Rebel, Bully, Geek, Pariah (16 page)

“Don't worry about telling your parents, boys. They already know.”

 

20

“EVERYONE KNOWS,” ANDI said.

Boston pulled the phone from her hand, and she didn't fight him.

My first reaction when I saw the screen was shock; I'm ashamed to say my second reaction was a rush of relief. Three photos blazed across the River City Police Department's “alerts” page.

Just three.

I looked around at the faces next to me—they were older than the faces in the photos, since the pictures looked like they'd been pulled from our last yearbook, but unmistakably the same.

“How did they get these up so fast?” Boston asked.

“My car,” York groaned. “We left it there. They probably ran my plates or whatever the hell they do.”

“I'm sure you're not the only one who left a car behind after that bust,” Andi said. “I guarantee they got our names and that
God-awful photo”—she punched a finger at her picture—“from someone at the party.”

“But no one gave them my name,” I said.

The others exchanged quick glances, and Boston shifted from foot to foot.

“Well,” he said, “it's just—you know . . . I don't think a lot of people
know
your name.”

Oh. Right.

“
I
knew it,” Andi piped up, sounding proud of herself.

“I didn't,” York admitted, and the apology in his voice stung.

I looked from York to Boston to Andi and saw the same misplaced pity in all of their eyes. It caused an angry flush to creep up my neck. So what if no one knew my name? I had made it that way. I was the architect of my own anonymity—hiding under my hats and keeping my head down, speaking the minimum in class and not at all in the hallways. I
wanted
invisibility. I chose it.

Didn't I?

“I mean, I think I recognized you,” York rushed to add. “Kind of. The hats . . .”

I spun toward Boston. “You knew people called me—” I couldn't bring myself to say it.

He shrugged. “I remembered from when we were kids, before we switched schools.”

Worms.

Hat Girl.

All this time, I hadn't been invisible so much as unimportant. Noticed, but not worth knowing.

A strange lump rose into my throat then, and I forced myself to swallow it back down.

Really, I was lucky nobody knew me. It meant that instead of my face also being splashed across the police department's website, there was just a box with a question mark holding my place. I should have been grateful.

“At least they're not looking for you,” York said.

No one was looking for me—not even Mama. My hand went involuntarily to my pocket before I remembered we'd turned off our phones. Maybe she
had
called by now. Then a thought occurred to me.

I turned to Andi. “How come nobody's called your phone besides your boyfriend? It's been on this whole time. If the police know your name, they've probably been to your house. Shouldn't someone have called you?”

Andi looked uncomfortable. “My dad . . . doesn't have this number.”

“How can your dad not have—” I stopped, understanding. “It's stolen.”

“I didn't steal it,” Andi rushed to say. “It's kind of a loaner.”

I raised an eyebrow, inviting her to explain.

“It's not in my name,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Sometimes I do favors for people in exchange for stuff.”

York leered. “What kind of favors?”

“Not like that, perv!” she snapped. “I'd get my own, but my dad can't be bothered to get off the couch to set up cell service.”

“Can he be bothered to answer the door for the cops?” York asked.

Her eyes flashed, and she almost smiled. “Maybe?”

I didn't know why she made it sound like a question, or why her whole face lit up with hope, but I suddenly felt inexplicably sorry for Andi.

“But it's not like he'd know where to find me,” she said, then her eyes opened wide. “Hey, what about
your
parents? Won't the police be looking for you at your house? At
this
house?”

“Oh shit,” I said. I craned my neck to peer through the front wall of glass, expecting lights and sirens to break up the utter blackness outside at any second.

When I looked back, the boys were staring at each other, having one of their silent eyeball conversations. Boston twisted his hands together, and York cricked his neck back and forth.

“What?” I demanded. “What is it?”

Boston sighed. “The only way they'll find us here is if our parents tell them to look here.”

“Which is totally possible,” York said.

“If they thought we were here, they'd call,” Boston argued. “There's a landline in the kitchen, so—”

“Guys!” Andi said. “I've got news for you. The police can find you here with or without your parents' permission. They'll have a record that you own this—”

“That's just it,” Boston interrupted. “We don't own it.”

I smacked a hand to my forehead.
Awesome. We already ran over a cop, left the scene of a crime, and evaded police. Why not add breaking and entering to the list?

“So whose cabin is it?” I asked.

“It belongs to a family friend.” York shrugged like it was no big deal. “They let us stay here for a few weeks at the end of every summer, because my mom strips the beds and locks the place down for winter.”

Andi gaped at the boys, and there was a slight smile in her otherwise shocked face. “I'm sorry, are you saying your mom is the
maid
 ?”

I bristled at the mirth in her voice. Mama had worked more than one cleaning job. What of it?

“Hey,” York said. “Who wouldn't take something for free if they could get it? Just because our parents make it their business to give other people money doesn't mean they aren't stingy.”

“Actually,” Andi said, “that's exactly what that means.”

“The point is, we know the owners,” Boston rushed to say. “It's totally okay that we're here. We've been coming here since we were kids. It's practically ours.”

A sense of calm settled over me. “You're saying we're safe here,” I said.

We could stay; maybe not forever, but definitely for now.

“Maybe they can't trace us to the cabin,” York said, “but they can trace that phone.” He pointed to Andi's cell, still in Boston's hand. “I don't care whose name it's in.
Somebody
has your number. Eventually the police will figure it out. You should turn it off.”

“Wait,” Boston said. He scrolled past the yearbook-photos-turned-mug-shots to a short paragraph below, saying four teens were wanted for questioning regarding an attack on a police
officer. Below the paragraph, there was a phone number and an e-mail address for people to contact with information. Boston pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted both down on the palm of his hand.

“Okay, now turn it off,” York insisted.

“One more thing.” Boston tapped the screen quickly, pulling up a Google search about the incident in the park. A long list of news articles flooded the screen.

“We don't have time to read all that,” I said. If York was right that Andi's phone could eventually be traced, I was as antsy as he was to shut it down.

“Just one,” Boston pleaded. “I want to see if our parents are quoted.”

But they weren't. The article he pulled up included just one interview.

Andi ripped the phone from Boston's hand so fast I thought she'd tear his arm off.

“I knew it!” she said. “That bitch!”

21

TEN MINUTES LATER the cell phone was dark, and we were sprawled across the great room—Boston and York stretched out on the sleeping bags, Andi curled up on the couch, and me tucked into an armchair, arms wrapped tightly around Mama's violin.

“She's a worthless piece of garbage,” Andi said.

She had already used up her entire arsenal of curse words and was now inventing more colorful insults.

Georgia Jones had given a reporter from the
Daily River
an earful. She was quoted as saying York Flint and his little brother, Boston, had wandered away from the party and left their car behind, and that two girls may have gone with them. In an especially gleeful-sounding quote, she described Andi as a “degenerate with greasy dreadlocks.” The article was quick to point out that the dreads matched the description of one of the suspects.

The suspects! Since when are people wanted for questioning “suspects”?

Georgia had told the reporter all about how much York had to drink and exactly what Andi's tattoos looked like. Then she'd vividly described a creepy girl—most likely Andi's girlfriend—who had crashed the party. This girl, according to Georgia, was the kind of person you had to keep an eye on, in case she came to school with a gun one day and opened fire.

That quote stole the air from my lungs. Is that what she thought? Is that what other people thought? Did being a loner automatically make me someone so despicable?

Sadly for the poor reporter, Georgia couldn't recall the girl's name—only that she went by the “street name” of Worms.

Of course, it was the reporter who used the term “street name,” but why not? Georgia had painted a perfect picture of a disturbed teenager headed for a life of crime. Naturally, I had to have a street name.

But there was some good news in the article, too. The officer we'd run down was expected to make a full recovery, despite having been knocked unconscious. Other police, who'd been helping to bust up the party, had raced down to the dock after hearing gunfire. There, they'd found an officer down, tire tracks, and a single bullet lodged in a tree. They'd also heard a motor out on the water, but they couldn't yet say whether any of the suspects had escaped by boat.

That was good, Boston had pointed out. It supported our claims about being shot at. Now there was just the small matter of convincing the police that their fellow officers were the ones doing the shooting.

“She's an attention-seeking whore,” Andi said. “She's a rat.”

“She's a hot rat, though,” York said. Then, under Andi's steely glare, he amended, “But she's a shit kisser.”

York kissing Georgia. There's a visual I didn't need . . . or want.

“Yeah, she is,” Andi agreed.

My head whipped in her direction, surprised, but she offered no explanation. Instead she fell back on the couch, still muttering insults. The boys lapsed into a private conversation, talking in low voices and occasionally glancing my way. I strummed Mama's violin like a guitar and pretended not to notice.

Probably just trying to remember my name.

Finally, York cleared his throat. “We have a new idea.”

“Does this idea involve stringing Georgia up by her toenails over a pit full of crocodiles?” Andi snarled.

“Sure,” Boston said. “Right after Sam gives our statement to the police.”

I stopped strumming the violin. “Say what, now?”

Boston held up his hands as if to ward off any protest. “Hear me out. They don't know what you look like
 
. . .
 
or even your name,” he added apologetically. “You're the only one of us who could walk into a police station right now without being arrested on the spot. You would have time to hand in the statement before they jumped to conclusions. You could speak for all of us.”

He said this last bit like it was some great honor to be the orator of the group.

More like the scapegoat.

“What happened to e-mailing our statement?” I asked. “Or letting your parents or a lawyer do it?”

“It might be more convincing if you go in person,” Andi said. She sounded a little too eager, and I suspected she was on board with any idea that didn't involve her commingling with police.

“It will,” York agreed. “We won't seem so much like we're hiding.”

“Except you
will
be hiding,” I pointed out.

“Just for a minute,” Boston said. “And if you go in person, you'll be able to turn in the drugs along with the statement.”

“What?” I propped the violin on my knees like a shield that could protect me from all their crazy. “You want me to walk into a police station with a hundred pounds of heroin?”

“It's not a hundred pounds,” Boston said. “Closer to twenty-five. No more than thirty.”

My jaw dropped.

“I'm good with numbers,” he said.

“I don't give a shit about the numbers,” I spat. “You're trying to set me up!”

“I swear we're not,” York said. “Scout's honor.”

I seriously doubted he was ever a Boy Scout, but I only
hmph
ed and sat back in my chair. It felt like they wanted me to take the fall—but then again, they weren't asking me to lie or hide their names. They just wanted me to walk into a building and hand in a piece of paper.

And a shitload of drugs.

In a way, it made a sick kind of sense to send me—the invisible girl—the one nobody was looking for because nobody noticed. Still, I was unsettled, and I felt our night coming to a close much too quickly, like a brick wall rushing up at a speeding car.

“I'll think about it,” I said.

The others didn't look convinced.

“We're not going anywhere tonight anyway. It's dark, it's late, and we could fall asleep at the wheel on the way home.”

“I'm not tired!” Andi said brightly.

I shot her a look.

“Wait—” Boston started to protest, but York put a hand on his arm.

“That's fair,” he said. “Take the night to decide.”

Then he offered me another one of those smiles, but this time it seemed calculated to make me swoon, and I wasn't feeling very swoony.