Call It What You Want(24)

“You sure you want him to do that?” Connor snaps.

Now I want to hit him again—but I don’t want to get suspended. I don’t have much pride left, but I don’t want to be labeled a troublemaker. Mom has enough to deal with.

I drop to a knee and start scooping the cash into a pile.

Connor stands over me, holding out the cash box, waiting for me to fill it.

Hell, no.

Luckily, Mr. Kipple has reached us, and he says, “You too, Connor. You’re not completely innocent here.”

He gets down on one knee beside me. He’s muttering under his breath the whole time. I’m sure he thinks I can hear him, that his words are having some huge impact on me, but my heartbeat is a roar in my ears, and there’s too much gossip going on around us.

I shove a stack of cash into the box, then reach for a couple of errant twenties. They curl in my palm as I grab some loose quarters, too.

“I’m going to count all of this,” Connor says. “Don’t get any ideas.”

My teeth clench so hard I can feel it in my neck. Mr. Kipple is standing over us, and Connor was loud enough that he has to have heard him.

He says nothing. Not the ally I thought he might be a moment ago.

I think of Owen being denied a cheese sandwich. Everything is so messed up.

I put my hand over the cash box and let go of the quarters.

The two twenty-dollar bills stay in my palm.

Sweat collects under my collar as I curl my fingers tighter and reach for more change. I’m waiting for one of them to call me out, to snap that they saw me hang on to the cash, but neither says anything. I chance a glance up, and Connor is picking up pennies. Mr. Kipple isn’t even looking at us. Something across the cafeteria seems to have caught his attention.

Someone had to see.

No one says anything. We’ve lost the attention of the students nearby. Watching people clean up grows old pretty quick.

Connor slams the cash box closed. He makes no eye contact.

Then he straightens and turns away, leaving me standing there with the money wrapped up in my suddenly sweaty hand.

I stole forty bucks.

This isn’t the same as the other day. This isn’t money he refused to take.

I stole this.

I return to the table and drop onto the bench across from Owen. The underclassmen are gone. I thought he’d have been watching the clean-up effort, but Owen’s taken over reading the book.

No one saw. I still can’t quite believe it.

Owen’s eyes glance up. “Like those kids need the school to buy them gear.”

“Seriously,” I say. It makes me wince inside, because I was once one of those kids, and while it doesn’t feel right to align myself with Owen, it doesn’t feel wrong, either.

He’s peeled his orange and divided all the pieces, and he’s eating them as methodically as everything else.

The cash is searing hot against my palm.

I slide my hand under the cover of the book and let go of the money. My heart is pounding like I’m being recorded and the cops are going to spring a trap any second.

Owen frowns. “Dude. You look like you’re going into shock.”

I flick my eyes at the book. “Make sure your lunch choices are more judicious this time.”

He hesitates, then slides his hand beneath the cover, then slides it back out. He peeks under his palm like he’s caught a bug.

He goes still. His eyes meet mine.

This is a moment. I can feel it. He can rat me out. He can shove it back. He can storm away from the table.

He can take the money and be complicit in what I just did.

I have no idea what I expect. Time stretches into infinity as I wait for Owen Goettler to determine my fate.

His fingers close around the cash. He slides it into his pocket.

Then he shoves the book back across the table to me. “Catch up on the last three pages. It’s getting really good.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Maegan

When I get home, Samantha is tossing balls at the rebounder again. I haven’t seen her since she stormed away from the table last night, and I wonder what kind of mood she’ll be in.

Mom and Dad aren’t home yet, though, so if I’m going to talk to her, now would be my best chance.

I pour chocolate milk into a cup and carry it out to her. My feet sweep through dead leaves as I walk. The air is heavy and cold, a bite with a taste of smoke from a neighbor’s fireplace.

“I don’t really want to talk right now,” she says tightly, without turning. The ball slings against the rebounder with a hard snap.

I hesitate. “Okay. I brought you chocolate milk, though.”

She catches her latest throw, then turns. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were Mom.”

“Nope.”

She takes the cup from me and drinks half of it in one swallow. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She looks down at the cup and swirls it in her hand for a minute. “Thanks for last night, too. I really appreciate it.”

“Last night?”

“You didn’t tell them.” Her eyes lift to find mine. “About David.”

No one is home, but I keep my voice quiet anyway. “No.” I pause. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

She twirls the lacrosse stick in her hand, then chucks the ball across the yard. “If you’re going to get on my case about it, you can go hang out with Mom.”