He stops. “What?”
I hold up my phone. “I’ve been waiting for you to answer this. Which isn’t going to happen if I don’t hit the Send button.”
His gaze flicks to the screen, and he grunts something unintelligible.
I continue, “I saw you walking away, and I just wanted you to know I wasn’t blowing you off earlier.”
“What?” He shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. “No, I didn’t see you. I turned around because I remembered I forgot… something.”
“Oh. Well, then, I look kinda stupid, don’t I? Let’s back up.” I press Send. “Message sent.” His phone dings. “And delivered. Now I’ll withdraw from this awkward moment, and see you in math.”
I get about three steps before my phone pings with a text.
Jesse: i lied
Another ping.
Jesse: totally thought u were blowing me off. totally saw u in hall. totally ran other way.
Another ping.
Jesse: totally an idiot.
I turn, and he’s right where I left him. He mouths, “Sorry,” and I smile and start toward him. There’s a group of kids huddled against the lockers, whispering and watching. I’ve almost reached Jesse when someone says, “What the hell?” and the voice is loud enough to catch my attention. It’s just a guy reading his cell phone. I start past. Then he sees me and barrels forward, saying, “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Jesse says. “She’s just trying to get an education, like everyone else here. Now step off —”
“I’ll ‘step off’ when she explains what the hell she was doing.”
“Doing with what?” I ask, but Jesse starts going around him, his hand on my elbow.
The guy blocks. Jesse sidesteps again. Guy blocks.
“If you want to dance, you really should ask,” I say. “Consent is important.”
That gets snickers from the growing crowd.
We start walking again. Then Jesse staggers, and I wheel to see the guy pulling back after shoving him.
I say, “If you need to shove someone, shove the person you’re actually pissed off at.”
The guy crosses his arms.
“No, really,” I say as I step up to him. “You’re mad at me. Don’t push Jesse because you can’t hit a girl. That’s sexist. Come on. Take a swing.”
“Skye…” Jesse tries to stop me, but I get past him and move closer to the guy, getting in his face.
“There,” I say. “Go ahead and —”
His hand slams into my shoulder, and I fly into the lockers. Jesse grabs the guy by the back of the shirt and yanks him away. My attacker spins, both hands smacking Jesse’s chest.
“You want to get into it, Mandal? Come on, then. Let’s get into it.”
I grab the guy’s arm. As he yanks away, my nails rake down his forearm. He yowls. I retreat fast, hands raised.
“I didn’t mean that,” I say. “I was just trying to stop you.”
He advances on me. “You really do want to get into it, don’t you?”
Jesse takes him by the shirt again. The guy spins, swinging. Jesse grabs his arm and wrenches it up. Someone yells, “He’s playing with you, Caleb. Hit him.” Others join, the crowd closing in.
Caleb swings with his free hand. Jesse dances away, but another guy pushes him forward, saying, “Get back in there, Mandal. You want to defend your crazy girlfriend? Do it right.”
Before I can intercede, a girl steps into my path, a girl I vaguely remember from a year below me in middle school.
“Forget them,” she says to me. “Just answer his question. What is wrong with you?”
I turn away, trying to see what’s going on with Jesse, but the girl yanks me back.
“I’m talking to you,” she says. “Do you know who I am?”
When I don’t reply, she says, “Meg Johnson. My cousin is – was – Brandon Locklear, who died because of your brother.”
She’s scowling and gripping my arm tight enough to hurt, but her eyes glisten with tears. “I’ve heard your mother is mentally ill, and I’m hoping that’s your excuse. Really, really hoping it is. When I heard you were back here, I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you that I understood what happened wasn’t your fault, and I hoped you were doing okay. But I couldn’t work up the nerve. And then you do this.”
“Do what?”
She thrusts her phone at me, but it’s so fast I don’t see anything. “If you are mentally ill, Skye, then you need help. And if you’re not, then you need even more help, because you are one sick bitch.”
“May I please see what you were trying to show me?” I ask, as calmly as I can.
Someone else shoves a phone into my face. On the screen is today’s RivCol Times. The edition I just published.
“Is something wrong with the newspaper?” I ask carefully.
“Hey, Mandal,” someone says. “She’s asking if something’s wrong with the paper? Do you see anything wrong with it?”
I look to see that the guys have stopped fighting, and Jesse is staring down at his phone.
I scroll down the page. The first article should be a headline crowing about the track meet victory. Instead, it’s a massive two-line header: REMEMBERING THE NHH VICTIMS. With my name as the byline.
“No,” I whisper. “I just published the paper. That wasn’t – I didn’t write…”
I scroll faster. Jesse’s at my side now, and he’s reaching for the phone, saying, “Someone tampered with the newspaper.”
I backpedal before he can take the phone from me. I’m skim-reading the article. In it, I apologize for my brother’s participation in the shooting, while making it clear that he never actually hurt anyone, and as I read that, I cringe.
The article goes on to say I want to offer my condolences to the family members at Riverside Collegiate… and then it lists every one of those relatives.
Below that is an embedded video.
My trembling finger hovers over the Play button, and I realize the crowd has gone silent. I look up to see them watching, expressions ranging from confusion and curiosity to barely contained outrage.
Jesse touches my arm, saying, “You don’t have to —”
I meet his gaze. “I do.”
I hit the button. The video starts with the clip from Leanna’s second birthday. Then the ones of Jamil and his friends. Next is Nella dressed up as a lion for Halloween, chasing her little brother, dressed as a mouse. Then Brandon at the hospital, meeting his son for the first time. My eyes well up. Then the screen clears and —
A blood-splattered hall. The camera pans to a body – Brandon’s – sprawled across a pool of blood, cell phone in his hand. Words flash on the screen.
He started texting a message to his girlfriend and baby son. He never got a chance to finish it.
I want to drop the phone. Drop it and run. Instead, I clutch it and force myself to watch the clip of Leanna under the desk, telling her mother she’s all right. The video ends with another slow pan of a blood-streaked hall. And then the final words:
Remembering the victims of NHH.
“I didn’t —” My chest heaves and I can’t get the words out. “I would never —”
Jesse gently takes the phone from my hand. “I know you didn’t.” He raises his voice. “Do you really think she’d post that for me to see? Me?”
“Skye?” Shoes click down the hall, and I turn, still numb, and see Tiffany walking toward us.
“We need to talk,” she says.
“I didn’t —”
She takes my arm and steers me away, calling back to the others. “We are very sorry for this mistake. It will be corrected immediately.”
Jesse catches up. “Skye didn’t —”
“I understand you want to set the record straight about Luka,” she says, her voice low as we walk fast toward the newspaper office. “I know you must have thought a public apology would help.”
“And posting a video of their dead bodies?” I say.
“What?”
Jesse holds out his phone. She snatches it and plays the video as we walk. Her face pales.
“I… I didn’t see that,” she says. “I just read the article.”
“Skye didn’t post this,” Jesse says. “Not the article or the video. Someone set her up. We need to get the newspaper down.”
Tiffany unlocks the newspaper room door.
“Can the files be accessed remotely?” Jesse asks.