Get Even (19 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

BREE SPIED KITTY COMING TOWARD HER IN THE HALLWAY AND
was careful not to make eye contact. Those were DGM rules, of course, but after their run-in at the library on Saturday, Bree wanted nothing to do with her de facto leader. And she was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Which made it even weirder when Kitty pretended to trip and fall directly into Bree.

“Sorry,” she said, turning back to look at the tiled floor. “I slipped.”

Bree felt something being pressed into her hand. A note.

Kitty was gone in a flash, disappearing through the door into the courtyard. Bree palmed the folded piece of paper, then shoved both of her hands into the front pockets of her hoodie while she continued down the hall.

She ducked into the ladies’ room, moving slowly and calmly, like she hadn’t a care in the world, and didn’t pull the note from her pocket until she was safely locked in a stall.

MM are coming for JB. Be careful.

As the warning bell tore through the restroom, Bree hastily flushed the note down the toilet, standing over the bowl until the tiny paper square spiraled downward into the sewage system.

This was all her fault.

John had been keeping secrets from her, had replaced her with Cordy, and had maybe even discovered her long-buried secret about Christopher, yet suddenly all of Bree’s resentment evaporated, replaced by blind panic. She needed to protect him, no matter what.

Lunch. That would be the most dangerous time. If Rex and the ’Maine Men found John alone on campus, especially someplace secluded . . . Bree’s stomach lurched at the thought of John getting pummeled by Rex Cavanaugh in an attempt to beat a confession out of him.

She needed to find him first.

Bree whipped her phone out of her pocket and texted John.

Hey.

Bree paused. How was she supposed to break through the gigantic iceberg that had settled over their friendship?

Can we talk? At lunch today?

No response.

Meet me in the library, or your mom’s car?

This time, her phone buzzed as a text came through.

The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.

Well, at least he still had a sense of humor. She quickly responded.

This is serious. There’s some drama going down you need to know about.

John’s response was so fast he must have copied and pasted it.

The party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again later.

The cell phone equivalent of plugging his ears and chanting, “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!”

John was still mad at her. Fine, she’d deal with that later. For now, the important thing was keeping the ’Maine Men from kicking his ass. If only she had friends on the wrestling team, or some big biker dudes who could create a perimeter around him during lunch. But she and John didn’t have friends like that.

Or did they?

Bree opened the Facebook app on her phone and located Shane White’s page.

Shane? This is Bree.
She paused.
John Baggott’s friend
, she added.

This is going to sound crazy, but I think there’s a group of ’Maine Men going after John at lunch.

Could you keep an eye out for him?

Bree held her phone in a death grip as she swung her surplus bag over her head and hurried to class.

Third-period trigonometry lasted an eternity. She kept her phone in her pocket, set on vibrate, and every time someone so much as moved at their desk, Bree was convinced she’d gotten a response.

When the bell finally rang, Bree discovered she was wrong.

No notifications on her cell phone. Total radio silence.

Bree sat in the empty classroom, staring at her phone. She double-checked to make sure the message to Shane actually went through and wasn’t caught in some sort of Facebook messenger app purgatory, but it had a timestamp. The message had been delivered.

She’d just have to find John herself and drag him into hiding.

Students were already in the quad eating lunch when Bree exited the building. The same cliques of friends sat at the same tables in the same corners of the courtyard as they always did, that unspoken territorialism that was only ever challenged in teen movies and antibullying PSAs. She looked around for Shane. John had been eating lunch with him all week, but other than the sour-faced Cordy and some of her goth friends, none of Shane’s gang was in sight.

Which might be a good thing. Wherever Shane was lunching, maybe John was with him? That should keep the douches at bay.

Bree hurried across the quad. She’d better keep searching, just in case. Small groups of blue-shirted ’Maine Men roamed campus, questioning students—a militia on a manhunt.

But unlike those Smurf-shirted idiots puffing aimlessly around school, Bree knew John better than anyone.

When John was in a shit mood, the first thing he turned to was music.

The music building was silent, eerily so. Usually there was at least one neurotic string player sawing out arpeggios on a cello during lunch. She peeked into each of the practice rooms through their small, double-paned windows, passing empty room after empty room. Until the last one at the end of the hall, where John sat on a piano bench, leaning against the wall with a book propped up on his leg.

“Dude,” she said, swinging the door open unceremoniously. “There you are.”

John glanced up at her, then slowly lowered his eyes to the book. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

With a pang of embarrassment, Bree noticed that he was reading Nietzsche.

“Save it,” Bree said. She tried to act like there was nothing wrong, like there had never been a rift between them. She desperately hoped he’d take her cue and do the same. “There’s important shit going down today.”

John read in silence, or at least pretended to, but Bree wasn’t about to give up. “Coach Creed has gone off the rails. Did you see the flier? He’s in direct command of the ’Maine Men.”

Flip
went another page.
Flip, flip.

“I heard through the grapevine,” she continued, planting her hands on her hips, “that they’re looking for you.”

John’s eyes never left the book. “And you felt some great parental need to come save me, is that it?”

Bree threw her hands in the air. “Would you cut it out? I came to find you because you’re my best friend. And I’m definitely not going to sit around and let you get hunted down by some douche nozzle like Rex Cavanaugh.”

“You rang?”

Bree spun around. Three blue shirts blocked the practice room hallway. Tyler and Kyle flanked a sneering Rex.

John settled against the piano lid. “And I thought they smelled bad on the outside.”

Rex glanced at Tyler. “Huh?”

“We’ve entered the eye of the douche-icane,” Bree said, folding her arms across her chest.

“I think you jumped the douche shark on that one, Fonzie,” John said.

“Too much?” Bree asked, acting as if Rex and his boys weren’t even there.

John held up his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “Tiny bit.”

“Enough!” Rex roared. “You two are nuts, you know that?”

“What do you want, Rex?” John said. He stood up and angled his body in front of Bree. “Music lessons? I charge by the hour, and the clock is ticking.”

“Music lessons? Is that what you queers call it?”

Bree snickered. “Do you hear yourself? You’re like an eighties bully cliché.”

“We’re not here for you,” Tyler said.

Rex elbowed him. “She’s as guilty as he is.”

“Guilty of what?” Bree asked.

“Dude,” Kyle said, his face suddenly serious. “I don’t beat up girls.”

Bree clasped her hands together. “Such a gentleman.”

“I’ve got three words for you,” Rex said, holding up three fingers. “D. G. M.”

“Those are letters,” John said calmly. “Not words.”

Rex clenched his jaw, and beside her, John tensed himself, as if preparing for a punch in the gut. Instead, Rex laughed. “That’s funny.” He turned to Tyler. “Funny guy, right? Always thinks he’s so smart. So much better than us.” In an instant, Rex was serious again. “But you’re not. This time, we outsmarted you.”

John remained absolutely still. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Rex.”

“I’m going to give you one chance, Baggott. Just admit you’re the one behind DGM and . . .” His voice trailed off.

“And what?” Bree laughed drily. “You’ll leave him alone? You seriously expect us to believe that?”

“You’re here to kick my ass, right?” John said. This time, Bree noted the slight tremor in John’s voice. “That’s how you outsmarted me, by finding me here to beat a confession out of me?”

Tyler and Kyle exchanged glances, but Rex’s eyes never left John’s face.

“Admitting to a crime I didn’t commit will get me a beating either way.” John took a step to his right, distancing himself from Bree. “But, as you said, you’re the smart one here. So get on with it, Sherlock.”

Bree balled up both of her hands into fists. How was she going to protect John from all three of them? Kyle and Tyler might be squeamish about beating up girls, but either of them was strong enough to hold her back while the other two went to work on John. It wasn’t far enough through lunch yet for the fourth-period music students to start wandering in for class, and even if they did, would Rex care? He clearly felt he was above the law at Bishop DuMaine. And he was probably right.

“What’s wrong, Rex?” John’s face was steely as he stared Rex down. “Suddenly not so sure I’m guilty?”

“Of course you’re guilty,” Rex sneered.

“Why haven’t you pummeled my face to a bloody pulp yet? You scared? Or too much of a pussy?”

The last taunt sealed it. Bree watched as a red wave of rage washed over Rex. He reared back his arm, ready to punch John squarely in the face, when a hand appeared on his shoulder. “What’s up, guys?”

Rex flinched and spun around. Behind him, Shane and five of his friends crowded into the hallway.

“You okay, Bagsie?” Shane continued, nodding in John’s direction. “Seems like there’s some kind of problem here.”

“A misunderstanding,” John said. Bree saw his body relax. “Right, Rex?”

Rex eyed Shane’s crew, as if calculating his odds in a fight. Then he turned to John, defeated. “This isn’t over, Baggott.” He pointed at Bree. “And next time, you won’t have your little bitch here to protect you.”

John opened his mouth to say something, but Bree never gave him the chance. Without thinking, she jerked back her arm and punched Rex in the face.

THIRTY-EIGHT

BREE RUBBED HER ACHING WRIST AS SHE LOOKED AROUND
Father Uberti’s office. She’d never actually been inside, and as she gazed at the overly polished wood and pristinely arranged bookshelves, she was struck by the fakeness of it all. This office had been designed to intimidate students and parents alike. But Bree knew that the ostentatious display was an attempt to overcompensate for insecurity and insignificance.

“I’m waiting,” Father Uberti said. His fingers were laced in front of him on the desk as he stared at Bree.

“What was the question?” Bree asked.

“Why,” Father Uberti said, with the utmost calm, “did you punch Rex Cavanaugh?”

“Oh, right,” Bree said with an easy smile. She flexed her wrist back and forth, as if loosening it up. “Because he threatened to kick my friend’s ass, and then called me a bitch. True story. I have witnesses.”

“So you think you were justified in your assault on a fellow student?”

Bree nodded. “Absolutely.” She knew damn well that F.U. was trying to scare her, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. The worst he could do to her was kick her out of school, and hey, would that really be so bad?

Father Uberti leaned back in his chair and stroked his pointy beard. Bree noticed for the first time how weak his chin was, perfectly camouflaged by his facial hair. “You realize that using violence against another student is grounds for expulsion, do you not?”

Bree’s smile widened. She was prepared for this one. “Except in cases where the student fears for his or her immediate personal safety.”

Father Uberti tilted his head. “Where does it say that?”

“Third page of the student code. Paragraph two.”

She half-expected him to look it up, but Father Uberti didn’t bother. “That clause is not applicable to this situation.”

“Isn’t it? Have you interviewed my witnesses?”

Father Uberti slapped both of his hands on the table. “I’ve talked to three upstanding members of the ’Maine Men student patrol, none of whom corroborate your story.”

Bree shrugged. “Because they picked the fight.”

She was really enjoying this. He kept trying to intimidate her, and Bree was cool as a cucumber. It was only a matter of time before her continued indifference really pissed him off.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he said.

“Of course you don’t.”

Father Uberti rose to his feet. “Bree Deringer, I have no choice but to expel you from Bishop DuMaine Preparatory School for physical assault against a student, effective—”

The door of his office flew open, banging violently against the wall. “Good afternoon, Father Uberti.”

Bree cringed. How the hell did her dad get there?

“Senator Deringer,” Father Uberti said. A jagged row of sweat beads materialized on his forehead. “I didn’t realize you were in town.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Or you wouldn’t have tried to expel my daughter without due process.”

Father Uberti pointed at Bree like a petulant child placing blame on the playground. “But she hit a student. Punched him in the face.”

“After he threatened her and her friend.” Bree’s dad looked down at her. “Did you feel your physical safety was in jeopardy, Bree?”

Bree put on her best “I’m a victim” face. “Yes,” she said through a sniffle. “I was terrified.”

“That is absolutely not true!” Father Uberti cried.

Bree’s dad remained utterly calm. “Really? Were you there, Father Uberti?”

“Well, no.” The priest smoothed down the shoulder flaps on his capuche. “But I have an eyewitness who says—”

“I’ve spoken to six eyewitnesses,” Bree’s dad said, cutting him off. The sternness in his voice made Bree feel like a naughty five-year-old again. “Six eyewitnesses who state that Rex Cavanaugh, Tyler Brodsky, and Kyle Tanner purposefully sought out John Baggott and my daughter during the lunch hour, cornered them in a confined space, and threatened them with bodily harm unless they confessed to their involvement in a murder.” He strolled to the window and gazed out onto the lawn. “I also understand that these boys operate under your orders. Is that correct?”

“Senator Deringer,” Father Uberti started. His voice shook with a mix of fear and anger. “Perhaps you’re not aware of the situation at Bishop DuMaine, considering how frequently you’re away in Sacramento.”

“I am well-informed of all the goings-on at Bishop DuMaine, Father Uberti.
All
of them.”

Father Uberti straightened up. “If you’re accusing me of authorizing student-on-student violence, I suggest you contact the Archdiocese directly.”

Bree’s dad glanced sidelong at Father Uberti. “I already have.” He returned his gaze to the manicured front lawn of Bishop DuMaine. “However, I might be willing to withdraw my complaint about your obvious lack of good judgment in this matter, if all charges against my daughter are dropped, and she
and
her friend John Baggott are protected against any and all retribution in this matter.”

“I . . .” Father Uberti’s mouth worked up and down like a codfish in its death throes. Then he slowly sank back into his chair, defeated.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Bree’s father strode to the door. “Bree? We’re leaving.”

Bree’s stomach dropped as she followed her dad out of the office. She detected the icy tone in his voice, the one reserved for the minority leader in the Senate and for reprimanding his youngest child.

“Dad, I can explain,” she said, as soon as they were clear of the school building.

He didn’t even look at her, just continued to storm toward the car. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“But—”

“Bree!” Bree spun around and saw John jogging toward them across the front lawn of the school. “Bree, wait up.”

Crap. This was not going to go well.

“What happened?” John asked, panting slightly. “What did F.U. do?”

“Nothing,” Bree said quickly. “It’s okay.” She glanced at her dad, who had turned his critical eye on John. She could practically see the judgment telegraphed across his face as he registered John’s jet-black hair and his beat-up Doc Martens.

“Oh,” John said. Then he quickly turned to Bree’s dad. “Senator Deringer, I’m John Baggott. What happened today wasn’t Bree’s fault at all. She was trying to help me and . . .”

Bree kicked John’s foot with the toe of her boot. “Shut up,” she mouthed.

“John Baggott,” her dad said. “You called me this afternoon to inform me of the situation at lunch, correct?”

“Yes,” John said. He swallowed, then added, “Sir.”

Bree’s jaw dropped. “You called my dad?”

“And you’re the boy my daughter sneaks into the house through the servants’ entrance.”

Bree groaned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you dating my daughter?”

“No!” Bree said quickly. Sheesh, why did everyone think they were dating?

Her dad looked from Bree to John and back. “I see. Well, understand this, both of you. Today was the last time I intervene on your behalf. I’ve given you nothing but the best advantages in life, Bree, but I will not continually bail you out and become the laughingstock of California parents. Next time, you’re on your own.”

“Fine,” Bree mumbled. And she meant it. She’d never ask for his help again.

“I understand, Senator,” John said.

“Very well, then.” Bree’s dad grabbed her by the arm and escorted her to the passenger door of his SUV. “Nice to finally meet you, John.”