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“I’m okay. But I feel like we should trade insurance info or something. Do they have that, for bike-body collisions? Do you have bike insurance? If you’re getting into this many accidents maybe you should—”
“Do you have a phone?”
He looks at me like he doesn’t know what that is. Or why I’m asking.
“A phone,” I say again, “so I can give you my number. So you can text me when you get home. So I know you’re okay.”
He pats his pockets. “I don’t run with it.”
I shuffle through my backpack and dig out a Sharpie and a scrap of paper and write my number on it. “Here. Take it. Text me,” I say, trying to make it as clear as possible that this is a here’s-my-number-civic-duty and not a here’s-my-number-call-me-hotstuff kind of situation.
Jason takes the piece of paper, and I’m about to get back on the bike when he plucks my phone from my hand and starts typing away. When he passes it back, I see he’s programmed his number in with the title Jason the ru
“Just to be safe,” he says.
“Yeah, okay, sure,” I reply, and before the moment can get any more awkward, I climb back on Dante—horses, falling off, getting back on, etc.—and pedal off. (I wish Eric could have witnessed my stellar Samaritan behavior and reported that back to the Archive, but of course now he’s nowhere to be seen.) I look back once at the corner to make sure Jason is still standing (he is), and then I head to school.
By the time I get there, the lot is filling up and Wesley is leaning back against the bike rack. Another girl—a silver-striped one this time—is hanging off his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Whatever she’s saying, it must be good; he’s looking down, chewing his lip, and smiling. My chest constricts, even though it shouldn’t because I shouldn’t care. He can flirt if he wants to. I hop down from the bike and walk it over. His eyes drift lazily up to find mine, and he straightens.
The girl on his shoulder nearly falls off.
I can’t help but grin. He says something, and her flirty little smile fades. By the time I reach the bike rack, she’s vanished through the gates—but not before shooting a dark look my way.
“Hey, you,” he says cheerfully.
“Hey,” I say; then, because I can’t help myself, I look around and add, “Where’s Cash?”
The blow sticks, and Wesley’s good humor thins. Then his eyes wander down to my hands, and it dissolves entirely. “What happened?”
I almost lie. I open my mouth to feed him the same line I’ve fed everyone else, but I stop. I have a rule about lying to Wesley. I don’t do it anymore. I can justify evasions and omissions, but I won’t lie outright—not after what happened this summer. But I’m also not going to relive last night here on the steps of Hyde, so I say, “It’s a fu
“I’ll hold you to it,” he says, and then he looks past me. “There you are. Mackenzie here was begi
I turn to find Cash striding up the curb, a set of car keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“Morning, lovelies,” he says, opening the bag and producing three coffees in a to-go tray. Wesley’s eyes light up at the sight of the third drink. He reaches for it, but before his fingers touch the paper cup, Cash pulls it out of reach.
“You can’t say I never do nice things for you.”
“Statement retracted.”
Cash offers me one of the coffees, and I take a long, savoring swallow, since I only got a taste of this morning’s cup before I spilled it all over Jason the ru
“Sorry for the delay,” says Cash. “They kept getting the order wrong.”
“How hard is it to make three black coffees?” asks Wes.
“Not hard at all,” says Cash. “But the order was for two black coffees”—he takes the second coffee—“and a soy hot chocolate caramel whip.” He turns the tray in his hand, offering Wesley the last, fancy drink.
Wes scowls.
Cash continues to hold out the tray. “If you’re going to be a girl about these things, you’re going to get a girly drink. Now be gracious.”
“My hero,” grumbles Wesley, reaching for the cup.
“And don’t pretend you don’t like it,” adds Cash. “I distinctly remember you ordering it last winter.”
“Lies.”
Cash taps his temple. “Photographic memory.”
Wesley mumbles something unkind into his soy hot chocolate.
The three of us linger at the gates of Hyde, sipping our drinks and watching the flow of students, enjoying the time before the bell rings. And then Cash breaks the peace with one small question, lobbed at Wes.
“Did you hear about Bethany?”
The coffee freezes in my throat. “The blond senior? What about her?”
Cash looks surprised by the fact I know who she is. “Her mom said she never came home yesterday. They haven’t been able to find her anywhere.” He looks at Wes. “You think she finally ran away?”
“I guess it’s possible,” he says. He looks upset.
“You okay?” asks Cash. “I know you two—”
“I’m fine,” Wes cuts him off, even though I’d really like to hear the end of that sentence. “Just sorry to hear it,” he adds.
“Yeah,” adds Cash. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
Behind my eyes, the memory from the pendant echoes: a distraught Bethany clutching the steering wheel, willing herself to go. But what happened? What led up to that moment?
Cash hesitates, then looks to Wes, who says only, “She was having a hard time at home.”
And then, before any of us can say more, the bell rings, and we pour through the gates with the rest of the students. Cash and Wes branch off and the conversation dies, but the questions follow me to class. Did Bethany really run away? Why? And if she did, why did she wait until now? She had all summer. What was it about yesterday?
A darker thread runs through my thoughts.
First Mr. Phillip, and now Bethany.
They both have something in common. Me.
A sinking feeling follows me through the halls and into class.
Da said you had to see patterns but not go searching for them. Am I drawing lines where they shouldn’t be, or am I missing something right in front of me?
No text from Jason.
I check my phone before Precalc and then again before Lit Theory. Finally, on my way to Wellness, I shoot him a message.
Did you get home safe?
I try to calm my nerves as I shove my phone and my bag into my locker, aware that the noise in the room is different. It’s still loud, still full of slamming metal and the shuffle of bodies and voices, but those voices aren’t full of laughter. They’re full of gossip, and gossip is the kind of thing told in fake whispers rather than shouts, lending the locker room a kind of false quiet.
I only catch snippets of the gossip itself, but I know who it’s about.
Bethany.
Popular girl. Small school. The students are latching on to the story. A clump of juniors thinks she was kidnapped for ransom. Another thinks she ran away with a boy. A handful of seniors echo Wes and Cash, saying they’re not surprised, after what happened—but they never say exactly what happened. Instead they trail off into silence. One junior thinks she got pregnant. Another thinks she’s dead. A few talk under their breaths and shoot dirty looks at the girls who don’t have the grace to gossip quietly.
Whatever the story, one thing’s for sure: Bethany is missing.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” says Amber, turning the corner.
“You can’t turn everything into a crime,” says Safia, following on her heels. “It’s morbid.”
They slump down onto the bench beside me while I tug on my workout shirt, wishing it were long-sleeved so I could hide my cut-up knuckles. Instead I shove my hands into the pockets of my workout shorts.
“I’m just saying—there’s evidence, and it contradicts.”