Gone Too Far (14 page)

I leave my phone in the bottom of my backpack for three days and ignore the fact that he won't let me quit. That he's demanding a name two days before Christmas. I ignore pretty much everything—from the low-battery warning beeps on my phone to the emails from Tacey when her calls start going straight to voicemail.

I can't deal with any of it. Denial is all I have left.

I roll over and look at the alarm clock. 6:15 on Sunday night. Ugh. If I don't get my butt moving, I'm going to spend my entire Christmas break in pajamas. I have to snap out of it. Do something.

But what? If I pick, I continue to play his game. Or her game. Whatever. If I don't—I don't know what happens. He picks someone himself. And if the texter knows anything about Manny's extracurricular activities, he could be a prime target.

Mom and Dad are getting worried though. They were cool at first, bringing me toast, asking basic questions. Now they're checking more often. They even offered a doctor's visit, a rare occurrence in our holistic-happy house. I don't think they make a pill for this problem, but I haven't explained that.

Three times I've tried to tell them, but how? My parents met in the Peace Corps. I don't know if I can look them in the eye and tell them the kind of destruction I'm wrapped up in. I'm not sure any of us could handle it.

I roll over and blink at the ceiling. I can't stay in this bed until I rot. The last time I left my room was to shower and drag a brush through my hair at noon. This is passing pathetic. It's tiptoeing dangerously close to psychologically unstable. I should be wrapping things or decking halls. At the very least, I should try to get some stuff together for the Thursday yearbook holiday gathering. The one I'm probably going to skip.

I hear the doorbell and I flop onto my back, heaving a sigh. Tacey, no doubt. She's probably ready to threaten me with flogging if I bail. I glance around my room, wondering if there's any way for me to convince my parents that I'm too sick to see her. Unlikely, since I told them both I was feeling better earlier.

My mom knocks on my door. I can tell as soon as she opens it—just by her face—that it isn't Tacey.

She takes a breath. “Piper, there's a boy here to see you.”

Manny is
Manny
and Connor is out of town, so I already have a pretty good feeling who
boy
refers to. I sit up in a rush of flailing limbs, feeling my hair slide wildly around my shoulders.

“What boy?”

“Nick. Nick Patterson. He insisted he'd wait outside. He's very…” I mentally fill in the blanks while she searches for a word that fits. Tall? Athletic? So not your type? “Polite.”

Yeah, that works too.

I give my reflection a passing look in the mirror. It's bad. And it's going to take more than a coat of lip gloss and a spritz of perfume to tidy me up, so I head downstairs. At least I showered. He should have called first anyway. Except that my phone's doornail dead.

I pull open the door and there he is, hands plunged into his coat pockets and cheeks pink from the cold.

His smile is hesitant. “I, uh, tried to call.”

“My phone's dead.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Piper?” Mom says from behind me. She's clearly not down with this super rude keep-your-half-frozen-guest-out-on-the-porch conversation.

I should invite him in. My mom is obviously prompting for that. But I try to imagine it—Nick on the couch next to my dad, talking about what? Jackson Pollock? Or maybe he can chat with Mom about one of her troubled orphans.

“Let me grab a coat,” I say.

Mom laughs kind of breathlessly. “Piper, for heaven's sake, invite him in out of the cold.”

I relent with a quiet sigh, pushing the door open. Nick shuffles in looking worried and
ridiculously
tall. It's not even normal the way he fills up our entry.

Mom extends her hand. “I'm Diana.”

“Nick, huh?” my dad says, appearing just behind my mom's shoulder. He's got paint in his hair and a Pink Floyd T-shirt on. “I'm Tim. Sorry about this. Believe it or not, we trained her not to leave guests shivering on the porch.”

I will kill my dad later for that. For now, I watch him shake Nick's hand.

Nick knows to do all the right parent things. He offers to leave his shoes by the door and thanks my mom for taking his coat. He's not kissing up or painfully awkward—he's just like he always is—friendly and courteous and, just…Nick. Even my dad, a man who normally pushes me toward creative types, seems completely enchanted by this lumbering jock creature.

Mom has him follow her into the kitchen. Dad comes too and everyone's talking about the holidays and college, and it's like I'm watching the whole thing in a movie. I know people put on their Sunday best for company, but this? This doesn't even
resemble
my family.

“So, did you need my chemistry notes?” I ask pointedly.

My hope to rattle him fails. Nick looks over at me without flinching at my ridiculous question. He and I both know he's not in my chemistry class. We also know that since we are on winter break, notes aren't a top priority.

“No, but thank you.”

I arch a brow. “No? What's up then?”

Dad gives me a hard look over his mug of green tea. I don't dare glance at Mom. She's surely got her gaze switched from stun to kill.

“I have a special project I want to have done before the end of break,” Nick says. “I was hoping you could help me with it.”

“Is it about photography?”

“Actually, it's about social justice in high school,” he says.

There's no change to his smile, but there's something in his eyes that pins me to the floor. Looks like Harrison's not the only one putting pieces together. My parents smile, completely oblivious to the fact that I've turned to stone in the middle of the kitchen.

Nick seems all too happy to wait for me to think it over. Adrenaline races through my veins, sending pins and needles down my spine. How much does he know? What is he going to say? Is he here to
threaten
me? Is that why he's here?

The idea sends a jolt through my middle. I need to get him out of here. Right now.

“I'm
starving
,” I say, pushing enthusiasm—and maybe even a smidge of flirty—into my voice. “Nick, would you be willing to talk over a burger? It'll only take me a minute to change.”

“That'd be great.”

I fly into my room with my heart hammering wildly. I can still fix this. I don't know how, but I'll figure it out. Because I don't have a choice.

• • •

We take Nick's Jeep. It still smells like him, but it smells like something else too—some sort of citrus cleaner that I'm guessing he used for Tate's issues the other night. I figure we'll just launch right into it, but he doesn't. And God knows
I'm
not going there, so we proceed to back out of my driveway with the radio playing and snow drifting around us.

He's completely relaxed, shifting easily through the gears as he works his way out of my neighborhood. I'm perched like a steel beam at the edge of the seat, my hands fisted at my sides.

We pull up to the stop sign at Haywood Road and he looks over at me.

“So, where do you like your burgers? Are we talking Randall's or McDonald's?”

“Are you serious?”

“I thought you said you were hungry.”

“I thought you just came into my house and basically accused me of being in on this vigilante crap!”

Which I totally am, so all this righteous indignation is a little misspent. And really, he didn't accuse me of anything, but apparently, I've marinated in crazy sauce for the last three days. I feel like a pressure cooker with a crack in the lid.

“I didn't accuse you. But yeah, I do want to know what's going on.”

“Nothing's going on.”

Nick sighs. “Look, I know I'm not in all of your AP classes or whatever, but I'm not a complete idiot. You've been there every single time, Piper.
With
a camera. And I hate to say it, but it's right up your alley—pointing out how immature and unaware the popular kids are.”

Fire shoots through me. “And
there
it is.”

“There
what
is?”

“The real reason you've been so attentive,” I say.

“I'm attentive because I like you, but liking you doesn't make me an idiot. Stop treating me like I'm too stupid to put this together. You're involved in these takedowns, so just talk to me. Help me understand.”

“I—” My voice cracks. Splits. Just like the rest of me. I hate this. I'm terrified to tell him, terrified of what he already knows. Most of all I'm terrified because I believe the kindness in his voice. And I'm setting myself up for a fall.

“It's complicated,” I finally say.

“I'm sure coordinating massive humiliation stunts is complicated,” he says, and this time there's a sharp edge to his voice.

God, he thinks I planned the takedowns. The thought tangles my insides, makes me cold all over. But how is what I did so much better? Maybe I didn't choose the sentence, but I enjoyed every last bit of it.

No. Not all of it.

“Fine,” he says. “Don't tell me. But, Piper, as smart as you think you are, I'm telling you, someone else is going to figure this out.”

I bite my lip, heat crawling under my coat, sweat rising on the back of my neck. He's right. I'm going to get caught. And Nick's going to hate me. A lot of people are going to hate me when they find out about this. God, how did this get so out of control? A memory of Jackson on the football field—coal-black eyes and a promise of vengeance—turns my vision muddy.

“I'm sorry, Nick. I am. You should probably stay as far away from this as you can.”

I open the door and slip out of the Jeep, my heart slamming against my ribs and my breath coming in gasps. What am I going to do? Where do I go? Telling someone before seemed crazy, but I still had some control then. I didn't know I couldn't quit. I didn't know my partner would ruin lives.

Nick parks by the curb and jogs my way, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

I hate it. God, I
hate
it, but I'm crying now, so I wipe my cheeks and try to look calm.

“You don't have to run away,” he says. “I've known you were involved for a while. I'm not trying to threaten you.”

“I know that.”

“Then why won't you talk to me?” He reaches for my arm, turning me around so that I can look at him. Our breath is steaming all around us, and it's so, so cold. My tears burn down my face and my heart is turning to ice in my throat.

“I-I can't talk to you,” I say. “I can't. I don't want you to hate me.”

My words choke on a sob and I can see his face waver, emotions warring in those pretty green eyes. He's afraid of me. Afraid of what I've done.

I can't blame him. But I don't think I can face him either.

I try to move past him and see him close his eyes, his jaw tight. Then, he grabs my sleeve and pulls me closer. It's like pushing a button, and suddenly, I'm grabbing him. It isn't a choice. It just happens. My cheeks flare with heat, and I remember myself, remember that he won't want this. Not now.

But his arms go around me and his chin settles on the top of his head, and everything in me goes quiet. Still.

“You're cold,” he says, his voice rumbling under my cheek.

He reaches for my arms, pushing my hands inside his unzipped coat. I don't resist. My palms curl around his sides and I sink into his warmth. All the buzzing in my head is just gone. Silence descends and I hold on tight.

“Let's find a place to talk.”

“Why?” I ask. “You know I'm part of this. You can't be okay with that.”

“I don't think I am.” He squeezes me tighter, like he can't help himself. “But I need to hear it from you. All of it. I need to understand.”

I close my eyes and surrender. “I'll tell you.”

In the end, he drives me to his house. It's a small, well-kept ranch in a neighborhood not far from mine. When I comment on the dark windows, he explains that his brother's home from college for the holidays but with a girlfriend tonight. His mom's a nurse on third shift because teaching community college art doesn't pay the bills.

I ask about his dad, and he just shakes his head. “Not since I was ten.”

Then he pockets his keys and comes around to open my door. He must see the hesitation on my face, because his shoulders tense. “We don't have to go in. We can still get food.”

“No, it's fine,” I say, though I don't know if it is. I'm in completely new territory here.

Nick fiddles with a key and swears softly when a large brown dog bounds over, floppy ears wagging and bark turned all the way up.

“Cool it, Moose.” He turns to me. “He's harmless. But I can put him in the backyard if you want.”

“No, he's good.” I automatically scratch his satiny ears while I steal a glance at the half-dark house. The living room looks comfortable, with a big TV and end tables crammed with framed pictures. Nick takes my coat as I pull it off.

“C'mon, let's get you something warm to drink,” he says. I follow him into a kitchen that smells like cinnamon and coffee. He opens the fridge, revealing cans of soda and plastic tubs of lunchmeat. In my fridge, there's soy yogurt and leftover curry.

“What about hot chocolate?” he offers. “Or coffee? We don't really have much tea, I don't think.”

“Cocoa's fine,” I say, shuffling a little absently. There's a dinette table at the back of the kitchen, but I feel weird sitting down, so I don't. I just stand there shivering while he puts a kettle on the stove.

Nick frowns at me and then disappears into the living room. He returns seconds later with a sweatshirt that I assume is his and starts tugging it over my head. I work my arms into the sleeves and take a deep breath—soapy boy and something else. Lemons, maybe. Nick, definitely.