“Well, he…he has a job,” Ivy stammers.
“Busing tables, right?” I ask. She nods. “Mateo does that, too. You ever seen him in thousand-dollar sneakers?” She doesn’t respond, and I add, “Maybe Daniel isn’t D. Maybe he’s the Weasel. Think about it. He’s everyone’s friend, he’s invited to all the parties, he really doesn’t want the cops involved—”
“Stop it!” Ivy cuts in. “You’re being horrible.”
“Yeah, well, so are you.”
We regard each other in silence for a few seconds, and then Ivy stuffs Lara’s card far enough into her bag that she can zip it shut. “I’m done talking with you about this,” she says stiffly. “I’m done talking with you, period.”
“Fine by me,” I say. It seems impossible, suddenly, that I ever could have cared enough about Ivy’s friendship to sabotage things between her and Mateo. Mateo, who stalked off like an angry toddler the second things stopped going his way. The two of them deserve one another.
“I’m leaving,” Ivy says.
I shrug with pretend nonchalance. “This isn’t Logan Airport. You don’t have to announce your departure.”
“Ughhhh,” she growls, spinning on her heel and flouncing away. A second later she’s gone, leaving me with the satisfaction of a solid parting shot.
It fades fast, though, and a feeling of gloom settles over me as I look around Lara’s classroom. Now what? Mateo’s gone, Ivy’s gone, and there’s nothing left for me to do except go home and explain myself to my parents. The thought doesn’t fill me with glee, to say the least. I find myself backing farther into Lara’s classroom, letting my eyes linger over the workstations, the supplies, the student creations on the wall.
The desk.
Ivy tried to open Lara’s bottom drawer earlier, but she couldn’t. It’s locked, which I know because Lara keeps her inhaler in there. “Can’t have this going missing,” she told me once, before dropping it inside and turning a key in the lock.
Then she slipped the key somewhere beneath her desk.
I cross the room to sit at the desk, sliding my hand beneath it. At first all I feel is cool metal and then—something raised. I tug at it, and pull a small, rectangular box from under the desk. It’s a magnetic case, and when I push against the top, a key pops out.
I fit the key into the bottom-drawer lock. It turns easily, and I pull the drawer open. Only I don’t see Lara’s inhaler.
Inside are dozens of plastic freezer bags filled with pill bottles. I don’t have to check the labels to know what they are, but I do it anyway.
You’re afraid of the wrong things. Ivy told me that once, a long time ago. I brushed her off, but maybe it’s true after all. These bags should scare the hell out of me—what they are, what they represent, what they mean in terms of what has to come next—but they don’t.
I stare at them in silence for a few seconds, thinking. Then I pick up one of the plastic bags, stuff it under my shirt, and head for the door.
IVY
I sit in my car in the empty Carlton High parking lot, put the key in the ignition, and turn over the engine. Just like I’ve done hundreds of times before. After that, though, it’s not an exaggeration to say that I have absolutely no idea what to do next.
My phone dings, startling me, and I look down. Flight 8802 is delayed due to air traffic, and is now scheduled to arrive at 6:00 p.m.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, imagining an alternate universe where my biggest worry would be the fact that I have to bring Mom’s outfit to the award ceremony. Instead of the very real possibility that the whole thing will be canceled once I’m arrested at the door.
I wonder if I should be proactive and call my parents. Will hearing from me as soon as they land make any of this better? Or should I catch up with Carlton Speaks first, and see how much worse the rumors have gotten since we left Charlie’s house? Or maybe I should call Mateo, and leave a long, rambling voicemail apology since there’s no way he’d pick up.
I’m not calling Cal. To hell with him.
And Daniel…I don’t even know what to think about Daniel.
There’s something on Reddit called Am I the Asshole?, where people write in about personal conflicts and ask others to tell them who’s in the wrong. Sometimes it’s horrifying, sometimes it’s funny, but a lot of times it’s someone who’s genuinely confused about whether or not they’re the bad guy in a given situation. Now I’m running the last four years between me and Daniel through an AITA filter, wondering if all the things he did that I thought were deliberate and malicious were actually reactions. Or is Cal right, and Daniel was just manipulating me back there?
It’s tempting to think that—comfortable and familiar—but it’s not like I’m the world’s nicest person. I was just spite-voted out of student council office, after all, in favor of somebody who ran as a joke.