The Carlton Citizen of the Year Award has been postponed indefinitely, and I still feel bad about that. Not to mention having to finally come clean about what I did at Spare Me last spring. But here’s the thing about getting taken hostage by your brother’s lacrosse coach–turned–drug dealer: it gives you a lot of leeway. Mom and Dad are so happy that I’m not dead, they barely blinked at the fact that I single-handedly brought down a business.
“We’ll make this right,” Dad said. He’s been on the phone all week with Ms. Reyes, his insurance company, and Shepard Properties lawyers. I only eavesdropped once, when I heard Dad yelling at one of his lawyers. “I don’t care about minimizing my exposure,” he said. “I care about what’s fair.” And while I felt another wave of remorse about putting my dad in this position, I also felt relieved that he is who he is. The kind of person who will make this right. And also the kind of person I could have talked to a lot sooner, if I hadn’t been too twisted up with fear and insecurity.
Autumn has a lawyer too—not as flashy as Lara’s, but a friend of Mateo’s mom who took the case pro bono. Her name is Christy something, and wow, does she like to talk. She’s been all over the news, pushing hard for rehabilitation instead of punishment, and so far, at least, the local politicians weighing in seem to agree. There’s more focus on unraveling Coach Kendall’s network of suppliers and distributors than on prosecuting Autumn or Charlie. Gabe Prescott is a different case, though, since his association with Coach Kendall goes back more than a year. Stefan St. Clair had it right; Gabe’s job was essentially to spy on his friends and classmates, and he got paid a small fortune to do it.
I guess Autumn is doing all right. But I’m not sure, since I’ve only spoken to Mateo twice since it all happened: once at the police station when we all gave statements, and once when I called to thank him for saving our lives. I was afraid he wouldn’t pick up, but he did.
“I didn’t know you guys were in trouble,” he said. “It was the police’s idea to raid Ms. Jamison’s place. They thought it might be a drop-off point for Coach Kendall. Then they saw his car, and your car, and a light on in the garage, so…that was that. They escalated.”
“Well, thanks anyway,” I said limply. I’m not surprised that he felt the need to clarify; Mateo doesn’t like getting credit that he doesn’t think he’s earned. But at the same time, it felt like he was saying, I didn’t do it for you. Especially since he hung up as quickly as he could after that without being straight-up rude.
I tried to not let it bother me—perspective, Ivy, perspective—but it did. I’d wanted that call to go differently, so much so that I’d swallowed my pride and sent a follow-up text the next day. Let me know if you ever want to talk.
I will, he replied. That was three days ago.
I’ve been hoping for a fresh start, but maybe Mateo isn’t where I’m going to get it.
“You wanna play archery?” Daniel asks me, getting up from the table and putting his plate into the dishwasher.
I follow suit. “Yeah, okay.” That’s something we’ve started doing since Coach Kendall was arrested; playing multiplayer games via messaging. I’m not sure what Daniel’s motivation is, but for me it’s a low-pressure way to hang out with my brother while I figure out how to relate to him in a way that doesn’t include resenting everything he does.
It helps that he’s surprisingly bad at all the games, which is satisfying in a way that I realize does nothing to kill my hypercompetitive spirit. Baby steps.
“Good,” Mom says, finishing the last of her juice. “Lie low until the gauntlet out front gets bored. I’m sure they will once your father manages to contain himself for more than ten minutes at a time.”
“It’s harassment,” Dad mutters. “And that bastard Dale Hawkins is front and center, loving every second of this. Even though it’s his irresponsible reporting that put Ivy in the spotlight with false accusations in the first place.”
“Not just his irresponsible reporting,” Daniel points out. “Ishaan and Zack helped. And they’re milking it for everything they can.” The boys have their own YouTube channel now, with paid sponsors, and they’ve been analyzing the Coach Kendall case all week. The highlight of the show was when Emily agreed to appear—for a hefty fee—and corrected everything they’d gotten wrong so far. She even made them apologize to me.
The segment went semiviral, which is kind of great. Watching my best friend turn into a social-media star is the distraction I didn’t know I needed.
“They’re just kids,” Dad huffs. “And they’re not in front of our house.”
“It’s the Fourth Amendment, love,” Mom says placidly. “Unless they step onto our lawn, in which case you have my permission to turn the hose on them. Especially Dale.”
Daniel and I settle into opposite ends of the couch in the living room, and I wait while he takes the first turn at archery. When his scores flash across my screen, it’s two misses and a bull’s-eye. “You’re all over the place,” I say, taking aim. Our dog, Mila, who’d been napping in the sunny spot in front of the sliding glass door, wakes up with a rattle of tags. She stretches, eyes us from behind an enormous yawn, and goes right back to sleep.