“Then why did you lie to Mrs. Lao about going there to study? There’s no way you have a test today when midterms were two weeks ago.”
“Because I didn’t think she’d let me leave otherwise. Not with the way my mom has been going black ops on us.” Andrew shakes his head. “This is all so messed up. You’re interrogating me worse than that detective did.”
We both sit, simmering, for the rest of the ride to school. Andrew turns the radio back on. His jaw is red and splotchy. I imagine the thoughts cycling through his head—whether he’s thinking of ways to keep up with all of his lies, or if he really is telling the truth and is pissed at me for not believing him.
I think of Jade telling me she’ll never forgive me if she finds out I’m covering for Andrew. Is that why Burke is laying into us? Because he thinks Andrew killed Bailey and I’m lying for him?
When Andrew pulls into his usual spot in the school parking lot, neither of us moves to get out.
“Kace,” he says. “You realize how ridiculous this all is, right? I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Bailey.”
My feet tingle—I can’t breathe in this car, but I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe in that goddamn school either—
“Did anything ever happen between the two of you?” I blurt.
Andrew blinks those dark lashes of his twice. Those lashes could make a girl go crazy, I think.
“Me and Bailey?” He looks surprised.
I pull my scarf up to my chin. “She wanted it to happen.”
“Yeah, well it didn’t.” Andrew cuts the engine. “Even if I did, that’s a big fucking leap to murder.”
Andrew said the word fucking. Andrew doesn’t curse—not at his parents, not at Lauren, not with his friends, and definitely not at me. All I can manage in response is “We’re going to be late.”
Andrew makes a disgusted noise. “I can’t believe you’d ever think that of me. That really sucks, Kacey.”
“I just—I saw the security footage of her turning onto our road. You have to admit it looks like you called her to meet up with you—”
“I didn’t…” Andrew’s eyes go wide. Pleading. “I thought you knew who I was.”
It’s the biggest cliché, but I think: I don’t know who anyone is anymore.
We’re definitely going to be late for homeroom now. I watch the throng of stragglers hustling from the parking lot to the side entrance, even though it doesn’t make a difference. You get marked down regardless if you’re one minute late or ten.
“I guess I’ll see you after school,” Andrew says.
“I guess.”
I unbuckle my seat belt, catching one of the girls looking up at me as she passes the Mazda. Val Diamond, a bouquet of purple carnations in one hand.
Her gaze lingers on me—and Andrew—a beat too long. I climb out of the car and she turns her head, scurries toward the building like she never saw us at all.
—
Fuck this place.
It starts with the scene in the wing where the seniors’ lockers are. Someone has draped the BRING BAILEY HOME banner from the vigil across the hall. Val’s purple carnations poke out of the holes on Bailey’s locker. People hang around in front of it, waiting to tape messages to the outside and gawk.
I don’t see Jade anywhere.
After the bell rings in homeroom, the vice principal, Gonzo, clears her throat over the loudspeaker. Her voice is harried, almost as if someone is behind her, whispering the words in her ear, as she tells us that she knows there’s a lot of uncertainty and unease but this is a school day and we need to carry on like everything’s normal.
I sweep the hallways for Jade again after homeroom. As a result, I’m late to art, which is all the way downstairs.
Mr. White doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with this sad look on his face, as I make my way to my table. Jade’s seat is empty, as I knew it would be. When I reach my seat, Meghan Constanzo nudges the girl sitting next to her, who has her back to me. Mike Lin averts his eyes as I sit, and everyone gets quiet in a way that makes it totally obvious they were talking about me.
Mr. White lowers the volume on his radio. His dreadlocks are tied back today. AP studio art is for seniors only; he makes a little speech telling us that we have the period to work on sketching out our 3D projects and he’s here for us if we need to talk.
When he raises the radio volume, we all stand to get our sketchbooks from the shelf by the window. We’re supposed to leave them at the end of every class so Mr. White can look through our drawings and plans.
I fall to the back of the line so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. When I have my book in hand, I look out the window. A figure with a hood pulled over his head is making his way across the soccer field, hugging the edge of the wooded area along the parking lot. I recognize the hoodie and the backpack as Tyrell’s.
I shove my sketchbook into my shoulder bag and go to Mr. White’s desk instead of my own. He looks up at me. Warm chocolate eyes. “You okay, kid?”
“Can I have the pass?”
Mr. White frowns. “I’m supposed to limit them today.”
“Please.” My foot jiggles a bit. “I need a minute in the bathroom.”
He discreetly hands me the hall pass, a clunky plastic thing with a sign-out sheet that no one uses. While Mr. White is distracted by Meghan asking for his thoughts on her sketch, I hold the pass to my chest and grab my bag.
The hallway is quiet, a testament to the canceled arts and music classes in the wake of last year’s budget cuts. I dig out my phone and text Tyrell: Wait up.
The side doors resist as I push my way through them. Squint at the glare of the sun bouncing off the snow on the soccer field. Several feet away, Tyrell stops, puts a hand to his pocket. Must have felt my text come through.
I run to catch up with him because I know where he’s headed—the overflow lot behind the soccer field, the place where you’re screwed into parking if you’re late in the morning, and then you wind up being doubly late because of the long walk to the school. I doubt he forgot something in his car; more likely, he’s ditching class.
Tyrell turns at the sound of my footsteps. “Hey. What are you doing?”
“Same as you,” I pant.
We pick up our pace, not wanting to be spotted by a security guard looking out the second-floor walkway.
Tyrell is quiet; the sound of our feet crunching the snow fills the silence.
“A little early to be ditching,” I say. “Why’d you show up at all?”
He shakes his head. “All this shit—those people who didn’t even know Bay taking pictures of her locker—I tried, but I just can’t do it. I can’t be here.”
“Where are you gonna go?” Tyrell’s mom works from home. Runs a business for women who host gourmet kitchen supply parties.
“I dunno.” We’re at his car, a silver sedan.
I swallow. “Do you want to go to Waffle Hut? I need to talk to you about something.”
Tyrell looks back at the school, as if adding me to the mix makes ditching a doubly bad idea. He unlocks the passenger-side door and opens it for me.
I get in. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.