Wrecked(23)

“It’s a long story and I’m sick of talking about it. All I need to know is: can I count on you?”

Richard pauses. None of this feels right to him. He’s sorry they ever cracked open those Blue Moons. Or talked about any of this.

“You can count on me to tell the truth. Totally,” Richard says. “Anybody asks, I’ll tell them I didn’t go to the party, I was with my girlfriend that night, and I’ve never laid eyes on this Jenny person. But if I’m asked what you told me . . .”

“No one’s going to ask you that, Richard,” Jordan says quietly.

“If I’m asked what you told me,” Richard repeats, “I’m not going to lie. I will answer the direct question.”

He fully expects to see anger on Jordan’s face, but instead Jordan seems to be weighing what Richard says. As if this is not as bad, nor as good, as he’d hoped to get out of him.

Then Jordan stands. He puts his hand out. It’s an oddly formal gesture. Richard, surprised, extends his, and they shake.

“That’s all anybody’s asking. Thanks, man.” Jordan steps to the door, hand on knob.

“So what now?” Richard can’t resist asking.

“She wrote out this whole description of what happened — talk about fantasy, I don’t know what planet that girl is from—and I have to respond, in writing, in a few days. My uncle says keep it simple. Just say: not guilty. But man, there’s a part of me that wants to set the record straight. Seriously, she is out of her mind.”

Something occurs to Richard. He should probably edit what follows, but it slips out.

“Was Exley messing with the drinks that night?”

Jordan looks confused for a moment. When it dawns on him what Richard is implying, a brief flicker of anger passes over his face. He replaces it, quickly, with a familiar mocking smile.

“No. And for the record, I don’t need to roofie some girl to get a little action.” Jordan opens the door, but before he steps into the hall he turns to Richard. “Of course, you didn’t just hear that,” he says, winking.

Jordan leaves, the door clicking quietly behind him.





. . .


Tamra, one of the girls from the hall, motions them into her room. The beds are lofted high, bunked at angles to create more space. The walls are papered with bright posters, a state flag, photographs. They hide the old tack holes and tape traces of girls who came before.

Jenny hasn’t been in this room. Until now.

Tamra closes the door. She holds a long paper bag. From it she pulls a clear bottle with a silver--and--red label.

“Pregame, ladies,” she says.

. . .





9





Haley


Part of Haley is totally psyched to find Carrie sprawled on her bed when she opens the door. She knows it’s voyeuristic, semistalking, in a way. But she’s crazy curious about her and Richard, and has been wondering if she’ll get a chance to squeeze some info out of her.

Another part of Haley just wants to cry. She’d come back in order to sleep. She gets so tired in the afternoons. Jen’s usually at the lab this time of day; their room should be empty. Instead, Carrie the Viking is here. With her friend. Gail. Who’s stretched out on Jenny’s bed.

Jenny’s nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” Carrie says, smiling brightly at Haley. Her teeth are miraculously aligned pearls. She’s reading, propped up on one elbow, long legs crossed, shoes off. Colorful socks Haley recognizes from the organic cotton rack at the food co--op.

“Hi.” Haley drops her pack. “How’d you get in here?” Jenny’s gotten fanatical about locking their door.

“Jenny let us in. She had to run out to drop off a paper, but she’ll be back,” Gail says.

Great. Haley concentrates on not looking pissed off. She opens the mini--fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, careful not to slam it shut. Another meeting of the Victim’s Support Club. When did my room become headquarters?

She knows this isn’t fair. But no one around here seems to get how crummy she feels.

It’s gotten bad enough that the other day she called her mother.

“What’s going on?” Mom said when she answered. She didn’t bother to mask her surprise. Or say hello. It wasn’t often that Haley’s number came up on caller ID.

“Hey,” Haley began, then stopped. Oh my god. I’m going to cry.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried to her mother. That behavior belonged to a different era. She remembered it. Being a little girl, believing her mother was the most amazing person in the world. Telling her everything. When you’re little, if you don’t tell your mother, it’s like it never happened.

She can’t remember when, or why, this changed. There was no big scene, no single issue. Just a feeling that something no longer fit, like a cotton T--shirt that spent too much time in the dryer. A disagreement over something small that became a gradual hardening of positions. A tone that became habit. One morning you just woke up and realized no way in hell would you tell your mother anything. At least, not anything that mattered.

So the call surprised them both.

“Is something wrong?” Haley heard, which brought on a gush of tears.