She continues, “When you said he was at Riverside Collegiate, I asked around. Jesse had been in a number of fights, culminating in an attack on a younger boy. He was asked to leave Southfield. Now he got into a fight while coming to apologize to you?” She shakes her head. “He has a problem, Skye.”
“He was jumped. Attacked. I was there —”
“Don’t make excuses for him.”
My jaw clenches. “Lie for him, you mean? I would never —”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Yes, maybe this was an attack. Possibly in retaliation for others. My point, Skye, is that I want you to be careful. Accept his apology and move on.”
“Are we still going out for dinner?”
She hesitates, as if she wants to pursue this, but the look on my face must warn her not to.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks.
Skye
Monday. School. I catch a glimpse of Jesse in the halls, and I’m not sure if he sees me or not, but he’s gone in a blink and I say, “Screw that.” I’m not putting myself out again.
I have lunch with Tiffany to discuss the next newspaper. She hasn’t mentioned the fire. On Friday, she made sure I was okay, and she seemed mostly confused, as if my story sounded too bizarre to be true. I’m not getting into it with her – she’s one of the few people squarely on my side and I’d like to keep her there.
We’re talking in the cafeteria when Alberto walks in carrying an envelope. “Fresh leads,” he says as he tosses it onto the table and sits.
“Please tell me that’s a joke,” Tiffany says.
“Nope. Here I was, thinking one good thing came of that fire – the damned leads box burned. Then I’m walking past the main office when the secretary gives me this. Apparently – feeling terrible about us temporarily losing our office and our best source of news – they hung this up outside the door.”
“I think I heard that on the announcements,” I say.
“I would say that makes you the only student who listens to the announcements but” – Alberto shakes the manila envelope – “I’d be wrong.”
“Let me take those. It’s my job, right?” As I reach for the envelope, they both stare at me, and I realize it looks suspicious, me being so eager to take the leads.
“There were ones in the last batch that were…” I exhale. “About me. Suggesting the paper investigate me. Wanting me out of RivCol. I’d rather… I’d rather be the only person who sees those. I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Tiffany says. “That’s harassment, and it needs to go straight to Mr. Vaughn, to be dealt with appropriately.”
She takes the envelope and dumps the contents. A half dozen slips of paper fall out. She picks up one and —
“What the hell?” she says.
I read it.
YOU REALLY THINK IT’S A COINCIDENCE SKYE GILCHRIST WAS IN THAT OFFICE WHEN IT GOT TORCHED? NEWSFLASH: SHE DID IT, AND THAT’S JUST STEP ONE IN HER PLAN. SOMEONE HAS TO DO SOMETHING BEFORE INNOCENT KIDS GET HURT.
Alberto reads another. “Whoa.” He balls it up and pitches it aside. “Okay, just no. That is not harassment. Someone needs therapy.”
Tiffany uncrumples it, and her eyes bug. I lean over to see the sort of comment I won’t repeat, about things that should be done to girls like me.
She sees me reading and quickly wads it up.
“I’ve seen it before,” I say. “My therapist said I need to understand that there are some very unhappy and very angry people out there, and not take it personally.”
“Not take it —” Tiffany sputters off, unable to finish.
“Yeah, that’s messed up,” Alberto says. “I vote we accidentally lose that envelope… into a shredder.”
“No.” Tiffany’s chair legs squeal against the linoleum as she stands. She scoops up the envelope and discarded notes. “This is going to Mr. Vaughn.”
“Please, don’t,” I say. “It won’t help. Just… just ignore it.”
“Ignore it?” Alberto says. “Someone locked you in a room and lit it on fire, Skye.”
“I understand that you’re trying to turn the other cheek,” Tiffany says. “But this is way beyond bullying. I’m taking it to Mr. Vaughn.”
I wait for a call to the office. When it doesn’t come by math class, I’m relieved. Then I’m angry, as I realize this means Mr. Vaughn got those notes… and is doing absolutely nothing with them.
I arrive in math before Jesse – I make sure of that. If I had to walk past him, I’d feel obligated to say something. I refuse to make the first move again.
So I get to class early, and I wait. I notice him walking in, and when I look up, there’s a hitch in his step. Consternation flashes across his face. I wait for him to remember he really needs to be somewhere else right now. He wants to. I can tell. But he only meets my gaze and gives a little nod, and then slides into his seat.
He seems to pay attention during class. Once he takes out his phone, but he holds it below desk level, like he used to in middle school, not wanting to be rude to the teacher. In this class, he’s had no such compunctions before. Now he does something with his phone concealed, and then puts it away and goes back to work.
Class ends and as he stands, he palms a note onto my desk, like a magician.
See that empty spot? Abracadabra, a note appears! Did I leave that? No, you must be mistaken. I’m already making a beeline out the door.
I slip into the bathroom before I open it. I’m thirteen again, when Jesse passed me a note for the first time, and I was so sure it was a goodbye. I knew it wasn’t easy for him, once others saw us hanging out together.
Jesse and Skye, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
Hey, Mandal, do you like hanging around girls? You do kinda seem the type, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.
When I open this note, I’m taken back to that first one, also read in a bathroom stall, so if it hurt, no one would see me cry.
It’s the same note. The same two words.
After school?
Then he goes on to suggest we meet by the gym doors. Between the invitation and the location, something has been crossed out. Heavily crossed out. When I lift it to the light, I can make out numbers.
GPS coordinates.
I remember him on his phone. He was finding those coordinates. Writing them down. Did he smile a bit as he did? Maybe. But then he changed his mind. Crossed them out as hard as he could and wrote the location in text.
I run my thumb over those crossed-off numbers, and my eyes prickle, just a little. Then I pocket the note and leave.
Jesse
Jesse is waiting behind the school when his trainer texts. He ignores it. He knows what it’ll say, some variation on the same thing his trainer has been texting all weekend, that they need to talk about Jesse’s underperformance at the meet.
Underperformance? He won, didn’t he?
That doesn’t matter. What matters is that there was a scout in the stands, who declared Jesse a perfectly decent high school athlete. In other words, not destined for anything greater. Which is fine with Jesse. That’s all he wants. It’s all his parents expect. But his trainer has been pushing for more. And getting more doesn’t mean adding ten pounds to his lifting regimen.
Cheat. Fake. Poseur.
It started innocently enough. A new trainer, promising to take Jesse to the next level. Supplements and vitamins to help in the off-season. Some guys need the extra boost to put on muscle. Jesse’s one of them. No shame in that. Not until he got his head out of his ass and realized he was getting more than B-12.
Steroids.
When he figured it out, he freaked. Steroids = cheating, it’s as simple as that. Not according to his trainer. Lots of athletes use steroids to bulk up in the off-season. Jesse wasn’t taking enough to see side effects. He rarely had an acne breakout. He didn’t get roid rage. See? No problem.
Or that’s what his trainer said. Jesse does get acne, which he never had before. Then there’s his hair-trigger temper, also new. Zits and fistfights might be normal for some teenage boys. But not Jesse. Not until the steroids.
“Question,” a voice cuts into his thoughts, and he jumps. It’s Skye, and as he sees her, he feels a flash of panic. He was supposed to be prepping his apology.