Tease(21)

Of course, now things are really bad for Tyler. He’s actually in the most trouble of all of us. But that is completely not my problem.

“We’ve established that Sara’s boyfriend was very close to Mr. Chang,” Natalie’s saying now, “which I think gives us plenty of access to that neighborhood for other reasons. If Miss Putnam saw Miss Wharton or Miss Greggs in either the white Honda or the silver . . .” Natalie shuffles through some papers, searching for the word.

“Mercedes,” I supply. Natalie looks up and flashes me the briefest of smiles, then turns back to Hot Intern. Who has a real name, too. David.

“Mercedes,” Natalie repeats. “If the girls were spotted, they certainly had cause to be on that block. And it’s not a big city, after all. Several Elmwood students live in that area.”

“But it was Emma’s mom who saw us,” I can’t help but point out. “I mean, that time we—you’re talking about the Valentine’s Day thing, right?”

Natalie and David look back at me, surprised that I’m actually being helpful. Or maybe not helpful, I don’t know—I’m not even sure why I’m here today, since so far they’ve just been talking to each other. I came in half an hour ago and all I’ve done is drink another Diet Dr Pepper and try to stay out of the way of the piles and piles and piles of papers everywhere. Natalie’s office is huge, with a couch and chairs and a table and everything, but there’s not even a place to sit anymore—I’m leaning against the wall, trying to not knock over the plant next to me or the diploma hanging behind my head.

“Yes, that’s what we’re talking about,” she says, crossing to the other side of the table to find another stack of papers. She riffles through them before pulling one out, squinting at it, and saying, “February tenth?”

I shrug again, but then I nod, too. I know just what they mean, and they know I know. And I’m bored, and I just don’t see the point of standing here like an idiot anymore. Maybe if I just talk to them, they’ll finally tell me what I’m supposed to do about all this.

I’ve done one other thing since getting to Natalie’s office—I’ve found out that we’re definitely going to trial. Natalie said she’d be discussing “our options” with my mom, who of course isn’t here, but that for now they’re expecting a trial date to be set in the next few days.

The guys, including Dylan, have all deferred their real colleges for a year; Dylan and Tyler are going to community college in the meantime, I heard. All of our lives are on hold. Or I don’t know, I guess all of our lives might be over. Mine feels like it already is—just when I think it’s over, it’s more over. My mom is sleepwalking through all of this and my brothers are home with the babysitter and my best friend isn’t allowed to call me and my boyfriend isn’t my boyfriend. I spend my days with delinquents and lawyers, and I’m so. Freaking. Tired. Everyone thinks I’m a terrible person, and I guess they’re right. I mean, everyone spends every day talking, in detail, about what an awful person I was, and it’s too late to change anything, or anyone’s mind. Or anyone’s life.

And any way you spin it, February tenth wasn’t my best day. Or February fourteenth, or basically any other day that week. Month. Year.

Plus all that stuff is already on the record, thanks to Emma’s mom. I mean, thanks to both of Emma’s parents, I have a record.

Natalie’s squinting at the paper again. She has reading glasses on top of her head, but I guess she’s forgotten about them. Before I can make another helpful observation, she says, “You’re right, Mrs. Putnam did see you. She said you and Miss Greggs placed a large heart-shaped sign in the Putnams’ front yard. And this was . . .” More page flipping. “. . .a school tradition?”

“Yeah,” I say. “For the Valentine’s dance. I mean, usually a couple weeks before the dance. The guys were supposed to ask the girls by doing something big, you know, like wearing a tux to school or putting a sign up on the Douglas Street overpass or whatever. And then sometimes they’d make another sign or something that week.”

“But this sign wasn’t from a boy, it was from you and Miss Greggs?” Natalie turns her squinty stare toward me.

“Allegedly,” I say.

David laughs suddenly, like a bark, and Natalie cracks another very quick smile, but she’s looking back at her papers. “Allegedly . . . ,” she murmurs, flipping another page in her hands. “And the sign did not say something nice.”

“No,” I admit. Finally, David grabs a box from the chair next to his and moves it to the floor, pointing at the seat. I take it, sinking down a little bit. “We just . . . It was Brielle’s idea, you know. Seriously, Emma was hooking up with everyone. We just wanted her to stay away from Dylan. It was a joke.”

Natalie looks up again, and this time she really does seem surprised.

“I mean. Not, like, funny, just . . .” I trail off. Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

“Okay,” Natalie says, and she finally sits down at the table too, though she has to shove another box aside to be able to see me and David. “But this sign was still pretty bad, and it was on her property—not at school. We’re lucky that only Mrs. Putnam can testify to it, and that Emma apparently destroyed it. The stuff online and at school will be harder to deny, since we have more witnesses to that. And you were reprimanded.”