Maeve pulls into the driveway seconds after Mrs. Macauley turns around. Istand rigid, my hands clenched at my sides and my heart pounding, staringat the woman I thought was dead.
"Bronwyn?" Maeve lowers her window and sticks her head out of thecar. "You ready? Mom and Robin are already there. Dad's trying to get offwork, but he's got a board meeting. I had to do some maneuvering aboutwhy you weren't answering your phone. You're sick to your stomach,okay?"
"That's accurate," I mutter. Nate's back is to me. His mother is talking,staring at him with ravenous eyes, but I can't hear anything she's saying."Huh?" Maeve follows my gaze. "Who's that?"
"I'll tell you in the car," I say, tearing my eyes away from Nate. "Let'sgo."
I climb into the passenger seat of our Volvo, where the heat is blastingbecause Maeve's always cold. She backs out of the driveway in her careful,just-got-my-license way, talking the whole time. "Mom's doing that wholeMom thing, where she's pretending not to be freaked out but she totally is,"she says, and I'm half listening. "I guess the police aren't giving muchinformation. We don't even know if anyone else is going to be there. IsNate coming, do you know?"
I snap back to attention. "No." For once I'm glad Maeve likes to maintainbroiler-oven temperatures while driving, because it's keeping the coldinching up my spine at bay. "He's not coming."Maeve approaches a stop sign and brakes jerkily, glancing over at me."What's the matter?"
I close my eyes and lean against the headrest. "That was Nate's mother.""What was?"
"The woman at the door just now. At Nate's house. It was his mother.""But ..." Maeve trails off, and I can tell by the sound of the blinker thatshe's about to make a turn and needs to concentrate. When the carstraightens again she says, "But she's dead.""Apparently not."
"I don't--but that's--" Maeve sputters for a few seconds. I keep my eyesclosed. "So ... what's the deal? Did he not know she was alive? Or did helie about it?"
"We didn't exactly have time to discuss it," I say.
But that's the million-dollar question. I remember hearing three years agothrough the grapevine that Nate's mother had died in a car accident. We lostmy mom's brother the same way, and I felt a lot of empathy for Nate, butI'd never asked him about it back then. I did over the past few weeks,though. Nate didn't like to talk about it. All he said was he hadn't heardanything about his mother since she flaked on taking him to Oregon, untilhe got news that she'd died. He never mentioned a funeral. Or much ofanything, really.
"Well." Maeve's voice is encouraging. "Maybe it's some kind of miracle.Like it was all a horrible misunderstanding and everybody thought she wasdead but really she ... had amnesia. Or was in a coma.""Right," I snort. "And maybe Nate has an evil twin who's behind it all.Because we're living in a telenovela." I think about Nate's face before hewalked away from me. He didn't seem shocked. Or happy. He looked ...stoic. He reminded me of my father every time Maeve had a relapse. Asthough an illness he'd been dreading had come back, and he was just goingto have to deal with it now.
"We're here," Maeve says, pulling to a careful stop. I open my eyes."You're in the handicapped space," I tell her.
"I'm not staying, just dropping you off. Good luck." She reaches overand squeezes my hand. "I'm sure it'll be fine. All of it."I walk slowly inside and give my name to the woman behind the glasspartition in the lobby, who directs me to a conference room down the hall.When I enter, my mother, Robin, and Detective Mendoza are all alreadyseated at a small round table. My heart sinks at the absence of Addy orCooper, and at the sight of a laptop in front of Detective Mendoza.Mom gives me a worried look. "How's your stomach, honey?""Not great," I say truthfully, slipping into a chair beside her and droppingmy backpack on the floor.
"Bronwyn isn't well," Robin says with a cool look toward DetectiveMendoza. She's in a sharp navy suit and a long, multistrand necklace. "Thisshould be a discussion between you and me, Rick. I can loop Bronwyn andher parents in as needed."
Detective Mendoza presses a key on the laptop. "We won't keep youlong. Always better to talk face to face, in my opinion. Bronwyn, are youaware Simon used to have a companion website for About That, where he'dwrite longer posts?"
Robin interrupts before I can speak. "Rick, I'm not letting Bronwynanswer any questions until you tell me why she's here. If you havesomething to show or tell us, please get to that first.""I do," Detective Mendoza says, rotating the laptop so it faces me. "Oneof your classmates alerted us to a post that ran eighteen months ago,Bronwyn. Does this look familiar?"
My mother moves her chair next to me as Robin leans over my shoulder.I focus my eyes on the screen, but I already know what I'm about to read.I've worried for weeks that it might come up.
So maybe I should have said something. But it's too late now.
News flash: LV's end-of-the-year party isn't a charity event. Just so we're clear. You'd beexcused for thinking so, though, with frosh attendance at an all-time high.Regular readers (and if you're not one, what the hell is wrong with you?) know I try tocut the kids some slack. Children are our future and all that. But let me do a little PSA forone new (and fleeting, I'm gonna guess) arrival to the social scene: MR, who doesn'tseem to realize SC is out of her league.
He's not in the market for a puppy, kid. Stop with the following. It's pathetic.And, guys, don't give me that poor-little-thing-had-cancer crap. Not anymore. M canput on her big-girl panties like anyone else and learn a few basic rules:1. Varsity basketball players with cheerleader girlfriends are OFF THE MARKET. Ishouldn't have to explain this, but apparently I do.
2. Two beers are too many when you're a lightweight, because it leads to:3. The worst display of awkward kitchen table dancing I've ever seen. Seriously, M.Never again.
4. If that one beer makes you throw up, try not to do it in your hosts' washing machine.That's just rude.
Let's card at the door from now on, okay, LV? At first it's funny, but then it's just sad.I stay still in my chair and try to keep my face impassive. I rememberthat post like it was yesterday: how Maeve, who'd been giddy from her firstcrush and her first party, even though neither had gone exactly as planned,folded into herself after she read Simon's post and refused to go out again. Iremember all the impotent rage I'd felt, that Simon was so casually cruel,just because he could be. Because he had a willing audience that ate it up.And I hated him for it.
I can't look at my mother, who has no idea any of this happened, so Ifocus on Robin. If she's surprised or concerned, she doesn't show it. "Allright. I've read it. Tell me what you think the significance of this is, Rick.""I'd like to hear that from Bronwyn."
"No." Robin's voice cracks like a velvet whip, soft but unyielding."Explain why we're here."
"This post appears to be written about Bronwyn's sister, Maeve.""What makes you think that?" Robin asks.
My mother chokes out a furious, disbelieving laugh, and I finally sneak alook at her. Her face is bright red, her eyes burning. Her voice shakes whenshe speaks. "Is this for real? You bring us here to show us this horrible postwritten by a--I have to say, a boy who quite clearly had issues--and forwhat? What are you hoping to accomplish, exactly?"Detective Mendoza tilts his head in her direction. "I'm sure this isdifficult to read, Mrs. Rojas. But between the initials and the cancerdiagnosis, it's obvious Simon was writing about your younger daughter.There's no other current or past student at Bayview High who fits thatprofile." He turns toward me. "This must have been humiliating for yoursister, Bronwyn. And from what other kids at school have told us recently,she's never really participated in social activities since then. Did that makeyou resent Simon?"
My mother opens her mouth to speak, but Robin puts a hand on her armand cuts her off. "Bronwyn has no comment."
Detective Mendoza's eyes gleam, and he looks as though he can barelyrestrain himself from grinning. "Oh, but she does. Or she did, anyway.Simon unpublished the blog more than a year ago, but all the posts andcomments are still recorded on the back end." He pulls the laptop back andpresses a few keys, then spins it toward us with a new window open. "Youhave to give your email address to leave a comment. This is yours, right,Bronwyn?"
"Anybody can leave another person's email address," Robin says quickly.Then she leans over my shoulder again, and reads what I wrote at the end ofsophomore year.
Fuck off and die, Simon.
Addy
Monday, October 15, 4:15 p.m.
The road from my house to Jake's is a pretty smooth ride until I turn ontoClarendon Street. It's a major intersection, and I have to get to the far leftwithout the help of a bike lane. When I first started riding again I used tohead for the sidewalk and cross with the light, but now I whiz across threelanes of traffic like a pro.
I cruise into Jake's driveway and push the kickstand down as I dismount,pulling off my helmet and looping it across my handlebars. I run a handthrough my hair as I approach the house, but it's a pointless gesture. I'vegotten used to the cut and sometimes I even like it, but short of growing it afoot and a half overnight, there's nothing I can do to improve it in Jake'seyes.
I ring the doorbell and step back, uncertainty humming through my veins.I don't know why I'm here or what I'm hoping for.
The door clicks and Jake pulls it open. He looks the same as ever--tousle-haired and blue-eyed, in a perfectly fitted T-shirt that shows off hisfootball season workouts to great effect. "Hey. Come in."I instinctively turn toward the basement, but that's not where we'reheaded. Instead, Jake leads me into the formal living room, where I'vespent less than an hour total since I started dating Jake more than threeyears ago. I lower myself onto his parents' leather sofa and my still-sweatylegs stick to it almost immediately. Who decided leather furniture was agood idea?
When he sits down across from me, his mouth sets in such a hard linethat I can tell this won't be a reconciliation conversation. I wait for crushingdisappointment to hit, but it doesn't.
"So you ride a bike now?" he asks.
Of all the conversations we could have, I'm not sure why he's startingwith this one. "I don't have a car," I remind him. And you used to drive meeverywhere.
He leans forward with his elbows on his knees--such a familiar gesturethat I almost expect him to start chatting about football season like hewould have a month ago. "How's the investigation going? Cooper nevertalks about it anymore. You guys still all under the gun, or what?"I don't want to talk about the investigation. The police have questionedme a couple of times over the past week, always finding new ways to askme about the missing EpiPens in the nurse's office. My lawyer tells me therepetitive questioning means the investigation's going nowhere, not that I'mtheir main suspect. It's none of Jake's business, though, so I tell him astupid, made-up story about how the four of us saw Detective Wheelereating an entire plateful of doughnuts in an interrogation room.
Jake rolls his eyes when I'm done. "So basically, they're gettingnowhere."
"Bronwyn's sister thinks people should be looking at Simon more," I say."Why Simon? He's dead, for crying out loud."
"Because it might turn up suspects the police haven't thought of yet.Other people who had a reason for wanting Simon out of the picture."Jake blows out an annoyed sigh and flings an arm across the back of hischair. "Blame the victim, you mean? What happened to Simon wasn't hisfault. If people didn't pull such sneaky, bullshit moves, About Thatwouldn't even have existed." He narrows his eyes at me. "You know thatbetter than anyone."
"Still doesn't make him a great guy," I counter, with a stubbornness thatsurprises me. "About That hurt a lot of people. I don't understand why hekept it up for so long. Did he like people being afraid of him? I mean, youwere friends with him growing up, right? Was he always that way? Is thatwhy you stopped hanging out?"
"Are you doing Bronwyn's investigative work for her now?"Is he sneering at me? "I'm as curious as she is. Simon's kind of a centralfigure in my life now."
He snorts. "I didn't invite you here to argue with me."I stare at him, searching for something familiar in his face. "I'm notarguing. We're having a conversation." But even as I say it, I try toremember the last time I talked to Jake and didn't agree one hundredpercent with whatever he said. I can't come up with a thing. I reach up andplay with the back of my earring, pulling it until it almost comes off andthen sliding it on again. It's a nervous habit I've developed now that I don'thave hair to wind around my fingers. "So why did you invite me here?"His lip curls as his eyes flick away from me. "Leftover concern, I guess.Plus, I deserve to know what's happening. I keep getting calls fromreporters and I'm sick of it."
He sounds like he's waiting for an apology. But I've already givenenough of those. "So am I." He doesn't say anything, and as silence fallsI'm acutely aware of how loud the clock over his fireplace is. I count sixty-three ticks before I ask, "Will you ever be able to forgive me?"I'm not even sure what kind of forgiveness I want anymore. It's hard toimagine going back to being Jake's girlfriend. But it would be nice if hestopped hating me.
His nostrils flare and his mouth pulls into a bitter twist. "How could I?You cheated on me and lied about it, Addy. You're not who I thought youwere."
I'm starting to think that's a good thing. "I'm not going to make excuses,Jake. I screwed up, but not because I didn't care about you. I guess I neverthought I was worthy of you. Then I proved it."His cold gaze doesn't waver. "Don't play the poor-me card, Addy. Youknew what you were doing."
"Okay." All of a sudden I feel like I did when Detective Wheeler firstinterrogated me: I don't have to talk to you. Jake might be gettingsatisfaction from picking at the scab of our relationship, but I'm not. I standup, my skin making a faint peeling sound as it unsticks from the sofa. I'msure I've left two thigh-shaped imprints behind. Gross, but who caresanymore. "I guess I'll see you around."
I let myself out and climb onto my bike, putting on my helmet. As soonas it's clipped tight I push up the kickstand and I'm pedaling hard downJake's driveway. Once my heart finds a comfortable pounding rhythm, Iremember how it almost beat out of my chest when I confessed to cheatingon Jake. I'd never felt so trapped in my life. I thought I'd feel the same wayin his living room today, waiting for him to tell me again I'm not goodenough.
But I didn't, and I don't. For the first time in a long time, I feel free.Cooper
Monday, October 15, 4:20 p.m.
My life isn't mine anymore. It's been taken over by a media circus. Therearen't reporters in front of my house every day, but it's a common-enoughoccurrence that my stomach hurts whenever I get close to home.
I try not to go online more than I have to. I used to dream about my namebeing a trending search on Google, but for pitching a no-hitter in the WorldSeries. Not for possibly killing a guy with peanut oil.
Everyone says, Just keep your head down. I've been trying, but onceyou're under a microscope nothing slips by people. Last Friday at school Igot out of my car the same time Addy got out of her sister's, the breezeruffling her short hair. We were both wearing sunglasses, a pointless attemptat blending in, and gave each other our usual tight-lipped, still-can't-believe-this-is-happening smile. We hadn't gone more than a few stepsbefore we saw Nate stride over to Bronwyn's car and open the door, beingall exaggeratedly polite about it. He smirked as she got out, and she gavehim a look that made Addy and me exchange glances behind our shades.The four of us ended up almost in a line, walking toward the back entrance.The whole thing barely took a minute--just enough time for one of ourclassmates to record a phone video that wound up on TMZ that night. Theyran it in slo-mo with the song "Kids" by MGMT playing in the background,like we're some kind of hip high school murder club without a care in theworld. The thing went viral within a day.
That might be the weirdest thing about all this. Plenty of people hate usand want us in jail, but there are just as many--if not more--who love us.All of a sudden I have a Facebook fan page with over fifty thousand likes.Mostly girls, according to my brother.
The attention slows sometimes, but it never really stops. I thought I'davoided it tonight when I left my house to meet Luis at the gym, but as soonas I arrive a pretty, dark-haired woman with a face full of makeup hurriestoward me. My heart sinks because I'm familiar with her type. I've beenfollowed again.
"Cooper, do you have a few minutes? Liz Rosen with Channel SevenNews. I'd love your perspective on all this. A lot of people are rooting foryou!"
I don't answer, brushing past her through the gym's entrance. She clicksafter me in her high heels, a cameraman trailing in her wake, but the guy atthe front desk stops them both. I've been going there for years and they'vebeen pretty cool through all this. I disappear down the hall while he argueswith her that no, she can't buy a membership on the spot.
Luis and I bench-press for a while, but I'm preoccupied with what'swaiting outside for me when we're done. We don't talk about it, but in thelocker room afterward he says, "Give me your shirt and keys.""What?"
"I'll be you, head out of here in your cap and sunglasses. They won'tknow the difference. Take my car and get the hell out of here. Go home, goout, whatever. We can swap cars again at school tomorrow."I'm about to tell him that'll never work. His hair's a lot darker than mine,and he's at least a shade tanner. Then again, with a long-sleeved shirt and acap on, it might not matter. Worth a shot, anyway.
So I hover in the hallway as Luis strides out the front door in my clothesto the bright lights of cameras. My baseball cap sits low on his forehead andhis hand shields his face as he climbs into my Jeep. He peels out of theparking lot and a couple of vans follow.
I put on Luis's hat and sunglasses, then get into his Honda and fling mygym bag across the seat. It takes a few tries to start the engine, but once itroars I pull out of the parking lot and take back roads until I'm on thehighway toward San Diego. When I'm downtown I circle for half an hour,still paranoid someone's following me. Eventually I make my way to theNorth Park neighborhood, pulling in front of an old factory that wasrenovated into condos last year.
The neighborhood's trendy, with lots of well-dressed kids a little olderthan me filling the sidewalk. A pretty girl in a flowered dress almostdoubles over laughing at something the guy next to her says. She clutcheshis arm as they pass Luis's car without looking my way, and I feel a bone-deep sense of loss. I was like them a few weeks ago, and now I'm ... not.I shouldn't be here. What if someone recognizes me?I pull a key out of my gym bag and wait for a break in the sidewalkcrowds. I'm out of Luis's car and in the front door so fast, I don't thinkanyone could've seen me. I duck into the elevator and take it to the topfloor, letting out a sigh of relief when it doesn't stop once. The hallwayechoes with empty silence; all the hipsters who live here must be out for theafternoon.
Except one, I hope.
When I knock, I only half expect an answer. I never called or texted tosay I was coming. But the door cracks open, and a pair of startled greeneyes meet mine.
"Hey." Kris steps aside to let me in. "What are you doing here?""Had to get out of my house." I close the door behind me and take off myhat and sunglasses, tossing them on an entry table. I feel silly, like a kidwho's been caught playing spy. Except people are following me. Just notright this second. "Plus, I guess we should talk about the whole Simonthing, huh?"
"Later." Kris hesitates a fraction of a second, then leans forward andpulls me roughly toward him, pressing his lips against mine. I close myeyes and the world around me fades, like it always does, when I slide myhands into his hair and kiss him back.
Part Three
T R U T H O R D A R E