Take the Fall(37)

I close my eyes and bite my tongue. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed.

“It just sort of came up,” she continues. “He asked about you, and . . . well, I guess he probably should’ve charged me for the meal.” She clears her throat. “But he assured me it’s all part of the grieving process.”

“Thanks, Mom. I guess I can’t help feeling guilty . . .” My voice fades to a whisper, but when she touches my shoulder, I stand abruptly and start to change clothes. “Listen, if you’re getting another headache, you should go lie down. I’ll be out in just a sec.”

She nods, hesitating like she wants to say something more, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t want to know what else she’s been discussing with the local shrink.

After I hear her door close, I reopen my notebook and underline Kip Peterson at the bottom of the page. The initial list of suspects I came up with looked more like a roster of our entire student body, though I’ve managed to cross a bunch of names off after doing a little research into where people were and when. But as soon as I saw Kip’s name next to that picture, a chill settled under my skin. Pulling on my Penn hoodie didn’t make it go away.

I’m halfway down the hall when I hesitate and turn back. I reopen my chemistry book and carry the photo to the back of my closet. I’m an extra minute late after digging around for my tin box. I know hiding it is irrational and will do nothing to keep me safe, but my chill fades to an endurable shiver knowing it’s tucked out of sight.





EIGHTEEN


WHEN MY BOOTS HIT THE kitchen floor, we’re already busy, and I don’t stop for breath for at least an hour. Sometime after seven, the bells above the door jingle and I look over my shoulder to see Kip Peterson seating himself in my section. My stomach knots. Here’s my chance to talk to him, but after seeing the photo on his feed, I’m not sure I want the answers anymore. I look at Dina across the room. I didn’t mention the fistfight at school last week or she’d probably hustle him right back out the door. The soreness in my ribs was just becoming tolerable before he slammed into me.

I work my way over to him, refilling glasses and dropping off checks while I picture him scratching my face out. Before I know it, my thoughts put us both in the woods—him chasing me in the darkness before moving on to Gretchen. Or maybe not—maybe he just came along too late to save anyone. I stop, close my eyes, and lean against the counter. Kip and I struck up a sort of friendship back in sixth grade, the one year Gretchen and I ended up in different classes. He was awkward back then—well, more awkward. He’s always been smaller than other guys and back then he had a hefty set of braces, but we share an affinity for comics and video games that Gretchen never cared for. He could have tried to use me to get close to her, but he never did, despite her refusal to acknowledge his existence.

How could it be him?

“Sonia.” He waves me over.

I grip my stubby pencil. “Kip, how’s your hand?”

He makes a show of shaking it out like it hurts, then gives me a bashful smile. “Guess I kind of lost it the other day. That was embarrassing.”

“You were upset—everyone’s upset.”

“I came by to say sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get dragged into that.”

I shrug. “I’m not the one you punched.”

He stiffens. “I’m not apologizing to him.”

I look around the slowing diner. “Well, luckily, he’s not here.”

His expression shifts and for a second he looks the way he did in Brianne’s basement. Like the only thing that matters is who’s going to be Player 1 and Player 2. But then a shadow passes over his face, reminding me this isn’t a game.

“Why did you get in my way?” he asks.

I hesitate, studying his stiff posture, the angry set of his jaw. “Do you really think he did it? How can you be sure?”

Kip picks at a chip in the white tabletop. “He’s an artist, right? You ever see his work?”

This makes me pause. Everyone’s seen Marcus’s paintings. The art teacher, Ms. Pilar, displays them every chance she gets. He sells them in a local gallery. I think Principal Bova even has one in her office. Each of them is beautiful, but none have come close to the first one I saw. I was getting some watercolors from the supply room in art class sophomore year and while I was in there I noticed an easel in the corner, positioned to face the wall. I still remember the way my breath caught when I peered around the edge. I can’t even really describe what I saw—it’s more the feeling I remember. Like I’d just seen something I didn’t even know I was looking for. There was a figure, but it was abstract, the colors bright and bold. The brushstrokes were visible, but so light they looked like they might’ve been breathed onto the canvas. I guess I’d already had a little crush on him before that, but Marcus’s name at the bottom surprised me almost as much as the work itself. I didn’t understand how anyone so sullen could create something so moving.

“Once,” I say hastily. “I mean, yeah, of course.”

“Yeah, well, I saw him doodling in a notebook in trig a few months back. He was drawing Gretchen—it was clearly her—but the way she looked in the picture . . .” He clenches his jaw. “He turned her into this thing, with teeth and claws. There were wounds dripping blood and her expression . . . the whole thing was just violent. Like he wanted her to die.”