I spend the rest of the period freaking out about why Chuck is ignoring me, and I’m ridiculously relieved when he comes over to my desk as I pack up at the end of class.
“What’s up?” he says. He sounds casual, but drums nervously on the corner of my desk. I shrug as I grab my iPad and notebook, not trusting myself to speak. I can’t tell if he’s deliberately messing with my head, or if he just wanted to get his work done during class. Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that something is not right. Do he and Senna think I’ll spill to my parents or the cops about the deal with Alex? I feel a shiver spread throughout my body, a feverish chill. I can’t cry, I tell myself. I can’t visibly crack up. Chuck and I head wordlessly to the cafeteria. I can’t think of a thing to say to him to break the silence.
I have to get my head together to get through this endless day. I have a fifteen-minute break before History with Senna and Andy. I don’t want to see Senna at all, and I wish I could see Andy alone.
Chuck doesn’t have a break, but is getting provisions to bring to math. I hang with him on the cafeteria line, since it would be awkward to walk away, even though I’m just getting a tea and could slide by in the beverage-only line. “Hey, gorgeous,” Elsa, the cafeteria server, says to Chuck. “What you having?” Chuck half smiles at her and points to a corn muffin, the kind with a sugary top. I pause behind him as Elsa places the muffin on a white paper plate and hands it to Chuck, who doesn’t say thanks, or even look back in Elsa’s direction. I can see the annoyance on her face and I blush, as though Chuck’s rudeness was somehow my fault.
I decide I have nothing to lose by telling him what little news I have about Hannah—about her definitely not being at her dad’s, or anywhere else Elise Scott can think of.
“Why would she go there?” Chuck says softly. “She hates her dad.” This reminds me how Chuck and Hannah used to be, back before Senna stole her away last winter—the way Chuck would stare at her in the cafeteria and text her from every class.
It took one or two weekends at Senna’s garage, with Senna taking Hannah aside and handing her his tiny glass vial. Back then, before Jonas hooked Senna up with Alex, Senna had a city connection. But it was inferior-quality blow, dealt by some kid Senna knew from Hackman, who likely cut his already-crap coke with corn starch. Still, Hannah liked the buzz, and the coolness of being singled out by Senna; everyone knew Senna’s stash was precious, and that having it set him apart from all the other Waverly kids, even the other druggy guys, who mostly ordered fake pills online, or bought dirt-tasting weed from some guy in New Rochelle.
“I know,” I say. “I guess it was just her mom’s first thought.” But then I take a chance and add, “I actually thought it made sense, if someone was looking for her around here, and she got scared.” My voice comes out weirdly muffled, like I’m afraid to hear my own words.
Chuck waits for the cashier lady to ring him up. I think how clean-cut he looks: button-down, Top-Siders, all his clothes neat, even the pants weirdly wrinkle-free, like he’d had them dry-cleaned. No one would peg Chuck for a cokehead. But he’s gotten almost as bad as Senna and Hannah. In fact, watching Chuck there in the cafeteria line, I wonder if he’s a little wired; he’s fidgety, and seems to be grinding his teeth. He’s so pale and thin, still hot, but maybe bordering on too thin. His tan cords fall below the hip, bunch under his dark leather belt, and bag around his legs.
“I don’t know,” Chuck says. “Do you know everyone Hannah knows? Maybe someone’s letting her hang out . . .” Chuck pauses as he walks toward the cafeteria door, opens a milk container, and drinks. Then he adds four heavy-sounding words: “. . . until things calm down.”
But Chuck doesn’t say anything more, and I’m afraid to press. He doesn’t say a word about Senna. When he says things need to “calm down,” is he talking about the coke-dealing Senna is still doing, or about the webcam stuff Hannah was doing with Alex? I’m not sure if Chuck knows more than I do, or even less.
Chuck thrusts his muffin at me, and I hold the plate while he stuffs his remaining, unopened milk into the side pocket of his book bag. I hand the muffin back and am about to ask him one last question, when he turns with a wave of his hand. I watch him stroll toward the door. He looks like one of those actors who’s way too old, too poised to be in high school, but there he is, playing the part of the suave junior guy, hair falling in perfect, loose waves, jaw too square to be for real.
Then, to my shock, Chuck turns back and returns to where I’m standing, like a loser.
“Marcelle,” he says, clearing his throat and looking down at his feet. “I was meaning to ask how it’s going with you. At that place?” He looks up and stares hard right at me, like he suddenly cares deeply about my sobriety, something I’ve hardly spoken to anyone about.
“You mean the Center?” I ask, startled.
“Yeah,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. But of course it isn’t, and I decide to take a stab at honesty. “Actually, it’s fucking hard.” He nods, taking it in, but he still doesn’t walk away. I have five minutes to get to class, just enough time if I leave now and walk fast, but Chuck is looking at me with those piercing eyes—at me and no one else. It’s like he wants answers—real answers, and he thinks, for some reason I can’t imagine, that I have them.
“It’s just that I’ve been thinking about doing something like that,” he says. Then he adds, “It’s not like you’re the only one.” He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his pants. The waistband falls slightly and a narrow band of taut torso is exposed. I am Jell-O, despite all the warning bells going off in my brain. Even if I could have him, Chuck is ten thousand times more trouble than he’s worth. These are the things I tell myself to try to steady my brain. I forget, just for a second, all about Andy.
I get my focus back, at least temporarily. I’m not sure what Chuck wants me to do—if he wants to come with me to the Center or just to talk about rehab. The truth is any of the rest of them could have, should have, ended up like me. I’m just the pathetic one who got caught. Being a cokehead is easier to conceal than being a drunk. Fits in your pocket. Doesn’t make you puke.
It makes sense Chuck would reach his breaking point now, with Hannah missing and Senna getting worried about his and Hannah’s connection with Alex. If I were Senna I’d be afraid to make a move. I can see why Chuck is freaking out, too—he’s maybe out of drugs and too scared to find any, looking for anything to get him through—even getting sober.
But then I get a paranoid idea. I glance at Chuck and he looks down and away, anywhere but at me, and my heart skips about five beats. He looks pale and nervous, like there is something more he wants to say.
I breathe deeply and let the thought fully form. This is something Senna has put Chuck up to in order to keep me quiet at the Center, and to keep his connection to Alex from surfacing. Senna thinks I’m telling them everything there, and that the Group kids will talk, or that they’ll tell me I need to spill my guts to Elise Scott and the cops. He’s worried he’ll get busted, not just for dealing, but for Hannah being Alex’s webcam bitch. I don’t know exactly what’s an actual crime and what isn’t, but porn plus drugs seems pretty criminal.
Chuck could be Senna’s spy.
It’s too fucked up to be true, but then again it’s not. Senna and Chuck, even Andy—all of them have something to hide. None of my friends need me blabbing about the kind of shit that was going on with Hannah, and I’m the only one with nothing to lose. Andy and I agreed we need to wait it out—if Hannah comes back and we’ve ratted, her life in Waverly is over. But if Hannah’s in some kind of danger—if she’s not coming back, and no one seems to know where she’s gone—what then? I don’t even know Alex’s last name. I’m not sure I could say where his apartment even is. I was wasted when I went there. I know enough to get my friends in trouble, but that’s basically all.
There was that afternoon in the first week of the school year, when Hannah showed me the schoolgirl skirt and t
he long black wig, and gave me the details. She said she’d never have to do anything for real, no actual sex, but Alex already had her on camera five or six times. “He’s got these older girls from the college doing all kinds of shit with each other, with guys. It’s some sick shit. I just have to take off my sweater, hike up the skirt, and listen to these guys tell me how beautiful I am; it’s pathetic. Alex says I can make more than five hundred a month. It’s two months, and I can almost double that with the coke I can sell with Senna. I don’t even look like me, Marce, admit it,” she said. It was like the wig made all the difference, like once she put it on, she was no longer Hannah Scott. She almost had me convinced that it could be that easy.
“Marcelle?” Chuck says. “You going to answer me? I kind of got to know.”
As usual, Chuck is unreadable. But I have no choice. I have to seem like I believe that he wants help. There is nothing else for me to do, nothing else that makes sense. “You should check it out. It’s not for everyone, but at least it’s close,” I say finally. I barely get the words out, and I can see Chuck can tell I’m not enthusiastic. “You don’t need an appointment. You go down there the first time and fill out a bunch of intake forms with a parent. Then there’s a meeting with a counselor. That’s when they eviscerate you. Then, you get to come to Group, and die a little every day.”
“Yeah,” he says, ignoring my attempt at humor. “I think I’ll take a look.” My heart is in my throat as he walks away.
I’m being paranoid. Chuck could just want to get sober. He’s been using nearly as much as Hannah, and clearly has lost a lot of weight. Still, I can’t imagine the Center would be someplace anyone would want to go. I was sent to the Center. It was Dr. Hagan who told me and my parents that the Center was the best place in the county for a truly fucked-up kid. He used those words: truly fucked up.
Twenty
I HALF LISTEN to Mr. Kaufman, taking down what he types on his laptop, which appears simultaneously on the smartboard. But I’m distracted, not by Andy, who’s sitting in front of me, and whose broad shoulders are close enough to touch, but by the feeling that I’m being watched.
I glance over my shoulder and see Senna, his narrow, gray eyes closed to half slits. He slumps at his desk, hands in the pockets of his huge hoodie, not even pretending to take notes. When I turn, he stares directly at me and does not look away. I open my hands in a what-the-fuck gesture, and Mr. Kaufman sees me. “Up here, Marcelle. Here’s where all the action is.” I hear someone scoff, but I’m afraid to turn around again. This is a warning, I tell myself.
Andy waits for me outside after class. I stand next to him but don’t say anything. Even through my fear, I feel a warmth just being near Andy. For a minute, neither of us moves, then Andy reaches over and picks up a loose curl from my shoulder and twirls it around his finger. I feel shaky in the knees.
But then Senna walks over, as if we’re waiting for him.
“Hey,” I say to Senna. “Heard anything?” Senna shakes his head, takes out a piece of gum, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. The sweet gum smell seems to fill the hallway.
“Her dad’s here,” Andy interjects flatly. “I saw him this morning with her mom, going into the main office.” Senna scoffs again like he did in class. But he doesn’t look at Andy. He looks at me.
“You know, it’s not like she’s going to want to come back if people are talking shit about her,” Senna says. He peers over my shoulder like he sees someone, but when I look there’s no one there.
“Don’t look at me,” I say. “One more whisper about any shit I did, didn’t do, or knew about, my ass is off to some boot camp. You have no idea how close my parents are to sending me away to real rehab. Last thing I would do is say anything that would get her in trouble.” I feel in my gut this is the right thing to say. I’ve been busted—why would I want to bring more shit down on myself?
Andy shakes his head. Senna shifts his mostly empty-looking book bag from one arm to the other and nods like he gets it. I think he actually looks reassured, which scares the fuck out of me, since it means I’m probably right—that he’s been worried about what I’ve been saying about Hannah at the Center.
“Well, Marce, you be sure to give a shout-out when you hear from her, all right?” Senna commands, rocking back on his heels. I nod. It’s weird the way he seems to have established me as the contact person, as though there is some kind of plan at work, and Hannah is going to be in touch. I still don’t know whether Senna’s thinking that Hannah ran away is based on something he knows, or something he wants to believe.
As we watch Senna lumber down the hallway, Andy squeezes my hand. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks. Scared out of my mind, but I guess other than that, I’m okay.”
“I know,” Andy says. “We’ll talk in gym, okay?” Andy and I have gym together after lunch. It’s not awful—he looks decent in shorts with his soccer-player legs, but it’s still awkward, since handball is coed. For some reason I can’t understand, and that Coach Stevens certainly does not get, I am the queen of handball. No one touches me. It’s one of those gifts you realize you have one day, only it’s random and useless. It’s like the saddest freebie the universe could ever grant.
Andy pulls me close, and gives me a quick hug. Then he whispers in my ear, “Don’t be afraid, Marci. Don’t be afraid.”
Andy knows I have every reason to be scared, and so does he; it’s why he insists I shouldn’t be—people always feel the need to say the useless things twice.
Twenty-One
AT LUNCH, I decide to lie low in the library. Or that’s my plan, anyway, until I see Ms. Grant in the hall. “Just the girl I need,” she says with a fake-sounding cheerfulness. “I was about to make a PA announcement to call you to the office, so we’re both in luck.”
I stare. “A meeting with Hannah Scott’s folks,” Ms. Grant says in a low, sympathetic voice. “I’m sure you’re as concerned as they are. Spoke to your mom as well, and she’s on her way. Just come with me, sweetheart.” My vision goes in and out of focus, and for a second I’m afraid I may faint. I try to breathe, and at first my breath is so shallow I think I’ll hyperventilate. I need to stay calm. I need to think. I follow Ms. Grant across the green to the office on wobbly legs.
I don’t see any police cars in front of the office like last year when stupid, zit-faced Connor Eliot called in a fake bomb threat. But I do see my mom pull into a space in the front row of the staff lot marked For Emergency Pickup Only. My heart drops. I shiver. The sky has darkened, with some heavy-looking clouds looming directly overhead. It’s as though the seasons have changed within the hour.
There’s something coming together in front of me, something I should be able to see, but can’t. I can only see these parts: Elise Scott and Hannah’s dad, Alan, who I only recognize because he’s sitting near Elise at the table inside the family conference room; Senna and Chuck skulking around the office door, looking down at their feet, out the window, anywhere but directly at another person; Andy by the meeting room entrance, like he’s waiting for me, hands in his pockets, hair matted down in front, as though he has hastily mashed the spiky parts.
I follow Ms. Grant and her clicky-clacky heels into the conference room. Everyone else follows behind. I stare straight ahead at Ms. Grant’s smooth bun and thin silver hoops. Ms. Grant is young, maybe not even thirty, but she tries hard to look serious and different from us, when only ten years ago she was us. She probably thought being a guidance counselor would be all about college essays and kids crying in her office about their breakups. I bet she never thought how she would handle a real problem, a problem like a missing girl.
Elise Scott sits at the table in the guidance office across from Dr. Henry, the principal. Elise is wearing her usual bright-red lipstick, but her face is a mess. Her eyes and cheeks are red and puffy, and her mouth quivers, like she’s holding back a giant, room-filling sob. Alan has dark, charcoal-like circles under his eyes. I sit next to
him after Ms. Grant pulls out a chair for me, and I think I can smell the fear on him, a sharp, musty odor.
Mom must have made a call from the car, because she comes in at about one o’clock, at least ten minutes after I saw her pull into the parking lot; she sits at the other end of the table from me, where there are a few empty seats. She eyes me briefly, breathes deeply, then focuses on Dr. Henry.
Dr. Henry looks like World War Three has broken out and he’s president. His fat cheeks have a wobble to them that is sometimes funny to watch, but now it just reminds me how sad old people can look.
Then two cops in uniform walk in, and another guy with a big chest and shoulders, who I assume must be a detective. The uniform guys are the usual youth officers; I’ve seen them around—a dark-haired, maybe-Hispanic guy and an African-American woman with massive hands. They’re the same cops who come to school every time someone gets busted with weed and they want to scare the rest of us, only this time they look hyped. The detective is very blond, with blond eyelashes and eyebrows.
I sit wishing there were something I could do to brace myself. It’s like the seconds before you know for sure you’re going to be in a crash. Or like on a rollercoaster, when you’re freaking out, but it’s far too late to change your mind; you’re way up at the top of the ride—nothing to see but unending blue sky; your mouth is already preparing to scream, your throat opening wide, taking in a huge, suffocating breath.
I want to be strapped in. I want to not fall.
When Dr. Henry speaks, the cops all simultaneously look at their hands, even the Rice-Krispies-looking detective guy, as though they were school kids and he was their principal. “As all of you know, our student Hannah Scott has been missing since Sunday night. Her mother apprised us of this fact, and the initial thought was that Hannah ran away, possibly to her father’s house. There is, however, reason to believe that this is not the case.” Dr. Henry hesitates, shoots a look at Mr. Scott, who’s face is like a gray, crinkled mask. The guy looks like a zombie, frozen in a moment of horrible incomprehension—No, it’s not possible, the face says. This is not real.
The First True Thing Page 10
