People Like Us(40)
Honestly, I don’t know which one is worse.
After Megan committed suicide in the girls’ locker room, officers interviewed every female student in eighth and ninth grade. Then, when they found her video suicide note posted online, they interviewed me again. And again. And again.
Her parents had it removed immediately, before I could see it, and the cops never let me know if or how it referred to me. Maybe it didn’t mention me at all. But they kept asking me questions. What did I know about her relationship with my brother? Did she tell me anything about the pictures? Did she show me the pictures? Did Todd show me the pictures?
That was the thing. I never saw the pictures at all.
A bunch of ninth-and tenth-grade boys saw them, and some of the girls. Megan was in ninth grade, and she knew a lot of them. But I didn’t. I never saw any of the pictures and I never spoke to anyone who did. I only had that one moment, that shock out of the blue when she told me she had taken them and sent them to him, and he had sent them to everyone, and in that split second between our friendship being everything and nothing, all I could think to say was “I’m sure it was an accident.”
I never had a chance to fix things between us because she never spoke to me again.
When I crept into his room later, he looked sick and pale and scared and he said someone stole his phone. Todd, the oldest friend I had. The one who gave me soccer, my saving grace, my ticket out of Hillsdale and into Bates. The kid who got his teeth knocked out standing up for me when Jason Edelman called me a dyke in fourth grade, when I didn’t know what that word meant.
What the fuck was I supposed to say in that three-second window?
And that’s what I told myself, and the police. Someone stole his phone. Someone stole his phone.
If you say something enough times, it becomes true.
The tricky part is that sometimes you need to fill in details that may not have been there before in order to make the truth real.
Maybe I wasn’t with Todd when the pictures were being sent out. Maybe I didn’t drive around with him looking for his stolen phone. Maybe I didn’t find it with him, hours after the pictures had been sent.
But none of those truths I created were inconsistent with what I believed. Which were that he did lose his phone and drive around looking for it, and he didn’t deserve to have his life ruined just because he didn’t have an alibi. If Todd took the blame, I could never prove to Megan that what I said to her was okay. That it really was someone else who hurt her. And when I found that person, they would pay in blood.
Only it was Megan who paid.
Then Todd.
And then I was alone.
12
Nola and I hole up on the top floor of the library on Saturday night to study and unlock the next recipe. It’s a long weekend because of Veterans Day, and virtually everyone is taking advantage of the bonus study time. Most of the building is packed with people preparing for midterms, but up here it’s quiet as usual. It’s slowly become our personal hangout, our refuge from the noise and drama that Bates Academy has evolved into. No one can shut up about the cat or the murder or Dr. Klein’s slowly deteriorating physical appearance for five seconds. People have started to whisper and stare at me, and players are showing up late or not at all for practice. I haven’t spoken to Cori since our awkward dinner or Maddy since our coffee date, and I’ve been successful at ducking Brie’s calls. Luckily, she’s been buried under a pile of books in preparation for the coming midterms, and she usually studies in her room. This weekend is also her and Justine’s one-year anniversary. It would have been Spencer’s and mine, too. Right now Brie is in New York, probably eating tiny portions of foods I can’t pronounce in a restaurant where they serve champagne instead of water and give you massages at your seat. I ate a doughy square of microwave pizza from the athletic center’s snack machine as I jogged to the library after practice. It burned the roof of my mouth.
Everything is the worst.
Nola and I settle into the big overstuffed green chair together, and Nola positions her laptop so we can both see the screen.
“I brought snacks.” I open a bottle of grapefruit soda, pour it into two paper cups, and break a giant chocolate chip cookie in half. Fuck Spencer. And Brie and Justine and their fancy anniversary weekend. I’ve got Nola, refined sugars, and revenge from beyond the grave.
“Thanks.” She bites into one as she opens the website and password-decoding software, and types into it rapidly. The word b@ckf1r3 appears. She enters it into the website and clicks on the link to the side dish. The oven opens, revealing the recipe for Prueba Con Coriander, and the timer begins.
Got a tough one? Don’t despair!
You only fail if you play fair.
She’s the one who knows what’s fore
Time to settle up the score
Knock another castle down
Watch the queen fall to the ground.
“Cori would be the obvious target.” I read it again. “Isn’t prueba a proof or test?”
Nola frowns critically. “She plays golf, so she ‘knows what’s fore.’ These puns are getting overbearing. What’s the castle and the queen? A chess reference? Castling only works on kings. Does Cori have a secret girlfriend?”
“Cori is the castle. Once we knock her out, the queen is left open. Doesn’t play fair. Test scores. So, what, she has test answers in her locker?” For some reason, this pisses me off. She’s never offered to help me, and she knows I struggle. Not that I would cheat. But why wouldn’t she offer?