The remaining six feet of table is empty.
The last words Declan said to me are still stinging my ears.
Do what you want, Juliet. I don’t care.
I walk over, smack my tray down, and drop onto the bench beside Rev, across from Declan.
“Hey, Juliet,” says Declan, his voice as dry as ever. “Why don’t you join us.”
“I will. Thanks.” I study the array of food between them. There must be ten separate plastic boxes, each packed with a different type of food. The offerings run the gamut from sliced fruit to rolled deli meat. “What is all this?”
“Mom’s obsession,” says Rev. He plucks a raspberry from one of the boxes, then nudges it toward me. “Help yourself.”
I spy tomato and mozzarella. “Is that a caprese salad?”
Rev nods and slides it over. “She always packs enough to feed an army.”
I pour a little onto my plate, and Rev shakes his head. “Have it all.”
I move the grilled cheese and dump out the whole box, very aware of Declan’s presence. He hasn’t said anything since I sat down, but his shadowed eyes track every move I make. He looks tired.
I spear a tomato. “How’s your mom?”
He twists a water bottle on the table in front of him. “She’s coming home this afternoon.”
“So it was just dehydration?”
“That’s what they’re telling me.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, so I glance up. Just like last night, I try to realign what I know of The Dark with what I know of Declan Murphy, and not all of it fits. He meets my gaze and holds it. I can’t decipher his expression, some mix of challenge, frustration, and intrigue.
I have no idea what my own face looks like, but my pulse quickens, just enough.
I have to clear my throat. “So you’ll get to see her when you get home.”
“Maybe. I have community service on Tuesday nights.”
I still can’t figure out his mood, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about his mother. “What’s that like? Do you make license plates or something?”
“No.” He looks like the question bothers him, but he doesn’t want to let it show. “I ride a lawn mower. Sometimes, if I’m really good, they let me carry a WeedWacker.”
“How long do you have to do it?”
He snorts. “For . . . ever.”
“Ninety hours,” says Rev.
“It would have been a hundred,” says Declan, “but I got credit for time served.”
“I don’t know what that—”
“Maybe I should put you in touch with my probation officer,” he says pointedly. “He can answer all your questions.”
Oh. I put down my fork. “I’m sorry.”
He frowns and pushes his food away. “No, I’m sorry.” He rubs at his eyes. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I’m being a dick. You can ask.”
I stab a cube of mozzarella cheese and wonder how honest he’ll be in the middle of the cafeteria. “Did they put you in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Was it scary?”
“No.” He pauses, then takes a drink from his water bottle. He shakes his head, and his voice is low and raspy. “Yes. Especially once I sobered up and realized no one was bothering to get me out.”
Beside me, Rev goes rigid, but he doesn’t say anything. He silently picks raisins out of a container, each movement very deliberate.
I look back at Declan. “How long were you there?”
“Two nights. I had to wait for a bail hearing. They were going to charge me as an adult.”
My eyebrows go way up. “Your mom left you there?”
“Yes.” He gives a little shrug. “Maybe Alan made her. I don’t know, and I’m not sure which would make me feel better: that she made the choice to leave me there or that she let someone else make it for her.”
I don’t have anything to say to that.
Declan’s intense eyes are still trained on me. “So you can see why I don’t want a permanent memory of this year.”
He’s referring to the photograph. “I’ll tell Mr. Gerardi that you don’t want it on the cover.”
“Don’t pin it all on me,” Declan says. “You don’t want it there any more than I do.”
“No,” I agree. “I don’t.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“I want it there,” says Rev.
We both look at him.
“What?” he says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound irritated. “I don’t get a say?” He stands and flings the containers into his neoprene lunch sack, including one Declan was eating from.
Declan straightens, looking nonplussed. “Rev?”
Rev looks like he wants to flip the table. “No one bothered to get you out?”
“What?”
“Do you even hear yourself sometimes?” Rev leans down. “I would have gotten you out. Kristin would have. Geoff. But you don’t get to sit in a jail cell feeling sorry for yourself, calling no one, and then act like a martyr.”
Declan’s hands tighten on the edge of the table. “What is your problem?”
“You made the choices that put you there,” Rev says. “Stop acting like such a damn victim. You want to hate the whole year? Fine. But May twenty-fifth was one day. There are three hundred sixty-four other ones.”
He turns to storm away from the table.
Declan looks like thunder. “I’m the victim?” he calls. “Who’s the one hiding in sweatshirts when it’s eighty degrees outside?”
Rev doesn’t stop. Declan glares but doesn’t go after him. His breathing is quick.
I’m frozen in place, my heart tripping along. My brain is stuck three sentences back.
It takes me a moment to get my voice to work, and when it does, it’s a hoarse whisper. “What’s May twenty-fifth?”
That pulls Declan’s attention back to me. “Juliet—”
“What’s May twenty-fifth?” I demand.
I don’t think I’m that loud, but we’ve already drawn the eyes of the surrounding students, and the hush spreads.
Declan swallows. “The day I wrecked my father’s truck.”