IN MY LOCKER, RIGHT NOW, are the following things.
I skipped gym, and now I’m sitting in what I think of as my secret hiding place, which is really just the old booth for the school auditorium that they don’t use now because everything is wireless.
I am thinking.
Yesterday when my mom spotted me in Mark’s room, I grabbed the bag and a bunch of laundry on the floor and booked it out of there, just about tipping my mom’s wine into her shirt.
“What are you doing,” she gasped.
“Laundry!” I shouted behind me, as I barreled down the stairs with a basket of lights and darks and Mark’s money.
Then I stood in the laundry room and tried to think, but it was impossible with my mom and Debra upstairs caterwauling hardcore and then my dad came home and I just panicked and shoved the bag of money in my school bag and now it’s at school.
Mark stayed at Trevor’s house last night, so technically I could just put it back in his room after school and it would be no big deal.
So here’s a question. Why did I take this fucking bag of money?
Did I take it because a) I watch too many cop shows, b) Mark lied about knowing Todd, or c) I myself am a thief.
Okay, I’m not keeping the money so it’s not C.
I did count it. It’s one thousand, seven hundred dollars. Cash. And not crisp, either. Like twenties and stuff.
Could Mark just have that much money on him? I know he does this driveway shoveling thing, but I also know he, like, spent a ton of money on the TV.
Trevor is rich, maybe he got the money from Trevor. But then …
Why would he need this much cash?
For some reason, it feels like this is the kind of money you give someone to either pay someone off or pay someone to do something for you. Like, a job.
Or drugs?
Or maybe he’s buying a motorcycle, Georgia. Geez.
Okay, but the bag is weird. Like, since when does Mark go to burger places? He won’t even eat butter on toast because it’s outside of his meal plan.
There’s no reason to think this money has anything to do with Todd, Georgia. It’s just money.
So it’s Tuesday, really the worst day of the week anyway, and I am like a cat in a mall all day. Just. Jumpy. What’s the best metaphor for that? I don’t know.
“Hey,” Carrie says, stepping up to me after French, “what is going on with you today? Are you on drugs?”
I grab my bag off my desk. “I’m high on life,” I say, instantly regretting it because what does that even mean. “I mean, nothing. I’m … just thinking.”
“About what?” Carrie asks, following me out of class. “Puppies? The economy? My dentist appointment, which went very well thanks for asking.”
Carrie bares her teeth at me.
“Money,” I say. “And good to hear.”
The halls are sweaty and crowded. Or I’m sweaty and suddenly claustrophobic. Carrie stares at my face.
“You’re thinking about money,” she says, rounding the corner behind me. “Like savings bonds and stuff? Putting away for a rainy day?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Should we get lunch? Let’s go out for lunch.”
“Okay.” Carrie catches up to me. “But you’re buying. With your money.”
I don’t get my coat, because it’s deceptively sunny outside and because I don’t want to open my locker in front of Carrie. Because money. So we jet outside with me in nothing but my uniform and a prayer. Which I instantly regret, because turns out it’s sunny, but it’s fucking cold outside. Maybe too cold for the food truck, which is a no-show. Which makes me think of the last time I saw the Fry Guy and wondered whether he killed Todd Mayer.
Back when it was all, “Ha ha, some guy died. I wonder who did it?”
My arms are turning to ice. Like actual blocks of ice as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the school with no coat and no French fries and the blazing winter sky overhead and Carrie standing in front of me waving her arms in my face.
“Earth to Georgia,” she says. “Do you want to get your coat? Is your brain frozen? Should I call an ambulance or a therapist or something?”
My fingers are curling up like dead leaves. I shove them in my armpits, which I’m sure looks weird. “Uh…”
Carrie scans the horizon of nothing but buildings that don’t contain fries. “Or we can sprint six blocks to the hot dog place.”
I stamp my feet to life. “Not really a sprinter.”
“Are you okay? You seem weirder than normal.” Carrie unwraps a piece of gum. I turn and look to see her popping what might be her second or third piece in her mouth.
She looks at me with hard brown eyes, chewing methodically.
“Yeah, it’s just…”
I’m about to say something, God knows what, when I catch it out of the corner of my eye. What looks like Trevor’s SUV, gliding through the gates of the school parking lot.
It is.
“What?” Carrie frowns.
“I know that guy,” I say.
The next thing I know, I’m following Trevor’s SUV, walking at a solid clip, around the school.
I don’t realize I’ve started running until I feel the little icicle shards in my lungs ringing like baby wind chimes.
Carrie huffs after me. “Georgia! What the fuck!”
The student parking lot curves down next to the west side of the school. It’s a pockmarked drive that rocks the SUV like a toy so it slows down enough for me to catch up, before Trevor pulls up past the doors of the back entrance and stops.
It’s the part of the school where they do deliveries. Next to the kitchen, off the cafeteria. It’s narrow enough that it’s going to be hard to back out of without scraping his precious car on the abundance of brick and concrete.
I am standing next to a wall, around the bend from where he’s stopped. Just out of sight. I assume. Although maybe if I can see him, he can see me. But I don’t think he’s looking. His car is idling, huffing its standard emissions of a lake’s worth of pollution. He’s probably looking at his phone. Carrie steps up behind me, breathing heavily. I can smell orange and grape and hear a smack of a small bubble just as Shirley steps out of the cafeteria doors and walks up to Trevor’s car. The car window opens. She doesn’t lean on the door. She’s wearing a leather jacket with a fur-lined hood. She’s wearing knee socks. Her hair looks perfect. She stands back, looking inside.
Carrie smacks another bubble.
After a minute, the passenger side door opens, and Mark gets out of the car and gets into the back seat while Shirley gets into the front.
“Huh,” I say. “That’s Mark.”
Carrie looks at me. “That’s your brother?”
I turn and look at Carrie. “What?”
Carrie shrugs. “Nothing. I’ve never met him before so just—”
“Does Shirley Mason know Mark?” I ask.
Carrie frowns. “Does Mark know Trevor Bathurst?”
I nod.
“Yeah. Well. Shirley goes out with him. Or went out with him. Maybe she still does.” Carrie stomps her feet. “Can we get food now?”
I’m following Carrie back to the sidewalk, trying to think. What did Mark say at the grocery store? I’ll tell you what he didn’t say. He DIDN’T say, “Hey, that girl you’re talking about is dating my best friend.”
He said something about a stranger. Like, about why would he hate a stranger?
“So you know Trevor,” Carrie says.
“Yeah, he’s friends with Mark.” I frown.
“Then Mark is an idiot,” Carrie says, “because Trevor Bathurst is a dick.”