Call It What You Want(2)

“No! No. Of course not.”

“You know your father doesn’t want gossip.”

That makes me pause. I don’t want to let Dad down. Well, I don’t want to let him down again. “I won’t say anything.”

“Not to anyone, Maegan.” Her gaze turns steely. “I need to know we can count on you.”

I flinch. Dad honks the horn out front.

I grab my backpack. “I need to go.”

“Be good!” she calls after me.

She says it every time I leave the house.

I used to say, “I always am,” but that’s not true anymore.

Instead, I say, “I’ll try,” and I let the door slam behind me.





CHAPTER THREE

Rob

The front entrance to Eagle Forge High School is packed with students. Bodies everywhere. They crowd the concrete quad out in front of the doors, they shove their way through the narrow foyer, they slam lockers and fill every available space until the last possible minute. Once upon a time, I would stride across the parking lot and those bodies would part like the Red Sea. Everyone knew me. Everyone wanted to be me.

Now? No one wants to be Rob Lachlan Jr.

Not even me.

I don’t go in through the front. That’s Connor Tunstall’s turf now. He’ll be leaning against the round concrete platform that holds the flagpole, telling a risqué story about whatever he did over the weekend. A Starbucks cup will be sitting next to him—a tall dirty chai—and it’s overcast, so sunglasses will be hanging from a button hole of his vintage bomber jacket. He’s got blond hair with a couple of random brown patches, as well as mismatched eyes: one blue, one brown. Around here, quirky looks could throw you to the bottom of the social pile or spit you out on top. His family’s got serious money, so you can guess where Connor ended up. He plays lacrosse—even has a private coach—so he’s built like someone you don’t want to mess with.

God, I sound obsessed with him. I’m not.

He used to be my best friend.

Connor got the quad in the breakup, I guess. His dad got a legal settlement.

My dad got a subpoena—and later, a self-delivered bullet to the frontal lobe.

And here we are, eight months later.

I park in the side lot and walk halfway around the school with the bitter November wind eating through my parka, then slink in through the back entrance by the library. It’s the very definition of “the long way,” because my first class is near the front, but I don’t mind the walk, and I certainly don’t mind the solitude.

I have books to return anyway, so I peek through the windows along the wall. The librarian isn’t there, so I slip through the doors. We’re supposed to wait for someone to check the books in—some kind of accountability thing, I guess—but I always leave mine. I’d rather pay ten bucks for a paperback that goes missing than deal with Mr. London.

The air pressure seems to change in the library, as if even the books demand a special kind of quiet. I stride silently across the carpet and slide two hardcovers onto the gray Formica counter, then turn to slip away.

“Mr. Lachlan.”

Damn.

I stop. Turn. Mr. London is coming out of the storeroom behind the counter. He’s wiping his hands on a napkin, clearly still chewing whatever he was eating. He’s lean and wiry and pushing sixty. He’s wearing a black polo shirt with tiny colorful stitching along the edge of the sleeves, which doesn’t do his sallow skin any favors.

“I’ll check those in for you,” he says, sliding the books toward his computer as if I weren’t halfway to the door.

He doesn’t meet my eyes.

I don’t try to meet his. I don’t actually know if his comment was a request for me to stay and wait while he pushes buttons on his keyboard or more of a dismissal, but in the span of time it takes me to think about it, I’ve already stood here too long.

Now it’s awkward.

He scans the bar codes on the back of each book. They’re high fantasy, and they hit the circulation desk with a thunk as he sets each one down. “What did you think of these?”

What does he want, a recommendation? They were life changing. I stayed up all night reading.

I actually did do that. My social life is nonexistent.

But then I realize his question was automatic. Every time we interact, it’s as awkward for him as it is for me. He probably feels some kind of obligation to treat me with practiced courtesy, as if my family wouldn’t simply rob him of his life savings; we’d go after his job, too.

I shrug and study a poster about Edgar Allan Poe. “They were fine.”

“Just fine? Neal tore through them.”

Neal is his husband. He’s a retired teacher from somewhere else in the county. Mr. London was supposed to retire last year, too, but they trusted my dad with their retirement accounts.

Every cent was long gone before Dad got caught.

I clear my throat. “I’ve got to get to first period.”

That’s crap, and he knows it. The bell won’t ring for another twenty minutes.

“Go ahead,” he says. “These are in.”

I bolt like I’m guilty of a crime. I can feel his eyes on my back as I go.

I wonder if it would be better if I had a reputation for hating my father. If I hadn’t spent school holidays interning in his office. If he hadn’t shown up for every lacrosse game, throwing his arm across my shoulders to crow about his boy’s skills on the field.