You'll Be the Death of Me(24)

Everything. Right. It’s only just started to sink in how much everything we have to deal with. My friends, who have no idea where I am, are going to expect an answer soon. Autumn might check in, and what am I supposed to tell her? We don’t keep secrets from one another, even when she’s doing stuff I’d rather not know about. Which is always, lately.

The whole situation makes my head hurt. “One thing at a time, okay? Let’s figure out what’s going on with Cal and worry about the rest later.” I’m not sure how much I even care about what Cal’s up to, to be honest, but he’s a problem that can be solved. Not like whatever happened to Boney.

“But what if we—”

“I said later, Ivy,” I say, my voice rising along with my temper. This isn’t eighth grade, when I’d do whatever the hell Ivy wanted just because she asked.

“Okay, okay,” Ivy mutters, moving away from me as a few passengers idly glance our way. She doesn’t look happy, but oh well.

    The train rumbles aboveground at Science Park, and I watch the Museum of Science come into view outside my window. It’s one of the Carlton school system’s favorite field trip destinations, so I’ve been at least a half dozen times. The last time, in seventh grade, I was teamed up with Ivy and Cal for an interactive exhibit where one of the stations tested physiological responses to pictures of different animals. If your pupils got bigger, or your heart rate sped up, that meant you were afraid of that animal.

Ivy and I had fear reactions to stereotypically intimidating creatures—a hissing snake and a snarling crocodile—but Cal only got them when he looked at a rabbit sitting in a flower patch. Ivy couldn’t stop laughing about it. “You’re scared of bunnies, Cal,” she teased.

“I am not!” he protested. “The test is broken.”

“Worked for us,” I said while Ivy continued to crack up.

Then she looked thoughtful. “It’s a good thing the human race has evolved past the hunter-gatherer stage, isn’t it? You wouldn’t last a day in the wild, Cal. You’re afraid of the wrong things.” That’s Ivy for you; she has this way of making observations that seem like throwaways, but end up being weirdly deep enough that you think about them years later. Wherever Cal is headed, I can almost guarantee that it’s bad news and he doesn’t realize it.

Cal doesn’t get off at Science Park, and a minute later a voice over the speaker calls out, “Lechmere, last stop.” Ivy and I sway in place until the train comes to a loud, grinding halt. The doors open, and we funnel onto the open-air platform with the rest of the passengers. We hang back from Cal as he follows the crowd through the turnstiles toward the street and waits at a crosswalk for the light to turn. At this point there’s nowhere for Ivy and me to hide, and all Cal would need to do is turn his head to see us. But he doesn’t. Not at the crosswalk, not on the street, and not as we trail him down the sidewalk until he stops at a squat, blue brick building with a sign that reads Second Street Café.

    “Here we go,” Ivy murmurs as Cal ducks inside.

I’ve never been here before, but it’s a good spot for stealthily following someone. The space is large and industrial, dominated by exposed pipes in the ceiling and abstract paintings on the walls. Some kind of bluesy music plays in the background, mingling with the buzz of the crowd. Cal pauses, scanning the room, then makes his way toward a corner table. A blond girl wearing a baseball cap is sitting there, and she lifts her hand in greeting.

“I knew she was blond,” Ivy says through clenched teeth. “I knew it.” Then her expression changes from annoyance to puzzlement. “Wait. Is that…”

The girl tilts her head, giving me a good view of her face, and a couple of things stop me in my tracks. One, we know her. And two, girl is the wrong age category. “Yup,” I say.

Ivy pauses beside me. “Why is he meeting her?” she asks, clearly confused. “Is this a school thing? Or do you think she knows Cal’s mystery girlfriend? Or maybe—” Then Ivy’s jaw drops as Cal grabs both of the blond woman’s hands in his, twining their fingers together. He presses a kiss to her knuckles and she pulls away, but not like she’s shocked by Cal making an unexpected move. The look on her face doesn’t say, What are you doing? It says, Not here.

What. The. Hell.

I sink into an empty table and Ivy drops next to me. The impatience I felt toward her on the train vanishes, and all I can focus on is the odd couple in front of us. “Was Cal just holding hands with our art teacher?” she asks.

    Yeah, he was. Our young, crazy-hot art teacher. Ms. Jamison started working at Carlton High two years ago, right after she graduated from college, and she made an instant impression. Most of our teachers are middle-aged, or straight-up old. The only female teacher who people have ever thought was even a little bit attractive before Ms. Jamison showed up was Ms. Meija. She’s one of the Spanish teachers, at least thirty, and looks like someone’s mom on a TV show. Good, but not I’m going to take this class even though I don’t have to good.

Ms. Jamison looks that kind of good. Art has never been so popular.

I’ve never spoken to her. The closest I came was last August, when my dad was in town on break from his roadie gig and decided to take me back-to-school shopping. I didn’t need or want anything but figured I’d humor him and save the receipt so I could return everything later. So we were in Target, and he was looking at lava lamps like I was going off to college and needed to furnish a dorm room, when Ms. Jamison walked by. She was checking something on her phone and didn’t notice us, but Dad definitely noticed her.