Please Don't Tell (6 page)

He takes the photos from under his thigh, shoves them back into the envelope so quickly I barely see him do it.

“You okay?” I ask.

“No.”

“Preston—”

“I'm going to go now.”

“Wait,” I say, but he's already halfway across my room, climbing out into the night.

I spend the night awake, facing the window, a knife under my pillow, remembering every night I slept in Grace's room so she wouldn't be afraid of the dark.

“The tree branch outside my window is rotten,” I tell Mom in the car to school the next morning. “The big branch. The one on the tree that Grace fell off when she was a kid and sprained her ankle. It's dead. Can Dad saw it off?”

“I don't know what all this is about trees, Joy.”

I leave the car without saying good-bye.

The photos are in my bag. I'm not—I can't—do this. I'll take them to the police station after school. Or talk to Savannah myself.

Those are the good-person things to do.

I'm early again. Preston's always early, too, since he comes in with his mom. But I can't
find him. The last place I look is the art room. Eastman hangs the decent still lifes and the landscapes upstairs, to show them off on Parent Night. Down here, it's bloated self-portraits, angry scribbles, a painting of someone in a bath full of knives. Art that makes adults uncomfortable.

Something catches my eye by the sinks. There's a painting of the quarry. But it's nothing romantic. It's a wound in the earth, blood splashing the trees. I squint. The name in the corner:
Cassius Somerset
. His art's always been upstairs. Pastels, clouds, not the kind of thing a murderer would paint. I used to sneak extra minutes in the hallway after school to look at them.

This bloody quarry, it's the kind of thing a murderer would paint.

I've dreamed about that night with him twice, muscle memory, his skin setting fires on mine. My cheeks ache with how hard I was smiling and then I have to curl up, digging my thumbnail into my palm, half-moon marks, because it should be a nightmare, not a dream.

Kissing someone doesn't mean you know them.

I wander out of the room. The buses'll be here in a few minutes. Pres vanishes when other people are around.

I turn the corner, nearly bang into Levi.

“Joy.” His expression's weird. “I was looking for you.”

“I forgot your sweatshirt at home,” I say, tired. “I'll bring it tomorrow.”

“It's not that. I looked in my locker.”

“For your sweatshirt?”

He holds up a grainy printer-paper black-and-white copy of—

No. No,
how
?

“You were so messed up yesterday, and I didn't even know for sure what I saw . . .” He kind of hugs himself. “But this photo I found in my locker—it was in your bag yesterday, wasn't it?”

I wrench open my backpack, find the envelope, grope for the edges of the photos and count. One's missing.

Preston. He took one last night, he made copies. He was so afraid I wouldn't do it.

How long would it take to slip one through the slats of every locker in the school?

“This is the principal. Is this real?” Levi holds the copy away like it's poisonous. “Did
you
put this in my locker?”

I can't speak, can't move.

Upstairs: the echo of the bus arrival stampede, everyone piling inside, shedding jackets. I start to walk, run. Have to find Savannah, have to get her out of the school—

“Joy?” he asks, but I'm down the hall, fighting through the masses.

And then a hundred locker doors open at once.

“
ONE STRAWBERRY SOFT SERVE, ONE VANILLA
with rainbow sprinkles.” Joy glances at me eagerly.

One childhood, two children: extra large ice-cream cones. Strawberry for her. Vanilla for me. “I don't want one.”

“Grace, seriously. Stop it. You're not fat.”

Which is something people always say to confirm that, yes, being fat is as bad as you think it is.

“One small,” I tell the girl behind the counter.

We sit in our old corner booth. The red pleather is peeling now. There's more gum wadded to the underside of the table. When we were little, Joy would steal the cherry on Dad's sundae and hold it out to me, but I'd shake my
head. I could always tell when she wanted something for herself. Sometimes they'd give us free ice cream for never ever fighting.

Joy bites into her ice cream with her front teeth. “Remember that time we were spitting sprinkles and nailed that bald dude's head?”

“That was just something you were doing.”

She doesn't hear me. “And he wanted Dad's phone number to get us in trouble, and I gave him the number for that sex hotline? This place is the best.”

My ice cream's melting. Dripping on my thumb. I tear open a pack of sanitary wipes from my bag. When I told her I needed to talk, she insisted we come here.

“Remember when they had that sundae-eating contest, like if you could eat the whole thing, you wouldn't have to pay for it? And Mom and Dad were freaking out because they thought we wouldn't finish, but then I did?”

She's the hero of our childhood. The best part of every story. The knight in every game we played. I was the princess, and the point of me was to be afraid of dragons. But what does the princess do while the knight is having adventures? Nobody sees her.

“Do you know how many calories are in that?” I ask.

She shrugs, her ice cream half-gone already. “What did you want to tell me?”

Soon I'll have to eat mine or throw it away.

“I have a thing for this guy,” I mumble.

“Oh my God, Grace! What guy?”

I brace myself. “Adam Gordon.”

“Him? That guy is such a dick.”

I shrivel up. “Please don't tell anyone.”

“Duh.” She tosses back her hair. Curly and wild. I flat-iron mine straight every morning. Forty-five minutes.

“You're not always so good at secrets.”

“I am too! Well, no, I'm not. But you're the only person I'd get better for.” She crunches cone. “Can we go back to him being a dick, though? Nov hates him.”

“So?”

“I trust her taste in people.”

My stomach is a hard rock. “November hates everybody.”

“She doesn't hate me,” she says a little smugly.

“You're so special.”

“Why are you so weird about her?”

“She's the weird one.” I don't like what I'm saying, but I say it anyway. “She was out of school for her whole sophomore year and nobody knows why. Supposedly she was into drugs.”

“So?”

“It's just—November, and Preston, they're both . . . kind of . . . What was wrong with our old friends? Lily and Cat? And Brodie?” I ask.

“Those were
your
old friends.”

“You liked them in middle school.”

“They stopped talking to me when I didn't get into your honors classes. And then I noticed, surprise, I didn't
even
have
any of my own friends, because I always hung around with yours. So don't be weird about Nov and Pres.”

How did I not know any of this?

“You wanna know how I met Pres?” she asks. “He hates gore, right? And one day I see Adam waving some gross picture of guts from a bio textbook in his face. So I yelled at Adam. Like, what the fuck?”

“You hold on to things,” I say, but what do I really know about Adam? Just stupid fantasies. Nothing real, other than that five-minute conversation.

“I don't forgive people for fucking with my friends. So that's why it's a big deal that I'm gonna give Adam another chance.”

My stomach uncoils. “Really?”

“You're my sister. If you like him, I like him.” She smiles at me. “Or I'll try, anyway. That'll be important for when we make him like you. I guess it's kind of perfect! Adam and Cassius. We'll have that whole twins-dating-best-friends thing.”

Could I trust her with more than just this? I'm trying to find the right way to start when her eyes widen. I turn and look over my shoulder. The warmth disappears. November Roseby has just walked into the Ice Cream Palace.

“Quick,” she hisses. “Do I have stuff on my face?”

“You're acting like you have a crush.”

She shushes me and jumps up, waving and hurrying over to November. Apparently we're not talking about Adam anymore. I get up and throw my ice cream away
while she's not looking.

November moseys over like she's too cool to move any faster.

“You got my text,” Joy's crowing.

She invited her? I told her I needed to talk, and she invited November?

“I got your text.” November casually steals a lick from the bottom of Joy's cone. She hasn't taken off her sunglasses. She has one of those haircuts where part of her scalp is buzzed. Several of her braids are dyed green. She has three holes in each ear. Rubber bands on each wrist.

What's so great about her?

“So what's up?” Joy sits down with her. Loops her arm over the back of the booth, then takes it back. Adjusts her masses of hair. I have a feeling November likes how hard she's trying.

“Arguing with my asshat dad, as usual.” November yawns, but her shoulders are rigid. “
Officer Roseby
was bragging about his old arrest record. I pointed out that America has more prisoners per capita than any other country. He told me I'm turning into one of those sassy black girls.”

“Are you kidding me?” Joy yells. “I hate him so much. God.”

She doesn't weigh her words like I weigh mine. But all her words are light, no matter what they are. They soar out of her. Mine are always so heavy.

“He's like a hoarder,” says November. “He has a copy
of the arrest record of everyone he's ever arrested. Like a serial killer keeps trophies.”

If I tap my knee on the underside of the table twenty times before Joy finishes her ice cream, November will go away.

“He's so white,” Joy says. “He probably wears salmon shorts when he's not in uniform. And spends, like, half his paycheck on fancy cheese.”

“Joy, you're white,” I say, just to keep from vanishing.

She turns pink. November laughs. Slow. Warm. She tips her sunglasses down. “I like you.”

It's like a decree of approval from the universe. Joy beams.

“You're supersmart, yeah?” November says. “Heard you get these wild test scores.”

I am now officially present and accounted for in the conversation.

Though my test scores should be better.

“I dig your makeup,” she adds.

There's too much of it
, Adam told me.

Joy gives November her special look that she's only ever given me. The
you-are-perfect
look. Makes you want to do anything to keep from shattering that illusion. But I'm not perfect, not on the inside, so November can't be, either.

“You're my two favorite people in the entire world, you know that?” Joy says. “And now we're all hanging out. We gotta hang out more this summer, the three of us. I'd invite Pres, but he hates people.
Oh!
I just had the best idea.”

Oh no.

November knocks Joy's shoulder with her fist. “Yeah?”

“I think the three of us should make something out of this summer.”

What's wrong with the
two
of us?

“I think this should be the summer of misdeeds,” she keeps going. “Grace, you've been studying forever. We need to do some exciting stuff. Like getting you drunk, Grace, for the first time. Or maybe trying, like, weed. Doesn't matter. But seriously, we're going to be juniors. You need to loosen up or you're gonna regret being so flawless in high school.”

“Corrupting you will keep me from getting too bored,” November offers.

“Yes! You can find us cool parties to go to. We'll find the boys to make out with.” She winks at me. Apparently we
are
still talking about Adam. “It'll help with all your stress.”

“I don't know, Joy.” She loves being the one who slashes through the jungle with a machete. Forging a path. Pulling me on.

“She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to do,” says November.

“Right.” Joy's eyebrows dive down. “Sorry.”

Two possible summers. One spent listening to her window open across the hall, the sound of her slipping away while I'm in bed by nine. More distance between us. Or I can become a girl who gets high test scores and sneaks out at midnight. Who reads philosophy books and does drugs.
The kind of girl every musician boy wants. An
interesting
girl.

I sit up straighter. “No, it's fine. Maybe. The drinking, I mean. Possibly. We could try.”

“Yes!” Joy punches the air. “Mom and Dad are gonna be so pissed that I'm leading you into a life of sin.”

Is this just a way for her to get back at Mom and Dad?

“And you'll have stories to tell Adam on your first date with him—”

I stare at her. So much for secrets.

“What's the look?” she adds, then gasps. Mimes zipping her lips. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“You like Adam Gordon?” November hardens.

A beat. Then I shake my head.

Pathetic.

But November doesn't soften. There's an awkward silence. Then she stands up. “Actually, I was only swinging by for a minute. Gotta pick up a prescription.”

“That's fine! I'll text you!” My sister's a puppy, bouncing all over her.

The bell above the door rings as November leaves. Then the air's less intense.

“I'll make up for that.” Joy grabs my arm. “I'm gonna personally make sure you and Adam hang out this summer. This is your first crush. It's important.”

She hooks her ankle behind mine and tugs my foot. She's always touching people without thinking. Trying to drag them into her world.

Maybe this summer I'll let her.

A week later, it's the three of us again. I've only been to the quarry once before, during the day. It belongs to the town, even though it's close to Mr. Gordon's property, but everyone knows he doesn't mind. Mom and Dad took us for a picnic once when we were nine. They talked about the first time they kissed here, under the moon. That was before everyone started saying how someone might fall.

Now, at night, it's so dark that you can't see the bottom. The quarry is an inverted sky without stars. People took what they wanted from the earth, and this scar is still here, even though they're gone.

“Grace, come here!” Joy's sitting with November on a blanket scavenged from the back of her car. Close to the tall dark pines.

“Are you scared?” She laughs at me. “Remember how you used to be afraid of the dark?”

“Shhh!” I hiss.

She pokes my cheek as I sit on the scratchy wool. “I'll protect you, baby sister. The dark doesn't scare me.”

“This was all I could steal from my dad's cabinet. Fair warning, it's gross.” November pours a tiny glass
of liquid. I can't see what color it is in the dark. She holds it out to me. “Youngest first. I'm not drinking, I drove here. And I want to be very sober in case one of you pukes.”

“She's not gonna puke.” Joy wraps her arm around my shoulders. The breeze tangles her hair with mine. “Try it, Grace. It's not that bad.”

“Have you ever had it?”

“Well. No.”

How many calories are in this? I drink it. It sears my throat and I cough. Joy laughs and the quarry swallows the echo. The aftertaste stings hard.

“You like it?” She jostles my shoulders. Throws her legs over mine. She's touching me so much tonight.

A normal girl would like it. “Sure.”

She shrieks in delight.

“Don't scream, you maniac.” November glances at the pines.

“Whatever. The Gordons can't hear us.” Joy grabs the bottle and swigs. It looks badass until she gags and sprays liquid all over the rock.

“That's what you get.” November stretches out on the blanket and pops one earbud in.

A normal girl wouldn't have to like it. Everything Joy does is what a normal girl would do.

I stop drinking before she does. She keeps it up until she's sprawled out on the blanket, cozied up to November, all her insecurities that I didn't know existed leaping off her like rats off a sinking ship.

“It's not gonna work with me and Cassius. I know that. I'm too much, I think. Way too much for any guy to want to deal with.”

She's not too much. I'm not enough.

“I'm not hot,” she says. “Not being hot is fucking annoying.”

Does she ever look at her body and hate every part of it, too?

“Bullshit.” In the dark, November looks like her older sister. “You're gorgeous.”

That's all it takes, and Joy's smiling. What's the point of being smart, if I can't think of the words to tell my sister she's pretty? Why don't they have a class in how to say the right things to people?

“You're sooo cool, Nov.” Joy's babbling. “You're like my cool big sis. Did you know that? You're the coolest person ever. God.”

I stop existing.

“I'm not so great,” she murmurs, and I'm the only one who hears. Even though Joy's closer to November than she is to me.

I wander away from the two of them. Closer to the quarry. If I take three steps, she'll like me more than November. Four steps and Adam will like me more than anybody.