You'll Be the Death of Me(29)

    Wrong is wrong.

I don’t know what to do next. Do I head back to Garrett’s? Are Mateo and Ivy even still there? What am I supposed to say to them if they are? I move sluggishly toward the exit, then trudge back to Lechmere station on autopilot, scrolling through my phone. The last text message I have is from Lara agreeing to meet; there’s not a single person at Carlton High who got in touch to share the news about Boney. Who am I kidding? My so-called friends probably haven’t even noticed I’m not there.

When I insert my CharlieCard into the station turnstile and step through, there’s already a train waiting with open doors. I climb the train’s steps and scan the half-full compartment, selecting a window seat toward the front. Then I settle onto the hard plastic chair and gaze at the bright fall day outside, my mind churning and full of questions that seem impossible to answer.

“Hey, Cal.”

Somebody pokes my shoulder. I turn, and nearly slide off my seat in shock when I realize it’s Ivy. She and Mateo are sitting side by side behind me, and for a second I’m so happy to see friendly faces that it doesn’t occur to me to question why they’re here. Then Ivy speaks, and wipes the half smile that’s forming on my lips right off.

“So we followed you,” she says.





IVY


“You did what?” Cal sputters as the doors close and the train lurches forward. He twists fully in his seat, his gaze darting between me and Mateo. “Followed me where?”

“The café,” I say. “To your…meeting.” I wait a beat for him to respond, and when he doesn’t, I add, “With Ms. Jamison.”

Cal stares at the ground. “So you spied on me,” he says flatly.

I guiltily cut my eyes toward Mateo. That’s not all we did. Not even close, but now doesn’t seem like the time to bring that up. “We were worried about you,” I say.

“It’s no big deal,” Cal says, unrolling his sleeves. You’d think he’d know by now it’s a dead giveaway that he’s being sketchy. “I was supposed to meet somebody, but she didn’t show, and I ran into Ms. Jamison instead. We ended up talking about my midterm project.”

Mateo and I exchange incredulous glances. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting Cal to deploy such deep denial, and it renders me momentarily speechless. “Dude, come on,” Mateo says, stepping in while I blink at Cal. “We saw.”

    “Saw me talking about school,” Cal says stubbornly. Mateo gives me a helpless look like, Well, I tried my best. Back to you, Ivy.

“Cal, you don’t seem to understand what we’re telling you,” I say. “It’s not like we just caught a glimpse of you and Ms. Jamison through the window. Remember that big potted fern next to your table?” I get a blank look in return, of course, because he was too busy staring into Ms. Jamison’s eyes. I could’ve tap-danced past them in a clown costume and he wouldn’t have noticed. “We were sitting behind it and heard your entire conversation. We know it’s her studio, and we saw the two of you holding hands.” Cal winces like he’d been hoping we’d shown up after that part. “She’s your mystery girl. So please stop pretending you left us to stew in a bar for an hour after our classmate died so you could talk about a school project.”

Cal has the grace to blush. “Okay. Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just really complicated. Nobody knows about me and her, because…”

I can’t help myself. “Because there shouldn’t be a you and her,” I blurt out. “She’s your teacher and she’s way too old.”

Cal’s face shutters in an instant. “We haven’t even done anything.”

“She has,” I say. Even without knowing specifics, I know she’s crossed a line.

His jaw tightens. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

My patience, already stretched thin, snaps. “Do you think her fiancé would?” I ask.

I try not to focus too much on my brother’s extracurricular activities, as a general technique for preserving my self-esteem, but I’ve gotten to know Coach Kendall over the years. He’s one of my parents’ favorite people at Carlton High, and he’s been coming to our Christmas open house since Daniel and I were freshmen. He brings the same thing every year—clumsily decorated cookies—and always asks me for an update on student council activities. Unlike most adults, his eyes don’t glaze over when I answer.

    He doesn’t deserve this, is my point.

“You might think you’re in some kind of real relationship, but you’re not,” I continue when Cal doesn’t reply. “Not even close.”

“Oh, really? Is it not even close?” Cal asks with a bitter laugh. “Well, I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?” His mouth tightens, and my stomach starts to sink. I know that look; I’ve pushed him too far. Cal almost never gets truly mean, but when he does—watch out.

He unfolds his arms and starts clapping softly. “Ivy Sterling-Shepard, ladies and gentlemen. Queen of relationship advice. Remind me, when was your last boyfriend?” Dread inches up my spine as his eyes flick toward Mateo and he adds, “Was it in eighth grade, when you planted one on Mateo and he never mentioned it again? Can’t blame him. He probably didn’t want to hear about it in excruciating detail like I did for two months straight.”