One Small Thing(61)

“That’s bullshit.”

“Let it go,” he advises. “I’ll keep my nose clean and it won’t matter in the end.”

“What about Troy and Jeff?”

He shrugs again. “I stay out of their way.”

“You’ve stayed out of their way since school started. They’re the ones who are pushing themselves into your path.”

“Maybe so, but ignoring bullies is the best way to get rid of them. I know this from personal experience.” He emphasizes the word personal so I get the message that he’s referring to his time in juvie.

Rachel was always a person who believed in fairness. As long as a referee called a game fairly, she was okay with the outcome, even if the ref sucked. “He called it bad both ways,” she told me once after a game. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

I think she would’ve said that Chase had been punished and that we should all move on. I wonder if that can happen, though. For any of us.

I ask him, “Do you think that we—you and me—or my parents or your parents or the kids at school... Do you think any of us can put what happened to Rachel behind us?”

Chase takes a deep breath and ponders this. I like that he doesn’t answer immediately.

“Part of me would like that, but part of me believes it would be wrong. I don’t think I should ever forget my actions. If that means the bullies target me at school or I can’t get certain jobs or my future is somehow limited, I’m okay with that. I took someone’s life. Rachel can’t get a job or go to prom or sit in a class again.” He pauses and looks away.

Tears flood my eyes and I blink like crazy to keep them from falling. When Chase’s gaze returns to mine, his eyes are wet, too.

“If it means we can’t be friends, it’s a harder pill to swallow.” He gives me that killer half smile and slaps his hand on the roof of my car. “You should probably go home. I’ll catch you later.”

And with that, he leaves. He says those words—those thoughtful, heavy words—and then runs into his house!

I can’t believe it.

“Coward,” I mutter under my breath.

I start the engine and drive home. Not that I remember the drive. All I can think of are his words and how he mixed the bitter with the sweet.

At the side entrance, I stop and rest my forehead against the door. I don’t know what I’m going to find inside. I’m a bit scared, actually. It doesn’t sound like my parents are yelling at each other, but maybe they’re saving the yelling for my return. Maybe they’re standing behind this door, arms crossed, feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to go to battle.

But I don’t want to fight. I really don’t. Ten minutes with Chase and his impenetrable composure succeeded in relaxing me, in making me see reason. My parents crossed the line today, there’s no doubt about that. But screaming like a maniac and speeding off like an even bigger maniac isn’t going to win me any points.

We have to make peace. I know this. I just... I’m too tired to deal with the loud, angry words I know will come before the peace part.

When I walk inside, however, I’m not greeted with anything even remotely loud. I’m welcomed by grim silence and a staredown from my father.

He looms in the kitchen doorway, his dark, expressionless eyes making my knees feel weak. He holds his phone up, and even from five feet away, I can make out what he’s showing me. The screen shows a map and a green dot.

“Dad,” I start shakily.

He holds up his hand to silence me.

I shut up.

Barely restrained fury echoes in my father’s voice when he finally speaks.

“Stay away from Charles Donnelly or I’ll have him thrown back in prison.”





24

The next morning, Scarlett corners me at my locker before I can spin the combination lock.

“I don’t have the energy to fight right now” is the first thing I say, and we can both hear the fatigue in my voice.

I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I just lay in bed, thinking about Chase and my dad’s threat to send him back to jail. I don’t know how he’d ever even accomplish that, but my father is resourceful when he needs to be.

“I don’t want to fight,” Scarlett answers flatly.

“Good.”

“Good,” she shoots back.

I gently nudge her out of the way so I can open my locker. With my back to her, I grab my calculus textbook from the top shelf. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What a horrible person I am for defending him yesterday.” My back remains staunchly turned.

I hear a soft sigh, then feel a small cool hand on my shoulder. I stiffen, but Scarlett’s touch is soothing, not aggressive.

“I get why you did it, okay?”

I quickly face her. “You do?”

She smooths her reddish-brown hair, moving all of it so it hangs over one shoulder. She flat-ironed it today. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I love her big bouncy curls. For that matter, so does she. Scar always says how much she prefers curls to straight hair.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “He’s a rescue to you. Like those dogs you love so much at the animal shelter. You try to act like you’re all tough, but I know deep down you’re just a big softy. I mean, you cry at the drop of a hat. But...”