WHEN WE GOT BACK TO my house, I let Sarah explain to my parents why I was back early as I brushed past them, their faces anxious and concerned. I heard her suggest something about food poisoning or maybe a migraine as I jogged up the stairs. “I’m not sure,” I heard her say. “She seemed fine, until suddenly she wasn’t.”
“There’s migraine medicine in the bathroom if you need it, sweetheart,” Mom called up the stairs. I paused and nodded down at her before I kept going. A migraine was as good an excuse as anything. Plus, a migraine meant being left alone.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I didn’t head to the bathroom, didn’t head for my room either. Instead, I went to Anna’s room.
I pulled her backpack onto the bed and went through her notebooks until I found the right one.
I flipped through it until I came across what I was looking for. The notes between Anna and Lily.
I stared at Lily’s handwriting. Particularly the phrase she’d written in all capitals: SO CUTE.
I looked at the letters carefully. I thought I was right, but it had been a while, and I needed to be sure. Sure that this wasn’t another wrong direction. Another misinterpretation of the facts.
I tucked Anna’s notebook under my arm.
I turned off the light.
Closed the door.
And opened the window.
Don’t think about it, I told myself as I put one foot and then the other over the ledge. This isn’t what happened. This isn’t where it happened.
And so I let go.
And I hit the ground running.
AS I ENTERED THE SCHOOL’S lit but empty hallway, I heard cheers from the gym, followed by the herdlike sound of feet pounding back and forth.
This time I didn’t knock before entering the bathroom. This time I didn’t care if I startled some guy into hastily buttoning his fly, didn’t care if someone saw me enter.
It was empty, though, and that did make it easier, not having to deal with someone asking me questions, asking me to explain. Running here, I’d worried that Mrs. Hayes might have arranged to have another layer or two of paint applied after our conversation, rendering the graffiti invisible. Fortunately, that had not happened. It was still there, obvious when you knew where to look.
ANNA CUTTER IS A WHORE.
This time, it felt different. Seeing it. The whole room, in fact, felt different, although nothing had changed—the same musty air, the same red brick that this time I left along the side of the wall. It felt different because this time I didn’t feel like I was alone. This time, in my mind, Mr. Matthews stood beside me, his arms folded. I saw him reach out and lightly touch the ink, still drying. And then I heard him say it again: I don’t think by the end the two of them were that close.
I’d thought those words were nothing more than an attempt to make me feel better, but when I compared the writing to the letters in the notebook, I knew he’d been right. By the end, they weren’t close at all.
Because now I knew who Anna had sent the second selfie to.
And I suspected that I also knew why someone might have two flasks, why there’d been no toxicology report.
Because, like the police chief said, parents protect their children.
So on my way out, I stooped down and picked up the brick.