I Swear

12. JAKE

Everything in my head told me not to get into the car with Jillian. I didn’t want to hang out after the memorial. I didn’t want to pretend that everything was normal. I didn’t want to order burgers and shakes and lattes and act like everything was okay.

But I did.

“C’mon, Jake. I know you’re having a hard time,” Jillian said as we stood in the parking lot at school. “Just come for a little while. Brad’s bringing Macie soon.”

I couldn’t stop from rolling my eyes.

“Jesus!” Jillian sighed. “Would you just lighten up? Get in the car. You’ll feel better when you eat something.”

She slid into the driver’s seat and started flipping through tunes on her iPod. I stood there watching Macie finish up in front of the camera bank. Her dad was standing back by the vans, refusing journalists, waving them over to Macie, and grinning from ear to ear. I felt sick to my stomach. Brad rounded the corner in his truck from the back lot and slowed to a stop when he saw me.

“Hey,” he called as he rolled down the window. “You comin’ to Marv’s?”

I ran a hand over my face and shrugged.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get some food with the girls, then we can sneak out when they start planning world domination, and go hang at my place. Dad’s outta town all weekend.”

I looked over at Macie one more time and then back at Brad. He followed my gaze.

“This is over after today,” he said. “Everything will calm down now. See you there, man.”

I got in the car, and Jillian pulled out behind Brad, who slowed to pick up Macie. The reporters were packing up. They’d gotten what they’d come for. Macie hugged her grinning dad, who helped her into Brad’s truck and gave all of us a two-fingered victory sign like he was delivering a speech on election night, and we headed toward Marv’s.

• • •

Brad had invited half the football team to come grab food at Marv’s, and we all wound up jammed into two big round booths in the back of the place. Macie sat in the center of one, holding court, flanked by Beth and Krista on one side and Jillian on the other. Brad and I took the ends, and both wound up getting up like four times in the first fifteen minutes to let different combinations of the girls out to go to the bathroom together.

Kevin and Brandon, two of our defensive linemen, were with a couple of cheerleaders in the other booth, and the four of them started an all-out spitball war with Brad, who was getting pegged with little wads of napkins they were shooting out of straws. I watched as Beth and Krista joined in to help him out, and before I knew it, everyone was laughing and joking around, and Macie was yelling for all of them to stop it, so they all turned on her and pelted her until she slid down under the table with her hands over her head. Brad hooted like a banshee and high-fived Kevin, and then the waiter showed up with our drinks.

I sat there, dazed, feeling like I was a million miles away. I couldn’t remember why I wasn’t jumping into the fun. I couldn’t remember why my face felt heavy, why it felt like a smile weighed one million pounds.

Then I saw Katherine walk through the door, and I remembered.

When she strode up to the table, I was relieved. She wasn’t smiling either. She stopped right in front of us, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Macie beat her to it.

“Well, look who has crawled out of the woodwork,” she said with a smirk. “We missed you in front of the cameras today, and come to think of it . . . all week. How is the Pageant Girls Fund for the Prevention of Teen Suicide coming along?”

Krista stifled a laugh. Beth glared at Macie. Jillian glanced at me, her eyes wide. She didn’t say anything out loud, but her mental text message came through loud and clear: Don’t. Make. A. Scene.

The thing I’ve always liked about Katherine is that she doesn’t appear to give a shit what anyone thinks of her. Two years ago when she moved here, I think that’s why Macie dumped Jillian as a running mate and went with Katherine—not just because she needed votes, which is what she told Jills. I think it was because Macie recognized a quiet strength in Katherine that she knew she wanted on her side. If she didn’t make Katherine a friend, she’d become a challenger.

Katherine was unfazed by Macie’s remark. She stood in front of the table and smiled her most runway-ready dazzler. She was beautiful. Nobody could deny it. And not “hot” in the way Kevin and Brandon and Brad talked about the girls on the drill team. Katherine was regal. Her beauty was classic, and there was an energy about her that was unmistakable.

“I trust everyone had a good time at the memorial this morning,” she said, an icy tone creeping into her voice as she addressed everyone in both booths. “Macie,” she said, leveling her gaze at our booth, “I’m not sure you noticed the two gentlemen in the back set of bleachers. They were with a woman who was recording the service on a Flip Video?”

Macie stared daggers at Katherine. They’d had moments like this in private before. I knew that much from Jills. But I’d never heard of anybody challenging Macie like this in public.

“Katherine, I’m not sure you noticed the two news crews outside? I was talking to the local anchors, who were most certainly not using Flip Videos. They had cameras. They were filming broadcast segments. Maybe you missed that while you were talking to the funeral bloggers?”

Katherine flipped her hair over her shoulder and smiled. “Not bloggers, Macie. Lawyers. Friends of my father’s. They work at Latham, Dirkson, and Soloway. Maybe you’re wondering what lawyers who didn’t know the Gatlins were doing at Leslie’s memorial? My father was puzzled by that, too, so he asked.”

The waiter rounded the corner with a busboy trailing him. Two giant trays of food arrived. They passed out the plates and asked if there was anything else. Brad managed to mumble, “No thanks; we’re good.”

No one lifted a fork, or a fry. All eyes were glued on Katherine. Even Macie was paying attention. “What did they tell your dad?” she asked quietly.

“They were hired by the Gatlins,” Katherine said slowly. The smile and the iciness of her voice had fallen away. She was just giving us the facts now. “The Gatlins are claiming that Leslie killed herself because of unrelenting bullying. They are gathering evidence to file a civil suit for wrongful death. And they are discussing criminal charges with the district attorney.”

The words dropped from Katherine’s lips and gently settled over the table like a thick layer of soot. Everyone else was looking at Katherine. I was looking at Macie.

For the first time since I’d known her, Macie Merrick cracked for just an instant. It was brief, and if I hadn’t glanced over at just the right time, I would have missed it—the tiny jump in her lip, the quiver at the edge of her eyelash. The way her lips parted and how she just barely stopped her jaw from dropping.

I had never seen this look on Macie’s face before. I’d seen her excited. I’d seen her angry. This was Macie Merrick scared.

It lasted for exactly half a second.

Krista turned to her and said, “What does that mean?” and before she’d gotten the “wh” of “what” out of her mouth, Macie’s mask was back in place.

“It means,” Macie said, slowly, glaring at Katherine, “that the guilty party is trying to shift the blame.”

“The guilty party?” I asked.

“Oh, please, Jake,” Macie said with a sneer. “We all know that Mrs. Gatlin is a lush. And who knows what her crazy-ass dad put them through? One of the hallmarks of child molesters is that they like to move around a lot. That man flips a house every year. I don’t think they’ve lived at the same address for more than twelve months in the past decade.”

I was on my feet before I could stop myself. The table rocked as I stood up in the booth, and Beth and Jillian leaped to grab their drinks.

“Shut up,” I bellowed at Macie. “Just shut up.”

Brad and Jillian were on each arm, talking at the same time.

“It’s okay, bud,” Brad said softly.

“Jake, please,” whispered Jillian.

“Please, what?” I looked at Jillian like she’d lost her mind. “Sit here and listen to this bullshit? Did anybody see the Gatlins this morning? Sitting there sobbing in the front row? While . . . you,” I spat at Macie, “you of all people gave a eulogy for their daughter?”

Macie laughed bitterly. “Of course they were crying, you moron. Crying because they know that they’re the ones to blame. Who raises a kid to be that selfish? It has to be somebody else’s fault. It couldn’t possibly be theirs. They need somebody to blame, because the truth that it’s their fault is just too horrible to believe.”

“Shut up!” I yelled again. I wanted to grab the table and throw it upward toward Macie. I wanted every plate and glass to land in her lap. I wanted her to hurt as badly as I did right that second.

“Jesus, Jake. You’re such a little girl,” Macie said derisively. “Why are you so upset? Leslie Gatlin didn’t want you. She wouldn’t date you. You were not a part of her life. Move. On. She obviously did.”

“I hope they nail your ass to the wall,” I shouted.

The manager was at our table now. “Is there a problem, young man?” he asked me sternly.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, there is. We’ve got a delusional a*shole at our table.”

“This was a bad idea,” Brad said. “Jillian, will you take Macie home? I’m gonna get him outta here.”

I pushed Brad off me. “Don’t patronize me,” I said.

“Young man, one more outburst from you, and I’m calling the police,” said the manager. “Now, I suggest you settle up with your waiter and go with your friend here.”

I looked back at Macie, who rolled her eyes. “They have no case, Jake. This whole scene will blow over by Monday.”

Katherine caught my eye as Brad pushed me toward the door, and as I brushed by her I recognized something in her face. It was a knowing, an understanding—like the kind I used to have with Jillian.

It was a longing, too, a wish that she could be anywhere but here.

• • •

I spent the night at Brad’s place. Now that his brother, Derek, was at Syracuse, it was just the two of us in his giant house—and sometimes the housekeeper, Paula. His dad was out of town for the weekend, like he had been most weekends since Brad’s mom died when we were in seventh grade. Her life insurance settlement had doubled the size of the hedge fund Mr. Wyst managed for the richest tech guys in the Northwest. It also seemed to have doubled the size of the hole in his heart. He tried to fill it nightly with vodka, and usually once a week with some new chick he’d met in Vegas or Tahoe or Mammoth or Los Angeles or San Francisco. Brad and Derek had both gotten some counseling after their mom died, but while their dad paid for their sessions, he never bothered to get any of his own.

Brad got me a beer when we got to his place, and grabbed a copy of our favorite zombie movie. It was one from the last ten years where somebody had finally made zombies fast. There were decades of zombie movies where the people who got eaten by them could’ve run circles around them, and those totally cracked us up.

We fell asleep on the couches in the media room, and when I woke up the next morning, I went into the bathroom downstairs and splashed some water on my face. It was funny—I didn’t look any different, but I felt like I didn’t recognize the guy in the mirror. I heard the doorbell ring, and figured it was Paula, who usually checks in on Brad once during the weekend. I went back into the media room and grabbed my T-shirt, then ran up the stairs as the doorbell rang again.

I opened the door as I was pulling my shirt over my head, and froze with one arm in because it was not Paula.

There was a tall, leggy blonde standing on the front porch, gazing out at the front lawn. Black seams ran down the backs of her legs from the hem of her suit skirt. The soles of her high-heel shoes were bright red, and she turned and smiled as she heard the door open. The aviator sunglasses she pushed up on top of her head pulled her long hair back like she was Jennifer Aniston working for the CIA.

“Hi.” She smiled. Perfect teeth, dark brown eyes that floated from my face down to my chest and abs. She cocked her head and glanced back up with a smirk as I remembered that my shirt was half off and quickly shoved my other arm in. “Bradley Wyst?”

“Uh . . . hi . . . yeah, I mean, no . . . I’m . . . ,” I stuttered, and then stopped.

“Confused?” She laughed—but it was sweet, not bitchy.

I smiled and felt my cheeks burn. “Sorry.” I laughed. “I’m Brad’s friend. This is his house.”

She smiled. “I’m Lauren Wolinsky. Is Bradley Wyst here?”

“Sure thing,” I said, holding open the glass storm door. “I’m Jake. C’mon in. I’ll get him.”

Brad was coming up the stairs in the foyer behind me. In his boxers. “Hey, Pau—”

“Dude.” I cut him off.

At the sight of Lauren Wolinsky, Brad let out a long whoosh of air with a frown, then folded his arms over his bare chest and leaned against the door to the stairway.

“You’re . . . definitely not the housekeeper.”

Lauren Wolinsky pursed her lips in a smirk and shook her head as she reached into a black leather attaché case that hung from the shoulder of her navy suit jacket. “No, no I am not,” she said. Then she turned back to me. “Jake . . . as in Jacob Walker?”

“Yes?” I said. Confused but pleased. She knows my name?

“Bradley Wyst?”

“You got it,” said Brad, extending his hand with the grin he refers to as “the Dazzler.”

Lauren offered each of us an envelope and smiled kindly as we took them from her. “Gentlemen, I’m Lauren Wolinsky with Latham, Dirkson, and Soloway. You’ve been served.”

Then she turned on the heel of her red-soled shoe and left us standing there wide awake.