Gone Too Far (11 page)

“Let me guess. Cancun? Palm Springs?”

“I was thinking more Nepal, Tibet, maybe Bhutan,” he says, shocking me into silence. “If I can't afford Asia, I'll probably head to South America—Peru or Chile…”

He trails off, probably noticing the way I'm staring at him. Like I've never met him. Because suddenly, that's exactly how I feel. I try to picture it—Nick Patterson in Bhutan. Before this moment, I might have doubted Nick knew Bhutan was a country. I don't think I like what that says about me.

He shrugs. “I like mountains.”

“You like mountains.”

Nick nods. “I also like world history, water-skiing, horror movies, and Ansel Adams.”

My voice is barely more than a breath when it comes out of me. “Ansel Adams is a…”

“Photographer?” He looks at my mouth.

“But you don't—”

“Take pictures?” He gives me a look that shouldn't be legal. “I still know talent when I see it.”

My heart doesn't race; it
gallops
—so hard and fast that I feel it throbbing in the tips of my fingers. I think of stepping away, because I should. But I don't. Not even when he tilts his head.

Oh hell. I think he's going to kiss me. And I think I'm going to let him.

“Nick!”

I wince and Nick turns over his shoulder, his eyes still heavy-lidded. “What?”

“Come over here! Tate needs help.” The girl, one of Marlow's cronies, if I'm not mistaken, looks like she's not sure if she should laugh or cry.

“Can it wait?”

“I think you'd better come now,” the girl's voice—I'm pretty sure it's Shelby Keaton, come to think of it—is high and pinched.

Nick heaves a long sigh and touches my wrist. “I'm sorry. I should check him.”

I don't know why I follow Nick across the patio, bumping past the table with the couple, and then a group of guys who probably
aren't
passing around a Camel Light. My stomach is still fisted over our almost…
something
.

The girl—definitely Shelby—lets us in the opposite door and we step inside the darkness again. This door is closer to the bathrooms. Not the kind of place I want to linger, but Shelby glances at the men's room door, looking squeamish.

“He's in there.”

I get it as soon as I take a breath. A potent blend of vomit and booze clouds the air in the narrow hallway. It always smells sort of rank if memory serves, but it's much worse than normal tonight. Gives me a pretty good idea of what's going on with Tate in the bathroom, even if the music's too loud to let us hear any sound effects.

Nick heads straight in, leaving Shelby and me alone. I'm tempted to leave. I spot Connor and Manny at the stage, hands in the air, having the time of their lives. Which is what I'm supposed to be doing. And who I'm supposed to be with. But something is holding me here in this nasty hallway with a girl I rarely speak to.

That
something
walks back out of the bathroom, glaring daggers at Shelby. “He's wasted, Shel! How'd he get here?”

Valid question. The hardest thing they serve here is Red Bull, so this obviously happened before he arrived.

“I don't know,” Shelby says. “I just saw him come in a little while ago.”

Nick takes a breath, his patience clearly gone. “You've been trying to get with Tate since last year. Don't sit here and act like you don't know
exactly
how he got here and who with.”

She fights giving him an answer for a minute, but then her gaze shifts to the bathroom door and she frowns. “Jackson. Jackson dropped him off, but he left when Tate got sick.”

I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to be in the middle of this anymore. It's not like I'm helping. But now Nick's standing in between me and the rest of the bar, and I don't know if I can just push past him. So I wait.

He shoves a hand through his hair. “All right, we've got to get him home, and we're going to need a bucket. If you drive, I'll keep him in the backseat.”

Shelby visibly recoils, her pink nails digging into her soft phone cover. “Nick, I can't! I have my dad's car.”

“We'll take my car.”

Shelby looks around, obviously panicking. “The Jeep? I-I can't drive a stick shift.”

Nick shakes his head, looking confused. “Then I'll drive and you can—”

“No, I can't! I just…” She cuts herself off, shaking her head.

Nick narrows his eyes, but it's not going to work. She's checking out. I can see reality dawn in Nick's eyes, his big shoulders slumping.

“I can do it.”

They both look at me, so I apparently said that out loud.

Dumb. These are
not
my people, and this is
not
my problem. And if Shelby's thin-lipped look is any indicator, I'm not welcome.

There's something about her look that picks at my temper though. I bat my eyes, feigning innocence in my sugar-sweet voice. “Unless you want to maybe lay down some garbage bags in your car or something, Shelby.”

She tenses, turning back to Nick. “I'm sorry. I really am,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. But even if she does, she still walks away, leaving us alone.

Nick looks at me with an expression I can't read. “You don't have to do this.”

Strangely, I'm pretty sure I do. Even if I don't know why.

I try for a smile that only works halfway. “How about you take bucket duty and I'll go get your car.”

He waits for another long moment before he hands over his keys and tells me where it's parked. I wrap my fingers hard around the metal, grateful for something to do. If I'm doing things, I don't have to think.

Nick insists on having one of the bouncers walk me out. I follow a big, quiet guy to an older, white Jeep with cracks in the leather and a couple of sweatshirts flung across the passenger seat. It smells enough like Nick in here to make my fingers tremble, but the bouncer is waiting, so I start it up.

I only stall once backing out of the parking spot, and by the time I pull it around to the staff entrance, I've gotten the hang of the clutch. I text Manny and Hadley while I'm waiting. I hope to God my pathetic
I'm helping out a friend, they'll drop me home
, won't generate a bunch of questions, because I sure as hell don't have any answers.

Nick appears within a couple minutes, one arm slung around his half-conscious friend. Tate looks up at the Jeep. His eyes are bloodshot and the front of his shirt is stained. He looks like a supermodel with a heroin addiction. Pitiful doesn't even cover it.

Nick loads him into the back and I settle behind the wheel, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“I think he's mostly done,” Nick says. “But I thought that two minutes ago too.”

“I'm done,” Tate says.

He's not. One block later, he pukes again. I can't be sure, but I don't think all of it lands in the bucket.

I roll down the window a little and Nick reaches for one of his sweatshirts.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Tate says, sounding so sad that it makes my stomach ache and my eyes water. Or maybe it's the smell. I don't even know, I just know it hurts.

“It's all right, man. Just breathe,” Nick says. God, he sounds so genuine. Just soft voiced and not concerned that he's mopping up some guy's vomit with his clothes. My grip on the wheel goes tighter with every word Nick says and I keep wondering if I would be as cool as Nick in the same situation. I want to think so, but am I sure?

“Take a right up here on Main,” he says to me. “He's in Glenwood Estates.”

“Which street?” I ask.

“Birchview.”

“Who the hell is that?” Tate asks, every word slurred.

“It's Piper. She's cool. Just keep breathing, Tate. Get that cold air in you.”

He doesn't puke again, but I hear him sniffing every now and then. Nick directs me to the cul-de-sac where Tate's house—a sprawling brick-front monstrosity—is situated.

Nick helps him out, and a streetlight illuminates the side of Tate's face. Tear tracks glisten under the orange-yellow glow. Nick drags the bucket out too, dropping the sweatshirt on top.

Tate looks down at it, face crumpling. “Sorry, man.”

“It's cool.”

Tate shakes his head. “It's not cool. She's gone.” He lets out a low sound that cuts right through me. A sound I know I will never, ever forget. “She's gone, man.”

Nick sighs, dropping a hand on his shoulder. “Let's get you inside.”

They shuffle up the driveway. I don't ask if Nick wants help. It wouldn't matter if he did, because I feel boneless and hollow.

I swipe at my own completely stupid tears. I have no right to be crying. Shivers crash over me in waves while I wait, so I crank up the heater all the way. It doesn't help. I don't think I'll ever be warm again.

Nick drives me home with the radio low. We don't talk much. I tell him where to turn and he asks if anyone's home.

“Let me walk you in,” he says when he pulls up to the curb.

“No, thanks,” I tell him. “It would probably freak out my parents.”

Probably not exactly true, but I
am
twenty minutes past curfew and I really don't want any more reasons for them to ask questions about the walking Adidas ad who dropped me home.

Nick turns off the engine. It's weird and quiet, and I don't know what to say or do, so I reach for the door handle and smile. “Well, thanks for the ride.”

“Wait,” he says, reaching across me to hold the door closed.

He pulls back enough to give me space, a muscle in his jaw tensing. “Piper, what you did tonight—”

A sudden rush of panic forces me to cut him off. “I drove a car, Nick. It's not a big deal. Really.”

“Yes, it was. And you know it.”

I squirm. What I did tonight, sure. That was nice. But I tried to target Tate for a takedown. And deep down, some part of me still wants it. My gaze drifts to my front door. I want a cup of green tea and my dad's old Led Zeppelin T-shirt, the one that's buttery soft and hangs to my knees. The one that will take me away from all of this.

“Tate wasn't himself,” he says out of nowhere. “He doesn't even really drink.”

I can feel myself crumbling. The image of Tate, so awful and so broken, is seared into my mind; those weird, nonsense tears burning at my eyes again, so I shift closer to the door. “I'm glad he got home safe. I should go.”

He looks a little mad now, shoves himself back into his seat. “Will you stop acting like you lent me a pencil, for God's sake?”

I want to run, but I can hear every breath shaking out of him in the quiet car. Each time he takes another one, I feel it in my chest.

I can't do this. Every second I sit here, he's pulling at things, things I don't want in the open. I want to bury them deep. Forget about them forever.

“Just say something
real
,” he says, voice pleading. “Anything.”

My resolve crumbles.

“He was
horrible
to her,” I whisper, wishing I could pull it back in, but I can't. The truth always finds its way out, I guess.

“Yeah.” The word's like a torn stitch. “And it's so messed up because he was
crazy
about her. You don't even know.”

I close my eyes tight. “I don't want to know.” When I open them, he's watching me. When I look at Nick, I hurt for Tate, and Tate doesn't deserve that. He's one of the reasons Stella's dead, and I can't let that be okay.

Nick's face closes off, like everything is being buttoned down for a storm.

“I still appreciate your help,” he says.

Something's tearing on my insides. I want to reach for him. I want to tell him a thousand things about how I'm feeling and how damn confusing all of this is.

Because wrong is supposed to be wrong and right is supposed to be right, and it's all a fat, gray mess and I hate it. I want to tell him all of that, but I don't. I step out of his Jeep and watch him drive away.

• • •

Jackson's pictures arrive in Saturday's mail. I ordered them half out of habit and half because I expected my texting friend to request them. I'm learning quickly that I have no idea what I should expect.

Harrison hasn't said a thing since the
Got
it
last night before the Tate disaster. Maybe it means he's done with this. It should be a good thing, but it feels…incomplete. Or something.

Dad taps the brown box of photos on the table in front of me, and I recoil like it's a nest of cockroaches.

“Pure genius inside?” he asks with a wink.

I hide my failure to smile in a spoonful of granola.

“So, why were you late last night?” Mom asks.

I chew. Swallow. Prepare to spit out more lies. “Manny got wrapped up with some girl.”

“That boy needs to rein in his hormones. And you need to keep better track of the time.”

“Noted. Sorry.”

Dad claps his hands together. “Enough discipline.” He ignores Mom's frown and jabs the box again. “Want to show us your latest and greatest?”

A punch to the gut would hurt less. “It's duplicates. Homecoming stuff. I'm really behind, actually.”

I look toward the stairs. Mom wraps a cranberry muffin in a paper towel and hands it to me. A wholesome snack for their lying, scheming daughter.

I lock my bedroom door and open the box, sliding the pictures out around my desk. They're strong photos. Good angles. Nice lighting. I analyze the pictures like I'm grading them.

The portraits of the crowd are good, but the ones of Jackson are better. I've got a phenomenal shot of him pacing—the TV in the background, his smile too predatory to be kind. And then the best of them all—his hands in his hair and his mouth screwed up in horror. There's only one word for this shot: humiliated.

And he
should
be.

I slide open the bottom drawer, finding the notebook. I tuck Jackson's pictures into the pocket, because where the hell else am I going to keep pictures of a guy watching a tape like—

Wait a minute.

I think back over the tape, and it hits me like something heavy. All those code names I wanted to uncover. I can figure out Jackson, at least.

I grab a notepad and scrawl out a quick list of everything I can remember from that tape. The gross crap with Marlow. Throwing a fit. Mocking Chelsea. Something's going to be in there.
He
saw all of it. He knew what to look for.

I start scanning the pages fast, finding a couple of things that could be Marlow. Nothing jumps out, but then, I guess it's all kind of vague. A lot of this book could be Jackson.

And then I find it. September 20th. Halfway down the list.

Shortstop imitates Chelsea's compromised gait

My skin prickles. Chelsea doesn't have a nickname. I don't know why. Maybe because Harrison feels like it'd be shitty to nickname someone with so many challenges. Or maybe because he doesn't think she's worth one.

But Chelsea's name isn't the one I'm interested in. Jackson's is. And his name is Shortstop.

I can't chew my lip hard enough to keep my smile at bay. I pull out my metallic pens, a gift from some birthday past, and start moving through the book, beginning to end. I hesitate at first, my pen a hair's breadth away from the paper.

This isn't my book, but I doubt it's something Harrison plans on passing around at the dinner table. Besides, he pretty much gave me an author's invitation to add my own touch. I draw a careful metallic green circle around the first reference on page 4, and then again on page 6. Page 9. The Chelsea incident on page 10. And finally one more at the bottom of 11. Five times this jerk made someone suffer. So five times I write his real name above his nickname.

I flip to the back of the book, to a fresh new page. That's where I paste his pictures, one on top of the other. I surround them with crisscrossing borders, the same ink that I used to highlight his deeds.

This book won't fix anything on its own. It's not a weapon unless it's in the wrong person's hands. For me, it's a source of honesty. From Manny to my parents to my own vigilante side gig, my world's sinking in lies. It feels pretty good to have something that's true.

• • •

The yearbook team meets for lunch at Waffle World on Sundays. As usual, I'm early, which gives me time to enjoy my tower of praline pancakes in peace while I mock up an idea for my newly assigned yearbook pages on the back of a napkin.

Manny slides into the booth across from me, sporting a rumpled T-shirt and dark circles under his eyes.

I frown up at him. “You look like crap.”

“I was up late,” he says. “Though sadly, not because of Candace. So, did you bang the quarterback?”

“He's not a quarterback and you're not funny,” I say, pointing at my crude napkin design. “What do you think?”

He shrugs and helps himself to the table coffee. “Tacey will want more pictures crammed in. So fill me in on your sweaty adventures.”

“There was no sweating. You're disgusting. And why were you up so late?”

He scratches the back of his head. “If you must know, I'm trying to get that government paper done.”

I don't like it. It's not like Manny to do homework in advance, and I know that paper isn't due until next week. Makes me wonder if he's in trouble. Or if he's messing with attendance records again. The thought makes my stomach go sour, but I keep my mouth shut.

“I thought you were done with the nagging.”

“I am!”

“Those eyes are nagging eyes.”

“Whose eyes are nagging?” Tacey asks, announcing her arrival.

I sigh. “No one's. Let's talk layout. I still have a ton of homework to deal with. Take a look at this idea. For the homecoming court spread.”

Tacey pulls out her laptop—scary idea with all the syrup on this table—and we dissect ten pages of the yearbook, which feels a little heavy on the throttle since the full book isn't due for three months, but whatever.

“Okay, one more thing,” she says. “I want to add another page to the football layout.”

“The section we just finished?” I ask.

Tacey frowns. “I wanted one final page of the stadium. I think I'm going to put coach quotes on there.”

“I'll do that,” I say, because I'm itching to have a reason to be behind my camera, to feel the heft of it in my hands and the thrill of a shot that I
know
is amazing the second the shutter snaps. Plus, I could definitely deal with a distraction right now.

“I'll come with,” she says. “Do you need to stop and get your equipment?”

“It's in the trunk,” I say.

Manny heads out, and Tacey and I pay the tab. We take my Subaru to the high school. The day's cold with a flat, pale sky stretching overhead. Not the best light for a shoot. I snap a few from the front of the stadium and pull back to thumb through them. Everything is cast in pale gray, the sky bone white above us. Kind of haunting and gorgeous, but I know Tacey.

“It's going to need to be black and white,” I warn her.

“You were born in the wrong decade.”

“Since I can't imagine life before Nikon went digital, I doubt it. But you won't like this lighting. Do you want to try another day?”

“No, grayscale will work. If I use red font, it will pop, right?”

I feel a little buzzed that she's game for it. Black-and-white landscapes are my favorite. Maybe I could even leave the brick in color. And the chipped paint on the bleacher seats? Yeah.

“You're going to love it. I'm going to go grab a few from inside.”

Tacey's nose deep in her phone. “'Kay. I need to make a couple calls. Can I use your charger?”

“It's in the car.”

Tacey disappears, and I close my eyes, savoring the solitude. One deep breath and everything falls away. The notebook, the texts, Nick, Tate—the smell of dry leaves and cold air clears them out. No more test shots. No more light checks. I stretch my fingers around my camera and start for real. It's like seeing the place for the first time.

I take a few more pictures of the outside walls, first the front and then the concession stand. The field is still hidden to me, but I'm saving it, working my way into the stadium frame by frame. I slip into the hallway where I confronted Nick, catching some great shots of the light from the bleachers streaming onto the cement walk.

It gives me an idea for a shot of the field—a shot from
behind
the bleachers. I fold up the tripod and lean it against a wall, feeling the itch of excitement over doing something different.

I step into an alcove. Bleachers stretch overhead, wooden planks that have weathered sixty Indiana winters. I wonder how many first kisses have been shared under these bleachers.

Suddenly, I hear laughter and then a grunt. It's coming from the field, but I can't see anyone out there. I try again at the next set of bleachers, spotting two guys moving back and forth on the green. Tate and Jackson.

Something small and hard lodges in my chest as I watch the football sail back and forth between them. Tate misses a pass and the football thuds to the ground two sets of bleachers over. I start walking that way. I'm not sure why, because my jaw feels tight and hot, and I'd rather walk through fire barefoot than be near either of them. That doesn't stop me from slipping closer and closer.

They're both by the ball when I stop. If I go farther, they might see me. Tate's tossing the ball from one hand to the other while Jackson scuffs the grass with his shoes, a scowl on his face.

“What's with all the power passes?” Tate asks.

“What's with you turning into a girl?”

Tate steps back. He doesn't look good. He's pale and his cheeks are sunken. I try to think about the way he was earlier this year—almost
too
handsome. The kind of guy who people figured might end up on TV or modeling somewhere. He's a million miles from that now. Jackson stretches his thick arms overhead. “You've been moping for
weeks
. You didn't even want to come today. Now you're moaning that I'm throwing too hard.”

“I'm not moaning. You're pissed and it's obvious,” Tate says. “Your dad's pissed about the eight-game suspension, huh?”

Jackson rockets another throw at Tate's middle. He catches it and flings it back with a smirk. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Jackson shrugs. “He left my face out of it, so whatever.”

“It's messed up, man. You should tell someone.”

“Why? So I can turn into a mopey little shit like you?”

Tate's expression goes hard. “Maybe because if you stop getting punched in the kidneys, you'll throw a better pass.”