Puddin'(19)

Slowly, I reexamine every detail from last night. We wore all black and a mix of ski masks and molded Halloween masks. I twisted my hair into a sloppy bun and donned a Richard Nixon mask Jill had in her truck, among the piles of masks she’d stolen from her brothers. None of us were even slightly recognizable.

I’ve gutted my phone for any text messages that might incriminate me, and I should tell everyone else to do the same. But isn’t covering up evidence somehow even worse? And don’t they have technology to recover deleted stuff from phones?

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. A chilling sense of resignation settles down my spine. What happened last night is done. I can’t change that. I can only protect my team and whatever shot we have left at State and Nationals.

“Well, that’s just awful,” says my mom as she hangs up the phone. “You know that little gym, Down for the Count? The new one behind the Chili Bowl?”

I nod but keep my eyes focused on my work. If anyone will notice something’s up with me, it’s my mom. “I think so.” The words feel like nails on a chalkboard.

“Well, that was Todd Michalchuk, and he says his brother-in-law owns the place and his daughter, Millie . . . you know Millie. That . . . bigger girl who was in the pageant last year with you. She’s such a gem. Does the announcements for me every morning. I was worried about her this morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well, she was opening the gym up for her uncle and found the whole place ransacked. They’re not sure if people were looking for money or what, but the place is trashed.” She sighs. “Things like that just don’t happen here.”

I’d hoped that somehow this whole thing would exist in a bubble and never work its way back to me, but suddenly it’s here. It’s simply a matter of time before this is the only thing the entire town is talking about.

Because Mama is right. Our local police department keeps busy with things like drunk drivers and domestic disputes. As trite as it sounds, this is the type of place where you can leave your doors unlocked. In Clover City, an incident like this is front-page news.

I am front-page news.

She sits down at her computer and opens up her attendance software to mark Millie as having an excused absence. “I tell you,” she says, “little places like this can only hide from big-city crime for so long. It’s like watching a way of life become extinct like the damn dinosaurs.” After a moment, she adds, “I hope they find whoever is responsible and lock ’em up for a good long while.”

Later that day, I excuse myself from US History to take the attendance slip to the office, mainly as an excuse to eavesdrop on any possible gossip related to the incident at the gym. I can barely sit still or even process my surroundings. Words melt together until all I hear is a low, dull buzz. Mouths open, and all I hear is static.

On my way back to class, I stop in the bathroom, and as I’m walking out of the stall, the door swings open, and there’s Melissa, still in the same black clothes she wore last night. Her eyes are wide and crazed, like she’s just been roaming aimlessly for the last twelve hours.

“We need to talk,” she says, still framed by the doorway of the stall. She yanks me by the elbow and pulls me into the narrow space, locking the door. I wedge myself into one of the corners.

“You disappeared last night,” I say, my voice low.

She squats down to check for feet in the other stalls before whispering, “Well, when it went from a silly prank to an actual breakin, I figured the dance team wasn’t really worth having a criminal record.”

The minute that window broke, Melissa was gone. All anyone saw were her taillights leaving the parking lot. I notice the dark circles beneath her eyes. But I can’t find it in me to feel even a little bit sorry for her. “So what’s there to talk about then?” I ask. “Besides you totally ditching us. Sam had to squeeze Natalie and Gretchen into her backseat with three other girls, by the way, because you weren’t around to give them rides after driving them there in the first place.”

“So there weren’t enough seat belts!” she says. “What’s another broken law after breaking and entering?”

I roll my eyes, trying to maintain the cool and collected exterior I’m known for. “No one’s gonna find out it was us.” Though saying it out loud makes me realize how unsure of that I actually am. “That place didn’t even have a working camera.”

“You know I can’t get in trouble again,” she says through gritted teeth.

Ah, yes. In eighth grade, before Melissa had transformed into a pretty little rule follower with dance-team ambitions, she was caught shoplifting thousands of dollars’ worth of designer cosmetics, sunglasses, and clothing from Levine’s department store. She had to do endless hours of community service and even had a parole officer.

“How do you know for sure the camera wasn’t working?” she asks.

“There wasn’t a little blinky light,” I say. The moment the words are out of my mouth I feel silly.

She throws her hands up. “That means literally nothing.”

“You’re overreacting,” I tell her. But all I want to do is flail right back at her, because I smell a rat. “And you smell guilty . . . and like BO.”

“I saw the sheriff in the front office during my lunch period.”