Collateral Damage (7 page)

He should've let her go.

Callie shifts beside me, rolling over, but her breathing remains rhythmic and even.

He should've gotten the hell out of there.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

I park my sport bike—a Suzuki GSX-R—in the Teacher of the Year space at the front of the school. Beside me, Principal Howell slams the door of his minivan shut. He walks me toward the entrance, playing with his keys. It's cold and dark—another cloudy, miserable day—and when the sun sets in the next hour or so, it will be even colder. Darker.

Starkfield.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," I say, breath turning to smoke in the frigid air.

"It's all right," the principal replies. "I happen to enjoy spending the last few hours of my weekend at work."

I fight back a smile. "Yeah. It wasn't my idea, either."

He eventually finds the right key, unlocks the door, and pulls it wide. There's little difference between the temperature outside and the temperature inside. They must shut off the heat for the weekend. I breathe warm air against my already frozen fingers.

Better make this fast.

Principal Howell turns on the hallway lights. "I'll be in my office if you need anything."

"I don't think this will take very long," I assure him. The last locker search was a complete waste of time, and there aren't many students here. Bedford High is actually one of the smallest high schools I've seen. Hell, my graduating class in Hamilton had more students than this place.

I head down the senior hallway first, flipping on lights as I go. There's something weird about a school after hours. The shadows. The stillness. A place should never feel so quiet and empty.

I could kick myself for not staying late on Friday. I should be at home. Relaxing. I should've never gone to Hamilton.

Next week
.
Next week I'll stay in town.

I lift the latch of the first locker and shift the books, moving them aside, feeling behind them, searching for anything unusual. Out of the ordinary.

Nothing.

I slam the locker door shut and move on to the next.

The lockers at this school don't even have combination locks—that's how small and safe this place is. Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone knows everyone's business. When I showed up, it only took a week and a half before I was getting strange looks from teachers, before freshmen mothers were steering their kids away from me, like rebellion is a disease, and they might catch it if they get too close.

Someone should warn them: the kids are already rebelling, and I had nothing to do with it.

The principal is the only person at this school who knows the truth. There was trouble on campus last year, and the year before. He's the one who slipped my "story" to a few unassuming teachers during in-service. After this, news spread like fire—first to the remaining teachers and then to parents. Then it trickled down to the students, and soon there wasn't a soul in this town who didn't know about Parker Whalen.

The idea was that whoever was bringing the drugs into school would gravitate toward me. That's how it worked before, anyway. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Now I'm trapped with this persona. And it's too late in the year to make friends—to do anything without seeming suspicious.

I continue down the line, searching lockers one by one. Halfway through I spot a very familiar face staring back at me. Two familiar faces, actually. Jaden McEntyre and Blake Hanson at prom. They're smiling. Jaden is wearing too much make-up, and Blake looks stiff and awkward in his tuxedo, like he has a stick up his ass.

I get the allure of the whole "star basketball player" thing, but something about Blake rubs me the wrong way. I can't decide if it's because he seems like a nice guy, or if he's
too
nice: if he's "I want you to think I'm this great guy when I'm really a prick" nice.

Looking at him in his tuxedo, standing by Jaden, I decide to go the prick route.

There are a few other shots of them taped to the door, and a picture of Jaden and her best friend, Savannah. Her class schedule is typed and posted, and there's a crimson Harvard crest—something cut out of a magazine or pamphlet.

I heard she applied. Overheard, actually—the conversations of well-intentioned teachers and admiring underclassmen. She's aiming for med school. Everyone seems to think she has a chance to make it.

I could see her as a doctor. A Doctor Without Borders.

I've definitely witnessed the sense of entitlement.

VE RI TAS.
That's what the crest says.

I wonder what it means.

I pull the door wider and my reflection appears in her mirror—out of place next to the toothy grins and prom hair.

I could use a good shave.

I run my hand across my chin, then reach for the stack of books, ready to pull them out, to shift them aside. But something stops me. The locker itself is everything I remember. Neat. Organized. But it didn't mean anything back then. Now that we're working together—now that I know Jaden, that we've spoken, that we've shared Sun Chips—rifling through her personal things seems almost...wrong.

There's no way Jaden McEntyre is my link.

I close the door and move on to the next without searching it.

But that nagging voice in my head—the detective inside refusing to shut up—reminds me that I don't know she's not my link—not for sure.

Everyone else is getting checked; why does Jaden always get the free pass?

I re-open her locker—avoid looking at her, Blake, my own reflection—and push the books aside.

Nothing.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

I grab a notecard from my bookbag during my last hour Chemistry class and uncap my Sharpie.

Jaden
, I begin.
I finished reading Ethan Frome over the weekend and was wondering if you wanted to meet
—

That doesn't sound pathetic at all. And the handwriting is almost impossible to read. I blacken the words and grab another card.

Jaden, I was going to the library this afternoon, and
—

Frustrated, I scratch through this, too, finally settling on two, simple words:
Zeena Sucks
. She'll know what it means.

I lift my hand. Coleman is working on a problem via an ancient overhead projector. The lights are out, the blinds closed, and the machine hums. He's put in enough years—he should know by now this is a recipe for disaster. Sure enough, the entire back row is asleep.

I clear my throat to get his attention, and he finally calls on me.

It's so close to the bell that I grab my helmet and bag on the way out, ending my day early. I can't remember exactly which locker is hers—they all look the same after a while—so I start midway down the hall and pull the first door open. Not it. I hold the latch, close the door, then guide it back in place. The door doesn't make a sound.

I check over both shoulders to make sure no one is approaching. It's risky, scouring lockers during school hours, but I continue down the line. Open. Close. Open. Close.

And there she is, staring back at me.

I toss the card inside and quickly shut the door.

The library is empty when I arrive. The librarian eyes me suspiciously on the way in.

I know I don't belong here
, I want to tell her.
That's the point.

I sit down at our table and check the time on my cell phone. The bell's about to ring. I suck in a quick breath and release it, waiting. It's so quiet I can hear the shuffling of things around the counter, the moving in and out of the office, the stacking and re-stacking of books. I check the time again.

I can't sit here and act like I'm not doing anything—like I'm waiting for her. Because that
would
look pathetic. And not that I'm even expecting her to show. She probably has some sort of "Save the Rainforests" meeting to go to, anyway.

I slide my Geometry book out of my bag and open it to today's lesson. The bell rings, and the hallway fills with people. I wait. Capping my pen. Uncapping it. Flipping pages. Checking the door.

The parking lot empties, everyone leaving for the day.

I should've said something about the library. It was stupid of me to assume she'd get the message—that she'd know what it meant.

I turn back to my Geometry book.

One set. If she's not here in twenty minutes, I'll leave.

Halfway through the second problem, the door swings open. My spine stiffens. I force myself not to look—to relax—to listen to the sound of footsteps moving closer. And, when a backpack hits the ground with a thud....

I'm holding my breath. I didn't even realize….

"So?" she asks, pulling out the chair directly across from me.

"So?" I struggle to keep my tone casual, nonchalant.

"What do you think? I mean, besides 'Zeena Sucks'?" She smiles brightly, showing off these perfectly straight, white teeth—her pink lips freshly glossed.

Look away from the lips, Whalen
.

"I don't know," I reply, flipping the math book closed and leaning back in my chair. She unzips her bag and removes a notebook, ready to work.

"It wasn't romantic, that's for sure," she says. "I hated that Ethan kept tiptoeing around his feelings. So you love her. Tell her already."

"I don't think it was that easy for him. The guy was already married," I remind her. "And you're not exactly supposed to go around with feelings for your housekeeper when you have a wife."

"I guess not. But you know...Zeena wasn't much of a wife. I mean, she was sick all the time, and spending money on medical treatments she didn't even need. It's so obvious she was jealous. And the way she just jumped up and took care of Mattie like nothing was wrong with her? It totally pissed me off! I mean, if she would've done her job in the first place none of it would've ever happened. Ethan probably wouldn't have fallen for Mattie."

"You think it's Zeena's fault."

"I don't think she helped." She scribbles a few notes on a blank sheet of paper. "Let's go over our impressions today, and maybe in a day or two we can meet back here and work on our themes. Unless, you know, another time is better," she quickly adds.

I was waiting for her, wasn't I? "No. It's fine."

"Okay. So.... What did you think about Ethan?" she asks.

"I don't know. I kind of felt sorry for him."