“These were supposed to be over,” Charlotte says tightly, glaring at her phone. “Colin had his little show. Why is he still bothering us?”
“You sure this is Colin?” I ask, deleting my own brand-new Murderer text. “It would be a bold move under the circumstances.” Colin is currently at home, suspended, waiting for what everyone is pretty sure will be a cut- and-dried expulsion hearing.
I could have been waiting right along with him, instead of spending my Thursday study period in the library, and I send a silent thank-you Shane’s way. Maybe we’re not such surface friends after all, because that’s twice he’s saved my ass in under a week.
I only have a hazy memory of him dragging me back inside Charlotte’s house Saturday night, but I do remember Charlotte herself bringing me up to her bedroom and insisting that I lie down on her couch, even though I tried to tell her my pants were muddy. I was very, very worried about that. “It’s all right,” she said, in a highly un-Charlotte way. “I’ll take care of it in the morning. What’s a little mud between friends?”
Shane shrugs, oblivious to where my mind has wandered. “It’s not like Colin has a functioning brain or anything,” he says.
Charlotte frowns, fidgeting with the edge of an open textbook that she hasn’t looked at once since we got here. “I don’t like this,” she says. “Any of it. I keep checking that horrible channel to see if there’s anything new there.”
“Which channel?” I ask.
“You know.” She wrinkles her nose. “That Fox creature.”
Shane flings an arm across the back of her chair. “I told you, babe, my dad took care of him,” he says. “Gunnar Fox is buried under an avalanche of lawsuits.” His tone is typical breezy Shane Delgado, but there’s a tightness to his expression that makes me think Gunnar Fox rattled him more than he’s willing to let on. It’s not the first crack I’ve seen in his golden-boy aura lately, and it makes me nervous. If Shane can’t handle the pressure from all this renewed interest in Mr. Larkin, what the hell hope do Charlotte or I have?
Charlotte shifts restlessly in her seat, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing. “But what did your mother say, Tripp?” she asks. “That Motive is doing a story too? That show is actually legit.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But you can only believe about half of whatever Lisa Marie says, so there’s a good chance she made it up.”
“Why would she do that?” Charlotte asks. “To convince me to do what she wants.”
“That’s very toxic behavior,” Charlotte says, and I snort out a laugh. “If you ever meet my mother, Charlotte, you’ll realize what an
understatement that is.”
“You’re not doing it, though, right?” she presses. “Doing what?”
“The interview,” she says, frowning. “Gunnar Fox is trying to use you. He’d probably say all kinds of awful things once he got you in front of a camera.”
She doesn’t know the half of it. I haven’t told her and Shane the rest of what Lisa Marie said: “That Delgado boy’s story has never added up, and
it’s about time somebody called him on it. But you’re different. I told Gunnar, there’s no way my son would protect a thug like that unless he was afraid for his life.” Neither of them need to hear that.
Before I can reply, Shane says, “Of course he’s not doing it.”
Charlotte instantly relaxes. “Good,” she says with a relieved sigh, like she doesn’t even need confirmation from me now that Shane has weighed in. I feel a flash of irritation that everything’s decided, apparently, just because they say so. It’s not like you could pay me any amount of money to talk to Gunnar Fox, but sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I didn’t spend almost every waking moment at school flanked by the king and queen of Saint Ambrose. That makes me—what? Their court jester? Or some kind of knight, maybe whose sole value lies in keeping the two of them safe.
Probably neither, but I’ve run out of royalty metaphors.
“I’ve changed my mind about Brynn Gallagher, by the way,” Charlotte says, flipping a page in her textbook. “I don’t like her for you anymore, Tripp.”
I’m relieved at the change of topic, although I’m not sure this one is much better. “Sorry, what? You don’t like her for me?”
“I don’t want you to date her,” Charlotte explains patiently, like I’m a child with minimal comprehension skills.
“I wasn’t planning on it.” Was I?
“Good,” Charlotte says in the same satisfied tone, which annoys me all over again.
“What’s your problem with her?” I ask.
“I told her to leave you alone Saturday night, and she did the opposite,” Charlotte says.
Sounds exactly like Brynn. “You’re not her boss, Charlotte,” I point out. “She doesn’t have to do what you say.”
“It’s not only that,” Charlotte says. “I Googled her. Do you know she wrote about erections for the newspaper at her last school?”
“Wait. What?” I start laughing, positive that she’s joking. Except Charlotte never jokes.
“I’m serious. Well, actually, it was mostly a photo collage. Look.” She holds out her phone, and I recoil.
“Charlotte, I’m not gonna look at a bunch of—”
“It’s just the BuzzFeed coverage,” she says. “Everything else is blurred out.”
I take her phone, and start snickering hard enough that Shane leans over my shoulder to take a look. “Come on. Brynn obviously didn’t do this,” I say. “It’s some kind of prank.”
“Her name is there,” says Charlotte. Mistress of the obvious.
“Yeah, which is what would make it funny to whatever asshole did this,” I say. But it’s impossible to explain humor to Charlotte, even bad humor. She never gets it.
“Charlotte’s right, though,” Shane says, handing her back her phone. “Brynn’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
I’m about to protest—How the hell do you know what she’s worth?— but I’m tired, suddenly, of arguing with the two of them. Tired of them, period. So when I catch sight of a flash of auburn hair between the stacks to our left, I don’t hesitate. “Be right back,” I say. I get to my feet, and take a little too much pleasure in sauntering away from Shane and Charlotte. Right toward the person they just told me to avoid.
Brynn is on her tiptoes, trying and failing to reach something on the top shelf. She huffs in frustration and puts her hands on her hips, looking around for a footstool, before she catches sight of me leaning against the end of the stack.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Middlemarch,” she says. I pluck it off the shelf and hand it to her. “Thank you. I’m glad your hands are working again.” I raise my eyebrows, and she adds, “I assumed they were broken since you didn’t answer any of my texts.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been busy.”
“Oh, me too,” she says. “I can’t text anyone either because I haven’t had ten seconds to spare in the last five days.”
I lean against the stacks again, arms crossed. “So what you’re saying is, you’ve been counting the days since you heard from me.”
She gets a little pink. “No. I’m saying common courtesy takes very little time, so you should give it a try.”
“I’ll do that,” I say. “Right after I finish going through your body of work at your former school paper. And when I say body, I mean that literally.”
“Oh good. Great,” Brynn says, rolling her eyes. “So glad you came across the dick pics. The pinnacle of my journalistic career. I hope you found my in-depth analysis insightful.”
“I learned a lot,” I say, and she huffs out a reluctant laugh.
“I’m sure it goes without saying that I didn’t actually post those.” “Don’t burst my bubble.”
She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “So, listen, if you had returned any of my texts, I’d have told you that I’m meeting with Wade Drury after school tomorrow. The new groundskeeper?” she adds at my confused look.
“I know who it is, but why? I told you he’s an ass.”
“Well, Mr. Solomon wasn’t very helpful, was he? Maybe Wade will have some suggestions for the memorial garden. If nothing else, he’s unlikely to be armed.” She hikes her backpack strap higher onto her shoulder and adds, “You’re welcome to join me. If he does pull a gun, it won’t feel the same if you’re not there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, a little surprised to realize that’s true. “Greenhouse, three o’clock,” Brynn says. “See you then.”
She turns to leave, and I call after her, “Does this mean I’m forgiven?
You don’t hate me for being a lazy texter?”
Brynn pauses and looks over her shoulder. “I don’t hate you, Tripp,” she says, a small smile playing at her lips. “Not even a little bit.”
