The Cheerleaders(51)

“You’re not asking. When have you ever asked me for help?” Ginny’s cheeks are blooming pink. “I offered help. I want to help you.”

The area behind my eyes gets tight. “Why, though? Why me? I’m not like Jen.”

I stop short of saying I’m not good like her. I would sooner die than hear Ginny lie to my face and tell me I am like her, and I am good.

But Ginny doesn’t lie. I know that much. She simply looks at me and says, “It’s not really you I’m helping. Jen deserved better. All those girls did.”

I don’t know what to say; I glance down at the stage, where Mike is adjusting the microphone for the assembly. Behind him, the female officer is clicking through a PowerPoint of gruesome accident-scene photos, making sure the projector is in focus.

Mike taps the microphone, sending a shriek of feedback through the auditorium. It draws the entire room’s attention to the stage. Principal Heinz steps around Mike to speak into the microphone. “Ladies and gents, quiet down! Officers Mejia and DiBiase were kind enough to give their time—”

He’s drowned out by the swell of noise in the room. Mrs. Coughlin, who has stationed herself at the bottom of the upper level, sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out a piercing whistle that shuts us all up.

“You will give these officers your complete attention,” she says, before taking a seat.

Onstage, Mike clears his throat. I keep my eyes locked on him, my head swimming. While he’s introducing Officer DiBiase, who elicits approving hoots from the guys in the room, I lean over and whisper in Ginny’s ear, “How the hell are we going to get him out of that station for more than a few minutes?”

Ginny is staring at the PowerPoint on the screen, at the image of a mangled car. “Isn’t it obvious?”



* * *



—

On Friday night, Petey and I pile into the back of Tom’s car. He puts an arm around my mom’s seat while he backs out of the driveway; she twists away from him, one hand patting her French twist self-consciously.

Tom’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Whose house am I driving to? Thing One’s or Thing Two’s?”

“Neither,” I say. “I’m staying with my friend Ginny.”

“Ginny? Who’s Ginny?” Tom turns to my mother.

“I met her the other day,” Mom says. “She’s on dance team with Monica. She seems like a sweet girl.”

Petey opens his mouth, no doubt to chime in and tell Tom about our excursion to the library with Ginny, and I kick his ankle. “Make a right out of the driveway. She’s number eighty-four.”

“On this street?” Tom sounds surprised.

“I told Mom I could walk.”

My mother is silent; I know she didn’t trust me to go straight to Ginny’s or even to go to Ginny’s at all, but she won’t dare say it in front of Tom.

Less than a minute later, Tom pulls over in front of Ginny’s house. The sight of the car in the driveway makes me exhale. She’s home from driving her mom to work, so my parents won’t grill me about whether or not there’s an adult home.

“Yup, see you tomorrow, bye.” I’m stumbling out of the backseat when my mother says my name.

“Are you sure Ginny’s mother is home?” she asks.

“Yeah, that’s her car.” I hike the strap of my dance bag up my shoulder. My mother chews the inside of her cheek. I know she wants to hassle me, get out of the car and ring the doorbell and see for herself, but Petey is shouting “It’s six thirty-three and you told Grandma we’d be there at six-thirty!”

Mom sighs. “Please come home when you wake up tomorrow.”

“Got it. Bye.” I wave one last time before slamming the door. Tom pulls away and I walk up the driveway, heart battering against my ribs at the close call.

Ginny opens her front door before I can knock. A black and white cat at her feet takes one look at me and bolts down the hall.

“Hi.” She ushers me into the kitchen off the hallway, knocking into a table in the foyer in the process. A picture frame falls over; I reach to right it, but Ginny tells me not to worry about it—to just leave it. I realize she must have been at the window when we pulled up, waiting for me.

Ginny stops short and turns to me, as if she’s forgetting something. “Did you eat dinner? I could make something….”

“I think if I tried to eat something right now, I’d projectile vomit.”

She gives me a small smile. “Good, because I feel the same.”

I use the bathroom off the kitchen—it’s my third nervous pee break in the last hour. When I’m done, Ginny is sitting at her kitchen table. The cat climbs the back of her chair and leaps onto the table.

I keep my distance as I take a seat. “What’s his name?”

“Panda,” Ginny says. “She’s a girl.”

One side of her face is black, and I can see how she got her name. She sits up on the table and glares at me. Cats don’t trust me. I honestly don’t blame them.

“I hate using Mike like this,” I tell Ginny. “I can’t stop thinking about how he’ll feel when you make the nine-one-one call.”

“It’ll be okay,” she says. “There might be another officer on duty tonight, and we can’t risk someone else other than Mike taking the call. He’ll realize soon enough it was a false alarm.”