“It’s not a big deal. Just a misunderstanding at Hillpark.”
A smart person would be able to put the Hillpark Gym Graffiti Incident—which most of East Shoal knew about—together with my community service. But no one knew enough about me. Hillpark and East Shoal hated each other so much it severed the lines of communication. Out here in the boonies of suburban Indiana, it was red versus green, Dragons versus Sabres. You didn’t speak to someone from the other school unless you were spitting in their face. The only reason East Shoal knew about the graffiti at all was because Hillpark’s main gym had been closed for several games while they cleaned the floor. My reputation at Hillpark hadn’t bled into my time at East Shoal. Not yet.
But Tucker was separate from all that. He did know enough about me.
“When you two walked in, he was smiling.” Tucker looked down at his desk, tracing the grooves in its top with his pencil. “I haven’t seen him smile since eighth grade.”
“He’s only driving me to school,” I reassured him. “I’m not going to start hanging out or figuring out scoreboard-related mysteries with him or anything.”
“No, because that’s my job.” Tucker’s face lifted, a smile tugging at his lips. “He’s on transportation duty and I get mysteries. I see you building your harem of manservants.”
“I’m looking at Ackerley next—I think he’d give a killer foot massage.”
Tucker laughed, but glanced over his shoulder as if Cliff was going to appear behind him and slam his head into the desk.
I knew how he felt.
For the rest of that week, I felt strangely buoyant. At work, at school, even when I had to go near the scoreboard. Everything was good. Celia was suspended for the paint job. I got all my homework done on time (and even understood my calculus, which was a miracle in itself), took enough pictures and did enough perimeter checks to put my paranoia at ease, and I had people to talk to.
Real people. Not homicidal people.
Miles drove me to and from school. Like most people, he didn’t act the same when you got him alone. He was still an asshat, but alone he was more Blue Eyes than jerk. On Wednesday, when the club stayed after school to work a swim meet, he even helped me bury Erwin.
“You named your bike Erwin?”
“Sure, why not?”
“After Erwin Rommel? You named your bike after a Nazi?” Miles narrowed his eyes at me. Erwin’s back half swung at his side.
“My dad got him from the African desert. Plus, Rommel was humane. He got an order straight from Hitler to execute Jews, and he tore it up. And then he traded his family’s protection for his own suicide.”
“Yeah, but he still knew what he was doing and who he was fighting for,” said Miles, but without conviction. “I thought you were scared of Nazis?”
My step faltered. “How did you know that?”
“You’re a history buff; I assumed that whatever you were scared of would come from history, and Nazis were pretty scary.” The corner of his lips twisted up. “There’s that, and whenever someone calls me a Nazi, you get this look on your face like I tried to kill you.”
“Oh. Good guess.” I gripped Erwin’s handlebars tighter. We rounded the back of the school and headed for the Dumpster behind the kitchen doors. I could smell tobacco and wood shavings and suspected Miles’s jacket. He wore it every day now. He pushed the top off the Dumpster and we tossed Erwin’s halves inside, closing the lid on my poor bike forever.
“Why does being called a Nazi make you so mad?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know why anyone would be happy about it, but I thought you were going to rip Cliff’s teeth out the other day.”
He shrugged. “People are ignorant. I don’t know.”
He knew. Miles always knew.
As we turned back toward the gym, he said, “Heard you’ve been on some sort of scavenger hunt with Beaumont.”
“Yep. Jealous?”
It sort of slipped out. I was too paralyzed to say anything else. He didn’t know about the library, did he? He couldn’t know that I’d found out about his mom.
But then he snorted loudly and said, “Hardly.”
I relaxed. “What is everyone’s problem with him? I don’t think he’s that bad, honestly. Yeah, he’s got a Cult in a Closet, but he’s really nice. He hates you, but doesn’t everyone?”
“He actually has a reason to hate me, though. Everyone else does it because it’s expected.”
“What reason?”
Miles paused. “We were friends in middle school,” he said. “I thought he was a decent guy because we were both smart, we got along well, and I was new and he didn’t make fun of my accent. But when we got here, I realized—he lets other people walk all over him. He’s got no ambition. No drive, no end goal.”
And what kind of ambition do you have? I thought. The kind where you see how effectively you can kill someone’s puppy?