Gone Too Far (9 page)

“Just own it,” a girl in the left section says. “You got busted.”

“Finally,” someone else adds.

I force myself to take another picture of the principal returning to Kristen, obviously unsuccessful in catching anyone. He pries the microphone from Kristen's hand and wraps a comforting arm around her shoulders. They start heading off the stage, and Kristen trips on a shirt, almost going down. When she looks up, I snap one last shot of her red-rimmed eyes and glistening cheeks.

This one doesn't feel quite as good.

• • •

I volunteer to help with assembly cleanup after school. As much as I'd like to pretend this is only an act of kindness, some guilty twinge in my gut tells me I have other, more selfish reasons. My partner was here and I'm hoping he left something behind.

Before today, it barely felt like a real person, but there's something about that dark figure slipping down the stage ladder. The memory of it is crisp like a picture, but still tells me nothing.

I wasn't close enough to make a good guess on height, and it was too dark to see much else. Which is frustrating. I need to know something about this guy. I saw a police officer in the administration office today, and it turned my bones rubbery.

Breaking into school security tapes is one thing, but if the chatter in the hallways is right, this time, my partner broke into Kristen's house. It's just clothes—clothes she didn't even buy—but it still feels bigger now. Scarier.

Maybe
it's time to take a step back.

But I walked away from Stella and she died. I can't do that again. Not ever.

Of course the book is another option. I could turn it in. But what would happen? I mean
really
? Unsettling as it is, it's nothing but code names and a whole lot of hearsay. If the school got their hands on it, we'd end up with a Very Special Assembly, where we talk about feelings and fairness and breaking down the boundaries between social and cultural groups. And we'd file straight out of that assembly and right into the same old routines.

Nothing would change. That book is not enough to fix anything.

But what happened today with Kristen?

Maybe it can.

I push the doors open to the auditorium. There's only one thing I'm sure of: I need to know who's texting me. I know what this is about for me, but not for them. And I need to understand that. That's what great photographers do. Good photographers look. Great ones
see
.

A medley of voices drifts down from the top of the steps. I stop short on the stairs, frowning at the girly chatter. I climb until three pairs of feet come into view. Freshmen, I think. All of them sporting pairs of nearly identical overpriced boots.

“Poor Kristen,” Gray Boots says.

“I
know
.” This from Taupe Boots.

“She was crying in the bathroom.” Brown Boots is tapping her right foot.

“That's terrible! So what if she lifted stuff? Maybe she has that one disorder,” Taupe says.

“Kleptomania?”

“Exactly!”

“I stole a pack of gum once from Walgreens.”

“I bought study flashcards from Charlie Devin last week. That's kind of the same.”

“No, it's not. Everybody does that. Tate Donovan pays that smart kid to write his history papers.”

My spine stiffens. Tate's paying for papers? Huh. Wouldn't have guessed that.

Brown rises up on her toes. “Omigod, Tate is so beautiful. I'd pay
him
so I could write his papers.”

“God, Cara, dream on. He's elite.”

“Hey, I won't be fifteen forever.”

“But he'll always be Tate Donovan.”

Someone sighs. “I'm still jealous that Harrison gets to write his papers.”

They laugh and I choke on air, the floor tilting sideways beneath me.

Harrison?
Harrison is writing Tate's papers.

The text message flashes through my memory.
Tate's too obvious.
I didn't think about it, but I should have. If Jackson should pay, so should Tate. Unless someone had a reason to keep Tate safe.

Like a monetary reason.

Other facts shuffle through me, fast and terrible. The black pens Harrison loves. The look he gave me in the hall the morning I took Jackson down. It all fits.

It could be Harrison's book, Harrison who's texting me.

The door bangs open behind me. I jump, hand at my throat.

“Nick?”

“You here to clean up too?”

His smile feels like a setup and my mouth is too dry for words, so I nod. And stare.

He's the last person I expected to find here. But the look in his eyes tells me he was
definitely
expecting me.

I follow him up the stairs. He
knows
something. Did he see me with the book in the parking lot? Or did he put it together after he saw me taking pictures of Jackson?

Okay, stop.
He doesn't know anything. He doesn't even know there's something
to
know. Unlike me, he's probably just here to help. That's what good guys do, and Nick is obviously a good guy.

Boots Gray, Brown, and Taupe sure seem to think so at least.

The girls titter as he repeats their names. Nick's nodding his head while they wax on
ad
nauseam
about their very detailed plan for clearing the rows of trash. Obviously an excuse to stare at him like he just stepped off a Hollister bag. And…well,
yeah
. But it's annoying.

“Well, if you ladies have it covered, we'll get to work on the mess up there,” Nick says.

With the girls in agreement, Nick strolls back down the center aisle toward the front row. He plants a palm on the stage and swings his long legs up. I head for the stairs with sweat blooming between my shoulder blades.

I don't like this. He's picking up a random shirt, frowning at a pair of jeans with
LIFTED
written down one thigh. The disappointment in his face stings me, which is stupid. Kristen is neither a saint nor a victim; she's a criminal. Since she didn't end up in jail for stealing all the crap on this stage, she got off pretty easy.

I grab a sweater with
FILCHED
across the front. The handwriting isn't familiar. All block letters, different than the writing in the book but still decent penmanship. Could be the same person. And man…they really pulled off something today.

These clothes are definitely Kristen's. Even the stuff I haven't seen her wear looks like her style. I trace my fingers over a smooth cotton shirt, wishing away the questions in my head. Like, how did Harrison get these? Could he really do this?

But I don't know that it's Harrison. Not for sure. He's just one person who has a reason to steer me away from targeting Tate.

Nick
would
have
a
good
reason
too.

I spot him out of the corner of my eye. Why is he here? Is
he
involved? Is Tate?

That doesn't feel right. I can't imagine either of them doodling in a diary or hiding behind texts. Guys like that would probably opt for the take-them-outside-and-pummel-them flavor of vengeance. But then, could anyone see me doing any of this? Probably not.

I should at least feel him out.

“I'm a little surprised the police didn't take this stuff. It's evidence of a crime, right?” I glance around the stage for effect.

No flinching or sudden tension. If he's behind this, he's playing it cool, that's for sure.

“Kristen's too embarrassed to file a police report,” he says.

I decide to try a different angle. “Well, maybe she's nervous because she stole most of these clothes to begin with.”

I can't help saying it. This whole school has danced around the truth since she started palming extra fruit snacks in the lunch line in fourth grade. Kristen's a thief. No question.

Nick frowns. “Maybe.”

Okay, he's not in on it. No freaking way. He doesn't even see the truth about Kristen. Probably doesn't see the truth about any of his friends.

I scoff. “I know Kristen's in your crowd—”

“What does that even mean? You talk about that a lot—our lunch table, our crowd. We don't have a membership list, you know.”

“You don't need one,” I say. “It's crystal clear who's with you and who's not.”

I turn away, my neck and cheeks flaming. I don't want to talk about this with him. He doesn't feel like one of them anymore. Nick's never personally done a thing to me. Which makes me feel like a jerk. “I'm sorry. I missed my daily dose of manners this morning.”

He doesn't quite smile, but I can see the promise of it in his eyes. “Are you always this hostile around fellow volunteers?”

That makes me laugh. “No, really not. Believe it or not, I thought about joining the Peace Corps.”

Nick's smile could power small cities. I'm almost grateful when he turns away, heading for the rafters. I follow behind, trying to bite back my own grin.

“I'll go get the sign down,” he says, pointing up at the catwalk that spans the stage.

“I could get it,” I say, because I want to poke around up there. See if I can find any Harrison-shaped evidence. “I could probably finish this up if you want to go.”

“You that eager to get rid of me?” he asks.

“No.”

“Because you seem nervous.”

I am. And it's not just because he's a tasty boy with a killer grin. Every time I see him, I think of Stella. And I'm pretty sure he does too.

I meet his eyes dead-on. “Yeah. Well, the timing of your sudden attention still seems…convenient.”

“For such a talented photographer, you're good at missing the big picture.”

No, I'm not. I know an interested boy when I see one, but why me? And more importantly—why
now
? It's too easy. He's suddenly hot for a girl about twelve rungs down the social ladder? I'd be crazy not to think there's reason he's here with me. But Tacey's right. I have to stop holding grudges.

I bring my hands to my burning cheeks and then drop them with a sigh. “I know I'm being weird. I'm sorry. This is hard for me to wrap my head around.”

Nick reaches for my hand. “Come up with me to get the sign. Maybe we'll figure out a way to make it easier.”

My stomach ties itself into a bow. I look down from his teasing smile to his long fingers. This is a terrible idea. Nick reaching for my hand is a joke, and I'm probably the punch line.

But I let him do it, because it's just a hand. It doesn't change anything. His fingers wrap around mine and my breath catches. Our eyes meet a beat too long.

I was wrong.
So
wrong. This changes everything.

• • •

I try not to fixate on the feel of his palm or the strength of his grip, but I can't help it. It's like my entire brain has been transported into my hand. I probably couldn't tell anyone how to make toast right now, but holding Nick's hand? I could write a book about that.

I huff, frustrated with myself. I'm not here to let Mr. Football lead me across the stage. So why am I still holding on?

We stop in the shadowy space behind the curtain. This isn't the second grade, and I am perfectly capable of scaling the ladder myself. I tug my hand free.

“Do you want to go up first?” he asks.

What's worse? Him staring at my butt all the way up or me looking at his? God, this is ridiculous. I am not this girl.
Please
don't let me be this girl.

I don't even bother to respond. I just start climbing. It's steeper than I would have guessed, but the platform at the top feels sturdy enough. I hold on to the railing all the same, looking out at the narrow metal catwalk that spans the length of the stage. I can see a box at the platform on the other side, the side closer to the podium.

“He must have kept everything close to the podium and then escaped down this side,” I say. “The clothes fell over there.”

“Gutsy,” Nick says. He's still a few rungs down. Giving me enough space to breathe.

I glance at the box and think back to the way my partner slipped down the stairs. He planned this carefully. He knew exactly how to escape. Sounds like Harrison's style if he were going to do something like this. He probably has a to-do list for his morning shower.

I take a few steps onto the walkway, trying to repeat my partner's route in reverse. Nick follows behind me, the weight of his steps shuddering gently through the metal bridge. I dare a glance down and immediately wish I hadn't.

“Damn,” he mutters softly.

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

“Okay, let's do this.”

My fingers tighten involuntarily on the railing. I'm not exactly afraid of heights, but I'm not comfortable enough to go sashaying across this catwalk either. This feels like a tightrope. A metal tightrope with rails, but still.

“I can get it if you want,” he says. “Do you want to just go back down?”

Yes.

“No. I'm already up here. It's fine.”

And then there's nothing left to do but walk. I keep one hand on either rail and command my fingers to release their death grip enough to slide with each step. I inch along so slowly it's like pulling teeth. Ten steps out from the platform, the catwalk shudders. Just a little. Totally normal, I'm sure. Still, it takes everything in me to keep moving.

Metal groans and I freeze. A wave of vertigo rushes over me and I strangle the railing, eyes shut tight.

“Whoever was up here was little,” Nick says.

I'm almost too breathless to reply. “What?”

“Somebody my size would have made noise. Especially if they had to move fast. It couldn't have been anyone big.”

Harrison's small. It's not proof, but it's a whole lot of pieces pointing to the same puzzle. My mouth turns to sand. I'm pretty sure it's him. It still wouldn't hurt to get some proof, though. I focus on the box on the platform, willing some evidence to be in there.

“My offer still stands if you want to go back,” Nick says.

I don't want to look like a complete wimp here. “It's not that far.”

“No, it's not bad,” he says, and damn him, he sounds like he means it. It's probably easy to mean it when you aren't in the lead.

“Then let's get moving. That way we can die together.”

He chuckles and I feel the walkway shift with his even, heavy steps. Maybe I should have thought this through. Can two of us even be out here, or will it collapse?

Do
not
think
collapse. Do. Not. Think. Collapse.

Every jostle makes me jump a little, but I force myself onward. Nick stays close behind me now, not commenting on my snaillike pace. Which tells me he's either supremely polite or he values his life, because I'm so tense, I might kill him if he tried to rush me.

Halfway across, he speaks again. “Should we talk about something?”

My jaw hurts and my palms are so clammy I'm probably leaving sweat tracks on the handrails. “As long as it doesn't involve fall-related injuries.”

Another laugh. Soft and low. All boy. “No. I thought you might want to talk about why I'm always around.”

Talking about that scares me more than falling. I speed up, not seeing the floor below anymore. All that matters is the distance between us. Because I don't trust this.

Soon enough, I step onto the platform, where I can see a box full of extra ropes and a plastic tub of what looks like feathers. Theater department stuff, not vigilante stuff. I search around. Nothing useful.

“Your silence speaks volumes.” Nick's teasing tone doesn't hide his disappointment.

“I doubt my silence is saying what you think.”

“Yeah?” He sounds hopeful.

I like Nick. Which is why this…isn't a good idea. I can't let him think anything even close to what he's thinking right now. Because as much as I like him, I can't imagine crossing that line. Holding hands with Nick. Sitting with other football fangirls watching the games.

I sigh and he taps his knuckles against the handrail of the catwalk. “Piper, you don't have to talk to me. If you're not into this, it's cool.”

I laugh. “Nick, there isn't a
this
. We've barely ever talked and now you're suddenly, what? Interested in me?”

“Why do you think that's so crazy?”

“It's not.” I don't know why my skin goes so tight and hot every time he talks about this. But he's not like other guys. There's no beating around the bush. No coy flirting. It's all out there in the open. “I can tell you're interested. But I can't help but think it's…situational.”

“Big word. You mean the Stella thing.”

“Yeah. I think maybe that started this. Maybe you think it connects us.”

“It does connect us.” He steps onto the platform then, disarming me with his closeness as much as his words. “We both think about that day. We both probably wish it had gone differently, that it hadn't happened at all.”

He reaches down, messing with ropes at our feet while I stand there, unable to reply—equally unable to stop watching his shoulders bunch and flex as he works.

The
Five-Finger Discount Club
sign slips free and flutters down to the stage below. Nick is watching me again. There's nowhere to go to gain personal space. It's like standing in a broom closet with…well, with a football player.

Something in me snaps. I think it was the thing holding my words inside. “Yes, I wish I'd said something. I could have.”

“Maybe you could have, but I
should
have.” His voice is hard, catching me off guard, but he goes on, not waiting for a response. “You weren't even involved—you barely knew Stella. But I'm friends with everyone who was out there. I could have stopped it, but I didn't because I was staring at you.”

The breath I take catches in my lungs, refusing to come out. I feel my cheeks go crimson. Breathe. I need to breathe.

Nick moves for the ladder, and I remember how my lungs work. I pull air in and push it out. In and out.

He stops, ready to descend but still so close. “Just so we're clear, Piper, I'm not suddenly interested. I've
been
interested. The only difference now is that you're noticing.”

I force my hands into fists and Nick descends in silence. I let him go, because there is nothing to say. There's nowhere to go.