The Life and Crimes of Bernetta Wallflower (18 page)

“Go away, Fallon,” Jeremiah told her. Like he was in charge of the whole park.

She stood right in front of him with one hand on her hip, her fluffy white dog yanking at its leash. She didn't look afraid of him in the slightest. “Not until you give Trent his notebook back.” Her little dog yapped.

The fire was up to my hairline now. “I'm
fine,
” I told her. I didn't need a
girl
defending me.

“Go away,” Jeremiah told her again. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah,” Stig agreed. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Noah looked like he was going to write a love poem to the grass, it was so interesting.

“It does too have to do with me,” Fallon argued. Her dog yapped again. (I really wished he'd take a chunk out of Jeremiah's leg. But it wasn't that kind of dog.) “Those are drawings of me.”

“What?” Jeremiah said, flipping his gaze from the pages to Fallon and back.

“What?”
I said, even louder.

“Yeah,” she said. “I asked Trent to draw some theories about how I might've gotten my scar, because I don't remember. Amnesia,” she explained, as though we'd even asked. Her little dog yapped. “So he made some pictures.”

Jeremiah looked at the notebook one more time. A drawing of a guy standing at the very tip of an exploding volcano. “Is that true?” Jeremiah asked me. “You drew all these pictures of
her
?”

On the one side of me was Jeremiah Jacobson and his bodyguards, holding my Book of Thoughts. And on the other side was stupid, nosy Fallon Little and her yappy dog. And what was I supposed to say? Those drawings
weren't
of Fallon, that was for sure. But if Jeremiah and Stig and Noah knew the truth, they'd think I was even sicker than they already did.

“Yeah,” I said. “That's what it is.” And while Jeremiah and Stig were busy hooting with laughter, and Noah was still focused on his love affair with the grass, I managed to snatch back my Book of Thoughts and stuff it safely into the front pocket of my sweatshirt. “Take your stupid ball,” I told Jeremiah, tossing the baseball at him. He caught it easily.

Fallon was grinning big, like she'd helped me out so much. “You boys can leave now,” she told them.

Jeremiah just rolled his eyes. “Tell your girlfriend there's something on her face,” he told me. And then he and his bodyguards walked away.

When they were safe back on the field, I jumped onto my bike and was ready to pedal my way home when I heard Fallon say, “You're welcome, by the way.”

I didn't turn around. “I didn't say thank you, by the way,” I grumbled.

I could almost
hear
her shrug. “You owe me one now.”

“Whatever,” I replied. I pushed my right foot down hard onto the pedal.

“Trent?” she said.

I sighed and stopped pedaling. Did turn around, then. “I'm going home,” I told her.

She didn't seem to care about that. “What are the drawings of, really?” she asked. She had scooped up her yappy white dog and was staring at me now, those two big brown eyes, one on either side of that deep pink scar.

“None of your business,” I replied.

She nodded, like that was true. Her little dog yapped. And I pedaled away for real. “See you later, Trent!” she called after me.

“See you,” I told her. But I didn't mean it.

The pedaling home was hard, harder than it had been on the way to the park, because my whole body was fire now, all over. I couldn't believe I'd let anybody see my Book of Thoughts. That was just mine, and no one had ever looked at it before, not even Miss Eveline at school.
Stupid,
I told myself, with every push of the pedals.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

Those drawings weren't of Fallon and her lame scar. I wished they were. I'd rather have thoughts about that. Instead my thoughts, every page, the whole five volumes, were all about nothing but Jared Richards.

The kid I'd killed in February.

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