Sell Out (17 page)

Sunday morning didn’t
hold its usual appeal. Instead of curling up next to my dad, I had ten minutes until my obligatory field trip with Aunt Josephine. She was probably already here, tapping her fingernails on the counter while she glared at the cuckoo clock in the hallway.

The woman was frustratingly punctual, and I wondered for the millionth time how she and my dad came from the same parents. He and I both suffered from chronic tardiness.

As expected, she sat by my father at the bar, waiting, when I walked into the kitchen. She fussed over him, checking his temperature and then stood to pull his meds out of the cabinet.

My heart softened a little. She did love my father. That much was impossible to deny.

Daddy hugged me and whispered a warning in my ear about holding my tongue, which I agreed to do.

I followed Aunt Josephine out to her glossy, white Lexus in the driveway—even the rain wouldn’t dare leave a smudge—and resigned myself to two hours of torture.

She droned on about something from the minute we left the driveway. I tuned her out. Sure, I agreed to go with her. I’d even be polite for my dad’s sake, but I wasn’t going to be her new BFF.

When it was obvious I wasn’t listening, she stopped her chatter and turned on the stereo. The sounds of Bach filled the car.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into a crowded parking lot, not a vacant space to be found anywhere near the front doors.

Six brick columns shot up to the sky and the dome on top of the building imitated the European Renaissance architecture Ms. Stapler forced me to study. The building reminded me of home. It took me back to a time when our family could actually attend church and worship together. Familiarity swept over me, and my icy heart began to thaw. Images of my mom and dad played like a movie in my mind, bringing me back to a time when life seemed like a fairytale.

My eyes burned, unshed tears threatening to undo my carefully applied makeup.

“This church is almost a hundred years old. Beautiful, isn’t it?” She stared at the historic structure. “The design is based on the cathedral and dome of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. Your father told me you’ve been there.”

I nodded as a new wave of grief stole my voice.

She must have sensed my feeble composure and turned off the car, ending our short conversation.

My dad would say we shared a moment, that for one second Aunt Josephine and I were on the same team. But we weren’t. I was on team life, believing with all my heart God would spare my father. She was on team death believing each day might be his last.

W
hen I walked
into the gym Monday morning, Matt was waiting for me in the ring. He’d arranged two chairs facing each other and was sitting in one of them.

I set down my bag, confused and slightly annoyed he wasn’t ready to work out. “What’s this?”

“This is what you call a mental break. Come sit down.”

I did as he asked, but I fidgeted with the drawstring on my shorts. The space felt electric, as if any minute another guy would appear to play good cop, bad cop.

Matt laced his fingers together and then set his elbows on his knees. “You’re in the best shape of your life. You’re stronger than last year. More skilled than last year. Yet, if you went to state tomorrow, you’d lose. Why is that?”

“I don’t know.” My answer probably sounded as lame to him as it did to me. I could see it in the set of his jaw, but I had nothing else to give him.

“You’re holding back. You’re fighting against yourself, and I want you to tell me why.”

Forceful and agitated, his voice cut through layers of my skin. “I’m trying. I feel like I’m giving everything.”

“Why are you holding back?”

I swallowed twice, hoping to somehow moisten the desert that had become my throat. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t move, but grew louder, more demanding. “Why are you holding back?”

Because there’s too much pressure. Because every day I have to pretend to be someone I’m not. Because in one hour I’m going to defy Blake and lose everything I’ve worked for. Because I don’t even know if Skylar will want the man who’s left behind when the smoke clears.

“I don’t know.”

Matt jumped up from his chair. “That’s a crap answer, Cody. Look inside yourself. Find that fire you used to have and tell me what you want.”

“I want to stop being afraid, okay? I want everything that’s jumbled around in my mind to stop tormenting me.”

Matt calmly sat back down. The gym was eerily quiet like he’d closed it just for this conversation.

I put my head in my hands. “Why can’t I be like you? You never hold back. You never waiver.”

Matt’s tone softened and his hand squeezed my shoulder. “You can’t be me, and I don’t want you to be. We all have a purpose that’s unique. You need to figure out who
you
are. What
you
stand for. Until you do that, nothing in your life is going to make sense.”

He left me there to think about his words.

What
did
I stand for? I had no idea. I knew I wanted Skylar. But I also wanted to take down Blake and the Madison elite. I wanted to destroy the Torments List and free every person who ever felt like Fatty James. But I was out of time. The minute I told Blake that Skylar and I were together, it would be me against the world.

I pulled out my phone, clicking my way to the Torments List for the hundredth time since I found out about the horrible website. How was I supposed to fight a legacy?

A new thread had appeared under Lindsay’s name, and my insides went wild. When was it ever going to be enough? They’d raided her Facebook, created a hate account on Twitter; she couldn’t even walk down the hall without hearing, “slut” every time she passed someone.

I clicked the new tab and my heart stopped.

No. No. No.

I grabbed my keys and bag and sprinted to my car. I had to get to Madison before anyone saw them.

*

I still couldn’t
believe the naked picture in front of me wasn’t photoshopped. Lindsay had posed for this picture. Eyes wide, smile bright, a woman obviously in love with the man behind the camera. A man who would betray her without remorse.

Blake. His name was a fist around my raspy throat.

I’d seen the website. I’d seen the threads that planned their vicious attack, and I knew photocopies of Lindsay would line the halls this morning.

Ripping down the tenth one, I followed the trail into the boys’ locker room. Every bathroom stall, every shower, every locker displayed Lindsay’s mistake.

The stack under my arm was getting thicker as I pushed into the gym. The bleachers showcased more photos. Our Trojan mascot held two of his own.

I checked my watch, panic pushing my feet faster. In minutes, the school would be filled. Minutes were all I had before Lindsay’s world crumbled into the shreds of these eight by ten images.

The gym now clear, I snatched each picture leading to the secluded music hall, sick from knowing how carefully they picked their locations, ensuring teachers wouldn’t get a clue until it was too late. My insides quaked, my hands cut from the sharp edges of the papers as I ripped them down from the wall.

And then I saw him—MCH25—the one who said he had fifty copies ready to hang. The guy was only ten feet from me, rounding the corner to finish his handiwork.

A chill started at my core and worked through every limb. I needed to move, needed to stop him from destroying what was left of Lindsay’s fragile resolve, but seeing Blake’s new lackey made me numb.

Henry Walkins III.

I watched him tape up the last picture in his hand, and then walk away, leaving behind a mess that was mine to clean up. Only now I had his name and his login ID. And this time they weren’t going to get away with it.

B
lake was the
only one at our group table when I took my seat Monday morning.

“She lives. I was beginning to wonder.” His usual swagger was noticeably absent. “Busy weekend?”

He’d called twice. I let the call go to voicemail.

I touched my mom’s locket and scooted closer to the table. “Very. You?” I watched the door for my missing friend, boyfriend, whatever he was. Had Cody talked to him yet?

“More enlightening than busy.” His unblinking blue eyes sent chill bumps down my arms. “What’d you do?”

I rubbed a hand across my skin and wished I were a better liar. “Just the typical family stuff. Shopping, cleaning, watching movies.” Listening to my dad throw up at least six times.

Blake sat there, cataloguing my every word, monitoring my every expression, and heat filled my cheeks. A commotion by the door finally stole his interest and I exhaled, my heart beating faster than it should.

Chugger hurriedly took his seat right as the tardy bell rang.

“Everything cool?” Easing back in his chair, Blake appeared casual, yet his question felt weighted.

“From what I understand,” Chugger answered.

I straightened. “What’s cool?” And where was Cody?

“We’ve got the outing of a lifetime planned for this Saturday,” Chugger said.

Blake’s elbows landed on the table, his eyes targeting mine like a dare. “And you, Beautiful, have to come. We made sure it wasn’t on a Friday, and all of your girlfriends will be there too. No excuses this time.” He angled his head. “Unless you already have plans with someone.”

I swallowed my unease. Blake was looking at me like I’d ripped his heart out. “Is something wrong? You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?’ Blake rolled his pencil to the right and then back to the left.

“Yes.”

He slammed his hand over the wood and finally looked up. “I guess I don’t like being lied to.” There was no humor, no playful banter, and for the first time, I actually understood why Cody was careful around him.

My breath hitched. Maybe the guys did talk this morning. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say the other weekend wasn’t the first time Cody and Lindsay have been alone in his truck. Turns out St. James isn’t so innocent after all. He and Lindsay have been sleeping together for months.”

It took work to keep from gasping. “It’s not true.” I wouldn’t believe it. People fabricated stories all the time. Even when my mom was alive, lies circulated that my dad had multiple affairs.

“Really?” Blake practically spit out the word. “’Cause I have proof.”

I
waited in
the front office for twenty minutes before Principal Rayburn would see me. The list of names I’d acquired was not as extensive as I wanted, but I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity.

“Mr. James,” Principal Rayburn’s baritone invite boomed through his cracked door. He wasn’t an impressive man to look at, but his voice could rival Darth Vader’s.

I stood, clenched my phone, the sheet of paper with the login IDs, and the only copy of Lindsay’s picture that I didn’t destroy.

He didn’t stand when I walked in, but pointed to a lone chair in front of his massive oak desk. The wood surface was freakishly clean, with only one sheet of paper in front of him, an extra-wide computer monitor, and an Oktoberfest mug with supplies inside.

“What can I do for you?” He held a pen in his hand and hovered it over the lone paper on his desk. I could tell by his body language and the set of his jaw that he wasn’t my biggest fan. I’d been labeled a troublemaker this year thanks to Blake’s skipping fiasco.

I slipped into the cold, wooden chair that I’m sure was put there to intimidate and began typing in the url for the Torments List into my phone. “A month ago, you had an assembly on bullying. Said if we were aware of it or were victims of it, we should come talk to you. So, I’m here.”

Principal Rayburn relaxed in his chair, and his smirk practically accused me of pulling a prank. “Are you here to tell me you’re being bullied, Cody?”

“No, Sir.” Not any more. Losing sixty pounds and learning how to fight took care of that one. “I have something to show you.”

A circle continued to spin in front of the Madison webpage. I stopped it and pressed refresh. But this time, I didn’t see the banner or the password screen, just a blank page and a “Safari can’t find the server” error message. My pulse shot up and I tried again, then again, then one more time. “It’s gone.”

He sat up and tossed the pen he’d been holding onto his desk, his earlier amusement replaced by irritation. “Bullying is a serious crime, and this school is a cesspool. I won’t have you and your little entourage making a mockery of something so serious.” He steepled his hands, his lips pressed in a tight line. “I’ve heard your name more than once this year, Cody. And if your coach hadn’t promised me he’d take care of it, I would have already suspended you for planning senior skip day.”

I was so screwed. Guilt by association.

His lecture continued. “I know you were part of that group that jumped Mr. Watkins, too. And the minute I can prove it, you boys are going down.” His threat came with angry brown eyes. The man’s future at this school was questionable. He knew it. We all knew it. And his glare said he’d make a statement on his way out.