In Too Deep Page 7

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay. I know your dad is … intense.”

  Intense. Sure, I guess that’s a word for it. “You should go,” I say.

  Nick doesn’t budge. “Turn your walkie-talkie on.”

  I can’t help the curl at the edges of my lips. We haven’t used those stupid things in … forever. We both got cell phones for our thirteenth birthdays and the walkie-talkies disappeared.

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk.”

  I swallow. In the freak-out with Dad, I nearly forgot what was really happening.

  If he went postal over seeing a hug, I can’t even imagine what would happen if he heard the rumors about Carter. He’d fly over to Carter’s house with lights and sirens and probably break down the door with his shoulder, gun drawn.

  I twist my hands together. “I won’t talk about … you know.”

  It’s funny that I can’t say the words, when everyone else has no problem at all.

  “You can’t bottle it up. You’re going to have to talk about it. Don’t you get it? It’s criminal, what he did. I can’t believe you didn’t report it.”

  I’m shaking my head, desperate for him to stop this line of thinking. “To who? My dad? Or the other cop in town?” I whisper. “I barely see daylight as it is. There’s no way I’d tell him this.” Funny how easy it is to go along with it, to avoid the truth. He’ll know soon, but I can’t do it like this, in rushed whispers on my front porch, hoping my dad won’t hear. “Besides, don’t you remember when we were kids, and we used to use the radios every night? People can listen in and it’s just too … ”

  Much of a lie.

  “Okay. But I don’t like you being alone right now.”

  “Sam?”

  My eyes flare as Dad’s voice carries down the hall.

  I push Nick toward the steps, whispering, “Fine. Wait ’til eight, when my dad’s shows start, and then I’ll be on channel four.”

  He smiles, a soft smile, and for a heartbeat I forget everything else. “Talk then.”

  And then I’m left standing there, watching his retreat. Normally he’d just lope across the driveway with that odd, ungraceful run of his, but he has to move his car first. I’m surprised Dad didn’t tell him he’s broken at least three laws parking like that.

  If I’d parked like that, he would have told me.

  My palms are sweaty. Somehow that’s all I can think, as

  I wipe them against my pink flannel pajama pants. It’s 8:06 already, but it took me that long to quietly dig through

  the junk drawer in the kitchen and find a new nine-volt battery. We haven’t used these things in so long, I forgot they even needed a battery.

  Now, I click the dial on and then thumb through the channels until I get to channel four.

  Static.

  “You there?”

  More static. Why do I feel so … fluttery? This is Nick. The same guy I whupped at Wii last weekend. The same guy I tease and joke with.

  But it’s not just the same guy I’ve always known. It’s also the guy who kissed me on Sunday. Three times. The guy who held my hand in the halls this morning. The same guy who wiped away my tears and kissed my cheek.

  “About time,” comes the loud response. I jump and scramble to turn down the volume.

  I click the button on the side and hold the mic up to my mouth. “Sorry. I forgot these things took nine-volt batteries. I had to raid the junk drawer. Dad had spares, of course, for the smoke detectors.”

  I click it off and wait for his response, pulling the covers over my shoulders.

  “Your dad is more prepared than a Boy Scout.”

  I laugh and then realize I wasn’t holding the button. It’s funny, how different these are than our cells. I click the button down. “Don’t I know it.”

  “You sure you’re okay? He really flipped out on us.”

  I lean back against my pillow and stare at the shadows in the corner of my room. Am I? Right now … yes. It’s the first time all day I haven’t thought about … the things raging at school. “Yeah.”

  “Really? I just feel … terrible. We were together all weekend and I had no idea—

  “I don’t really want to talk about it. Not right now … on the radios.”

  “Okay.”

  I click the button a few times but I can’t figure out what to say so I just let it go.

  “What?” he says, his voice crackling.

  I sit up in my bed and part the blinds with my thumb and pointer finger, just a couple of inches so I can peer out into the burgeoning darkness.

  “Open your drapes,” I say.

  They flutter for a second and then there he is, sitting in his bed, his elbow propped up on the windowsill. All at once I’m ten again and we’re talking about that half-assed fort we spent a year building in the woods behind his backyard. The worries at school seem to fade as I stare across at him.

  “This is kind of fun.” I release the button and let the walkie-talkie fall into my lap, then reach to pull up my blinds so there’s a two-foot gap above the sill. Now I can see him without holding the blinds in one hand.

  “It kind of reminds me of Legos,” he says.

  I laugh. “Why?”

  I watch as he raises the walkie to his mouth, blocking his lips. It’s weird, watching him and not seeing him speak but hearing his voice crackle across the walkie. “Because that’s all I did the summer I got the walkies. Play Legos.”

  “I was thinking about our fort.”

  I watch his shoulders shake and then he shakes his head. “I’m surprised neither of us plummeted to our deaths. Carpenters, we are not.”

  “Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad,” I say, indignant.

  “Are you kidding? We thought we could use staples to secure a two-by-four to the trees.” He holds the walkie-talkie away from his face and raises his brows, the cutest little smirk on his lips. I can just make it out in the shadows, the warm yellow light of his room spilling out into the darkness around him.

  I pretend to act outraged. I’m glad it’s nearly summer, or it would be too dark to make out his expression. “We figured out that wouldn’t work,” I say.

  “Eventually.”

  I can’t help it. I grin. It’s weird how we’re so far apart, the expanse of grass between our houses separating us, and yet I can see the bright blue of his eyes, as if they’re reflecting the gleam of the stars and the moon overhead. They’re boring right into me. Seeing me in a way I’m not sure they ever have. I lean forward until my nose is nearly touching the screen. Then I click the button again. “As the girl, I was supposed to be your assistant. As the guy, you were supposed to be the carpenter.”

  “Right. Well, by that theory, those cookies we made were entirely your fault.”

  I scoff. Then click on my walkie. “In my defense, your mother told us baking soda and baking powder were the same thing.”

  “Hey, at least my mom tries to help!”

  My grin fades, and a half-beat later, so does Nick’s. “God I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

  I shrug and purse my lips. Nick raises the walkie to his lips again. “Your dad loves you, you know, or he wouldn’t have freaked on us like that.”

  I shake my head. “No, he loved my mom. And … ” I sigh. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  We stare across at one another, our radios silent, the sounds of crickets filling the void.

  I watch him raise the radio to his lips. “Pickles.”

  A laugh bursts forth, catching me off guard. “Pickles?”

  “Yes. I’m partial to the sweet and crunchy ones, myself. Spears, preferably.”

  I roll my eyes but I’m grinning again. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

  “That’s why you love me,” he says.

  I never noticed before how much he says that. Maybe because I now think it might be true. Does he know this, somehow? Is that why he says it?

  I ignore the lingering look he
gives me, forcing our conversation to stay light. “Yep. It’s that and your old Seattle Sonics T-shirt. Armpit holes get me every time.” I put a hand to my chest as if to still my fluttery heart, and he scoffs at me. Then I’m smiling again.

  Nick tips his head to the side, giving me a serious look, and my grin fades. I know he thinks I shouldn’t be smiling like this, or maybe he thinks I’m using it to cover up my darker issues. Darker issues that don’t actually exist. “You really do need to tell your dad what happened,” he says.

  “I told you, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “He’s the chief of police, Sam. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Last I checked, he didn’t own a time machine, so there’s nothing he can do to fix it or change it. Just drop it, Nick.”

  He sighs. I don’t hear it, but I can see his shoulders heave.

  “I should go to bed before Dad wonders what’s going on up here and checks on me.”

  Nick nods. “Okay. G’night, Sam.”

  I lower the blinds and fall back against my bed again. “Good night, Nick.”

  And then before I can click it off, he says one last thing: “Sweet dreams.”

  But to dream, I have to sleep, and that’s going to be impossible. I climb under my blankets and stare at the sliver of light coming in through the windows.

  I wish there really was a way to reverse time—to go back to the party and stay out of Carter’s bedroom. I wish I could spend that evening with Nick, playing pool.

  It was stupid, to try and use Carter to get Nick’s attention.

  I punch my pillow a few times, reshaping it until I can tuck it comfortably up under my arm. I close my eyes, but my body still hums with energy.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Nine

  Three hours later I give up, sliding a blank notebook out from under my bed and grabbing a pen from my nightstand. I click on my little white lamp, then prop myself up on pillows.

  I’ve written at least a dozen novels in the last three years. Fun, dorky novels. They’re nothing like real life, just total escapism, the literary equivalent of a rom-com. Since they’re in the trash now, it’s time to write something else.

  Something real.

  My pen hits the paper, makes the comforting, scratchy noise that always seems to soothe me.

  But after I write the words Chapter One, all I do is stare at the lines on the paper until they blur together and my eyes feel like sandpaper and two hours have passed.

  Nothing. That’s what I write. When the alarm goes off, I discover I’ve drifted to sleep on a blank page.

  When I look myself in the mirror the next morning, I have dark circles under my bloodshot eyes.

  I just keep thinking about how Carter must feel right now, with this rumor floating around him. Maybe he laughed it off. Maybe people don’t really believe it.

  Please let people not really believe it.

  But Nick does. Because I cried and now he believes me, and he shouldn’t, and God I feel heavy right now, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

  I want desperately to call in sick to school. Wallow in bed and ignore the storm that’s raging inside those halls. But my dad will notice my car sitting in the driveway because he makes a point of patrolling our house when he’s out and about, as if anyone is crazy enough to break into the police chief’s house.

  So I walk away from the mirror that’s taunting me with my haggard reflection and instead I take a shower, dawdling under the hot steam until the water heater, predictably, gives up and nothing but cold water sputters out. Then I get dressed, brushing my hair free of tangles as I stare at my ugly reflection in the mirror.

  I descend the steps, my socks silent on the carpet, and go to the kitchen to get an apple and grab my car keys. My dad is at the counter, pouring coffee into the stainless steel thermos he keeps in his cruiser all day. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d whirl around and bolt, but my keys are hanging on the hook right behind him.

  “Morning,” I say, walking past him.

  “Morning.” He puts the empty pot in the sink and glances over his shoulder at me. “Your cell phone is on the table,” he says, his voice oddly remorseful.

  I stop, blinking. Why is my dad waving a white flag? “I thought you were taking it for a week.”

  “You can have it back. But the other rules, about Nick, still stand.”

  I narrow my eyes. “So I’m not in trouble, but my best friend still isn’t allowed over?”

  “I know you think I make up these rules to torture you, but it’s for your own good.”

  “How is banning Nick from the house unless you’re around good for me?”

  I never argue like this, and as soon as the words are out, I want to reel them back in.

  He turns around and gives me a glare cold enough to freeze the Bahamas. “Do not argue with me or you will lose your phone,” he says. “Now, are you going to tell me why you were upset yesterday? And do I need to talk to your principal about your locker?”

  Panic seizes my chest. “Dad, I can’t tell you—we don’t have that kind of relationship. And I don’t need you going to school like you’re going to fix things. It wasn’t a big deal. They’ve probably fixed my locker anyway.” I hope.

  “What do you mean, that kind of relationship?”

  It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “You know, the heart-to-heart kind.”

  “You can talk to me,” he says.

  “Can I? Really?”

  “Of course,” he says, twisting the top on his thermos.

  He’s delusional. He doesn’t even know he’s delusional. “Whatever,” I say, heading to the door.

  “Sam, I mean it. I’m your father. If you need me to talk to the principal … ”

  “No, I told you, I got it,” I say.

  Two more months and I can escape to UW. Two more months.

  I throw on some ballet flats and head out to my car without saying goodbye.

  I start it up and pull away, but for a long while I can’t force myself to go to school. I end up circling the residential streets for ten minutes straight, until I know I’m pushing it and I’ll get marked tardy if I don’t give in.

  Finally, I turn right like I’m supposed to, and the school looms in the distance. I feel sick. Weak, and a little dizzy. I can’t seem to do anything but park as if on autopilot, taking note of the way a girl walking by me elbows her friend, nods in my direction.

  Today, I have to undo this. Rewind time and make people understand the truth of the situation, and not the lie they so easily believed.

  Something shifted yesterday, with Nick and me, when I broke down crying. How am I going to tell him I was crying because of what was happening to me at school, and not because Carter actually did it?

  All I want to do is pretend nothing is wrong and avoid it all, for eternity, but I know I can’t. I need to face Nick, tell him the truth, and ask if he’ll help me. He’s the freakin’ class president, the one with all the power. He can set this right.

  Then I’ll fake a stomachache and go to the nurses to lie down. The whole thing will blow over. Disappear. By my last class, it’ll be like it didn’t even happen. Other than the ugly word on my locker, which by now, I pray, has been fixed.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  I hold my backpack in front of my chest with both arms, like it’s a Kevlar vest. But words are more deadly than bullets. Even if they’re the words you didn’t say and not the ones you did.

  I go to my locker, avoiding looking at anyone. The marker is gone, and a fresh coat of paint gleams back at me. Relief swoops through me. I quickly spin the lock, popping the door open in seconds. A scrap of paper flutters to my feet. Weird.

  I scoop up the torn paper and flip it over.

  Tell the truth. Now. Or you will regret it.

  It’s not the same writing as on the locker. It’s smaller, slanted.

  Carter wrote it himself. My hand shaking, I shove th
e paper into my pocket. As I grab my English textbook, a hand grasps my arm. My heart leaps into my throat and I whirl around.

  Nick. He loosens his grip a bit when he sees my expression. “I was going to pick you up this morning, but you were already gone.”

  I tap on the Diet Coke can in my hand. “Needed my fix so I stopped by a gas station.” Another lie, to go with all the others.

  “Oh.” He lets go of my arm. I’m not sure what he’s thinking—that I need a personal body guard? He never gives me a ride to school, since he always stays after for all his activities.

  His eyes sweep over me, like he needs to make sure I’m still in one piece.

  “I’m not going to explode at any moment, you know,” I say, squaring my shoulders and hoping he buys it. I don’t know, I could actually explode.

  He leans in so closely his lips are brushing my skin, his breath hot on my ear. “Sorry, I just don’t know how to act right now. I’m worried about you.”

  I pull back. “How about normal?” I give him a look like he’s being ridiculous, but maybe he’s not. What if Carter had raped me? Would I need someone to pick me up, hold me together?

  Would I even go to school today?

  Nick glances around at everyone staring at us. My bravado deflates like a car tire with a nail in it. There’s nothing normal about this situation. And my cavalier attitude isn’t selling anyone.

  I have to tell him, but I can’t tell him here. Not now. He’ll freak out on me, just like he was freaking out yesterday, and things will just end up worse. I need to figure out exactly what I plan to say, and then talk to him in private, where he can’t run off before I’m done fully explaining.

  I’ll tell him tonight, at home. I’ll explain why it happened, how it all spiraled out of control. It’s not like I did this on purpose. Jeez, at the same time I finally figured out what was going on, someone was already writing whore on my locker. Why would I want any of this?

  He’ll understand. He’ll help me.

  “Normal. Okay,” he says. “How about I walk with you to class. Does that fit the definition?”

  “Sure.”