Exposure (11 page)

On screen, Grace Kelly wore pearls and a flouncy, full skirt. Her hair looked like spun gold. Of all the crazy genetic combinations in the world, some people get to be born looking like her, while the rest of us have to make do with frizzy red hair, size 10 feet, and a nose that's just a little too “Roman” for its own good.

I rifled through my bag for my phone and thought about leaving Mom a message telling her there was an emergency at home, just to freak her out. It would serve her right. Instead, I thrust it in my bag and tried to concentrate on the movie. How ironic that Jimmy Stewart actually
wants
to figure out what happened to his neighbor? Here I was thinking about shutting the blinds for good and pretending I hadn't seen — or should I say heard — anything.

I normally wouldn't have sat through all the final credits, but I was trying to postpone going home. Should I lie my way through a conversation with Dad — “Mom was thrilled to have the company … said she'd be home soon but not to wait up” — or do I tell him the truth? Was I the snitch or the conspirator?

I glanced at the clock on my cell. It was ten after eleven. I was already late for my curfew — no point racing home now. Maybe I'd get lucky and Dad would have been too exhausted to wait up for me, figuring I was “bonding” with Mom. If not, then it didn't matter what time I got in. Late was late. Busted was busted. The last person to mosey out of the theater, I decided to hit the ladies' room before I braved the cold. Mitchell M. was wet-mopping the floor behind the concession stand, whistling along to the easy listening music that was still being piped in. I started across the empty lobby toward the bathroom, but when I pushed open the door, something blocked my way. Through the crack in the door, a big plastic yellow trashcan rolled to the side and someone, a janitor I supposed, opened the door to let me in.

One look at her face and I almost shrieked.

“Beth!?”

She looked equally surprised to see me, and definitely not pleased. She was wearing charcoal gray Dickies, black cross-trainers, and a ratty black thermal T-shirt with hot pink hearts on it. A plastic spray bottle of cleaner hung from her belt loop and she held a roll of paper towels. My school's bitchy version of Grace Kelly was cleaning toilets. Not wanting to run away like a startled chicken, but also not wanting to be in her presence for any longer than I had to, I sidestepped my way to the sink for a cursory hand-washing, feeling every bit as awkward as she must have felt. A dollop of liquid soap fell onto the sink top as I washed my hands. I grabbed for a paper towel from the metal dispenser to wipe it up, not wanting to cause a further mess for her.

“Leave it, Skye,” she said. I meekly tossed my towel into her garbage can and sidestepped back to the door. “Surprised to see me here?” She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. This was one of those damned-no-matter-how-you-respond moments.

“Uh … a little,” I said, grasping for any small talk that might make this moment less excruciating. “Your uncle owns this place, huh?”

“Yes, Uncle Rodney and his noblesse oblige. He pays me minimum wage to clean up after people's disgusting messes here once the theater's closed.”

“Oh.”

“I'm lucky if I get out of here by one a.m. most nights. Not that I could sleep, anyway.”

I didn't know what to say to this. Part of me pitied her. No wonder she was so unpleasant to be around — she was exhausted. Then again, her “this is so beneath me” lament seemed a little more dramatic than necessary.

“What about weekends?” I said. The job certainly hadn't hampered her Friday-night social life, after all.

“I come in the morning on Saturday and Sunday before we open,” she said, her tone dull. I nodded casually, trying to act like it was no big thing.

“Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.” Beth looked defeated as she rolled the garbage can away from the door again.

“For the record,” she said, “people at school really don't know about me working here. I'd appreciate if you'd keep it that way.” Typically, her request came across more like a command than anything. Little did she know that I was already protecting her from a whole lot more than her stupid rep. In any case, I'd had a shitty day and wasn't about to reassure her that her secret was safe with me. Lucky for her, I'd already checked out. People's problems were their own — not mine.

“Have a good night,” I said enigmatically, and headed back toward the lobby.

LEONARD'S ABSURD COME-ONS were starting to look pretty good right about now. I peered deep into my shallow locker pretending to look for something that wasn't there while Brett Sanders leaned caddishly on the locker next to mine, invading my personal space.

“So, Red, I'm digging the gams today, among other things,” he said, eyeing my legs, which were clad in black knit tights under a short khaki skirt. I didn't think it was too daring when I'd put it on this morning, but apparently, it had stoked Brett's legendary libido.

“Hmm, thanks,” I said, still trying to appear preoccupied. He was wearing a voluminous crocheted Rastafarian hat — so entirely suited for a rich white kid near the Arctic Circle. It took every ounce of restraint not to pluck the dumb thing from his head and toss it in the nearby recycling container. His Bob Marley T-shirt, hemp necklace, and Salvation Army fatigue pants advertised his membership in the 4:20 crowd. Maybe that was the reason he was acting like such an idiot. I have no earthly idea why, but the guy had taken a sudden interest in me in the past week or so and was threatening to become a full-on barnacle.

“Dang, girl. What are you, five-nine, five-ten?”

“Something like that,” I said.

Craig turned the corner and strode down the hallway in our direction. A welcome distraction — hopefully he could save me. He paused in his tracks when Brett flagged him down.

“Hey, Mac,” Brett said. “I was just telling your little buddy here what a hottie she's turned into this year.” He was?

“Whatever, Sanders.” Craig was visibly annoyed. He sported a gruesome, greenish-purple black eye — a battle scar from his last hockey game.

“I'll give you credit for spotting her potential before the rest of us,” Brett said, with a rakish leer in my direction, “but if you don't mind, I'd like a crack at it now.”

Crack at it?
What a pig.

“Knock it off, dipshit,” said Craig. “Why don't you go find some tree to hump?”

“I
did
— a redwood, in fact.” Brett winked at me, before sauntering away.

I expected that Craig would apologize on behalf of his asshole teammate, but instead, he turned to me and practically snarled.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“
Me?
” I said, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“Things were cool with us, before, but now you're getting all up in my business. Wanting to hang out with my friends, apparently
throwing
yourself at my friends, now….”

“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “Like hell I have! I think you're confusing me with someone else.” He ignored this last remark.

“Yeah, well, if you're trying to win some kind of popularity contest, you've got a long way to go, and I'd appreciate it if you stopped using me to do it.”

“Try giving that advice to the person who really needs it: your psycho bitch girlfriend!” I couldn't believe that just spilled out of my mouth. I slammed my locker door shut. Craig had obviously never seen me this riled up because I don't think I'd ever been this riled up.

“Look,” he said. “You and I were friends once, I get it. But we're both in different circles right now.”

“Funny you should say that because I'm the same person I've always been. You're the same person, too, underneath all this ‘big man on campus' bullshit. Maybe we haven't been officially, publicly ‘friends,' but I'm probably the one person in this school that really knows you and really cares about you, for that matter. From what I see these days, you could use a friend like that.”

He stared at the floor, his arms crossed defensively in front of him.

After a pause, he said, “I just think it would be better for both of us if we kept our distance from now on.”

“Hey, fine with me,” I said. “You never know your friends from your enemies until the ice breaks. Right?”

Craig stared at me, searchingly. I saw fear in his eyes. How do you like your Beanpole now?

Before I had the chance to storm away in dramatic “FU” fashion, Principal Schaeffer rounded the corner, shoulder-to-shoulder with Tiffany's dad and two other official looking authority figures, striding purposefully like Mafia dons.

“Mr. MacKenzie,” said Mr. Schaeffer, grabbing Craig by the scruff of his collar. “We'll be needing to talk to you again.” So it was official. The investigation was stepping up, just as Jillian had foretold. Principal Schaeffer eyed me. “Miss Kingston … why don't you follow us to my office, as well.”

My bladder surged in a panic. This was it. I swallowed hard, shut my locker door, and without a word accompanied them down the hall.

DOTTIE HEN, SCHAEFFER'S GAL FRIDAY, gave me a reassuring smile as I sat in one of the chairs facing her desk.

“Kiss?” She pointed to a Christmas-tree-shaped glass container filled with red-, green-, and gold-foiled chocolates and shrink-wrapped candy canes.

I shook my head no thanks and she resumed her typing. Her half-moon reading glasses perched on the end of her nose like they were suicidal, weighing the pros and cons of jumping off into the void.

Craig had been sequestered with the cops for at least twenty-five minutes, if my sense of timing was at all accurate. I couldn't hear a word — only the clacking of Miss Hen's computer keys and her occasional “hmms” and “ahhhs” as she scrutinized her monitor.

I stared blankly out the window that overlooked the school parking lot, waiting … paralyzed with fear. It would be futile to concoct a story. I was a crappy liar. Besides, I had no idea what the police might already know. Maybe there was someone else at the party who knew even more than I did, who'd ratted all of us out. Why else would I be sitting here? Maybe Craig would confess, and I wouldn't even have to be called in at all. Yeah, he'd been an asshole to me minutes ago, but the thought of seeing him hauled away to juvie in a squad car caused a giant, painful lump to form in the back of my throat. Soon, I'd have to decide my fate — and possibly Craig's. The moment of truth. Or was it? I wasn't even there when Duncan died, after all. What I knew, or
thought
I knew about that night hinged on a few half-mumbled snippets of conversation I was unlucky enough to have overheard; the very definition of hearsay. I pictured myself weeks or months from now, sitting not outside Principal Schaeffer's office but on the witness stand, a throng of journalists and cameras crammed along the perimeters of the courtroom as some imposing lawyer forced me to give the evidence that would damn Craig forever. The idea put me in a panic. Maybe it was the right thing to do for Duncan and his family. But then, why was it only making me feel more confused and frightened than ever? What was the expression? “The truth will set you free?” Easy for me to say — I wasn't the one who'd be going to prison. At least, I certainly hoped not. Perhaps the fact that I'd said nothing so far made me somehow complicit! I heard the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor on the other side of the door and knew I had only seconds, now, to decide what I was going to do. In a last-minute mental whirlwind, I finally resolved to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but —
only
if they asked. I wouldn't lie, but I wouldn't volunteer any information, either. The chips would have to fall where they landed … come what may.