Gone Too Far (4 page)

I need to go inside. I'm going to get frostbite if I stand here staring at my phone much longer. But still.

I check again. No matter how many times I look, the five letters at the end of that message still spell my name. My fingers move to reply, to ask who this is, but I hesitate. Do I really want to know?

If this is a joke, it's not funny. And if it's a game, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to win. Every text I send gives this jerk exactly what he's looking for—a reaction.

In spite of all that, I'm still curious. But refusing to play along trumps curiosity this time. I shove my phone deep in my coat pocket and jog toward the high school.

There's a post-memorial reception here. If it's anything like my freshman year when Chase Timmons died in a car accident, it'll be a bizarre blend of light refreshments and therapy.

Cake? Cookies? Counseling? Or perhaps you'd like to go up to the open microphone and talk about your feelings?

At the main entrance, Mr. McCreedy hits the button before I can flash my student ID. He gives me a sleepy nod, and I walk past into the still mostly empty school.

I can hear some faint noise coming from the gym—probably setting up for the big weird post-funeral party we're supposed to have—but I head to the stairs.

In a building like this, you can
feel
the quiet. It lingers in the shadowy stairwells and sends an old paper smell into the air. Even the posters—advertising everything from the upcoming production of
42nd Street
to the monthlong food drive—flutter as I pass them.

I swallow hard and fight the feeling that I'm trespassing. Unwelcome, even. It's just my nerves. The memorial, the creepy texts—they're putting me on edge and I know it. Still, every step I take snaps against the hardwood floors.

I climb the stairs to our bay of lockers. They're as they always are, identical to every other locker in the building, save the color of the combination locks. Mine is green—hers is purple. My mind conjures an image of her hand spinning that lock left and right. My ears still ring with the things I heard afterward.

I shake my uneasiness away and retrieve the picture I brought. Stella's got one hand near her face, tucking some of her pretty hair behind her ear. Her eyes are crinkled just a little at the corners and her smile is wide and genuine. It's not perfect quality, since I had to print it at the drugstore on the way in, but it's not hideous.

And it's a good shot. An honest shot.

I tape it carefully to Stella's locker. There isn't anything else I can do now. I try to tell myself there wasn't anything I could do then either, though I'm not sure I believe it.

I hear footsteps and turn to see my friends coming toward the lockers. Memorial must be over if they're here. I scan their faces—Manny, Tacey, Hadley, Connor—the entire yearbook staff. Unless you count Ms. Collins. And, sadly, no one does.

“Hey,” I say.

“It's beautiful,” Tacey says, nodding at the picture.

Her eyes are rimmed with red, but otherwise, she looks like Tacey always does—professional, put together, and very conscious of her ample hips. She's tugging at her suit jacket now, trying to cover her curviest section.

Hadley gives the photo a good look, lacing her fingers with Connor's. “Thanks for doing this.”

I shrug. “It was Manny's shot, actually.”

“He occasionally has decent ones,” Tacey says with a wink.

Manny just rolls his eyes. “Let's go get snacks.”

“And crappy punch.” I sigh and link my arm with his, heading for the cafeteria.

Ten minutes later, I'm holding an uneaten banana and a cup of Sprite—an upgrade from crappy punch—as I stare at the memorial book Harrison and Mrs. Branson are signing.

There are a few students at the tables. I spot Tate, looking hollow eyed and pale at a table by the window. Nick is sitting near him in a loosened tie. His gaze flicks to Tate every few seconds and both of their cookies lie untouched on their plates. I tilt my head, spotting a hand on Nick's arm. Someone's between them, dabbing her eyes.

No. Not someone. Marlow. How could I forget?

A memory flashes through me. A hard shove between my shoulders. My knees cracking into the concrete. And then a little girl, cooing at the teachers to come quick—quick because
“Piper is hurt.”

Over and over, for a week, she did this. Finally, I found my voice, but it was Kristen then who slid to Marlow's rescue, telling the teachers no one pushed me. And that was just the start.

I turn my gaze away and the memory withers.

Connor and Hadley sit down across from us, and I smile at them, grateful that they're blocking my view. They should be in magazines, they're so pretty together. Connor's dark and lean, and Hadley's like a porcelain doll, with ivory skin and enormous hazel eyes.

“So, how is everyone?” Hadley asks, offering a sad smile.

I start peeling my banana, hoping Tacey will take the lead on responding. She does, scooting forward on her seat. “I think we should talk memorial page.”

“Oh,” Hadley says softly, looking down at the orange she's peeling. “It seems soon.”

“It's fresh in our minds now. We can get interviews, candid shots from her friends.”

“No.” This from Manny. We all stop, surprised. “You're not going to make a project out of her. I'm not cool with that.”

I slouch in my chair and try to find something to say. Everyone's looking at me now because I usually am the resident Manny handler, the one who softens his asshole comments and talks him into being more reasonable. Except this time I can't do either.

“I agree. It's too soon.” And then, because I can't deal with more talking, I stand. “I've got to go grab a memory card from my locker and get home. I'm behind on a bunch of work.”

“We can do the memorial later,” Tacey says. “When you feel better about it. I swear I'm not trying to sensationalize this or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Manny says, not sounding convinced.

I try a smile for her, but it's pathetic. “It's fine. I just need to go. I have that paper due.”

Which is true. But it's not why I'm leaving. I'm halfway down the hall when my phone buzzes. Same number as before.

I know you wanted to help her. You still can.

Something hot tears through my middle. I pull up my phone keyboard.

Who is this?

I can't tell you that, but I can give you a chance to do right by Stella.

Stop texting me. I'm not interested.

Don't act like you don't know what happens around here. I know you saw what happened to her.

It's too late to help her.

That doesn't mean they should get away with it.

This message feels different. Part scolding and part…invitation? The words needle through me, full of cold promise. I want to ask what he means. And I want to know who this is.

They saw me in the hallway that day. That much is obvious, but that also narrows it down to practically anyone in the school. So why text me and not someone else?

Don't act like you don't know what happens around here.

The notebook flashes through my mind with its precise letters and lined pages. Goose bumps rise on my arms. The book. Whoever's texting me must have seen me with it. I flipped through it in homeroom and in the parking lot, so anyone could have seen.

But it wasn't just anyone. It was someone who knew what was inside that book. Someone who'd read it. Maybe even the person who wrote it.

I pull out my phone, finally knowing my response.

This is about the notebook, isn't it?

There's a long pause after that. Good. About time I'm not the only one caught off guard.

Maybe. Does it even really matter?

Bingo. Now I know who it is. Sort of.

Your sick little diary can't help Stella. Or anyone else.

Maybe not, but we can. Send me a name. Help me make someone pay.

The words send a chill up my spine. I don't know if it's temptation or alarm I'm feeling. Either way, I'm pretty sure this conversation is a bad idea, so I pocket my phone and thunder up the stairs to my locker.

I stop in my tracks when I see Tate and Nick standing in front of Stella's picture. My stomach seizes, threatening to dump the meager breakfast I ate. Their backs are to me, so I duck into the alcove of a classroom door, careful to keep my sneakers from squeaking. I press myself into the shadows with my heart hammering behind my ribs.

Tate is standing closer to Stella's locker. Even from here, I can see his shoulders bunched tight under his dress shirt. He looks like he's going to punch the locker. Or maybe Nick.

He's mad about her dying? Last week he seemed like he'd be happy to kill her himself.

Nick keeps watching him, his hair swept away from his eyes in a slightly more organized version of his normal mess. He finally claps a hand on Tate's shoulder, one that's shrugged off hard and fast with a look that probably roughly translates into “Eat shit and die.”

“Don't,” Tate says. And then he turns to walk toward me.

Yeah, I'm busted. I slide away from the alcove, so I won't look like I'm hiding. When Tate gets close, my whole body tenses. I force myself to look at him. Maybe it'll remind him that I was
there
when he attacked her in this hallway, that I heard every awful word.

I lift my chin and he hesitates for a beat. I want to do something—anything, really. But I don't. I watch him walk past while everything he said that day burns me from the inside out.

Tate takes the tension with him. After he's gone, I deflate against the wall. So much for my tough-girl attitude. Nick scuffs a foot against the floor and I startle at the sound. I make my way to my locker, even though I don't really care about the stupid flash drive anymore.

I open my locker and grab what I need, cringing at the groan of the metal door. Everything feels so loud, but Nick completely ignores me—his gaze is fixed on Stella's image.

Maybe I should say something. We can't just stand here pretending to not notice each other. Can we?

He's obviously not in a talking mood either. But I don't want to leave. I feel…not finished or something. I keep staring at my locker door, my hands going slick with sweat at the idea of an it's-so-sad-about-Stella conversation with Nick Patterson.

“You seen Tate?” Jackson's voice booms from the back of the hallway, making me jump.

“He took off,” Nick says. He sounds tired.

“He's still freaking out?” Jackson's laugh makes me think of dark, slithery things. I don't want to be in the same zip code as this guy, but when I turn to leave, he's directly in my path.

Nick exhales loudly. “Everybody's shook up, man.”

“I'm not.” Jackson shrugs. “Don't look at me like that. Losing it won't change things.”

They're talking like I'm not even here. I'm like wallpaper to guys like this. Invisible. But I'm not okay with that today. If they want to chat about Stella, they can talk to me too. I lean against my locker and glare at Jackson, but he barely spares me a glance.

“I'm not trying to be a dick, but she wasn't some first-rate citizen.” He turns to me. “She's not a good girl like you, Piper.”

Pretty words delivered on a razor-blade voice.

“Wow,” I say, arching my brow.

He throws his shoulders back and his eyes turn flinty. “You got a problem, picture girl?”

Nick steps closer to me. “Leave her alone, Jackson.”

Yeah, hell no. I shoulder past him. “I don't need a rescue, thanks.”

“You heard her,” Jackson says. “She's a big girl. She can handle the truth.”

I swallow my irritation—and maybe a little fear too. Jackson stands there, his neck corded and tight like rope. Then, he flashes a chilly grin and turns back to Nick.

“Look, I went to the girl's memorial thing. I laid a flower down and lit a damn candle and all. But now I'm moving on.”

Moving on? He started this whole thing! Unbelievable. This tool obviously doesn't feel a morsel of regret about that day. And what did I expect? Contrition? Tears? Jackson Pierce is not the kind of guy who's going to learn his lesson.

I shoulder my way between them. Nick touches me as I pass, long, calloused fingers curling gently around my wrist.

“Piper,” he says.

I spin to him and open my mouth to say something snarly, but he looks every bit as torn up as I feel. And he's staring
so
hard, like there are things he wants to say. But I can't hear those things or have him looking at me. I don't want him to see everything I'm feeling.

This is easier with my camera, when there's a lens between me and the rest of the world.

“I have to go,” I say, but he doesn't release me, and I can't stop staring at his eyes.

Jackson makes a low whistle. “Hey, not judging or whatever, but if Marlow sees this, she's going to go apeshit.”

It's like being thrown in a pool in October. Nick drops my arm and turns to Jackson, and I start walking, my blood roaring in my ears.

“You need to learn to shut your mouth.” Nick's voice is low and dangerous.

“Don't get your panties twisted,” Jackson says. “You want to play the field, I'm all for it.”

I move fast, trying to get out of this hallway and away from both of them. My heart is banging hard, like I've been sprinting. I stop past the corner to get myself together, to breathe.

“What is your problem, man?” Nick asks, clearly assuming I'm long gone. “This isn't about a piece of tail. She was obviously upset!”

“
My
problem?” Jackson snorts. “Look at you, Nicky! One stupid slut offs herself and now you're concerned for the entire female gender!”

I hold my breath because somehow, even after everything, I'm shocked. My feet move. I don't know how, but they take me to the nearest bathroom. The far sink is dripping and the glass blocks behind the mirrors are filtering milky winter sunlight into the room. I lean against one of the walls, and the mirror above the sink reveals a reflection I can barely stand to look at.