I grab my backpack and pop my head into the house, letting Grandma Lou know that there’s been a change of plans, which she doesn’t mind since she’s barely even finished her coffee.
As we’re pulling out of the driveway, Matt asks, “Where were you anyway? On Saturday night?”
“I, uh, saw someone I knew.”
They both look at me in the rearview mirror. I could tell them. For all I know, Swan Belle knows my secret and is telling everyone who will listen. I can only hope her reputation as a party girl follows her closely enough that her memory of that night won’t be trusted. But I’m not ready for how everything will change if I tell Matt and Ches.
“Just someone from when I was a kid. Before I lived with Grandma Lou.”
They don’t ask any more questions. Something about a person from my past life when both my parents were still alive silences them.
Journalism moves at a sluggish pace. While Johnny sits with me at my desk as we discuss the layout of the paper, Colleen edges into the conversation.
“Uh, hey,” she says. “Faith?”
Johnny and I share a look. “Yeah, Colleen?”
“I was thinking maybe we could partner on that prep school drug piece Mrs. Raburn mentioned a few weeks ago.” Her voice squeaks on that last word.
“Uhhh . . .” Again with this prep school story? I feel bad shutting her down, but—
“Actually, Colleen,” Johnny says, “I really need you on copy edits right now. I think we missed a few things in the last issue, so it might be best if you weren’t distracted with another story.”
She clears her throat and nods.
I motion to the red suede gloves on her hands. “Cute gloves.”
“Thanks,” she mutters, and backpedals to her desk.
The moment I’m sure she’s out of earshot, I whisper to Johnny, “I feel so bad. She’s so sweet, but—”
“Don’t feel bad. Mrs. Raburn doesn’t even think she’s ready for a story like that yet.” He touches my arm. “You were totally nice. Nothing to feel bad about, I swear.”
When lunch finally rolls around, I track down Matt and Ches in the courtyard, where they’re both soaking up the last bits of autumnal sun. Ches spends the lunch hour poring over her world lit textbook and filling in reading journal entries, while Matt and I sit huddled beside one another, swiping through a dating app he just downloaded.
“His facial hair is a little too unruly,” I say as Matt swipes. “And he just looks a little . . . I don’t know, racist? Can you look racist? He just looks like the kind of guy who’s going to show up to a Halloween party in a racist costume.”
“Oh, totally,” says Matt. “He’s got culturally insensitive written all over him.” He swipes again.
“Now he’s cute,” I say.
Ches looks away from her notes for a quick moment to check out the guy on the screen. “Not his type.”
“Ches is right. A little too cute,” Matt says. “I like ’em a little rough around the edges.”
Grant Vincent sits down beside Ches and slings an arm over her shoulders. She rolls her shoulders back, wiggling out from beneath him like he might be covered in some kind of contagious slime. And he very well might be.
“What’s cooking, weirdos?” he asks.
Matt rolls his eyes. “What do you want, Grant?”
Grant was expelled from Shady Oaks Prep last year and brought all his bad behavior here with him to East Glenwood, where the population density alone allows him to get away with much more than he ever could at his old school. He floats from group to group, taking on whatever habits and appearances will help him blend, while he conducts whatever skeevy business he’s into now. Last I heard it was stealing broken computer equipment from the school district and selling it for parts. Oh, and have I mentioned he’s rich? He doesn’t get into trouble for any other reason than liking the taste of trouble. Basically, if you looked up entitled white dude in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Grant.
Grant stretches out, bracing himself on the bench and throwing his head back, the sunshine pouring over him. “Senior year is shit. Take this test. Write this paper. Fill out this application. Write this essay about why you’re so special even though you’re not, you’re just like every other sad sack who bought into the lie that they have to go to college to make anything of themselves.” He laughs to himself, like he’s in on some kind of joke and the only way to get the punch line is to be an insufferable rich kid.
“Wow, what a ray of sunshine you are!” says Matt.
Grant leans forward, his elbows on the table, all business. “Let’s be real for a sec.”
And that’s when I see it—the charisma that so many people fall for. It’s the reason why he was on his sixth strike at Shady Oaks instead of his third. It’s why teachers think they can save him, and it’s why one day he’ll leave this place and be successful without even trying. Just the thought of it has me boiling with anger.
“The pressure is unreal. And we’re supposed to have all the answers.” He shrugs. “I don’t have all the answers, but I have this one.”
He takes a tiny plastic baggie out of his pocket with four multicolored pastel pills inside. Engraved on each tablet is A+. “Adderall’s cooler older sister,” he says.
The pills themselves are so cute they almost remind me of those little conversation hearts you get on Valentine’s Day.
“Get that shit out of here,” says Ches, brushing him away.
Matt picks the bag up for a closer look.
“I guess this one’s not a believer,” says Grant, pointing to Ches. “Yet. But here, take some.” He pulls out another plastic bag and hands it to me. “Consider it a sample.” He stands and gives a grand bow. “You know where to find me. And you too, Sabrina the Teenage Witch.”
Ches slams her book shut once he walks away. “You two better throw that shit away.” And without another word, she stuffs her books into her bag and stomps away.
Matt pockets the drugs. “We can’t just leave them here.”
I nod. “You’re right. I’ll, uh, flush them later.” Leaving them here to be found by any random person seems irresponsible. And what if a teacher saw us leave them here? Then we’d really be in trouble.
After lunch, I head into the bathroom and stand over the toilet with the pills in my hand, but instead of flushing them, I put them back in the plastic bag and drop them into my backpack. I don’t want them. And I definitely have no intention of taking them, but I’m pretty sure this is the drug Mrs. Raburn mentioned. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t throw them away.
13
On Wednesday, Dr. Bryner gives me the day off so I can go see a dress rehearsal for Fiddler on the Roof to write up my piece tonight for the paper releasing on Friday. I’m a firm believer in loving what you love and not being even a tiny bit ashamed of it, but I’ve just never really been a musical-theater person unless you’re counting “Once More, with Feeling,” the musical episode of Buffy. Johnny, a reformed stage kid whose parents put him in a kids’ show choir at age six, is the perfect companion for my nearly private showing of Fiddler. (He swears up and down that true theater junkies refer to it as just Fiddler.)