But I never gave him the address. All I said was Iberville, and he took it from there. How did he know where in Iberville, unless he’d been here before?
Jumping up, I scour the bed for any sign of another gift. Even though it’s broad daylight and it’s highly unlikely the intruder came back for round two before dinner and somehow escaped Mom and Jenny’s notice, I drop to the floor and check under the bed, then whip the closet open. Empty.
My heart races. Tucker knew where I live.
I think of the kiss, that sweet, perfect kiss as we sat on his unmade bed, and my lungs flutter in a pleasant way. But the fact remains: Tucker knew where I live.
Frowning, I reach under my mattress for the spiral notebook. I crack it open to the first page, where I printed: SUSPECTS.
It pains me to do it, but I scrawl TUCKER ST. CLAIR directly below it.
My first kiss and first suspect, all in the course of an evening.
I snap the notebook shut and shove it under the mattress. So much for normal.
The car idles at the curb next to the big grassy quad in front of the school.
It rained last night after I got home from Tucker’s. Big heaping buckets that sounded like sniper gunfire on the roof. The sky this morning is stained a muddy brown. Fallen branches are blown across the lawn, and rivers of water flow heartily down the gutters. The air is thick with the scent of wet grass. But it won’t be like this for long. The sun is already peeking out through churned clouds, and by midday we’ll enjoy another oppressively humid autumn day.
“Are you sure about this?” Mom asks. “I can take the day off if you think you’re not ready.”
“No!” I say it so sharply that I add, “I’ll be okay. Thanks.”
Mom sighs and scrubs at a crease between her brows. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her hands are as jittery as if she’d downed a case of Red Bull. Sometimes I forget how hard all this must be on her.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I know I’m being weird. I just worry about you.”
“I know, Mom.” I lean across the center console to pull her into a hug. She wraps her arms around me and kisses my hair. I can’t be sure she isn’t crying.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“I know,” Mom rasps. “It’s just so hard to let go.”
I smile into her shoulder. “I love you.”
And now there isn’t any doubt about whether she’s crying.
Mascara stains mark a path down her cheeks, and she forces a wobbly smile. It’s hard to be mad at her about yesterday when she looks so vulnerable. I’m the worst daughter in the world for lying to her for two solid days now. But a hundred thousand dollars? That’ll buy her some comfort.
I get out and slam the car door, waving through the window.
Mom presses her lips together, as if she’s trying hard not to say anything. “Take it easy,” she blurts out. “Don’t exert yourself too much. And call me if anything happens. Actually, just call me anyway.”
I smile and shrug on my backpack, and she rumbles away at a blazing 5 mph.
When she’s gone, I turn to the school. Hartley is slouched against her bike with her ragtag group of delinquents. She gives me a two-fingered salute. Lyla stands at the edge of a small cluster of the girls’ basketball team, looking a little like an outcast, and Nikki makes her way in from the parking lot, arm still bound in a sling. And then there’s Farrah, standing by the flagpole with the popular kids, trying hard to ignore whatever nonsense Sadie is spouting this morning.
For one brief moment our eyes meet. Our circles don’t overlap, but for just a flash of a second we make a new circle: the Rich Girl, the Smart Girl, the Bad Girl, the Sporty Girl, the Sick Girl, and the Society.
I have an urge to gather them together, to ask if they’ve had any unwanted visitors, any mysterious texts, but Nikki shakes her head and makes a beeline for the door, and the moment is broken.
“Hey.” The voice is so near I jump. But it’s only Ethan. “So how terrible was he?” he asks.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up to what he’s asking about.
“Um, not terrible at all, actually.”
Ethan pauses, then peers intently into my face. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. We’re talking about Tucker St. Clair, right?”
“I know, but he was different than I expected. I mean, he wasn’t snobby, like how he seems in school. Actually, he was nice.” I try not to sound too defensive. After all, he is suspect number one on a very short list.
“What happened to ‘emotional depth of a puddle’?” Ethan says, quoting what I’d said about Tucker mere weeks ago. It seemed funny then.
I shrug.
“Oh my God,” Ethan says suddenly. “You like him, don’t you?”
“I barely know him.” It isn’t a lie, but it comes out with the ring of one.
There’s an unbearable pause, then: “Something happened, didn’t it?”
Words aren’t coming, and I’m all too aware of the throng of students nearby.
“Hope!”