Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting in front of Mr. Jordan’s desk. His office smells like coffee and Old Spice. Mr. Jordan’s pretty cool, but somehow Mrs. Weir knew I’d freak out if she left me alone with him. I can see that knowledge in her eyes. Both are looking at me, wearing twin looks of disapproval. Luckily I’ve had plenty of practice with those looks over the past week.
I’m immune now.
“Miss Collier,” Mr. Jordan takes off his glasses and pinches his nose. “I think you should take a break from the paper and hand in the camera.”
No way. “Mr. Jordan, I need it for my social media project.” There is no social media project. But they don’t know that.
“I’m sorry, Grace. You’ve left me no choice. You threatened a student.”
My hands tighten on my bag. I need this camera. It’s the only hope I have left. “I defended myself from a physical attack by that student, Mr. Jordan. Mrs. Weir knows Lindsay hates me, did nothing when she called me names in her classroom, and then left us alone.”
Mr. Jordan sends Mrs. Weir a questioning look, and she squirms.
“Be that as it may, there’s still the little matter of damaging school property.”
“Is there something else I can do? Detention. A paper. Anything. I really need the camera.”
Mr. Jordan glances at Mrs. Weir and shrugs. “Well, I just got another student cleaning lockers during the break. You can work together.”
To keep the camera, I’d clean the entire building with a toothbrush. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Start tomorrow. Be here at eight a.m. and report to the custodian.”
“But Mr. Jordan, tomorrow’s—”
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Saturday. Yes, Grace, I know. There are a lot of lockers. Do we have a deal?”
I sigh and nod, disgusted with the whole bunch of them. Rules, regulations, rights—what about my rights? Zac McMahon belongs behind bars. I don’t care how bright he is, how high he scored on his SATs, or how many saves he makes. I stalk to the door and fling it open.
“Miss Collier?” The principal stops me. I turn around, trying not to glare. “I’m very sorry for what happened. I wish there were a way I could make this right, but I can’t. You should know Zac complained to me about you. You need to stop—”
I don’t care if Zac’s heir to a throne. He’s still a slimeball. I just barely manage to stop myself from slamming the door on my way out before he can finish that disgustingly insulting sentence, breathing fire all the way to my car. If one more person tells me to be careful about what I say about Zac, I’ll lose it.
I head to the student lot, still fuming. The few students I see put their heads down, refuse to make eye contact with me. Thanks to Zac and the video he posted on Facebook, I’m the school slut, and they don’t want to catch what I’ve got. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never slept with any of them. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never even dated any of them. All that matters is Zac said Grace is a slut. Therefore, it’s fact. I don’t fully understand the biology of slut germs, but apparently they infect anybody who talks to me, so nobody does. I hear the coach’s whistle, the guys’ hoots, and cheers from the athletic field and try not to cringe. The student lot is almost empty. My car—correction, my mom’s car—is all by itself. Apparently even the car has my slut cooties.
I slow down, squint at the car.
Oh, God.
The way the sun glints off the car looks weird. Dull. I angle my head, move a little closer, and see it. Keyed into the metallic beige paint are two words in eight-inch-high letters:
LYING SLUT
Could Lindsay have done this? Jesus. The adrenaline rush from my earlier rage at Mrs. Weir and Mr. Jordan evaporates, and my shoulders drop. I unlock the car, toss my stuff inside, and start the car.
Nothing happens.
“No. No, no, no,” I chant as I crank the key again. Nothing. Not even a whine. I unlock my cell, call my mom.
“Hey, Mom. I have a problem.”
“Panic attack?” There’s a weariness in her tone.
“Car won’t start.”
There’s a loud sigh. “Does it try to start and won’t turn over?”
“No, nothing happens at all.”
“Sounds like the battery is dead. I’ll call your dad for you.”
“Great. Um. Thanks.”
She didn’t reply. She’d hung up.
I stare at my phone for a minute and then drop my head against the seat.
Ten minutes go by, then twenty. I hear laughter, loud and raw. From the side-view mirror, I watch Zac McMahon and Jeremy Linz stride to Zac’s car, a black Mustang. Two girls from the dance team are already waiting near it. I slink lower in my seat, lock my doors. The Mustang starts and with a squeal of tires, leaves the lot. I watch it until it’s out of sight.
I’m not afraid. I am not afraid. He’s a coward, a spineless coward who smiles at you while he lies. I know what he is. I know the truth, and I am not afraid. I shut my eyes and keep repeating it.
It doesn’t work.
No matter how many times I say it, I can’t make my body stop shaking when I see him. Or hear his voice. Or smell his brand of soap.
At the forty-minute mark a minivan pulls into the lot, and I sigh in relief. It’s my dad. But the look on his face when he gets out of the van kinks me up all over again. He taps on my window, makes a rolling gesture.
“You okay? What’s wrong?”
“Won’t start.”
“I thought—” He presses a hand to his chest. “Okay, let me see.” He’s wearing running pants and a golf shirt emblazoned with a team logo. Right. Forgot he’s the coach now. I get out of the car so that we can switch places. He scans me from head to toe, his face tight. “Your mother let you wear this to school today?”
I look down at my outfit. Leggings, boots, skirt, studded cuffs. “What’s wrong with it?”
He shakes his head, but I see the way his eyes lock on the scratches in the paint. “Christ, Grace, you look like a groupie for some rock band.”
Funny. Everything’s covered, and yet I’m still a slut.
“Do you see this?” He waves a hand at the ruined paint job. “Don’t you get that you’re making yourself into a target?”
I’ve been dressing like this since ninth grade. I cross my arms, shoot out a hip, glare at him without once calling bullshit. The only reason I’m a target is because Zac McMahon made me into one.
My dad shakes his head, climbs behind the wheel, and cranks the key. Nothing happens for him either. He tries shifting the car into neutral, still nothing. Finally he pops the hood. While he sticks his head under it, a voice whines, “Kirk! We’re going to be late.”
I glance at the minivan. Great, he brought the whole family. The Four K’s. Kristie’s in the front seat, pissed off. Keith and Kody—that’s Kody with a K—are in the backseat. The boys wave, and I wave back. My dad’s vicious stream of curses has me whipping around to see what’s wrong.
“Your battery’s not dead. It’s gone. Somebody took it right out of the car. Jesus, Grace.” More cursing. “Get in. I’ll drop you home.”
Wow. “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? Wouldn’t want to make you late for Little League or T-ball.”
“It’s soccer, Grace. We have time if we leave right now.”
Fine. I tug on the van’s sliding door, climb in next to Keith and Kody, ignore Kristie’s loud sigh. She flips her hair, and I get a whiff of strawberries. I wish I could cover my nose, but that would just be rude.
“We’re supposed to be on the field in twenty minutes,” she reminds Dad through a tight jaw.
“I am not leaving her out here alone, Kristie.”
Kristie turns and stares out the passenger window.
“Hi, Grace! Look what I got!” Kody shows me an action figure I don’t recognize. I take it, examine it, and look impressed.
“Wow, he’s pretty cool. What does he do?”
“He’s Captain America. H
e fights the bad guys and saves people and works with Iron Man.”
Iron Man, I know. “Iron Man’s awesome. Do you have him too?”
Kody shakes his blond head, a gene he got from Kristie. “No. But maybe I’ll get him for my birthday!”
Perfect. I haven’t bought him a gift yet, so now I’ve got an idea. Kody’s having a big party at the end of the month. Dad and Kristie hired a petting zoo that comes right to your house with a bunch of caged animals. Kody’s been revved about it for weeks.
“Grace, you could say hello to your stepmother.” Dad frowns at me in the rearview mirror.
She could say hello to me too instead of staring straight ahead, pressing her lips together like she’s sucking on lemons. “Hi, stepmother!” I wave in an exaggerated motion.
The boys both laugh. Kristie frowns at me in the passenger-side mirror. I’m two for two.
“Grace, are you gonna watch our soccer game? I’m good. Daddy says so, and he’s the coach.” Kody’s eyes, the same silvery blue as mine—as our dad’s—shine with excitement.
“Not as good as me,” Keith shoots back. Keith favors Kristie—blond hair, blue eyes.
It’s funny. Zac has blond hair and blue eyes too. I don’t seem to have a great track record with people who have those genes. I shake it off and laugh. “I would love—”
“Grace is busy, sport. Maybe some other time.” Dad cuts me off before I can promise anything, which is a shame because I would have gone. I adore these boys. It’s their parents I have issues with. Actually they have issues with me. I wonder where they play. Maybe I’ll show up one day. Bet Kristie would love that. The boys chatter all the way to my house. Dad pulls into the driveway, presses the sliding door button before the van even stops.
“Here we are. Say good-bye, boys!”
“Thanks. What about my car?”
“You need a new battery. I’ll pick one up after the boys’ game, drop it in, leave the keys under the mat.”
I smile my thanks. Kristie makes a sound of annoyance.
“Bye, Grace! See you at my birthday party!”
“Captain America couldn’t keep me away,” I promise before Kristie can say anything.
I slide my bag on my shoulder and walk up the drive to the front door, imagining the discussion they’re going to have later over me, a nasty little part of me hoping it will be just like the last time I instigated a “discussion.” “Daddy licked Kristie’s lips,” I’d said on the car ride home from my first—and my last—dance performance. I just wanted to know if she tasted like the strawberries she always smelled like. I didn’t know it was a big deal. There was a loud fight that night. He moved out the next day. I didn’t see him again for almost two weeks.
People adore Kristie (except my mom). With her cardigans and pearls and perfectly smooth blond hair, nobody can believe she seduced a married man and got herself pregnant. People adore Zac too. With his blond hair and laser blue eyes and lacrosse skills, nobody can believe he assaulted me. Then there’s me. With my wild dark hair, boots, skirts, and studded wristbands, I’m obviously the anti-Krist who cried rape to get even with a guy for dumping me. Everybody can believe that.
People are idiots.
I unlock the door, call out, “Mom? I’m home.”
She’s standing just beside the window, lips pressed together, eyes still full of betrayal, and it’s been years now. “Where’s the car?”
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know you were there. It’s stuck at school.”
As she stares after the minivan driving away, she shakes her head. “What did Kristie have to say about being forced to help you?” she asks with a smirk.
I shift my weight and look away. “She wasn’t thrilled.”
Mom nods, pleased. She’s been more ticked off than usual at Dad and Kristie. I know she blames him for what happened to me the night of the party, which is kind of funny because he blames her.
“God, you look so much like him,” she whispers. It’s melancholy and wistful and proud all at the same time, and I can’t stand seeing her in pain, so I flee to my room, where my copy of The Taming of the Shrew waits. I try not to remember the woman who used to twirl me around the living room when her favorite song came on. She has the best laugh. A loud, infectious belly laugh. Some nights when I was in bed, I’d hear her giggle with my dad and laugh too. I had no idea what was so funny, but that’s how it was with her. When she laughed, so did everybody around her.
Mom doesn’t really giggle anymore. I don’t know if that’s my stepmother’s fault—another Kristie Kasualty—or mine.
Chapter 6
Ian
“Hey, little man.”
I crack open the one eye that’s not stuck to my pillow, find my sister grinning down at me, and groan. “Go away, Val. And stop calling me that.” I flip over, turn my back to her, sink back into sleep.
Valerie bounces on my bed, nearly breaking one of my ankles. I kick her off.
“Ow, Ian! Come on, get up, or the Millennium Falcon gets it.”
I crack open my eye again, watch her study the models I keep on a shelf over my desk. I consider her threat for a moment. Oh, she’d do it in a heartbeat. But I was never all that happy with how that model turned out, so I close my eye and sigh.
“Ian, for God’s sake, get up! You told me to wake you up early today.”
Right. I did. I roll onto my back.
“Ugh, jeez, little man. There isn’t enough mouthwash in the world for that morning breath.”
Oh, really? I grin and sit up and say, “Hi!” right in her face. She turns an interesting shade of green and flees.
“Oh, God. Bathroom. Gonna be sick. Get up! If you’re late, Dad will kill us both.”
She’s right. But my bed is really comfortable, and a few more minutes won’t matter—
“Ian! Get your ass up.”
“I’m up! I’m up. Okay. Right.” I jackknife upright, eyes saucers, heart pounding.
Dad strips the covers off me.
“Downstairs. Five minutes. You were supposed to be up twenty minutes ago. And for God’s sake, do something with this room. It should be condemned.” He waves at my laundry pile and glares.
I climb to my feet, but a wave of dizziness tosses me right back to bed.
“Ian?” Dad’s voice loses its edge. “What’s wrong?” He presses a palm to my forehead.
“A little dizzy. It’s okay now.” I try leaving the bed for a second time and this time succeed.
“Look here.” Dad turns me to face him, stares into my eyes. “You’re pale. Does your head hurt?”
“Not really. Just need to wake up, and I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. See you downstairs.” He manages a tight smile and leaves my room. I stare at the door he closes for a full minute, wondering who the hell that was.
Ten minutes later I shuffle into the kitchen, pour some cereal and a pain reliever chaser. When I look up, four sets of eyes watch me.
“Ian, your father said you felt dizzy?” My mom’s wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe, giant mug of coffee in her hands. Her hair is still bed-messy. Right. It’s Saturday. Mom’s off today. Valerie’s in sweats, her dark hair in a ponytail, and Claudia’s in a pair of pajamas with giant red lips on them.
I lunge for the newspaper sitting on the table. “I’m okay. Just a little headache.”
“I want you to take it slow today. Those lockers will still be there the next day.”
“He’s fine, Mary.” Dad waves a hand. “You ready?”
I freeze with the spoon halfway to my mouth.
“For what?”
“I’m driving you.”
“I can drive myself.”
“You could…if I were letting you use the car, which I’m not. So I’m driving you.”
There’s no point in arguing. I swallow a few more spoonfuls of my cereal, turn a few more pages, and follow him. We’re both completely silent on the ride to school. It’s a nice change from the lectures, so I roll with it.
&nb
sp; “Call me when you’re ready to go home.”
I nod and open the car door. Before I can move, he grabs my arm.
“Ian, call me if you get dizzy again. You hear?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Dad smiles. It’s a real smile. Not one of his constipated or sarcastic ones. “Ian, I’m proud of you for choosing good hard work like this instead of letting down your teammates.”
I shift, look away. “Um. Thanks.”
“Ian?”
I turn back, wait.
“Do you know where the camera is? The good one. One that uses film?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I know we have one somewhere.”
I get out of the car and watch him drive off. Weird. Very weird.
Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in the main second-floor corridor, staring at the janitorial cart with disgust.
“Just dump whatever stuff students left in their lockers in the trash bin,” Bob, the janitor, instructs me.
“Books too?”
“Not textbooks. Those should go here.” The janitor indicates an empty shelf on the cart. “When the locker’s empty, make sure you disinfect it thoroughly. We don’t want to be the cause of some outbreak.”
My eyes pop, and my breakfast nearly comes up. “Yeah. Got it.”
Bob looks at his watch. People still wear those things? “Your partner’s late. Guess I should report that to Mr. Jordan.” He shakes his head with a sigh.
I’ve got my head inside a locker when the squeak of canvas on linoleum catches my attention.
“Oh, here she is now,” Bob states the obvious.
Oh, fuck. It’s Grace Collier. I sigh and wonder what the hell I did to piss off the universe.
She sees me and halts in the middle of the corridor, one leg twitching like she’s dancing except I don’t see any earbuds, and those freaky silver eyes of hers stare at me like I’m holding a whip and chains. At least she’s not wearing her usual Cleopatra eyeliner or black lips.
“You Grace?” Bob asks, and she nods. “You’re late. I’ll have to report that to Mr. Jordan.”
She shrugs but says nothing, not even an apology. She slides off a heavy-looking backpack and props it across the hall. While Bob gives Grace a master key and the same locker-cleaning lesson he just gave me, I study her. She looks different. Grace usually wears a lot of black leather biker-chick stuff. But today the only thing familiar about her is the nose ring through one nostril. She’s got all that wild hair tied back in an elastic, and she’s wearing running pants and a baggy T-shirt that keeps falling off one shoulder. Reminds me of the dance chicks from yesterday. Wonder if Zac got lucky with both of them. I swallow a smirk. Wouldn’t surprise me if he did.