Gone Too Far (21 page)

The halftime buzzer rings while the crowd's still cheering, the sound rattling my teeth and hammering into my bones. I push myself forward on numb, trembling legs.

Manny doesn't try to break my gaze. Neither of us says a word as I move closer. I don't ask. I drop my bag, freeing my other hand to reach into his jacket pocket with a look that dares him to stop me.

He doesn't. He doesn't even look away. I rummage through his pocket like it's my own, and he stands there, jaw ticking as I catalog the contents. Keys. Wallet. And then the thing I'm looking for. A second phone.

My cheeks ache the same way they do when I'm about to be sick. I pull it out anyway.

It's small and cheap-looking. I've seen phones like this hanging under bright No-Contract-No-Problem and Buy-Minutes-Here signage. I stab at the buttons until the screen blooms to life. It isn't hard to find the message inbox. But it's hard to see the string of messages. Most of them from me.

Something in my chest cracks. I think it's something I need.

“Piper—”

“Don't!” I hold up a hand to stop him, his phone still clutched in my grip.

I shake my head because I will not let him try to make this something else. I will not sit here, weak and desperate for my best friend to prove how this isn't him lying to me. Using me.
Blackmailing
me.

The halftime show is swinging into gear, and we can't do this here. No chance of that. I grab Manny's sleeve, and half pull, half drag him behind me. I don't know why I think he'll follow, but he does.

We cross the gymnasium floor behind the bleachers and step into the narrow hallway, the one that leads to the locker rooms. My sweaty fingers stay locked on Manny's hoodie as we slip further down the hallway, past an equipment closet and one of several access points to the basketball court. It smells like sweat and perfume and the popcorn that's fallen through the bleachers. I crunch over a few pieces, hearing Manny right behind me.

Where
now?
I move right past the boys' locker room, heading for the only quiet place I can think of. The one place no one would be during a boys' basketball game: the girls' locker room.

“We're going to do this in the girls' locker room?” Manny asks.

I spin on him, feeling heat and color flare through my face. “I don't think we have a Betrayal and Confrontation room.”

He tries to laugh, but even he can't make this funny. It's tragic. And there's no stopping the tears now. I smear them off my cheeks with angry swipes.

“How could you?” I ask. “You used me. You hurt Tacey!
Tacey
, Manny! And my dad…” I trail off, so angry I can't find the right words fast enough. “They used to babysit you! You got off the bus at my house for an entire year when your dad was training in Chicago.”

I can see him closing off, arms crossing. “I didn't
do
anything! If you're going to get pissed about your dad's extracurricular activities, get pissed with him. I didn't mean to bump into that scene in town. But I did take a picture, because I thought you'd want to know.”

“Yes, that's exactly how I'd hope a good friend would reveal something like that. A big dose of reality delivered with blackmail and threats.”

He scrubs a hand over his head, his cheeks pink. “It's complicated. Jackson was onto me. I got him off my trail for a while when I got you off of Tate and onto Kristen, but in the end, he wouldn't let it go.”

The dark circles under his eyes. The exhaustion. I thought it was just the side job. “So, he figured you out, and you what? Decided to keep it going?”

“I figured if I took down Tacey while I was out of town, he'd believe it wasn't me. It would put him off the scent or whatever since she's a friend.”

Put him off the scent. My mind hones in on a couple of memories—texts that came in when Manny was with me. “It's not possible. You texted me when I was standing right there
with
you
.”

His shoulders hunch. “That wasn't an accident. I set up the texts and then sent them from my pocket so you didn't see it.”

“Why? Why did you do this? Why would you hide it from me? Connect some dots for me here, Manny, because none of this makes any sense.”

We're both yelling now, but it doesn't matter worth a crap. There's a halftime show banging and thumping so loud the cheerleaders might as well be in here with us.

“Tell me why,” I say again, my voice soft this time, almost pleading.

“I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to ask questions.”

My rage shrinks into cold fear. I take a breath. Hold it in because I know there's more. And I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

Manny closes his eyes. “I'm the one who put Stella's tape up on the website.”

It hits me like a punch. I'm breathless, barely on my feet.

“Jackson paid me,” he says. “He'd heard about my side business changing records, thought maybe I could hack into a website too. That's why he suspected me.”

“But you liked Stella!”

“I did, but he paid a pretty penny. God knows where he came up with that cash, but I couldn't afford to say no. At the time I thought the tape was her idea anyway, so why would she care?”

“Manny…” My voice sounds like it belongs somewhere else. Maybe to someone else.

Stella
died
because of that damn tape. I know that and he knows that. And if he put that tape up, then he paved her path up to those train tracks. He's so pale, his freckles stark on his nose and cheeks.

“I know I was wrong. I know how Stella's story ends,” he says, voice trembling. “I live with that every day.
Every
damn
day
. I always will. I thought if I did this, if I did this with you—I thought maybe we could avenge her. That tape…what happened to her on those tracks…no one was going to do anything. I had to do something! Something to protect people like her. Something to make the assholes pay.”

I am hollow. All the important bits that fill me up have gone. “You didn't need me. You could have done this alone.”

“Yeah, but you were broken up about Stella too. Remember the funeral? I knew if you were choosing, you'd do it right. We'd do good things. And we have.”

My insides ice over. “Manny, that wasn't right. None of this was right. Doing what we did brought out every bad thing in us!”

“Don't say that! Maybe I pushed it too far, but they
deserved
it. They all had it coming.”

“Are you even listening to yourself? You think we have the right to play judge and jury? You took down Tacey!
Tacey
, Manny!”

I close my eyes as the music outside stops. An announcer says something about giving someone a round of applause, and everyone does. My head feels so heavy—like a thousand pounds of something bad wants to climb out through my eyes.

“Tacey was a mistake.” Manny edges closer to me. He's trying to reason with me, calm me down. “I screwed that up. I wanted to hurt you and shake off Jackson. I didn't think it would get that big. I just didn't want you to quit.”

“So you scared me into sticking with it?”

He throws up his hands. “You were punking out! Freaking. I admit, maybe I made some bad choices in motivating you, but I was looking at the bigger picture. We were settling the score, Piper, leveling the playing field for once in the history of this damn school!”

My skin crawls. Every word he says proves just how far he'll go—how far gone he is.

“You need to turn yourself in,” I say, schooling my face to blankness.

His face twists. “For
what
? Spray-painting a teacher's car? It's not like she was innocent!”

“How'd you get Kristen's clothes?” I counter.

He rolls his eyes. “I broke a window. It's not like I held them at gunpoint.”

“Well, then I guess it's all fine, Manny. Break a window. Vandalize a car.
Threaten
my family? The ends justify the means, right? Or did it just feel too good to quit?”

I can see the rage slam back into him. His eyes shutter and his face turns cold. Whatever we once were is over. Gone.

He heads for the door and I can hear the crowd roaring. Manny stops, looking back at me. “You want to turn me in, that's fine. Do whatever the hell you want. You know best, right?”

I close my eyes and he leaves. Through the locker room and outside. There's nothing but my shaky breathing and the soft stomp of what I assume is the band moving into formation in the center of the court.

The phone in my hand makes my chest ache. I shove it into my jeans pocket, remembering that I left my bag outside in the gym. I need to get it so I can turn everything in. The notebook, the pictures. Both phones. I have everything with me, so it's all over but the singing. I just need to take it in to the police so I can finish it.

I try to force myself to move, but my legs feel like bags of sand suspended from my hips. I'm heavy all over. Heavy and broken. With a strangled sound, I bury my face in my hands and let myself shake as the team song begins.

Sneakers squeak at the entrance of the locker room and continue moving toward me. I look up, expecting Nick. Hoping for him.

But it's not Nick.

The music rises into the chorus and my body goes cold with dread.

“Jackson.”

• • •

“Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Figure what out?” I ask, noticing something.

He's holding a bag. My bag.
Oh
God.

“All this time I thought it was your little BFF, but this makes sense. You've always thought you were better than the rest of us.”

My blood turns stone-cold as I watch the rage descend over his features, turning his skin mottled and purple. I take a breath that tastes like a warning.

It's the last thing before he lunges. He barrels into me like a bull. My body flies back under the impact, slamming against the cement wall. My head cracks on one of the painted blocks. Stars swim through my vision. I gasp, tasting blood.

Jackson's words are hot and wet against my ear. “You took me down, you little bitch. And you're going to pay for it so hard.”

Outside, the school song reaches its crescendo along with my scream. Jackson drags me up, wrapping a sweaty, thick hand around my neck. I buck and squirm, but he pushes a warning knee against my stomach and squeezes his hand until I can barely breathe.

“You recognize this?” he asks. I blink against the spittle that sprays my cheeks, and then blearily see the notebook he's holding up, the page with his pictures open. “You should because I found it in
your
backpack.”

He found the notebook in my bag. That's how he figured it out.

“I should've known. Always there with your camera. Always looking down your nose at the rest of us. You aren't looking down your nose, now, are you, little girl?”

He'll kill me. I can see it in his eyes. Adrenaline sears through me. I slam my knee up as hard as I can.

Jackson dodges, but his hands come loose, and I squirm free, dropping to the floor. I crawl away, low and fast. Someone has to hear me. They have to. I shout for help as loud as I can.

“Whatcha going to do now, Piper?” His hand fists suddenly in the back of my hair. He drags me to my feet, and I howl against the pain. “No cameras to catch me this time.”

His arm clamps around my face, mashing into my mouth. I still taste my blood and now his skin—a potent mix of sweat and salt and fear. I yell again but it's muffled.

His laugh oozes over me and then his arm slips down around my neck. He has me in a headlock. Squeezing. Crushing. I fight until dark spots cloud my vision and my lungs burn. It hurts—hurts so bad, and I'm clawing. Screaming on the inside.

Air. I need to breathe. I can't breathe. The song is almost over. I'm almost over.

“Get the hell off of her!”

I feel the bliss of Jackson's grip loosening and then falling away. I open my mouth wide and drag in one ragged breath after another. I test my fingers and my mouth, opening and closing them, making sure I am still here.

I'm here.

I'm still alive.

A horrible smacking and groaning pulls my attention away from my own agony. I stumble to my feet looking for Jackson, looking for my rescuer. Someone tall and blond throws Jackson into the lockers across from me.

Nick?

No. Not Nick. Paler. More angular.

Tate.

Jackson launches at him and they are back and forth, flipping each other over. It's so loud—loud and terrifying and I am scrabbling out of their path.

They knock over one of the equipment stands, field hockey sticks falling in a clatter. Then Jackson's perched over Tate's chest, his eyes feral.

“What the hell is your problem, Tate?”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Tate screams back, trying and failing to gain the upper hand. “You were with her in that tape. You! Did she even know?”

“One sick little slut is not worth this!” Jackson snarls.

Tate lands an uppercut. But then Jackson drags him to his feet and I can see that the next two punches knock Tate loopy. He lifts his hands to block his face, but Jackson's nothing but fire and violence now. He punches him everywhere. His hands. His sides. His head. Tate isn't coming back from this.

We need help.

Help.

“Help! We need help!”

My voice finds its way out of the chaos. I shout over and over, still too dizzy to run for the door, but I'm back on my feet. Groping the wall, dragging myself toward the door.

The music's done and I can hear the squeak of the players' shoes—why can't they hear us? Why is no one coming?