CHAPTER Twenty-One
I’m yanking books out of my backpack and throwing them into my locker when someone taps on my shoulder. I turn to find Rollins, his eyebrows raised. “So what’s up?”
“I got busted. My dad thinks I basically snuck out to spend the night with you.”
“Didn’t you tell him what happened?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t believe me. Lydia told him that I was also out of the house on Thursday night, so he grounded me. Lydia’s supposed to be driving me to and from school from now on.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” I say, grabbing my English notebook.
“Well, at least we can still see each other at school. Lunchtime? Under the bleachers?” Rollins murmurs, leaning close. I close my eyes, feeling his warmth so close to me. His lips press against mine, and all the bad things seem to melt away, if only for a moment.
When I open my eyes, I’m greeted with a decidedly unwelcome sight.
Anna.
“Oh, I’m sorry, guys. Rollins, I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for this afternoon.”
I raise my eyebrows at Rollins, who scratches the back of his head.
“You know, you were going to help me with my play-list?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, Anna. I totally forgot. But I think I’m free after school. That shouldn’t be a problem.” He looks at me questioningly.
“Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be at home, counting the daisies on the wallpaper in the kitchen.”
“Great. I mean, not great. . . . You know what I mean,” Rollins says, flustered. “See you at lunch?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
I watch Rollins walk off down the hallway with Anna, noticing how her vintage jeans hug her butt so perfectly. It’s how magazines say your butt should look, like an apple or an upside-down heart or something stupid like that. I can’t help comparing it with my own straight-as-a-board ass.
I try to comfort myself by remembering what Rollins said to me last night.
I don’t like her that way.
But it’s not enough to quell the uneasiness I feel when I see Anna reach over and grab Rollins’s arm. And he doesn’t pull away.
Mrs. Winger spends the first ten minutes of class reviewing vocabulary on the projector. I try to follow along, but I keep finding myself staring at the clock, counting the minutes until lunch. Once or twice, I try to catch Samantha’s eye, but she purposely looks away every time.
Mrs. Winger turns off the projector. “Okay, go ahead and put away your notes. I’d like you to get together with the partners you were with yesterday when we read ‘Young Goodman Brown.’ Today I want you to come up with a practice thesis for a literary analysis paper. Whenever you’re ready, you may go sit with your partner.”
I gather my books and move them to the desk next to Samantha’s. She ignores me, taking out a fresh piece of notebook paper and smoothing it on her desk.
When everyone seems to be absorbed in their work, I say, under my breath, “I told.”
Samantha writes our names at the top of the paper. After a minute, she says, just as quietly, “I kind of figured that out. I saw a bunch of cops in the office this morning.”
My voice is urgent. “You know I had to.”
Samantha shakes her head disgustedly.
At that moment, the door opens, and Officer Teahen steps inside. Samantha’s eyes widen, and then she drops her head down. Officer Teahen walks over to Mrs. Winger and speaks to her quietly. She goes to her desk, shuffles through some papers, finds what she’s looking for, and hands it to the police officer. As she gives it to him, the paper tilts just enough for me to see that it’s a class list.
“Melissa Abraham,” Officer Teahen says, and the girl whose name he just called eyes him nervously. “Could you come with me for just a second?”
Melissa stands, looking at Mrs. Winger questioningly. The plump English teacher nods, as if to tell her to go ahead. Officer Teahen politely waits for Melissa to make her way to the front of the room, and then he follows her into the hallway, closing the door with a soft click.
Samantha and I look at each other.
You’re next, she mouths, and for a second I have no idea what she’s talking about. Then it hits me. Officer Teahen is calling on students alphabetically. Technically, Billy Armstrong should be next in line for questioning, but the cops aren’t looking for guys. The person who made the 911 call was a female. When Officer Teahen returns with Melissa Abraham, he’ll call the next girl on the list.
Sylvia Bell.
Me.
I swallow.
My palms start to sweat. I can’t imagine looking into Officer Teahen’s eyes and explaining my plan to him, the plan to teach Scotch Becker a lesson, the plan that resulted in a catastrophic fall that could have led to his death. That probably would have led to his death if I’d waited any longer to make that 911 call.
Guilt is a funny feeling. You can evade it for a while, but it always creeps back. I tried to convince myself that I’d done nothing wrong, that Scotch’s fall was the fault of Lydia or whoever slid into me that night. But when it comes right down to it, the whole thing was my idea. If not for me, Scotch would be at school right now, making lewd jokes about the lunch ladies.
And now that it’s time for me to spill everything that I know, I’m not ready. I feel like wrenching open one of the windows and running away before my name can be called. I feel like, at the very least, asking to go to the girls’ room and hanging out there for the rest of the period.
And then it dawns on me.
I have the perfect excuse.
Because of my so-called narcolepsy, I have a permanent hall pass. Whenever I start to feel woozy, I can ask my teachers to let me go to the nurse, and they have to say yes. They don’t want me to collapse in their classrooms.
I push myself into a standing position and walk up to Mrs. Winger. “Is it okay if I go to the nurse?” I ask.
Her eyes flick up to me.
She sighs.
“Sure, Sylvia.”
I pick up the hall pass from Mrs. Winger’s desk on my way out. As I go by Melissa Abraham’s desk, I scan her belongings quickly. Did she leave anything behind that’s personal enough to carry an emotional charge? There’s an open notebook with a few sentences about “Young Goodman Brown.” A slightly chewed-up pencil. A half- full bottle of water.
My eyes drop lower, to her purse, which is propped up against her chair. There’s a little silver key chain in the shape of a heart hanging off the strap—the kind of thing a girl’s parents or her boyfriend might give her for Christmas or her birthday.
Bingo.
I pretend to trip and drop the hall pass onto the ground.
“Oops,” I mumble.
A few kids look my way, but their eyes promptly return to the doorway. Everyone is curious about what the policeman is doing at our school. I take advantage of the distraction to shoot my hand out and unclasp the key chain from Melissa’s purse. I stuff it into my pocket and straighten up. No one looks in my direction. On my way out of the room, I pray that Melissa doesn’t return before I do. It might be awkward, trying to explain why I have her key chain.
The hallway is empty. I turn right and make a beeline for the only place I know I won’t be disturbed—the staff restroom. While the girls’ room has multiple stalls, this bathroom only has one toilet and the ability to lock the door. They even have a cushy chair in the corner of the room, next to a dusty plastic plant and an end table. I’m not sure why anyone would want to hang out in there, but whatever.
After one last look to make sure no one is around to see me duck into the staff bathroom, I push my way inside and twist the lock behind me.
In two seconds flat, I fish Melissa’s key chain out of my pocket and throw myself into the chair. Squeezing my eyes closed, I hold the trinket in the palm of my hand and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
My heart is pounding too hard, I realize. I’m amped up with so much adrenaline, there’s no way I’ll be able to slide. I try to make myself relax by taking deep breaths and clearing my mind, but I keep seeing Scotch’s body at the bottom of the cliff.
Behave, I tell my brain angrily, but that’s the thing about brains. They never do what you want them to do, especially if you’re trying not to think about something. The more I struggle to empty my mind, the clearer the picture of Scotch’s twisted figure becomes.
I open my eyes and heave a sigh of frustration.
Let’s face it. It’s not going to work.
When I open the door, I see Officer Teahen and Melissa coming my way. I turn around quickly and walk back toward the classroom.
I can hear them talking behind me.
“So you say Scotch was hanging out with Samantha Phillips last week? Were they dating? Do you think he would have gone to Lookout Point with her?”
Melissa’s voice is squeaky. “Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s in Mrs. Winger’s class right now if you want to talk to her.”
Officer Teahen says, “I just might do that.”
I walk a little faster.
Back in the room, I slip into my seat next to Samantha and lean over. My voice is barely above a whisper. “I heard the cop talking to Melissa in the hall. She told him you went to the party with Scotch last week. He wants to talk to you next.”
“Oh, great,” Samantha murmurs.
The door opens, and Melissa comes in. She avoids eye contact with Samantha and returns to her desk. Officer Teahen walks swiftly to Mrs. Winger’s desk and says something in a low voice. She gestures toward Samantha, and his eyes follow.
“Samantha?” Mrs. Winger says. “Could you come up here for a second?”
Samantha stands up and walks over to Mrs. Winger’s desk, throwing me a dark look over her shoulder. I watch as she listens to Officer Teahen, nods, and then follows him out of the room.
The rest of the class seems to last forever. I stare at Samantha’s notebook, in which she’s made several unintelligible notes about “Young Goodman Brown.” I doodle in the margins, counting the seconds.
After an eternity, the bell rings. Everyone gathers up their things and heads for the door. I hear more than one person speculating about why the cop was taking such a long time with Samantha.
A sudden cry pulls me away from my thoughts.
It’s Melissa Abraham. She is holding her purse in front of her, panic on her face. “Mrs. Winger! Mrs. Winger!”
Mrs. Winger rushes over. “What is it, Melissa?”
“Someone stole my key chain.”
Shit.
“What? Are you sure? It probably just fell off. What does it look like?” Mrs. Winger stoops down and scans the carpet.
“It’s a little heart. Actually, it’s my sister’s, but she let me borrow it. She’ll kill me if she found out I lost it.”
I discreetly pull the key chain out and flick it onto the carpet several feet away from me. Mrs. Winger continues her inspection, inching her way in my direction.
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing to the key chain.
Melissa hurries over. “Ohmigod, thank you so much for finding it.” She bends over and scoops it up.
“No problem,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt. “It’s very pretty.”
“Thanks,” Melissa replies. “See you around.”
Mrs. Winger gives me a grateful smile and then looks down at Samantha’s desk. “Oh, dear. Samantha isn’t back yet. Will you see her later today? Would you mind gathering her things?”
“No problem,” I repeat, but in my head I’m thinking that’s a lie.
I do have a problem.
A huge freaking problem.