Aftermath(43)

His brows shoot up. “You?”

“Apparently.”

“Are you sure that’s what they mean? That one didn’t look like the sender was blaming you personally.”

“I’ve had a couple that were pretty unequivocal on that point.”

It takes a moment before he starts the car. “That’s weird. How are they saying you’re invol —?” He shakes his head. “No, never mind. That’s too ridiculous to even waste breath on. Any idea who it is?”

“No, I…” I slow as the note triggers something. “Actually, I might. On Saturday, I had a run-in with three seniors who tried to tell me Jamil Mandal was involved in the shooting.”

“What?”

I ratchet back the passenger seat. “They said Luka, Isaac and Harley acted to stop Jamil from doing something. Honestly, I was afraid to ask what they meant. I don’t know if it was just random crap or if there was some racism happening. Does Jesse get hassled much for that?”

“Not as far as I know, but I’m sure there’s some, depending on what’s in the news, you know?”

“I do. I think those guys were just spoiling for a fight and lashing out at whatever was convenient. But they’re definitely the type who like causing trouble, so they may have decided I make a good target, too, and started dropping off those notes.”

“Could be. Have you considered, though, that maybe there’s truth there? Not about Jamil, of course. Or about you being involved. But about there being more to the story. I have no doubt Isaac and Harley did it. But Luka was different. He wasn’t the type —”

“No.”

“So you don’t ever wonder —?”

“I mean no, let’s not go there. Please.”

Silence. He drives a block, and then says in a low voice, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know there are questions, but I don’t want to ask them. I’m afraid the answers won’t be what I want, and I’m afraid I don’t have the right to ask.”

“You absolutely have the right —” He stops short. “And that’s not what you’re saying. You’re telling me to drop it, as nicely as possible. So, how do you feel about diners?”

I glance over at him.

“I’m changing the subject very awkwardly,” he says. “We went to McDonald’s last week. We can go there again, or there’s a diner across the road. Your choice.”

“Is it one of those places with the greasy burgers that I’ll slop all over my shirt?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Perfect.”

We’re still at lunch when I get a text from Jesse canceling our after-school meet. He forgot he had track practice. I pop back a quick no problem and we can reschedule. He doesn’t respond, but I won’t read anything into that.

Jesse isn’t in math class. I won’t read anything into that, either. This morning, I started fretting, and he showed up at my locker, proof I’d overreacted.

I’ll text him tonight, after dinner, and only to pass on the math homework. Not pushing to reschedule. Not checking that he hasn’t changed his mind. Nope, that’d be paranoid and silly. I won’t even ask why he missed class. I’ll just text to helpfully pass along the homework. And then I’ll stare at my phone until he replies.

For the sake of retaining a shred of dignity, I’ll pretend I don’t leave class mentally composing that text, making sure nothing could be misread into it.

When my phone typewriter-dings with an incoming text, I yank it out, hoping it’s Jesse responding to my — It’s from a blocked number. I take a deep breath as I tap the thread. The videos came from a fake number, not a blocked one, so I’m hoping this is just spam or —

Hey, Skye. Heard you’re on the newspaper crew. Also heard some morons have been saying you set that fire. I think I can help you find the real culprit. I remember Jesse saying once that you guys would communicate in GPS coordinates, so let’s do that ;) Meet me at these ones at 4 PM today.

I try sending back a response. Of course it doesn’t go through. I consider. I check my watch. Then I take off.

Jesse

Jesse is running laps again. He told his parents he was seeing Skye after school, and his dad is working from home today, meaning Jesse can’t show up at four o’clock. Also, he did tell Skye he had training. So he hasn’t lied.

No, he totally lied. And now he’s running as fast as he can, pain shooting down his calves as he pushes harder, waiting for that moment when he’s so exhausted he can’t think anymore.

That moment isn’t coming nearly fast enough.

“Hey! Jesse!”

He looks over to see Chris Landry by the stands.

Jesse turns his attention forward and hunkers down, pushing to his limit. When he comes around the curve, his gaze is focused straight ahead.

Sorry, Chris, don’t see you there. Otherwise, I’d stop.

Chris moves onto the track… where Jesse cannot possibly miss him. Then he puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. When Jesse looks, though, Chris only motions that he’ll be waiting in the stands until Jesse is done.

Jesse curses under his breath.

He knows what Chris is here to talk about, and Jesse does not want to have this conversation. He likes Chris. One of Jesse’s earliest memories of Skye is in fourth grade. A few older kids picked Chris as their target of the year. Jesse noticed but – and this makes him a little sick to his stomach – he didn’t pay much attention. In fact, if pressed, he might admit he was just glad the kids hadn’t targeted him. He never had problems with that, but he was always braced for it, feeling as if it was only a matter of time before others picked up on whatever made Jamil hate him so much.