Sell Out (31 page)

I stood there, frustrated and helpless, and wished for once, I could catch a break.

Skylar’s abandoned locker stood out like a beacon of light. Maybe she was right. Maybe all of this was to force me to do the impossible.

If Lindsay wouldn’t tell her story, maybe it was time to tell mine.

*

I sat at
an empty picnic table and furiously wrote out the fifth page of my confession. Only ten minutes left until lunch ended, and I was determined to cleanse my system of every horrific deed. I’d written the details of the two years I was bullied, including my nightmare on the locker room floor. I was too humiliated to give specifics, but recounted enough to hopefully put protection in place for others. I recorded every aggression I’d witnessed against Lindsay and what I knew about the Torments List.

The last page hurt almost more than the others. It disclosed all the pranks I’d participated in last year and this year. There was enough information on these sheets of wide-ruled paper to ruin me. But somehow, nothing seemed to matter more than telling the truth.

An overpowering scent of peaches and honey stopped my scribbling. Jill was at my side, seated, her back against the table I was using. I flipped the pages over.

“I’m busy,” I said, sliding away. She hadn’t even left an inch between our hips when she sat.

“I can see that.” She relaxed against the table and extended her long legs, crossing them at her ankles. “But I have something to say to you.”

Of course she did. And it probably included some slam about Skylar.

“You know, Blake has envied you since the beginning of junior year. I’d go so far to say he’s afraid of you.”

That got my attention. “You think Blake’s afraid of me?” I snorted. Nothing in our history together implied fear.

Jill faced me, propped her elbow up on the table and nervously played with her hair. “I do. That’s why you’ve always been kind of on the fringe. An outsider within the inner circle. He knew one day you’d break free. He knew you were the only one strong enough to do it.”

I shook my head, feeling the weight of my failure in every word I’d written. “A lot of good it’s done.”

Her eyes burned a hole through me. “That’s where you’re wrong. It takes people a while, but eventually they recognize a true leader. Even when his words hurt.”

She reached in her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of blue paper. “I should have stopped Tom that day. And I should have been a better friend to Lindsay.” With that, the paper was in my hand, and Jill stood to leave. “Consider this my apology.”

The blue note crinkled in my fist while I watched her walk away. In that moment, I actually felt a twinge of respect. Maybe even forgiveness.

Slowly, I opened Jill’s apology and a rush of adrenaline pulsed through me. She’d just handed me the key: Her login and password along with the new URL for the Torments List. Two seconds later, I was past the firewall and staring at my name in bold black. A strange power engulfed me. I felt no compulsion to read the comments because, for the first time in my life, their opinion didn’t matter.

I packed up and walked, no, ran to the front office. I wouldn’t wait this time. I wouldn’t give Blake one second to figure it out.

Our school secretary, Mrs. Johnson, stepped around her oak desk to meet me at the counter. “Cody, you’re making a habit of being in here. What is it this time?”

“I’d like to see Principal Rayburn. It’s critical.”

She lifted a receiver hidden behind the counter and touched some buttons. “Cody James is here. Do you have minute to meet with him?” She eyed me chewing my nail, and I dropped my hand. “Seems important.”

Mrs. Johnson placed the receiver down and tilted her head toward the office.

I took off so fast, I was halfway to the back before I muttered a thank you.

“Come on in, Mr. James.” Principal Rayburn said through his open door.

I walked directly to his desk and slammed down the five pages I had written, the login ID sheet, and Jill’s note. “It’s all here. Everything you need.”

He slid over his half-empty Tupperware and spread out the pages, his eyes darting back and forth as he quickly read through them.

I took a breath. “There’s a website called the Torments List.” With that, I handed him my phone already set to the page.

He zoomed and clicked; his brow furrowed and released several times. He met my eyes, and I saw something in there that confirmed I’d done the right thing. Respect. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on this website for six years.”

I dropped into the chair, stunned. “You already knew about it?”

He pulled my sheet of login IDs from the bottom of the stack. “Rumors. Confessions from punished students, but none were ever able to back it up.” He tapped the page. “Nothing like this.”

“That’s because the Madison elite probably sent them a painful message right after they moved the URL and reset the passwords.”

He stared at me and I stared back. Neither of us said it, but somehow I think he knew I wanted to tell the truth months ago.

“Thank you.” His words were so sincere I had to swallow and find something else to look at.

He handed back my phone. “A lot of this will end up being your word against theirs. But it will enable to me to put some fear into the offenders. Fear is a very powerful tool.”

Didn’t I know it. I’d spent years cowering in fear. I leaned my elbows on my knees. “What happens to me?”

He rubbed his chin. “I could kick you off the wrestling team for this stuff.”

I hung my head. “I know.”

“But I won’t.”

My eyes lifted to his, my heart pounding against my chest. This was the same man who was determined to show me his authority just weeks ago.

“I’m sorry about the Super 32. I think that punishment will suffice.”

A two hundred pound weight lifted off my shoulders. For the first time in months, it felt like I wasn’t fighting the battle alone.

*

By Friday, six
of the ten people on my login list had been suspended. The other four, including Henry, were given in-school suspension for this being their first offense. The Torments List held all the proof Principal Rayburn needed, and even though it disappeared after the first suspension, there was a measurable change at Madison.

A stillness settled in the halls. A recognition that, for once, Blake didn’t have all the power.

M
y father bowed,
decked out in a new tux that actually fit his too thin frame. Hair styled and eyes bright, he made me forget the two weeks of media frenzy.

He’d outdone himself on our Friday date night, down to the dress I found in a big box this morning. The floor length chiffon gown was midnight blue with an elegant beaded bodice and was stunning enough for a princess at a royal ball.

It wasn’t a ball, though, just my eighteenth birthday, but Daddy couldn’t be convinced otherwise. He’d rented out a fancy Italian restaurant and a limousine for the occasion. My future prom date was going to have a lot to live up to.

I stepped past him and through the doors being held by our waiters. Candlelight lit the empty restaurant and soft music drifted effortlessly from a woman at the grand piano.

“Happy Birthday, Princess,” My father said, placing gentle hands on my shoulders.

My gaze drifted over the room. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, reflecting light off mirrored panels in the walls. Our table was round and centered in front of a small dance floor. A man in a suit stood waiting by my chair.

My father offered me his arm, and I gladly wrapped my hand around his elbow. Forgetting about the sorrow that pulsed below my tumbling resolve, I determined I would enjoy every second of this night with him.

His movements were stiff, sweat beading from the pain I knew he was experiencing. But he kept smiling at me. Made sure every minute was the fairytale night he wanted to give me.

The waiter pulled out our chairs and we sat, facing each other. Blue and white china gleamed in the light while our champagne glasses bubbled with sparkling grape juice.

My father lifted his glass. “To Skylar, the most talented, beautiful, strong-willed and kind woman I know. I am truly honored to be your father.”

“Figures you’d throw the strong-willed part in there.”

He grinned, still holding up the glass. “I can’t lie, my dear.”

Tears burned my eyes, but I lifted my own glass and matched his grin. “To my father, the most talented, caring,
strong-willed
and self-sacrificing man I know.”

He bellowed out a laugh. Our glasses clinked, and we swallowed the sparkling liquid.

My father clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I’m starved. Let’s see what they have for us. A little birdy told me you might like this meal.”

I knew he was pretending. Knew he barely kept any food down anymore. But the five-course meal began nonetheless. I made sure to savor each bite, my father taking his enjoyment from watching me.

We teased and talked, but not about the next week or the next year. We talked about the past, about my mom, about his life on tour. He told me stories that made his face light up and stories that had me bursting out with laugher so consuming, I once knocked over my champagne glass. Thankfully, it was empty.

When our meal was over, I wished time could stop. That we could walk through the glass door again and relive every moment over and over.

One of Daddy’s songs filled the room, the pianist obviously given a signal that we were finished eating.

My father stood, gallant and strong, despite needing to steady himself with the table. “May I have this dance?” he asked in a voice that would rival the training of Prince William.

“Why, of course.” I placed my hand in his and let him lead me onto small dance floor.

Pulling me close, my father swayed to the music and hummed the song along with the piano chords.

I could no longer hold them back. Tears trailed down my face, and I squeezed my father, wanting to hold on forever. To beg and plead with God to change the fate I knew was coming.

He sensed my break and ran a hand down my hair, comforting me. “I want you to know something, Skylar. I leave this life with no regrets. I married the love of my life, followed my passion for music with three men I’d die for, held the most precious baby girl in my arms and watched her grow into an amazing young woman. And I served God while experiencing more joy than should be allowed in a lifetime.”

I sucked in the sobs that kept any response at bay and squeezed him tighter.

“When God takes me home, you remember one thing, okay?”

I nodded, still unable to move through my grief.

“You turned wailing into dancing. You clothed me with joy. My heart will sing your praises and not be silent.”

The words came from Psalm 30 and were the lyrics in one of his new songs. The first release that would really showcase my father’s faith. The world knew, of course. He’d always been bold about his beliefs, but his music had been abstract. Subtle messages of hope. This last record, his masterpiece, was a tribute to everyone he loved.

“I’m not ready to let you go.” I sobbed into his jacket.

“Oh, Sweetie, you don’t have to let me go. I’m a part of you. Your eternal cheerleader. Know without a doubt that just because my body is gone, my love for you is not. Tuck it inside your heart, next to your mom’s and you’ll always have us there.”

I looked up at him through the blur of tears. “When you see Mom, will you tell her I love her?”

His eyes glazed, his smile broadening like a man waiting to see his bride on their wedding day. “Of course, I will.”

Despite my grief, despite his pain, I knew my father couldn’t wait to be with my mother again.

The song ended, and we made our way back to the table. My father’s movements were even more strained. That dance had taken its toll. His last sacrifice for me.

Another present soon appeared in front of me. A thin, square box.

I tugged at the ribbon and lifted the lid, tears already flowing again before I even saw the present. I would have gasped, but couldn’t get enough air through my constricted lungs.