Shade Me (12 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY,
I made it a point to go to school, mostly because when you're on academic probation and you start skipping class, the school calls your house before your first-period chair is even cool.

I knew they had called my dad because when I woke up he had left a note on the bathroom counter for me in his uneven, all-capital-letters script:
WE NEED TO TALK
.

I rolled my eyes and wadded up the note, tossed it into the trash can. The last thing I had time for was to make my father feel like a legitimate dad with some schmucky talk about staying in school and trying my hardest and
blah, blah, blah
. He would lecture me for a few minutes, feel
guilty about it, try to make up by being my friend, and then disappear on another shoot.

Sometimes I wished my mom was around to yell at me about stuff. I would've taken the yelling over not having her at all.

I couldn't remember a lot about my mom. She had long, dark hair and prominent cheekbones, just like mine, and she was really pretty. She had a job, but if I ever went there with her, I couldn't remember it. Most of my memories of her were of warm days sitting outside, sipping sodas together while I showed off cartwheels or how high I could swing or whatever dopey little-kid thing I wanted to show off. She always laughed. Always indulged me. I literally could not remember a single time of ever being in trouble with my mom. But probably that was just because my brain chose to wipe out those memories after she died. Was murdered.

My mom never went to college—I knew that much for sure—but I was pretty sure she graduated high school, which would make her one up on me if I didn't get my act together. Sometimes I liked to pretend that she had synesthesia, too, and that was why she didn't go to college. Sometimes I liked to pretend that the colors I saw when emotions hit me out of nowhere were sent by her to help me make sense of them—an astral gift. But on some level I supposed I knew that wasn't true, because I'd always seen those colors, even before she was gone.

Had I ever told her about my colors? I couldn't remember. But I didn't think so.

I showered and dressed, trying not to think about what would happen if my path crossed Vee's today at school. Would she suspect I had stolen her laptop, or would she just assume she'd lost it? Part of me would have almost welcomed her questioning me, though.
He letting you pretend you're screwing for love?

I'd spent most of the night before combing Vee's Facebook page for information. Anything I could sink my teeth into. Anything that would make sense out of what had happened with Peyton. But all her page turned up were a lot of links to indie punk bands and some snarky articles that were supposed to be funny. Her private messages were pretty much wiped clean, and her friends only talked about getting wasted and missing Viral Fanfare.
When are you going to play again?
seemed to be the question everyone was asking. Vee's answer, across the board, was simply
idk . . . idk . . . idk
. Vee didn't have nearly as many friends as Peyton, and from what I could tell, hadn't really had any interaction with Peyton in weeks.

I'd gone to bed exhausted and confused, giving up.

But by morning I was refreshed, ready to try again. So Vee didn't like Facebook. Fine. I tried all the others—Twitter, Instagram, even the photo-sharing site Peyton had been using—but nothing. Finally, desperate, I pulled up her email
account. I needed a password. Great.

I sat back in my desk chair, trying to channel Vee's mind. I didn't know enough about her to know what she would choose as a password.

I tried “ViralFanfare” and got nothing.

I tried just “Viral” and just “Fanfare.” Nope, and nope.

Tapping my fingernails on my desk, I thought some more. I tried “punk,” “punkrocker,” and “punkgirl,” and was still locked out.

I was just about to give up, when out of desperation I typed in “BlackDaisy.”

To my surprise, the account opened.

It was full of junk. Spam. Notices from bands. Invitations to connect on various social media. Newsletters. The occasional assignment email from a teacher or another student. Nothing worth seeing.

I was just about to log out and give up completely when an email from Peyton caught my eye. The subject was “Big Break!!!!!” and it had been sent two months ago. I opened it, noting that the email had gone to Vee, Gibson, and someone else named SethMonster123.

You guys,

I did it. I got my shithead father to finally agree to call in some favors and get us in front of that guy I told you about. Guess maybe there's hope for the daddy from hell
after all. Don't tell him or he'll just go off on another one of his power trips and probably try to make us all wear matching uniforms or something. I'm still working on him about the lyrics, tho, I promise. He's so greedy—even the lyrics we wrote together have to have the Bill Hollis stamp of approval. He's gotten some lawyer on it, but I promise, Gib, I will make sure the guy adds your name to them. Even if I have to pay him myself.

So here's the deal. Leo is on a project until October, and then he can meet with us. Right now we're saying Clear Lake on the 23rd at two p.m. Work for you? It better, because this is our only shot. I would not expect the great and powerful Bill to do us any more favors. It's sort of a miracle he did this much for us. I mean, without the press watching, at least.

You guys, can you believe it? Getting in front of Leo is, like, impossible. It's your ticket out of Brentwood, Gib! And maybe I can finally tell Vanessa I don't need her. I can get my own acting job.

Oh, and btw, I have some new songs for us. I've run them by my father and he said they're right up Leo's alley. I'll bring them tomorrow.

P

I reread the email. The name Leo kept sticking out at me. After a minute of trying to place it, I went to the hamper
and pulled out the jeans I'd worn the day before, then rummaged through the back pocket for the business card I'd taken from Gibson's apartment.

“‘Leo Powers,'” I read aloud. “That's where I've heard of you before.”

I Googled Leo Powers, the search turning up what I'd already guessed. Leo Powers was a record producer, known for signing huge punk bands like Salt and Vinegar, Dead Man Bitches, and Ello. Leo Powers took grungy kids and turned them into stars.

I checked Vee's search history and found a website for Clear Lake, a recording studio on Burbank Boulevard.

What about the meeting?
one of the guys had asked at Gibson's apartment.
We go. We don't need her
, the other one had answered.

I reread the email for a third time. October 23. Today. If that was the meeting they were talking about, I wondered who would be there. All of Viral Fanfare except Peyton?

I had time, so I grabbed a cigarette, opened my window, and sat on the ledge. The morning air was never as satisfying as night air, even if it was as crisp and cool. But still, the cigarette helped calm my nerves and sharpen my focus.

I tried to imagine what Dru was doing at that moment. Was he awake, staring at a jail wall, or was he home, sleeping it off in his big mansion? Once again I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing. He was a Hollis—so many
miles out of my league I couldn't even see the dugout—and he'd just been arrested for attacking his own sister. Not to mention he put out a serious sketchy vibe half the time. But there was something between us that I couldn't ignore. A pull. I couldn't stay away.

Too soon, I was down to the filter, so I flicked my butt into the rocks and bushes below (those damned gardeners!) and lit a second one, checking the time. I would have to smoke fast if I was going to make it to first-period economics class. God, more numbers. Just what I fucking needed.

JONES WAS WAITING
for me. Only this time he was smart—waiting for me right outside my classroom door rather than by my locker. He'd apparently figured out that the locker was a high-visibility area and I could see him before he could see me. But the classroom was at the very end of a basement hallway, tucked into a little alcove. I couldn't see him until I was right on top of him. No chance of running away.

I groaned. His shoulders were hunched practically to his ears. I knew Jones well enough to know that he was pissed. My mind lit up with blinding red. What the hell was going on?

He pushed off from the wall as soon as he saw me and shifted so he was in my way.

“Not now, Jones, I'm going to be late.” I tried to edge
around him, but he moved with me. He smelled delicious, like sweat and soap and cloves. But even smelling delicious wasn't enough to make me want to talk to him.

“Dru Hollis?” he said, ducking to speak conspiratorially.

I bumped my shoulder into his and stepped back, irritated. “What about him?”

“You hooked up with him,” he said. Not a question; a statement.

My mouth dropped open of its own will. I was so shocked to hear him say it out loud, I didn't have time or the presence of mind to cover it. Still, I tried. “Who told you that?”

He gestured around the hallway. “Everyone is talking about the two of you. You've been hanging out with him. You dumped me for Hollis? He's so . . . skeevy,” he said, a look of disgust pinching his face. “I never would have taken you for someone to get all caught up in that kind of thing.”

“First, I didn't dump you for him,” I said. “His sister is in the hospital, and I'm helping him find out who did it. We didn't . . . hook up. You'll have to get your rocks off on some other little fantasy.” I bumped him harder and actually made it past him. “Second, not that it's any of your business at all even if we did.”

“That's the thing,” he said, talking at my back, but in a desperate catching-up way. “Some people are saying he's the one who did it. Somebody said he's already in jail for it. It's on the news.”

My gut twisted at those words. On some level, I knew Jones had a point, and I hated him for it. “Whatever. Since when do you sit around gossiping so much, Jones? It's a bad look for you.” I turned, looked him up and down with a sneer. “Very unmanly.”

He grabbed my arm to stop me. I shot his hand an impatient look. Two girls pushed past us into the classroom, their eyes big, their heads together as they whispered. Were they whispering about Jones holding on to my arm, or was the gossip all about Dru and Nikki hooking up over Peyton's hospital bed? I thought I could probably guess which it was.

“What do you want, Jones? Yes, we hooked up, okay? Will that finally make you get the hint?”

“Listen,” he said. “This may make me stupid, but I care about you, Nikki. I don't want you getting into something you can't handle. Dru Hollis is not good for you. He will hurt you.”

I twisted my fist upward against his thumb and wrenched my arm out of his hand. “And you're here to save me, is that it? News flash, Jones. I don't get hurt and I don't need saving,” I said through clenched teeth. “I can handle Dru Hollis and anyone else who comes my way. Including you. But thanks for the concern.”

Jones seemed to take in what I said slowly, almost as if he were only now fully digesting what I'd been telling him for weeks. It was over. Finished. Forever. I almost felt bad for
him as I saw his heart slowly break in front of me, almost as if it were shutting down piece by piece. He straightened, let his hands drop at his sides, and nodded.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” he said.

“I always know what I'm doing,” I answered, though an annoying lump had formed in the back of my throat, the slate of nerves—nagging that maybe, just maybe, I didn't know this time. I was stealing laptops and dangling from balconies, and living with all this bumpy black and gray all the time, and worst of all, sleeping with a guy I knew absolutely nothing about. Except the one thing I did know for sure about him—he was a suspect in the attempted murder of his own sister.

“A few weeks ago, I was at the Hollises',” Jones said, as I tried to make my way into the classroom. I stopped, curious. He looked eager, excited to have a reason to keep talking to me. Did Jones really care about Dru hurting me, or was this just more of the same—Jones trying to get me back? I guessed it was the latter, but if he had information, I was willing to play along to get it out of him, whatever his motives.

“You were at the mansion?”

He nodded. “Huge party. Dru bought the alcohol. Maybe the drugs, too, I don't know. There was plenty of Molly there. Some blond chick was selling it. Peyton was there, and she passed out pretty quickly, but first she kept saying all this weird shit.”

My ears perked up. “What kind of weird shit?”

He shook his head. “I don't remember exactly. I was pretty messed up. It was right after you and I . . .” He hung his head, took a breath, and started over. “Some shit about not being able to trust anyone.”

I took a step toward him, forgetting about class, ignoring that the bell had just rung and that Mr. Torres had closed the classroom door, which meant I was going to have to go back to the office and get a tardy slip if I wanted to be let in. “Did she mention names?”

“I don't think so. Before she could say too much, the blond chick with all the Molly was all over her, putting her arm around her, talking some shit about them both being groomed to be actresses and Peyton totally owning the part of an alcoholic soap opera diva. I laughed, but she didn't even smile. She looked completely serious.”

“Was it Luna?”

“Sophomore? Blonde? Eyes dead like a crocodile. Does that make sense?”

I thought of Luna (
half
sister), and while I'd never thought about it before, yes, his description fit. I nodded.

“Anyway, she passed out, and the girl and Dru hauled her off to some other part of the house, and then later I saw them arguing in the kitchen when they thought they were alone.”