Made You Up(55)

I slid out of my seat and hurried across the room. “Are you okay?”

Are you okay? is probably one of the top five stupidest questions ever. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s easier to use a tiny bit of common sense. However, in the current situation I could think of nothing better to say, because “I am so sorry for putting IcyHot in your underwear” is not the first thing you want to tell a person who does not, in fact, know that you were the one who put IcyHot in his underwear.

Tucker folded his hands in his lap as if he’d finally realized he looked like a rabid monkey. “No,” he said. “I woke up this morning and felt like I was on an acid trip. I’m itching all over and I don’t know why.” He leaned closer, shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. “And it feels like someone set my underwear on fire.”

I pressed my fist to my forehead, my stomach twisting itself into knots.

“I know what happened,” he began. I stared at him in horror, but he kept going. “Not the specifics, but I know what happened and why. And I know it was Richter. I know it was him, because he’s the only person who could get in and out of my house in the middle of the night without tripping the alarm. At least, he’s the only person who would do it for the sole purpose of screwing with me.”

Tucker shot a glare over my shoulder at Miles. “Look at him; he’s not even subtle about it. He’s staring right at us now.”

I didn’t look. “It can’t be that bad, right? What happened?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. My alarm went off an hour late, and everything’s been going wrong since. I got halfway to school and my car broke down.” Tucker paused for a moment to absentmindedly scratch his chest. “There was more than one person helping him, I think— Richter never did understand cars—probably someone in that club . . .”

Tucker stopped again.

“You didn’t . . . you didn’t help him, did you?”

Maybe it took me a second too long to answer. Maybe I looked in the wrong direction, or pulled a little too hard on my hair. But understanding washed over Tucker’s face before I could start blurting out denials. He turned his whole body away from me.

Why had I hesitated? Why hadn’t I done what I’d planned to do and told him everything?





Chapter Twenty-seven




By lunch, the story of what happened in Mr. Gunthrie’s class had spread to the entire school. Claude’s nose was swollen and bruised, and he winced every time he tried to talk. Stacey hadn’t returned from the nurse, but Britney walked around complaining about Celia’s bitchiness to anyone who would listen. I was 90 percent sure Celia herself had gotten suspended. Again.

I didn’t see Tucker for the rest of the day, and it made me hate myself. I mean, forget that there wouldn’t be another library trip to look up anything about McCoy, or any more conspiring at Finnegan’s. I should’ve asked Miles whose house it was. And I knew Miles had been at least a little right when he’d called me a hypocrite for saying it was wrong just because it was Tucker. It should’ve been wrong no matter who it was. But I’d done it anyway.

By seventh period chemistry, the last thing I wanted to do was stand at a lab table for fifty minutes with Miles. I’d avoided talking to him all day, but the lab forced me to relay data about chemical reactions with certain types of metals so he could write it down. I don’t know why he didn’t just do it himself—the samples were easy enough to examine—but after every reaction he stood there looking at me, waiting for the result.

Apparently, this made him think I’d forgiven him. After class he followed me all the way to the lockers and then to the gym, quiet, until we saw Celia being led from the main office by her father and the school security guard.

“Celia was never like this before,” Miles said. “She liked to bother me, but she never did anything to other people. I think something strange is going on, but I don’t know what.”

I turned and looked at the glass display case outside the gym, as if I couldn’t care less about him or Celia. “You seem to be under the impression that I’m talking to you.”

“You were in chemistry,” said Miles.

“So we could do our lab.”

I heard his molars grinding together. “Fine. I’m sorry.” He said the word through gritted teeth. “Are you happy now?”

“Sorry for what?” I looked at Scarlet’s picture again. The thing was entirely scribbled over in red now. I wished I had Finnegan’s Magic 8 Ball.