I hear the rumors before I see the news vans. Three of them parked out frontof the school with reporters and camera crews waiting for last bell to ring.They're not allowed on school property, but they're as close as they can get.Bayview High is loving this. Chad Posner finds me after last period totell me people are practically lining up to be interviewed outside. "They'reasking about you, man," he warns. "You might wanna head out the back.They're not allowed in the parking lot, so you can cut through the woods onyour bike."
"Thanks." I take off and scan the hallway for Bronwyn. We don't talkmuch at school to avoid--as she says in her lawyer voice--the appearanceof collusion. But I'll bet this will freak her out. I spot her at her locker withMaeve and one of her friends, and sure enough she looks ready to throw up.When she sees me she waves me closer, not even trying to pretend shehardly knows me.
"Did you hear?" she asks, and I nod. "I don't know what to do." Ahorrified realization crosses her face. "I guess we have to drive past them,don't we?"
"I'll drive," Maeve volunteers. "You can, like, hide in the back orsomething."
"Or we can stay here till they leave," her friend suggests. "Wait themout."
"I hate this," Bronwyn says. Maybe it's the wrong time to notice, but Ilike how her face floods with color whenever she feels strongly aboutsomething. It makes her look twice as alive as most people, and moredistracting than she already does in a short dress and boots.
"Come with me," I say. "I'm taking my bike out back to Boden Street.I'll bring you to the mall. Maeve can pick you up later."Bronwyn brightens as Maeve says, "That'll work. I'll come find you inhalf an hour at the food court."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" mutters the other girl, giving me ahard look. "If they catch you together it'll be ten times worse.""They won't catch us," I say shortly.
I'm not positive Bronwyn's on board, but she nods and tells Maeve she'llsee her soon, meeting her friend's annoyed glance with a calm smile. I feelthis stupid rush of triumph, like she chose me, even though she basicallychose not winding up on the five o'clock news. But she walks close to meas we head out the back door to the parking lot, not seeming to care aboutthe stares. At least they're the kind we've gotten used to. No microphonesor cameras involved.
I hand her my helmet and wait for her to settle herself on my bike andloop her arms around me. Too tight again, but I don't mind. Her death grip,along with how her legs look in that dress, is why I engineered this escapein the first place.
We're not in the woods long before the narrow trail I'm taking widensinto a dirt path that runs past a row of houses behind the school. I take backroads for a couple of miles until we make it to the mall, and ease my bikeinto a parking spot as far from the entrance as I can get. Bronwyn takes thehelmet off and hands it to me, squeezing my arm as she does. She swingsher legs onto the pavement, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled."Thanks, Nate. That was nice of you."
I didn't do it to be nice. My hand reaches out and catches her around thewaist, pulling her toward me. And then I stop, not sure what to do next. I'moff my game. If anyone had asked me ten minutes ago, I would have said Idon't have game. But now it occurs to me that I probably do, and it's notgiving a shit.
When I'm still sitting and she's standing we're almost the same height.She's close enough for me to notice that her hair smells like green apples. Ican't stop looking at her lips while I wait for her to back away. She doesn't,and when I raise my eyes to hers it feels like the breath is yanked right outof my lungs.
Two thoughts run through my head. One, I want to kiss her more than Iwant air. And two, if I do I'm bound to screw everything up and she'll stoplooking at me that way.
A van screeches into the spot next to us and we both jump, bracing forthe Channel 7 News camera crew. But it's an ordinary soccer-mom vanfilled with screaming kids. When they tumble out Bronwyn blinks andmoves off to the side. "Now what?" she asks.
Now wait till they're gone and get back here. But she's already walkingtoward the entrance. "Buy me a giant pretzel for saving your ass," I sayinstead. She laughs and I wonder if she's thankful for the interruption.We walk past the potted palms that frame the front entrance, and I pullthe door open for a stressed-looking mother with two screaming toddlers ina double stroller. Bronwyn flashes her a sympathetic smile but as soon aswe're inside it disappears and she ducks her head. "Everyone's staring atme. You were smart not to have your class picture taken. That photo in theBayview Blade didn't even look like you."
"Nobody's staring," I tell her, but it's not true. The girl folding sweatersat Abercrombie & Fitch widens her eyes and pulls out her phone when wepass by. "Even if they were, all you'd have to do is take your glasses off.Instant disguise."
I'm kidding, but she pulls them off and reaches into her bag for a bright-blue case she snaps them into. "Good idea, except I'm blind without them."I've seen Bronwyn without glasses only once before, when they gotknocked off by a volleyball in fifth-grade gym class. It was the first time I'dnoticed her eyes weren't blue like I always thought, but a clear, bright gray."I'll guide you," I tell her. "That's a fountain. Don't walk into it."Bronwyn wants to go to the Apple store, where she squints at iPod Nanosfor her sister. "Maeve's starting to run now. She keeps borrowing mine andforgetting to charge it."
"You know that's a rich-girl problem nobody else cares about, right?"She grins, unoffended. "I need to make a playlist to keep her motivated.Any recommendations?"
"I doubt we like the same music."
"Maeve and I have varied musical taste. You'd be surprised. Let me seeyour library." I shrug and unlock my phone, and she scrolls through iTuneswith an increasingly furrowed brow. "What is all this? Why don't Irecognize anything?" Then she glances at me. "You have 'Variations on theCanon'?"
I take the phone from her and put it back in my pocket. I forgot I'ddownloaded that. "I like your version better," I say, and her lips curve into asmile.
We head for the food court, making small talk about stupid stuff likewe're a couple of ordinary teenagers. Bronwyn insists on actually buyingme a pretzel, although I have to help her since she can't see two feet in frontof her face. We sit by the fountain to wait for Maeve, and Bronwyn leansacross the table so she can meet my eyes. "There's something I've beenmeaning to talk to you about." I raise my brows, interested, until she says,"I'm worried about the fact that you don't have a lawyer."I swallow a hunk of pretzel and avoid her eyes. "Why?""Because this whole thing's starting to implode. My lawyer thinks thenews coverage is going to go viral. She made me set all my social mediaaccounts to private yesterday. You should do that too, by the way. If youhave any. I couldn't find you anywhere. Not that I was stalking you. Justcurious." She gives herself a little shake, like she's trying to get herthoughts back on track. "Anyway. The pressure's on, and you're already onprobation, so you ... you need somebody good in your corner."You're the obvious outlier and scapegoat. That's what she means; she'sjust too polite to say it. I push my chair away from the table and tip itbackward on two legs. "That's good news for you, right? If they focus onme."
"No!" She's so loud, people at the next table look over, and she lowersher voice. "No, it's awful. But I was thinking. Have you heard of UntilProven?"
"What?"
"Until Proven. It's that pro bono legal group that started at CaliforniaWestern. Remember, they got that homeless guy who was convicted ofmurder released because of mishandled DNA evidence that led them to thereal killer?"
I'm not sure I'm hearing her correctly. "Are you comparing me to ahomeless guy on death row?"
"That's only one example of a high-profile case. They do other stuff too.I thought it might be worth checking them out."She and Officer Lopez would really get along. They're both positive youcan fix any problem with the right support group. "Sounds pointless.""Would you mind if I called them?"
I return my chair to the floor with a bang, my temper rising. "You can'trun this like it's student council, Bronwyn.""And you can't just wait to be railroaded!" She puts her palms flat on thetable and leans forward, eyes blazing.
Jesus. She's a pain in my ass and I can't remember why I wanted to kissher so badly a few minutes ago. She'd probably turn it into a project. "Mindyour own business." It comes out harsher than I intended, but I mean it. I'vemade it through most of high school without Bronwyn Rojas running mylife, and I don't need her to start now.
She crosses her arms and glares at me. "I'm trying to help you."That's when I realize Maeve is standing there, looking back and forthbetween us like she's watching the world's least entertaining ping-ponggame. "Um. Is this a bad time?" she says.
"It's a great time," I say.
Bronwyn stands abruptly, putting her glasses on and hiking her bag overher shoulder. "Thanks for the ride." Her voice is as cold as mine.Whatever. I get up and head for the exit without answering, feeling adangerous combination of pissed off and restless. I need a distraction butnever know what the hell to do with myself now that I'm out of the drugbusiness. Maybe stopping was just delaying the inevitable.
I'm almost outside when someone tugs on my jacket. When I turn, armswrap around my neck and the clean, bright scent of green apples driftsaround me as Bronwyn kisses my cheek. "You're right," she whispers, herbreath warm in my ear. "I'm sorry. It's not my business. Don't be mad,okay? I can't get through this if you stop talking to me.""I'm not mad." I try to unfreeze so I can hug her back instead of standingthere like a block of wood, but she's already gone, hurrying after her sister.Addy
Tuesday, October 9, 8:45 a.m.
Somehow Bronwyn and Nate managed to dodge the cameras. Cooper and Iweren't as lucky. We were both on the five o'clock news on all the majorSan Diego channels: Cooper behind the wheel of his Jeep Wrangler, meclimbing into Ashton's car after I'd abandoned my brand-new bike atschool and sent her a panicked text begging for a ride. Channel 7 Newsended up with a pretty clear shot of me, which they put side by side with anold picture of eight-year-old me at the Little Miss Southeast San Diegopageant. Where, naturally, I was second runner-up.
At least there aren't any vans when Ashton pulls up to drop me off atschool the next day. "Call me if you need a ride again," she says, and I giveher a quick, stranglehold hug. I thought I'd be more comfortable showingsisterly affection after last weekend's cryfest, but it's still awkward and Imanage to snag my bracelet on her sweater. "Sorry," I mutter, and she givesme a pained grin.
"We'll get better at that eventually."
I've gotten used to stares, so the fact that they've intensified sinceyesterday doesn't faze me. When I leave class in the middle of history, it'sbecause I feel my period coming on and not because I have to cry.But when I arrive in the girls' room, someone else is. Muffled soundscome from the last stall before whoever's there gets control of herself. Itake care of my business--false alarm--and wash my hands, staring at mytired eyes and surprisingly bouncy hair. No matter how awful the rest of mylife is, my hair still manages to look good.
I'm about to leave, but hesitate and head for the other end of therestroom. I lean down and see scuffed black combat boots under the laststall door.
"Janae?"
No answer. I rap my knuckles against the door. "It's Addy. Do you needanything?"
"Jesus, Addy," Janae says in a strangled voice. "No. Go away.""Okay," I say, but I don't. "You know, I'm usually the one in that stallbawling my eyes out. So I have a lot of Kleenex if you need some. AlsoVisine." Janae doesn't say anything. "I'm sorry about Simon. I don'tsuppose it means much given everything you've heard, but ... I wasshocked by what happened. You must miss him a lot."Janae stays silent, and I wonder if I've stuck my foot in my mouth again.I'd always thought Janae was in love with Simon and he was oblivious.Maybe she'd finally told him the truth before he died, and got rejected. Thatwould make this whole thing even worse.
I'm about to leave when Janae heaves a deep sigh. The door opens,revealing her blotchy face and black-on-black clothing. "I'll take thatVisine," she says, wiping at her raccoon eyes.
"You should take the Kleenex, too," I suggest, pressing both into herhand.
She snorts out something like a laugh. "How the mighty have fallen,Addy. You've never talked to me before."
"Did that bother you?" I ask, genuinely curious. Janae never struck me assomeone who wanted to be part of our group. Unlike Simon, who wasalways prowling around the edges, looking for a way in.
Janae wets a Kleenex under the sink and dabs at her eyes, glaring at mein the mirror the whole time. "Screw you, Addy. Seriously. What kind ofquestion is that?"
I'm not as offended as I'd normally be. "I don't know. A stupid one, Iguess? I'm only just realizing I suck at social cues."Janae squirts a stream of Visine into both eyes and her raccoon circlesreappear. I hand her another Kleenex so she can repeat the wiping process."Why?"
"Turns out Jake's the one who was popular, not me. I was ridingcoattails."
Janae takes a step back from the mirror. "I never thought I'd hear you saythat."
" 'I am large, I contain multitudes,' " I tell her, and her eyes widen."Song of Myself, right? Walt Whitman. I've been reading it since Simon'sfuneral. I don't understand most of it, but it's comforting in a weird way."Janae keeps dabbing at her eyes. "That's what I thought. It was Simon'sfavorite poem."
I think about Ashton and how she's kept me sane over the past couple ofweeks. And Cooper, who's defended me at school even though there's noreal friendship between us. "Do you have anybody to talk to?""No," Janae mutters, and her eyes fill again.
I know from experience she won't thank me for continuing theconversation. At some point we need to suck it up and get to class. "Well, ifyou want to talk to me--I have a lot of time. And space next to me in thecafeteria. So, open invitation or whatever. Anyway, I really am sorry aboutSimon. See you."
All things considered, I think that went pretty well. She stopped insultingme toward the end, anyway.
I return to history but it's almost over, and after the bell rings it's time forlunch--my least favorite part of the day. I've told Cooper to stop sittingwith me, because I can't stand the hard time everyone else gives him, but Ihate eating alone. I'm about to skip and go to the library when a handplucks at my sleeve.
"Hey." It's Bronwyn, looking surprisingly fashionable in a fitted blazerand striped flats. Her hair's down, spilling over her shoulders in glossy darklayers, and I notice with a stab of envy how clear her skin is. No giantpimples for her, I'll bet. I'm not sure I've ever seen Bronwyn looking thisgood, and I'm so distracted that I almost miss her next words. "Do youwant to eat lunch with us?"
"Ah ..." I tilt my head at her. I've spent more time with Bronwyn in thepast two weeks than I have the last three years at school, but it hasn'texactly been social. "Really?"
"Yeah. Well. We have some stuff in common now, so ..." Bronwyn trailsoff, her eyes flicking away from mine, and I wonder if she ever thinks Imight be the one behind all this. She must, because I think it about hersometimes. But in an evil-genius, cartoon-villain sort of way. Now thatshe's standing in front of me with cute shoes and a tentative smile, it seemsimpossible.
"All right," I say, and follow Bronwyn to a table with her sister, YumikoMori, and some tall, sullen-looking girl I don't know. It's better thanskipping lunch at the library.
When I get out front after the last bell, there's nothing--no news vans, noreporters--so I text Ashton that she doesn't have to pick me up, and takethe opportunity to ride my bike home. I stop at the extralong red light onHurley Street, resting my feet on the pavement as I look at the stores in thestrip mall to my right: cheap clothes, cheap jewelry, cheap cellular. Andcheap haircuts. Nothing like my usual salon in downtown San Diego, whichcharges sixty dollars every six weeks to keep split ends at bay.
My hair feels hot and heavy under my helmet, weighing me down.
Before the light changes I angle my bike off the road and over the sidewalkinto the mall parking lot. I lock my bike on the rack outside Supercuts, pulloff my helmet, and go inside.
"Hi!" The girl behind the register is only a few years older than me,wearing a flimsy black tank top that exposes colorful flower tattooscovering her arms and shoulders. "Are you here for a trim?""A cut."
"Okay. We're not super busy, so I can take you right now."She directs me to a cheap black chair that's losing its stuffing, and weboth gaze at my reflection in the mirror as she runs her hands through myhair. "This is so pretty."
I stare at the shining locks in her hands. "It needs to come off.""A couple inches?"
I shake my head. "All of it."
She laughs nervously. "To your shoulders, maybe?""All of it," I repeat.
Her eyes widen in alarm. "Oh, you don't mean that. Your hair isbeautiful!" She disappears from behind me and reappears with a supervisor.They stand there conferring for a few minutes in hushed tones. Half thesalon is staring at me. I wonder how many of them saw the San Diego newslast night, and how many think I'm just an overly hormonal teenage girl."Sometimes people think they want a dramatic cut, but they don't really,"the supervisor starts cautiously.
I don't let her finish. I'm beyond tired of people telling me what I want."Do you guys do haircuts here? Or should I go somewhere else?"She tugs at a lock of her own bleached-blond hair. "I'd hate for you toregret this. If you want a different look, you could try--"Shears lie across the counter in front of me, and I reach for them. Beforeanyone can stop me, I grab a thick handful of hair and chop the whole thingoff above my ear. Gasps run through the salon, and I meet the tattooed girl'sshocked eyes in the mirror.
"Fix it," I tell her. So she does.