“This dumbass doesn’t understand the concept of warm-ups,” Mandy says.
“Your face doesn’t understand the concept—ow, ow, ow.” I roll on the ground as my leg cramps up even more. Stacey catches up and crouches by my side.
“They’re assholes, but they’ve got a point,” she says. “Why’d you push yourself so hard, anyway? We’re just warming up.”
“Because.” Then, to my horror, I start crying.
Stacey looks surprised. I don’t blame her. She starts massaging my calf, and it feels both soothing and excruciating. “Hurts that bad, huh?”
I nod, my breath hitching as she massages my leg. I wipe my face when I see Coach approaching us. They help me up and lead me toward the bench. I’m all trembly and my breath is coming out in little half wheezes, half sobs, but at least the tears have stopped for now.
“Thanks, Stacey,” Coach says. “Go and join the rest of the team.”
Stacey gives my shoulder one last squeeze and jogs off.
“What’s going, Lia?” Coach says, lifting my leg onto the bench and helping me stretch it.
“Nothing?”
She give me a look. “I enjoy how you girls like to think that we’ve got our heads stuck so far up our asses that we can’t tell when something’s wrong. But I’ve been a teen before. I know when something’s off. So dish. What is it?”
“It’s nothing—ow!”
“You’ve been running your whole life. You know better than to start sprinting before a proper warm-up, and now you’re sitting here with your leg cramped up and telling me nothing’s wrong? I call bullshit.”
“It’s just. Boy trouble.”
Coach sighs. “Isn’t it always? Look, Lia, I don’t have to remind you how much you’ve got riding on this. The boy thing—it’s a rite of passage, I get it. Try not to let it get to you, huh? Mrs. Henderson filled me in on what happened with your English Lit teacher. She said the class will be canceled and everyone’s grades will be voided, so that’s good for you. You’ve got a second chance at this. Don’t blow it. Which reminds me, there’s someone who wants to meet with you. I think you’re going to like this.”
I doubt it. But I force a smile and go, “Yeah?”
“Her name’s Mickey Gentry, and she’s a recruiter. From Stanford.”
Oh. Shit. I don’t care—
Except I do. I really, really do care. I didn’t think it’s possible, after what happened with Mr. Werner, to care about much else, but it’s like Coach has wrenched open a door and suddenly all these feelings are pouring out, and I care. God help me, I don’t deserve anything, but I want this. So, so much.
“I’ll get my shit together, Coach, I swear.”
Coach grins. “Atta girl.”
I will. I’m still buzzing by the time practice ends and I’ve showered and dressed. I just gotta focus, get my head on straight, and I’ll be fine.
First period is Mr. Werner’s class. I ignore the horrible sucking sensation overtaking my body and perch on my seat and keep my head down. The room fills up, Mandy shoots me her usual bitch face, Elle whispers something rude as she walks by, and then the bell rings and the class starts. Except, of course, it doesn’t. It doesn’t start at all, because Mr. Werner doesn’t show up. Five minutes in, a woman from the admin office bursts in, looking harried, and says, “Ah, I’m so sorry, you guys, things have been so crazy at the admin office, I forgot to let you all know that Mr. Werner’s class has been canceled due to—ah, unforeseen circumstances. You have a free period today. Don’t worry, we’ll have a sub ready for you next class.” She gives us an overly bright smile before backing out of the room.
As soon as she’s gone, the room explodes with hoots and claps. Aiden B. says, “Musta been a wild night for Mr. Werner,” really loudly, and people laugh. Aaron Presley goes up to the blackboard, imitating Mr. Werner’s walk, and says, “Okay, kids, today we’ll be talking about The Handmaid’s Tale.” He makes such a close impression of Mr. Werner that I get goose bumps all over. I feel nauseated. I want to tell him to stop, but everyone else is laughing, and I can’t even watch him, because the way he moves reminds me of Mr. Werner, and Mr. Werner isn’t here because I killed him, and now he’s up in the woods, missing a hand, and—
“What if that hand that was found in the woods is his?” Aiden B. says, and everyone goes quiet for a second. I swear I can hear my heartbeat, a panicked thrum that everyone must be able to pick out.
“Sounds like we need to set up a—drumroll please—death pool!” Aiden B. says.
“It can’t be a pool if the only candidate is Mr. Werner,” Mandy says, rolling her eyes. “But whatever, I bet a hundred bucks it’s Mr. Werner.”
How can these kids be so heartless? He was their teacher. They were happily buying grades off him! But maybe I’m just being a massive hypocrite, given I killed the guy and everything.
Other kids pipe up, putting down bets before picking up their bags and leaving the room. I follow the stream of students out of the classroom, feeling sick. Everyone else is busy texting and chattering, making guesses as to what Mr. Werner could possibly be up to. I guess no one truly believes he’s actually dead in the woods, even though almost everyone here has put money on it.
My phone rings. It’s Danny. My stomach does that horrible sinking thing because I know immediately it’s nothing good. People only call when it’s really bad news. For a second, I consider not picking up at all. But my thumb slides across the screen and accepts the call.
“Hey, Danny—”
“Uncle James is dead.”
Chapter 20
Heartbeat. Nothing but my heartbeat in my hearing, drowning out everything else as I stand outside of Westerly Hall. Danny comes out to let me in, and he’s a mess. Completely destroyed. He doesn’t even bother trying to hide the tears. People passing by are openly looking and I don’t know what to do—what would a non-murdering, non-lying person do? I push past the guilt and fold him into a hug.
His head feels so heavy on my shoulder. I don’t know what else to say. I stand there and hold him and hate myself, hate everything, go back to hating myself so hard. Eventually, he wipes his eyes, and we make it back to his room, where he slumps on the floor, his back against his bed.
“I’m the only family member he has in the area, so they asked me to go to the station. My cousins and my aunt are on their way from Jakarta, and they’ll be here tomorrow. So I had to go to identify the—” He chokes on the last word and buries his face in his hands, another sob shuddering through his frame. I put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Am I really sitting here comforting him while lying to him? What kind of monster am I? And the worst part of it is that my mind keeps skittering to a single thought: Does the police suspect anything?
“His face was—god, it was a mess, Lia,” he sobs. “They think he was out hiking and tripped and fell on a—there was a branch in his—fuck.”
If I could only put together all the broken pieces of him. I broke him. I did this.