Gone Too Far (19 page)

Is that why he looks different?

It'd be a nice lie to believe, but I know this isn't about some self-actualization for me. It's about the way he looked at Stella in that picture at Mrs. DuBois's house. He
loved
her. He loved her, and that tape, what she did with…whoever that was. It destroyed him.

It doesn't change anything for Stella.

But it changes everything for me.

“We could sneak you out the window,” I say.

Tate smiles. It's strained but real, and the look Nick gives me makes me feel like there's still something good left in me.

“Thanks,” Tate says, standing up. “But I'm being a douche, hiding out up here. I'll go be social. Or something.”

Nick nods. “If you change your mind—”

“Yeah.” Tate slaps Nick on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

He moves to walk past us, pausing to look at me. I think he's going to say something but he doesn't. He just nods. Maybe we've already said enough.

His bedroom door slams open without warning, banging into the wall hard enough to make us all jump. Jackson stands in the opening. He's obviously started drinking, and he's
way
too interested in the three of us standing in such close proximity.

“Looks like I interrupted,” he says with a leer.

My stomach wads up like a piece of trash.

“Jackson, I swear to God.” Nick's voice is as menacing as I've ever heard it.

“Relax, Nicky. I'll play nice.” Jackson waves his hands, but he's still blocking the door. My feet are itching to run.

Tate tries to shoulder past him, but Jackson bumps into him with a bark of a laugh.

Tate's jaw goes tight. “Move, man.”

Jackson pushes him back. “What's the rush? You've
got
to fill me in on all of this. You having a little birthday action?”

“Get out of my room, Jackson.”

“Make me.”

Nick's hands curl into fists and the air changes. For a second, we're all suspended in the tension. And then Jackson dials his smile up to filthy.

“No need to get pissy, Donovan. If you need a threesome to get you up—”

Nick's fist slams into Jackson's jaw once. Just once. It's so fast I don't have time to breathe. I didn't even see him move.

Drunk as he is, Jackson stumbles wildly in the open doorway. When he finds his feet, his face contorts like someone's hit a switch. “What's your problem, you little shit?”

I snag Nick's shirt, his arm. I pull him hard, but God he's strong.

Tate pushes Jackson toward the door. “You're the problem. Go home.”

Nick's struggling in my grasp. He won't turn around, but he's breathing so hard. Like he's about to come out of his own skin.

Jackson catches sight of Nick. Or maybe me. I don't know which of us really, but he launches forward. Tate holds him back. “What is
wrong
with you?”

“Me? What's wrong with me? You're the one who's still too hung up on Stell—”

Tate slams him into the door frame. “You don't talk about her!”

Tate and Jackson are inches apart and the music has cut off downstairs. Now all I can hear is Nick panting and my heart thundering behind my ears. I press myself into his back and he reaches an arm around me. I find his fingers. We're both shaking.

Jackson and Tate are still inches apart when footsteps arrive on the landing. I see three or four shadows in the hallway. Some guy asks what's happening. Another asks if everything's okay.

Not okay. Not even close.

But Jackson's face tames, his features smoothing back into something cool and detached. It looks like a mask to me. The blotchy boy with sharp teeth and feral eyes—that's the real Jackson now.

“Someone is pitting us against each other, Tate,” Jackson says, his tactics changed now that he has an audience. “And we all know who it is. Someone's attacking us and we're letting them do it.”

A flash of heat rushes through me. My hands go slick, my fingers slippery against Nick's. He holds me steady.

Jackson leans against the door frame. “First me, then Kristen. Hell, even that little smart kid Harrison got a taste of it. Now look at us!
Someone
started this. But I'm going to finish it.”

It's the kind of speech that should end a party, but it doesn't. The music turns back up and Jackson finds his way outside. Everyone moves on.

Nick and I slip out the back. After a quiet drive home, he lingers on my porch, his shoulders curved around me and forehead pressed against mine.

“I think I'm starting to hate him,” he says.

I don't need to ask who he's talking about.

“It's almost over,” I say, stroking his sides, trying to soothe him the way he always does me.

“Thank you for tonight.”

I laugh softly. “Uh, tonight kind of sucked.”

“Not what you did with Tate. That meant something.”

I bite my lip and step back far enough to let my eyes focus. “Nick, I need to tell you something about Tate. I sent his name too. Right after Jackson.”

He sighs, and I hate the disappointment in his eyes. But there's no shock. Deep down, he's probably not that surprised.

“But he was never…nothing ever happened to him,” Nick says.

I shrug. “My partner said no, that it needed to be bigger than Stella. So I picked Kristen.”

“Would you still pick him now?” he asks.

I think of the picture. The night he was so sick. The anguish in his eyes. No one could punish Tate more than he's already punishing himself. “No. No, I wouldn't.”

A shadow passes over Nick's face. He swallows hard. “Does it make me a terrible person that I'm glad it was Kristen instead?”

My laugh is weak. “I don't think you've got a terrible person in you.”

“I think we all do. If you scratch the surface.”

Manny sits down across from me with a tray full of deep-fried foulness that I can barely stand to look at. He opens his bottle of Mountain Dew, and it's like every lunch since eighth grade. He's still Manny, and he thinks I'm still Piper—his no-drama, no-secrets friend. I feel an ache in my middle, a hollow place where that girl used to live.

I have to tell him about what I found in his room. And about all the things I'm hiding too. The texts. And Tacey.

He clears his throat, waggling his brows at me. “So, if the Mr. Football rumors are true, can I get you to start wearing cheerleading skirts?”

I shove my yogurt away and ignore the comments. “Look, I think we should talk about Tacey. Have you seen her yet today?”

“Nope, but she'll show. Tacey's tough.”

I look down, folding under the weight of my worry for Tacey. “Tough or not, what happened to her is serious, Manny. She didn't deserve that.”

His jaw goes tight. “I didn't say she did. We all get crap we don't deserve, don't we?” I think of the bill under his mattress. The surgery they can't afford. And the list of names and services he's been selling.

Manny goes on before I can respond. “It'll blow over. Nobody's going to buy any of that heroin crap from the video. This isn't the same thing.”

I bristle, hating his glib attitude. “Her parents bought it. They have her in rehab.”

Something dark flickers across his features before he speaks. “For what?”

“They think she has a problem.”

“For having some peppy pills in her purse?” He seems to recognize his volume, or maybe he just catches the I-will-kill-you expression on my face, because he leans in before he whispers, “Rehab is a total overreaction.”

“Well, they're parents. They're freaking out. And it's going to hurt her here too.”

His brows knit together over his nose. “You don't think she'll get kicked off the yearbook do you?”

“No, she won't.” Tacey's voice comes from behind us.

We both look up, faces falling. I expect her to be pissed, but she's not. She's so calm it gives me the creeps. If there was any time in my life I would have thought maybe Tacey was on drugs, it would be right now.

“Hey, you,” I say, and I hate how high-pitched it comes out.

Yes, Piper. That creepy baby doll voice will set her right at ease
.

“How goes it?” Manny asks, sounding totally normal. Damn him.

“I've been better,” she says. She looks at her coffee cup hard, like she's not sure whether to set it down or take another drink.

“Chin up,” Manny says. “One tough week isn't going to take down the legendary Tacey Winters, is it?”

She gives him a tight smile but doesn't answer. I scoot over to give her room to sit down. “Tacey, I'm so sorry. And I really want to talk to you about…about everything.”

“No. No talking yet,” she says, waving her free hand. “I'm not ready and my empowerment-happy rehab counselor encouraged me to embrace that feeling. So pick another subject. This one is officially closed.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“I wanted to talk about Piper's sudden fixation with a football player,” Manny volunteers.

“Nick?” She flips her hair over her shoulder. She's starting to look a little like Tacey again when she smirks. “Ancient news. I've known for ages.”

Manny grins. “You really are a newshound, aren't you?”

“Well, I might not always be anchor material, but today I think the title applies. I have something seriously juicy—I'm not the only one in rehab. Kristen Green's mom is too. Booze, not meds.”

“Who doesn't have a booze problem?” Manny asks. His dad's been sober for twenty years. Anybody who's stepped into the Raines house has probably seen the plaque of the Serenity Prayer on the wall.

“Wait, friends, that's not the good part.” I can't see any good part to any of this, but Tacey leans in with hungry eyes. “Have either of you ever actually seen Kristen's mom? I mean, ever?”

“I wouldn't remember unless she had a nice rack,” Manny says.

“I saw her dad a few times,” I say. “Tall, balding guy. He seemed normal.”

“Well, that must be where she gets her normal from, because her mom is an express train to Alcoholic Whoreland.”

“What do you mean?” Manny asks. I wish he hadn't.

Tacey's grin curdles my stomach. “She's a
disaster
. Bleached hair, tanned like a good handbag—she was wearing tiger-striped stiletto heels with
pink
jeans. I'm not even exaggerating.” She sits back with a smirk. “Well? Not exactly Best Foot Forward material, right?”

“Fascinating,” Manny says. “I'm going to go get a cookie.”

Tacey throws up her hands. “I pop a few pills and the social media universe explodes. I uncover
this
, and I get
nada
?”

“What are you
hoping
to get?” I ask, unable to mask the disgust in my voice.

But I don't really have a right to be disgusted, do I? I probably looked just like this when I took pictures of Jackson. Smug and self-satisfied—so
thrilled
to see the golden boy go down.

I really don't want to be this person.

Out of nowhere, Jackson appears. I only half suppress my jumpy reaction, my knees knocking hard into the table while he looks down on us. I force a neutral expression onto my face, but adrenaline pours through me like liquid fire.

He found me out. It's over.

Jackson meets my eyes and…nods. I blink a few times, sure it's still coming. Except he isn't even looking at me. He's turned toward Tacey.

“Jackson,” she says, pulling up the end of his name like a question. Warranted, since there are lots of questions that need asking. Like, why are you at our table? And what on earth could you possibly want from Tacey?

“I heard about what happened to you,” he says.

“You and everybody else.”

“No need to be nasty,” he says.

“No need for you to walk down here to state the obvious. What do you want?”

“I wanted to tell you that I think you were set up. I thought a newsgirl like you would have figured that out by now though.”

Tacey gives him a look. “I did take the pills, Jackson. It's not exactly a conspiracy.”

“Yeah, but who would care enough to air your dirty laundry? No one, that's who. But someone did, didn't they? Just like someone made that tape of me. And someone dropped clothes all over Kristen—”

Tacey waves her fingers, looking bored. “Yeah, not interested.”

Jackson tenses, the tips of his fingers going white on the table. “You should be, Lois Lane. It's your rep—”

“She said she's not interested,” I say, knowing it's stupid. So stupid. I'm the last person on earth that should be looking for Jackson's attention.

He pivots to face me, his black eyes boring into mine. A gold chain dangles from his neck, the crucifix on it swinging six inches from my nose.

“Let's get this straight right now, Woods. Just because my boy Nicky wants to—”

“Piper, there you are!”

We all turn around to see Aimee wearing a white sweater and a fake smile. She reaches out her hand and gives me a chastising look. “I knew you'd lose track of time. So, you are coming, right?”

I'm not sure my voice won't fail me. But when she grabs my hand, I don't hesitate to get up. I'd probably let the devil himself drag me away from this table.

• • •

In the quiet of the bathroom, Aimee puts on lip gloss and I pretend to care about my hair. Mostly we wait for the girls to clear out. And when they do, she turns to look at me, her back pressed against the sink.

“I think you should be careful around Jackson,” she says softly.

She's right. Even the sound of his name raises the hair on the back of my neck. But I'm just so
done
with him. “He loves this, you know. People being afraid of him.”

“I don't think you understand. Jackson's just…” Aimee trails off, shrugging her shoulders as if that explains it. “He's Jackson. He's used to getting his way. He can't handle it when he doesn't. Do you get what I mean?”

“That maybe I should play nice?”

“No, I don't want you to play nice. I'm hoping you won't play at all. I'm hoping you'll stay as far away from him as possible.”

She looks at me like she's waiting for me to get it. But I
don't
get it. Because she can't think I actually want him. Unless…could she actually want him herself?

Nauseating thought. But I force the scowl off my face and try hard to soften my shoulders. “I'm not interested in Jackson, Aimee. Like,
at
all
.”

“I know that. But it doesn't mean Jackson's not interested in you.”

My laugh is short and loud. “No. Definitely no. I couldn't be farther from his type.”

She pops one hand on her hip, squaring her shoulders. “See, that's where you're wrong. You're
exactly
his type.”

“Uh, how? I'm not busty or popular or prone to wearing dresses on weekdays.”

“Maybe not. But you're a girl who
isn't
interested. One who also happens to be dating one of his friends.”

Her eyes narrow, and it's only then that I realize it isn't jealousy spurning this. Or even fear. It's anger.

She knew about Tate and Stella. More importantly, she knew about Jackson and Stella. Aimee knows details on the things that are still fuzzy and dark in my mind.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to play dumb. “Has he done that kind of thing before?”

“I'm not going to give any details. I'm not trying to gossip.”

“I know. I know that.”

“But you have to understand that Jackson likes a challenge. And he likes to get what he wants, so if he wants something from you… Let's just say he doesn't handle the word
no
very well.”

My stomach clenches, and her eyes glitter. The things she won't say take shape between us. No specifics really—no names or faces. But there's a dark stain that feels like violence. And Jackson.

I take a step forward, but I am so bad at this. Just absolutely bad at it.

“Did Jackson ever—”

She glances at the door, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “Not me. Don't worry about me. Just watch your back.”

Manny's waiting for me outside the bathroom. “Hey, what the hell was up with Jackson? Why was he over with you guys?”

“Being his typical repulsive self. What did I miss while I was in here?”

“Mostly Tacey frothing at the mouth. She's threatened me with bodily harm if I don't take some good shots at the basketball game this Friday.”

“Do you want me to come with?” I ask.

“Nah, it's cool. I'll do it. I'm just tired of Tacey's stress being everybody else's problem.”

“Maybe we could grab dinner tonight.”

He looks down. “I've actually got a couple of things to do.”

Like
records
to
clean
up?

I narrow my eyes. He's dodging me. It's not good, because I know what he's hiding from me now. But I'm hiding things too. There are things we need to talk about. Vigilante things. And injured dad things.

“Will you get mad if I mention that you seem a little reluctant to look at me right now?”

He grins. “Should I gaze deeply into your eyes like Nick?”

“Manny, I know about your dad.” I look at the ground, feeling my face flame. “I know about the surgery. And I know what you're doing to make money.”

“How?”

The lie is sitting on my lips, sweet as honey. But I can't. Not anymore. “The other night when I came over. The papers in your mattress.” I cringe and shake my head. “I looked at them. I could have put them back.”

“No, you
did
put them back. But not until you took a good peek, right?”

I flinch. His voice is cold. So cold. “I shouldn't have looked.”

“Is that what you're here for? Is that what you've been wanting to talk about? You want to judge me because you saw my little side business is still up and running?”

“No, no that's not it.”

“That's sure what it looks like, Pi. You want to know why I'm selling grades and fixing tardies? You really want to know?”

“I thought… the surgery for your dad.”

“You thought you had it all figured out, right? Did you figure out that he'll lose his job if he doesn't get that surgery?
Early
retirement
is what they're calling it. This isn't about a couple thousand dollars. It's about us surviving, period.”

I feel punched. Breathless.

“Manny.” His name breaks on my lips. I want to fix it. I want to tell him everything else, but I can't. The rest of it feels small and stupid. If his dad loses his job…“I want to help. Let me do something.”

“You can start by trusting me to handle my own life.”

“Trusting you won't fix this.”

“Trust fixes lots of things, Pi. I don't count on this world for anything anymore,” Manny says. “I can't afford to. But I've always trusted you. For once, I'm asking for your trust.”

I can't find anything to say, so Manny leaves. I just stand there, watching him walk away, feeling like I'm knee-deep in quicksand.

The warning bell rings and my phone buzzes with a message that I know after a glance I don't want to open. It's from him. There's an image attached.

9 tonight. Or I Send This.

The photograph loads. And my heart dissolves.