Aftermath(18)

“Have you considered getting more involved in school life?” Mr. Vaughn asks.

“What?”

“Once you’re settled. Join a club or two. That will help.”

Because, really, if I feel tormented, it’s my own fault for not trying harder to fit in. I remember in grade school, sitting in detention hall and overhearing a teacher tell a boy that when he complained of being bullied. Not saying it was his fault, per se, but like Mr. Vaughn, suggesting he put himself out there more, let kids get to know the real him.

I flash back to seeing the boy leave that room, head bowed with shame, cheeks flaring as he realized it’d been overheard. I remember mouthing “She’s an idiot,” with appropriate gestures, and he smiled. That boy? Chris Landry.

I was never bullied as a kid. I would like to think I never bullied anyone, either, but having now been in these shoes, I’m not always so sure. I tried to be kind. But were there other kids, less likable than Chris, who may have been a target of my clever jabs? I hope not. I really do.

“Skye?”

I nod for Mr. Vaughn. It’s that or tell him where to shove his patronizing suggestion, and I’m really not keen on another detention. Even thinking about it makes my stomach twist.

I was locked in here on Monday. I know that. Just like I know I didn’t send this email. Like I know I heard those girls say they signed that petition.

But I also heard them again… when there’d been no one around.

“Your middle school record says you were on the softball team, volleyball and the debating club. It’s volleyball season, and I know our girls’ team could use extra players. Why don’t I tell Coach Greene to expect you for tryouts —”

“I’m joining the school paper.”

“Oh?” He smiles. “That is an excellent idea. I saw that you won a city writing competition in Riverside. The paper would be thrilled to have you. In fact, I think this is their meeting day. Do you know where their office is?”

“No, but —”

“Go down this hall and make a left. Then a right. It’s a tiny room – blink and you’ll miss it. A former janitorial closet, actually.” He chuckles. “But most schools don’t even get a dedicated newspaper office, so the club’s quite pleased with it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow and see how it went.”

Skye

Apparently I’m joining the newspaper. I text Mae to say I’ll be late – I was wrong about the meeting time. Then I follow Mr. Vaughn’s directions… and spend the next ten minutes hunting for the office. Seems he can’t tell his left from his right. He’s correct, too, that it’s easy to miss the office. It’s just a printed sign posted beside the door, announcing HOME OF THE RIVCOL TIMES!

I knock. Knock louder. Look around, and then crouch to peer under the door. It’s dark inside. I try the knob, to be sure, but it’s locked from the outside.

I look at the sign and see, in faded print, JOIN US! WEEKLY MEETINGS THURSDAY 3:30 P.M. LEADS WELCOME.

Today is Wednesday. I sigh, heft my bag and head down the hall. As I walk, a text comes in from Mae.

Her: Pizza night? You like pizza, right? Silly question. You’re a teen, right? LOL

I wince at that, but I do like pizza, and I know she’s trying.

Me: sounds good

Her: How about a movie rental? I’ll stop by the store.

Me: they still have those?

Pause. Pause.

Me: I usually rent online, but if u’d rather pick up…

Her: No, we’ll rent online. You’ll just need to show me how. :) Do you like romantic comedies?

Me: they still make those?

“It’s a lie, you know,” a girl says down a side hall.

My gaze shoots up, away from my screen.

The girl continues. “Her brother shot all those kids, but her family has money. They bought off the cops. Made them blame the other guys. That’s what I heard.”

“And her mom’s crazy. Everyone knew that. The whole family’s got problems. Even Luka.”

“Especially Luka. I went to summer drama school, just to get to know him. And I did get to know him… I got to know he was weird. Seriously weird. When I heard he was the one who shot those kids, I knew it was true.”

I’m frozen in place. Frozen on the outside – boiling on the inside.

My brother didn’t shoot anyone. And buying off the cops? Seriously? We aren’t rich. We just have enough money that we could pick up and get the hell away from people like this. People who call a woman who’s clinically depressed “crazy.” People who call an amazing, quirky guy “weird.”

My phone dings with an incoming text, and I look down to see two from Mae. I sign off fast and start walking.

I’m not going to stand here and pretend I don’t hear. Not this time.

As I march toward the voices, they fall to whispers, as if the girls hear someone coming. They’re right around the next corner. I wheel past the lockers and — The hall is empty.

“I hear she got kicked out of her last school.” The voice comes from around the next corner. “They found her with a gun.”

I march toward the voices. Around the corner and…

The hall is empty.

“Are you serious?” The voice comes from farther down. I’ve misjudged. It’s so quiet that they sound closer than they are.