Private 03 - Untouchable (18 page)

I could ask him, right? Just ask him. How long had he been going to Easton? Seemed like an innocent enough question. Why couldn't I just get myself to ask him?

Suddenly Josh looked up. "What?"

"Nothing."

I trained my eyes on my book quickly, but not before noticing that his pupils were really tiny today. Were they always changing size like that?

He slapped the paper down and I flinched. "This isn't making any sense. I need sugar." He pushed back from the table in the library and fished a dollar out of his messenger bag, then closed it backup. "Wantanything?"

I smiled briefly. "No. I'm good."

"Be right back," he said distractedly.

He walked off and disappeared around the stacks. I stared at his bag. Every inch of me trembled. All I had to do was grab it. It would take all of five seconds to search the thing. I could do it, no problem. If I could stop trembling.

I glanced left. The Dreck boys who were always at the next table had their noses buried in their books. I could hear some angry guitar screaming from the earbuds of one of their iPods. They didn't even know the rest of the world existed, let alone that I did. No one would ever know.

I reached for the bag, then felt a sizzle of guilt and fear and pulled back. I hated Noelle for doing this to me. She'd turned me into a paranoid freakball. Pretty soon I was going to need some psychotropic meds, thanks to her. But now that she'd planted the seed, I couldn't not know. I glanced toward the stacks. No Josh. I grabbed his bag.

All I was going to find were vitamins. That was all he was taking. He had told me as much. I was going to open this bag and all I was going to find was some special one-a-day formulation for overprivileged teenage boys.

My heart was in my throat as my sweaty fingers ripped the flap open. I pawed through the contents. Books. Notebooks. Pens. A mushed, empty M&M's bag. Random crumbs. A crusty paintbrush. Dammit.

I swatted the flap closed again and ripped open the side 
pocket. His cell phone clattered out onto the table, causing the non-iPod-sporting Dreck boy to shoot me a death-ray glare.

"What're you doing?" he demanded.

"Looking for a pen," I shot back.

'You have a pen." He was very cocky about this declaration.

Mind your own business, Detective Dork.

"I. . . need another color. It's a study-system thing."

He narrowed his eyes but went back to his work.

I almost cried. I was becoming a better liar by the day. But the close call was too much for me. I was just about to shove the phone back and give up when out slid a long, thin, plastic box with seven small compartments. Each was marked for a day of the week.

Every one of my vital organs was moving up my throat now. I opened today's compartment. There were five pills nestled inside nice and tight. So many they barely fit. If Josh had to take these everyday, he hadn't yet taken today's dose. Today's huge dose. The pills were blue and orange and green and white, with various milligrams stamped on their surfaces. My heart stopped, then thumped so hard it hurt.

All kinds of drugs, from Haldol to Ambien.

Noelle had not been lying. At least not about this. Which begged the question, what else had she not lied about?

* * *

I rushed back to Billings like my shoes were a pair of ticking time bombs. I had just looked up Josh's various drugs in The Pill Book at the library--once I'd gotten over the shock that the Easton Academy library owned a copy of The Pill Book. I only even knew the drug-cyclopedia existed and how to use it because my mother had been referencing her battered copy for years. She kept it in her nightstand, and why not? It was her bible.

It turned out Josh was on medication for depression, anxiety, insomnia, and seizures. And now everything was as clear as daybreak to me. Of course Josh was medicated. Of course he was. He'd been acting strangely ever since Thomas's funeral. First, he hadn't reacted at all aside from at the very moment he heard the news. No tears. No sorrow. No nothing. Like he couldn't feel a thing, even when this horrific tragedy had happened. Then, a few weeks later, the even-tempered guy I knew had started to become way more emotionally askew. He'd gotten so tense with me when I'd missed his Boston trip. And then the manic state on

Thanksgiving. I'd thought he was nervous about potentially hooking up with me, but apparently he was just on an upswing. The pupils, the jitters, the quick mood changes, the sugar addiction all pointed back to some serious issues. Had his medication stopped working? Or had he missed a few doses? Who knew?

God, now that I thought about it, there were so many clues. I'd never seen Josh drink more than half a beer. He'd been the only sober soul at the Legacy. And what was that crack that Gage had made about him the other day? Well, maybe it just hasn't been diagnosed. Everyone knew about this. Everyone, as usual, but me.

The walls of Billings House shook from the force of my door slam. Natasha looked up from her desk at the ceiling as if she expected it to cave in.

"Reed! What is it?"

"I need to use your computer," I said.

I dropped everything on the floor. My bag, my new coat--all on the floor near my bed. I must have looked half out of my mind as I approached her, because she stumbled out of her seat without another word. The pocket of her fleecy sweats got caught on the arm of the chair and she tore herself free.

"What's the matter?" she asked me.

I sat down and double-clicked the Google icon. For someone in the midst of a panic attack, I was experiencing a pretty sharp clarity. I couldn't believe I was even able to function, let alone type. But I did. I typed Joshua Hollis.

Natasha was getting impatient. "What are you doing? You're Googling Josh?"

"What do you know about him?" I asked her. I clicked the search button.

"Not much. Just that his parents are world-renowned philanthropists," she said. "They've helped everyone from the homeless here to AIDS victims in Africa. Why?"

The Google results popped up. There were more than a million entries. I started a new search: St. James Academy suicide.

"Oh. Did you want to know what I know or what I've heard?"

Natasha's disapproving tone should have been patented. It could be recognized at even the faintest decibel level. So it was true. She'd heard about Josh's shady past as well. I glanced at her over my shoulder. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she gazed down at me like she was all disappointed. This girl was going to make a great mother one day. Or a drill sergeant. I was about to apologize for being so very immature when she glanced at the computer screen and blinked. Her mouth dropped open slightly. My heart stuttered. When I looked back again it was all there in headline form.

ST. JAMES STUDENT IN SUICIDE SCANDAL

PRIVATE SCHOOL SUICIDE ... OR IS IT?

POLICE SAY 'NOT ENOUGH EVIDENCE' IN

PRIVATE SCHOOL MURDER MYSTERY

"Oh my God."

There was a basketball hovering just behind my mouth. Natasha grabbed my desk chair and pulled it over. She nudged me aside and commandeered the mouse. Good thing. I wasn't sure of my motor functions at the moment.

She opened the first story and we scanned it together. Sophomore Connor Marklin. Dead of an apparent drug overdose. Bruises on his arms. Signs of a struggle. Alleged falling-out with roommate--a minor whose name has not been released. Police suspect foul play. Local authorities bring boy and parents in for questioning.

Then, in the next article: Suicide note ruled authentic. Parents of the deceased will not press charges. "We ask that you respect our family's privacy during this difficult time." Investigation closed.

I sat back in Natasha's chair. My body had been filled from head to toe with lead. I couldn't have moved if I'd tried.

"Everything she said was true."

"Everything who said?" Natasha asked.

"Noelle."

"Well, that would be a first."

"What if he did it, Natasha?" I said quickly. "What if he killed this guy?"

"First of all, I'd like to point out that Josh's name appears nowhere in these articles," she said.

"Yeah, because he's a minor," I replied.

"But Josh Hollis? Come on, Reed. You really think he's capable of something like that? You know him."

"I thought I did," I said. "But clearly ..."

Suddenly, snippets of conversations with Josh started playing themselves out in my mind. Josh saying Thomas didn't appreciate me. How Thomas never thought about other people's feelings. Had he been trying all along to undermine Thomas? To make me hate him? To make himself--his thoughtful, considerate self- look like an angel in comparison? I remembered the look Josh had given me when I had first hooked up with Walt Whittaker in the woods. He had looked so angry, but I had thought he was angry on Thomas's behalf. Now I wondered . . . had Josh always liked me? Had he been manipulating me all along?

"He turned in Rick," I heard myself say.

"What?"

"That townie guy. It was Josh who turned him in. Josh who finally told the police that Thomas was dealing," I said, my mind rushing ahead. "Natasha, what if he just did that to deflect blame from himself. What if he--"

"Josh Hollis did not kill Thomas Pearson," Natasha said.

"How do you know that? The police questioned him all weekend long! And he was so freaked when they decided Rick was innocent. More freaked than anyone else," I told her. I felt like my heart was about to squeeze itself into oblivion.

"Even more so than the mob-mentality boys?" she asked.

"Why are you defending him?" I snapped.

"Because if you're right, then that means we've been eating lunch every day with a freaking murderer, that's why!" Natasha cried.

Her words hung in the silence. I suddenly felt as if the very walls were listening to us. Mocking us. Laughing at our paranoia.

"You're right," I said, rubbing my face with both hands. 'You're right. There's no way. This is Josh we're talking about here."

"This proves nothing," Natasha said. "Nothing except that something horrible happened at St. James. Maybe Josh wasn't even this guy's roommate. There's no name. What're the chances it was actually him?"

Suddenly, I felt energized. "You're right," I said, turning for the door.

"Where're you going?" Natasha asked.

I stormed into the hallway, Natasha on my heels. "Someone has some explaining to do."

Noelle was just getting up from her desk when I walked into the room she shared with Ariana. Without knocking. She had a brown envelope in her hand. She froze and glanced at Ariana, who was fiddling with the lace on one of her throw pillows. The moment we arrived, she tossed it aside and stood.

"Reed!" Noelle said. "I was just coming to see--"

"Okay, so some guy named Connor died at St. James last year," I blurted. "But that doesn't prove anything. If Josh really was involved, why didn't you tell me before? You must have suspected 
something, right? With Thomas winding up dead too? Why didn't you tell me? "

"Reed, calm down," Ariana said.

"No! Don't tell me what to do!" I shouted. "Tell me what's going on!"

Noelle and I stared at each other. I could see her nostrils flare as she breathed. When she spoke, not a single muscle outside of her mouth moved.

"If we'd sat you down on your first day in Billings and told you about every single scandal that every one of the students at this school had been involved in, we would still be talking about it," she said through her teeth. "We didn't tell you because we didn't care. Until now. Until you made it necessary for us to care by hooking up with a psycho."

"He's not a psycho," I said automatically.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't believe me, after the way you treated me earlier," she said coolly. She flicked her eyes over me derisively. In that one moment, I felt like I had lost more ground than I had gained in the past two months. "So I got you this."

She held out the brown folder. It was thick and the flap was open.

"What is it?" I asked, too petrified to move.

"Just open it," she told me. "It's fairly self-explanatory."

I glanced at Natasha. She shrugged, at a loss. I grabbed the envelope, all high and mighty, and yanked out the document inside. It was about forty pages long. The Easton crest was 
stamped at the top of the first page. Typed across the center were Josh's name, his birth date, and the words Dr. David Schwartz, Results of Psychiatric Evaluation. Status: Approved. The pages fluttered in my hands.

"Not everyone has to go through a psych eval before being admitted to Easton," Noelle said. "You have to be a real. . . special case."

Natasha stepped up behind me to read over my shoulder. My vision blurring, I turned to the first page. The paragraphs were long and filled with jargon I did not understand, but certain phrases popped out at me.

"Seems to have accepted death of friend Connor Marklin . . . becomes truculent and withdrawn when asked to talk about the state in which roommate Connor was found and how it made him feel. . . refuses to discuss sessions in which he was questioned by police . . . grows agitated and borderline violent when asked if he had anything to do with death of Connor Marklin ..."