He doesn’t mean it to hurt. It does. Because second-guessing myself is like me. It didn’t used to be, but it is now.
I’ll catch glimpses of my old self, when I’m backtalking Mae, or when I was standing up to those thugs Saturday. But they feel like characters in a story I’ve crafted. Roles I can play, the girl I want to be. But she’s the girl I was, too, which makes it worse.
Jesse says, That’s not like you, and I open my mouth to say “It is now.” Then I pause. Say those words, and it’s like admitting to my home-life problems. A cry for sympathy. For pity.
I pull my legs up. “I just don’t want to jump to crazy conclusions, okay?”
“And subconsciously inventing a poltergeist would be less crazy than thinking someone broke into your aunt’s condo? Someone is harassing you. Spooking you. Making sure you can’t prove the harassment. Is there anything that’s happened you can prove?”
“The fire.”
He reaches for his coffee. “Anything else?”
“What about the fire?” I ask him.
“Hmm?”
“I said I can prove the fire, and you grabbed your coffee.”
“I’m thirsty.”
I shimmy to the edge of my seat. “You’re thinking I need more evidence than just the fire. But I can prove the fire existed. So what you’re saying is…” I remember the lead in the box, the one that accused me. “Mr. Vaughn thinks I set it?”
“I never said —”
“Then tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t have reason to believe he thinks I set the fire myself. Just like he thinks I sent that email.”
“What email?”
When I hesitate, he says, “I’m not the only one holding back here. The breakin. The fire. What else?”
I tell him about the petition and the email to Mr. Vaughn. I explain how the VP allegedly knew it came from me, and why it didn’t.
“That’s easy enough to prove,” Jesse says. “There’ll be a log showing you’ve never signed into your account before.”
“Unless whoever used it had done so before. That’s a start, though, especially if the person signed in from another source – laptop, phone, tablet. I also suggested Mr. Vaughan try to see if anyone noticed me at that terminal. He’s not interested in checking.”
“Because he isn’t punishing you, so he doesn’t need to justify his suspicions. Same as the fire. It’s like me with the fight —” He stops short and makes a face. “You know what I mean.”
“If it doesn’t result in disciplinary action, there’s nothing to argue. No chance to prove yourself.”
“Whoever’s doing this knows that. It’s all being set up carefully to look like you might be doing this stuff to yourself. Doing it to make people feel bad for you.”
“Or to make me seem crazy.”
He hesitates and nibbles his lip, as if pursuing a thought.
“Did you hear anything about a petition?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “If Lana had one, she’d have asked me to sign. Last week, she…” He makes a face. “Came around. Saying stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“That they shouldn’t have let you back in. That it’s not fair to me. That if I want to talk about it, she’s there. Anyway, if there was a petition, she’d have brought it to me. She’s been reaching out since I started at RivCol. Weirdly random stuff. She feels sorry for me, I guess.”
“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason.”
His look is such utter incomprehension that I almost snort a laugh. But I keep my mouth shut. Yes, Lana Brighton has been a bitch to me, but I won’t be a bitch back by telling Jesse she’s obviously interested in him.
“Well, there is a petition,” I say. “I heard girls talking about it in the bathroom, and then…”
I trail off.
“And then what?”
I won’t tell him about the voices. I just won’t.
“Lana has been coming at me, too,” I say. “In a much less friendly way.”
“Which makes her a suspect.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Suspect? That sounds like —”
“Like someone is harassing you to the point of criminal activity? What else would you call it, Skye?”
My cell phone buzzes with a text. It’s Mae.
“Wow,” I say. “First time in a week she’s actually home before seven. Nice timing, Mae.” I shake my head. “She’s making dinner. Which is a little scary, considering what’s in her fridge. I need to go. Thanks for hearing me out on this. It was nice to have someone to talk to.”
“Here, take the brownies.”
He wraps them before I can protest. I put them in my pocket and start to leave. He grabs his backpack and follows me from the shop.
“You know I didn’t do this, right?” he says.
“I wouldn’t have been discussing it with you otherwise.”
“Then you trust me?”
It’s an odd question, and I reply with a sound he can take for agreement.
“Enough to give me your school log-in details?” he asks.
I look over at him.
“I want to know what’s going on with that,” he says.
“You’re going to figure out how to hack —”
“I already know,” he says. “Not for grades. Just… attendance and stuff. I don’t skip often, but when I do, I don’t want my parents getting a call. Like you said, we’re old enough to make our own choices, and sometimes I choose not to go to class. As I remember someone else doing a few times in middle school.”
He smiles, and I know he’s making light – just normal teen stuff, no big deal – but I have a feeling he’s doing more than skipping the occasional class.
“Give me your number,” I say, “and I’ll text you my account info.”
Skye
Apparently, I’ve unleashed Jesse’s inner private eye.
The first text comes before I’m even home.
Jesse: did V say whr msg snt frm?
It takes a few moments to decipher that. I answer no, Mr. Vaughn didn’t say where the email had been sent from. That’s just the first text in a conversation that lasts into the night. Jesse peppers me with so many questions that I wonder if he’s trying to poke holes in my story. Maybe he got home and wondered if I could be losing my mind.
Then, just past ten, I get: cn i hv yr e-addy? I’m starting to understand what Mae must feel like, untangling my texts.
I send him my email address. A few minutes later I get a spreadsheet. An honest-to-goodness spreadsheet detailing everything I’ve told him, arranged into helpful columns. Well, helpful to him, I’m sure. I don’t process data this way, and I stare at it, thinking that I’m way too tired to figure this out.
And I’m thinking something else, too.
Why?
Why is he going through all this work to help me? Is he bored? Or does he think I still suspect him, and he’s bending over backward to clear his name?
I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. I need an ally, and he’s the only one applying for the position.
A text follows ten seconds after I open the spreadsheet.
Jesse: is tht e/t?
Me: can I buy a vowel?
Jesse: i gave u 2 :)
Jesse: I asked if that’s everything. did I miss anything?
I scan the spreadsheet and send back a thumbs-up emoji.
Jesse: does that mean I have e/t that happened 2 u?
Jesse: or just e/t u told me?
Me: it’s good.
Jesse: not an answer to the actual question asked.
Me: can we talk tomorrow?
Jesse: in other words, there’s more.
Me: I already feel I’m making too big a deal out of this. mountains from molehills, you know?
Jesse: look at the sheet. that’s not a molehill.
Me: can we talk tomorrow?
Jesse: sure. i don’t mean to nag.
Me: you’re not.
Jesse: tomorrow then. maybe i’ll send you GPS coords ;) still got that app?
Me: I’ll get it :)
A thumbs-up, and my phone goes silent.
I haven’t seen or heard from Jesse this morning. I’m trying not to read too much into that, but it still feels like the early days of our friendship, when we’d spend an hour messaging after school, and then I’d be on pins and needles the next day, waiting for that first moment of eye contact, that first smile, that first word.