in the hospital bills and hiring a private nurse for a while. Thanks, man. I owe you one.”
We shook hands. “I’ll get the check from Posey tonight and sign it over to your bank Monday morning.”
By the time I reached Ellie’s, it was 10:30, a wee bit late to come a-calling, but it didn’t seem to bother her.
“I didn’t think I’d get to see you tonight,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and greeting me with a kiss.
“Surprise,” I said, kissing her back. “I can’t stay.”
“Who’s there?” called her father.
“I think my parents would agree,” said Ellie.
Ellie’s dad appeared, mug of tea in hand. “Are you okay, Charlie?” he said. Translation: Why are you here, and when are you leaving?
“I’m fine, sir.” I looked pointedly at Ellie for the next part. “I just remembered I left a flash drive here, and I need it for a test.”
Drift received, Ellie glided upstairs to get it.
“Sorry to stop by so late. I know you’re off to Maxwell Park tomorrow, so I thought I’d better grab it tonight,” I explained to Ellie�
��s father.
Sometimes I’m so good with adults it’s eerie.
Ellie returned, looking pale.
“What’s wrong?” I said, reaching her side at once, gently searching her expression.
“It’s—it’s not there.”
“I left it in your room, on your desk,” I said slowly and carefully, feeling something shake loose inside me and drop into the pit of my stomach, where it rolled around like a marble.
“I know. I can picture exactly where it was, but it’s not there anymore.”
We heard a door opening and closing above us, and I looked up, where Jonathan stood at the top of the stairs, in his pajamas and glasses. His hand was curled around something.
“I have the flash drive,” he said, standing perfectly still.
“What are you doing awake?” Ellie’s dad asked him. “Time for bed, you’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“J-Dawg, why do you have the flash drive?” Ellie said in barely tethered exasperation.
“It doesn’t belong to you,” I added. “Can I have it back?”
“It’s not yours, either,” he said.
“Jonathan, give it back to Charlie,” ordered Ellie’s dad.
Jonathan remained at the top of the stairs, his body a fixed line, his face a mixture of defiance and fear.
I strode up the steps. “May I take a look at it?”
Jonathan glanced from his father to his sister before shoving the drive into my hand; his palm was sweaty. The penguin sticker was still intact and the drive didn’t seem to be damaged, but I had to make sure. I moved immediately into Ellie’s bedroom and approached her desk.
Ellie was two seconds behind me.
“What’s all this stuff?” I asked, looking at a series of colorful pamphlets spread across every surface. They were brochures for colleges; colleges that weren’t Lambert. Included in the stack of papers was an acceptance letter from MECA—Maine College of Art. “We are pleased to offer you a spot in the class of 2018 …”
“Let me clear those away,” she said quickly, sliding the brochures off the edge of her desk and into the trash below. “It’s just for my dad, so he thinks I’ve covered all the bases.”
She didn’t sound sincere—she sounded like she’d been caught. I couldn’t process that information because I had to finish what I’d started with BM before I could handle any other problems in my life. I inserted the flash drive into her laptop.
It was blank.
No dated folders to click on, nothing.
The entire drive had been wiped clean.
“He … he erased it,” I said, feeling my legs bend like broken stilts. There was nothing to do but slide to the floor.
Jonathan’s eyes filled with water and spilled over. “I heard you the other day. I heard you talking. You said Mr. Donovan would get fired. But if he gets fired, there won’t be any debate team, and then I won’t have a group and no one will protect me. I don’t want to end up like Ryder.” Fat tears rolled down his cheek, gathering speed as he closed his eyes against the pain. “I needed to know there was a place for me, a place I would belong.”
THE OTHER TRUTH ABOUT RYDER
MONDAY AFTERNOON, I SAT IN HISTORY CLASS, MY USUAL seat, right by the window. It had only been a week since Bridget hired me to find the flash drive, but I felt years older.
The morning’s Palm Valley Register included a splashy article about Griffin’s arrest. He’d been caught red-handed by Deputy Thompson, trying to offload cocaine and LSD under the 14 Freeway Saturday evening. He remained in the sheriff’s custody, as did Steve from Agua Dulce—though on lesser charges, since Steve hadn’t actually reached for his wallet at the time of the bust.
Mr. Donovan and I pretended we’d never spoken two words to each other. When I reached under my desk on the off chance there might be an envelope full of trouble there, the way there had been last Monday, I discovered two hundred-dollar bills and a Post-it note taped to the bottom instead. I carefully unpeeled them. “For Maria Salvador,” the Post-it read. “More when I can get it.”
I almost laughed. Two hundred dollars would cover about fifteen minutes of her hospital stay. I had the urge to stand up in front of him and the whole class and tear the bills in half. Two hundred wasn’t worth a damn, not when we’d almost had seven thousand. Almost this, almost that. Almost was worse than nothing. I didn’t know how I could possibly face BM after e-mailing him the bad news yesterday.
Ellie was suffering through chemistry in the classroom right behind mine. She and I had plans to hang out after school, since I obviously wouldn’t be going to soccer practice, and I wanted to be thrilled about it—I knew I should be thrilled about it—but I was still fixating on the MECA acceptance letter she’d swept off her desk the other night.
The past week had taken a toll on me, and the toll got more expensive as the hour wore on. When the bell rang, I hobbled toward the door, the last to leave. Or so I thought. I’d forgotten one of my notebooks, so I doubled back and saw something peculiar: Josh, unlocking the window, exactly the way I used to.
Ellie and I went out for coffee. Ironically, we chose Café Kismet. All the holiday decorations were gone and it seemed different from last time. Even so, I made sure we didn’t sit at the same table as before. She apologized a thousand times about Jonathan. I let her, and I bought her a peppermint drink and we split a chocolate croissant.
People saw us; waved and smiled. It was nice. It was better than nice. I existed again, I was solid and sober, and Ellie was my girlfriend. For the whole afternoon, I let myself believe in the fantasy. I sank right down into it like a soft downy bed and the promise of ten-hour sleep. I let myself believe next year would be more of the same, being sweet and easy and good with each other.
After coffee we went to the mall for more hand-holding, and we kissed for a long time in my car before she walked into her house. After dinner I told my parents there was a soccer meeting to discuss strategy for the next few games, and when it got dark, I headed back to school. They thought I was a team player. Even injured, he’s one of the gang.
Could I really fault Jonathan for erasing the drive, if he thought there were only two options available to him: join debate or turn into Ryder?
It was time to see what it was Ryder had turned into.
I waited outside the history classroom in the dark. I watched as Ryder strolled over and swung up onto the window ledge and heaved open the window to crawl inside.
And then I followed him.
But he wasn’t there.
He had vanished.
There was a sliver of light emanating from the supply closet, so I hobbled toward it and opened the door. Inside, one of the cheap portable shelves had been rolled aside to reveal a second door, which led into the chemistry lab closet; the classrooms were tied together like adjacent hotel suites. On one of the rearranged shelves, hidden behind a stack of books, was a metal container, which had recently been opened. I looked inside; it was empty.
It made sense now. How Ryder had found me in the chem lab closet during Friday’s game, with Steve and his thugs. At the time, it felt like Ryder had appeared out of nowhere, which I chalked up to my blackouts and pain, but he’d really found us by walking through the history classroom, which was open for the debate team’s use. He’d entered the lab through the supply closet—and had been doing so for months. With my help. Unlocking the history window had nothing to do with Mr. Donovan, or history class. It was always about the chemistry lab. If I’d been taking chemistry last period, he could’ve skipped a step and gone through that window instead.
Ryder faced away from me, iPod buds in his ears, hunched over one of the black lab tables, intent on his work.
“Hey!” I yelled.
He whirled around and pulled his earbuds out, nearly tripping over his backpack. “Jesus, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
On the desk were trays and blotting paper, a bag of sugar cubes, and a couple of droppers. Spread out in front of him, in
a straight line, were about twenty orange Tic Tacs. He had lined up the sugar cubes beside them. Each Tic Tac represented an order to fill. I figured it was a way to help him count, make sure he had the correct number of hits each week as the orders fluctuated.
Ryder was using the chem lab as a place to store, measure, and bag LSD. He’d never be found with drugs on him or at his mother’s trailer because he hid them right at school, in a locked metal container under a mound of unused textbooks. And then he came here at night to assemble them into tabs or sugar cubes.
“Griffin’s done, man,” he crowed. “We did it.”
Ryder pulled me in for a hug, but I stepped away.
“If Griffin’s done, why are you here? Why are you doing this?”
He shrugged. “Griffin’s drugs were ass. Mine are pure Orange Sunshine. I’ve never pushed them on anyone, and I only sell to people who know what they’re getting into. What happened with Salvador … I tried to stop them.”
I was horrified. “I’ve been helping you. I’ve been leaving the window unlocked. I’ve been helping you and I didn’t even know it.”
Ryder rolled his eyes. “It had nothing to do with you.”
“There’s a girl in a coma because of us! Don’t you care?”
“I didn’t sell to her. I would never dose someone against her will,” he said forcefully.
“The amount of things you’d ‘never do’ could fill a fucking Tweet.”
High and Dry Page 18
