Truth (5 page)

“I'd heard that.” I am noncommittal. I am completely calm. Deep breath. Maybe taking up yoga would be a good idea.

“The interesting thing is this,” Dad continues. “He seems to think that a lot of people know exactly what went on that night. He thinks there's a good chance the entire high school knows who murdered Ted Granville.”

“That's an exaggeration,” I say.

Dad looks up from a fallen leaf he's been shredding. “Do you know?” he asks.

“I never saw it.” I shrug. “I was downstairs.”

“I believe you didn't see it happen,” Dad says. “But this is a small town. It's hard to keep secrets, especially when you're seventeen.”

“If someone saw it, they would never tell the cops. They'd probably end up like Ted Granville by the next day.”

“I'm sure the police would protect anyone with information,” Dad says confidently.

“Whatever. What about that woman on the news last year who had a restraining order against her husband? He broke into her house and killed her.”

Dad looks at me like I'm being unreasonable. “If you know something, you need to tell me.”

These are the thoughts that go through my head, in fast-forward:

Ross's boots.

Ross leaning over me in the hallway.

Jerome's silence.

Jerome's “I had a really shitty day.”

Jerome's “What if your dad killed someone? What if he asked you to lie?”

“No,” I tell my dad, making myself look right in his eyes, “I don't know who it was. I'm sure someone at school knows, but most people would rather not.”

Georgia seems to have forgiven me for not explaining my breakup. She was a bit distant at lunch yesterday, but today she's back to normal. I guess she's decided that I'll tell her eventually.

We're talking in the hallway when Scott finds us. He nods at Georgia, then leans in close to me. “I have a new story angle. Can you meet me at lunch? Maybe 12:30 in the media lab?”

I nod, and the bell rings for homeroom.

As the grade nine student-of-the-week reads the announcements over the P.A., Mr. Arthur hands a note to Georgia and one to me. It seems we both have appointments with the school counselor tomorrow. I roll my eyes while Georgia pretends she's going to puke.

I'm in the lab at 12:30 on the dot, waiting for Scott. I'm still there at 12:40, 12:50 and 1:00, when the bell rings. I don't see him in the halls all afternoon, but that's not unusual. I assume he forgot about our meeting. I do see Ian between classes, sporting a puffy black eye, but I don't have time to ask him about it.

My dad is waiting in the parking lot after school again.

“Is this a new trend?” I joke.

“Scott Rich is in the hospital.”

“What?” I throw my bag in the backseat and jump in. “What are you talking about? I saw him this morning!”

“Well he obviously met with trouble
since then. He was assaulted. I was doing rounds at the hospital and happened to hear. Thought you might want to go up.”

Dad parks near the entrance. As soon as we push through the double doors, that hospital smell of disinfectant and pee and paint hits me. I hate hospitals. The only time I ever stayed in one was to have my tonsils out in grade nine. I haven't been able to eat Jell-O since. The girl in the bed next to me kept throwing up. They closed the curtains around her, but I could still hear her. Ugh.

Dad checks with the nurse before we go in. She says Scott will be fine. He's got a broken wrist and a concussion, but nothing that won't heal.

“Don't stay long,” she warns. “He needs his rest.”

Dad walks me to the door of Scott's room, then wanders off to wait in the lounge.

As soon as I step in, I want to turn around and leave. Both of Scott's eyes are black. One eyebrow's sliced open and his bottom lip is swollen. His arm's in a cast.

“Hey,” he says. It comes out like the voice of a bad ventriloquist, through lips that barely move.

“I just heard, and I came right up. How bad does it hurt?”

“I'm pretty doped up.”

I perch on the edge of the bed so he doesn't have to talk loudly. “If you wanted bigger lips, you could have tried a collagen injection.”

He starts to smile, but he winces.

“What happened?”

“It's nothing. Disgruntled ex-boyfriend of a girl I'm seeing.”

“A girl you're seeing? I thought you were madly in love with me.” I'm only teasing, but Scott
is
pretty hot in an intellectual sort of way.

Scott doesn't smile at my joke, so I change tactics. “Is that what you told the cops? That an angry ex beat you up?”

He nods. I can tell even that hurts.

“Liar. You said you were working a new story angle.”

He doesn't say anything.

“Did Ross do this? Jerome? Nate?”

“Jen, don't get involved.”

“This isn't just your story. I'm already involved.”

He closes his eyes for a minute. “It's my own fault. I wasn't careful.”

“It was not your fault.”

“You know, after he hit me, when I thought I was going to pass out, he leaned down and whispered, ‘Silence is the best policy.' It was creepy.”

“Who whispered, Scott?”

“Guess,” he says.

We sit quietly for a few minutes, but he grabs my hand when I move off the bed to go. “Jen?”

“Yeah?” I can tell he's trying to decide something. Scott's the kind of old-fashioned guy who will put his arm in front of you at crosswalks until he's sure it's safe to cross. Finally, he decides to risk it.

“There's something I left in the lab,” he says.

My dad raises his bushy eyebrows at me when I find him in the lounge.

“Jealous ex-boyfriend of a girl he's seeing,” I tell him.

“He can press charges for that,” Dad says.

“He knows.”

These are the things in my locker when I arrive at school on Thursday morning: seven binders; one apple, slightly bruised; emergency bag containing a brush, gum, two tampons, and a bottle of aspirin; one embarrassing picture of a male model's body with Jerome's head pasted on top (Georgia taped it up and I've never torn it down); a few copies of the latest
Fair Game
shows. Lying on top
of the videos is a folded piece of red paper. Someone must have stuffed it through the vents at the top of the locker.

In thick black pen it says, “Silence is the best policy.”

I drop it. Then I snatch it up again like it might contaminate my locker.

Okay. Think like a journalist, I tell myself. I take off my backpack and rummage around for the cookies I put in this morning. Dumping them out of their plastic bag, I shake out the crumbs and put the note inside.

With the note safely stowed, I stand up. Georgia has appeared at the locker beside me and she's holding a red note in front of her with two fingers, as if it's anthrax-infected.

“Put that away,” I hiss.

“What does it mean?”

“Come here.” I pull her into homeroom, which is still deserted. I shut the door and we perch on top of the desks, facing each other.

“Georgia, you can't breathe a word of
this to anyone. Not even Nate. Not anyone. Understand?”

She nods solemnly.

“You won't mention it to anyone at lunch? Even if other people have notes?”

“I couldn't even if I wanted to. Counselor's appointment. Mine's noon and yours is 12:30, remember?”

Damn. I hadn't remembered.

Quickly, I fill her in on everything that's happened — Scott's beating, Ross's little talk with me in the hallway, my breakup with Jerome. It feels good to spill my guts to someone. Georgia doesn't seem that surprised by my information.

“I have a secret to tell you, too,” she says.

“Really?”

“Remember that guy, Rocky, who was beaten up last year?”

I nod. Rocky is a couple of years older than us, but he still hangs out at a lot of the teenage parties. Last year he got beaten up so badly he was in the hospital for a week. Everyone wanted him to press charges, but he
would never tell anyone who attacked him. He said it was a misunderstanding — no big deal.

“That was Ross,” Georgia says.

“How do you know?”

“Nate told me. He says Ross can't handle the steroids he's taking. He's got a bad temper to begin with, and now when someone pisses him off, things get out of control.”

“Disgusting. Why would anyone take those things?”

Georgia shrugs. “To get bigger, I guess.”

“Is Nate on them?”

She shrugs again.

I suddenly remember one more thing I haven't told Georgia — Officer McBride's information about the boot prints. Her eyebrows go up when she hears.

“You think that might be a print from Ross's boots?”

I nod.

“And you think either Nate or Jerome is involved?”

I have time for another quick nod, but
that's the end of our conversation — the bell rings, the classroom door bangs open and everyone begins filing into homeroom.

I have a long, dull morning of geography and math. English gets a little more interesting. Someone does a class presentation on the
Macbeth
witches, all about how their predictions were full of tricks and double meanings.

And even more interesting, I find out from Georgia afterwards that everyone who was at Ian's party has a counselor's appointment.

“Why now?” I whisper. “Why not last week?”

She rolls her eyes. “Maybe because Mrs. Bing didn't want to deal with real problems?”

Mrs. Bing has been the high school counselor since the age of dinosaurs. The only time I ever see her is at assemblies. She usually drones on about some school problem she's suddenly become aware of — drinking, for example. Last year there was an uproar when a grade nine girl fainted in class. Mrs.
Bing, convinced this was a case of anorexia, started stuffing soda crackers in her mouth. The poor girl was lucky she didn't choke. She turned out to be hypoglycemic.

When I get to my 12:30 appointment, I'm already unhappy at having to skip the second half of today's
Fair Game
meeting.

The counselor's office has no desk. There are four of the big principal's office-style chairs around a low table. It looks ideal for a parent-teacher meeting.

Mrs. Bing is cutting out letters for some sort of bulletin board display. She's got grey hair set in curls tight to her head, and her bifocals are pushed down on her nose. She motions me to sit.

“I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to meet me, Jen.”

“I figured it was the murder.”

She puts down her scissors and looks at me as if deciding whether I'm going to be difficult or not.

I don't give her time to decide. “If you're so concerned, why didn't you call us in here right
after it happened? It's been two weeks.”

Mrs. Bing leans forward. “I'll be honest with you, Jen.”

That irritates me more. I hate it when people use my name in every sentence, like that's going to make us best friends.

“The thing is, Jen,” she's saying, “the police have asked the school to become more actively involved in this situation. First, they believe there were student witnesses to the murder, and they would like to speak with them. Second, they suspect there might be some bullying going on, and none of us want that, Jen.”

“No, Mrs. Bing. None of us want that.” I think of the note someone left in my locker and for a split second I consider showing it to her. Then I remember what a spaz Mrs. Bing is. Within minutes she'll have word of “bullying” all over the school. She'll be yapping about how well she's dealing with it, and somehow everyone will know that
I
turned in the note.

“Then let's continue …” Mrs. Bing
moves on to questions about the party, the other kids at the party, where I went afterwards. It's really just a slow-motion repeat of the police interview, with more emphasis on the touchy-feely, how-are-you-coping aspects.

At the end, I haven't told her anything new. When I leave, she seems a bit defeated. I could tell her right now that the rest of these meetings will be a waste of time.

With all of this delving (on Mrs. Bing's part) and ducking (on mine), I don't have time alone in the lab at lunch. It's not until the end of the day that I make my way there. Someone's been editing film, and the lights are off. The room glows faintly from the thin slices of light that flow through the closed blinds.

On the far side, past the counter with its editing equipment and computer monitors, there's a four-drawer filing cabinet. The top drawer has Scott's name on it. The tape I'm looking for is right on top, resting on last week's notes.

I look around the room. Everyone on the news staff had an introduction to the equipment at the beginning of the year, but I haven't edited anything since — I concentrate on the interviews and let other people do the technical work. Luckily, I find a VCR that plays normally to one of the monitors. Hoping I'm not accidentally erasing anything, I press play — and get last week's basketball game. Stop. Rewind. Try again.

“Let this be it. Let this be it,” I whisper to myself as I press play again. It is.

At first the shot's a bit out of focus, but the camera adjusts. It's a great scene, with just the right amount of shadow around the three figures and just the right amount of white in the cinder blocks behind them. Part of the corner of the building is visible, as if Scott is hiding out of sight. Now he zooms closer, and I notice more details. The violence in Ross's eyes as he holds Ian against the wall outside the school. The threat from Nate as he leans towards them. He must be saying something. Ian has a piece of duct
tape across his mouth. No black eye, yet. He looks terrified. It's obvious no one has spotted Scott.