One of Us is Lying(19)
“I dunno,” I answer him. “It might just be a school thing.”
“Hat off, boys,” Pop says. Luis crams his into the pocket of his football jacket, and Pop raps the steering wheel impatiently when I hesitate. “Come on, Cooper, it might be outside but this is still a service. Leave it in the car.”
I do as I’m told and get out, but as I run a hand through my hat-hair and close the passenger door, I wish I had it back. I feel exposed, and people have already been staring at me enough this week. If it were up to me I’d go home and spend a quiet evening watching baseball with my brother and Nonny, but there’s no way I can miss Simon’s memorial service when I was one of the last people to see him alive.
We start toward the crowd on the football field, and I text Keely to find out where our friends are. She tells me they’re near the front, so we duck under the bleachers and try to spot them from the sidelines. I have my eyes on the crowd, and don’t see the girl in front of me until I almost bump into her. She’s leaning against a post, watching the football field with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her oversized jacket.
“Sorry,” I say, and realize who it is. “Oh, hey, Leah. You heading out to the field?” Then I wish I could swallow my words, because there’s no way in hell Leah Jackson’s here to mourn Simon. She actually tried to kill herself last year because of him. After he wrote about her sleeping with a bunch of freshmen, she was harassed on social media for months. She slit her wrists in her bathroom and was out of school for the rest of the year.
Leah snorts. “Yeah, right. Good riddance.” She stares at the scene in front of us, kicking the toe of her boot into the dirt. “Nobody could stand him, but they’re all holding candles like he’s some kind of martyr instead of a gossipy douchebag.”
She’s not wrong, but now doesn’t seem like the time to be that honest. Still, I’m not going to try defending Simon to Leah. “I guess people want to pay their respects,” I hedge.
“Hypocrites,” she mutters, cramming her hands deeper into her pockets. Her expression shifts, and she pulls out her phone with a sly look. “You guys see the latest?”
“Latest what?” I ask with a sinking feeling. Sometimes the best thing about baseball is the fact that you can’t check your phone while you’re playing.
“There’s another email with a Tumblr update.” Leah swipes a few times at her phone and hands it to me. I take it reluctantly and look at the screen as Luis reads over my shoulder.
Time to clarify a few things.
Simon had a severe peanut allergy—so why not stick a Planters into his sandwich and be done with it?
I’d been watching Simon Kelleher for months. Everything he ate was wrapped in an inch of cellophane. He carried that goddamn water bottle everywhere and it was all he drank.
But he couldn’t go ten minutes without swigging from that bottle. I figured if it wasn’t there, he’d default to plain old tap water. So yeah, I took it.
I spent a long time figuring out where I could slip peanut oil into one of Simon’s drinks. Someplace contained, without a water fountain. Mr. Avery’s detention seemed like the ideal spot.
I did feel bad watching Simon die. I’m not a sociopath. In that moment, as he turned that horrible color and fought for air—if I could have stopped it, I would have.
I couldn’t, though. Because, you see, I’d taken his EpiPen. And every last one in the nurse’s office.
My heart starts hammering and my stomach clenches. The first post was bad enough, but this one—this one’s written like the person was actually in the room when Simon had his attack. Like it was one of us.
Luis snorts. “That’s fucked up.”
Leah’s watching me closely, and I grimace as I hand back the phone. “Hope they figure out who’s writing this stuff. It’s pretty sick.”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess.” She starts to back away. “Have a blast mourning, guys. I’m outta here.”
“Bye, Leah.” I squelch the urge to follow her, and we trudge forward until we hit the ten-yard line. I start shouldering through the crowd and finally find Keely and the rest of our friends. When I reach her, she hands me a candle she lights with her own, and loops her arm through mine.
Principal Gupta steps up to the microphone and taps against it. “What a terrible week for our school,” she says. “But how inspiring to see all of you gathered here tonight.”
I should be thinking about Simon, but my head’s too full of other stuff. Keely, who’s gripping my arm a little too tight. Leah, saying the kind of things most people only think. The new Tumblr—posted right before Simon’s memorial service. And Josh Langley with his flashy smile: Big jump in a short time.
That’s the thing about competitive edges. Sometimes they’re too good to be true.
Nate
Sunday, September 30, 12:30 p.m.
My probation officer isn’t the worst. She’s in her thirties, not bad-looking, and has a sense of humor. But she’s a pain in my ass about school.
“How did your history exam go?” We’re sitting in the kitchen for our usual Sunday meeting. Stan’s hanging out on the table, which she’s fine with since she likes him. My dad is upstairs, something I always arrange before Officer Lopez comes over. Part of her job is to make sure I’m being adequately supervised. She knew his deal the first time she saw him, but she also knows I’ve got nowhere else to go and state care can be way worse than alcoholic neglect. It’s easier to pretend he’s a fit guardian when he’s not passed out in the living room.