Unraveling (10 page)
His head cocks to the side, and I can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. For some reason that makes me smile.
“I don’t think so. I mean, the guys who are my friends wouldn’t—they know I wouldn’t do it. And most of the other guys we hang out with, they don’t care enough to ask.” I’m tempted to tell him not to befriend any AP students because nobody cheats as much as they do, but I don’t. Because technically that’s me—I’m an AP student.
“What do you want last period?” Ben asks.
After I’m inserted into the right Spanish class, Ben prints my schedule and looks down, refusing to meet my eyes. My breath catches, and I wonder if he’s going to say something about the accident.
“So I’m not saying you would, but usually when I do this I make the person swear they won’t tell anyone.”
My insides plummet. “What, you don’t want eight hundred people asking you to schedule them?”
“No … it’s not about how many people are asking,” he says. “It’s more about
why
they’re asking, if that makes any sense. If it’s ‘Oh, counseling messed up my schedule and won’t fix it,’ okay. If it’s ‘I want a teacher who will let me cut class and not take attendance,’ I don’t want to bother.”
“Honor among cheaters?” I ask. And immediately regret it, because he glances up at me and looks pained—like I’ve insulted him.
“It’s just…” He sighs. “I don’t always make the right decisions, and I get that.” He shrugs. “But at the end of the day, I want to be able to look myself in the eyes and say I
believe
in them. I want to know I’d make each one again.”
I do know. It makes so much sense, my chest aches. Right should be about conviction. For all of my condescending comments about everyone else in this school, I can’t think of anything that I choose to believe in, that I choose to stand for. Except maybe Jared.
“And would you?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “Would you do it again?”
Something in his face changes, and he pushes his chair back and stands up. I’m talking about more than my schedule now.
But he just shrugs. “Even I know Janelle Tenner shouldn’t be in earth science and algebra. They would have fixed it for you eventually. Why not speed up the process?”
“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t feel it. Inside my eyes are watery and my throat is tight. A heaviness weighs down on my chest. Because that isn’t at all what I wanted to hear.
I sit there for a long time after he’s walked away. I replay each moment in my mind—the accident, what I saw and
felt
, almost running into him in the office, seeing him at lunch the other day, this conversation. He’s not what I expected at all.
I replay it all. Over and over, like I’m trying to memorize each detail and figure it out.
Until someone touches my shoulder and I can’t help but jump.
“I’ve been calling you,” Nick says with a laugh. “Come on, let’s hit off-campus for lunch.”
I don’t roll my eyes, even though I want to. We just went through this yesterday—how does he not remember? “Nick, I can’t—”
“Don’t worry. Coach is at the gate. I already talked to him, and he said he’ll let you through.”
He flashes me such a big smile, I instantly feel bad for thinking the worst when he’s actually planned ahead.
I should be giving him a chance instead of second-guessing his motives, without looking down on him because he has different priorities than I do.
“Sure,” I say, and even though I would have said it was impossible, Nick’s smile gets even wider. “If you don’t think either of us will get in trouble.”
He holds out his hand and pulls me out of my chair—his skin warm to the touch. “I’m Teflon, baby, trouble rolls right off me.”
I laugh, and this time I do roll my eyes. Because I’m not sure I’m laughing with him or at him. But of course that was his point. It’s just the cheesy kind of thing he says, but somehow when he says it, it’s funny—I like that he doesn’t take himself too seriously.
I text Alex to see if he wants me to bring him back something, and as Nick leads me out into the parking lot, I look up to see Elijah Palma smoking some kind of homemade cigarette and staring me down.
Only as we lock eyes does it occur to me that for someone who’s allegedly a stoner, Ben Michaels didn’t smell at all like smoke.
“Y
ou’re not going to believe what I found,” Alex says as he slips into our library cube and slides the soundproof door shut. He’s leaning back, just barely balancing the weight of what looks like six more mega hardcovers to add to the twenty-something that are piled up around me. I want to laugh at his excitement—I love when he does his “I’m determined to solve this” thing. But I don’t laugh, because that’s a lot more reading.
We decided to hit S&E, the science and engineering library at UCSD, because his aunt works here, which means she’ll let us in and she’ll report back to his mom and tell her that we’re studying. And we are, just not anything school related.
“Please tell me it’s something productive and not another outdated copy of
Maxim
? Just because your mom won’t let you read it, doesn’t mean—”
Alex ignores me and dumps his books onto our table with the rest of them. I try not to be annoyed—though I don’t try too hard. Adding more books to this stack hardly seems to solve our problem. I’ve got everything from the 9/11 Commission Report to a Michael Crichton novel, not that any of it has turned out to be particularly helpful so far. The Crichton novel and a couple of other thrillers are pure fantasy or speculative fiction grounded in paranoia and conspiracy theory. And some of the more scientific bioterrorism books read as a sourcebook or guidebook for how to handle an outbreak. Then there are the true accounts of outbreaks of smallpox in the Soviet Union and Ebola in a Washington, DC, lab.
In other words, nothing even remotely helps me figure out how my John Doe ended up dead of radiation poisoning while he was driving a truck.
“You going to tell me what’s so exciting?” I ask. My phone starts vibrating against the table, but I’m not a hundred percent sure where it is under all these freaking books.
Alex grins before leaning forward and picking up one of the thickest books and thumbing through it. “I was looking through
The Handbook of Viral Bioterrorism and Biodefense
, and I found this.” He opens the book wide to page 428, where the chapter heading reads “Biological Warfare of the Future: Viral Bioengineering.”
“Right now bioterrorism is based on bacterial agents,” Alex says. “Category A are the worst, like anthrax—they spread easily and quickly, and could lead to a wide-scale outbreak.”
“I know that. Everything we’ve read so far says that.”
“Which is why this book is so cool. It’s speculating what’s next. Viral engineering isn’t that far off. In fact,” he adds, pushing the book toward me, “look right here. It asks whether radiation can be harnessed into a transmissible virus. And it gives a detailed explanation of what geneticists might have to do in order to come up with something that could be engineered.”
He’s still smiling. Which doesn’t make sense, now that we’ve just proven finding information on how to become a bioterrorist isn’t all that hard.
But I’ve seen this look before. It’s the same look Struz and my dad get when they’re close to cracking a case, like they’ve discovered the secrets of the universe. It makes me think Alex is doing the right thing by deviating from his mother’s life plan. He doesn’t want Stanford undergrad and Johns Hopkins medical. He wants West Point and the FBI—like my dad. And the thought of Alex actually working for my dad someday makes me smile.
Then it hits me.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Maybe we’re coming at this from the wrong angle. Maybe it doesn’t matter how the virus is being spread—someone from the CDC can figure that out. What’s important is the countdown.”
I stand up and push in my chair, stretching my legs. My phone vibrates again, and this time I see that it’s Nick. Again.
“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, someone has managed to engineer a virus. Whether it’s radiation poisoning or not, it’s ugly and it’s going to kill people. So how does picking people off one at a time—what does that have to do with the countdown?”
Alex gasps and sits up straighter. “That’s how they connect!” He looks at me, and I’m tempted to prompt him to tell me, but I know better than to interrupt his train of thought. “The UIED. It’s not a bomb. J, it’s something that will disperse the virus. Make it airborne or make it catch fire.”
A shiver moves between my shoulder blades. “But why would terrorists give the FBI a heads-up like that?”
“Because they’re sociopaths? I don’t know, but it makes sense. If the UIED goes off, the virus goes airborne, maybe it’s some kind of chemical explosion that triggers it. And maybe the FBI got their hands on the UIED earlier than they were supposed to. Or maybe the terrorists want us to know it’s coming. Think of the panic it would incite. And isn’t wrecking our way of life part of the whole terrorism package?”
My phone buzzes again, and this time I pick it up and toss it carefully from hand to hand. “So with that theory, my John Doe and the other victims, they’re test subjects?”
Alex shrugs. “Maybe people who pissed off the terrorist group?”
Somehow I’m not satisfied. This theory doesn’t give me an identity to associate with the guy who died the same day and time that I did on Torrey Pines Road.
“J?” Alex says.
“Hmmm?”
“You think it’s time we tell your dad?”
I’m about to nod. After all, it’s past time we shared our theories with him. It could be totally off, and it could be something someone already thought of. Or it could be right. Or it could fall somewhere in between. Either way he needs to know. But as I’m about to say that, the door to our room slides open and Nick sticks his head in and says, “Tell her dad what?”
Inwardly, I groan. I wouldn’t have told him where I was headed after school if I thought he and his other half were going to show up.
Kevin pops in behind him and pushes the door wider. “You confess your true feelings yet, Trechter?”
“Kevin, shut up,” I say as I focus on Nick. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been looking for you for, like, an hour,” Nick says. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I gesture to the books. “I’m working?”
Nick picks up one of the books closest to him, and I’m tempted to take it away from him, but that’ll just look more suspicious, and I don’t trust him with this.
“You work too hard, J,” Kevin says. Shocking that he thinks so.
Nick puts the book down and leans against the door. “I know what the problem is. You need to have fun. Come with me to Hines’s place tonight.”
“Alex and I are going to finish studying and then…”
Alex knows me well enough to know I’m looking for an excuse, so he jumps in. “We’re going to watch
Tron: Legacy
.”
Since this is the Lamest Excuse Ever, there’s no way I can stand behind it.
“Um, no we’re not. That movie is only about a tenth as good as its soundtrack.”
Alex just smirks—I will totally get him back for this.
Nick says, “So it looks like you can come with me.”
“It’s Tuesday,” I say, even though I know that to Nick this isn’t an excuse. Especially not this year. His dad used to be strict about where he went—more because of sports than school—but his parents are getting divorced and he and his dad aren’t speaking, which means he’s been doing pretty much whatever he feels like since this summer.
“His parents are out of town until Friday.”
“I can’t,” I say without looking at Nick. Even I’m not immune to how gorgeous he is. I know how easy it is to be charmed by those almond eyes.
“I promise I won’t keep you out late,” he says, holding his hand over his heart. And when I look at him, I can’t help thinking of the first night we talked—really talked—this summer. He’d just found out his dad was having an affair with a girl who graduated from Eastview five years ago, and instead of getting wasted at one of the beach bonfire parties, he was just sitting by himself when I closed up the lifeguard stand and was getting ready to go home. I asked him how he was doing, and everything just poured out. We talked for three hours. About his family and their failings. About how we were afraid of disappointing people the way they disappointed us.
“I promise,” Nick says again. “Scout’s honor.”
“You must have been a horrible Boy Scout.”
“I wasn’t a Boy Scout,” he says, as if he can’t figure out why I would say such a thing.
“Seriously. I already have an essay to write, three chapters of history to read, a shitload of physics and calc problems, plus Spanish review.” I gesture to the mound of books all over the table, even though they have nothing to do with anything I’ve just rattled off.
He pouts. “You deserve a rest from taking care of everybody. A night of fun before diving back into the books. You didn’t get to come to the bonfire.”
Not that I’m disappointed about the bonfire, but I do work too hard.
“Just an hour,” I say, wondering when my willpower decided to go on vacation—and when it will be back.
“Of course.” Nick laughs. “I’ll have you home before eleven.”
“Let me pack up here,” I say. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
After Kevin and Nick leave, I look at Alex. He jams his books back into his backpack. “Maybe you should trade those crappy vintage T-shirts and ripped jeans for short skirts and tank tops. You can start hanging out with Brooke, too.”
“You’re the one who ruined tonight with a lame excuse. I wanted to do something else, and you came up with a movie that only has a plot in the first thirty minutes?”
“It’s got great visual effects,” Alex says as he goes back to shoving his stuff into his backpack, and I grab the couple of books I do want to take home with me.
“Wait,” I say, reaching out to grab Alex’s shoulder. “Did you call my
Great Gatsby
T-shirt crappy? I fucking love this shirt.”
“Fine. Abandon me so I have to hang out with my mother,” Alex says, but he’s smiling again. Which is all I really needed to see.