Call It What You Want(70)



I have no idea how to do that. I can’t take the shoes back from Mrs. Goettler, and I don’t have the money to repay Lexi, even if I had the nerve to admit what I did. I don’t even have forty bucks to give back to the sports fund-raiser, if I even had a way to put it back.

Hey, Connor, I actually stole this. Here you go.

Yeah, sure. I could hand over the earrings at the same time. Tell your mom to be more careful.

All that is beside the point anyway. As much as I don’t want to admit it, a dark, secret part of my brain is satisfied, as if I’ve finally fulfilled some kind of destiny. The feeling has been lingering in the back of my thoughts since the moment I wrapped my hand around that money from the cash box, and it only intensified when I told Maegan what I was doing.

It’s intensifying now, as I stride across the quad to enter school through the front doors, instead of parking around back. Connor and his friends are sitting around the flagpole, and their eyes follow me like rifle scopes.

I don’t care. I keep walking. I dare anyone to say anything to me. I want someone to start something.

A tall girl parts from the crowd to block my path. My thoughts are so cloudy that it takes me a moment to recognize her. Rachel. Maegan’s friend. Fury lights her expression.

Almost immediately, a scenario clicks in my head. Maegan told her friend about me. Of course. They chased me out of Taco Taco because they thought I was a thief, and they were right. Maegan probably called her the instant she pulled out of my driveway.

“What are you doing to Maegan?” says Rachel.

The question takes me by surprise because it’s nothing like I expected. “I’m not doing anything,” I say, and my voice comes out like a low growl.

“She asked you a question,” says a male voice behind her, and I realize I’ve missed her boyfriend standing there. Stellar.

“I answered it,” I say.

They say nothing, but they block my path into the school. The quad is filling up with students before the first bell, and we’re generating more than a little interest.

“Please move,” I grind out. “I need to get to class.”

“I’m looking out for my friend,” says Rachel, “and I want to know what’s going on.”

I don’t need to stand here for an interrogation. I move to push between them.

Drew moves to block me. “Look, man, you don’t have to be a jerk. She’s asking you about her friend.”

“Let him go.” Connor steps between us and shoves Drew away from me. A couple of guys from the lacrosse team have followed him over here, too.

I lose a moment to shock.

Drew does, too. He takes a step back. “Chill out,” he says. “This has nothing to do with you. Rachel is trying to look out for Maegan.”

I’d be impressed at the concern if it weren’t all open hostility directed at me. But as much as I don’t want to be hassled, Drew and Rachel didn’t confront me to give me a hard time. They really do care about Maegan.

Connor looks like he’s going to unleash some douchebaggery meant to chase them off, and the last thing I want is his help, especially that way. “Get lost, Connor. They’re just looking out for a friend.” I look at Drew and Rachel. “She’s fine. We’re doing a math project together. That’s all.”

Rachel doesn’t look convinced. “But—”

“That’s all,” I say. “Really.”

Her eyes glance from me to Connor, who’s still standing there looking like he wants to start something.

I can’t handle this.

“Get over yourself,” I say to him. “This guy was right. None of this has to do with you.”

He inhales to snap back, but I don’t bother waiting. Instead, I turn and walk into the school.



Mr. London is delighted to see me. I’m practically crawling through the doorway into the library, but he smiles and says, “Mr. Lachlan! Ready to discuss book two?”

I’m ready for coffee. A shot of vodka. A baseball bat to the face.

None of those are available. I sigh and talk about the book. “I think Cook is her mother.”

“Yes,” he says. “I think so, too.”

I want to return his enthusiasm. I want to talk books. I want to be normal. The moment on the quad has left me shaken.

Instead, I feel like I’m going to cry. My stupid throat is closing up.

The smile melts off Mr. London’s face. He raises the counter. “Office?”

No. I want to turn and bolt.

Instead, my feet march me forward, into his office, where I collapse into a chair.

Fuck. I am crying.

I scrape my hands against my cheeks and try to get it together. The sleeves of my winter coat dig into my skin. Mr. London shoves a box of tissues my way.

“I don’t deserve this,” I say.

“I don’t think anyone ever really deserves Kleenex,” he says.

That makes me laugh, which helps. I choke back the tears before I turn into a sniveling puddle on the floor. “No. This. You being nice to me.”

“It’s not charity. I get paid to do it.” His expression tells me he’s teasing. Gently.

Even that is more than I deserve. I don’t smile back.

“You want to talk about it?” he says.

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