Lie for Me (10 page)

Of course, who really cares about this one?

“It's just not up to your usual level of work, Griff.” Mrs. A appears at my side. Both of us examine the painting and, yeah, she might have a point.

“You'll need to do better for your portfolio.” Mrs. A puts her hand on my sleeve, and even though I won't look at her, I can hear how she's getting gooey on me. “They're going to want to see a range of skills, not just sketching.”

I nod, refusing to say anything, because I don't trust myself not to swear. No joke they're going to want to see more range, but does she know how expensive real art supplies are? And when am I going to get the time to practice anyway?

I force a long breath through my mouth. Whatever. I'll just work harder.

“Perhaps you could do some extra-credit work.” Mrs. A tugs her paint-spattered cardigan closer. “Principal Matthews has asked for me to organize a collage to Tessa Waye's life, a gift we can give her parents. I would love for you to contribute.”

If I had more time, I would. As it is now . . .

“Thanks, Mrs. A.” The bell rings and everyone lunges for the door. “I'll take this one with me. No point in storing it here.”

“Griff—”

I duck her outstretched hand and haul the picture and my book bag into the hallway. I have fifteen minutes before my next class, plenty of time to swing past the Dumpsters behind the school. I head down the lower staircase and push through the double doors into the rear parking lot, passing Jenna Maxwell and Matthew Bradford as I go.

Interesting. Jenna's laughing so hard she's leaning against Bradford, almost crying into his chest.

Glad someone's having a good day.

I arc the painting into the first Dumpster, waiting to hear it hit the metal wall. It does, but the clang is less satisfying than it should be.

“Asshole!”

I stop dead. I know I'm tired, but I'm not tired enough to hallucinate the picture calling me an asshole. I loop around the corner, listening. The Dumpsters are lined against the wall and, sure enough, something's rustling in the last one.

I ease closer, looking over the edge, and all my breath escapes when Wick glares up at me. “You've got to be kidding,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, spare me the astonishment. Like this never happened to you.”

I pause. “No. In all honesty, I can say that it hasn't.” I reach down, opening my hand to her. She eyes me like I'm going to bite her. “What the hell did you say, and who'd you say it to?”

“Why does it always have to be my fault?”

I grin. “Because it's you and your mouth.”

Wick's eyes narrow—I've overstepped again—until she laughs, extending her hand toward mine as she eases across the swollen black garbage bags. One of them gives a bit and she stumbles, the fear of wearing lunch meat making her even faster.

“It's nothing, really. Jenna Maxwell was just bitching about Tessa—” Wick seizes my hand, kicking her sneakers into the Dumpster's wall and scrabbling for grip. I give her a tug and, briefly, she's up, straddling the edge, and then she's falling.

I don't think; I just grab her.

Or maybe I do think, because now her body is sliding down mine. Her curves are pressed into me, dragging her heat against my chest and stomach.

Christ. Think about baseball . . . computers . . . slamming your hand in a car door
.

“Graceful,” I mutter. Honestly, it's all I can manage. My brain's stuck on how she's small, but she doesn't feel like she would break.

“She was saying shit about Tessa,” Wick says and, immediately winces, looking like she wants to disappear.

Or take it back.

“About how she was going to go to hell,” Wick adds.

Because Tessa committed suicide. I stand as still as possible, letting her lean into me. The thing is . . . Wick's never confided anything in me and I don't really know what to do with it.

“What was she saying?” I ask, tucking stray hair from her eyes and hoping she doesn't realize I'm also brushing away a bit of garbage. Too late. Her eyes widen with recognition and she shoves me away.

I retreat a step, force myself to breathe as Wick picks at her clothes. “She just said shit about how suicides will burn in hell and . . .”

Wick looks up at me and hesitates. I don't know why. Once again, she's light-years ahead of me and I'm tripping after her, but there's something churning in her eyes, and the way she's looking at me . . . it has my eyes dipping to her mouth. Would she let me kiss her? Stop it.

“So Jenna was being Jenna,” I prod. “And that got you into the Dumpster how?”

“It just got out of hand.” Wick's swiping at her jeans again, then stops, eyes bugging. She extends one hand in front of her in horror, gaping like she doesn't recognize it. Or doesn't want to recognize it.

Gross. I don't really blame her. Her palm's covered in some sort of slime.

“Here.” I dig through my backpack and find my Windbreaker, hold it out to her. Wick stares at the jacket with that same something churning in her eyes. I'm not sure whether I want to laugh or put my arms around her. It's not like I'm proposing marriage, but this one thinks about everything before she does it.

“Oh, for God's sake.” I grab Wick's wrist and use the jacket's soft underside to clean her palm. The stuff's disgusting and I have to turn the jacket twice to get her skin clean. Wick's face never changes, never betrays anything she might be feeling.

Her pulse does though. It speeds under my fingertips.

“You must have cared a little,” I say, concentrating on her palm so I don't have to pay attention to the heat spreading through my stomach. “Or you wouldn't have started anything.”

“Oh, please.” My thumb presses into her lifeline and Wick jerks, snatching her hand away. “As if I ever needed an excuse to run my mouth.”

True. It's one of the sexiest things about her . . . that and how she's looking at me like I don't affect her, like her heartbeat isn't thumping. We're so close I can see her pulse tapping at the thin skin of her throat.

What would happen if I could convince Wick to let herself go?

I force my eyes to hers.
Get it together, Griffin
. This is another real conversation—the second in two days. I'm not going to blow it. “So what'd you do?”

“I called Jenna Maxwell a bitch.”

“Seriously?”

She smiles—actually it isn't a smile, it's an
eff you
—and suddenly, we're back to where we were last week. Hell, we're back to where we've always been, like the stuff that happened before never existed. I'm not letting her off that easy.

“I want to know, Wick. Why would you even bother?”

“Because someone had to say it.” She glances away—to the Dumpster, to the school, to her shoes. “She's telling everyone Tessa's going to go to hell because she committed suicide.”

It's barely above a whisper and still nails me in the gut. I pause. Maybe we're not back to where we were. Wick's not looking at me, but she is confiding in me. I don't know what to say to make her feel better, but the asshole inside me is damn happy she's talking to me about more than homework assignments.

I ease closer. “Then she's an idiot. I'm sorry about what she said though. People are stupid, thoughtless. I'm sorry you had to hear it.”

“I want to know if Tessa saw the same things my mom saw. I want to know if she came to the same conclusion—if they both did. I mean she must have, right?”

Her voice catches and we both go still. I'm not good with tears, but for this girl, I'd try.

Wick takes a quick breath, attention pinned to the horizon. “How can we all just keep swimming along when some of us are drowning? How can we not
know
?”

I try to think of some comforting answer and come up with nothing. All I can think about is my dad's desertion and my mom's implosion. Sometimes knowing doesn't matter. It definitely doesn't help you move on.

You can't keep people from hitting the ground if they're determined to jump. Everyone has a death wish. It's just a matter of how they want to go, but that doesn't stop some of us from trying to save them. It's like an effing curse and it makes you feel so alone . . . until you find someone else who's living through the same hell.

I don't know how to say that though, because this is Wick, the girl who has no feelings, and she's disintegrating right in front of me.

“Because you can't save them all,” I say at last. “But sometimes, if you're lucky, you can save one.”

I'm not sure how it happened, but Wick's drifted closer. Our sleeves are brushing and, carefully, I put one arm around her shoulders and, yeah, her hair smells like garbage, but when she finally leans into me, it might be the best feeling ever.

I duck my head, cheek touching her temple. “Sometimes you have to save yourself by asking for help.”

Wick stays so still, like she'd let me hold her forever until she stiffens.

“Griff,” Wick says, clearing her throat. “I need your help.”

14

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Wick's telling me how Tessa Waye was raped and
that's
why she jumped, how Wick has Tessa's diary and that Tessa's little sister gave it to her.

How Wick wants to fix this and doesn't know how, but maybe I could help her and maybe we could make it right.

I stare, focusing on Wick—hell, focusing on
me
. I'm trying to keep my mouth from hanging wide open. Wick's not just looking for absolution. She's looking for help. Holy shit.

I stare at Wick and she stares at me. Her chin lifts. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

That you're crazy? That you're playing with fire? And for
what
?
I can't say any of that, and she squeezes her eyes shut against my silence.

“Why do you care?” I ask suddenly. I don't get it. Why would Wick give a damn about that girl? “Tessa Waye didn't know you existed.”

“We were friends . . . once.”

Evasive. She sounds just like my mom and her friends. “There's more to this. What aren't you telling me?”

Wick's mouth works, but no sound emerges. My chest shrinks. Withholding. I don't need it.

I shake my head. “Yeah, I don't do the work if I don't know the deal.”

“It's Lily,” she blurts, and for a second, I think her legs are going to collapse. “Lily's his next target. I need help getting to the guy.”

“Wait. Are you the one who posted on Tessa's Facebook page? Who said the thing about knowing who killed her?”

She nods and I gape, feeling like my world's just tilted sideways. “Wicked . . . if this is true . . . you're taunting a fucking psychopath.”

“I—” The first bell rings, startling both of us.

“We can't do this here.” I rub one hand through my hair, watching Wick. “We need to get going.”

She lifts her chin again. The gesture's starting to feel familiar. She does it when she's scared.

“Well?” Wick asks.

“Griff? Wick?” Our teacher, Mrs. Harding, appears to my left, Shane Hallowell right behind her. No doubt they're both on their way to World History. Wick and I should be too.

“Hey, Wick. Hey, Griff.” Shane waves, looking pitiful. Actually, Shane always looks pitiful. I think it's a permanent setting.

“I've been looking for you, Griff,” Mrs. Harding says. She's close enough to get a good whiff of Wick, and her eyes start to water. “You need to come with me. They've asked to see you in the front office.”

The front office?
I freeze.
Did something happen to my mom?
I can feel Wick's eyes on me, but I don't trust myself to look at her. I'm still processing. Bottom line . . . I have to work with Carson. Everything she just told me? It's exactly what he wants. I have to give it to him.

I shake myself. “Sure, Mrs. Harding.”

Our teacher nods, turning her attention to Wick. “You're going to be late, Wicket.”

“Right. On my way.” Only she isn't. Wick's pasted to the spot, staring at me, waiting. This is where I need to reassure her and I . . . can't.

I walk off, making it to the front office just as a dark-haired woman's pushing through the double doors, heading toward the parking lot. My heart double-thumps.

“Mo—” It's not. I slow down, stop.

“Hello, Griff.” Carson's voice is syrupy again. All the hairs on my arms stand straight. “Sorry to pull you out of school like this.”

No, you're not
. I turn. “Is something wrong?”

The detective's slumped against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles. “Could be. Your mom had a bit of an accident. She's fine, but, well, there might be some charges.”

Briefly, my head goes fuzzy, like I'm floating. Then I drop back into myself. Hard. “What kind of charges?”

“Drunk-and-disorderly mostly. Her friend was driving, so he'll bear the brunt of it. You know how these things go.” Carson pushes away from the wall and pans his hands to either side, palms toward the ceiling. He's grinning like he couldn't stop if he tried. “No telling what else we might find in her car. It was impounded, so the officers will have plenty of time to look it over. Think we'll find anything you should be worried about?”

No idea
. “Of course not.”

“Good. That's good. Fine will definitely be steep to get it out though.”

I stay still, watching him.

Carson scratches behind his ear. “Reminded me that I hadn't heard from you in a while. Thought maybe I could help you out. You're a nice kid, Griff. You don't deserve any of this, so I thought you'd want to do your interview now. I'll take you to the station—unless you want to do it here.”