Aftermath(24)

“I’m not.”

“Which is why I’m offering to take you to Mickey D’s, where I can use my employee discount. I’d hope I could do better than that on an actual date. I just figured…” He shrugs. “I haven’t seen you in the cafeteria at lunch. It can be awkward if you don’t have anyone to sit with yet.”

My cheeks heat. “I’ve been in the library. Working.”

“Good idea. You know what I used to do when the guys were giving me a rough time?” He lowers his voice. “Eat in a bathroom stall.”

My cheeks go redder, but he just continues walking and says, “I’ve got my mom’s car today, and the McDonald’s I work at isn’t the one closest to the school, so it’ll be nice and quiet. My treat. Discount and all.”

I shake my head. “Your treat is driving. Lunch is on me. But I will take your discount.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Jesse shows up for math. He comes in late, and as soon as the bell rings, he’s gone without ever looking my way. I head to my locker. When I open it, a sheet flutters out. A folded piece of paper with typed words on it.

I think of the leads. Of the sheets pushed under the door. I want to shove this back into my locker and go get Mr. Vaughn.

See? Do you see what’s happening?

I see that there’s a note in your locker, Skye… and the only person with the combination is you.

I check the locker door. There are vents in the top. The note has been shoved through them. That won’t matter to Vaughn. He’ll only see that the most likely culprit is the girl who owns this locker.

I take a deep breath and open the note.

THERE’S MORE TO THE STORY.

I stare at it. Read it again.

It’s the same stuff pushed under the door of the newspaper office.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

YOU’VE FOOLED THEM.

YOU DON’T FOOL ME.

Random nonsense meant to get my attention. There’s no point even racking my brain to think of what I could have done. I’ve only been here a week. Give me time.

The fact that the other notes came along with a newspaper headline from the shooting seems to suggest that was the accusation: I played a role in the shooting. But I don’t even know where to start with that. It’s just too bizarre.

THERE’S MORE TO THE STORY.

More to the shooting? Something this person believes I did? Or is this a different person accusing me?

Do kids here think I knew what my brother had planned? I heard that at my other schools.

She must have known something.

He was her brother. She lived with him. Of course she knew something.

Everyone has secrets. Luka more than others, it seems, as much as it hurts to realize I didn’t even know him well enough to suspect he was angry.

Put that back in the trunk. Close the lid. Add padlocks.

I crumple the note into my pocket. I have no idea who’s doing this, but I do know who I saw in the hall last night. I can solve that mystery.

Jesse isn’t coming to me, but I know where to find him: at the track meet.

Skye

When I reach the stands, I hear the pound of running feet and the cheers of the crowd, and I hesitate. I want to linger in the back. Wait for him to finish.

I don’t want to watch Jesse run.

I’m afraid I’ll look out on that field, and I won’t see any of my Jesse left. Instead, I’ll see Jamil.

This is what I’ve feared since our first encounter at RivCol. My first time seeing the Jesse who was not my Jesse. The Jesse who shunned me. Who drove me off when I tried to apologize. The Jesse who has become an asshole.

Like his brother.

I’ve told myself that’s silly. That first day in math, Jamil would have curled his lip and fired a devastating insult. But what Jesse did felt the same. Maybe even worse. If he’d insulted me, I might have found enough of the old Skye to fire back a volley and save my dignity.

But just because Jesse has taken up track doesn’t make him a jock like his brother. Jamil was all about the sexy sports, the ones where the girls waved pom-poms and drooled over his biceps and six-pack. Football, mainly, but in the off-season, he’d grace other teams with his talent, if they showed proper admiration for it.

After the shooting, it was Jamil’s photo on every article, one of him hoisting his latest MVP trophy, accompanied by the mournful line that the city’s best football prospect was among those slain. Forget the other three victims. Forget Leanna, the state science fair winner with the Ivy League scholarship. Forget Nella Landry, who’d gotten an internship at the governor’s office for her advocacy work. Forget Brandon Locklear, who’d been holding down two after-school jobs to support his baby. We lost a football star. That’s the takeaway here.

It was as if Jamil’s egotism reached beyond the grave and swiped aside anyone who might steal his thunder. Just like he did in life, even with his own brother. Particularly with his own brother.

The Jesse I knew – the quiet, sweet, studious boy – is gone. In his place is a star athlete who doesn’t give a crap about school, who’ll shun a former friend in front of the entire class, who’ll sneer and send her on her way when she apologizes to him. All of which perfectly sums up another boy. One I loathed for how he treated his little brother.

If Jesse has become another Jamil, I can’t hide from that.