He took it and slashed his signature at the bottom. Shoved it back at me.
I went back upstairs. Lay down and felt my stomach grumble. Started thinking again—wondering if Cyndra was still missing me or thinking about me at all. The image of her, standing against the rising sun by Michael’s pool, her hair a red-gold. Or waiting for me by my locker, like Clay had said. A dream, a fantasy.
Sitting downstairs in Michael’s house a week ago. Talking to Michael, who wanted to know about the rumors—which ones were true. What I’d really done. But he’d known. Known Trent. Known about Celia. Told LaShonda to copy my file.
His week was almost up. But now he had the gun and had met with Trent about something else. What did they have in common and what were they planning?
The use he had for me. Offering to kill my father or help me do it. Everyone thinking I was dealing drugs.
Cyndra’s stepfather. Was it what Michael said it was?
Questions knotted like tangled coils of razor wire.
Janie got home. “Cyndra was waiting for me at the bus stop after school. She sure looks like trouble.”
I sighed. “Trouble looks pretty good, then.”
Janie held out a note.
I was reaching for it before I could think, wondering if it would smell like her perfume.
It contained only one sentence:
Jason, I can explain myself.—C.
A lipstick print was underneath.
One of Cyndra’s unconsciously deep pronouncements: I can explain myself.
Like she actually could. Like there was anything she could say that would explain sleeping with me in her boyfriend’s bed, and then pretending like it hadn’t happened after telling me he wouldn’t care.
I crumpled the note and tossed it at the trash. Janie picked it up and smoothed it out.
What had I expected? Concern? “Are you all right?” or “When are you coming back to school?” or “I miss you.” Little love heart doodles and gushy pronouncements.
I silently cursed myself for the fool I was.
Janie studied the lipstick print like it was an artist’s brushstrokes. She pursed her lips before stopping and gnawing on a finger instead.
I faced the wall and closed my eyes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the morning, I got up early and showered. There’s not much you can do for a cracked or broken rib, but I have a back brace from the supply store that straps around my side, and so I tried it on. It actually helped, so I left it on.
Back in the room I put on my own, old clothes. I didn’t have the ones Cyndra had bought, and the ones I’d worn home were bloody and stank of smoke and stale sweat. Besides, all I had to do was get through the day and get home again. I felt like my nerves were lying exposed on the top of my skin.
Janie and I walked to the bus.
“What happened to you?” a kid blurted out.
I cocked a fist. “Wanna find out?”
He shut up and scooted onto the other side of the street.
I shook my hair over my face and turned up the collar of my army jacket.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” Janie whispered.
In the bathroom that morning the steam-fogged mirror reflected bruises like rotting fruit.
Like I said before, my dad may be crazy but he’s not stupid—so I don’t usually have to wear it on my face for everyone to see.
And the note was supposed to cover it.
Janie got on the bus, and I walked to Clay’s house. The tightness in my chest unwound slightly as we walked into school together. Since I hadn’t heard anything from Michael after that first text, I figured nothing was urgent and so I’d take the day off.
We went into the cafeteria through the field-side entrance, keeping the building between us and the parking lot.
Just get through the day.
I ate breakfast and listened to Clay ramble on about the zombie book “that was also art.” When the bell rang, we parted. Him to class and me to the office to turn in the note.
The lady behind the counter read the note and frowned at my face.
“That was stupid,” she said. And I couldn’t tell if she was talking about the excuse or my supposed ride in the back of a truck. I shrugged.
She made a copy of the note and put it in a stack. Was it for my file? Suddenly I felt like a bug in a jar—everyone tapping on it and turning it around, squinting and trying to get a closer look.
She gave me the original note, stapled to a slip.
I skipped the courtyard at break. Found Clay instead. During lunch I waited awhile before going to the cafeteria. I was one of the last ones to get my tray. I took it and sat with Clay, Nico, and Spud.
Nico and Spud didn’t say anything about my face or the fact that just last week I’d been sitting outside with the royalty of the school. Instead they did all the talking while I ate. They were still trying to find whoever was dealing at Mercer. They usually bought from another kid they knew, but had taken my favor as a sacred quest.
When the bell rang, I stayed seated and watched the crew parade in from outside. None of them even spared a glance for the burnout corner. Maybe they didn’t realize I was sitting there.
It was more likely they didn’t care.
Dwight was riding Beast like a jockey—whooping, knees high on his sides. His eye was still black, almost as much as mine. The sight made a dark satisfaction spike in my chest. Michael had a hand tucked into the back of Cyndra’s waistband.
They crossed the cafeteria. Michael kept Cyndra close to his side, maneuvering her where she couldn’t glance at my table across the room, even if she thought of it. His own black eye was faded, almost a smudge.
Cesare couldn’t punch worth a damn.
“Don’t worry, she’ll find you,” Clay said, even though I hadn’t said anything about her not seeing me.
“Maybe.” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice.