by Pintip Dunn
I wait, hardly daring to breathe. Who am I? A girl he met mere weeks ago. How can I hope to compete against a dream he’s been working toward for years?
He opens his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you, CeCe. At least, not on purpose. And I’m also not going to endanger Bri.”
I want to breathe a sigh of relief, but I can’t. Because words only mean as much as you let them. Besides, he’s not finished talking.
“I’m not going to give up on writing a kick-ass article, either,” he continues. “Which leaves us with one option ...”
“What’s that?”
“We’re going to have to figure out who this asshole is before my deadline.” He nods toward the gray, cinder-block building. “I think the library’s open now. Let’s go.”
* * *
We walk inside. The smell of stale popcorn and musty books hits me, and I’m transported back to my childhood, when story hour was accompanied by treats cranked out by the old-fashioned popcorn machine that still sits in the corner. My mom would curl up on the orange and yellow plastic cushions with one of her fat romance novels, and I would systematically work through the books in the children’s section, shelf by shelf.
A decade later, the library still looks the same. The same kids’ corner, the same colorful cushions, even the same librarian.
Sam heads straight to the shelves behind the racks of newspapers. “The yearbooks are back here.”
“How do you know?” I ask, taking two steps for every one of his.
“After your mom’s topless photo was posted, I came here to see if I could figure out who might’ve been around twenty-five years ago. But I didn’t get very far because it could’ve been anybody—a fellow student, a member of the administration, a volunteer at the school. But now that we know we’re looking for a teacher, it narrows the search considerably.”
“You’re such a reporter, aren’t you?” I ask.
His hand drifts to my chin, and for a moment, I think he might kiss me right there in the library. But then, he lowers his hand and looks at the shelves. “Your mom graduated in 1991. Should we start there?”
My shoulders droop, but it’s silly to feel disappointed. We’re here on a mission, not a date. “Maybe a few years in either direction, just to be safe.” I find the proper volumes and toss him a couple. “Here.”
We turn pages in silence. Some of the yearbooks are pristine; others are covered with inscriptions and handwritten notes. They must’ve been donated to replace the library’s damaged or missing volumes.
The carpet feels scratchy even through my jeans, and the sunlight streams through a window and highlights a column of dust particles. Presently, Sam pushes an open yearbook toward me. “Your mom was popular.”
I look at the photo. Yep, it’s Mom, all right, her eyes bright, her full lips parted in midlaugh. She’s sitting on the hood of a sports car, surrounded by what looks like the in crowd. A blond guy with a chain around his neck has an arm looped around her shoulder, his dimples winking at the camera. On her other side, a girl crosses her slim thighs beneath a short skirt, her teased brown bangs partially obscuring the face of the kid behind her.
“Yeah, that’s her,” I say and wait for the inevitable comments. How beautiful she is. How stunning.
But he says none of those things. Instead, he glances from me to the photo, as if he’s seeing the seventeen-year-old Tabitha for the first time. “There’s a similarity. But from what you said, I would think the resemblance would be much closer.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen me naked,” I blurt out. And then my ears, my neck, even my toes boil. Oh god, what is wrong with me?
“You’re right. I haven’t.” A smile plays on his lips. “Tell you what. Once I do, I’ll give you another opinion, okay?”
He returns to the yearbook, studiously flipping pages as if our conversation weren’t anything out of the ordinary. As if—dear god—I hadn’t practically propositioned him.
I press a cool hand against my neck and follow his example. After paging through four years’ worth of yearbooks, we find seven staff members still working at the school today. Three of them are women. One of them, the history teacher, is nearly seventy—a short, squat man with white hair and a paunch. I can’t imagine him being attractive even twenty years ago.
That leaves three suspects. Mr. Swift. Mr. Willoughby. And Principal Winters, although he wasn’t the principal back then.
“It could be any of them,” Sam says. “They’re all in their late forties or early fifties. Reasonably good-looking. Well-liked by the students.”
I turn back to the photo of my mom sitting on the hood of the car. My eyes drift over the faces of the students and then the inscription scrawled across the top of the page.
And a flash of electricity zips over my skin. Orange permanent marker. Block script with squared-off corners.
“I think we can rule out Mr. Swift,” I say shakily. “I’m pretty sure we’re looking for someone whose name starts with a W. Take a look at this.”
I point to the message and read the words along with him.
It doesn’t get any better than this!—W.
“The phone number on the doctored hotline posters was written in this same block script, with the same orange marker,” I say, the excitement bubbling up my throat. “Plus, we received an arrangement of flowers at my mother’s funeral that said, ‘I will never forget you,’ signed by the same W. It’s got to be our guy.”
Sam checks our list of suspects. “So that narrows it down to Mr. Willoughby or Principal Winters.” He taps his fingers on his knees. “But an inscription in an old yearbook isn’t proof. We need something more.”
“And I know where to get it. Tommy Farrow. If he’s lying about my mom having sex with him, he had to have a reason why. And I’ll bet you anything it has something to do with our predator.”
“There’s only one problem,” he says. “Tommy won’t talk to you.”
I take a deep breath. If my mother could survive sexual abuse from a man she thought she loved, well . . . what I’m about to do is kid stuff. “Which is exactly why I’m going to win a date with him at the auction tomorrow night.”
Chapter 33
The next evening, I squeeze through a sea of neckties, flouncy dresses, and mascaraed lashes to get to the end of the registration line. I’ve never seen the hallway outside the school auditorium so packed. Or well-dressed.
Someone thrusts a program into my hands, and a high-pitched giggle cuts through the racket. I stiffen. Is everyone looking at me? Wondering why Cecilia Brooks is standing in line to get a bid number?
Whisper, whisper. Snort. Full-on belly laugh. They can’t even bother to hide their amusement.
But when I whip around, no one’s even looking at me. Good god, CeCe. Get ahold of yourself. Nobody even notices you’re here.
I lean against the wall and skim through the program. My stomach bounces around, and I’m glad I didn’t have any of the taco salad I made for my dad. Ah, there he is: Sam Davidson, page four. Glasses, of course. Sheepish grin. Tousled hair that makes my fingers itch to brush it off his face.
How could you not bid on him? If I weren’t on a mission, if I didn’t care what other people thought, I’d empty out my savings account to win a date with Sam.
I’d emptied out my savings account this afternoon, all right. If only the $522 tucked in my backpack were for romance.
I read the profile underneath Sam’s photo.
Name: Sam Davidson
Class: Senior
Soliciting bids from: Girls
Perfect match: Someone who is compassionate and brave. She goes out of her way to help others, even if it costs her. She stands up for what’s right and searches for the truth.
Turn-ons: Black high-top sneakers. No, seriously, I like a girl who is confident in her looks. She doesn’t need to dress flashy or be flashy. She knows that in ripped jeans and a ponytail, she has more allure than anyone else.
Pe
rfect date: I like adventure. Maybe we’re sneaking somewhere in the middle of the night, with the full moon as our only light. Or maybe we’re kissing against a tree, as a delicious cover in a secret mission. One thing’s for sure: Nothing’s ever boring when she’s around.
My cheeks burn. He’s describing me. The ponytail, the black high-top sneakers. Our “date” the other night.
But what about his answer for “perfect match”? I’m not brave. Far from it. And only recently have I started searching for the truth.
Is he telling me I’m not the one for him? Or does he see something I don’t?
I reach the front of the line and receive a paddle with the number 107. My hand trembles as I sign the form, and my signature swims before me. Can I really do this? Can I bid, in front of the entire school, on the boy who everyone believes slept with my mother?
“Hey, CeCe! I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Liam approaches me, his arms loaded down with wires and microphones. He looks like one of those wire-frame snowmen you stick on the front lawn. Plug him in, and he could light up a neighborhood.
“How are you, Liam?” I ask, smiling because he’s so darned cute. I haven’t seen him since Wednesday, when I leaped into his arms after being freaked out by the flickering lights. Just a few days ago, but so much has happened, it feels like a lifetime. “What are you doing here?”
“Principal Winters roped me into making sure all our dates are properly miked.” He peers at the paddle in my hands. “Are you bidding on someone at the auction?”
“Oh.” I blush and shove the paddle into my jeans pocket. Something in his tone tells me he knows Sam is a candidate.
Just tell him, a voice inside me urges. Tell him you and Sam are together. Let him know that your relationship with him is purely platonic.
But when I open my mouth, I can’t. “I haven’t decided,” I say instead.
He shifts the equipment in his arms and steps closer. “You want to grab a bite to eat after the auction?”
“Oh, um.” I yank the paddle out of my pants. What do I say? How do I respond? And what exactly am I supposed to do with this oversized number on a Popsicle stick? “I was supposed to meet up with my friend, so I’m not sure . . .”
He frowns. I want to bury myself under the microphones and wires in his arms. This is so awkward. Liam never said he was interested in me. And yet, from the way he looks at me, from the undeniable chemistry swirling in the air between us, it’s obvious his thoughts toward me are more than just friendly . . .
“Okay, some other time,” he says. “The anniversary of my dad’s death is coming up, and I could use someone to talk to.”
Oh. My heart squeezes, and I reach out and pat his hand among the maze of wires. “I’m sorry, I can’t tonight. Rain check?”
“Sure thing.” He gives me a sad smile and shuffles away.
The heaviness sinks through my body, nailing my feet to the ground. Didn’t I just swear by my mother’s grave that I was going to be a better person? That means not being self-centered. That means thinking about other people. Liam is my friend, and he’s hurting right now.
And yet, I don’t run after him. I can’t. This is my only chance to talk to Tommy, and I’m not going to squander it. I’m just going to have to be a bad person for one more night.
Alisara walks up to me. “Who’s that? He’s cute. If a bit over-accessorized.”
“His name’s Liam. He, um, wanted to talk, but I had to put him off.”
She flutters her fake eyelashes at me and begins guiding me toward seats inside the auditorium. “And why, darling girl, would you do that?”
We settle into the middle section of the middle row. My favorite spot. I bite my lip, wondering if I should tell her. Oh, why the hell not? She’ll see for herself before the night is over. “I’m planning on winning a date tonight.”
“Oh really?” She whips out her program and turns to Sam’s profile. “You’ve been holding out on me. Black high-top sneakers, huh?” She taps her platforms against my shoes. “So romantic.”
“No!” I yelp and then cringe, lowering my voice. “You know I don’t do public relationships. I’m bidding tonight for another reason.”
I glance around the auditorium to see if anyone noticed my outburst, and then my breath catches. In the first row of the right section, Justin Blake sits, his long legs sprawled in the aisle.
My pulse races, and my palms instantly break out in sweat. Other than the glimpse of his look-alike rounding the corner, I haven’t seen him since the bonfire. What’s he doing here? Has he seen me yet?
Oh god. I can’t bid on Tommy in front of him. I can’t. Justin will crucify me. I don’t know what I ever did to make him hate me so much. But all those reasons will come rushing back to the surface now. He’s back in his old school, back on the grounds where he was a prince in Tommy’s kingdom. He won’t hesitate to unleash his cruelty, and this time, I may not survive the blow.
I lurch to my feet, about to run out of the auditorium, but then the lights dim, and Alisara pulls me back down. She can’t possibly understand the battle waging inside my head, but she looks at me with her pretty almond-shaped eyes and nods, as if to say: You’ve got this. I am your friend. You are not alone.
I swallow the panic, and my breathing slows. I’m doing this for Mom. She would’ve emptied the oceans for me, scoop by scoop, and all I have to do is stick a paddle in the air. Easy peasy. Right?
* * *
Principal Winters struts onto the stage, cornily handsome in a tux, top hat, and cane.
My stomach flips. This is the first time I’ve seen him since my research at the library, and I scrutinize him carefully, certain that something will leap out at me. Some telltale detail that will confirm or deny that he was my mom’s sexual predator.
But there’s nothing. He’s the same jovial principal he’s always been.
“Welcome, students. I’m so pleased to see so many of you here in support of literacy. Our nation’s youths will thank you for your generosity, your pocketbooks . . . and your raging hormones,” he says, with an exaggerated wink.
The crowd laughs.
“I’ve been backstage and wowee! If anyone can inspire you to dig deep, it’s this group of gorgeous girls and guys. I guarantee, you’ll be most impressed by their . . . extensive vocabulary and reading skills.”
The audience titters again. He’s always been a popular principal. Warm, engaging, magnetic. But is he enticing enough to attract a student? Are those hands cruel enough to shove a girl’s head into his crotch?
“And now, without further ado, here comes our first date,” he says as a junior girl bounces onto the stage. “I don’t need to tell you boys what a catch this young lady is. But I will. Gloria’s perfect match is . . .”
I only half-listen as the first few dates are auctioned off. And then Sam walks onto the stage.
My toes squeeze together in my black high-tops. He’s wearing a pair of slacks instead of his usual jeans, and they actually cover his ankles. His broad chest stretches the knit shirt—in the best possible way—and he gives the crowd an easy smile and waves. He looks so . . . so . . . Sam.
Immediately, a couple of paddles pop into the air, even though the bidding hasn’t begun, followed by catcalls and whistles.
Principal Winters ties a blindfold around Sam’s eyes, as part of the tradition of the evening. The person on stage won’t know who wins his date until after the auction.
That’s exactly what I’m counting on.
In the front row, a girl stands and makes her way to the aisle. She wears a stunning cherry-red dress that drapes in all the right places. Probably designer, most definitely expensive. Who else but Mackenzie?
She poses for a moment, as if giving her many fans a chance to take her photo. And then she drops her paddle, steps on it, and crosses her arms across her chest. The message is clear: Bid on Sam Davidson and face her wrath.
The paddles that had been wagging in the air hesitate and then s
lowly lower.
And when Principal Winters opens the floor for bids, there’s no response. Not a single one.
I can’t breathe. I pound my fist against my chest, and still, I can’t dislodge the air stuck inside. I should’ve known. Mackenzie Myers doesn’t forgive and she doesn’t forget. Sam humiliated her on the first day of school, and she hasn’t done anything to retaliate.
This is why. She’s been waiting for precisely this moment to get back at him. Hell, she probably convinced the auction committee to select him to be auctioned off for this exact reason.
“Anyone?” Principal Winters scans the room. “Look at this boy! Why, I’d bid on him myself, if I could. What do you think, Ms. Hughes?” He looks at the front row, where the school secretary sits. “Is some young lady about to get lucky?”
Ms. Hughes smooths her French manicure over her white-blond hair. “For sure.”
But the seconds tick by. And nobody moves. Nobody.
Sam’s smile freezes on his face, no longer easy, no longer impervious. He can’t see anything but he can hear. Oh god, can he hear the silence permeating the auditorium. And I can’t stand it anymore.
I don’t think about Justin. I don’t care about Mackenzie. I jump to my feet and wave my paddle in the air. “Fifty dollars!”
Every head in the auditorium turns and looks at me. All four hundred students, plus a dozen or so staff. Maybe they’re noticing my ponytail and my black high-top sneakers. Maybe they’re wondering why the social pariah is bidding on the new guy. Maybe they’re whispering this is the only way Cecilia Brooks will ever go on a proper date.
But it doesn’t matter. Because anything is better than seeing Sam’s rival-the-sun smile turn to ice.
“Fifty dollars to bidder number 107.” Relief runs in rivulets down Principal Winters’s voice. “Do I hear sixty dollars? Sixty dollars for this fine young specimen?”
