Gone Too Far (5 page)

How am I going to handle children starving in Ghana or drug violence in Mexico if I can't handle a seventeen-year-old jerk in my high school hallway? The girl I'm supposed to be is stronger than this.
That
girl would have stood her ground, maybe said something. She sure the hell wouldn't be hiding in the bathroom.

I lift my chin and dare myself with a single look. Because if I want to see the truth in this world, I can't be a girl who hides.

Send
me
a
name. Help me make someone pay.

I slide my phone out of my back pocket and type the letters slowly.

Jackson Pierce.

There is one moment when I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the Send button. I could still keep my head down. I could delete this text and forget about what Jackson said.

I press Send.

Dead leaves crunch under my feet as I gaze up at the oak trees behind our football field. I don't need to check my phone to know I'm late. The bursts of trumpet and the smell of cotton candy tell me it's getting close to game time.

I don't even care. I've spent the last two days jumping every time my phone rings, staring at the notebook night after night, picking up my phone to call Manny, and putting it right back down.

There haven't been any more texts. Part of me thinks it's over, that whoever was behind the creepy
Avenge
Stella
texts thought better of it. This should be the end of it. It really should.

Except I can't stop wondering who it was.

I tried reverse searches on the phone number, but that got me nowhere. The phone is probably a throwaway. Since I'm pretty sure you can buy those at every freaking store in the Midwest, that's as dead as an end can get.

Which leaves me with the book. I've gone over those texts, and I'd bet money it's the same person behind both. He knows I have it—I can't think of any other reason I'd be involved. But other than the weird handwriting, there isn't anything special to see in it.

Well, there is the Latin title, but there are two separate Latin classes, and from what Hadley says, the first year doesn't move past what you can figure out on Google translator. Of the people she mentioned in her group, no one stands out. Hadley might be able to offer a couple of suspects, but I'd have to tell her about the book. And I'm not going to do that.

It would probably give her nightmares. And, worse, she might figure out the stuff about Manny. I don't want her thinking badly of him if it isn't even true.

Which
you
could
find
out
if
you'd ask him.

I wince, because I really can't keep ignoring this conversation. Then again, he's barely even answering texts right now, and this is definitely something I want to ask in person.

But not right now. Right now the only thing I'm going to let myself think about is this light. It's a rare thing in November, a sunset that turns everything the color of honey. Light like this doesn't wait, so I can't either.

I adjust my neck strap and lift my camera. The sun is dipping low in the sky, lingering just above the roof of the school. My phone buzzes, and I'm sure it's Tacey reminding me of the time and asking where the hell I am. I don't answer. Right now, with my camera, I feel like I'm finally peeling off blinders. This is how I see the world best.

I take a few shots before shifting to a wide angle lens. The band starts its first warm-up on the field. There's still time. I focus on the line of trees behind the stadium. I snap a few shots of the leaves overhead before focusing in on the trunk. There are hundreds of initials on these trees, scars carved into the bark with pocketknives and ballpoint pens—hearts and plus signs and declarations of forever.

Not that it means much. My parents' names are on this tree and they sure don't look like forever anymore. Still, it's kind of beautiful.

“Aren't you supposed to be getting the band?”

I turn and take a few shots of Tacey. She's one of the most photogenic people I know. She always argues with me on that, but that's just because she's too damn obsessed with the size of her jeans and the circumference of her waist to notice that the light always hits her face like it's meant to be there.

She holds her ever-present phone in front of her face and then lowers it down an inch, revealing narrowed eyes. “I'm serious, Piper!”

“I know you're serious. You don't have any other gear.”

“Would you stop being artsy and come on?”

I sigh but follow her, pulling on my fingerless gloves that won't do near enough to fight the chill I can feel the sunset bringing. Can't take pictures with my fingers covered though.

“We need to get some good ones of the new uniforms, so don't be afraid to get close.”

I smirk. “Am I ever?”

She hums agreeably. “Oh, I checked your basketball shots. They were awesome.”

“Yes, nothing says ‘fine art' like shots of armpits and blurry nets.”

“It's the yearbook. They like that kind of crap. Next year you'll be in some artsy college and you can take all the depressing pictures your heart desires. Now, tell me the truth. Do these jeans look looser? I've lost four pounds.”

“You look great with or without those four pounds.”

I follow her down the asphalt leading to the stadium entrance. The concession stand is buzzing, people lined up for hot chocolate and popcorn and the cotton candy they spin right there. I give it a longing look and Tacey shakes her head.

“No chance, Woods. We need to get the band. Make sure you get the hats—”

I stop then, forcing her to turn to look at me. “I was hoping to avoid the hats.”

“Well, don't. The school board spent serious money on those hats.”

“They have feathers, Tacey.
Feathers.
”

“It's just business, okay? The PTO wants a feature page on the new uniforms, and they donate a hefty chunk of cash toward yearbook production—”

“So we sell our souls to make them happy?”

Tacey sighs, tugging at her ponytail. “Look, I know it's not your dream job. I know it's not super artistic.”

I feel a pang of guilt. It isn't my dream job, but it
is
hers. She lives for this kind of stuff.

“It's fine,” I say. “Seriously. I'll get the hats. I'll even do half time. It'll be velvet and feathers everywhere.”

She looks back to her phone, a long curl sliding over her shoulder. “Perfect. Now, I need to go find Manny. He's avoiding my texts.”

I wave her off and slip into the quiet space beneath the bleachers. There's a hallway here that leads to the locker rooms and equipment storage. It'll be swarming with players and cheerleaders soon, but right now, it's mostly empty. So I take advantage, snapping a few more pictures, of the brick wall and a football player talking on the phone, equipment only half on.

My phone chirps with a message. I juggle the phone into my free hand and pull it up.

Jackson goes down Tuesday morning. Bring camera and be early.

My fingers turn to ice, but the message remains, as bright and sure as the promise in those words.

“Taking pictures of equipment closets?”

I jump and my phone drops. It's caught before it hits the ground.

“Rescuing your stuff might be my superpower,” Nick says.

I should smile, but I can't. Because the text message is still glowing on the screen, right where Nick can see it.

• • •

His smile falters, and I'm sure it's partly thanks to the stress that's tightening my face like a vise. I command myself to grin, but it's a feeble attempt. Mostly I'm trying to stare some sort of subliminal message into him.
Do
not
look
at
my
phone. Do. Not. Look.

“Uh, here,” he says, offering the phone without incident.

Too freaking close.

I reach for it, my hand slapping over the screen. My fingers brush his palm as I take the phone. I notice the feel of it—the feel of him—way more than I should. Nick clears his throat and looks every inch as awkward as I'm feeling.

“So, what were you taking pictures of?”

“Huh?”

He points his thumb toward the wall of the stadium, shifting on his feet. “I saw you out there earlier. You were taking pictures of trees or…something.”

I push myself through the fog, back into the real world, where I know how to form words. Whole sentences, even. “Sorry.” I scratch my head. “Yeah, I was just playing around.”

“You going to study photography in college?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Computer science, probably. Did you do any college tours this summer?”

I open my mouth to answer and then snap it shut.

What the hell is this? Why is Nick Patterson—standing here in his tight football pants and his Under Armour shirt—talking
college
plans
with me? And while we're at it, why am I still out here? Because hanging behind the bleachers to chat up a football player isn't me.

“You don't like talking to me very much, do you?” He's looking me right in the eye, shoulders relaxed and voice even.

I, on the other hand, feel like a rabbit dodging an oncoming lawnmower.

“No. Yes. I—” I cut myself off, feeling my cheeks flush as I look up at him. “Why would you think that?”

I expect him to shrug or blow it off. Change the subject. It's the guy thing to do, right?

“For starters, you glare at me a lot.”

So much for dropping it.

“I don't…” But yeah I do. I'm glaring right now. I bite my lip and force the laser beams out of my eyes with a chuckle. “That's not intentional, I swear.”

“I'm guessing there's still a reason, though?”

I shrug. “I guess I don't get this.”

“Don't get what?” he asks.

“Why you're suddenly so helpful and interested and
chatty
.”

“Is it a problem?” he asks.

“Since you probably couldn't have pointed me out in a lineup until this week, it's a little weird.”

“I wouldn't bet on that if I were you,” he says, and there's a teasing gleam in his eye.

I shake my head, thrown off by his comments and his dimples. “Okay, fine. So what gives? What's the point here?”

“I didn't realize there needed to be a point.”

He smiles and every single part of me notices. Not just the smile—all of him: the line of his shoulders, the size of his hands, the clean, soapy smell coming off of him. Nick steps a little closer, his cleats scraping against the cement. I take one sharp breath. And then another.

He's flirting with me.

Wait—
he's not single
.

He is a not-single football player dating a girl who has delighted in my misery for years. More importantly, he's friends with Jackson Pierce and Tate Donovan. He stood in that hallway and let them rip Stella to pieces.

Oh my God, is that why he's talking to me? To protect them?

I feel the blood drain out of my face as I meet his eyes. “Is this because of Stella?”

“I'm sorry?” he asks, looking lost.

“Stella,” I say, and her name feels like a hot coal in my mouth. “That morning in the hallway. You were there when Jackson and Tate—you saw me there. You started talking to me after that.”

He frowns. “I started talking to you when I found your wallet in the grass. I had no idea that day would…”

“What, did you think she'd just bounce right back?”

“I don't know what I thought. The whole thing was news to me. They hadn't even told me about the tape.”

“But they're your friends. Your
good
friends, right?”

The kind of friends you'd protect.

I don't say the last part, but he must see it because he shakes his head.

“That day has nothing to do with why I'm here. Look, I know that was a mess. It was a mess before that day, before the tape even existed.”

“Well, then I guess it's perfectly okay for them to terrorize Stella the day before she happened to walk into a train.”

He blanches. It's like watching a cloud pass over the sun. “None of us dreamed—no one's okay with it. You have to know that.”

I'm fired up now, moving closer with my fists clenched. “The only thing I know is that you're standing here dangerously close to defending them!”

Nick's eyes move past my shoulder. I turn to glance behind me, where a group of tenth graders is watching with interest. They notice us looking and keep moving, but I don't miss their snickers or the tightness in Nick's jaw.

I nod and look down at my feet, my ratty slouched boots across from his muddy cleats. The space between our toes feels like a canyon. We're on different sides of the world. Always have been. Probably always will be.

“I wish I could change that day,” he says. “Maybe you do too. But we can't.”

Yeah, maybe not. But come Tuesday morning, something's going to change. And I can't wait to be there to see it.

“Nick?”

We both turn at the new voice coming from the direction of the locker rooms. Marlow is standing in the hallway, and she isn't alone. Jackson is with her.

Nick's eyes linger on me longer than they should before he walks away.

“Hey,” he says to Marlow. “Sorry, I got caught up.”

She reaches for his hand when he approaches, and I watch their fingers intertwine. I watch it with way too much interest, because there isn't anything to see here. Not really.

She murmurs something quietly, too soft for me to hear. Something that makes me think of too many whispering moments just like this, pretty, lined eyes watching me—picking me apart piece by piece.

Nick shakes his head and enters the locker room. And Marlow heads to her regular seat in the stands like a good little girlfriend-bot. Jackson stays, watching me with coal-black eyes.

I lift my chin and refuse to budge my gaze until he ducks into the locker room. My heart is pounding like a drum long after he's gone.

A hand brushes my arm. I jerk so hard my teeth snap together.

“Whoa, jumpy!” Manny says. “What's wrong with you?”

I still can't unclench my hands as I nod in the direction they went. “Jackson Pierce.”

Manny scoffs. “Douche. Did he say something to you?”

“No. Forget it. I'm just pissy.”

“So, business as usual?”

It makes me laugh, so I sling an arm through his. “You're lucky you're funny.”