Gone Too Far (13 page)

Is
that
even
what
I
want
anymore?

I take a breath. So cold it burns.

A shrill ringing blares out of speakers all around me and I jump, jaw snapping. Just a fire alarm. I bring a hand to my throat and will my pulse to slow down. My heart ignores me and races on because it already knows what I'm only just figuring out. This is no mandatory drill.

Someone set this alarm off. Half of the school is going to be out here in two minutes. And whoever spray-painted this car planned it that way.

The doors open and students pour out, tugging on jackets and clogging up the sidewalk and tables. Kids are laughing and talking as they move to line up. It takes a minute before someone sees the car. A pretty freshman spots it first, pointing with a gasp.

It takes less than a minute for the lines to dissolve into chaos. Students press in closer to the parking lot. Whispers and murmurs ricochet from one group to the next.

“Whose is it?”

“No, you idiot, Mr. Stiers drives a Honda.”

“Mrs. Stamper has a minivan, right?”

“Somebody's
fired
!”

My mouth goes bone dry. Someone
is
going to get fired. And I'm pretty sure it's Mrs. Branson.

No. This isn't right. This isn't what I wanted. It was about Harrison. It wasn't even about that—it was about letting Aimee win because she deserves it. And people should know that Harrison doesn't. That's what I wanted to show.

But this is the truth. Just not the truth I wanted.

It's too much. I lift my camera, hiding behind the lens, safe with the metal body firm and true in my hands. I force myself to turn toward the approaching crowd to get a few shots. One of Mr. Goodard, his eyes falling to the car with a grave look. Another shot of teachers whispering just as harshly as the students, the messages on the car blurred behind their bent heads.

A sudden sharp cry takes the breath right out of me. Mrs. Branson's finally here. Her eyes are wide and she's got a hand at her chest. The expression on her chalk-white face is beyond fear or regret. It's panic, pure and simple.

I snap one image of her. It's the first picture I've ever hated myself for taking.

The answers tumble together in the whispers and images around me. Lots of people knew a little. Put together the bits, and we see the whole picture. Chemistry was Harrison's weakness, but he realized it too late to drop the class. A longtime student in Mrs. Branson's AP science classes, Harrison trusted her. They somehow struck a deal.

Some think it was her phone he used. Others think they're sleeping together. Mrs. Branson's close to sixty, so I doubt that, but it doesn't matter. She's finished. He's finished. It's over for both of them. It hits me like a hammer then: One bad call, that's all it takes. One big mistake shot two futures apart in the most humiliating scene I've ever witnessed.

This will haunt them forever. This will be on the
news
.

A flush of regret creeps up my neck, hot and angry. I shrug my shoulders, trying to shake it off. It's not my fault. They would have been caught anyway. It would have come out.

But
not
like
this.

I'm like a stone dropped in still water. I sink away from the chaos until the only noise I hear is the sound of my guilt.

The police—called for her car, I guess—pull into the parking lot while they're still counting us. Nervous teachers bark at us to be quiet, but no one listens. My heart races and my feet shift, and I'm grateful Manny and Tacey are in different classes because I can't talk right now.

A police officer is taking pictures of the car when I finally catch sight of Harrison at the back of my line. He's still close to the school, his face gray as ash. He looks like he's about to walk in front of a firing squad and he's probably not far from wrong. I've met his parents. Saw them rip him to pieces for a 93% in social studies in the fourth grade.

The teachers start ushering us in, and I spot Mrs. Branson, who's speaking with the policemen near her car. Mr. Stiers gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder, and Mr. Goodard's expression is cool and professional. The face of a man who knows he's about to lose a teacher.

I feel sick. Guilty. Embarrassment is one thing, but this? It's too much. This changes their lives forever.

Stop
it!

They earned this. It was their choice. I'm as sure of it as I've ever been about anything and it shouldn't feel this bad. But it does.

I press a hand to my forehead as we push back into the building, the sunlight giving way to the dim school interior. I breathe deeply. I need to get a grip. I really do.

The conversations inside are at a roar. Teachers bark at students, but it barely dims the noise. Everyone's talking, pushing, texting. Harrison comes in behind me and the hallway falls silent.

His mouth goes thin and hard as he steps away from the wall. For a minute, I think he might say something. To me. I know it's not possible, but some part of me thinks he knows. That he'll tell.

Of course, Harrison's got much bigger problems than me today. And so do I, because if Harrison isn't the texter, then I have no idea who I'm working with.

I follow Harrison to the office because I have to be sure. I'll play sick if I have to. It's not really a stretch. In the end, I just can't let this go without talking to him. I know he didn't send that last text, but what if the pressure got to him? What if he orchestrated this whole thing today as a way out?

I know it doesn't track. But Harrison still feels right somehow. Maybe he's not the texter, but he's involved.

I need to talk to him. And if I don't do it now, I might never get the chance. After this mess, who knows what will happen? Suspension? A school transfer? I might not ever see him again.

The secretaries aren't at their desks, so apparently the apocalypse really is nigh. I can hear them back in the counselor's office, no doubt discussing Mrs. Branson's fate or Harrison's.

I sign my name on the office check-in list. Halfway through my
W
, I stop, my eyes drawn to the distinctive black writing above my line.

It's creepy that Harrison signed himself in for a disciplinary conversation. But that's not what what's choking the breath out of me. I owe that to the penmanship—writing I've only seen in one other place.

The notebook.

I wasn't wrong. That's Harrison's notebook. His chronicle.

I hold on to the counter, because if I don't, I might fall down. I'm almost sure my knees won't hold me. Of course, I can't stand here forever. I need to sit down. A sick student would sit down.

“Piper, it'll be just a minute,” Mrs. Bluth calls out from the back. “Have a seat in the waiting area.”

I propel myself away and find the row of chairs around the corner, two empty, one occupied.

Harrison.

My heartbeat stutters. I could run. Turn and leave right now. I could cross off my name and go. He hasn't looked up, though he probably heard Mrs. Bluth say my name.

I glance at his fingers, imagine him with something sharp, scraping at the eyes on those photographs.

A warning bell rings and I flinch. He looks right at me. Until this moment, I'm not sure I've ever really met Harrison's eyes. Or maybe I did and he didn't have all this anger pouring off of him.

He doesn't speak, but he doesn't stop watching me. His expression practically dares me to ignore him, but I'm not going to do-si-do around this anymore. I came here to talk to him.

“Hello, Harrison.”

“Piper.”

I swallow the fear lodged like a fist in my throat. “This timing is awful, but I think you should know I have your notebook.”

The quiet is palpable. I can hear the soft ring of the phone, the muted conversation in the principal's office between the teachers and the police.

“You found it on the steps,” he finally says. He doesn't ask which notebook or play stupid. I give him points for that. He doesn't ask for the book either, which is good. Because I don't have it on me, and I wouldn't hand it over. After this, he has nothing to lose. He could decide to use that book to drag as many people down with him as possible.

He goes on, maybe because I'm not speaking. “It's the only place it could have happened. I was late and it was windy. Once I got inside, I would have heard it hit the floor. All this time, I assumed the janitors had thrown it away.”

I nod, wondering how much I should hold back. “Who else knew about the book?”

He laughs. “Do you think I'd show that to fellow students?”

But if there's no one else who knows… No. It makes no sense. This is all connected.

“Harrison, do you know about the texts I'm getting?”

He looks at me like I'm out of my mind. And then something new dawns in his expression—suspicion. Maybe he isn't the chemistry mastermind he wants to be, but he's an irrefutable genius. He was polishing off
Great
Expectations
when the rest of us were struggling through easy readers.

I said too much. He's putting clues together faster than I can cover them up. He'll figure out I had something to do with what happened today. It's only a matter of time.

“Piper—”

“Harrison.” Mrs. Bluth can't decide what expression to wear. She tries a smile and then a frown and ends up looking like she's got a facial tic. “Your mother should be here shortly. The principal will see you then.”

My stomach squirms and Harrison nods. He looks calmer than I am watching Mrs. Bluth walk back to the desk.

“What kind of texts?” he asks, dead calm, giving nothing away. But I don't miss that his hand is fisted at his side.

“Never mind. Just tell me about the book. Why keep a book like that?”

“Because no one else bothered.” He waves it off, like an annoying fly. Like it doesn't matter. “Tell me about the texts.”

“Someone anonymously texted me about cheating.” The lie is lemon sour on my tongue. “I thought maybe—”

“You're lying.”

My grip tightens on the arms of my chair. “I guess that makes us even. You invested time in that notebook. Photographs and code names. You didn't do it because no one else
bothered
.”

“I did it because I believe society has a responsibility to record events and cultures. Every individual views this school through a social filter. It's all
personal
and
subjective
.” He says the words like they've gone rancid. “I wanted something less…variable. I wanted facts.”

Because that's the language he understands. Cold as he seems, I can still feel the pain simmering beneath his words. It's hiding in the pinch of his mouth and the hunch of his shoulders.

“I'm listening,” I say softly, trying to urge him on. By the way his face changes, I wonder how often this happens, how often anyone actually hears him.

Misery blooms suddenly, etching itself into every line of his face. “I know it shouldn't hurt me. I see these petty social games for exactly what they are, but the pain, the fear? It's all still there.”

I've never seen this side of Harrison, all that icy confidence melted away, leaving something raw and broken underneath. Something like all the rest of us.

“You wanted to outthink the pain.” It's a guess, but I can see him start to nod.

“On your feet!” The voice that comes from the doorway hits me like a glacier and Harrison like a whip.

He jerks out of his chair, head ducked, chin on chest. There's no pride left. There's nothing left at all that resembles the strange, brilliant boy I was just sitting with. His mother strides into the room with steps that snap, even on the gray rug in front of the chairs. She clamps on to his arm, pressing until his skin squishes up like dough between her fingers.

“You will say nothing, nothing, when we walk in that room unless I ask you a direct question. Are we clear?”

I might as well not exist. I wish I didn't exist. Not here with Harrison's mother looking at him like a stray dog that took a shit on the living room carpet.

“Yes,” he says. It's not even his voice.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She's wrenching him toward the office hallway now, and his close-set eyes are trained on the ground. All I can think about is what he'll endure later, away from prying eyes. Who is Harrison without his grades? What's left when everything you've ever worked for is taken away?

The office opens, and Harrison and his mother disappear inside. My stomach rolls in all the wrong ways. I know he loaded this gun. But I really didn't think before I pulled the trigger.

“Piper? How can I help you?”

“I need to go home sick.” It isn't an excuse anymore.

The crease in Mrs. Bluth's forehead tells me I must look terrible. She bustles into the waiting room smelling like rose water and Sharpie markers. The back of her hand presses against my forehead, just like Hadley's at the club.

God, people are going to think I'm dying.

Feels like it.

“You sit tight. I'm going to call your dad to see if he can come down to sign you out.”

My head bobs up and down. A puppet nod for a puppet girl.

Because that's what I am, right? Sure, I'm picking the target, but none of this was my idea. I'm playing along, being fed every line by a person I don't know. I wanted to believe it was someone decent. Someone who wanted to make things better, but now?

This could be anyone. A sicko. A mean girl. A criminal.

It hits me then—this is dangerous. And I'm in way over my head.

I pull up my phone with shaking hands, loading my last message, the one about the courtyard. My fingers tremble at the letters. It takes forever to get the spelling right, but I'm careful because I only want to do this once.

That was too intense for me. Sorry, but I'm bowing out.

I've barely closed my eyes when the response comes in.

You're not out. You pick or I will. Next Friday by 9.