Aftermath(42)

Skye

Apparently, I’ve unleashed Jesse’s inner private eye.

The first text comes before I’m even home.

Jesse: did V say whr msg snt frm?

It takes a few moments to decipher that. I answer no, Mr. Vaughn didn’t say where the email had been sent from. That’s just the first text in a conversation that lasts into the night. Jesse peppers me with so many questions that I wonder if he’s trying to poke holes in my story. Maybe he got home and wondered if I could be losing my mind.

Then, just past ten, I get: cn i hv yr e-addy? I’m starting to understand what Mae must feel like, untangling my texts.

I send him my email address. A few minutes later I get a spreadsheet. An honest-to-goodness spreadsheet detailing everything I’ve told him, arranged into helpful columns. Well, helpful to him, I’m sure. I don’t process data this way, and I stare at it, thinking that I’m way too tired to figure this out.

And I’m thinking something else, too.

Why?

Why is he going through all this work to help me? Is he bored? Or does he think I still suspect him, and he’s bending over backward to clear his name?

I don’t know, but I’m not complaining. I need an ally, and he’s the only one applying for the position.

A text follows ten seconds after I open the spreadsheet.

Jesse: is tht e/t?

Me: can I buy a vowel?

Jesse: i gave u 2 :)

Jesse: I asked if that’s everything. did I miss anything?

I scan the spreadsheet and send back a thumbs-up emoji.

Jesse: does that mean I have e/t that happened 2 u?

Jesse: or just e/t u told me?

Me: it’s good.

Jesse: not an answer to the actual question asked.

Me: can we talk tomorrow?

Jesse: in other words, there’s more.

Me: I already feel I’m making too big a deal out of this. mountains from molehills, you know?

Jesse: look at the sheet. that’s not a molehill.

Me: can we talk tomorrow?

Jesse: sure. i don’t mean to nag.

Me: you’re not.

Jesse: tomorrow then. maybe i’ll send you GPS coords ;) still got that app?

Me: I’ll get it :)

A thumbs-up, and my phone goes silent.

I haven’t seen or heard from Jesse this morning. I’m trying not to read too much into that, but it still feels like the early days of our friendship, when we’d spend an hour messaging after school, and then I’d be on pins and needles the next day, waiting for that first moment of eye contact, that first smile, that first word.

If he is regretting his offer to help? I won’t lie and say that’s fine. But I can’t force friendship, old or new.

It’s lunchtime. I’m at my locker. I open it to see a folded sheet and smile. My mind is on Jesse so that’s who I immediately think it’s from. Then I see it’s a piece of all-purpose printer paper, just like the last note that got shoved into my locker.

This one reads: There’s more to the story. You know there is. Your brother isn’t a killer.

I’m staring at it when a voice says, “Hey,” and I shove the note into my pocket. It’s Jesse. He has his hood up, and his gaze shifts off to the side before it can meet mine. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he pauses a couple of feet away, as if he just happened to be passing and slowed for a drive-by greeting.

I smile. I can’t help it. I’m just relieved to see him. When I smile, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, shoulders hunching forward, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Hey,” he says. Then the faintest smile. “Again.”

“Hey back. What’re you up to?”

“Lunch. How about you?”

“Coincidentally, the exact same thing. Must be that time of day.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Apparently.” He knocks back his hood. “So… lunch.”

“Yep.”

“You eating?”

“That’s the usual procedure.”

“So I’ve heard. You bring something?”

“Jesse.” Chris walks up. “You joining us for lunch?”

“We’re going to grab food off-campus,” I say. “I think Chris is inviting you. Which I would have, but that’s awkward when it’s his car.”

“Nah,” Jesse says, then adds a belated, “Thanks. I’ve got plans. Just stopped by to see if after school’s good with you. For that thing.”

“It is. Text me?”

He nods to me, with another nod for Chris as he leaves. I’m reaching into my locker to shove my binder in when the note slips from my pocket. It falls open, and Chris frowns as he picks it up.

“Yeah,” I say as he hands it back. “I keep trying to convince myself they’re secretly love notes, but somehow, I just don’t think so.”

“This isn’t the first?” he says as we start walking.

I motion that I’ll answer once we’re out of the school, and I wait until we’re in the car. I don’t rush to reply even then, but he prompts with, “So, notes?”

“I’ve had a few,” I say. “Variations on a theme. The shooting is a lie. I’m a liar. I had something to do with the shooting. Blah-blah.”