You'll Be the Death of Me(35)

“Do any of them know Boney?” Ivy interrupts, and that shuts him up.

I glance at the planner in Ivy’s hand. Now that it’s right in front of me, I have to admit that I’m curious. “Come on, Cal, let’s just take a look. If there’s nothing there, then we’re assholes.”

“You’re already assholes,” Cal mutters, but he doesn’t try to grab the planner, or take off. It seems like all the fight’s drained out of him, and I think I was right earlier: the guy is lonely as hell. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t keep going to the mat to defend Ms. Jamison. Ivy and I might be assholes, but right now, we’re the only friends he has.

“All right then,” Ivy says, flipping a page. “I’ll start at the beginning.”

I can’t see much from where I’m sitting, and Cal’s not looking, so for a few minutes it’s just Ivy turning pages and muttering to herself. She’s obviously not finding anything interesting, or she’d be waving it in our faces.

    “Exciting reading?” Cal finally asks, almost sounding amused.

“Her handwriting is incomprehensible,” Ivy complains. “It’s like she’s intentionally making this difficult.” She flips a page, and something rectangular slips out of one side. “Hmm,” she says, pulling it out the rest of the way.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Looks like a card,” Ivy says, holding the front toward me. It’s a painting of flowers overgrowing a building. “Pretty,” she says, flipping the card back toward her and Cal. “Looks impressionist.”

“The Garden at Bougival,” Cal says. “By Berthe Morisot. It’s Lara’s favorite painting.”

Ivy raises her eyebrows, like she’s clocking his use of Ms. Jamison’s first name, but all she says is “Let’s see if there’s anything inside.” She opens it, clears her throat, and reads, “Love you so much, angel. Let’s make it happen, D.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, her cheeks turn pink and she darts a glance at Cal. “Um,” she says. “So that’s…”

Cal looks nauseated. “Probably from Coach Kendall.”

Ivy gives him a tight smile. “Coach Kendall’s first name is Tom,” she says.

“Maybe it’s a nickname. Or the card is old,” Cal says. “Like from college or something.” His face is—God. He really shouldn’t be surprised at the possibility that Ms. Jamison has more than one guy on the side, but he clearly is, and it sucks to watch.

“Maybe,” Ivy says, looking supremely unconvinced. She closes the card and slips it back inside Ms. Jamison’s day planner. “Let’s file that away for—”

    “Hang on,” I interrupt as something catches my eye. Loose paper is poking out of the back of the book, and I grab hold of its corner and pull. It’s a thin sheaf of paper, stapled in one corner and folded twice. I unfold it and read the heading: “Carlton High Senior Class Roster. Alphabetical order, looks like. Zack Abrams, Makayla Austin…”

“Let me see,” Ivy says. She plucks it from my hand and scans the first page. Then she flips to the second, and sucks in a sharp breath. “Boney’s name is circled.”

“It is?” Cal and I both lean forward, and Ivy flips the paper between us. Sure enough: Brian Mahoney is ringed with bold red ink. “That’s weird,” Cal says, his mouth tightening.

Ivy takes the roster back and turns the page. There’s another name circled near the bottom, but I can’t read it upside down. “Charlie St. Clair,” she says with a perplexed frown. “Why would Ms. Jamison circle him?”

I stare at the sheet of paper. Charlie isn’t a guy I cross paths with often at Carlton High. He’s a jock, and he has an older brother who throws a lot of parties and is friends with Loser Gabe. He has a surfer-guy vibe, complete with an ever-present puka shell necklace, even though he’s spent his whole life in landlocked Carlton.

I never thought there was much more to Charlie St. Clair than that. And I wouldn’t think so now, either, if the name Charlie hadn’t flashed across Autumn’s screen this morning while we were standing on the porch having our ears assaulted by Loser Gabe.

Is he one of them? I’d asked.

The less you know, the better, she’d said.

I’m not sure what it means that there’s suddenly a connection between Boney, the woman whose studio he died in, and someone named Charlie. Maybe nothing.

    Maybe everything.

“Is Charlie into art?” Ivy asks Cal. My poker face must be working, because neither of them are paying any attention to me.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never had a class with him, anyway. Is he friends with Boney?”

“No,” Ivy says with the firmness of someone who’s held enough class offices to know the school’s social dynamics by heart.

“Okay, well, that’s random.” Cal taps the edge of the paper. “This page ends with Tessa Sutton. Is there another one?”

“Yeah,” Ivy says, flipping again.

There’s only a quarter page of names, the last of the alphabet. I see another red circle right away, but once again, I can’t read the name. Ivy and Cal exchange startled glances, though, so it must mean something to them.