13 to Life (10 page)

I believed him. I had to believe Derek “the man” Jamieson was good at everything he tried. Something deep inside me got soft and warm at the realization I wanted to find out exactly how true that belief was.

Derek ducked out of the office as unobtrusively as he’d appeared. Sure, he winked at the secretaries and asked about their kids—threatening to marry one’s daughter when she got into ninth grade—but then he left, leaving the middle-aged women chuckling at being so easily flustered by an eleventh-grade boy. If Derek could work magic like that on my behalf, not only would I get off scot-free, I might be sainted, too.

The office door wheezed open again. Mr. Maloy flopped into the seat recently occupied by my would-be hero. He was holding a set of thick manila folders. With a sinking heart I knew they were labeled with my name.

Counselor Maloy held my life in his hands.

I reached into my backpack and dug into my jeans for my worry stone. I kept my mouth shut. I’d learned early that saying too much to the wrong person was sometimes more destructive than keeping it all bottled up inside.

After three minutes of facing my stony silence, Mr. Maloy spoke up. “You have to talk to me so I can
help
you, Jessica.”

I had the sudden impression of him as a struggling defense attorney begging a client to
cooperate
. Maybe that was why he was a school counselor now.

“I want to help you, Jessica. Girls like you—”

I ground my teeth.
Go ahead,
I thought.
Compare me to some case study on grief and adolescence. Tell me how I stack up against other disturbed girls in my age range and socioeconomic class
.

I rubbed my thumb across the pietersite bead, making slow circles on its surface as I focused on staying calm. I rested my cheek on my knee and stared at the floor. And kept massaging
the worry stone as if it could erase my problems. Or at least Mr. Maloy.

The door opened again. I saw high heels. Bright red, look-at-me high heels.

My head jerked up.

“Hey, Maloy.” Counselor Harnek smiled down at the mousy man with the comb-over as if she were an avenging angel newly descended to save his sorry hide. “I got called in on this one,” she explained, patting his shoulder. She leaned over and took the files from him. Slid them right out of his hands and into her arms. With a subtle move of her hand, she opened the top file. One quick glance and she closed it again.

He stood, surprised but equally relieved.

Harnek edged him to the door, speaking in that way of hers that made you think you were in on some confidential information while she let other people in on it, too. “She’s a tough cookie, Maloy. You’ve done a fine job with her—God knows she didn’t give you much to work with, probably clamming up on you. . . .”

His nod only fueled her declaration. “Yep, seen it before when she was still in middle school. I have one last trick up my sleeve I’d like to try—No? You don’t mind me taking this case from you? You’re the best, Maloy. I’ll keep you posted,” she promised, opening the door and walking him out.

I half-wondered if the Harneks and Jamiesons were related; they were so slick.

The door clicked shut. Harnek plunked down next to me. She moved the stack of folders over to an empty chair and straightened the hem of her skirt before turning to address me. “Hey, slugger.” She winked.

I groaned. Still, I felt tons better. It was like I was right back in middle school, popping into her office because she was the
counselor anyone could talk to. About anything. Now years separated us. And tragedy. Harnek took it all in stride.

She patted my knee. “So, sounds like you administered some old-school justice in the girls’ locker room.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Don’t sweat it. I kicked some righteous ass when I was your age, too. Here’s the thing. Perlson’s not going to want to act on this because you’re a good student. And everyone’s heard some version of what happened on the seventeenth.”

I swallowed. Leave it to Harnek to remember the date.

“So you’re already a martyr. That works in our favor. But you’ll have to be punished because you took down a
pair
of cheerleaders.” She whistled, a low, respectful sound. “And although their mamas are no great prizes, they know how to raise a stink, especially over the price of a damaged nose job. So there’re a couple options. . . .”

She looked me flat in the face, studying my eyes. “You’re not even high—that would have been an easy defense.” She tapped her chin. “I’m guessing you don’t want to play the crazy card. . . .”

I chewed my lip.

“No, I’d save that one up for something really good, too,” she agreed. “Are you opposed to doing some community service?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Good. Let’s see how this all pans out. But if I have to jump in and save you, I have a totally doable option.” She patted my knee again. “Don’t worry, Jessie. You’re in good hands.”

She leaned in close; this time her voice was a whisper marking a true secret. “I’m actually thrilled to be here,” she admitted, brown eyes glittering with tiny golden flecks. “I’ve been waiting a while for those two little chickadees to get a good
karmic ass-kicking.” Then she sat back up, straight as a rod, hands folded in her lap as if she’d never entertain such thoughts.

She looked at me again rather suddenly. “For the record—”

I sighed. “Yes?”

“You’re not feeling—I don’t know—a little reckless right now, are you?”

I stared at her steadily, waiting.

“I mean, you just did something really dramatic. Have you—at any other time—felt the desire to hurt someone else?”

“What? No! I didn’t even want to hurt
them
. I just wanted my note back.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm
what?
”

“Just hmm. Have you recently begun giving away any of your belongings? CDs, favorite clothes or books. . . .”

“No.”

“Distancing yourself from friends?”

“No.”

“Ever feel like hurting yourself?” she tossed out, as lightly as if she were asking did I prefer Coke or Pepsi.

“No! I am
not
suicidal,” I hissed.

“Okay, okay.” She waved her hands at me. “I just have to ask.”

“Fine.”

“As a note—”

“What?”

“You might want to make sure Maloy understands that, too.” She flipped open the folder on top.

My school picture stared back at me, my basic stats hugging its corners. “So?”

“Red paper clip.”

Again I asked, “So?”

“I worked with Maloy years back.” Harnek rolled her eyes. “He sort of uses a code to let him keep up with stuff at a glance”—she closed the folder and turned it on its side so I was looking into its top—“without writing it all down.”

“And since it’s not written down, if something happens on his watch, he can just remove the clip and claim ignorance,” I surmised.

“No! Of course not,” she assured, flustered. “Maloy’s socially awkward, but he follows up on all his hunches. Even the weird ones.”

“I know.”

Vice Principal Perlson’s voice crackled across the intercom. “Please send in Ms. Harnek and Miss Gillmansen.”

I let her lead the way. I focused on keeping my brave face on, all the while hoping no call had been made to my dad yet. The pietersite bead grew warm beneath my frantic touch.

Perlson sat back down when we entered. Coach Mac nodded from where he sat in a chair reading an old sports magazine, feet propped under the lip of the VP’s desk.

“Yo, Coach,” Harnek said, laughing when Coach dropped his feet from the desk’s face and threw down the magazine.

“Well, Nance! They’re dragging you out of the middle school cesspool to come help
us
now?”

Perlson watched the exchange with veiled eyes.

“Only a temporary gig, Coach.” Harnek smiled. “Take a seat, Jessie.” She beamed at Perlson; he smiled broadly back.

“Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Harnek,” Perlson said affably.

“That’s the nicest way of saying what you really mean, Vice Principal.” She winked and settled in next to me. “Shall we cut to the chase, gentlemen?”

“Gladly,” Perlson agreed, smiling more pleasantly, although I felt I watched a man swiftly shifting gears beneath a carefully constructed mask.

“We all know about Jessie’s recent history,” Harnek began.

I ducked my head but heard the men make brief, humming affirmations. My face grew hot under their watchful eyes. I worried about what version of the events they had heard. Some were kinder to my family than others.

“Anyhow, Jessie’s been coping with a lot recently. And she’s really been there for Sarah Luxom—”

I twitched at the mention of Sarah’s name. I hadn’t expected her to be brought into this.

“Ignoring her supposed involvement in the June seventeenth accident and instead helping her reacclimate to school.”

“Admirable,” Perlson murmured. I watched from beneath my bangs as he drew back in his chair, putting more distance between us. “But she is no saint. She
assaulted
—”

I winced at the word.

“Two cheerleaders.”

I thought Harnek took a moment to peer at the clock over Perlson’s rounded shoulder. “Even Jesus freaked out in the temple,” Harnek quipped, shrugging.

The two men stared at her blankly.

“I’m just saying—if we want to draw comparisons between saints and Jessie, we should remember that saints and saviors aren’t always perfectly peaceful.”

Perlson quirked an eyebrow at her. “Nonetheless—”

The intercom on his desk sputtered. “Derek Jamieson, Jenny Smailles, and Macie Gunders are here to see you, sir.”

“Excellent. Send them in.” He tapped a button and then looked at Harnek with cool, coal-colored eyes. “Let’s see what the girls have to say before we decide anyone’s fate, shall we?”

I realized in that moment that even his beautiful voice with its calypso rhythms couldn’t sugarcoat my situation now—had he wanted to sugarcoat anything.

The office door opened and Derek walked in, a solemn look across his handsome boy-next-door features. My heart stopped. I wondered if he’d failed in his self-appointed mission to rescue me. He held the door open and Macie walked in, scowling, her upper lip puffed to an outrageous size and slightly purpled. Even with her finest skills in cosmetology she’d have quite a job hiding that. She sat down and glared at me. I wondered if whatever Perlson did to me could possibly be worse than the revenge Macie was already cooking up in her head.

The room grew completely still as Jenny entered playing with her bleached blond bangs, curling them with her fingers
into a sweep over the bridge of her pert ski-slope nose (which she covered with an ice pack) and her left eye.

As Jenny turned to sit, the bangs swayed away from her face a moment. I almost gasped. The skin around her left eye was swollen and bruised, leaving the eye barely able to peek out. I wondered if her right eye would do the same. Surely a far cry from the look she was probably going for at Homecoming.

“Ladies,” Perlson said softly.

I mentally questioned his choice of the term, but Jenny and Macie seemed to recognize it as somehow applicable to them, and nodded in his direction.

Derek sat down and took Jenny’s hand, guiding her into the seat beside him.

I froze.

He patted her hand reassuringly, whispering encouragement into her ear. She smiled at me.

I couldn’t even blink. I felt like I’d been socked in the gut—betrayed. My eyes dried up like raisins.

“Miss Gunders,” Perlson asked, “could you please tell us about the situation in the ladies’ locker room today?”

Macie looked at Jenny. Something passed between them that I couldn’t understand. I hated how it seemed the popular kids communicated at a different mental wavelength from me. It was a look laced with hidden meaning.

I knew my fate was hidden in that single glance, but I couldn’t read it. I could pick apart Shakespeare, analyze Freud, but understand cheerleaders? No. They were a different species, predatory and lethal.

Derek sat silently at Jenny’s side, placidly stroking her hand.

“Miss Gunders?” Perlson tried again.

Macie nodded. Her eyes were cold. “We were all in the locker room after
a game of basketball.” She leaned around Jenny and addressed Derek. “Good game, Derek.”

“Thanks, Mace.” He didn’t falter stroking Jenny’s hand.

Glaring at me with fresh ferocity, Macie continued, “We were all getting changed and we saw a note fall out of
her
locker.”

She wouldn’t say my name. Was I so far beneath her? I rubbed the stone until I thought my thumb would callous.

“And then?”

“Jenny picked it up.”

“Did Miss Gillmansen ask for it back?”

“Yes,” Macie admitted. “She even said
puh-leez,
” she added. But it was far less a note about my polite behavior than a verbal swipe. As if saying “please” was a sign of weakness.

“Hmm. Who was the note from?”

“Her mother.”

“Oh.” Perlson paused. “Then what happened?”

“Well, we read it, of course.” Macie rolled her eyes.

“Out loud?”

“Yes.”

“And then Miss Gillmansen attacked you?”

“No.” It was Jenny. She peered at me with her one good eye. “I was going to shred the note.” She gave Derek’s hand a squeeze. He squeezed back reassuringly. “It was a really bitchy—oops.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry.”

Perlson nodded, excusing her faux pas and signaling her to continue.

“It was a really
nasty
thing for us to do. I can’t blame her for snapping. I mean, that whole mess with her mom—”

Derek squeezed her hand again, and I saw something different behind his eyes. But Jenny kept rattling on; and Derek kept
pumping her hand—to silence her or encourage her? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t be sure of anything.

Jenny was babbling. “You know—surviving the sophomore slump, trying to deal with poor mental Sarah”—she set the ice down long enough to spin her finger in the air near her ear—“and the way Derek’s been stringing her along just to make me jealous . . .” She shook her head sadly.