“Teddy, you forgot your—” I started to call after him, before I spotted the writing on the back of the yellow page. The details of our “date” to ride the carousel. Beside it, two stick figures held hands. They both wore glasses, and one had frizzy hair. I bit my lip and smiled, despite my foul mood. When I looked up from his drawing, he was gone.
I sunk back into my chair and rested my head against the tabletop. A mild headache was starting just behind my eyes. I couldn’t afford to miss any hours, and my mentees were dropping like flies. I smelled indelible ink where my forehead rubbed against my blue test score, and it felt like salt in a wound.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been lying there when something eclipsed the fluorescent light, casting a long shadow over the length of the table. The sharp, oily smell of leather bit my throat and I raised my head.
Lonny’s friend stood over my desk, staring at my test. His hair fell over his forehead, framing his face in knife-like points long enough to brush his collar. Two silver loops pierced his right brow over the same steady blue eyes that had watched me leave school Friday night.
I sat straighter in my chair. No one else had seen me. He couldn’t prove I was there. I had nothing to be afraid of. I flipped my test over, sliding it a few inches down the desk. He didn’t register the hint.
“Can I help you?”
He looked me over, starting with my hair. It was twisted into a tight knot at the back of my head. His eyes continued down with little interest and paused at my T-shirt. It was two sizes too large and the sleeves hung to my elbows, but right now it didn’t feel big enough. I crossed my arms around myself.
“You’re Nearly?” His voice was dark and rough around the edges. A perfect fit.
“What do you want?” Somehow I doubted he’d come to apologize.
He glanced at the clock. “It’s three o’clock. I’m here.”
“So?”
The corner of his mouth pulled into a grin. “So, you’re supposed to tutor me. Rankin told me to be here at three.”
No. Freaking. Way.
His eyes bored into mine, a whole conversation passing before either of us could blink.
“Rankin was mistaken.” I snatched up my book, determined to find some other way—any other way—to fulfill my community service requirement.
“No problem.” He shrugged, watching me wrangle textbooks and calculators into submission. “How about tomorrow?”
“Booked,” I said without looking up.
“Wednesday?”
“Geometry with Kylie Rutherford.”
“Thursday?” he asked with a sarcastic undertone that put me even further on edge.
I zipped my pack closed.
“Let me guess. You’re washing your hair on Thursday?” He reached for a stray lock. My whole body tensed and something on my face must have changed his mind. He paused, his hand inches away, and a slow grin crept over his face. He leaned over the desk, his voice low. “Or is it swim practice?”
I couldn’t speak. Up close, his eyes were suffocating and deep. I flashed back to Marcia’s dead blue face. He was too close, he’d seen too much, and my thoughts scrambled and blurred.
“No!” It came out loud enough to wipe the smile off his face. I cleared my throat, hiding my bare hands under the table. His eyes trailed after them. “I tutor Teddy Marshall on Thursdays.”
He shook his head and half smiled, as though he found me entertaining. “I get it. You’re busy.” He slid something across the table. “Maybe a few hours after school sometime?”
I waited for his hand to retreat before reaching for the scrap of paper. A phone number. His phone number. I shoved it back across the table, and his hand closed over mine, trapping it between us. I sucked in a surprised breath as his emotions crept into me. He was suspicious of me. And conflicted. Guilt and self-doubts simmered just below the surface, under that cocky self-assurance he wore like a leather skin.
I jerked my hand from his, dropping the number. He hadn’t wanted to give it to me anyway. I’d tasted his regret when he did. “What’s your name?”
“Reece.” He gave me a skeptical once-over, then extended his hand. “Reece Whelan.”
I didn’t take it. I watched him, brain skimming around the edges of a memory.
He dismissed the rebuff. “So, are we cool or what?”
Whelan . . . We’ve got a kid inside . . . get me everything he can on Nearly Boswell.
I stood up, gears clicking in place as I grabbed my pack and made a beeline for the door. No, we were absolutely not cool.
12
The next morning, when I opened my locker, a wad of paper and a pink slip ruffled between the vents. The pink slip was from Rankin, telling me I needed to reschedule two hours of tutoring this week, for Teddy Marshall . . . and Reece Whelan.
The wad of paper had been folded and crushed to fit through the vent. I peeled it open. Chapter one of a basic chemistry textbook had been ripped from its binding, and blocky blue ballpoint letters were inked over the top of the page.
I NEED YOU . . . PLEASE.—RW