You (12 page)

It's eight minutes from your house to the school and you both ride in silence, but when your father pulls the Bronco up to the front of the school and you start to climb out, he finally says something to you.

“Don't slam the damn door.”

 

Y
ou walk into school and start down the hall to sign in, and absolutely nothing seems different or out of the ordinary. Tomorrow, however, everyone will claim that today felt funny right from the start. And that you looked somehow different. But as you glance at your reflection as you walk past the school's trophy case, all you see is the same old you.

 

S
o it's Tuesday morning—a B day on the screwed-up rotation schedule. That means PE class. You're late, but since you had to wait on your father to drive you, you have your gym stuff ready for a change, and you hit the weight room only ten minutes late.

Your gym teacher is Mr. Matlock, and he's cool about things like this. He'd say good morning and you'd hand him the note from the office, and he'd
say something like “hope you got your beauty sleep” or “no more working the graveyard shift,” and that would be it. But he's not there and for a second you wonder if it's not Tuesday morning on a B day after all.

“Chase.” Over by the leg press, with his square jaw, track pants, and Midlands High Cougars sweatshirt, the gym teacher waves you over with a sharp flick of his green clipboard.

You didn't know who he was when he walked into the main office moments before you were sentenced for stealing Jake the Jock's wallet, and even after he gave you that look that said that, for some god-knows-why reason, he believed you, you didn't think he knew your name.

But he knows it now.

“Pass.” He holds out his hand, snapping his fingers. You hand him the crumpled paper. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he unfolds it, then looks
at the pass as if it were a counterfeit twenty you were trying to palm off as the real thing. He looks up at you, then back at the pass, before initialing the corner and securing it on the clipboard. “Well?” he says, and there is nothing friendly in his voice. You don't know what he wants you to say, so of course you say nothing.

There's something about the way he looks at you.

Something familiar.

Not annoyed.

Disgusted.

You expect it from your father—he's had fifteen years to build up to it.

But from a teacher? A teacher you don't even know? For being ten minutes late to class, with a valid excuse?

You turn and walk over to the incline bench press. You can feel his eyes burning into the back of your skull and part of you wants to turn around and
say something. The other part just wants to keep walking.

 

T
his is everything that's in your locker at 10:42 a.m.:

• a biology textbook, stuffed with folded papers, some for that class
  
• a math textbook, similarly stuffed
  
• two identical history textbooks, one yours, one you found and thought was yours, both following the books-stuffed-with-papers pattern
  
• a French-English dictionary, which is strange since you're taking Spanish
  
• five notebooks, originally designated for separate classes, all now used arbitrarily based on which one you grabbed before class
  
• a paperback copy of
  The Crucible
  
• one sneaker, no laces
  
• a dead pay-as-you-go cell phone
  
• four empty Mountain Dew plastic bottles, one empty Red Bull can
  
• a black hooded sweatshirt with a red and white Independent Truck Company logo
  
• the CliffsNotes for
  Romeo and Juliet
  , new, never opened
  
• various empty candy wrappers
  
• an unlabeled CD, no case
  
• a key to the back door of your house you assumed was lost
  
• three pens, one of which works
  
• a first-quarter progress report, unopened, addressed to your parents
  
• seventy-three cents in change
  
• no drugs, alcohol, weapons, or other items deemed contraband
  

You know this because the vice principal made you stand there and watch as the security guards went through your locker during a “random” locker search.

Out of the fifteen hundred or so lockers at Midlands High School, yours was the only locker randomly selected.

At least they found that key.

 

T
he second quarter of the school year is only four weeks old, meaning there are still six weeks of school until the end of the first semester. That's thirty class days, give or take, with Christmas vacation in the middle of it. A lot of things can happen in six weeks, but apparently not you passing American History.

“Do the math and you'll get your answer,” Mr. Bundinger says, tapping his finger on a row of zeros.

This from the man who doesn't know who the president of India is, who doesn't know that half the class is cheating on his quizzes, who thinks no one knows he uses the same tests every year, who thinks teaching is showing videos every class.

You suggest doing an extra-credit project, not because you would but because that's what you're expected to say and because you know what he'll say, and he does, pointing out how that wouldn't be fair to the other students or fair to you. You could point out that it's not fair that he lets the jocks turn in extra-credit projects to save their grades, and you don't mind if it's not fair to you, since he hasn't been fair to you since day one, but you know what he'd say to that and, in the end, like everything else, does it really make a difference?

“Kyle, what am I always saying in class? Those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.”

You don't remember him ever saying anything like it, but this isn't the time to bring it up.

“What's true for history is true for history
class
.” He chuckles at his own joke. You don't think it's all that funny.

“Now, Kyle, I still expect you to hand in all the homework this quarter.”

“Will I pass?”

“Right now you have a thirty-four-point-six percent average in this class. You could
possibly
move that up to fifty, fifty-five percent, if you worked at it.”

“But will I pass?”

“Passing is a sixty-five.”

So you do the math.

And the answer is you won't be doing any more American History this semester.

 

A
s soon as you see the guy at Sears, you know you didn't get the job.

He's got that uncomfortable look on his face that
all adults get when they're about to tell you that something's wrong. Not wrong with you—that look they have no problem with. Eyebrows arched up, eyes wide, mouth closed but chin still hanging, lower lip pushed out a bit. It's that I-know-I-let-you-down face, and even though you don't see it often, you recognize it. The bags under his eyes and his droopy cheeks only make it worse. But you went all the way home to put on this stupid outfit and walked all the way back to the mall, so you figure you might as well go through with it. You keep walking up to him and when you're still ten feet away he sticks his hand out.

“Uh, yeah. Kyle, right?” He grips your hand and starts shaking, a slow-motion version of yesterday's handshake. He looks around and then gives a nod at an empty register over in the men's department. “Let's step over here a second.”

So you step over there for a second. He leans against the counter and buries his hands in his pants pockets. “How was school today?”

And you're thinking, just get it over with, but you mumble something about it being okay when it was anything but okay, but neither of you really care.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Kyle, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

Bad news? That you don't get to waste hours of your free time in a store you don't even like doing crap work for minimum wage?

“When we talked yesterday…I guess I left you with the impression that, uh…well, as it turns out there was a, um, another candidate for the job.” He waves his hand as if he's still not sure where this second candidate popped up from himself. “The uh, the gist of it is that we decided to go with this…um…
other
applicant.”

He pauses, waiting for you to jump in and make this easy for him, but you don't, and he waits a second longer before he starts in again, telling you that there are openings all the time, maybe none now, sure, but by late spring or summer, and that he'll
keep your application at the top of the pile, let the other associate managers know to give you a call, and best of luck to you, Kyle, happy holidays.

A second, brief handshake and he's off to some back office and you're walking out into the mall.

You didn't want to apply for the job in the first place.

And you didn't want to go in for the interview.

Because you didn't really think they were going to hire you anyway.

So you were right.

So you should feel pretty good.

So?

Why don't you?

 

Y
ou knew the second message was going to be from Zack, but you scrolled down to it anyway.

“Greetings, young Chase, Zack McDade here.
As you no doubt observed, I was not among those present at Midlands High today, a fact that must have cast a dark shadow over the entire proceedings. But, with my parental unit out of town, I had the fortunate opportunity to entertain a rather eager and adventurous young lady at my home. It's amazing what some people will do if you just ask nicely. I even managed to get you a souvenir. Anyway, full details when we speak in person. Shall we say good old Midlands at nine tonight? I'll leave the window open for you. Till then,
au revoir, mon ami.
”

You delete the message, then look at the clock on your father's nightstand, the one above the drawer where you found your cell phone. Four forty. Your mom would be home first, picking Paige up from her after-school program on her way from work. Your father would roll in closer to six. You want to be gone before they get here. You won't be able to get into the school until after the maintenance crews have left, probably no earlier than nine. Over
four hours to go, and already your jaw muscles ache from gritting your teeth. It'll be late for a school night and your parents will be pissed, but Zack will be at the school and there's no way you're not going to be there.

In your room, you take off the polo shirt you wore to the mall and fling it in the direction of your bed. You miss and it lands on the floor, followed by the jeans you were wearing. You pull on a black Warped Tour T-shirt and a pair of black jeans, yanking a black hoodie from your closet. Later, much will be made about the clothes you're wearing, but the truth is that you just grabbed what was there.

Back down the hall to your parents' room. You're not going to leave a note—that will be discussed tomorrow as well—but decide you'd better put your phone back where you found it. Not getting the job and staying out late are bad enough, no need to make it worse. Before you put it in the drawer, you look at the phone. You look at it for a
full minute before you play the first message—the message Ashley sent last night—one more time.

“Kyle, oh my god, I really need to talk to you.
Ugh
, I didn't want to tell you in a voice mail, but I can't wait, I'm so excited. Okay, I'll just say it. I
really
love you.”

If only the phone message ended right there.

It would be perfect and nothing else would matter, not your parents or school or the job thing.

Perfect.

But, just like the other eight times you played it, there's more.

And knowing what's coming doesn't make it any easier.

“You're like my best friend in the world, so I know you'll be happy for me, and not like all judgmental. Okay, you can't tell
anybody
, but guess who asked me to skip school with him tomorrow?”

 

T
he building is dark and you didn't see any cars in the parking lot, but you hang back along the trees for ten minutes, watching, just to be sure. You cut across the field, sticking to the shadows, angling in toward Zack's French class window.

By the time you get to the window the sweat's beading up on your forehead. It's not a nervous sweat because you're not nervous. And you don't sweat when you get angry, so it's not that. Then again, you've never been this angry before. If you thought about it you'd realize that it's an unusually warm night and you're wearing a hoodie. But you've got other things on your mind, don't you?

From outside, the window looks locked, but it slides open like it did the last time, and you slip inside as easy as an Xbox ninja. There's light coming through the window in the door, not much but enough to let you see your way around the room. You reach for the doorknob and stop.

The last time you pulled the door open the
alarm went off. If Zack is not here yet, if he hasn't punched in the code, the alarm will go off again.

What was the code?

Four numbers and the star key.

But which four?

You stand there for several minutes, replaying the scene in your head, Zack showing off and you ready to hit him.

What if you did? What if you had hauled off and smacked him one, right in his smart-ass mouth? Maybe that would have done it. It might have ended right there and you wouldn't have to be here now. But you didn't. You stood there and took it. He played you and you let him get away with it.

Those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.

You won't make that mistake again.

Eight, six, zero, four. The last four digits of the school's phone number. You open the door and step into the hallway.

No alarm.

And no Zack.