Remember Me (16 page)

I get my bag and new computer from the backseat, carefully tucking my jacket around the bag. This conversation is uncomfortable enough without explaining why I'm dragging around a CPU.

“Tell me what happened,” Bren says.

I don't want to anymore
. “Matthew and his friends were bothering someone. I intervened and they . . . Matthew.” I pause, waiting for her as hope—I just didn't realize what it was until now—drains from me. “It's no big deal. It was roughhousing, stupid stuff really, and it just got out of hand. They probably thought keying my car was funny.”

Our eyes meet, and for a very long time, all I can hear is my breathing.

“Why couldn't you just get along with them?” Bren asks.

I freeze, positive I heard her wrong. “I'm sorry I . . .
what
?”

“Why couldn't you just get along with them?” Bren hunches in half, arms wrapped tight around her torso. At first, I think she's holding herself back . . . then I realize she's just holding herself up. That's how much I've disappointed her.

That's how much I've failed.

Heat chases up my neck. “I can't get along with them because they're assholes.”

“You could have ignored them. You could have
pretended
you liked them.”

I recoil. “It doesn't matter if I pretend. They don't care. They hate me. There's nothing I can do about it.”

Bren's eyes go hollow. “There's always something you can do about it, Wick. This is survival. You have to learn to play right with the right people and you better learn it now because your future will depend on it.”

Depend on them? I . . . can't. The realization slams me in the stomach. If that's my future then I don't want it.

I stumble from the car, dashing upstairs and slamming my bedroom door. How can she not understand? I throw my messenger bag onto the floor and set the computer next to my desk, dropping into the chair beside it.

Is this what life is? Just letting people use you? Bren acts like it's okay because she knows it's happening, like she's in control. She's not. None of us are.

See how she was used?

I sit straight. They're not my words, but they feel like mine. They're crawling out of some corner I've always kept hidden. Until now. I pivot to face my old computer, powering it on and opening my chemistry notebook. Forget Lily and Bren. If they want to pretend bad things don't happen, fine. Doesn't mean I'm going to.

I flip to the page with the passwords and log in to the police department's employee site, using Detective Thompson's information first.

It doesn't work. Small, red letters appear to the side of the password box saying “User already in use.” I glance at my phone. It's almost nine at night. What are the odds Detective Thompson is working this late? He might be. I don't know the guy personally. Maybe he's a workaholic.

Or maybe someone else is in the system like I am.

I tap my fingers against the side of my keyboard. Whatever. I'll try the other log-in. I enter Sheriff Denton's info and another menu opens. I'm in. Thank God for Molly the Receptionist. The main dashboard is set for accessing closed and open cases, tickets, and court appointments. Gotta love when people are organized.

I click the Closed Case link and use the search function to type in my mom's case number. It takes the system a beat, but the file populates with some case notes and a summary of contents for her evidence box. No video files though.

I open the Content Summary link and scan the list. Okay, here we go. In addition to witness statements, there are also “recorded interviews with victim.” No mention of how many though. I've received almost forty video files at this point. Could there be more?

I hit the back button and skim through the case notes. Someone named Lawrence Haralson was lead detective, and a quickie Google search reveals he's retired and living in Alabama. Detective Sams, his partner, now works for the Atlanta PD.

Let's see what else. . . . I scroll to the bottom of the notes, stop. Haralson and Sams weren't the only people present during the interviews.

So was Bay.

19

My fingers . . . toes . . . face go cold. Numb. Bay knew. He was in on it. Did Carson know? Is that why he picked me to help him? I place both hands on my desk, leaving smeary prints on the wood.

Well, that explains why Bay always denied my mom's restraining order requests. It would have taken her away from my father, away from a case that would have padded his résumé.

I almost laugh. No wonder Carson doesn't like him—they're the same.

Enough of that though. What am I going to do? I start to pull off my jacket and it's the weight in the pocket that reminds me.

The Droid.

I can suddenly breathe. While I don't know what to do about Bay, I
do
know what I'm going to do with this. I mash the power button, waking the phone from sleep mode. No security code. Candy, meet baby.

Dropping onto my bed, I surf through the phone's settings until I get to its name: Matthew's Phone. I have the sudden urge to giggle. It's Bradford's cell. Oh, this is going to be
good
!

I switch to the contact lists. Girls from school. Guys from school. Other names I don't recognize. Nothing useful. I check his email and it's a little more interesting. Might be fun to infect his parents' computers with a virus. Something nasty. If they think the email's coming from Matthew, they'll click without thinking.

Promising. Still not grabbing my interest though.

What about text messages?

I flip through another set of screens. Ah, yes, someone's a disgusting pig. I scroll through the conversations. Matthew's been sexting with his girlfriend. I wonder if his mommy would be bothered by that? I check her email address and realize Matthew's mom works for a restaurant chain known for its Christian values. That could be fun. I wonder if her coworkers would be bothered by Matthew's texts?

Her work email is listed under the contacts. Maybe I could send an email blast of darling Matthew's requests. Again, promising, but I want this to hurt.

On to the video files. He has four or five. The first few are worthless—just Matthew and his friends goofing around. The last one makes me smile.

Bingo.

For exactly four minutes and thirty-six seconds, Matthew Bradford, Eric Williams, and Sutton Davis pass the phone around, filming themselves drinking.

And smoking.

I replay the video, peer a little closer at the screen. That's not just smoking. That's pot.

I can't help my grin. Holy shit, this is going to be good.

The guys are still in their lacrosse jerseys and they're passing a bottle of Jack back and forth. We're not talking HD clarity here, but every time they turn around, you can see the names printed across their shoulders. So much for their reputation as good boys.

I watch the video twice more, and each time, the knot in my stomach twists harder. This is going to be awesome.

I take my new computer out of the bag and spend a few minutes hooking it up to the rest of my peripherals. It'll still need updates before I'm fully functional, but I'm more than ready for this little job. I plug in the last cable, noticing Milo burned some sort of symbol into the plastic casing. It looks like the Cheshire cat's smile from
Alice in Wonderland
, the toothy grin after the cat has disappeared.

I like it.

After the CPU powers up, I plug the phone into the USB and wait for the video file to download. In terms of what to do, I have a few options. Honestly though there's only one place that's perfect for such a windfall: our high school's YouTube channel.

I settle into my chair and start working on obtaining access to the school's account.

 

Next morning, I wake up late again and Bren drops me off just before the first bell rings. We don't talk much on the ride over. I fiddle with the scarf around my neck. Bren switches radio stations. She pulls into the school's drop-off lane, and just as I'm about to slide out of her car, Bren grabs my hand, holds it tight.

“I'm sorry for yelling at you, Wick. I completely screwed up. I feel terrible.”

“I'm sorry about the car.”

“It's not your fault.” Except I know she thinks it kind of is. If I weren't such a freak, if I weren't such an outsider, if I weren't so . . .
me
, this stuff wouldn't happen.

“It's not your fault,” Bren repeats, and I smile like I believe her. “I know you said you don't want to make a statement, but I'll support you if you change your mind.”

I shake my head. No need to change my mind. “I appreciate the ride, but I can drive the Mini like it is. No big deal.” It's totally a big deal. I'm just not going to admit it. Thankfully, though, Bren shakes her head. “Okay . . . I could walk then.”

“You're
not
walking. What would people say?”

“That I like to exercise?” Or that after her husband went to jail Bren had a hard time making ends meet. I know that's what she's thinking. Worse, I know that's what the neighbors are thinking too. It's weird to live in a world where not having an extra car for your teenager is considered poverty.

Wish I could acquaint her with what not having enough money really means.

Then again, no I don't. I would never want Bren to worry like that. She'd probably stroke out. She's annoying, but she's mine.

“I really am sorry, Wick. This mom stuff . . . it's a lot harder than I thought.”

“It's okay. Really. I'll see you tonight.” I close the car door, head through the school's front entrance and make a left for my locker. I put away the books I was supposed to use for last night's lab project and pull out my English notebook.

“Did you hear about the video that was uploaded to the school's YouTube account?”

Ian.
I try to look surprised though it doesn't really matter. He's watching the hallway behind me and picking at the scab on his lower lip.
Does he know?
“No, I didn't. What happened?”

“Someone put up a video of Matthew, Eric, and Sutton drinking and smoking weed. It was at an away game last month. They've been expelled.”

My hand hovers on top of my history book. Did I just have a twinge of guilt? Because I am not going to feel guilty. I'm
not
. “How did they know it was at an away game?”

“Dunno. Stuff behind them, I guess. Because they were drinking and doing drugs at a school function, they were automatically expelled.” Ian looks at me, waits for a response.

I stare right back at him, feeling Matthew's hand around my neck.

Under my shirt.

My stomach heaves. I turn to my locker, throw books around until I can breathe again.

“You look really tired today,” Ian says.

“Gee thanks.”

“You should probably wear more makeup.”

And you should probably learn some damn manners.
I nearly say it, but, looking at Ian, I can't. He's too freaking pathetic. He's too . . . lonely. It's written in his skin, in the way he slides closer to me, almost vibrating because someone's talking to him.

The ache in my chest is unexpected and unwelcome and I can't make it go away. There are jocks and populars and nerds and kids like Ian who are so desperate for attention they'll hunt it anywhere, making themselves so annoying no one wants them around.

“Look, Ian—”

“Wick!”

I turn, smiling before I even seen him. Griff weaves through the hallway, eyes pinned to me, and my grin falters. He doesn't look happy. He looks . . . pissed.

Griff knows.

 

We take the
long way around to my English class. Griff walks as close to me as he usually does—only this time he doesn't touch me and all I want is to grab his hand.

I grip my book bag's straps instead.

“I know you did it,” he says at last.

I start to lie, but this is Griff and, even if I wanted to, I think he'd see through it. “They attacked Ian and me in a bathroom
and
they keyed my car. They had it coming.”

Griff jerks. “Attacked?”

“They keyed my car,” I repeat. It's easier to say anyway. I'll tell him everything else later. When I'm ready.

“You could have filed a police report, gotten the school to give you the security cam footage.”

“Only I was parked near the science wing and that camera hasn't worked since we were freshmen.”

Griff winces, nods. He's still not meeting my eyes though. “I can't believe you didn't call me.”

“I—I—” I didn't and the realization feels like someone dropped me. I was so busy being pissed, so focused on bringing Sutton, Matthew, and Eric down. I just didn't . . . think.

Or maybe I did, because the next realization drops me harder, faster: I was scared he would look at me like Bren did.

Like he might be doing now.

My stomach rolls into my throat. I walk faster, but can't outrun Matthew. He's nowhere near and yet I can smell him—citrus gum and sweat and the bleach from that damn bathroom.

Griff drifts a little closer to me, keeping pace. “How did you get the video?”

“Bradford dropped his phone. It was the video or the sexting. I preferred the video.”

“What are you trying to prove?”

“That they can't keep pushing us around.”

He gapes at me. “So you got them
expelled
?”

Not intentionally.
I'm glad I did though. The satisfaction is a warm, red rubber ball deep in my gut. Those boys were bullies. They hurt people. It's about time someone returned the favor.

“I don't regret doing it. I'm glad they're screwed.”