Gone Too Far (10 page)

Next year, I'll be in college. Even if he weren't in a different social universe, this isn't the right time to start dating anyone. Before I know it, he'll be catching touchdowns at State, while I'm hundreds of miles away at NYU.

It's infallible logic. And it still doesn't keep my heart from pounding when Nick looks up at me one last time.

• • •

I need a name by 9. Don't forget.

Harrison's face flashes in my mind as I read the message Friday afternoon.

The message ticks me off. It would be just like Harrison to delve out hard deadlines like this is a group project and not a probably illegal vigilante scheme. So, now what? I could confront him. Tell him I know, and end this whole mess right now. There's a part of me that's sure this is the wise choice. But another part remembers Jackson and Kristen. For years, they got away with everything. They were untouchable and now they aren't.

It's the closest thing to justice our school has seen in years. So how the hell is ending it the right choice?

I sigh, tossing my phone on my dresser. It's going to have to wait for now. Manny made it crystal clear he'd throw a fit of epic proportions if I tried to punk out of the concert tonight.

I don't even know the band—some grunge-metal-meets-electronic indie group that's too obscure to find its way onto
my
iPod. Could be fun. And I just got things right with Manny. If I have any chance of talking him back into college, things have to stay good.

So I'm taking the time to deal with eyeliner. I'm also trading in my standard-issue jeans for a skirt that looks like it survived a war and a shirt that's snug enough to prove I made an effort. The girl in the mirror still looks like me. A hotter, slightly older version of me, but at least Manny can't accuse me of forgetting about our plans.

My phone rings and I pick it up, cringing at Manny's blaring music.

“Are you ready yet or what?” he asks.

“I did offer to drive myself.”

“Yeah, but you said you'd love to talk. Which I assume means you'd love to try to remind me of all my potential or condemn me for my attendance record villainy?”

“Nope. No nagging. But I'd be lying if I said I was going to let it go forever. I still think you should consider—”

“Enough with the public service announcements. I'm in your driveway. Let's roll.”

I scoff. “Have I told you how annoying you are?”

“Mission accomplished.”

That gets me laughing. “Give me two minutes.”

My mom is at the kitchen table when I walk in. I grab a water from the fridge and say hello. She's got the cell phone bill laid out in front of her and when she looks up, her eyes are red. Has she been crying?

“Hey,” she says, frowning when she catches sight of my makeup and skirt. “Oh, wow. Remind me again I can trust you.”

“Skirt notwithstanding, my dignity will remain intact,” I say. “You okay? You look upset.”

She folds the phone bill and puts on a plastic smile. “All good. Except that my daughter looks like she stole her look from
Cosmo
.”

I shake my head. “Way too much black, not enough sequins. We're headed to Dry Dock.”

“That place with the awful pizza?”

I shrug. “They bring in bands, so the food's allowed to suck. Be home by midnight?”

“Be safe,” she says.

I lean in to kiss her cheek. Yeah, she's definitely been crying. I start to ask, but then Manny honks outside, reminding me this probably isn't the time.

We pay our ten dollars to a kid from my French class last year. The building is already packed. It's also very quickly reminding me why I stopped coming. At least half the people here are from my grade, proving we seriously need more crap to do in Claireville, Indiana.

The place is a dive. There's a stage on the back wall, a dance floor in front of it, and probably fifty tables arranged randomly around the room, all of which appear to be full. I also heard a bunch of voices from the patio when we came in, so God knows how many people are in here.

I check my phone. Forty minutes left before I need to text a name. I don't even know what that means. What's he going to do if I don't? If it's Harrison and I tell him I know, what will he do? Will he deny it?

“Are Connor and Hadley here?” I shout over the music being pumped out of overhead speakers.

Manny nods, looking around. “You order the pizza. I'll find them.”

Naturally, the order window is at the back corner of the building, so I'll have to weave my way across the sticky floor and through clusters of shrieking, hair-sprayed girls. It's like a pep rally gone wrong.

I move through the crowd, turning sideways and dodging tables as I go. I try to take advantage of my high heels, but every path that seems to open up closes just before I arrive.

“Pardon me,” I say to a girl who's gesturing with her cherry soda.

She turns and I realize who it is—Aimee Johnston.

“Piper!” She smiles widely. “How are you?”

“Not bad.”

Candace grabs Aimee's arm and then pauses, looking at me. She's all frosty lips and thin brows, like always. Maybe it's that she looks so sickly next to Aimee's heart-shaped face and dark skin, but I'll never get what Manny sees in that girl.

Still, I know my manners. “Hey, Candace.”

“Hey,” she says before turning away.

Aimee drops her voice and narrows her eyes. “Rude. Sorry about that. She's been annoying me all night, but I promised the squad I'd take a study break.”

“Midterms were awful. How'd you do?”

She brightens. “Good! You know, not good enough to take number one, but whatever.”

It's not
whatever
. You'd have to be blind to miss the way her face goes tight when she says that. And who the hell can blame her? She's thrown everything but the kitchen sink into her work, and she's always landed in Harrison's shadow.

Aimee leans in, making sure her words are just for me. “Can you keep something quiet?”

Isn't that the million dollar question these days? “Yeah, sure.”

“I heard a crazy rumor that Harrison might be cheating in chemistry, getting answers on his phone.”

My heart falters, finds its beat again. The glow under his desk—I wasn't imagining it. “How? Did you see it?”

“No. Shay did. She sits up front by him. I saw him throw his phone in the bottom of his bag right when we walked into class, but Shay says he wasn't using his normal phone, that it was a different phone.”

“A different phone?”

“Yeah, so the answers can't be traced to him.”

And
maybe
so
he
can
text
somebody
anonymously.

The blood's draining out of my face so fast, my skin is tingling. Like it's fallen asleep.

Harrison isn't just a cheater. He's selling papers; keeping a big, fat sin log; and orchestrating takedowns like he's some noble, by-the-people justice guy. And I'm going along with it.

It felt better when I didn't think about him being behind it, when I could believe it was someone…better.

“Hey, look, I shouldn't have said anything,” Aimee says.

Crap. I can only imagine what my face looks like right now. Probably pretty bad, because she obviously thinks I'm disgusted with her.

“Aimee, no, we're cool.” I reach for her arm, but my hand is cold and slick with sweat. So I let it drop. “It's just a complete shock.”

For
reasons
you
can't imagine.

“Well, it's never coming out, even if it's true. Shay tried to talk to Mrs. Branson.”

“What did she say?” I ask.

“That it was a very serious accusation to bring against the most esteemed student in Claireville High.”

“She didn't even listen to Shay?” It's one thing for us to ignore each other, but Mrs. Branson is a teacher.

Aimee shakes her head. “She offered, but Shay said she had a bad feeling that nothing would come of it, except Mrs. Branson hating her more than she already does. That kid is bulletproof.”

“I guess,” I say, the things I know about Harrison going bitter on the back of my tongue. “But we could all watch him. Turn him in to the principal if it happens again.”

“Maybe. We don't even have another serious test for two months though.” Candace tugs again and Aimee grins. “I've got to go.”

“I'm really sorry.”

“Don't stress, okay? Everything works out, yeah?”

No, it really doesn't. Harrison is getting away with everything—he's snowing
everyone
. Everyone except me.

My hand grazes the phone in my pocket. I know things Harrison doesn't want me to know. I just need to figure out how to use them without him turning the tables on me.

If I text him his own name as a target, maybe it'll turn up the heat. Make him squirm until he realizes he has two options: take himself down or confess he's the one texting me. It's a no-brainer—he'll fess up.

And
then
what?

Then I agree not to turn him in for the cheating—since I don't have evidence anyway—as long as he agrees to let Aimee take the academic lead.

“Are you joining the cheerleading squad?” Manny's voice jolts me out of my thinking. He's standing behind me, arms crossed and brow arched.

“I…no…Aimee just—”

“Yes, smart girl bonding, blah, blah, blah. You do realize you haven't ordered our pizza, right?”

“Oh my God, you had Cheetos in the car twenty minutes ago! I'm going already.”

“Don't forget my soda!” he says.

He ventures over to Candace, who plays it coy, her smile tight when he approaches. But he's wearing her down. I grin when her shoulders turn toward him, her pale cheeks just a little bit pinker. Then I see Aimee and my chest goes tight.

She catches me looking, mouths something to me: “It's okay
.
” Does it twice, so she's sure I see her.

I pull out my phone. It's not okay now, but it will be. I'm going to make sure of it.

Harrison Copeland—Cheating and Selling Papers

Texting Harrison's name is different than Jackson or Kristen. It's not just about nailing him as a cheater. I'm not his lackey anymore. I know every bit as much as he does, so we're equal. And he knows it. When he doesn't respond, I grin and slide my phone back into my pocket, prepared to wait him out and enjoy my evening.

My luck holds when I find the food line, which is miraculously short for so close to showtime. I walk up to the ordering window, a ten-foot wide hole in the wall that opens into the kitchen. The metal counter is chest high and spattered with cornmeal from the bottom of the pizzas.

Menu options aren't great. Pizza, a sub—which is essentially a pizza on top of a bun—or some rubbery wings that I wouldn't eat if threatened at gunpoint.

I pull out a twenty and lean against the counter, waiting for someone to arrive. Someone who looks a lot like Nick rushes out of the kitchen, a baseball hat backward on his head. Before I can tell my throat to stop going tight, I realize he doesn't look like Nick.

He
is
Nick.

He comes up to the counter and stops short, watching me.

“I swear I'm not a stalker,” I finally manage.
Way
to
put
him
right
at
ease, Woods.

He half smiles, dimples flashing before he's back to business. “I only started this summer.”

“Right,” I say, and then I just stand there, taking in way too much of what's going on behind that counter. He looks so different—the Ramones T-shirt he's wearing and the thick line of a black tattoo I can see at the edge of his sleeve. “I didn't know you had a tattoo.”

Tell
me
I
did
not
just
say
that.

He just looks at me, his mouth a little open. Can I blame him? What's he going to say? The last time we talked, he told me he was interested in me, and I basically told him to kiss off. Now I'm making cutesy comments about his tattoo?

Someone nudges me from behind. “Hey, are you going to order or what?”

“Give her a minute.” Nick's eyes flash dangerously.

The nudger snorts. “Or what?”

“Or I'll come out there and tell you again.” Nick presses closer to the counter. “Now, what can I get you?” That megawatt grin comes out again, and my insides curl up and purr.

This has bad idea written all over it. I have to get out of here. Right now. “I'll have a large pepperoni and two Cokes, please.”

“I'll bring it out to you,” he says.

I barely mutter a thank you before I bolt, pushing my way through the crowd. I've got no destination in mind—only escape. I'm halfway back to the door when I hear someone call my name.

I follow Manny's wild waving over to the table, where Connor and Hadley are waiting, a couple of drinks between them.

“Hey,” I say.

“How was the order window?” Manny asks with a wink.

“You knew he was there?”

“Oh, you like him and you know it,” he says, waving it off. “You get me a drink?”

“Your arsenic should arrive shortly.”

I check my phone. No message. It almost makes me grin more. For the first time since this mess started, I'm not the one second-guessing. I feel a rush of confidence and tap out another quick message.

Did you get that message? The one about Harrison?

I press send and have to hide a snicker behind my hand. And then Connor checks his phone, his smile faltering as he opens the message. My stomach falls end over end.

The table laughs, so I join in, but I don't know what we're talking about. The only thing I know is that Connor checked his phone two seconds after I sent my message. He could have been checking my message.

Paranoid.

I'm completely paranoid, right?

But Connor does see everything in this school. People love and trust him, so no one censors. He's exactly the kind of person who could get every bit of the information in that book. But would he write it all down? Keep it in some diary gone bad?

I rub my suddenly cold arms and try to push the idea away. It's ridiculous. I
know
him.

Still, my mind drags up memories of Connor's persuasive argument on elitism last year in speech class. It was a great speech. He drew parallels between the social problems during the Civil Rights movement and the problems in modern-day high school. Afterward, we laughed about how many of the popular kids applauded, totally missing that the entire speech painted their crowd in a very ugly light.

Was that when this started? Was that speech the tip of some social justice plan?

Hadley's hand suddenly covers mine. “Piper? You look pale as a ghost. Are you sick?”

Sick doesn't touch what I'm feeling. I'm way past sick. Could I have been wrong about Harrison?

“I'm just a little hot.” I strangle out the lie, forcing myself to breathe.

“Let me check you.” Hadley pushes her hands against my forehead and cheeks. “God, you're ice cold.”

My stomach rolls and I try to pull away, but she pats my hand. She needs to stop touching me. I can feel Connor's dark eyes on me, but he says nothing. His expression is a blank canvas.

Suddenly Hadley moves away and Manny shoves in. He smells like his dad's Old Spice deodorant for some reason and that feels better. Familiar. I breathe it in, tears welling in my eyes.

He grabs my chin in his hand and pulls my face toward him. “You sick?”

Connor's phone buzzes again and I see Hadley tilt her head toward him. Connor drops his voice to explain, but I can still hear him talking to her. “Jacob's giving Mom trouble. She's been texting me all night.”

Jacob's his brother. Just got his license. Connor shows Hadley his phone and they share a wry grin at whatever text messages are firing back and forth. Which means…they aren't my messages. Connor isn't texting me. And I should have known that, because Connor's number is in my phone.

How could I be this stupid? Jumping to every possible conclusion.

Manny pokes my shoulder. “You sure you're up for this? I can run you home.”

So I can dream up another ridiculous person behind these texts? It's Harrison. I know that. I know that, and I need to just settle down and wait. Because the ball's in his court now.

I shake my head. “I'm fine. Sorry. I just need to eat.”

Manny nods. He's not buying it, but he won't push. Manny never pushes and he's always there, and I completely take that for granted sometimes.

“You're pretty awesome, you know,” I say softly, into his sleeve.

“Uh, did the cheerleaders slip something into your soda?”

“No, I just didn't want you to think…you know, with the nagging and everything.”

He laughs. “Is that why you're worked up?”

It's not, but I shrug anyway.

“We're all right,” he says, giving me a sideways hug. “It's going to be a good night. Candace gave me her number. You've got a footballer getting gooey with y—”

“Manny, I swear to God, if you don't drop that—”

The band takes the stage, effectively cutting me off. Manny thumps my arm and the whole building goes crazy. People cluster tightly on the dance floor in front of the stage while the band does sound checks.

“I'm heading out there,” Manny says. “Who's coming?”

“I'll go!” Hadley says, getting up. “I think I see Tacey. Connor?”

“I'll be there in a minute,” he says.

“Pi?”

I shake my head at Manny.

“She should wait for the pizza,” Hadley says. “Connor, make her eat some food, will ya?”

“Technically, I'm not sure we can classify anything in here as food.”

Everyone laughs and Manny jabs a finger in my direction as Hadley tugs him toward the floor. “Half a slice and I want your butt on this floor, Pi. No arguments.”

He's giving me crap, but it's good. It's normal. Right now, I'm aching for ordinary.

As they head to the floor, I check my phone, discovering a text message. Apparently, somewhere in the midst of my paranoid delusions about Connor, I missed it.

Got it.

That's it? Got it? What does that even mean? It doesn't confirm or deny or tell me anything. It leaves me right back where I started—holding more questions than answers.

• • •

A guy who
isn't
Nick delivers our pizza and drinks, apologizing for the wait. I'm still reeling from the whole Connor situation, and now I'm pissy about Nick not showing up personally. Which is…ridiculous. I've spent pretty much every interaction with him trying to push him away. Now I'm mad that he's not chasing?

I try a slice of pizza. The plastic cheese and a thin layer of tomato paste do nothing to improve my mood, so I drop it on a wad of napkins—do they even have plates here?—and scowl at everything in my general vicinity.

Manny grabs my arm when the band takes the stage for the next set. “C'mon, Clown. Time to turn that frown upside down.”

Leave it to Manny to make me laugh when I least want to. I try to shake my head, but then Tacey and Hadley are dragging at my arms. And frankly, I can't sit at that table one more minute. So I go.

I'm not much of a dancer, and I'm even less of a screamer. But for once I follow them right to the front of the stage, hoping the unrelenting press of noise and bodies will override my racing mind.

The band isn't bad. Maybe not something I'd listen to every day, but there's a dark, rhythmic thread that ties the racing guitars and frantic vocals together. It's good—loud and hard and just the thing to make me forget.

Eventually, I feel a little smothered out here, where the air reeks of sweat and hormones. I edge over to the side near the speakers, where every beat shakes me. I don't just hear the music—I feel it. So I close my eyes and let myself go.

A hand brushes my arm and I whirl around, finding Nick behind me. His apron is gone, but otherwise he looks the same. His hat is still twisted backward and there's a flour stain on Joey Ramone's head.

“Hey,” he says.

Or I think he says it. I really can't hear crap, but when his lips move, it looks like it could be “Hey.” He says something else and I can't make it out at all. I shake my head, pointing to my ears, and he leans in with a smile. I feel his hand at my hip for a moment and I'm aware. Way too aware.

“They're good, right?” His words are against my neck.

I shiver—though it has to be ninety degrees on this dance floor—and nod, because I don't trust myself to speak. He couldn't hear me if I did anyway. But Nick leans in again, and the entire room seems to shrink down to the pinpoint feel of his fingers against the side of my skirt.

My hands clench instinctively, grabbing on to something for leverage. I realize it's Nick's arm when he starts talking again.

“It's loud,” he says. “Do you want to go outside?”

Go
outside? Like to the patio?
I picture it in my mind—me and Nick in that weird half-lit porch where smokers and couples congregate. The place was designed for horny teenagers looking for somewhere to make out and… I nod at him.

Because I've totally lost my mind.

Nick brings me back with a smile, reaching for my hand and pulling me through the crowd. We twist and weave across the dance floor, and I don't care if Manny's looking for me or if Hadley saw Nick come up to me. I just know that our fingers are interlaced and we're holding on tighter than we need to, like if we squeeze hard enough maybe it will explain what in the world is going on between us.

There are two sets of doors leading out to the patio, and we're heading for the ones farthest from the pick-up window. He pushes them open and we step outside, letting them close behind us. My ears ring in the sudden quiet, phantom bass beats tainting the sounds around me.

It's a little darker out here, but I smell the promise of snow and the sting of smoke. Through the steam of my own breath, I spot a couple making out on a picnic table. I look away, grateful for the darkness that hides my red cheeks.

Nick suddenly seems a little sheepish. “Huh. This may have been better in theory than practice.”

He heads to the right, and that's when I realize we are still holding hands. I jerk mine free and try to recapture some semblance of my sanity. This is ridiculous. What am I doing out here with him? Standing on the stage catwalk, I laid out a very convincing list of the many reasons I can't be wandering into dark spaces with Nick Patterson. Reasons like social circles and futures that are, literally, a thousand miles apart.

“So, what's up?” I toe the sidewalk underneath me and pretend I can't hear the girl moaning on the table four feet away. “I mean, did you want to talk about something?”

“Well, I hadn't planned an agenda,” he says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Well, I guess we can chitchat about all the common interests we probably don't have.” I'm trying for playful and coming off all wrong. I used to be better at this, I think.

He laughs anyway. “Well, I'm not sure how you could know since you've never asked about my interests.”

Point to Nick for rolling with the punches. He smiles and it warms me all over.

“You're right. What are you interested in, Nick?”

“You, for starters.” His smirk makes him look like trouble. It also renders me incapable of speech.

He takes a breath. “So, there's you and football and great pizza—”

“Hugely shocking so far,” I say, feeling more at ease now that we're back to banter. “And your plans after graduation?”

He gives me a mock-harsh look. “I was trying to get to that before you interrupted. I'm working here so I can take the summer off to travel.”