Trust Me, I'm Trouble (9 page)

I’ll never get to sleep at this rate.

“I miss you,” I say to no one.

• • •

After an exhausting night of not being able to sleep, I have an exhausting day of forcing myself to stay awake. This is not helped by the fact that I’m not allowed at the Ballou. I begged Dani to take me there on the way to school, but she is a soulless herbal-tea drinker and doesn’t understand the imperative of caffeine in the morning. By three o’clock in the afternoon, I’m about to take Lily up on her offer of an espresso machine for such emergencies.

“Looks like you went about five rounds with a Glaakmaar monster and lost,” Murphy says as he comes upon me lying lengthwise across the overstuffed couch in the lobby.

I yawn, my jaw cracking with the intensity of it, and then tug my hair from a knotted ponytail into a half-assed French braid.

“Better?” I say.

“Ish,” he says.

“Where’s Bryn?”

“She’s meeting us in the bleachers.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for this,” I say, bugs crawling the walls of my stomach.

“No one would blame you for skipping it. You don’t have to go,” Murphy says, his tone supportive rather than sarcastic. Which feels weird, because that’s just not how we are with each other. In our line of work, we often witness people being awful. How we combat that is by never taking ourselves or each other too seriously. So it throws me when he tries to be earnest. I don’t want him to be, and yet I appreciate it at the same time.

“Thanks, Murphy, but I need to be there.”

When we arrive, the shiny, newly renovated gym is already packed, as expected. Tyler was beloved even when he was alive. And then he died young and a hero.

The ambiance reflects the somberness of the event—dimmed lights, the guidance counselor’s office staff handing out electric candles to everyone. A podium stands resolute in the center of the portable dais the janitorial staff erects for special events. A poster-sized picture of Tyler mounted on a freestanding easel stares me down. The guilt deluge is about as overwhelming as I wanted it to be.

Bryn waves at us from six rows up. We thread our way through the unusually subdued crowd. You’d never know it was nearly summer break with how dejected everyone looks. Bryn moves her bag to free up the spot she saved for Murphy. I squeeze in on her other side, counting on my damaged reputation to clear me a spot. Sure enough, two freshmen get up and move out of my way.

“You okay?” Bryn asks grudgingly.

“Yeah,” I lie.

She sighs and loops an arm around me, pulling me in for a close side-hug. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

Dani said something similar to me once, after finding me wandering around in the rain.
“You con yourself into believing you’re fine, but it’s okay if you’re not.”
I wish I could agree with them.

“I’m a grifter,” I say. “I don’t have real feelings.”

“I think you’re confusing grifters with sociopaths.”

“Who says they’re different?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever.”

The lights dim further as the program starts. Sister Rasmussen takes the stage. She doesn’t wear a traditional nun’s habit, though she does wear the customary black polyester-blend vest and matching pants. Her gray hair reflects the lights directed at the makeshift stage. She’s the youngest president St. Agatha’s has ever had, but she’s still in her sixties. I sometimes forget her age when I talk to her, because she seems so in tune with everything happening around her. But today, when she seems to be shouldering the weight of the entire student body, I can see every day of her sixty-some years etched on her face.

She clears her throat, and the low hum of dispirited conversation trickles to silence. My heart founders, lumbering lower in my rib cage than it should.

“Seven months ago, we lost one of our brightest students. Tyler Richland was a brilliant pupil, an esteemed classmate, and a Christian example to all of us. He made the ultimate sacrifice to save the lives of friends, both old and new. And his memory will be forever synonymous with integrity, compassion, and valor.”

Each word is a chiseled letter on a flat stone in a snowy graveyard. I haven’t been to Graceland Cemetery since I said good-bye to Tyler in December, but I will never forget the deep grooves of his name under my fingertips, the negative space of the lettering echoing the hole his absence left in my life. Leaves. And not just my life, if the sniffling and nose-blowing around me are any indication.

“Before we ask Tyler’s family to perform the dedication ceremony, designating this gymnasium as the Tyler Richland Athletic Center, I would like to turn the podium over to you. You knew Tyler best. I can think of no more fitting way to honor him than to have those of you whose lives he touched share your most treasured memories of Tyler with our community.”

The next hour is torture as student after student walks up to the podium and tells a tearful story of how Tyler affected them. I listen to every single one, trying desperately to suppress my memories with theirs.

“I was convinced I’d never be able to remember all my lines. I panicked and told Tyler I was going to quit the play. But he wouldn’t let me. I still remember him dressed in that ridiculous costume, putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, ‘You can’t leave me here alone with these yahoos.’ He barely even knew me. We’d talked maybe once since I started at St. Agatha’s. But he ran lines with me for a month….”

The voice from the stage fades into ambient noise as a too-strong memory bubbles to the surface….

“Well, I have the perfect remedy,” Tyler says. “Close your eyes.”

Out of curiosity, I humor him.

“Okay, open them.”

When I do, he’s making a ridiculous face—eyes crossed, head tilted forward, one finger stretching his mouth into a clownish grimace. I laugh reflexively. His face snaps back to its normal gorgeousness, his delighted smile echoing mine.

“Works on my little sister every time,” he says. “Ready for another one?”

I nod and close my eyes
….

I come back to the present, holding my head. Another student has replaced the last. I focus on his words.

“…thought for a second he was going to flatten me. I mean, it was a crappy thing to do, I know. I hadn’t meant for things to get that out of hand. And he’d have had every right to beat me to a pulp. But Tyler stepped in, totally diffusing the situation before I ended up in the hospital. I owe him all my remaining teeth, if not more….”

And then I swirl under again….

Only when he pulls me to his chest and I am bound by his arms do I notice that I’m shaking.

After a few minutes, he says, “Where can I take you?”

“I don’t have any place. I don’t have anyone.”

“You have me,” he says, and my heart feels a little less like a prisoner of war
….

Stop,
I beg my sadistic brain, fixing my attention on Tyler’s best friend, Nick, who’s taking his turn onstage.

“…a thousand little things that all added up to my best friend. We did everything together from the time we were twelve. Every sport, every class, every party. It’s hard to feel like my life didn’t end when his did. Every day is a struggle. And the worst part is that I never…I never told him…”

And don’t I know how that feels? I finally give in and let Tyler drag me under.

“You mean
everything
to me. And that means I do whatever it takes to save you. Even if saving you means losing you.”

I stop arguing, but I’m breathing hard and glaring at him.

Tyler’s gaze softens. “Sam is not the only one who loves you…”

Bryn hands me a tissue. I stare at it, my eyes dry as a desert. But as soon as I touch the lotion-infused paper, the waterworks start. Thanks, Bryn. Thanks a lot.

After the last masochist leaves the stage, Sister Rasmussen steps up to the mike. “Thank you, everyone, for sharing those stories. As long as you carry Tyler’s memory with you, he will never truly be gone. Now, for the dedication, I will turn the podium over to Mrs. Richland.”

Tyler’s mom looks like a different person. She’s still the ice queen I remember, but there are deep cracks in her facade that weren’t there before. I flinch, dropping my gaze. This is the part I was dreading the most, seeing her. I avoided the newspapers, the online “news” articles, the media circus surrounding Tyler’s death and his father’s incarceration as much as I could. I didn’t want to see what I’d done to his mother or the rest of his family. I couldn’t stand the thought of watching stoic Mrs. Richland fall to her knees, knowing that I was responsible. I accidentally came across one grainy photo taken of Tyler’s family at his funeral and it almost choked me. Seeing her now is even worse.

“I officially dedicate this gymnasium to the memory of my beloved son, Tyler Atticus Richland. Lily, if you would light the candle….”

My eyes sweep to Mrs. Richland’s left, where Lily is openly weeping and lighting a lone candle on a table. The electric candles around me switch on as the community conveys its solidarity to Tyler’s memory.

“Why is Lily up there?” I whisper to Bryn and Murphy, as I recall that grainy photograph. It was small, black-and-white, and taken from a distance. The people were all dressed in heavy black clothing with black hats and sunglasses. But there was a girl. Half hidden behind Mrs. Richland. Her head down, long, dark hair shielding all but a sliver of her face from the camera…

“She’s Tyler’s sister,” Bryn says. “Didn’t you know that?”

I
’d be mad, except what right do I have? She played me. And anyone who can do that has my grudging respect. Besides, she didn’t exactly try to hide her relationship to Tyler. She just never told me her last name, and I never asked. Tyler mentioned his sister, telling me that she was enrolled in an all-girls’ school across town. But he never said she was adopted, or that her name was Lily. Which just shows again how little I actually knew him.

“How long have you two known?” I say, glaring at them.

“Since she transferred here in March,” Murphy says. “You really didn’t know?”

Bryn gives him a look, and he shuts up. “We didn’t mention it, because you were having a rough time getting over Tyler’s death, and then everything happened with Skyla, and it just sort of…” She gestures vaguely. “You never brought it up, and we thought you didn’t want to talk about it, so we never brought it up. After a while it had been too long, and it just felt awkward….”

I count down from ten in my head. I really have just the worst minions ever.

“Well, this explains how she got Dean Porter to let me in the program. The dean is probably still wrecked over Lily’s dad.”

“Shhh,” says Carter, Murphy’s tech-club buddy, who elbows Murphy in the ribs and nods toward the bottom of the bleachers where Dean Porter is giving us the evil eye. “Moment of silence.”

Lily. Lily is Tyler’s sister. And everyone knew but me….Awesome. I pull out my phone and text Dani to come pick me up. I’m not interested in spending more time in Murphy’s company right now.

After the ceremony, Lily leaves the stage with her mother, not so much as glancing in our direction. Sister Rasmussen comes over to our group, though. Part of me wonders if we’ll get chastised for interrupting the moment of silence. But recrimination is not really Sister Rasmussen’s style.

“Ms. Dupree,” she says. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in my office tomorrow, after you finish your finals.”

“Sure,” I say, though I’m on guard. Sister Rasmussen has been lenient with me, and I suspect has gone out of her way to shelter me from the dean the past few months. But we’re not exactly besties. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” she says. “I’d like to discuss your summer internship with you.”

“All right.”

Several PTA parents pull the president into a conversation, giving us the opportunity to join the river of students leaving the gym.

“What was that about?” Murphy asks.

“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

My phone beeps with a text. I check it, expecting to see Dani’s name pop up. Instead, the message is from Mike.

You okay?

Angela must have told him about the vigil. Or maybe he just remembered it was today. Or maybe he found out about the hit on me. Most likely scenario: Angela told him about the vigil.

Dealing. When are you coming back?

Next Saturday. Why?

The Chevelle should be done by tomorrow, so at least I won’t have to explain its absence. I’ll have a harder time explaining the contract killer if I haven’t gotten that taken care of by then.

No reason. How’s the investigation going?

“Who is it?” Murphy asks, peeking over my shoulder.

“Mike. He’s still in New York.”

“Good thing.”

It’s classified.

“Typical,” I say.