Call It What You Want(73)

“I don’t want to talk about it.” And I don’t. Half a day later, and I still have no idea how to reconcile what Rob told me. He carried around so much anger about how people thought he was involved with his father’s thefts. So much anger that he’d built steel walls around himself. He resented that. I know he did.

But then to start stealing anyway—it makes no sense.

“Please?” Rachel takes advantage of my silence and jumps around to get in front of me. “Maegan. I’m sorry. But he was bad news. Please talk to me. I’ve been so worried about you. I actually got in his face this morning, but then—”

“Wait. You got in whose face?”

“Rob Lachlan’s. I thought he was pulling you away from your friends, and that’s a warning sign—”

“Oh my god, Rachel. Do you live in an advice column? Rob wasn’t pulling me away from my friends.” I grit my teeth and glare at her. “My friends were being jerks.”

Now she looks like I punched her. “We were looking out for you.”

“Replay everything Drew said to Rob at Taco Taco and convince yourself of that. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Rachel purses her lips. “Drew wasn’t wrong.”

“He wasn’t wrong after Rob left. He didn’t need to be nasty to Rob’s face. Rob didn’t do anything to him.” I pause, and her face twists like she’s going to defend Drew further. “Just because he’s right about some things doesn’t mean he’s right about everything. You can be right and be a jerk at the same time. You’ve heard Drew make little comments to me, too, so don’t try to deny it.”

She inhales to say something, then closes her mouth.

Exactly. I push forward with my tray.

Rachel follows me. “So, what are you saying? Rob’s completely innocent and everyone is all wrong about him?”

I hesitate.

She seizes it. “He’s not. If he had nothing to hide, he wouldn’t lurk around the school like he’s on death row, and you know it.”

“You’re missing the entire point.” I slide my tray along.

Rachel says nothing. I say nothing.

This sucks.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she finally says.

“I don’t want to fight with you, either.” And that’s true. I miss her friendship. I appreciate that she was looking out for me, regardless of how misguided it was.

I just don’t feel like dealing with Rachel+Drew.

“Do you want to sit with us?” she says as we approach the register.

Her tone implies she wants to brush everything under the rug and go back to the status quo. I can’t do that.

“Not today,” I say. I type my student ID number into the machine next to the cash register and walk away.

When I turn to face the cafeteria, I realize I’m left without a destination. A week ago, I would have gone slinking back to Rachel’s table, or I would have found a place to eat by myself. All these secrets would have pressed into my shoulders until I finally gave in and played tattletale.

I’m not doing that today. I storm across the cafeteria and slap my tray down beside Owen.

They both look up at me in surprise. Before they can say anything, I glare at Rob and say, “What are you doing?”

He glares right back at me. I’d forgotten that he’s not one to wilt from confrontation—and I was the one who ran from him in math class this morning. “Eating lunch. What are you doing?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Owen clears his throat. “Should I leave?”

“Does he know?” I demand.

Rob hesitates, and some of the attitude melts out of his eyes. “Yeah. He does.”

“Know what?” says Owen.

Rob looks at him, and his voice drops. “About … everything.”

“Why are you doing it?” I say. “You made it this huge deal about how you weren’t—”

“Would you keep your voice down?”

I don’t lower my voice at all. “I want an answer.”

“Then sit down.” He casts a look around, but we haven’t attracted too much attention yet. “Stop making a scene.”

I sit.

Rob says nothing. Owen glances between us.

“Hi,” he says after a moment. He holds out a hand. “I’m Owen.”

I know, but I shake his hand anyway, like this is some kind of bizarre business meeting. “I’m Maegan.”

Rob’s looking at his food now. He’s not getting off that easy.

“You spent all that time telling me you weren’t a thief,” I whisper at him. “And now you are?”

“It’s not like that,” he says.

“It’s exactly like that.”

His eyes flash up. “It’s not all black and white, Officer.”

“Did you take something that didn’t belong to you?”

Silence falls over the table, and he pokes at his sandwich. When he finally speaks, his voice is very low. “I didn’t steal for me. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.”

It shouldn’t make a difference. I don’t want it to make a difference. But the tone of his voice plucks a chord of mercy inside me. “Fine. Who?”