He drops the page into a file folder. “It’s fine, Skye.”
“No, it’s not. I want to straighten this out. Either it’s a mistake or someone intentionally sent it from my account.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. “There is no petition, by the way. I questioned Lana yesterday.”
“Uh, yeah, there is. I overheard kids talking about signing it.”
“We also searched her locker today. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone that far, but I understand how difficult this must be, and I wanted to be thorough. There is no petition.”
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
“Lana may have made an angry offhand comment, saying someone should start a petition. Others may have taken that to mean she was. But there is no petition. Lana knows that would be pointless. You have as much right to be here as anyone.”
He says it as if I need to be reassured that I’m welcome. As if I’d been charged in the shooting and found not guilty.
“Have you considered getting more involved in school life?” Mr. Vaughn asks.
“What?”
“Once you’re settled. Join a club or two. That will help.”
Because, really, if I feel tormented, it’s my own fault for not trying harder to fit in. I remember in grade school, sitting in detention hall and overhearing a teacher tell a boy that when he complained of being bullied. Not saying it was his fault, per se, but like Mr. Vaughn, suggesting he put himself out there more, let kids get to know the real him.
I flash back to seeing the boy leave that room, head bowed with shame, cheeks flaring as he realized it’d been overheard. I remember mouthing “She’s an idiot,” with appropriate gestures, and he smiled. That boy? Chris Landry.
I was never bullied as a kid. I would like to think I never bullied anyone, either, but having now been in these shoes, I’m not always so sure. I tried to be kind. But were there other kids, less likable than Chris, who may have been a target of my clever jabs? I hope not. I really do.
“Skye?”
I nod for Mr. Vaughn. It’s that or tell him where to shove his patronizing suggestion, and I’m really not keen on another detention. Even thinking about it makes my stomach twist.
I was locked in here on Monday. I know that. Just like I know I didn’t send this email. Like I know I heard those girls say they signed that petition.
But I also heard them again… when there’d been no one around.
“Your middle school record says you were on the softball team, volleyball and the debating club. It’s volleyball season, and I know our girls’ team could use extra players. Why don’t I tell Coach Greene to expect you for tryouts —”
“I’m joining the school paper.”
“Oh?” He smiles. “That is an excellent idea. I saw that you won a city writing competition in Riverside. The paper would be thrilled to have you. In fact, I think this is their meeting day. Do you know where their office is?”
“No, but —”
“Go down this hall and make a left. Then a right. It’s a tiny room – blink and you’ll miss it. A former janitorial closet, actually.” He chuckles. “But most schools don’t even get a dedicated newspaper office, so the club’s quite pleased with it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow and see how it went.”
Skye
Apparently I’m joining the newspaper. I text Mae to say I’ll be late – I was wrong about the meeting time. Then I follow Mr. Vaughn’s directions… and spend the next ten minutes hunting for the office. Seems he can’t tell his left from his right. He’s correct, too, that it’s easy to miss the office. It’s just a printed sign posted beside the door, announcing HOME OF THE RIVCOL TIMES!
I knock. Knock louder. Look around, and then crouch to peer under the door. It’s dark inside. I try the knob, to be sure, but it’s locked from the outside.
I look at the sign and see, in faded print, JOIN US! WEEKLY MEETINGS THURSDAY 3:30 P.M. LEADS WELCOME.
Today is Wednesday. I sigh, heft my bag and head down the hall. As I walk, a text comes in from Mae.
Her: Pizza night? You like pizza, right? Silly question. You’re a teen, right? LOL
I wince at that, but I do like pizza, and I know she’s trying.
Me: sounds good
Her: How about a movie rental? I’ll stop by the store.
Me: they still have those?
Pause. Pause.
Me: I usually rent online, but if u’d rather pick up…
Her: No, we’ll rent online. You’ll just need to show me how. :) Do you like romantic comedies?
Me: they still make those?
“It’s a lie, you know,” a girl says down a side hall.
My gaze shoots up, away from my screen.
The girl continues. “Her brother shot all those kids, but her family has money. They bought off the cops. Made them blame the other guys. That’s what I heard.”
“And her mom’s crazy. Everyone knew that. The whole family’s got problems. Even Luka.”
“Especially Luka. I went to summer drama school, just to get to know him. And I did get to know him… I got to know he was weird. Seriously weird. When I heard he was the one who shot those kids, I knew it was true.”
I’m frozen in place. Frozen on the outside – boiling on the inside.
My brother didn’t shoot anyone. And buying off the cops? Seriously? We aren’t rich. We just have enough money that we could pick up and get the hell away from people like this. People who call a woman who’s clinically depressed “crazy.” People who call an amazing, quirky guy “weird.”
My phone dings with an incoming text, and I look down to see two from Mae. I sign off fast and start walking.
I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t hear. Not this time.
As I march toward the voices, they fall to whispers, as if the girls hear someone coming. They’re right around the next corner. I wheel past the lockers and — The hall is empty.
“I hear she got kicked out of her last school.” The voice comes from around the next corner. “They found her with a gun.”
I march toward the voices. Around the corner and…
The hall is empty.
“Are you serious?” The voice comes from farther down. I’ve misjudged. It’s so quiet that they sound closer than they are.
I keep walking, quieter now, muffling my footfalls as the other girl says, “Totally serious. She said it was for self-defense but, yeah, right. She’s planning something. We need to get the petition filled, fast. Lana says if we take it to the media —”
I spin around the next corner while she’s still talking and…
I’m staring down a short corridor of lockers with no doors or exits. A dead end.
I look around, searching for where the voices could have come from. A hidden recording? That’s the only answer.
The only answer?
I didn’t imagine those voices. I know I didn’t.
I spin around, run down the hall, and turn —
I bash into a guy standing around the corner. I send him staggering back, me stumbling, and I’m waiting for the inevitable “Watch where you’re going!” Instead, there’s silence.
I look up and —
“Jesse?”
He gives a gruff “Hey” without making eye contact.
“I’m sorry. I was… I was running late. For the next bus. And I got turned around.”
He nods.
“Are you okay? I hit you pretty hard.” I didn’t, but it’s an excuse to keep talking.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. He stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, hood raised, expression unreadable. I want to flee. Flee as fast as I can. But I dig in my heels and say, “I’m sorry if this is awkward. Having me here.”
A shrug and a mumbled, “It’s fine.”
“Someone should have warned you. I would have insisted on it if I knew you were here, but I was told you’d gone to Southfield. That’s why I chose RivCol.”
He stiffens, as if insulted.
I hurry on. “I didn’t want it to be awkward for you. You’ve been through a lot —”
“I said I’m fine.” A split-second pause. “Don’t you have a bus to catch?”
Isn’t there somewhere you need to be, Gilchrist?
“I just wanted to say —”
“You said it. I’m fine. I have a meeting.”