Truth (6 page)

“What happened? Did they see you? Was Jerome there?” I've gone straight from the media lab to the hospital. I have so many questions that I barely give Scott time to talk. I notice that he's looking better, though. The swelling around his eyes has gone down.

“They have no idea I got those shots. I ran back inside and stashed the tape in the lab, then I went to help Ian. By the time I got there he had a black eye, maybe some broken ribs. He's okay, though.”

“You should have called for help,” I tell him.

He nods. “I thought I'd pretend to happen upon them and that Ross would back off.” Another shrug. “He didn't. I think he assumed I knew what they were talking about. I should never have gotten involved.”

“Maybe Ian was threatening to turn them in,” I say.

“Do you think I should have told the cops?” Scott asks.

“I don't know. What if they didn't believe you? What if Ross found out what you'd told them? You'd probably be dead right now.”

“I keep thinking about that investigator, too,” he says. “The big one at Ian's house the first time we were filming there? He looked like he was ready to believe we were guilty just because we're the right age.”

“Don't remind me.” I tell Scott about Officer Behnson's threat as I left the interrogation room.

I don't have any suggestions for Scott, so there's not much to talk about. I sit by his bed for a few minutes and bring him some magazines from the lounge.

When I get home, it's almost seven. My dad's been waiting, worried.

Lady Macbeth sucks. It's late on Sunday night and I've done absolutely nothing all weekend. Now I have my English books in bed with me.

It's lucky that my presentation isn't until Friday, because I'm not getting anywhere. I'm supposed to do a ten-minute spiel about Lady Macbeth's strengths. I keep reading
her part in the play, and I think she had more weaknesses. First she plots a murder. I admit, that took guts. But then she feels so guilty that she sleepwalks all over the castle, rubbing imaginary blood off her hands. She dies before the final battle begins. What kind of strength is that? She helped create the mess in the first place. She should have done something.

I should do something.

I chuck my English books off my bed and grab a blank piece of paper. I write:

Reasons to go to the police

• If I don't, someone's going to get away with murder.

• Some people deserve to know the truth — Ted Granville's wife, for example.

• I have evidence: Ross's missing boots, Scott's videotape.

• Ross shouldn't be going around intimidating people, beating them up and leaving notes in their lockers.

I cross out the first two reasons for being too much like things Pollyanna would say.
It's the last two things on the list that make me want to tell.

Reasons never to go to the police

• I'll eventually have to tell Dad I lied to him about not knowing anything.

• Someone might see me at the station. Word might get out that I've gone to the cops.

• It might get Jerome in more trouble.

• I'll have to see the cops all smirking, congratulating themselves on thinking I was involved.

My conclusions: I am paranoid-delusional (do I really think they've got someone watching the door of the police station? This is not a horror movie). It seems I also have lovesick-puppy syndrome for Jerome. I cross out the entire list and write, “You are a freak. You are a freak. You are a freak,” in multicolored pens down the rest of the page.

All of this leaves me where I started. I should do something. What? I turn off the light and lie on my back, thinking. Then I lie on my stomach, thinking. Then on my side. It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

Let's hear it for osmosis, the art of gaining wisdom while unconscious. I hadn't decided anything when I finally fell asleep last night, but this morning I know exactly what I'm going to do. All that's left is to convince Scott. Of course, getting him out of the hospital would help, too. I make my plans as I walk to school. By the time I get there, I'm smiling in smug satisfaction.

Then I see Jerome waiting for me in the hallway, and my smile slides off my face like oil-based makeup.

Deep breath.

“Hey,” he says. I wait for more, but that seems to be all he's going to say. He just stands against my locker, looking at me.

“Could I help you with something?”

“No. Well, yes,” he says, with a goofy grin. “I've missed you.”

Did I mention how good-looking Jerome is?

That's almost the end of all my plans for justice. My ideas from the walk to school this morning go skittering off down the hallway like a bunch of half-hatched eggs. How could
I have considered doing anything that might get Jerome in trouble? Besides, it's obvious he would never do anything wrong.

I'm just opening my mouth to tell Jerome that I miss him too, when I see Ian's battered face coming down the hall. When I look back at Jerome, I'm wondering whether this is a strategy to keep me quiet. I might be getting back together with a could-be-murderer.

My “I miss you” turns into “I gotta go.”

I duck past him and head to the only reasonable place — the girls' washroom. I brush by Georgia, and she follows me in.

“This is terrible!”

“It's just a bad day,” she soothes.

“It's not just a bad day! I just refused to go out with Jerome, and I visited my favorite non-boyfriend boyfriend in the hospital.”

“Boys suck” is all Georgia can think of to say.

I'm all snotty and blotchy when the bell rings. We both miss first period, and Georgia makes me promise to have lunch with her at Willie's Chicken.

All that grease combined with a chocolate milkshake revives me a bit, and by the afternoon I manage to walk serenely by Jerome in the hallway.

With all the hysterics, I don't have time for my plan. I don't even think about it again until last period — English. It's someone else's presentation today, and it's about the role of prophecy in the play. The plans of Macbeth and Lady M. are unraveling, and the signs are pointing to defeat. You have to like Shakespearean endings — all blood and last-minute honor. I tune out and concentrate on how I'm going to convince Scott to help.

As soon as class is over, I make a quick stop in the media lab. Then I head for the hospital.

“Scott,” I say, starting to talk before I'm even through the door to his room, “I know you're not going to like this, but…”

“It's about time you got here,” he interrupts. “I need to talk to you because we've got to do something.”

“What?”

“I knew you wouldn't want to, so I've been thinking all afternoon of how to convince you.”

“How to convince me to do what?”

“An exposé,” he says.

“But that's my idea!”

“What?”

Obviously we're having some communication problems. When we slow down long enough to listen to each other, it turns out that we've both made almost identical plans.

“But I thought you wanted to leave things alone,” I tell him.

“I did. But the longer I lie here with nothing to do except think, the more angry I get. Who died and made Ross king? Who gives him the right to do something like this? It's either the exposé or I go after him myself.”

“Wow. I mean, I always thought of you as a passive sort of guy,” I say.

“Yeah,” he nods, grinning. “It's probably better that we choose the exposé option.”

Ten minutes later I have the camera set up
on a tripod, and I'm holding the microphone beside his hospital bed.

“Mr. Rich,” I begin, in my most professional reporter voice, “you say you were beaten by two students of Fairfield Secondary?”

“Ross Reed and Nate Schultz.”

“And the reason for this attack?”

“I saw them intimidating another student — Ian Klassen.”

“In your mind, do these attacks relate to the recent murder of local banker Ted Granville?”

We go on like this for another ten minutes. We probably could have filmed for longer, but someone else turned up at the door — Georgia.

“What are you doing here? Are you okay?” For once, Georgia doesn't look like she's walked out of a fashion magazine. Her face is white and her eyes are red. She looks like she might throw up. Instead, she tosses a plastic bag she's carrying onto the end of Scott's bed.

“What's this?” he asks.

“The boots.”

I'm shocked into silence. Scott merely looks confused, and I remember that I never told him Officer McBride's secret about the boot print.

“How did you get these?” I ask her.

“I was over at Nate's last week and we were, well, fooling around in the basement. When I went to go to the washroom, I accidentally walked into the storage room. These were in a pile of junk. I only noticed them because I knew they were Ross's. I thought he must have forgotten them there.”

“So how did you get them?”

“After you told me what the cops said…”

“What did the cops say?” Scott wonders. We ignore him.

“I skipped class this afternoon and went to his house,” Georgia continues. “He's got a key stashed in the carport for when he sneaks in at night. I just ducked in and grabbed them.”

“That took guts,” Scott says approvingly. “But what's so important about the boots?”

We fill him in, finally. Then I give Georgia
a hug and make her promise to be careful.

That's all the time I have to worry about her. Scott's out of the hospital tomorrow, and he'll edit our exposé tape. My job, meanwhile, is to film the boots and write some narrative to run over top, explaining their significance. I'm also supposed to interview a police representative about the progress of the investigation.

By lunchtime on Thursday, we're finished. Scott has done even better than he planned — he's called Ian and managed to get the call on tape. Ian practically admits to seeing Granville beaten.

Now all we need to do is get it on the air. Ms. Chan will never let us run it without watching it first. We decide we'll have to secretly replace the
Fair Game
tape that's supposed to air tomorrow — Teen Smoking — with our exposé. Ms. Chan takes the tapes to the cable station every Thursday evening, so we have to make the switch right after school.

“You ready?” Scott asks, when he meets me by my locker.

“Ready.” I tuck the tape inside one of my binders and clutch it to my chest. We walk side by side to the lab, not saying anything. I'm not even breathing, though I don't notice until we walk into the lab and find it deserted. Then I feel like my body starts working again. Adrenaline is flowing through me.

“Where's the Teen Smoking tape?” I ask.

“She usually keeps them up here, on top of the filing cabinet.” Scott moves some papers, and there's the cassette.

“Okay, give it to me. Here's the exposé.”

“The what?” Ms. Chan has walks into the lab behind us. Scott jumps. I'm so nervous I scream, and that's the end of any chance we have at a cover-up.

Ms. Chan looks more stern than I've ever seen her. “Would you like to explain what's going on here?”

She looks first at me, then at Scott.

“Well…” I stutter. “There's this…”

Scott shrugs. “You may as well just watch the tape.”

We pull the blinds, and Scott pops the cassette into the machine. Ms. Chan still looks pissed, but she sits down to watch.

Scott's done an amazing job of the editing. The show starts with me interviewing him at the hospital. Then, while our voices continue over top, the video switches to the scene of Ian being beaten outside the school. After that, the police interview and a shot
of Ross's boots. Finally, the phone call to Ian, over a lonely, creepy shot of the murder scene.

“Were you an eyewitness to this murder?” the me-on-tape asks the Scott-on-tape as the show closes.

“No,” he says. “Were you?”

Then he looks straight into the camera. “Were you?”

Fade to black.

Ms. Chan watches the entire thing in silence. We stare at her in the semi-dark, waiting for her reaction.

“The principal should see this,” she says finally.

“No!” both Scott and I shout at the same time.

“Ms. Chan,” Scott continues more calmly, “unless everyone sees this at the same time, unless
everyone
sees it, Jen and I are in deep shit.”

“What if it never airs?” I add, panicking. “What if the principal takes it to the police, and Ross finds out?”

She's quiet again, then she nods. “Let me make a phone call,” she says. When we both look doubtful, she adds, “I promise not to put either of you in danger. Stay here. I shouldn't be too long.”

Once Ms. Chan has gone, I open the blinds to let in the light from the classroom. Scott and I slump in the chairs.

I'm the first to speak. “Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“We know Ross beat up Ted Granville, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we know there were two people involved.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think the second person was Nate or … Jerome?”

Once I've asked the question, I don't think I want to know the answer.

Scott doesn't answer anyway. He nods towards the classroom outside and says, “I guess you can ask him yourself.”

Jerome.

“I've been looking all over for you,” Jerome says as he comes through the door. “And I'm not the only one. Come on, we've gotta go.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” I tell him.

“Look, they know you're up to something. And they have a pretty good idea what it is.”

Both Scott and I sit up. “Who? And what do they know?”