Ben says, “Yep,” and flicks his thumb across the screen. “See?”
“Thanks, man.” Dooney glances up at me, appraising me—as if he’d never seen me before; as if we hadn’t been in the same class at school since fifth grade. He’s looking at me through the new girl-Ben-thinks-is-hot glasses he got yesterday. He’s smiling in a way that isn’t a dare. This isn’t the leering challenge he fixes on the cheerleaders or the taunting smirk he reserves for girls he’d never give a second thought. It’s as close as John Doone gets to kindness. Still, something about it makes my skin crawl.
“Hey,” he says. “Come eat with us.”
I’ve anticipated this. Last night on the phone, Ben mentioned maybe we could eat together today. I am prepared.
“Can’t ditch my girls,” I say. “I’d never hear the end of it.”
Dooney nods slowly without smiling, as if I’ve passed a test. “Loyal. I like that.” He pauses, weighing the evidence, then gives a quick nod. “Bring ’em. Rachel and Lindsey are hot, and that Christy chick is funny as hell. Besides, we’re all Buccs.” He walks toward the cafeteria. “I’ll save you some seats.”
Ben watches as Dooney turns the corner. “Congratulations, Kate Weston,” he deadpans. “You’ve been granted special access to eat lunch in the promised land.”
“And to bring guests.”
“Oh yes,” Ben says. “Dooney the Merciful is gracious to all who wear the uniform of blue and gold.”
I laugh and push him out of the way so I can dump my calculus book.
“Dang, you soccer girls are rough.”
“Only when we need to be.”
As I close my locker, Ben gently flips me around and presses me against it with a kiss I am not quite expecting. The very best things surprise you in all the right ways. How long do we kiss like this at the end of the deserted hallway?
Ten seconds?
Ten minutes?
I only realize I’ve lost track of time when the police arrive.
The thing about living in a town of roughly sixteen thousand residents is that you tend to know everybody. I don’t mean that you know their name, exactly, or have had a conversation with them. I mean that you see the same people at Target a lot. You “know” the woman who slices up a pound of smoked turkey for your mother at the deli counter every week. You “know” who Barry Jennings is because your dad used to work at the glove compartment lightbulb factory with him. His son, Wyatt, is in your class at school and has the lead in the spring musical. Now your dad runs a construction crew for a developer, and Mr. Jennings is a deputy for the county sheriff’s department.
So, when Deputy Jennings marches down the hall with Principal Hargrove, it isn’t odd that he nods in recognition and says, “Kate,” before rounding the corner to the cafeteria. You “know” him. It’s only odd that he’s here in your school, in the middle of the day, wearing a gun, followed by his partner, an African American man whom, incidentally, you also “know.” Not his name, actually, but his second-grade son, Frank, who attended the soccer camp you and your friends helped run last July to earn money for the new uniforms you’ll be wearing this season.
So, here are all these people that you “know” without really knowing, but you are familiar with them—only not here. Not in this context. Not with their clenched jaws and their gleaming badges and their guns.
The last thing you see as they round the corner under the senior stairwell is Deputy Jennings reach back to tap at the handcuffs tucked into a little holder strapped to his belt. It’s a gesture that seems to reassure him he’s got everything he needs, like he’s mentally ticking the checklist in his head, getting prepared for whatever happens next.
That’s when you feel the hand of the guy you were kissing moments ago sliding into yours, and without a word, you follow the police and the principal into the cafeteria.
“John Doone?”
Dooney looks up when Deputy Jennings says his name and does the exact opposite of what I would do in that same situation.
He smiles.
This is a shit-eating grin. A cold-as-ice, what-you-gonna-do-about-it type of grin. He leans back in his seat and folds his arms, then flips up his chin in acknowledgment.
“Hey, Barry.”
“Gonna need you to come with us, son.”
Mr. Jennings’s partner steps up to the table. I am close enough now to read that his badge says TRUMBLE. “You, too, Deacon. Also, Greg Watts?” He scans the table. Greg glances at Dooney, then Deacon. Neither one of them meets his eyes, but it’s enough for Officer Trumble to ID him. “And Randy Coontz?”
Randy looks like he might throw up when they say his name. He raises his hand slowly. “Here, sir.”
Deputy Jennings takes a step back from the table indicating they should all get up.