Two minutes later, we are sitting in the red faux-leather chairs in the main office, waiting for Principal Ben to finish with a phone call. Any hope I had that no one had noticed the sheets of red plastic covering the building—hahaha, delusional much?—evaporated when we walked into the office.
Agnes and Kyle gave me twin looks of disappointment. Like I had let them down, let the whole school down.
There is no point trying to convince them otherwise. In their minds, I am clearly guilty. Judged without trial. I can only hope that Principal Ben will at least listen to my side of the story—which is utter cluelessness.
“You can go in,” Agnes says.
I feel her eyes on me as Mom and I make our way to the door. The angry part of me—the part that feels somehow violated, like someone is using my own art against me—wants to flip her off behind my back. How dare she just assume that I’m to blame?
But the part of me that knows I’m innocent, that wants this all to go away the right way, keeps my hands safely in my pockets.
When we walk inside, Principal Ben leans back in his chair.
“So, Sloane,” he says, giving me a sad look, “it looks like we have a problem.”
“I didn’t do it,” I insist, lurching forward to lean on his desk, as if getting closer will convince him. “I swear, Principal B—Haverford, it wasn’t me.”
He turns his computer monitor to face me, and I see a photograph of The Incident. The one that ran on the front page of the Arts section of the New York Gazette.
“You have to admit,” he says, “that they are virtually identical.”
“I know.” I plop into my seat.
“Other than circumstantial similarities,” Mom says, “do you have any evidence that Sloane is the perpetrator?”
“Isn’t that enough?” he asks back.
“Not in any court in the country.”
Mom is in full-on lawyer mode. Normally I hate seeing her like this, all cutthroat and unrelenting. But today I’m relieved to have her on my side.
No matter how this goes down, at least I have that.
“Luckily, we are not at trial here,” Principal Ben says, leaning his elbows onto his desk. “The question I am left with is who else could have done this?”
“Anyone who reads the Gazette,” Mom offers.
“Or social media,” I add. “The artsaveslives hashtag was trending for three days.”
“While I am sure that the potential suspect pool is quite large,” he says as he pulls his monitor back to face him, “the question is who at NextGen in particular both knew about the incident and knew that the perpetrator was within our student body?”
I open my mouth to argue that anyone could know, but I snap it back closed just as quickly.
“Her identity wasn’t released to the public,” Mom whispers, all the steam gone from her fight.
Principal Ben nods, as if to say, Exactly.
Mom turns to me. “Who did you tell?”
Here comes the double-edged sword. If I reveal that I told anyone—not that I told, precisely, more that Aimeigh guessed—I will not only be ratting on my only friends here, but also violating Rule Two: Don’t tell anyone about The Incident.
If I don’t, I might go down for something I didn’t do.
“Sloane…” The warning in her voice tells me that breaking one of The Rules is the least of my problems at the moment.
“Aimeigh Mullins,” I say reluctantly. “But I didn’t tell her. She guessed.”
“Anyone else?” Principal Ben asks, and for the first time since driving into the parking lot fifteen minutes ago, I’m optimistic that he’s actually considering the possibility that I’m innocent.
But my heart sinks as I realize the only other name on this very short list.
“Tru,” I say. “Tru Dorsey.”
Mom makes a disapproving sound while Principal Ben pushes his lips together and nods once. Maybe Tru hasn’t snowed the administration as thoroughly as I thought.
It feels almost like a betrayal. Like I’m feeding him to the wolves, like I’m adding fuel to the already raging fire of his trouble.
But then, for a moment, I wonder.
Tru is one of only two people here who know about my delinquent past. Aimeigh has no reason to set me up. But Tru… When I told him we couldn’t hang out anymore, that I couldn’t ride with him to school, and that we couldn’t be seen together, he seemed to take it really well. I can’t believe he would have done this.
“It wasn’t Tru,” I say.
“I know you like the boy, Sloane,” Mom says, her voice full of disdain, “but you can’t defend someone who tried to sabotage you.”
“He didn’t, Mom,” I insist. “He wouldn’t.”
“Do you have evidence?” Principal Ben asks.
I could lie. I want to. But I don’t think adding more lies to the layers will help in the end, might actually get me in trouble when I haven’t done anything wrong.
“No, but I know him. He didn’t do this.”
Mom looks at me with a mix of pity and fury.
Chapter Fifteen
Tru sat in his car in the far corner of the parking lot, hands clenched tight around his steering wheel. The drive to school wasn’t the same without Sloane in the car.
As if Monday mornings didn’t suck enough already.
At first, when Sloane told him why she couldn’t see him anymore, he’d been angry. Hurt, even, that she would shut him out. All because of whatever bullshit his mother had told hers about his behavior. All because they’d snuck off campus for one amazing lunch.
They had fun together. Whether it was trying indoor skydiving or debating the impact of computers on the art world over lunch, when they were together he saw a brightness in her eyes that wasn’t there when she didn’t know he was watching.
He recognized it because he felt the same brightness. Felt…bigger when they were together. Better.
And for that reason, when she told him she was taking the source of that brightness away, he’d been angry.
He’d wanted to hurt her in the same way she’d hurt him. He knew that hadn’t been her intention, but it had been the result just the same.
Then, last night, as he leaned out his window and stared up at the cloudy sky—forcing himself not to look next door to see if she was out on her roof, doing the same thing—he realized he didn’t need to make her hurt. By pushing him away, she had done that to herself.
He couldn’t even blame her for it. He understood how badly she wanted to be back in New York. Hell, she practically ate, slept, and breathed the Big Apple. She obviously was New York.
Besides, if he had a chance to get the hell away from here, he wouldn’t let anyone get in his way, either.
So by the time he slid into his spot in the school parking lot Monday morning, his anger had faded and he was left with nothing but the dull ache of missing her. And since there was nothing to do about that particular feeling, he would just have to go on with his day. Go on with his life.
Lord knew he’d gone on with worse before.
He felt the buzz the moment he stepped out of his car. An energy crackling among the students of Austin NextGen.
He saw Clay talking to an underclassman, making huge gestures.
“Hey, dude,” Tru said as he walked up to the pair. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, man, it’s legendary,” Clay said, his eyes wide and clearly excited to have another pair of ears for whatever tale he was about to tell. “It’s all over the front of the school. You have to see it for yourself.”
While Tru normally wouldn’t trust Clay’s judgment when it came to anything worth judging, something about the wild intensity in his eyes made Tru turn right out of the parking lot, taking the path that would lead him around to the school’s main entrance.
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, staring at Building A.
Tru looked up.
His stomach plummeted like a roller coaster dive. The giant red l
etters stood out against the glass and metal surface of the NextGen front facade.
“Shit.”
He pushed through the crowd. His only thought was Sloane. She wouldn’t have done this. He had no doubt about that. She wanted to get home to New York too badly to risk this kind of trouble.
But she would be blamed. Whoever had done this wanted her to be blamed. Wanted her to be kicked out of school, even.
He was not about to let that happen.
When he skidded to a stop inside the main office, he didn’t bother flashing Agnes the grin that usually got him whatever he needed.
“I have to see Principal Haverford,” he told her.
“You’ll have to wait,” she said with disgust. “He’s in a meeting.”
The way she said it told Tru exactly who the principal was meeting with.
He started for the door.
Agnes darted out from behind the desk faster than he gave her credit for.
“Truman, you can’t go in there.” She braced herself against the door, blocking his path.
He flashed his most charming smile. “Sorry, Agnes, but I have to.”
Despite her weight pushing against it, he managed to get enough leverage to pull the door open. As he had imagined, Sloane was sitting in one of the chairs facing Haverford’s desk. She looked pale as a ghost. She must have been terrified.
Her mother sat in the matching chair.
Better and better.
Tru smiled, knowing he wasn’t too late.
Chapter Sixteen
A loud noise in the office beyond the door interrupted Mom mid-speech. It sounded like a scuffle, raised voices, and then a big thump against the door.
Principal Ben pushed to his feet, just as the door swung open.
“Tru Dorsey, you cannot just barge in there!” Agnes shouts.
Tru ignores her, storming inside and stomping up to Principal Ben’s desk.
“I’m here to confess,” Tru says, his spine straight and legs braced wide.
He and Principal Ben face each other across the broad desk.
Tru’s hands fist at his sides. “Art Saves Lives. I did it.”
“Tru, no,” I gasp.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at me.
I turn to Mom, feeling helpless, but she has a smug look on her face. Like she’s killing two birds with one lie: getting me off the hook and getting Tru into more trouble than ever. She shouldn’t take so much joy in someone else’s problems, even if she sees them as saving her from some of her own.
“Tru, why are you doing this?” I grab his arm, make him look at me.
He hesitates for just a second, just long enough for me to see the haunted look in his eyes. The pain. Then he cocks his mouth up into that charming smirk.
“I don’t want you to get credit for my stunt,” Tru says. Then he turns back to Principal Ben and holds out his hands. “Cuff me, Principal Ben. I’m ready to face my executioner.”
Principal Ben frowns. “Call the Dorseys,” he tells Agnes, who is lurking in the doorway. “And then call the police.”
Tru’s smile flickers for a second.
Principal Ben tells Mom, “You should probably go.”
Mom nods, then waves me out of the office before her.
I’m in shock. This must be what shock feels like. I’m numb, stunned, unable to process thoughts. Tru did this? He really did this? Why? To get back at me? Did I really hurt him so badly?
After I just defended him to my mom and Principal Ben.
The more I think about it, the more my skin itches with anger. How could he do this to me? He knows how much getting home means to me. He had to know that this copycat stunt would void Mom’s deal and leave me trapped here indefinitely.
Then again, that was probably his point. I hurt him by pushing him out of my life, so he hurts me right back in the way designed to cut the deepest.
As I file out of the office, Mom’s arm proudly around my shoulder, my head hangs low. I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse.
“Are you ready for chow time?” Aimeigh bumps my shoulder with hers.
I realize I’ve just been standing by my locker, not even capable of turning the combination, of putting my copy of Ulysses away and grabbing my trig textbook for after lunch.
Thoughts keep tracking through my mind, like a playlist of two conflicting emotions set on repeat: anger that Tru would set me up like this and confusion over why he would take credit for it anyway. That sort of defeats the purpose of setting me up.
“Hey,” she says, ducking down to look into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“You saw it, right?” I ask.
She frowns. “Saw what?”
“The front of the school. The words in red plastic.”
“No clue what you’re— Oh.” Her mouth snaps shut as she figures out what I’m saying. She leans in close, whispers, “Did you—?”
“No!” I finally find the brainpower to open my locker. I punctuate each turn of the combination dial with a word. “I. Didn’t. Do it.”
The lock releases and I pull open the royal blue metal door.
“But Haverford called you in, right?” she asks. “I mean, you would have to be his first suspect.”
“I went in on my own,” I explain. “I told him I had nothing to do with it. He didn’t want to believe me.”
“But he did?” Aimeigh asks, sounding surprised.
I nod.
I’m still trying to figure out what to think.
“That’s a shocker.” She leans against the locker next to mine. “He’s not usually the type to trust so easily.”
I shook my head. “He didn’t believe me.”
“Then why—?”
I can hear the question she doesn’t want to finish. Then why are you out here in the hall, going to class, instead of standing expelled on the sidewalk with your tail between your legs?
“Tru,” I whisper. “He…confessed.”
“What?” Aimeigh jerks upright. “Tru confessed? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t…” I shake my head.
To be honest, I can’t wrap my mind around why he would confess. I would hardly blame him if he’d pulled off the copycat act to punish me. I deserve it, after how I treated him last week. But then why confess and save me from exactly what he wanted to happen? Guilt?
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Did he do it?” Aimeigh asks. “I mean, do you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” I wrap my fingers around my heavy chemistry textbook and pull it out. “He must have. I don’t know why he would say he did, if he didn’t.”
But then why did he confess? Especially considering how much shit he’s going to get from his parents over this. His dad is going to be furious.
“I can’t believe he—” Aimeigh throws her hands up in an inexplicable gesture. “That’s so un-Tru-like. His rebellions are more about his parents than school. I never thought he would…”
“I know,” I agree. “But I’m not sure what else to think. Who else could have done it?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“My name wasn’t in the papers,” I explain. “The only people at NextGen who know about The Incident, besides Principal Ben and some of the staff, were you and Tru.”
Aimeigh puts her hands up. “Well it wasn’t me.”
“I know,” I say. “Why would you?”
Why would anyone? Aimeigh’s my friend, apparently my only friend. She has no reason to get me in trouble. At least Tru had a motive.
Aimeigh drums her fingers against my locker door.
“Wait, I know. That day you told me and Tru,” she says, “when I guessed at lunch, Jenna came up right after to call us to Mrs. K’s room. She must have overheard.”
I frown. “You really think Jenna might have done this?”
Jenna is a weird duck, to be sure, but rebellion doesn’t seem like her thing. Doing anything against school policy doesn’t seem lik
e her thing.
“Why would she?” I ask.
Aimeigh shrugs. “Who knows why that freak does anything? Maybe she just wanted some attention. Or maybe she has it in for you?”
“I never did anything to her. It makes no sense.”
I try to imagine odd but seemingly nice enough Jenna, in her hideous orange sweater, climbing all over the school to recreate my art. And for no apparent reason whatsoever. I don’t get it.
“It makes more sense than Tru doing it,” Aimeigh argues. “Or me. You should go to Haverford, tell him that Jenna knows.”
I consider it. But I don’t have any proof that Jenna did it. I don’t even have any proof that she knows about The Incident.
All I have is Tru’s confession.
As much as it kills me to think so, I have to face the possibility that maybe he really did do it. Maybe he wanted to punish me for pushing him away. And maybe he felt too guilty to go through with it.
Even if my heart doesn’t want to believe it, that’s the only theory that makes sense.
At around two in the morning, my phone dings with a new text message from Tash. Seriously? At two in the morning? Which means it’s three in the morning back home.
After rolling over to snatch my phone off the nightstand, I hold it above my head.
Tash: Y rn’t u home yet?
Me: Me n mom made a deal. Home after 1st qtr
Tash: Not soon enuf. I miss my Sloanie
Me: I miss u 2
If she had to wake me up in the middle of the night, I’m glad it’s not because she’s still moping over Brice. Tash is still Tash, after all.
For a minute, I think that’s going to be the end of the conversation. I let the phone rest on my chest and close my eyes, drifting back into slumberland.
I’m just about back to the dream where Tru is standing on top of the school, holding a roll of red sheet plastic over his head and singing to me at the top of his lungs, when my phone rings.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, my voice rough and sleepy.
“Sloooaaaannnnne,” she wails into the phone.
But unlike the last time we talked, this isn’t the moaning wail of the brokenhearted. It’s the incoherent wail of the drunk.