Gone Too Far (8 page)

“To prove what?”

“That I'm not the pathetic little nobody she thinks I am.”

My heart sinks and then burns. Why does someone like Kristen Green get to determine who counts and who doesn't? How does that even happen?

I step closer to Tacey. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about your parents.”

“I'm familiar with your brand of tactlessness.” She winks after she says it though, and then takes a right on a street beside the railroad tracks.

My eyes are drawn to the rise of grass and gravel, one slender gray-brown line of track showing through where the trees are thin. Tacey's new sneakers slap rhythmically at the asphalt. It makes me think of Stella's steps that night, what they might have been like.

Would she have raced forward or dragged her feet? Would I have heard the tinny strains of music coming from her headphones as she passed?

I look over at Tacey, her hands brushing unconsciously over her middle even now. With me.

I bump her lightly with my shoulder. “For what it's worth, I think you have a great sense of style. And I still say the camera loves you.”

Tacey smiles. She opens her mouth to say something, but then we hear a train whistle.

The sound cuts through me, winding my insides until I feel tight and breathless. Tacey shivers, looking over at the tracks. I don't have to ask to know she's thinking about Stella too.

We both kind of stumble to a halt, staring at the approaching train. When that whistle wails again, I ache down to the center of my bones.

Don't think about her climbing that gravel hill, her long hair whipping all around. Don't think about the scream of the train brakes, desperately trying to stop.

I slide my phone out of my pocket and pull up my text messages. I don't know why I'm doing this now. Maybe I just need a distraction from the steady, rumbling approach of the engine. Or maybe I think it's a sign, some way of Stella telling me this is the one I should choose.

My fingers are surprisingly steady as I make my next choice.

Kristen Green—Shoplifter/Egomaniac/Mean Girl

I send it as the train rolls by, shaking the tracks and vibrating the ground around me. The wind is cold enough to hurt. I put my face right into it and watch the cars fly past, making my eyes water. The whistle—so loud it rattles my teeth and hurts my ears—leaves wispy images of a red-haired girl as it fades away.

I
hear
you, Stella. I hear you and I'm trying to make it better.

• • •

“Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle.”

I grin even before I'm inside the school office. I know Manny's dad's voice as well as either of my parents'. It's the voice of the guy who has served me burned grilled cheese sandwiches and those little plastic tubs of juice that he always made me swear not to tell my
earthy
mama
about. His phrasing, not mine.

“Hey, Mr. Raines,” I say.

He looks at me from behind a row of security monitors in a cubby beside the secretary's desk. “Pied Piper,” he says, reaching over the short cubicle wall to ruffle my hair. “Been to Botswana yet?”

I brush my hair back into place. “The parents insist I graduate first. Annoying.”

“Parents,” he says, with an eye roll and a wink. Being a single dad means the Raines house isn't big on coasters and homework charts. Still, Mr. Raines runs a pretty tight ship.

He's exactly what Manny will look like in twenty-five years—wiry and freckled, with blond hair gone ashy.

“I thought the last bell rang,” he says.

“Yeah, I was just dropping off a homeroom folder for Mr. Stiers.”

Mr. Raines nods absently, stretching to run a cable from the unit under the monitors to a laptop he's carrying. I leave the folder and wince when I see him hobble out from beneath the desk, looking pained. He's had a bad back for years.

“Can I do anything for you?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says, “unless you want to trade backs. So, what gives with this? Is video-mockery the new, big thing?”

Oh my God. He's here because of the Jackson tape. Because of me.

“Hard to tell.” The smile stuck into Mr. Potato Head is more genuine than the one I flash him. I shouldn't be surprised. Of course he's here. He installed the cameras, didn't he? So, if the cameras get breached, who else did I think was going to get called in to beef up the security?

That's right, I
didn't
think. I just wanted Jackson taken down, fallout be damned.

“Well, I better get going,” I say, my mouth feeling like I've swallowed a fistful of sand. “I've got loads of studying to catch up on.”

And now I'm lying to the man. My ticket to hell should arrive any moment.

“Get my kid to study a little, will ya?” he asks.

“I'll do my best.”

I slip away, feeling like something that should be scraped off a shoe. And then, of course, I run straight into Manny.

“Hey!” Too bright. I clear my throat. “Did you see your dad?”

“I tried not to,” he says, and then smirks. Relief floods my senses. Okay, we're speaking again. It's something.

“He's hard to miss,” I say lamely.

“I brought him a coffee. Speaking of the old man, you won't believe this crap. They aren't even paying for this.”

“How? I thought he got bonus pay for this kind of thing?”

Manny clenches his jaw. “They're claiming it's part of the contractual obligation for maintenance. I'm claiming bullshit.”

I nod and cross my arms, feeling my palms go sticky with sweat. “Hey, listen, about the other night—”

“Can we just…not?”

“Yeah, we can.” I bite my lip, looking for something else to talk about. “So, do you still want me to come over to help edit those football shots?”

Manny's shoulders tense. “Can't. I'm swamped. But I left my memory card in the technology lab safe. In case you want to paw through my shots. Maybe they'll help.”

“Okay.” I sound like I'm about to cry. I feel like I'm about to cry.

Manny plunges his hands into his pockets and offers a crooked grin. “I swear I'm not mad. I'm over it.”

“You don't seem over it. You won't even let me say I'm sorry.”

A text message comes into my phone and I reach for it. Manny takes the opportunity to walk backward. “How about you make it up to me? Friday? Dry Dock?”

“Deal.”

I wave at Manny and pull up the message.

Kristen it is. I'll be in touch.

I still wish it were Tate. I'm doing this for Stella, and it doesn't feel finished with Jackson. When Tate pays—that's when it will be done.

Will
it?

I don't like the question and I hate the answer. That's the problem with this place. What happened to Stella, that stupid freshman party, the crap Jackson pulls—it never ends around here. Because no one bothers
to
end it.

Until now.

Jackson suffered plenty last week. And if my little texting partner comes up with something creative for Kristen, she might finally get a taste of what she's been dishing out. At the very least, people will see her for what she really is for a change.

I round the corner to the lab and push the subject out of my head. The lab sits in the newest part of the building, a small, modular block of rooms added to the back of the old school to accommodate intervention studies and specialty classes. The halls here are bright and sterile, but I've always hated the boxed-in feel, all low ceilings and dull, practical carpeting.

Still, it's quiet. Most of the classrooms are dark now, doors shut until tomorrow.

I pass by the art room and slow down. I can see someone hunched over one of the tables in the soft light filtering through the windows. He isn't moving a muscle or making a sound. And I know who it is. Not just from the stretch of his shoulders or the way his hair flips up a little around his ears, but also from the way my whole body seems to thrum with this weird energy—energy that seems to be very specific to
his
presence.

I put my hand on the door frame and force myself to speak. “Nick?”

He spins on the seat of his art stool, and I swallow hard. I'm alone in the semi-dark with Nick Patterson. Not how I imagined my Monday afternoon.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, because I don't exactly see him as the secretly-expressing-my-inner-Monet type.

“Avoiding.” He shrugs. “I like this room, the way it smells.”

Like wet clay and mineral spirits?
Okay.

My face must reflect my thoughts because he twitches his head toward a wall of easels. “My mom used to teach art. She still does weekends at the community college.”

“Oh.”

He nods, looking distant. Almost spacey. “Marlow and I have been on and off since summer. I thought you should know.”

“Oh.”

Titillating
replies, Woods. Maybe you could try two entire syllables next time.

It's still better than anything that resembles the half-choked terror or weird thrill I'm feeling. Not that it matters to me. The state of Nick and Marlow shouldn't even be on my pertinent-information radar.

He's still sitting there blankly, like he just mentioned the weather outside and not the end of his relationship.

I clear my throat and force myself to step into the room. It feels like leaping a gorge. “Uh, are you okay with it? The breakup?”

“This is the fourth time, so I've adjusted,” he says. He smiles and comes to life, dimples curving his cheeks. “Honestly, we knew it was inevitable for months. Could have done without the drama though.”

I should say something. “Well, you've both got a good…support network. I'm sure things will settle down.” Wow. How very Hallmark of me.

I gesture vaguely at him when he doesn't say anything. “I mean, you both have lots of friends, right?” Ugh, I really suck at this and just need to stop.

Nick rolls his shoulders. “Yeah, that doesn't always make it easy.”

My goodwill vanishes. “Right,” I say. “The
trials
of popularity.”

I see a flicker of irritation cross his features, but he pushes away from the table and stands up, obviously trying to stay unruffled. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

He moves slowly toward me, and I swear the temperature jumps ten degrees with every step he takes. “Like the pictures you took of Jackson last week.”

My whole body—heart and lungs and just everything—stops. There's this hollow silence in the room, and I want to fill it up. Finally, a tinny laugh dribbles out of me.

“I…” Yeah, I've got nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Nick moves around the last row separating us. He leans back on the table across from me, and I notice our feet again. Boots for me—tall ones today. Nikes for him. Of course.

Nick looks utterly relaxed, completely at ease while I stand here twitching.

“Somehow I don't think you took those for the yearbook,” he says.

“Well, it'd be a more honest look at senior year, wouldn't it? A moment that illuminates reality.”

“Illuminates?” He smiles. “Jackson might pick a different word.”

I cross my arms. “I'll bet he would.”

“Can I see them?”

“
Why
, so you can try to get me to delete them?”

His smile vanishes. I swallow hard as he stands up straight, and man, he is
towering
over me. I force myself to look up at him and ignore the fluttery, breathless feeling in my chest. I've got no clue why this guy's eyes work voodoo on my lungs, but they do.

“Do you really think I'd do that?” His voice is almost a whisper.

“I don't know what you'd do,” I say, just as softly, but I don't tell him what I do know. Like how far his people will go to stick together. And what they've already done to me.

“Then maybe you should ask instead of assuming.”

“Okay, fine. Would you?”

He just shakes his head and walks past me. I slump hard, trying to steal the strength from the wall. Nick stops at the door, the false light from the hallway casting yellow-green highlights over his face.

“You ever hear the saying, ‘Don't judge a book by its cover'?”

I scoff. “Of course.”

“Same principle applies to football jerseys, Piper.”

• • •

In my entire life, I've never been this early to an assembly, but according to the text, this is where Kristen's going down. I've always pulled the yearbook-team card for these. I snap some pictures in the hallway, and hope to slip away before the doors close. It's easy to go unnoticed, especially if you're holding a camera and generally viewed as a non-problem student. For the record, we still assemble, but we do it in the technology lab, usually after Manny sneaks out to bring us coffee.

Speaking of Manny…

He strolls up, looking at me like I've just grown a second head. I'm probably the first senior to get in line for assembly in the history of the school.

“Hey!” I say. Still too chirpy.

“Hey back,” he says, looking at the door. “What are you doing?”

“I figured I'd head in a little early,” I say.

“Why are you heading in at all? I'm grabbing coffee. Want to come?”

I chew the inside of my lip. I do want to go with him. More than anything, I want to criticize his driving and dredge up some old jokes. I want to fix this weirdness that's been lingering since the college mess—and the notebook.

“I can't,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

“I know. You're not a slacker like me.”

My stomach twists. Hurts. “I didn't say that, Manny.”

He puts up his hands defensively. “I know, I know. Don't start. I shouldn't have said it.”

But he did, so I'm taking the opportunity. “I was worried about you. I'm still worried, but I'll keep my mouth shut.”

He smiles at me. “You really needed a little sister to look after or something.”

“I'm not trying to mother hen you. I just believe in you.”

“Well, that's mistake one.” He kicks my shoe and chuckles. “I'm not planning a life of crime. It was a one-time thing, and I had my reasons. We all do shit we're not proud of when we're pushed hard enough.”

The auditorium doors click open and he bumps my arm with knuckles. “That's my cue. Friday, then?”

“Definitely.”

Manny waves as Coach Carr ushers me inside with the freshmen. He's headed for caffeine and sunshine, and I'm being herded into the seating area like cattle.

Everyone immediately climbs toward the preferred seats, high in the back of the auditorium. Those are the places teachers don't pay much attention. I choose the center section, lower level. Not a popular address by any stretch, but closer is generally better when you need to take pictures. Question is, what the heck am I taking pictures of?

I take a seat in the sixth row from the stage, close enough to get whatever might happen, far enough back to go unnoticed. I hope.

Students continue to arrive from all the class levels. I change my lens and settings, knowing I'm going to have to pull this off without a flash. It won't be my best work. My palms are damp on the base of my camera, but I force myself to act natural, snapping shots of the students taking their seats and of Principal Goodard when he steps up to the podium.

He greets us with a Claireville High welcome and makes some comment that I assume relates to the football season, given the volume of the cheers that erupt. My heart begins to pound as I watch the stage, but Kristen's nowhere in sight.

A couple girls provide details on the winter formal, and I force my feet to stop jittering. One of the football coaches pitches an off-season development camp. The girl next to me asks me if I can stop tapping my fingers on the armrest.

Finally, someone gets up to talk about the gardening club, and my body goes absolutely still. Because I get it now. I know why it's happening here.

Tacey's words echo through my mind as the presenter flips through a slideshow presentation with butterfly gardens and ornate topiary mazes.

“She even told me about this fashion club she's going to start at school…”

Polite applause ripples through the crowd as the student sits down. A junior stands up next, Ethan Crawford. He's small and lean with a shock of blue and black hair and an irresistible grin. He starts talking about the skateboarding club, with big arm gestures and promises of unprecedented parties, which ticks Mr. Goodard off plenty. I actually dare a picture of him—thin lipped and glaring—mostly to check the light.

It's all right. Not perfect, but stage shots are tricky.

“Thank you, Mr. Crawford,” the principal says, cutting Ethan off. He points to the side of the stage, and I scoot forward. Even before I see her, I somehow know she's next.

I raise the camera into position. And there she is, Kristen Green, dressed in a red skirt, black boots, and a sweater that looks expensive. She beams out at the crowd and picks up the remote for the projector. She waits for the slideshow to begin and I wait for…well, I'm assuming for all hell to break loose.

“Good morning, Claireville High,” she says with a smile designed to sell things. She unhooks the microphone from the podium like she's on stage all the time. Giving speeches. Talking to contestants. Whatever.

She walks to the side of the podium, so that she's illuminated head to toe in the spotlight. Her smile turns a little flirty as she cocks her hip. “So, tell me, everybody…how do I look?”

Predictably, most of the boys in the audience—and a few girls that I'll assume are her friends—applaud. I ignore the smattering of lingering whistles, keeping myself absolutely still. Poised.

Kristen beams as she draws the microphone to her lips again. “I'm here to talk to you today about one of my many great passions—my commitment to personal style and presenting your best self.”

And
I'm here to talk about dry heaving.

A slideshow starts and I focus the lens, pulling in tight to the screen. But it's just a bunch of supermodels strutting down various runways. I pull back from the camera and frown, listening to her drone on about the importance of looking your
best
to feel your
best
and how one's commitment to fashion is the
best
… I tune her out, because I'd rather chew broken glass than listen to anyone who uses the word
best
this much.

She moves back behind the podium. She's got to be almost done and nothing's happened. What gives?

“In January, I'll be heading up a fashion club,” she says. “It'll be the perfect opportunity to correct your fashion tragedies and step out with your best foot forward.”

I feel my teeth grind at the
best
.

Kristen flips her hair and smiles wide. “Be sure to stop by. Trust me, some of you could
really
use the help.”

She gets a few laughs, but she also gets a bunch of people looking down at their outfits, hoping they aren't the ones she's talking about.

“The Best Foot Forward Club starts January third,” she says.

She flips the slide, and I can't really read the information because suddenly, things are raining down from the rafters. Rags. Or towels. Some kind of cloth. I don't think; I just shoot, snapping picture after picture. I pull back the camera to find one perfect shot, a pair of jeans sailing down toward Kristen's horrified face.

It's clothes. Clothes are falling all over. Goodard is shouting and teachers rush on stage. A banner unrolls overhead, stretching almost the width of the stage.

It reads:
Five-Finger Discount Club
—
Join
Today!

I stand up, taking as many pictures as I can. I get Kristen's wide, shocked eyes as she holds a red-inked pair of jeans that look to be her size. A baby blue T-shirt I remember seeing her wear last week catches on the podium and dangles.

Principal Goodard holds up a white sweater with the word
STOLEN
emblazoned across the front in red. All of the clothes are marked with that same red ink. Words like
SNAGGED, LIFTED, TAKEN
silently judge the fashion princess.

It's amazing. Better than amazing. People are pointing and whispering, and I have no idea how anyone pulled this off.

This couldn't be set up in advance.
Someone
is here running this.

The teachers are looking up at the catwalk, but I know better than that. Someone capable of that book—someone who looped Jackson's videos—isn't going to wait up there to get caught. Sure enough, at the far side of the stage, I see a dark figure climbing fast down the opposite ladder. All I can see is black. Every stitch of clothing on this guy is meant to conceal.

But it's
him
. That's my mystery partner. My heart catches, lodging itself into my throat as his feet hit the stage floor. I'm not the only one who sees it.

Goodard points. “Stop! Immediately!” Then he breaks into an awkward jog across the stage, dropping the shirt he's holding and slipping in his dress shoes. The laughter in the crowd swells into a roar, and I can see that whatever figure had been in those shadows is long gone.

Teachers begin filing down the aisles, dismissing us with firm instructions to return to our classrooms at once.

On stage, Kristen watches the crowd, her face sheet white. I see her raise the microphone in her hand and my throat feels even tighter. I don't want her to speak. I know she'll only make it worse, and this feels bad enough.

“I—I didn't steal these!” she says, sounding just like you'd expect a desperate liar to sound. “I didn't. I didn't do this!”

“Yeah, right you didn't!” someone shouts from behind me. I can't spot the guy who says it, but Kristen obviously does. Her face drops. She tries to argue but can't manage a word.