Wrath - 4 (15 page)

But she put the pil back in the box. She either had too much restraint or not enough nerve—she was no longer sure which. She didn’t want to find out what those little pil s did, no matter how wrecked she felt.

Yet, for whatever reason, she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away.

A month of detention was starting to look a whole lot sweeter. Room 246 was the same as she remembered it from her last week of incarceration: a long, gray space crammed with rows of desks dril ed to the floor, the detention monitor positioned at the front with her nose buried in a book. There were just a few key differences.

First, Harper wasn’t by her side to help make the hours speed by.

Second, the sign-in sheet was now yel ow, rather than its former puke green.

And third, the only difference that mattered: Kane Geary was sitting in the back corner. And he was flagging her down, pointing to the empty desk to his left.

Me?
Miranda mouthed, fighting the urge to look behind her and see what tal , leggy blonde was the true target of that lazy grin.
Yes, you
. He nodded, and when she slipped into the desk beside him, he patted her on the knee in welcome. It as al Miranda could do to not slide off the seat and melt onto the floor.

“Welcome to prison,” he greeted her. “At least now I’ve got a good cel mate.”

The hour passed too quickly, in a haze of whispered complaints about the monitor’s hairy mole or the leaning Mohawk of the delinquent in front of them. They played dirty hangman (Miranda’s winning word: “vulva”), placed bets on the number of wads of gum stuck beneath Kane’s desk (seven), and, for a blissful ten minutes, Kane leaned over to Miranda’s notebook and drew nasty but spot-on caricatures of the other members of the basketbal team, who were seated in a hulking cluster toward the front of the room. Blissful because, to reach Miranda’s notebook, Kane had to shift his body into her space and lay his arm across her desk, where it pressed, very lightly, against her own. As he stared at the page, intent on getting the point guard’s dopey expression just right, Miranda concentrated on his arm, imagining that he was touching her on purpose. Knowing, even when he shifted position for a moment and his hand actual y grazed hers, that he wasn’t.

And then the bel rang, and it was al over.

It would be asking too much, holding out foolish hope to think that—

“See you tomorrow?” Kane asked, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and helping her gather up her scattered belongings.

“Same time, same place,” Miranda replied, trying desperately for nonchalance.

Thank God Beth had weaseled out of trouble and left Miranda to face her punishment al on her own.

Miranda Stevens had spent her whole life flying under the radar and doing what other people told her to do.

So this is what you got for being a rebel?

Bring it on.

Beth felt him before she heard him. She was absorbed in her work, proofing the page layout for the next issue of the paper, and didn’t hear the door to the tiny office click open.

But some part of her must have registered it, and must have known whose hand lay on the knob, because gradual y the words on her computer screen began to swim in front of her eyes and, unable to concentrate, she sensed a heavy quality in the air. The wal s felt closer, the ceiling lower, and her muscles tensed.

He cleared his throat.

It was then she knew for sure.

“I thought we had an agreement,” Beth said, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. Her hands gripped the edge of the smal computer desk until her knuckles turned white.

She focused on the dul pain of the wooden desk digging into her palms. It kept her from being swept off in a wave of panicked thoughts—the room was empty, the hal s were deserted, he was blocking the only exit, there would be no one to hear her scream. Yes, it was probably best to steer clear of thoughts like that, and not to even think the word “scream.” Or she just might.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, not while I’m here alone.” It was sil y, but she suddenly felt she’d made a dangerous misstep by cal ing attention to the fact that she was by herself—as if, otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Things have changed,” Jack Powel said. He locked the door behind him and took a seat on the couch, patting the space next to him. Then he laughed at the look of horror on her face. “Oh, calm down,” he said irritably. “You’ve got nothing I want.”

Beth couldn’t believe she’d once found this man adorable, fantasizing about his dark eyes and crooked smile. She had, more than once, drifted off to sleep while imagining them together in a romantic scene from a black-and-white movie. Everything about him repel ed her now—even the accent seemed phony.

“Get out,” she said steadily. “I told you before, I’l tel the administration what happened, what—you tried to do, if you don’t leave me alone.” The last time they’d talked one-on-one and she’d unveiled this threat, it had knocked him off balance. But this time was different. He was expecting it—and more than that, he seemed to welcome it.

“Get off it, Beth. I didn’t
do
anything to you. We both know that you wanted—” He cut himself off and gave himself a little shake. “Enough of that.” And suddenly, his cold look was replaced by an amicable grin, the same one that made every other girl in school swoon. The sharp change, as if he’d swapped personalities with the flip of a switch, was the scariest thing of al . “That’s why I stopped by,” he said pleasantly, as if she’d invited him in for tea. “To tel you that the past is behind us. You won’t be going to the administration, or making any more threats, and I’l do whatever it is I want to do.”

“And how do you figure that?” Beth asked, forcing herself not to look away. Facing this Powel was even more unsettling than confronting him in attack mode. At least then, she knew what to prepare herself for. Now, looking at his blank face, she could only image what lay beneath the surface. This was the face she stil saw in her nightmares.

“You made a good show of it, Beth, and I’l agree, you had something on me. Impressive. But, unfortunately, I now have something on you.” He pul ed a folded-up page out of his pocket. Beth knew what it was before he’d unfolded it and waved it in the air like a conqueror’s flag. The blood red color gave it away. “I’ve got proof,” Powel said simply.

“What you did is worse,” she whispered—any louder, and she couldn’t trust her voice not to break.

“Maybe,” he al owed. “But you’ve no evidence of that. My word against yours, remember? And as for this”—he waved the flyer again—“I’m afraid I’ve got al the evidence I need.

Ask your little friend Miranda if you don’t believe me. I presume you’l find her in detention.” He shook his head. “Nice of you to stand up and face the music with her, by the way. That was a classy move.”

Beth felt a blast of shame rise to her cheeks. “So we’re even,” she said, fighting against the suspicion that it wouldn’t be quite that easy. “I’ve got something on you, and you’ve got something on me.”

“Not quite,” he stopped her. “As I see it, since I’m the only one here with any kind of proof, you’ve got nothing on me. Any accusation you make now is tainted. Nothing more than a pathetic attempt to get yourself out of trouble by discrediting me. No more than you’d expect from a coward who lets her partner take the blame.” She sighed. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. For now.” Powel leaned back on the couch and kicked his feet up. “I just wanted to alert you that there was a new game afoot. Oh, don’t look so glum,” he admonished, twisting his face into a parody of her own miserable scowl. “This means we can be friends again, just like in the old days—back when you were
so
eager to help me out.” Beth remembered. It made her want to throw up.

“And if you’re nice, there are things I can do for you too,” Powel said.

“Like what?” she asked snidely.

“Like, for example, tel ing you who turned you in. Like they say, the best cure for losing one battle is winning the next. I’m sure you’d like to get even with
someone,
and since it’s not going to be me …”

She knew it would be stupid to play any more of his games, but could it hurt to stay a moment longer, to smile and ask nicely? To get a name?

She was tired of being a victim. Maybe Powel was right: Just because she’d lost this battle didn’t mean it was time to give up.

Maybe it was just time to find a better target.

And reload.

She felt like a Bond girl, or a savvy spy from
Mission: Impossible,
as she snaked her way through the crowd and took position, waiting patiently to deploy her grand master plan.

We need to talk,
her note had said.
Meet me on the 6 P.M. Twilight Trails train. I’ll be in the front seat of the second car from the back. Beth
The Twilight Trails company ran fake freight trains on a scenic route through the desert every day at sunset. They stopped at Grace, then continued on for an hour into the wilderness before turning around. Which meant that she and Adam would be trapped together for two hours. And unless he wanted to throw himself from a moving—albeit painful y slow-moving—train, he would be forced to listen to what she had to say.

She paid her exorbitant fee and settled into a window seat, glancing disdainful y at the scattering of passengers around her, wondering who would actual y waste their money on a tour of this wasteland. She put on a pair of sunglasses—al the better to play out her interlude in espionage—and pul ed out a magazine.

She didn’t have to wait long.

“I was so glad to get your note—” Adam began, his voice breaking off when she turned her face from the window. “What the hel are you doing here?” Harper tried to smile and ignore his tone—and his disappointment. “I guess the jig is up,” she quipped.

“What is this?” Adam asked, whirling around to scan the rest of the train car. “Where’s Beth?”

He could be so slow sometimes … but, stil , so adorable.

“Beth’s not coming,” Harper said, spel ing out the obvious. “I sent the note.”

He shook his head. “You’re real y sick, you know that?” He turned on his heel and walked back down the aisle, taking a seat toward the back of the train car.

Harper sighed, stood up, and fol owed him, ignoring the glare of the conductor, who cleared his throat and pointed at the large red letters ordering passengers to STAY

SEATED WHILE THE TRAIN IS IN MOTION.

“It’s not that big a car,” she pointed out, sitting down behind Adam. If she squeezed in next to him, it might scare him away. “Do we real y need to play musical chairs?” She sat on her knees and leaned forward, resting her arms on the seat in front of her. He didn’t turn his face up to look at her, but if he had, her lips would stil have been too far away to brush his forehead. “Train doesn’t stop again until Salina,” she pointed out. “You’re stuck with me.”

Adam closed his eyes and began to rub the bridge of his nose. “Fine. What do you want from me?”

“I want to know what you want from
me,
Ad. What can I do to fix things? Just tel me.”

“Nothing,” he grunted.

“You can’t stay mad forever.”

“Watch me.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Harper watched the scenery crawl by, mile after mile of low ranging hil s and straggly scrub brush. Al painted in the monotonous sepia tones of desert life.
Who would search this out?
she wondered again.
Who would pay?
One elderly woman across the aisle wasn’t even looking out the window. Instead, she had her eyes glued to a trashy romance novel, as if the scenery was beside the point.

“So,” Harper began again, casual y, “who do you think spray-painted the bil board? My money’s on the sophomores—it was so lame. Reeks of some pathetic attempt to establish a rep. As if—”

“Don’t do that,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“Don’t act like everything’s normal.”

“It
can
be,” she pointed out. Pleaded.

“No.”

She’d tried being patient and giving him his space, but that just wasn’t her. She couldn’t just wait—she needed to
act
. She refused to let Beth win, and she was physical y incapable of just letting him go. If it meant sacrificing her precious dignity and making him understand how much she needed him, then that’s just what she would do. And so she’d formulated her plan, and now she just needed to push through his anger and pride, and uncover that piece of him that stil loved her.

“Adam, you want Beth to forgive you, right?”

“Don’t talk about her.”

“I know you do. Everyone sees you running around school after her and—”

“I said,
don’t
talk about her.”

“Okay, fine. I just … I just don’t get it. How can you expect … some people to forgive you, but you won’t forgive me?”

“It’s not the same,” he snapped.

“But, why? Okay, I lied—so did you. I screwed up—so did you. And I stil love—”

“It’s. Not. The. Same,” he repeated.

“You’re right, because what you and I had together, it’s nothing like you and Beth. It’s so much more—”