“I’m just going to . . . I’ll be right back,” Mattie said. He stood up from his seat. He’d been in the theater, next to the freezing vent, for almost thirty minutes, but his clothes were still damp from the rain. He was cold like he’d never been cold; like his heart had been frozen and was pumping ice through his veins.
He could feel all of their eyes on him as he moved to the doors of the theater and then out, near the concession stand, where the only sound was the distant booming of a cannon (an action movie was showing next door) and the popcorn, the kernels exploding lazily now that there wasn’t anyone in line. The concession stand girl watched him for a second, and then busied herself with making a Slurpee.
He called Derrick.
He listened to it ring. Twice. Four times.
Voice mail.
Thank God it went to voice mail. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
It vibrated against his leg. He jumped, and the girl behind the counter took a large sip of her Slurpee and rolled her eyes.
Mattie pulled the phone out of his pocket.
Derrick.
He didn’t want to answer it. He wasn’t going to. He couldn’t deal with talking to him right now. (But, he was finally calling.) One tiny, joyous bit of his heart was thankful.
After all this time, Derrick was finally calling him.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me.” Derrick’s voice, rough and low, came through the phone.
Of course it was.
Mattie’s stomach flip-flopped, and he felt a sick sort of happiness breaking through his pain.
“Hey! What’s up?”
“Just returning your call. Both of them.”
The temporary happiness that Mattie had felt faded away. “Oh. Sorry about that.”
“It didn’t sound like studying.” Derrick’s voice, usually so friendly, was accusatory.
“What did it sound like?” Mattie asked, before he could think better of it.
“I think we both know what it sounded like.”
Oh God. Mattie’s heart hammered. “What—I wasn’t studying yet. We were on our way. And we stopped. It was storming.”
“Stopped studying?”
“No. Stopped in the car.”
“So are you studying now?” Derrick asked.
“Uh, no. We decided to ditch studying since we just had a test and we, uh, hit up a movie.”
Derrick sighed heavily on the other side of the phone. “Really. You planned a study session after a test.”
Panic rose in Mattie’s chest, threatening to choke him. He cleared his throat. “The class is really hard, Derrick.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
There was silence—a thick, pregnant silence that pounded in Mattie’s ears, smothering him.
“I think I’m tired of talking, Mattie.”
“I’m sorry.” The words burst out before Mattie could stop them.
“Oh? Why are you sorry?”
Mattie paused. “I—I’m sorry that you’re upset with me.”
“Yeah. Well, me too.”
And then—nothing.
“Hello?” Mattie asked.
He was gone.
Mattie put his head in his hands. How much did Derrick know? How much had he heard?
What had they said?
Part of Mattie wanted to call him back, to beg his forgiveness.
But maybe . . . maybe Derrick was angry for another reason.
Mattie felt sick. Incredibly, invasively, deeply ill.
He had promised himself a million times he’d never, ever lie to Derrick again.
And he’d just done it.
“Here,” said the girl at the concession stand. She slipped him a box of Swedish Fish. “Sorry about your girlfriend.”
Mattie didn’t bother to correct her. He tried to smile as he took the box, and he slipped back into the theater.
With the rest of the criminals.
Kinley
Sunday, June 14
Kinley rolled over in her bed, her covers wrapped around her waist. She’d gotten up yesterday. She’d gotten dressed and braided her hair and talked to her mom and dad. Her dad had given her a couple applications for scholarships and smiled at her and she’d filled them out and given them back.
I’m going to be okay, she had thought. Everything is going to be okay.
But today was different.
She’d gone to bed last night and stared at her ceiling. She stared at the little stars her mother had glued there—one for every perfect test. Her eyes followed the crack that spidered out from the corner of the wall. She eyed the trophies and medals that glinted faintly, lining every empty space of the room.
She’d worked so, so hard for a perfect life. And she’d had it. She’d had everything.
Her father had been proud. She was following in his footsteps. She was going to be just like him.
She wondered what her father would say now.
It was two in the afternoon and she was still in bed. Exhaustion dragged its heavy claws across her, but she couldn’t sleep. She kept seeing it happen.
Why hadn’t she moved her feet? She’d seen Cade throw the punch. She’d seen Stratford fall back. She’d watched his feet as he stumbled.
And she hadn’t moved.
She’d just let him stumble. She’d let him fall.
She was the reason his head had hit the chalkboard tray. She was the reason he’d fallen to the floor like a rag doll.
And maybe that meant—
Maybe that meant she was the reason he was dead.