One of Us is Lying(45)
She grins, unoffended. “I need to make a playlist to keep her motivated. Any recommendations?”
“I doubt we like the same music.”
“Maeve and I have varied musical taste. You’d be surprised. Let me see your library.” I shrug and unlock my phone, and she scrolls through iTunes with an increasingly furrowed brow. “What is all this? Why don’t I recognize anything?” Then she glances at me. “You have ‘Variations on the Canon’?”
I take the phone from her and put it back in my pocket. I forgot I’d downloaded that. “I like your version better,” I say, and her lips curve into a smile.
We head for the food court, making small talk about stupid stuff like we’re a couple of ordinary teenagers. Bronwyn insists on actually buying me a pretzel, although I have to help her since she can’t see two feet in front of her face. We sit by the fountain to wait for Maeve, and Bronwyn leans across the table so she can meet my eyes. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” I raise my brows, interested, until she says, “I’m worried about the fact that you don’t have a lawyer.”
I swallow a hunk of pretzel and avoid her eyes. “Why?”
“Because this whole thing’s starting to implode. My lawyer thinks the news coverage is going to go viral. She made me set all my social media accounts to private yesterday. You should do that too, by the way. If you have any. I couldn’t find you anywhere. Not that I was stalking you. Just curious.” She gives herself a little shake, like she’s trying to get her thoughts back on track. “Anyway. The pressure’s on, and you’re already on probation, so you … you need somebody good in your corner.”
You’re the obvious outlier and scapegoat. That’s what she means; she’s just too polite to say it. I push my chair away from the table and tip it backward on two legs. “That’s good news for you, right? If they focus on me.”
“No!” She’s so loud, people at the next table look over, and she lowers her voice. “No, it’s awful. But I was thinking. Have you heard of Until Proven?”
“What?”
“Until Proven. It’s that pro bono legal group that started at California Western. Remember, they got that homeless guy who was convicted of murder released because of mishandled DNA evidence that led them to the real killer?”
I’m not sure I’m hearing her correctly. “Are you comparing me to a homeless guy on death row?”
“That’s only one example of a high-profile case. They do other stuff too. I thought it might be worth checking them out.”
She and Officer Lopez would really get along. They’re both positive you can fix any problem with the right support group. “Sounds pointless.”
“Would you mind if I called them?”
I return my chair to the floor with a bang, my temper rising. “You can’t run this like it’s student council, Bronwyn.”
“And you can’t just wait to be railroaded!” She puts her palms flat on the table and leans forward, eyes blazing.
Jesus. She’s a pain in my ass and I can’t remember why I wanted to kiss her so badly a few minutes ago. She’d probably turn it into a project. “Mind your own business.” It comes out harsher than I intended, but I mean it. I’ve made it through most of high school without Bronwyn Rojas running my life, and I don’t need her to start now.
She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I’m trying to help you.”
That’s when I realize Maeve is standing there, looking back and forth between us like she’s watching the world’s least entertaining ping-pong game. “Um. Is this a bad time?” she says.
“It’s a great time,” I say.
Bronwyn stands abruptly, putting her glasses on and hiking her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.” Her voice is as cold as mine.
Whatever. I get up and head for the exit without answering, feeling a dangerous combination of pissed off and restless. I need a distraction but never know what the hell to do with myself now that I’m out of the drug business. Maybe stopping was just delaying the inevitable.
I’m almost outside when someone tugs on my jacket. When I turn, arms wrap around my neck and the clean, bright scent of green apples drifts around me as Bronwyn kisses my cheek. “You’re right,” she whispers, her breath warm in my ear. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. Don’t be mad, okay? I can’t get through this if you stop talking to me.”
“I’m not mad.” I try to unfreeze so I can hug her back instead of standing there like a block of wood, but she’s already gone, hurrying after her sister.
Addy
Tuesday, October 9, 8:45 a.m.
Somehow Bronwyn and Nate managed to dodge the cameras. Cooper and I weren’t as lucky. We were both on the five o’clock news on all the major San Diego channels: Cooper behind the wheel of his Jeep Wrangler, me climbing into Ashton’s car after I’d abandoned my brand-new bike at school and sent her a panicked text begging for a ride. Channel 7 News ended up with a pretty clear shot of me, which they put side by side with an old picture of eight-year-old me at the Little Miss Southeast San Diego pageant. Where, naturally, I was second runner-up.
At least there aren’t any vans when Ashton pulls up to drop me off at school the next day. “Call me if you need a ride again,” she says, and I give her a quick, stranglehold hug. I thought I’d be more comfortable showing sisterly affection after last weekend’s cryfest, but it’s still awkward and I manage to snag my bracelet on her sweater. “Sorry,” I mutter, and she gives me a pained grin.