“This is what I was talking about last week when I told you both to stay out of it,” Dad says. “It’s national news now. No one even knew this town existed last week.”
I can barely breathe as we pass around the pasta. Will talks about the tournament this weekend, and whether Ben and the guys can pull off a win without Dooney and Deacon. Mom is taking off work early tomorrow to drive us up to Des Moines for the first game of the tournament. Coach Lewis is letting us out of practice early so we can get there on time. Dad will still be working tomorrow night, but he’ll watch the game on TV.
“It won’t matter who wins,” says Dad, cutting through Will’s chatter. “The only thing anyone will remember when the Buccs are mentioned now is the Coral Sands rape case.” He shakes his head and carries his plate to the sink before grabbing a beer from the fridge and settling onto the couch in the living room.
I stay in the kitchen for as long as I can, helping Mom with the dishes and putting the leftovers away. When everything is finished, I stand by the little desk near the island pretending to fiddle with the printer, waiting until Dad has fast-forwarded through a commercial break on the buddy-cop drama he watches every week. One of the two is a robot. Or an alien? I can’t remember. They have a problem understanding each other every week that leads to a life-or-death moment. They always survive by learning something new about the other one.
As soon as I hear a high-tech shootout happening, I slip through the living room as quickly and quietly as I can, dodging Dad’s eyes.
When I get to my room I close the door behind me with a quiet click and lean against it for a few minutes. I wish there were a way I could explain to Dad why I had to go against his advice, why I had to steer directly toward the collision.
Sometimes, I think Dad and I are standing at the edge of different continents, so far apart that we can’t even see each other. He felt so close on Monday morning. How does this happen?
How do we drift so far, so fast?
Ben is waiting for us in the parking lot on Friday morning. Will whoops and high-fives him about the big game tonight. The varsity team leaves right after lunch today to get to Des Moines, check into their hotel, and get warmed up at Wells Fargo Arena.
“Brought my rally socks.” Will grins, pulling up his jeans to show the black tube socks he’s wearing.
“You guys are coming up tonight?” Ben asks.
“This might be the last game of your junior year,” I say. “Of course we’ll be there.”
“Shut up!” Will shouts, alarmed. “They’re going to the championship tomorrow. Don’t junk it up.”
Ben laughs. “That’s the spirit.”
Will bumps his fist and bounds off to class.
“Do we have to go in there?” I ask.
“Any other day I’d say no”—Ben puts his arms around my waist and pulls me in to him—“but I can’t miss class, or I can’t play.”
I put my arms around his neck. I needed this. I’m terrified of walking inside. Ben must sense this without my saying so. “Nobody knows,” he whispers. “There’s no way they could.”
“What if somebody saw me in the parking lot yesterday,” I ask, “talking to Ms. Speck?”
“Coincidence,” he says.
I laugh nervously in an attempt to keep the fear at bay. He takes my hand and I walk inside with Ben, the honorable Buccaneer.
When I step into the geology room, Rachel is mid-screech, telling Reggie and Kyle to shut up. “You’re both freaking morons,” she hisses.
Christy jumps in, too. “Shut this crap down now.”
Reggie winds up to pitch more of whatever he’s slinging, but sees Ben coming toward him and leans back in his seat. Ben gives him and Kyle a chin flip and a ’sup, sliding into the desk behind me.
Reggie and Kyle glare at me, their eyes drilling into the back of my head. Hostile curiosity is heavy, and hot. I glance over at Lindsey. “What is going on?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “Just forget it,” she says. Her smile is sincere, but short.
As soon as the tone sounds, Mr. Johnston collects our permission slips for the field trip next week. Counting through the growing pile of crumpled yellow paper, he stops at Reggie’s row and looks up.
“Missing one here,” he says.
“Can’t go.” Reggie’s arms are crossed.
“How come?” asks Mr. Johnston. “It’s part of your grade for the class.”
“Can’t risk it.”
“What?”
“Don’t wanna get accused of raping somebody on the bus.”
The air is sucked out of the room. Mr. Johnston stares Reggie down. “You’re out of line.”
“Am I?” Reggie says, all swagger. “Can’t be too careful these days. Never know when some girl’s gonna get wasted and throw herself at you. If I can’t help myself, I don’t wanna wind up arrested.”
Mr. Johnston tosses the pile of permission slips on his desk, then whips off his glasses. “You done?” he asks Reggie.
“Just sayin’.” Reggie slouches in his seat, a smug bandit pleased with derailing the train.