You'll Be the Death of Me(71)

    Then she slipped the key somewhere beneath her desk.

I cross the room to sit at the desk, sliding my hand beneath it. At first all I feel is cool metal and then—something raised. I tug at it, and pull a small, rectangular box from under the desk. It’s a magnetic case, and when I push against the top, a key pops out.

I fit the key into the bottom-drawer lock. It turns easily, and I pull the drawer open. Only I don’t see Lara’s inhaler.

Inside are dozens of plastic freezer bags filled with pill bottles. I don’t have to check the labels to know what they are, but I do it anyway.

You’re afraid of the wrong things. Ivy told me that once, a long time ago. I brushed her off, but maybe it’s true after all. These bags should scare the hell out of me—what they are, what they represent, what they mean in terms of what has to come next—but they don’t.

I stare at them in silence for a few seconds, thinking. Then I pick up one of the plastic bags, stuff it under my shirt, and head for the door.





IVY


I sit in my car in the empty Carlton High parking lot, put the key in the ignition, and turn over the engine. Just like I’ve done hundreds of times before. After that, though, it’s not an exaggeration to say that I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

My phone dings, startling me, and I look down. Flight 8802 is delayed due to air traffic, and is now scheduled to arrive at 6:00 p.m.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, imagining an alternate universe where my biggest worry would be the fact that I have to bring Mom’s outfit to the award ceremony. Instead of the very real possibility that the whole thing will be canceled once I’m arrested at the door.

I wonder if I should be proactive and call my parents. Will hearing from me as soon as they land make any of this better? Or should I catch up with Carlton Speaks first, and see how much worse the rumors have gotten since we left Charlie’s house? Or maybe I should call Mateo, and leave a long, rambling voicemail apology since there’s no way he’d pick up.

    I’m not calling Cal. To hell with him.

And Daniel…I don’t even know what to think about Daniel.

There’s something on Reddit called Am I the Asshole?, where people write in about personal conflicts and ask others to tell them who’s in the wrong. Sometimes it’s horrifying, sometimes it’s funny, but a lot of times it’s someone who’s genuinely confused about whether or not they’re the bad guy in a given situation. Now I’m running the last four years between me and Daniel through an AITA filter, wondering if all the things he did that I thought were deliberate and malicious were actually reactions. Or is Cal right, and Daniel was just manipulating me back there?

It’s tempting to think that—comfortable and familiar—but it’s not like I’m the world’s nicest person. I was just spite-voted out of student council office, after all, in favor of somebody who ran as a joke.

Boney. Oh my God, Boney.

I haven’t let myself cry about Boney all day, but the tears come now. I wrap my arms around the steering wheel and sob until my throat aches. I wish I could go back to yesterday afternoon, when the election results were announced, and congratulate Boney the way I should have. If I’d been a gracious loser, I would have insisted we meet this morning to discuss a transition plan, and he might never have gone to Boston. For once in my life, I could’ve used my infamous pushiness for good. Boney would be eating dinner with his parents right now, not lying cold in a morgue.

    “I’m sorry, Boney,” I choke out, the words a ragged gasp. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m almost cried out when my phone chimes again in my lap. I wipe at my eyes, and take a few long, deep breaths before picking it up. Whatever or whoever this is, I think, I’m going to do the right thing.

The text is from my brother. Hey, we broke down. Can you pick us up?

I blink at my screen as Daniel sends his location. He’s not far from here; somewhere on the edge of Carlton, it looks like.

I rub a palm across my still-wet cheeks. Cal really rattled me back in the classroom, tossing out all those wild theories about Daniel. It’s ridiculous; there’s no possible way my brother is involved with Ms. Jamison, or with drugs. He’d have to be a true master manipulator to pull that off, and I’d have to be a complete fool not to have seen it.

It’s weird about the sneakers, though. I had no idea they cost that much.

Ugh. No. I give myself a mental slap. Do the right thing, Ivy. Don’t sit here coming up with conspiracy theories while your brother needs help. I’ve been frozen with indecision since I got into my car, but here, finally, is something I can do.

On my way, I text back.





MATEO


It’s not even dark yet, but the party’s already in full swing when I park Mrs. Ferrara’s pristine 1980s Buick in front of the neat ranch house. All those years of shoveling out my elderly neighbor’s driveway finally paid off with an emergency loaner car. And thank God for that, because this would’ve been a hell of a walk and there wasn’t time for that.

Music spills from open windows, and the front yard is full of familiar faces. Carlton High students past and present are standing in clusters, some looking subdued and serious, others laughing like it’s just another night at Stefan St. Clair’s. The house is small for Carlton, and from what I’ve heard, Stefan has multiple roommates, but still. It’s a pretty great setup for a college freshman.