16

THE RIDE TO SCHOOL with Aimée the next day is so déjà vu, I can’t even think. The only difference from the last time we drove together is that she’s not talking my ear off about early admissions to Ivy Leagues and where she’s planning to intern in the summer. I never thought I’d be nostalgic for morning overachiever reports. Then again, anything would be a welcome distraction from the nonstop loop of the same nine words in my mind:

It’s easy to jump when you get a push.

When she pulls into her assigned parking spot, a feeling of utter helplessness smacks me in the face. I spent the entire night with her, worried that whoever slipped that note into her bag meant what they wrote as a threat, but the reality is I wouldn’t be able to protect her from anyone or anything. I can’t even warn her if someone is coming, same as when I was on the bridge with Joules. I am totally, infuriatingly helpless. Even so, I feel responsible for her safety. She wouldn’t be receiving cryptic notes if it weren’t for what happened to me.

Everyone stares at Aimée as she walks across the quad to the main building. On a regular day, she’d relish the every-eye-on-her arrival, but this morning she’s scrutinizing everyone back. Her stare lingers on a group of guys sitting on the low stone wall that runs along the brick walk. They seem impervious to the early-spring chill that everyone else is bundled up against as they casually talk about whatever it is guys like that talk about. My eyes focus on the dent in the group’s nonchalant armor: Caleb.

His arms are crossed so tightly around his middle that it looks like he’ll collapse in on himself. His breath puffs around his flushed cheeks and he’s shaking slightly. He looks like he belongs in one of those videos we had to watch in health class about CPR and hyperventilation. For a fraction of a second, I feel bad for him. Then I remember what he did—might have done—to me and how it’s a very real possibility he wrote that note to Aimée to try to scare her off investigating. He’s not worth my pity.

I rise up onto the low wall to avoid ghosting through anyone on my way to him. I bend down right in front of him, meaning to study his face for some proof of guilt, maybe attempt a ghostly trick to will a writing sample out of his obnoxious orange backpack, but the only thing I can think about is his mouth closed around mine. My eyes wander to his lips. They’re trembling and look about as cold as mine feel. Pity seeps back into me.

Without thinking, I trace the outline of his lips, awaking the memory of his kiss against my mouth. I yank my hand back, wincing at the dusty pain. He reaches into his pocket and pops one of his Tic Tac pills before crossing his arms tighter with a shudder.

“I must have been out of my mind to kiss you,” I growl at him.

He shudders again.

As soon as the first bell rings, he bolts for the door like he’s superconcerned with arriving to class on time. That would be a change. I stand, watching him pinball through the crowd, and realize Aimée’s not part of the crowd anymore. I pull the first Aimée memory that pops into my head to the front of my mind. She’s arguing with Madison about who will get to ride shotgun. It’s last year, my first day with a driver’s license, and even though it’s March, I’m wearing those shorts I wore when Ethan got his car.

I appear beside Aimée as she enters the commons. She cuts a path through the cluster of student councilites standing to the left of the main office and takes a stance in front of their queen bee: Nancy Yeong.

Nancy halts her mile-a-minute tongue to give Aimée an awkward hug. Aimée shakes off the gesture and glares at her.

“It is so brave that you’re here,” Nancy says to Aimée with over-the-top amazement.

Aimée rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You and I need to talk.”

“Agreed.” Nancy nods once. “I’ve taken on the responsibility of organizing a real memorial service for Cassidy, and I would appreciate having your input on the photomontage.”

Oh no. I’ve become that girl, the one with a photomontage. I loathe photomontages because no matter how cheerful the circumstances, I cry during them. If I really pay attention and let myself get into it, I cry. It’s probably the most embarrassing thing about me. That is, before I went all undead.

I tried to explain it to Aimée a few weeks before my birthday because Madison wanted to make me a montage for my party and I wanted Aimée to talk her out of it. Madison has this massive stockpile of photos going back to elementary school that she keeps in a moss-green satin-covered box under her bed. She never fully embraced the digital age and has printed every photo she’s ever taken; that decorative box is stuffed full of them.

One night last summer Aimée and I slept over at Madison’s house instead of our usual hangout, the playroom at Aimée’s. Madison fell asleep before we did, so, naturally, we went searching for deep dark secrets lurking under her bed. Instead we found the box and started going through it, giggling at how terrible Aimée looked with a perm in fourth grade and the way I was always in the middle of pictures of the three of us. We found a stack of yearbook pictures of the boys in our class. Madison had marked the backs with rows of hearts according to how she ranked them. Aimée snorted when she found Ethan’s picture in the stack with a perfect five hearts on it, waking Madison. She acted pissy and grumbled something about privacy, then stuffed the box behind her pillow. She slept with it there the whole night. The next morning she acted like nothing had happened.

I bet Nancy has already e-mailed her a bazillion times about photos of me. I really hope Madison pitches a fit and refuses.

“For music,” Nancy is asking, “do you think mellow-inspirational pop or classic instrumental?”

“They both sound equally repugnant,” Aimée grumbles. I want to hug her for attempting to save me the inevitable humiliation.

Nancy continues, totally not registering Aimée’s boiling irritation at the idea of a memorial service. “I was envisioning—”

“Listen,” Aimée interrupts, “I didn’t come back to school to help you pick out some Taylor Swift song to play at an assembly to make you feel better about my best friend dying.”

Nancy and her student council cronies stare at Aimée with gaping mouths. “W-w-why are you here then?” Nancy sputters.

“To find out who’s responsible.”

The girl next to Nancy says, “We don’t judge Cassidy for taking her life. That’s why we’re putting together the memorial.”

“Well, I’m judging you if you buy that craptastic story the police are shopping around,” Aimée replies.

Nancy glances nervously around the group and starts toward an empty alcove of lockers. She nods for Aimée to follow. She stands with her back to Aimée for a second, then turns. “This must be extraordinarily hard for you, being here, but we’re trying to be respectful during this tough time by honoring Cassidy’s memory.”

“Spare me the PC rundown. Why are you really putting together this memorial?”

Nancy hesitates. “Principal Dewitt’s assembly was a generic school-board handbook speech that didn’t speak to the heart of this issue. I’m only trying to unite our devastated student body through healing. In fact, I think it’s unhealthy for you to go around accusing everyone who was there.”

Aimée arches her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. “How many points do you plan on getting when you write that healthy-little-healer speech for your college apps? Not a bad plan, mooching off a classmate’s tragedy to land yourself in the Ivy—not the classiest plan, but a workable one nonetheless. You should’ve stopped at the memorial assembly though. The photomontage is a bit much. Looks like you’re trying too hard, like you have more at stake here than admission to Yale.”

Nancy tries to put up a confident front, but the effort seems too much and her shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly close to tears. She’s been captain of the debate team since sixth grade and I’ve never seen her back down from a challenge. “I know I showed up even though I wasn’t invited to the party, but I didn’t drink any of your alcohol and I don’t know anything about what happened to Cassidy except what the police released. In fact, I wish I’d never gone to that party.”

That makes two of us.

Aimée folds her arms. “Why did you?”

“My brother called me to be his DD. I was waiting for him in the park since the party was invite only.” Nancy relaxes some when Aimée nods, but it’s premature.

“You’re not getting any Brownie points from me for pretending to respect my party rules when clearly you violated them the second you showed up. I already knew you were in the park when Cassidy fell, but I want to know what you saw.”

Nancy smooths the front of her pleated skirt, trying again at a confident front. “I told you before, I don’t know what happened. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have music to select for a memorial service and—”

Mica walks up behind Aimée and interrupts Nancy. “Don’t you think someone who actually knew Cassidy should make those decisions?”

Aimée spins around quickly to face him. I watch her expression closely, waiting for her suspicion to show through. She’s too poised to let it though.

Nancy bristles. “We had English together.”

“Two years ago,” I retort, wishing she could see my annoyed expression.

“I think an actual friend might need to be involved,” Mica replies.

“Her friends seem to be unstable with grief.” She looks pointedly at Aimée. “I happen to think I’m the exact person who should be handling this delicate matter.”

“Well,” Mica counters, “I happen to think you’re in the lead for most-annoying girl in the junior class.”

“This type of harassment is unhealthy.” Nancy tugs down the bottom of her shirt as she turns her chin up at Mica and walks away.

“Aimée, hey,” he says, like the whole throw down with Nancy didn’t even happen.

“I was talking to her,” Aimée replies sharply.

“You were scaring the crap out of her. I thought I was going to have to referee a chick fight.” He glances back at Nancy. “Not complaining, but…”

“Depending on what I uncover,” Aimée says, “you might find yourself stuck in a real fight.”

He claps his hands, grinning. “Challenge accepted.” The amusement on his face fades when he realizes Aimée isn’t kidding. “Let me walk you to class, Million Dollar Baby.”

I arch my eyebrows at him.

“Again with this?” Aimée speaks my disapproval. “And don’t call me baby.”

“I could use an escort if she’s not into it,” a brunette flaunting pigtails and a detention-worthy skirt coos from behind Aimée.

Mica gives her a halfhearted smile noticeably lacking his usual innuendo. “Not on duty today, Sara. Sorry.”

One corner of Aimée’s mouth teases into a grin when the girl sulks like a two-year-old and stomps off. Aimée steps around Mica and starts across the commons. He follows. Aimée gives him a sidelong glance. “You sure are persistent.”

“And you’re stubborn.”

“Bad combination,” Aimée replies.

“So you’ve thought about us combining?” Mica smirks as Aimée fumbles for a response.

I laugh a little at Aimée’s visible discomfort with Mica’s pro flirting. Their awkward back-and-forth makes me temporarily forget our suspicion of him.

Aimée tells him, “I actually have to take care of something. I need to get going so I’m not late for class.”

“None of your teachers are gonna mark you late this week. Not even Rosenberg.”

I turn to face Mica, trying to get a read on him. He’s been on the hunt for Aimée’s affection since she turned him down for a dance at freshman homecoming and he realized she was the only single girl in the tri-city radius that didn’t turn to gooey butter before him, but I had no idea he was dedicated enough to know her classes. If he knew her schedule, he could’ve slipped the note into her bag anytime.

“How do you know what I have first hour?” Aimée echoes my concern. “Have you been following me?”

“Only if you’re into that kind of thing.” Mica winks at her suggestively.

Aimée opens her mouth to say something—from her expression, something harsh—but she lets out a self-deprecating laugh instead. “I don’t actually think you’ve been following me, but people I haven’t said one word to since fifth grade, like Nancy Yeong, keep trying to comfort me, which has the exact opposite effect, and everything seems to mean something that it doesn’t. And I have to see that bridge every time I go into my bedroom, so I don’t anymore, which means I’m not sleeping much, which has me on edge and … I’m rambling.”

Mica waits for Aimée to look up at him. “It was a cute ramble.” It’s probably the most honest attempt at a compliment I’ve ever heard him make even though he was still clearly flirting.

Aimée’s face runs through several emotions, like she’s not sure which one to feel. She shakes her head. “I’m going to go. The first bell’s about to—” She points at the ceiling when the bell rings. “Bye.” As soon as she clears the corner, she drops the flirty mask she was wearing for Mica.

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Aims.” I keep walking when she stops to straighten the cuff of her jeans over her black ankle boot and end up facing a wall of lockers. Staring at Caleb.

He’s sitting with his back against the maroon metal doors, pulling the drawstrings on his bright blue hoodie so it cinches in around his face, hiding his half-closed eyes. He should be in Mrs. Wirlkee’s class sitting two seats behind my empty seat. He reaches his arm up like he’s stretching after an exhausting spell of sitting on his butt ditching class, letting his fingers linger on the small number plate on the locker behind him.

Number 200E. My locker. The slightest twinge of nostalgia pricks at me before it dissolves and re-forms into suspicion.

He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and fishes out a gum wrapper, some lint, and fourteen cents. He leaves that stuff on the floor and pulls out a small paper airplane.

Water splashes onto the wrinkled, yellow paper as I reach for it, melting through. I kneel next to him, ignoring the growing puddle of me, and stare at the familiar double fold of the wings.

“Where did you get that?” I ask him, assuming it’s one of the notes he passed me in Psych.

One side of his mouth lifts like he’s suppressing a laugh or maybe a scream as he flattens the airplane so it will fit through the vent on my locker door. He taps the end of the airplane with his thumb, sending it into my locker with a shallow plunk.

Aimée’s head snaps up at the sound. I get to my feet and step away from Caleb. It’s a reflex I’d developed for when my friends saw me with him. Of course, Aimée can’t see me now, but old habits never die.

“You shouldn’t be here.” When Caleb doesn’t so much as open his eyes, Aimée adds, “Kind of tasteless hanging out by her locker after what you did.” She puts on a cool expression when one of the few stragglers left roaming the halls looks over at them. After he turns down the math hall, she kicks at the locker bank, sending a reverberating rattle five doors down. Caleb opens his eyes in a lazy, delayed reaction that tips me off that he’s high. Again.

His head lolls to the side as he looks up at Aimée. “You girls always seem to track me down.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her mouth quirks in disgust. “Whatever. How did you know where Cassidy’s locker was?”

“Who said I knew?”

Aimée lets her glare burn into him. “I don’t believe in coincidences.” She waits for him to react, to give some small inkling of guilt. He doesn’t. She changes tactics. “I saw you two at her birthday party. What were you doing together?”

“Talking.”

Aimée flouts at his response. “I gathered that much from your mouths moving. Listen, I know my friend, and she never lied to me until you came along. So what was your angle? How’d you lure her to the bridge?”

Caleb’s eyes suddenly focus and go wide. “I didn’t lure her anywhere.”

“Then what’s the nonincriminating reason you two were on the bridge together?”

“We were friends.”

“So you admit you were on the bridge?” It sounds more like an accusation than a question.

Caleb’s voice lowers. “I didn’t admit anything.” He stands.

“You were there,” Aimée persists. “I know it.”

“Do you? Did she tell you that? ’Cause I was under the impression her lips were sealed.”

Aimée starts to shake she’s so mad. “That is not funny.”

“Am I laughing?” Caleb gestures to his austere expression. “She’s dead, Aimée. Is she feeding you lines from beyond the grave?” He looks in my general direction and adds under his breath, “She can’t.”

Tears fill Aimée’s eyes. She swipes them away before they can fall. “She’s not even in her grave yet. Get away from her locker. You don’t belong here. She didn’t care about you—you weren’t friends anymore. You were nothing to her.”

“Aimée,” I begin to interrupt her, but she yells at Caleb, “Leave!” and I flinch because it feels as much for me as for him.

Caleb lifts his orange backpack onto his shoulder, shoves his hands into his pockets, and does what she told him to do. He leaves.

She digs her chipped manicured nails into her palms as she balls her hands into tight fists. Now that she thinks she’s alone, Aimée murmurs to me, to no one, “Don’t worry, Dees. I won’t let him get away with this.”

I step between her and my locker, willing her to see me. “Aimée, there was more going on with Caleb and me than you think.” I hate that she doesn’t know this, that we have this lie between us for all of eternity. So I tell her everything—at least the parts I remember—about flirting with Caleb in Psych class, and him remembering that I love éclairs, and feeling like he was the only person who understood my parents’ separation, and what happened on his porch when my shoes were wet with slush and I didn’t push him away. “I don’t remember who I was with on the bridge,” I tell her, “but I know I was with someone.”

Maybe she’s right to suspect Caleb. He said he wouldn’t let me get away without ending my relationship with Ethan. Is he really capable of murder though? The Caleb I remember definitely isn’t, but that’s not saying much these days.

Aimée gives the dial on my locker a spin before measuring out my combination. She opens my locker and immediately starts straightening my haphazard stack of books. She adjusts my mirror so it’s perfectly centered on the inside of the door, then reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a canvas grocery tote. She stares at the reorganized space, smiling wistfully at her handiwork for a brief moment, then grabs my Psychology book. She flips through the pages, tipping it upside down like she’s expecting some explicit clue to fall out. She does the same for my American Lit, Trig, and Spanish books. When nothing reveals itself, no clues, she frowns.

I look down at Caleb’s airplane lodged between two binders at the bottom of my locker. “Aimée,” I say very slowly as if overenunciating will allow her to hear me, “look under that binder.” Even if Caleb didn’t sign the note, she’ll know it was from him. He was just here. She’ll figure it out; she has to. If she would look …

Instead she pulls down the group picture we took on the first day of school this year that’s taped above my mirror. Drew and Mica are in the back, not smiling and grinning ear to ear, respectively, and Aimée’s next to Madison, who’s striking one of her eyes-diverted-from-the-camera poses toward the center, where I’m standing with Ethan hugging me from behind. She studies the picture awhile then removes my mirror and other random magazine cutouts from the inside of the door and places them in her tote along with the denim jacket I keep hanging in the back in case the temperature decides to drop unexpectedly, which it frequently does in Crescent Valley. My locker is almost empty.

Finally, she reaches for my binders, and I’m sure she’ll see the note, but the paper airplane glides to the floor as she stacks them on top of my jacket. She doesn’t see it.

I futilely try to grab the airplane, then straighten with a frustrated grumble. “Aimée, please, look down!”

Her face lights up like she has remembered something she forgot, and she bends to retrieve the note. I smile to myself, half believing I got through to her. When she sees what’s written on the inside flap of one of the wings, she gasps, and my smile disappears.

It says: I’m sorry.

Caleb’s apology stirs the image of the silhouette on the riverbank passing off excuses for apologies. “I didn’t mean to … This is her fault.”

Aimée reaches into her bag and pulls out the note she found there yesterday. The folding job is similarly precise, and the handwriting is close enough, large and written in Sharpie, that the same person could’ve written both. Caleb could’ve written both.

Aimée kisses her fingertips and presses them to my locker door as she shuts it. Her arm is sticking right through my middle, stirring up glittery dust around us. I don’t even flinch. The iciness clogging my throat and soaking through my leggings already has me numbed.

“He’s going to pay.” Her voice echoes like the ripples of the current pulling me under.