Gone Too Far (12 page)

The tension between them is painfully thick. It presses on me until I feel like
I've
been punched.

Jackson finally relents under Tate's stare down. “I'll make him pay, you know.”

“Your dad?”

“No. Whoever put that tape up. The same guy that took down Kristen.”

I stop breathing, my face going cold as the blood drains from it.

Tate shrugs one shoulder, looking off into the stands across the field. “It'll blow over.”

“I'm not going to let it blow over. I'm going to find him. And make him pay.”

Jackson's voice is cold enough to burn. My hands shake, and suddenly, I realize—they could see me. Not that it means anything. I'm a school photographer. I have an excuse to be anywhere.

But I'm also the girl who took pictures of Jackson watching that tape. The same one who took pictures of Kristen. If he starts connecting dots, he's going to find me at the middle.

They don't speak again. Eventually, Tate shuffles down the field, and Jackson throws him the ball. That's about the time I start breathing again.

I back out of the stands carefully, making sure I don't step wrong or bang into something that will give me away. The second I'm clear of the bleachers, I speed up. I just want to be out of here.

Tacey's still on the phone when I get to the car, but she hangs up quickly after catching sight of my face. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Everything.

I start the engine and Tacey twists sideways. “We're leaving? What about the pictures? Did you get enough? Why are you so shaky?”

“I have enough.”

I don't have enough. I don't even have one of the actual field from inside, but my hands are slick on the steering wheel and I can't stay here one more minute. I pull out of the lot with the radio up, but it's Jackson's threat that's ringing in my ears.

It's the worst kind of dream, the kind where you know you're sleeping and you still can't wake up. Nick's standing at my locker in his backward baseball hat with his hand stretched toward me. He says my name, and my whole body blooms when he smiles.

I touch his fingers, and Tate appears beside us in his stained shirt. But it's not Tate. Not really. His eyes are white, a milky film covering the irises. Deep purple bruises shade the hollows of his cheekbones and his skin is gray blue. Corpse pale.

I try to look back at Nick, but I can't tear my gaze away from Tate's ruined eyes. Stella is here now too. She watches us with eyes that are cloudy like Tate's, her skin withered and filthy. Nick says my name, but I can only see Tate's chalk-white lips and Stella's hair hanging in matted hunks around her shoulders.

“He's coming for you.”
Stella blinks her white eyes and I gasp, breathing in her rot.

Nick's hand tightens around mine. Warm. Safe.

“Who's coming?”

“I'm coming,”
Nick says. But it isn't Nick.

It's Jackson.

He squeezes my hand until the bones in my wrist grind. I dig in my heels. Try to jerk free. But he has me. Oh God, he's pulling me in.

I wake up with a shout, goose bumps trailing up my arms and legs.

It's okay.
I'm okay.

I press a hand to my chest and will my panting to slow. Three days after I saw him at the field, and I'm still on edge.

My bedroom is lit by the desk lamp I forgot to turn off, but it's still dark outside. I check my phone on my nightstand. It's too early to get up, even for a school day, but I'm not risking snoozing my way back into that nightmare.

I slip into the bathroom to take a quick shower, and return to my room, hair pulled into a wet ponytail. My stomach clenches at the brown envelope my mother left on my desk while I was sleeping. Kristen's pictures came. I'm not really sure I want to look at these. But I have to.

I rip it open decisively, sliding the new pictures out one by one. I'm too low in the seats to get quality shots of the stage, but a few aren't bad: Kristen at the podium, a pair of red-stained jeans blurring past her shoulder, one of the sign, one of kids pointing, and the one of her crying.

I push that one under the pile. Part of me wants to turn it facedown, maybe even put it in my drawer. Instead, I pull out the notebook and choose a glittery pink pen. Just like I did with Jackson, I look for her sins.

I'm starting to memorize these pages, but I check them again, entry by entry. Only two stand out, but I'm sure they're her. One bragging about a stolen leather coat back in early October. And another lending a freshman advice on lifting makeup at the mall. Her nickname?
Couture
. I cross it out in both entries and write Kristen's name above it. Then I paste her picture on the page behind Jackson's, listing her sins again in shimmery pink script.

Now what? Harrison hasn't owned up to being the texter yet, but he's obviously not going to take himself down. That means Kristen could be the last. Two takedowns. That's it? I skim my finger down a line of entries. Cruelty and violence spelled out over and over. All these other people? They deserve justice too. I'm going to have to find a way to do this. Maybe without a partner.

I keep working with my glittery pens, crossing out the names I've figured out, writing real names over the top. I hesitate at Manny's name, and I hate it because it makes me a hypocrite. He's guilty like all the rest, but he's Manny. My friend. There's more to him than these three entries.

Which is why this book can't get out. In the wrong hands, this thing could turn into a witch-hunt, and I can't let that happen. Not to Manny. Not to anyone else who ended up in this book for stupid reasons.

I have to choose carefully, and this book is only one piece of that choice. It's a reminder of how bad it can get and why all of this is worth the risks I'm taking.

My phone rings, and I pick it up without checking the number. “Hello?”

“Piper? This is Nick.”

A flash of milky irises from my dream sends a chill down my spine. I pull my feet up on my chair, hugging my knees close to my chest. It was just a nightmare. Not real.

“Are you there?” he asks, and I realize I haven't said anything since hello.

“I'm sorry. Hi. What's up?”

“I was calling to see if I could drive you to school. I have something I want to ask you about.”

I think of riding to school in his bumpy Jeep, his voice up close and personal.

“You can't just ask me now?” I ask, sort of squeaking.

“I could. Wouldn't mind the company though.”

I smile and sigh at the same time. God, he's making it hard to remember why I'm supposed to not like him.

He chuckles like he reads all that by my sigh alone. “All right, I'll spare you more awkward silence and just ask. Do you think there's any chance Connor Jennings did the stuff to Kristen and Jackson?”

I swallow hard and close my eyes. “No, I don't.”

“I know he's your friend, but he's some sort of computer genius, right?”

“There are plenty of people slick enough to do it.”

“Maybe, but Connor's the kind of guy to stick up for people, right?”

Right. But totally wrong. “Connor didn't do it. I thought he did too, so I checked into it.”

He sighs. “I thought it was a solid idea. After his speech last year, he obviously isn't a fan of the popular kids.”

I tilt my head, surprised he understood the speech but more bothered by his assumption. “Why do you think it's about popularity?”

Except I have targeted popular kids, haven't I? I wasn't thinking of their social status when I picked them, though. I wait for him to answer, listening to the silence scream “Liar, liar, liar!” at me.

“C'mon, look at the people who have been taken down. Jackson? Kristen?”

I can't argue that they're unpopular, so I don't. “You think they didn't deserve it?”

“It's not about what they deserve. Humiliating people isn't going to fix anything. It's just going to cause more problems.”

“Why? Because your friends are getting what's coming to them?”

“No, because it's going to go bad. The police are trying to get Kristen's mom to press charges. Jackson's on the damn warpath. It's a mess.”

“Well, it's not your mess, right? I mean, you didn't do anything, so you should be fine.”

What am I doing? Why am I acting like this? Nick's been nothing but decent to me, but God, I can't see him apart from
them
. Jackson's laughter from the hallway trails back to me and I shudder.

I just wanted them to pay. For Stella. I thought that's what this was for, but now?

Nick sighs, bringing me back to the present. “Hey, I'm going to go. I'll see you at school, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I hang up the phone before he can say anything else—or maybe before I can make it worse than I already have.

My fingers shake on the cover of the notebook.
Malum
non
vide
. See no evil. Except I'm starting to see evil everywhere. Even where it might not exist.

• • •

I look around the chemistry lab, feeling uneasy. I caught Harrison's eye walking in and made a point to say hello and ask how he's feeling since he was absent the first two days this week. And Harrison? Didn't even flinch.

He briefly explained that he'd been on a college tour—the kid is incessantly touring colleges—and then excused himself to his seat.

If he is the texter, then he could win an Oscar for playing it cool. I've been staring at the back of his neck so hard it's a miracle it hasn't lit on fire, but he hasn't looked back at me. Not once. What gives? The pressure should be eating him alive to fess up.

I don't know what it means or what to think. But if Harrison isn't the guy, I'm pretty sure I'm screwed. Because I have no idea who else it could be.

The minutes tick by and Mrs. Branson strolls up and down the aisles, commenting on our measurements and stir speed. Ten minutes before the bell rings, I feel my phone buzz in my backpack. It's against the rules to check it during class, and usually it doesn't go off, because anyone who'd text me is probably
also
in class.

So, who is it? Mom? Dad? If it's them, something's wrong. Like one-of-them-is-in-the-emergency-room wrong.

Way
to
wax
theatrical, Woods.

I need to chill. No one's dead. It's only nine minutes until the end of class, and I don't need my phone confiscated for the rest of the day because I've decided to embrace my neurotic side. But I still reach for the loop of my bag with my toe and drag it closer.

This isn't smart. I can wait eight minutes to check a text message.

I think.

Screw it. I've never been big on patience.

Mrs. Branson turns her back and I reach forward, my whole body on high alert as I slowly unzip the side pouch. I have got to get myself together. I'm not sneaking into a Homeland Security database here, I'm checking my phone.

I snag the phone impatiently and cringe at how loud it is. Like opening candy in a quiet theater. In the next seat, Andrew Lane looks at me and then away, clearly not caring a bit.

Mrs. Branson also doesn't care. She's fairly preoccupied showing one of her super-smart-person magazines to Harrison. Of course.

I finally pull up the screen and deflate. It's from the texter. Which means it can't be from Harrison; my eyes have been on him like a second layer of skin.

I pull it up.

Be in the north parking lot in five minutes.

Five
minutes?
My head shoots up, panicked. The north parking lot is easily a five minute walk from here, even if I didn't have to stop by my locker for my camera. Plus, I got this text four minutes ago.

I shove my phone in my pocket and launch my hand into the air, not bothering to wait for her to call on me. “Mrs. Branson, may I please use the restroom?”

She looks up from her magazine—and her golden child—with a look of bewilderment. “Miss Woods, there are five minutes left in this period.”

“It's an emergency.”

At the table up front, Shay snickers, and I shoot her a withering look. Mrs. Branson dismisses me with a wave, telling me it's too close to period end to bother with a pass. Which basically means, she's too busy fawning over Harrison to get up and write me one.

Works for me. I'm way too late to wait. Once the classroom door clicks closed, I sprint down the hallway. I think of cartoon characters sliding around corners as I fly toward my locker, hoping against hope that no one in the office is watching the camera screens right now.

I'm panting hard when I get there, my fingers spinning right then left then right again. The lock opens and I yank my bag over my shoulder. Camera in hand, I run, not even bothering to lock up. They can have my textbooks if they want them that badly.

Because I can't miss Harrison's takedown. I didn't even expect there to be a—

Wait.

My feet slow to an awkward jog. I just left him in advanced chemistry. If this is about a takedown, what am I doing going to the courtyard when he's inside?

Unless this isn't a takedown for Harrison. Maybe they've turned the tables. Maybe this time I'm the target.

Heart hammering, I look around. It's so quiet I can hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. The murmur of teachers talking to their rooms.

Ignore
it.

I could just slide my phone back into my pocket and get back to class. It'd be easy.

But if I'm wrong…if I miss it because I'm afraid—no. No, I walked away from that scared girl the second I texted Jackson's name. I can't look back now.

I push open the door to the courtyard, which is neither a court nor a yard. Really it's a cluster of additional tables situated next to the teacher's lot and the baseball fields. Still, the sky is blue and cloudless, and I know pictures out here will be wonderful. Crisp and bright with that kind of supreme clarity that only direct sunlight can offer.

I'm not sure I'll be so excited if I wind up being the subject.

I stumble forward a few feet and spot something in the parking lot—a newer white sedan backed halfway out of its parking spot, almost like someone left it in neutral and it rolled out on its own. But that's not what happened. I'm pretty sure whoever spray-painted the back windshield and the lid of the trunk pushed it here.

I read the messages.

Cheating
Your
Way

Text
for
Answers!

Cheating? Need Help?

Dread settles in my stomach like a rock, but I follow my instinct and lift my camera. One, two, three pictures.

And then I freeze in horror as I realize something. Holy crap, there are security cameras on this patio.

I feel like I'm sinking in quicksand. Suffocating. I'm going to be caught.

I lean in to take a ridiculous picture of one of the empty tables, but I know this is stupid. It's too late to cover anything anymore. They'll see me out here. They'll put the pieces together. I've been at every one of these takedowns.
Documenting
them.

I turn, oh-so-casually, and there it is. One of the cameras. I can't be sure, but I think it's more focused on the baseball fields. This lot is for staff only, so it's probably not a place where they expect kids to be. I search the other corner, but that camera is definitely pointed at the tables behind me—the ones I just walked through to get here.

I'm in a dead spot. From the look of it, the whole lot might be a dead spot. Maybe. I might get away with this.