TMI (22 page)

Meg never slept last night. She was in the middle of her second-period class, math, not that she'd heard a word. She sat with her chin propped in her hand, forcing her eyes not to close. With half a laugh, she wondered why it was so hard. Chase's words were still stuck on an infinite loop playing in her mind.
I am never having kids, swear to God.

She'd run from him. She'd just admitted she was in love with him not a minute before. She'd been ready to revise her entire plan for him because maybe—just maybe—her father was wrong, and it
was
possible to love someone and be loved in return and not ruin her entire future in the process.
I am never having kids, swear to God.

Her gut twisted again, but she was used to it now—almost. The pain spoke to her in her dad's voice.
I
told
you
to
focus
on
your
plan!
It attacked every time she thought about Chase—the slump of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the never-neat mop of brown hair hanging over furious unearthly eyes.

He'd had a plan that had been all shot to hell. She shook her head and winced. What the hell good did it do to make plans? All that time, all that work and for what? Another revision? Another course correction? For a spotlight on the disappointments? For a giant red X over the failures? Maybe Bailey had the right idea all along. The pain returned for another go at her whenever she thought of her former best friend—the bounce in her step, the ever-ready giggle.

She heard the whispers and saw the fingers pointing at her and slouched lower in her desk, wishing for invisibility. The teacher was discussing sine, cosine, and tangents, but her mind circled right back to Chase. She'd been right there—right on the edge of tearing up The Plan. No revisions this time, no course corrections, but a totally new plan, one with Chase right smack in its middle. She'd finally believed him when he told her she could have it all.

Swear
to
God.

“Megan Farrell?”

Swear
to
God.

A hand tapped her shoulder and she jerked. “Megan Farrell, you're wanted in the vice principal's office.”

Her heart stopped, restarted with a jolt, and then tried to pound out of her chest. She swallowed hard, grabbed her stuff, and followed the security guard. She couldn't remember walking down the halls, two flights of steps, and the main corridor to the office. Suddenly, she was sitting in a hard metal chair at a small round table in the corner of Mr. Poynter's office. He stood by the window, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee. A cup of water was pressed into her hand, and Meg looked up and saw one of the guidance counselors sitting next to her.

Funny—she hadn't noticed her.

She looked into the cup of water, saw her reflection shimmer and ripple. Even the distortion did nothing to hide the pain in her eyes.

They sat for minutes or hours—who knew? Who even cared? Her hand throbbed. Had she cleaned the wound today? She couldn't remember. What day was it? She couldn't remember that either.

Swear
to
God
.

She cradled her head in her hands and then pulled them away. They shook.

The door opened and a woman walked in, a battered laptop open in her hands. She glared at her with hard dark eyes over a thin mouth. Her hair was coiled up in an elastic, a ball-point pen stuck in the bun. She put the laptop on the table and dragged out a chair. Meg shivered at the screech.

Swear
to
God.

When the woman sat, her jacket opened, and Meg saw a badge on her belt. “Miss Farrell, I'm Detective Barilla, Special Victims Section. Do you know why I'm here?”

Meg only stared at her with wide dark eyes. The woman slid the laptop around so Meg could see the screen. “Do you recognize this?”

Meg wiped the tears from her eyes to clear her vision and peered at the machine. “It's my Wall.”

“Your Facebook page, correct?”

Meg nodded.

The woman leaned over and scrolled down. “I want you to look at something.”

Meg bit her lip. Like she had any choice?

The woman clicked a link to a video someone had posted. As soon as it played, Meg's stomach pitched and she clapped a hand to her mouth.

Bailey's voice, thin and shrill, filled the room.
“Tell him!”

“Oh, God!” Meg clutched her ears and shut her eyes.

“Open your eyes. Watch,” the woman commanded.

Meg didn't need to watch. She'd been there. She remembered every gut-wrenching minute right up until the end.
“I'll kill Chase too.”
Her voice sounded raspy, even desperate. Her eyes looked tortured. Chase kept tugging on her arm, but she wouldn't go with him.

“Is this you? Did you say, ‘I killed my dad, and I'll kill Chase too?'”

Meg shook her head. “I…I didn't—”

“No? No, that's not you, or no, you didn't threaten to kill Chase Gallagher?”

Her heart skidded to a stop, and she stared at the detective. “I didn't threaten him.”

“Miss Farrell, I'll ask again. Is that you on that video stating, ‘I'll kill Chase too?'”

“Yes, but—”

“Where is Chase Gallagher? When did you see him last?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know where he is, or you don't know when you saw him?”

“I don't know where he is. I saw him yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“After school. He was angry.”

“Did you argue? Did you threaten him again?”

Meg shook her head frantically. “No! It wasn't like that. He was mad at his parents, not me.”

A sharp knock on the door sounded. Meg snapped her head around. One of the secretaries came in and spoke to Mr. Poynter too quietly for her to overhear. Meg's lip trembled and her stomach rolled. “Please tell me what happened. Why are you asking me these questions?”

Detective Barilla looked at her sideways, and a moment later, she nodded. “Your classmates seem to think you're a danger to them. A time bomb about to go off.” Barilla scrolled to another comment.

Meg looked ready to strafe!

Wouldn't surprise me LOL

She's a badass; she'd totally shoot.

She paints death all the time ;)

“Word spreads, Miss Farrell. Fast and far. Classmates talk to other classmates. A parent overhears and calls a few more parents. Someone calls the school. Your principal was concerned about this video and later, the ‘strafe' term, so he called us. Who were you going to ‘strafe'?”

Oh, God!
Meg rocked on the hard chair, shaking her head.

“Do you have a gun, Megan? Are there weapons in your house?”

There
was
a
gun
once.
Suddenly, Meg was six years old again, gripping her ears and staring at her father's body, blood pooling on the tile, chunks of…of
stuff
…clinging to the walls of the master bathroom.
I
never
wanted
kids! Swear to God. Swear to God.

“We tried to talk to Bailey Grant and Chase Gallagher. Only Chase is gone. Nobody's seen or heard from him since yesterday. And Bailey seems to think you're the reason why.” Detective Barilla leaned in. “Did you hurt Chase Gallagher, Megan? Did you kill him?”

Oh, God, Bailey. Oh, God. Oh, God. “No!” She shook her head vehemently. “No, I swear.”

“You swear, Megan? The video shows you clearly saying, ‘I'll kill Chase too.' Who else did you kill?”

“Please,” she begged. “Please let me go home.”

I
never
wanted
kids!

“Who did you kill, Megan?”

I
never
wanted
kids!
“Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up, shut up! I killed my father! Is that what you want to hear?”

Swear
to
God
.

“Bailey, you need to tell Detective Powell everything. Do you understand? Your cooperation in this situation is critical,” Mr. Giovanni said.

Cooperation with what situation? Bailey wished they'd get to the damn point. “I already told you. Meg didn't threaten anybody.”

“That's not what that little video says. You accused her and she admitted it.” Mr. Giovanni shook his head.

Oh, God! She was only mad. Why was everyone making such a BFD out of it? “No, she didn't mean that. We were fighting and—”

“Fighting?” Detective Powell walked back into the room. She reminded Bailey of Steven Seagal with C cups. “About a boy.”

“Yeah.” Bailey shrugged. “I was mad at her.” She twisted a curl. “That's it.”

Ms. Christiansen's head jerked up. “This isn't a game, Miss Grant. Did you read the stuff your friends, your classmates, are saying? They're worried. Their parents are worried. Mr. Giovanni is worried. We're worried. The only one who's not worried is you.”

“Because there's nothing to worry about. It was a fight, just a stupid fight.”

“Okay. Why don't you tell us what the fight was about?” the detective demanded.

“I already told you. Meg wouldn't butt out of my friendship with Ryder.”

“Oh, right. Ryder West.” She flipped through the pages in small black notebook.

Nicole looked at her sharply. “Who's Ryder West?”

Bailey shot her a look. Really, Mom? Bailey had been talking about Ryder West for weeks, and this was the first time she actually heard his name? “Ryder's the guy I like.”

“Where did you meet?” Powell asked.

“Online.”

“Where online?”

“Xbox. We played
Call
of
Duty
together.”

“And what do you and Ryder do when you hang out?”

Bailey examined her fingernails. “Um…play video games. Text. Chat on Facebook. Work on my game.”

“Your game?”

“Yes, my video game.”

“What does that mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “It means I'm creating a video game. He's helping me.”

“Why would he do that?”

If there was a point anywhere in all these questions, she really hoped they'd get to it soon. She was starving and nobody would let her eat.

“Bailey, answer the question.”

Oh, now it was okay to talk? Bailey blew a curl from her eyes. “Uh, because he likes me? He's trying to impress me.”

“Trying to impress you by texting and chatting and playing video games. Is that it?”

“Yes, that's it. I told you this already.”

“Okay, Bailey. Tell us where Ryder West lives.”

Bailey's eyes dropped. “I can't.”

Powell's eyebrows went up. “Miss Grant, I wasn't asking.”

“I heard what you said, and I can't. I don't know where he lives.”

“You've never been to his house?”

“No.”

“Where did you meet him?”

Bailey flung out her arms. “I told you! Online.”

Powell angled her head, her pen poised over her notes. “Wait a minute. Are you telling us you've never physically met this boy?”

Nicole's eyes snapped to hers, and Bailey's shoulders sagged. “Bailey?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Oh, my God. You've been carrying on with a boy you aren't even sure is a boy?”

“Oh, my God, Mom!” Bailey echoed. “Now you sound just like Meg. Why can't you be happy that I finally met a guy who likes me? I mean,
really
likes me?”

The detective put up her hand. “Wait. What do you mean ‘just like Meg'?”

Bailey tensed in her hard metal chair. “Meg wouldn't leave it alone. She kept nagging and warning and ordering me not to trust Ryder. Every time he made an excuse not meet in person, she was convinced he had to be some sixty-year-old sex offender living in a trailer park with nothing but beer and cigarettes! I kept telling her she was wrong, but she wouldn't shut up, and when she started texting him herself—”

“Megan Farrell texted your boyfriend?”

“Yes!” She punctuated the word with an emphatic nod of her head because Detective Powell sounded like she understood. “She threatened him, told him to back off, and even told him my most embarrassing story ever—all so he'd stop liking me.”

“She threatened him how exactly?”

Bailey crossed her arms. “Why don't you ask her?”

“Because I'm asking you,” Detective Powell shot back.

“That's enough.” Nicole put up her hand. “My daughter answered your questions. I'm taking her home.” She stood up, so Bailey stood too.

The woman frowned. “We're not done here.” She pointed at the hard metal chairs.

Nicole crossed her arms and glared. “Are you arresting her?”

Detective Powell returned the glare. “Not yet.”

Nicole smiled hard. “Then we're going home.” She led Bailey out of the office.

“
I
didn't do anything!”

The sudden shout had everyone's heads whipping toward the double doors that led to the main corridor. They burst open and two security guards shoved Simon Kane through. His designer clothes were wrinkled and his face was blotchy with outrage. As soon as he saw Bailey, he clamped his mouth shut and just stared. Bailey stared back. What was he doing here?

Detective Powell walked over to one of the guards holding Simon's elbows and took a sheet of paper from him. Bailey squirmed under the weight of Simon's stare.

“Well, Miss Grant, you may find this interesting.” Powell waved the paper. “Mr. Kane, I'll give you a chance to tell her before I do.”

Tell
me
what,
Bailey wondered. It's not like Simon posted that video or called the principal or—

“Bailey,” he said and looked at the floor. “I'm so sorry, Bailey.”

“Three seconds, Mr. Kane.”

“Okay! I'll tell her!” Simon swallowed once. “It's me, Bailey. I'm Ryder. I made him up.”

She covered her ears and shook her head. She would not listen to this. If she didn't listen, she couldn't hear. If she couldn't hear him, then she couldn't get her heart broken. If she couldn't hear him, then she wouldn't have to admit Meg was right.

Tears dripped down her cheeks and someone kept pulling her by the arm. It wasn't true! Ryder was funny and talented and seriously loyal and…and liked her. He really liked her.

A motion captured her attention. Meg stood in the door of the vice principal's office.

Bailey hated to look, knowing, dreading what she'd see on Meg's face: the look that would just scream,
See? I told you so.
But Meg only cried. And that—oh, that was so much worse.

Bailey didn't even wait for Nicole. She ran.