What We Saw (9 page)

Christy shrugs. “And whose fault is that?”

Lindsey opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, Connie Bonine rushes up behind her, dragging Ben along by the hand.

“Get a load of this!” she brays.

“Whatcha think?” Ben flashes one side of his suit jacket open. He's wearing a plaid sports coat in a shade of lime green so shocking I briefly see spots float before my eyes. The satin lapels are enormous. They cover nearly the entire chest of the jacket.

“Oh, hell yes
.
” Christy whoops and leans in for a high five. Rachel and Lindsey are both laughing.

I slide one hand up a slick lapel and he pulls me toward him, dipping me between the rounders, then spinning me up and out. “Gonna get our dance on.”

“Thank god you showed up.” Rachel grabs the selections I've made and hangs them in the dressing room. She holds open the curtain, and waves me in. “She hasn't even tried anything on yet.”

I settle on a vintage ivory silk tube. The dress is sleeveless and goes straight to the floor with a high waist and two layers of a sheer organza overlay that flutter slightly when I walk. A band of the same see-through fabric covers each shoulder, then flows down my back in a streamer. I feel like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
—and sort of silly for loving it, but I do. When I come out of the dressing room, Rachel catches her breath and squeals like I've tried on my wedding dress. I decide not to tell her about a couple of spots of what may be ancient
spaghetti sauce near the hem at the back. I'm guessing Mom can help me scrub those out before the dance.

“You're a vision.” Connie Bonine's voice is full of gravel and warmth. “I'm giving all of you half off today. We Buccaneers have to stick together!”

Connie is the benevolent grand marshal of a parade back to the cash register where we all take turns paying. Even with the discount my dress still comes to exactly the thirty dollars I had budgeted to spend. I realize there aren't any price tags on anything, only colored dots, and wonder if perhaps Connie is making up the prices as she goes along. Common sense tells me sixty seems a little steep for this dress, but she gives Ben his jacket for free.

“And yours is on the house, big man.”

This is Connie Bonine's grand gesture of the day, greeted with smiles all around, and Ben insisting that he pay. Connie shakes her head and pushes Ben's wallet hand away. “Gotta take care of my Buccs.”

Ben thanks her and as we leave, she grabs the pliers and cranks the TV back to life. “Don't you let the news get you down, now,” Connie says. “None of this may even be true.”

Ben shrugs. “Might not matter. Deacon may lose his scholarship anyway.”

“No way!” Will yelps.

“Terrible shame,” says Connie. “Over a dumb rumor. Well, check the source, I always say.” She pats Ben's arm. “Don't you worry. Just keep your head down and keep sinking those threes.
Gonna need every one of 'em next weekend.”

Ben thanks her, and as we file out the door, she fiddles with the stiff silver antenna coming out of the top of her ancient television. I think about Dad's camera with the flip-out screen and wonder how long it'll be before that little device winds up in this lair of forgotten things.

As we climb into Adele's Explorer, I glance back at the front window of the thrift store. Connie Bonine is staring at the tiny screen, and I can just make out Sloane Keating, serving up the main course.

BEN TAKES THE
back entrance into the school parking lot, driving past the football field and pulling around the side of the gym to get as close to our cars as possible while avoiding the three news vans at the main entrance. Tyler's mom is texting him as we all pile out with our purchases. I have to get him home, but I want a second to myself with Ben. I toss Will the keys. “Start it up,” I say. “I'll be there in a sec.”

Lindsey pecks me on the cheek. “We're gonna have so much fun this weekend. Your dress is
gorg
.”

Christy holds up a fist for me to bump, then she and Lindsey head for their cars. Rachel hangs back, staring at the satellite trucks. The bright lights are switched off now, downtime until
the six o'clock report. A couple of guys from different crews lean against the grill of the Channel Thirteen van, smoking. Their laughter floats over our heads into the trees, and I remember Stacey's hawk. I look up, but we're too close to the edge of the lot, and I can't see the nest from this angle.

“How long do you think they'll hang out here?” Rachel asks.

Ben follows her gaze. “At least until this blows over.”

“What if it doesn't?”

Both of them turn to look at me. I realize I let these words slip out instead of just thinking them.

Ben stares back at the vans. “Dooney's dad'll make it go away.”

He says this with a certainty I find reassuring and chilling at the same time. As much as I wish none of this were happening, there is a nagging thrum in my head, the drone of a distant housefly buzzing behind the windows of my eyes. It lies still for a few minutes, then whips into a frenzy at moments like this.

What if it's all true?

What if this doesn't go away because it happened?

What if it goes away even though it did happen?

Rachel glances up at me, then gives voice to my thoughts. “The police came,” she says quietly. “They put people in handcuffs.”

“That's what police do,” says Ben.

“Not usually,” I blurt out. The pressure created by my silence in the thrift store has reached critical mass. I have to speak or my chest might blow open—all my layers exposed in a bloody mess right here, sprayed across the parking lot.

Is that concern I see in Ben's eyes, or confusion? I can't explain it. Maybe I'm as wound up from the weirdness of this day as everyone else, but I press on in spite of how much I want to talk about something else. Anything else.

“I was really wasted Saturday night, too.”

“So?” Rachel asks. “You're not like Stacey, Kate. We are nothing like her.”

“But we
are
like her. We go to this school. We're in the same classes. We're the same age. I was just as drunk as she was—”

“No.” Rachel looks pale and starts shaking her head. “No, you weren't. She was practically passed out in those trashy clothes.”

Ben has gone so silent that I have to glance over to make sure he's still standing there. Rachel's eyes are usually bright and sharp, but right now they seem wild with fear. I want to tell her it's going to be okay, but the compass inside me is pointing in the opposite direction.

“I just can't shake it—” I begin. There's more to say, but the next words get stuck in my throat.

“Can't shake what?” Ben asks.

I take a deep breath. “The idea that this isn't a rumor. That maybe something really bad happened.”

“Nah,” says Ben. He pulls me in, an arm around my waist—an
it's all right
in his sideways embrace. “It's all blown out of proportion. There's just that pic on Instagram. Makes it look worse than it is.”

“Police don't haul teenagers into jail over one picture,” I say.

Ben frowns—not in an angry way. Maybe it's thoughtful? “What do you mean?”

“There must be something more we don't know about. The police don't just go around arresting people if there's not some sort of truth to the story. They have to get a warrant.”

Ben smiles and shakes his head. “Not sure if Stacey Stallard is the first person I'd turn to if you're looking for the whole truth and nothing but. Especially if we're talking about that party.”

“Stop. Both of you. None of us know what really happened.” When Rachel says this it sounds to me like she's trying to reassure herself, not us. “None of us were actually there.”

Ben smiles at me. “I'm sorta glad you got messed up early so we didn't get tangled in any of this. Sounds to me like Stacey just did something she regretted in the morning.”

“Yeah,” says Rachel, nodding emphatically. “That's gotta be it.”

I want to ask how they can be so sure. I want to say that I doubt Stacey is a good-enough actress to pull one over on the police. Instead, I smile at Rachel and squeeze her shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”

She nods, but she doesn't smile, and as she walks to her car, Will starts honking at me from my truck. He's sitting behind the wheel with the windows rolled down. Tyler has the crappy stereo booming a baseline.

She can be my sleeping beauty, I'm gon' put her in a coma . . .

“Gotta go,” I say. “The natives are restless.”

Ben laughs and pulls me closer for a kiss. The tenderness
of his lips against mine finally silences the questions rocketing around my brain. I relax into his arms. After a minute, he rests his chin on my shoulder.

“Better?”

I nod. “Just confused, I guess.”

“About me?”

“About everything
but
you, Mr. Cody.”

“Excellent, Miss Weston.” He smiles. “My work here is done.”

THURSDAY MORNING, ANNOUNCEMENTS
are made—both official, and unofficial.

On the TV in the kitchen, Sloane reports that a judge officially released Dooney, Deacon, Randy, and Greg late last night. Mom hands me a mug of coffee and we lean against the counter, taking in the news that Dooney and Deacon both pleaded “not guilty” to all charges, and posted bail. Randy and Greg were released to their parents while the judge decides whether they'll be tried as adults, or remanded to the juvenile court.

The hallway at school before first period is full of unofficial reports that Greg and his family were seen at Sizzler for burgers just before closing last night; that members of the school
board are fighting over whether to suspend the guys or not; that Dooney's dad is representing Deacon, Greg, and Randy free of charge; that all of their phones have been retained by the police as evidence; that they'll all be back in school after lunch.

As first period begins, I notice the cheerleaders in their uniforms, and after the tone sounds, Principal Hargrove announces a pep rally for this afternoon. The state tournament isn't until next weekend, but the sophomores are decorating the gym for Spring Fling after the guys practice tonight, and
Grease!
opens Saturday and runs for a week. The Buccs will practice during last period next week, then the tarps get rolled out to cover the hardwood, and folding chairs are set up for the audience.

Ben says he hasn't heard from Dooney. Nobody has. And when none of the four guys shows up after lunch, the unofficial reports change: Dooney's dad has recommended that they should all “lay low until this blows over.”

Something about that phrase
blows over
gives me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's the sense that this is a situation we can't fix with a pep rally.

The pyramid holds strong as it materializes three people high, on exactly the right beat of the driving dance tune that pounds from the gymnasium speakers. Then, an explosion happens in the music, and Phoebe Crane catapults over our heads. She does a full layout as she flies toward the metal rafters, her body arching and flipping almost in slow motion. She pops her arms up
and out as she reaches the apex of her flight, an award-winning smile on her face that elicits a roar from the bleachers. Every single body in the gym rises with her. We are all on our feet now, whistling and screaming.

Christy and Rachel are standing up on our bench, whooping and shrieking, respectively. Lindsey is jumping up and down in time to the music. As quickly as it appeared, the pyramid disintegrates into a formation on the floor as the cheer squad back-handsprings out of the way. Most of them grab metallic pom-poms; two of them pick up a giant paper banner of a Buccaneer wielding a sword.

A new song begins as the cheerleaders form a tunnel for the players in front of the banner with their glistening poufs of blue and gold. Wyatt's voice booms over the speakers announcing the numbers and names of “Your Coral Sands Buccaneers!” Usually Dooney and Deacon are called first, but today it's Ben who comes tearing through the paper, running the cheerleaders' gauntlet. He is wearing his warm-up pants and his jersey. He bounces a ball between his legs, then pops it up behind his back. It flies in an arc over his broad shoulders. He catches it, then points out at us.

At me.

The crowd goes wild.

“Oh my god!” Rachel yells. “That's your boyfriend!” She jumps up and down, her enthusiasm making me blush and smile. I don't care who sees. That
is
my boyfriend. He pointed right at me. He wants everyone to know.

Wyatt announces Kyle, the center, who makes a run at Ben. They jump into each other and bump chests in midair, then high-five as the roll call continues.

The drill team floods in as the players are announced, arranging themselves on either side of the shredded banner and cheerleader welcome line. They are all sequins and glitz, one arm and the opposite leg missing from their spangled unitards, but there's something off about the lineup. There's an odd number. Usually, there are six girls on both sides, but today, the right side only has five.

Deacon and Dooney aren't the only ones missing.

I stare at the space where Stacey should be pulsing along with the rest of the drill team, all of them flashy and fun and moving to the music. Down at the corner of the bleachers, next to the door, someone else is watching the drill team, too.

Stacey isn't here today, but Sloane Keating is. I nudge Lindsey, who stops bouncing up and down next to me, and glances over when I point at the journalist. She's standing in the far corner near the doors by the main entrance. Mr. Johnston, our geology teacher, is smiling and clapping along with the beat of the crowd, oblivious to the reporter taking it all in over his shoulder.

Lindsey looks back at me with her eyebrows raised, and at that moment, Coach Sanders emerges from the cheerleader tunnel and joins the team. They stack their hands, plunging them down and up again to a shout of “GO, BIG BLUE.” Ben leads the guys into a lineup behind Coach, where they take a
knee as he grabs the mic.

Sloane Keating appears to be tapping something into her phone. Is she taking notes?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouts, “I need your attention.” A hush slowly falls over the gym. Finally, it's quiet. The smell of the polished wood floor and ancient sweat floats through air that's filled with anticipation. “We were gonna wait and have this pep rally next Friday before we headed out for the tournament, but I was walking through the halls yesterday, and I realized we were in need of some school spirit!” Another round of cheers crests and falls. “I know it's been a tough week. There have been some vicious rumors, and a lot of stupid stuff said on the news.” A chorus of boos fills the air. I see Mr. Johnston glance up at the stands, a frown on his face, but he doesn't look behind him.

Coach Sanders holds up his hands for silence again. “I want to ask you all to send some good thoughts to the players who aren't here with us this afternoon.” The boos turn to polite applause here and there across the gym. Coach nods and says, “We are strong. We are a team—all of us—and we're going to get through this. We're gonna hang Buccaneer tough, and our boys will be home on this court where they belong, real soon!”

The applause ratchets up a notch, and Christy yells, “Yeah! Tough as BUCC!” in her deepest shout. Rachel whistles in the piercing way she does, two fingers wedged between her lips like she's in a black-and-white movie hailing a cab.

A couple other people pick up Christy's cheer, and a chant
starts up around the gym:
Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!
Kyle, LeRon, and Reggie join in behind Coach Sanders, pumping their fists.

“That's right!” Coach Sanders says, as the chant grows stronger:

Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!

“What happens to losers when they run up against the Buccaneers?” Coach Sanders shouts into the mic. “We BUCC 'em!”

This blows the roof off the gym again. Ben and the guys are all on their feet behind Coach Sanders, arms pumping in solidarity. Will and a bunch of the JV guys storm the floor to join them, all of them wearing the black tube socks Will dragged home last night from the back of Adele's Explorer. They have the socks pulled up over their jeans. They look ridiculous, but when the varsity guys see the show of support, there are high fives and chest bumps all around. Somebody cranks up the music as the drill team, minus Stacey, fills the floor with a dance routine.

As Coach hands Wyatt the wireless mic, he freezes, and I follow his gaze across the gym. He's staring directly at Sloane Keating, who is holding her phone out at arm's length, panning across the crowd.

“Holy crap.” I yell this at Lindsey and point. “She's shooting video.”

Coach Sanders pushes directly through the drill team, mid-dance routine, and makes a beeline for the reporter. Everyone is spilling out of the bleachers, an ocean of chanting, fist-pumping
students in his way now.

Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!

He pushes and elbows his way through the crowd, his face twisted and dark, his eyes grim. Even over the music and the noise, I can hear him yelling, pointing a finger at Sloane's phone, the veins in his neck visible from a distance.
Get the hell out!

Mr. Johnston turns around and sees the reporter as Coach Sanders yells again, words I can't make out over the roar. The reporter cocks her head, then taps at her screen once. As she tucks her phone away, I could almost swear she gives the coach a little smile, before she slips through the door behind her, into the hallway, and out into the parking lot beyond.

Coach Sanders is red-faced, sputtering at Mr. Johnston, who has his hands spread I-had-no-idea! style. Principal Hargrove finally makes it over to the two of them and puts a hand on Coach's shoulder. Coach shakes it off and stalks away, slamming the flat of his hand against the pads hanging on the wall under the backboard.

The drill team ends their number and runs off the court in formation. Ben starts a layup rotation with the varsity guys as the tone sounds to end classes for the day. The Buccs have practice now, and in a general flood of mayhem, the bleachers empty. Rachel shouts that she'll call me later, and she and Christy follow the others out. Finally, it's just Lindsey and me left on the bare metal benches as Coach returns to bark encouragement and corrections.

“Wonder why there wasn't a moment for everyone to send
good thoughts to Stacey?” Even as the words leave my lips, I know the answer.

It's because Lindsey knows, too, that I have the courage to say this out loud.

“Stacey who?” she answers. “It's like they all just wish she'd disappear.”

We sit there, side by side, watching an intricate passing drill in silence for a few more minutes. Ben turns and sees me as he starts a shooting drill. He raises his hand and smiles, then catches a ball from Kyle and dribbles to the passer spot under the basket. He feeds the ball to Reggie and starts grabbing rebounds.

Ben barely has to jump to reach the balls as they drop through the net or ping off the rim. His face is pure concentration, his tongue pressed against his lower lip as he anticipates which way the ball will move. He makes sure his body follows.

Control. Stamina. Dexterity.

The power behind his passes makes them lasers—direct hits to their intended targets. As Kyle and Reggie circle the top of the key, Ben passes to exactly where he knows they'll be when the ball gets there—not to where they are when it leaves his fingers. From the bleachers, it looks like he's passing to an empty space in front of them.

Nothing is exactly as it appears.

By the time the pass reaches that empty space, Kyle or Reggie is there, hands snap open, the satisfying
pop
of leather on palms. The step back, the square up, the shot.

That promise of the consummate athlete I've watched a hundred times in our old soccer video has come to fruition. Perfect connection every time.

The closer you look, the more you see.

It dawns on me in this moment that the whole school is so focused on Dooney and Deacon, that no one has actually talked to Stacey. It isn't that she's disappeared. It's just that no one is focused on her. We're too busy looking at the stars.

When I turn to say this to my friend, I see Lindsey has disappeared, too.