Barrens High School, a squat concrete-and-brick building, is smaller than I remembered and strikes me as surprisingly quiet. I guess I was expecting the raw energy and noise of restless teenagers to be oozing out through the windows and walls, to see kids perched on the hoods of their cars smoking pot, shoving each other into the Dumpsters, shouting to each other in the halls. But of course, it’s still raining, and everyone’s inside.
Freak! I think I hear someone call out from far away. But there’s no one. The windshield wiper whines and snaps, whines and snaps. I shut off the engine, wondering if I have it in me to get out of the car. But there’s something drawing me here, one of those instincts. A hunch.
I cover my head and hurry across the lot to the main entrance; the strangled cry of the front doors rips through me, feels like an old cut torn open.
Survival instinct—that deep, anxious burn I practically subsisted on in high school—shoots adrenaline through my veins.
But all is quiet and still inside, too. They say smell is the sense most closely linked to memory—this place smells like a hundred-year-old stairwell with no ventilation. I’m immediately transported back in time. I peer down the long empty hallway. First period classes must still be in session. The inside looks smaller than I remembered, too—why is that always the case? The ceiling seems lower, but I’ve been five foot nine since I was in the eighth grade so I know it isn’t because of a sudden growth spurt. The walls are still beige, but there is also a faint smell of paint. They must have attempted a makeover. It was a waste of time. The strangle of memories lessens somewhat as my wet boots slap against the tile floors; still, my whole body’s alert, ready to flatten itself against the rusted metal lockers in the event of a stampede, to perform its old magic trick and become invisible.
Only a few days after I swore to myself I would never ask Misha for help, I’ve arrived to do exactly that.
At the main office, I am told that Vice Principal Jennings is in with a parent. I still can’t reconcile the Misha who used to bring vodka to school in a water bottle during Spirit Week with the woman nominally in charge of the students’ education, and I can’t help but wonder what Kaycee would have thought.
I remember the day Chestnut’s collar turned up in my locker, the sudden rage that overtook me, the way Misha slammed me against the lockers after I’d tackled her in the halls.
Did you know what she did? I was practically choking on my own rage. Did you know all along? Did you think it would be funny to remind me?
I’ll never forget how she looked then: scared. Truly scared, maybe for the first time ever.
I have no idea what you’re talking about, she whispered.
Is it at all possible that Misha was a victim, too?
A bored-looking secretary shows me to a folding chair and hands me a copy of the school handbook. I flip through it—anything to keep my hands busy. Nothing seems to have changed: it’s all no drinking, no smoking on the premises, stuff like that. A zero-tolerance policy that I doubt is ever, or was ever, enforced.
Finally the visiting parent storms off, clutching her pocketbook to her chest, and the secretary shows me in. Here among the clean angles of the modest office, surrounded by towers of paperwork, is Misha.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.
When she stands up to give me a quick hug, I see that she’s wearing a skirt suit just a tiny bit too small for her. I focus on that visible flaw to counteract a surge of panic.
“Please. You’re doing me a favor. At least now I have a break from the usual rotation of parents. They don’t see why their precious Jeremy is flunking out of school when he shows up at least once a week.”
I take the chair pulled up close to her desk. Maybe it’s meant for students—it is noticeably lower than hers, and suddenly I feel like a kid, like I should be apologizing for something.
“I see the school has expanded,” I say, directly.
“Sure has. We had to absorb the kids in Basher Falls after the town lines got redrawn.”
“That must have been a strain on the teachers.” I’ve stolen this technique from Joe: Start with some softballs, some light chitchat, the conversational equivalent of a sedative. Then, once they’re relaxed, strike hard and get out quick.
Misha smiles brightly. The sun shining through the window makes a good impression of a halo around her head. “Luckily, we were able to bring in some new hires. And we’ve been working with local donors on a scholarship fund to improve extracurricular involvement.”
Somehow, even though I can see her speak the words, they still seem as though they’re coming from someone else’s mouth. Rehearsed. “Let me guess. Optimal is one of the local donors?”
“The biggest.” She spreads her hands. She doesn’t look sorry. “Like I said, they’ve been great partners. They’ve really helped turn this town around. How was seeing Brent, by the way? You know there’s nothing to do in Barrens but mind everybody else’s business,” Misha says teasingly.
Time to go in for the kill. “That’s good to hear,” I say, “because I actually have some questions for you about what happened to Kaycee Mitchell back then.”
I might as well have slapped her. The smile drops right off her face. After a long second, she forces a laugh. “I could have saved you the trouble,” she says. “I haven’t heard from Kaycee since three weeks after she left.”
“Where was she?” I ask.
“Why do you care so much? I thought you were here to look at the water.”
“We are. I thought Kaycee’s perspective could be valuable.”
“Here we go. I thought that stupidity had gone to the grave.” Misha is much better at controlling her temper now. “It was a lie. I’ve put that whole episode behind me.”
“But you must have gotten the idea to lie from somewhere,” I say. “There was a case back in Tennessee, before Optimal changed names—”
“It was Kaycee’s idea. And you know as well as I do, Kaycee never needed a reason for anything.” Misha’s voice turns hard, like the old Misha, the one whose first instinct was to attack. “Last I heard she was on her way to New York. Honestly, I was relieved. It sounds awful, but I was sick of all her little games. I was sick of playing along. You know how it was.”
I do. But again, I resent her for reminding me. “Is it possible she had another reason for running away?” I ask, and Misha sighs, as if she’s realized I won’t be easily distracted.
“No,” she says. “She knew that I wanted to come clean about making the whole thing up. Cora and Annie, too. We never expected it to get that out of control. I mean, Cora’s mom went on the news…” She shakes her head. “Kaycee ran off before everyone could call her a liar. Best day of my life, God’s truth.”
For a second, I’m left speechless. Did anyone actually like Kaycee Mitchell? Was anyone sorry to see her go? But before I can ask Misha anything else, the secretary pokes her head in.