Lies You Never Told Me(41)

“Gabe, seriously,” Mom finally said. “Drop it. We don’t want to make more trouble. Let’s just be grateful it’s over.”

So I gave up trying to argue with them.

For her part, Sasha’s been on her best behavior since that night. No more Snaps. No more nocturnal visits. Just a radio silence that I find almost as unnerving.

“A dumb prank?” Catherine runs her fingers nervously through her hair. “Gabe, she faked a call to the office, pretending to be your mom, so she could take your little sister. That’s not a prank, that’s . . . really messed up.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m not even sure we should be here together. If she sees us . . .”

“Has she said something to you?” I look up sharply.

She frowns a little. “No. But she’s obviously not over you. And she’s obviously unstable. Gabe, I . . . I really like you, but I can’t afford this kind of drama.”

I lick my chapped lips, frustrated.

“She’s not dumb enough to keep escalating this. She came pretty close to getting busted by the cops last Friday. Trust me, it’s over,” I say.

Catherine looks at me skeptically, but she doesn’t answer. I put my arms around her and pull her to my chest.

“We shouldn’t be doing this out in the open,” she whispers, but she doesn’t pull away.

“No one’s down here. No one’s watching.” I press my lips to hers. The kiss is soft and lingering and for a moment nothing else in the world matters.

And then something we can’t ignore permeates.

“Gabriel Jiménez, Gabriel Jiménez.” The receptionist’s nasal voice blares over the intercom, just outside the door. “Please come to the principal’s office. Gabriel Jiménez, to the principal’s office.”

For a moment I stand still, listening. My stomach does a rapid roller-coaster drop. Last time I got a message from the office it was a trick. But the principal wouldn’t page me if there wasn’t something important going on.

Catherine looks up at me, her face stark and scared. “What’s going on?”

I gently disentangle myself from her. “I’d better go see.” I tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You should go inside.” I don’t add that I’m scared to leave her alone—I don’t want to freak her out even more.

“Are you going to be okay?”

I lean in to kiss her one last time, but I don’t answer her question. I don’t know how to.

When I arrive at the office, lunch is over, and the halls are clear. I pause at the receptionist’s desk, leaning over to announce myself, but before I can say anything the door to Principal DeGroot’s office swings open.

It’s not the principal who steps out. It’s Sasha.

It looks like she’s been crying. Her cheeks are pink and blotchy, and she has a balled-up tissue in her hand. When she sees me there, she pauses in the doorway for just a moment. Then she shakes her head, and hurries past me to the hall.

I watch her go, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.

Now Principal DeGroot fills the doorway, a heavy-jowled brick wall of a man. I’ve never had any run-ins with DeGroot before—the few times I’ve gotten in trouble have been minor enough to be handled by a detention or two. But Irene’s been in his office so often she might as well have a plaque on the door herself, and according to her, DeGroot’s a hard-ass, big on order and discipline, but not unwilling to listen.

“Mr. Jiménez?” I nod, trying to stay calm.

“Yes, sir.”

DeGroot opens his door a little wider and gestures for me to step in.

The room is dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents off and a handful of table lamps lighting the small room. A large tapestry on one wall depicts Waterloo’s rearing-mustang logo. The desk is almost spartan, empty except for a half-full coffee mug, a computer, a digital camera, and a bronze football-shaped paperweight. DeGroot moves behind his desk and lowers his bulk in a chair that looks way too small for him. It groans under his weight.

“Please, have a seat.” He nods to one of the simple wooden chairs on the far side of his desk. I sit down.

I can’t hold back any longer. “Is everyone okay?” I blurt. I’m on the edge of my chair, clutching at the sides of the seat with both hands. DeGroot, who’s still settling in, goes motionless.

“That’s an interesting question,” he says. “What makes you think someone might not be okay?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought maybe . . . maybe my family . . .”

The principal seems to be studying me carefully, his brow slightly furrowed. “So you have no idea why you’ve been called down here?” he asks. I shake my head.

For a long moment, the principal doesn’t say anything. I get the feeling he’s trying to wait me out—letting the moment drag on so I might say something. I shift my weight, unclench my fists from the sides of the chair and rest them in my lap as calmly as I can.

Finally, DeGroot picks up the camera. It’s an older model, large and heavy-looking. He starts pushing buttons. Then he holds it across the table toward me, screen-first.

I take it almost numbly. When my eyes adjust to the screen, my whole body gives a jerk of horror.

It’s a picture of a locker, hanging open, the door dangling by one hinge. The first thing I see is red. Red, dripping down the inside of the door. A red, pulpy mess, lumped on the bottom. On the small screen it looks like a pound of flesh. I stare down at it, my eyes trying to make sense of what I’m looking at, trying to parse out the image.