Lettie
There’s a change in the atmosphere at school, one that always accompanies the approach of Thanksgiving break. Everyone is anxious for a reprieve, me included.
This will be the last Thanksgiving break of my Meadowbrook academic life. Before I know it, the school year will be over, there’ll be another Alton Road block party I don’t want to attend, and that will be it for high school. A lot will happen in between, of course: midterms to dread, college acceptances to celebrate, and rejections to endure. And I can’t forget about the overrated tradition of prom. I’ll probably just skip it.
I’ve thought about asking Jay to prom, but of course I won’t. I did, however, break down and text him. I asked if we could hang out, get a coffee, go to a movie, something simple.
Jay wrote back soon after. I was elated for all of two seconds. His reply lacked any emotion or caring. Busy right now. Coding my ass off. Rain check?
Talk about leaving a girl hanging. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes. He left me in the horrible middle place where I could go on believing that something more could develop between us.
At least school is keeping me somewhat distracted. I’ve set aside my long-neglected research paper on revenge to work on my college applications, which I’m doing without any input from Mom or Dad. They like my independence and encourage it, but I think they’re both a little hurt I could get it all done—pick my schools, write my essays, fill out my activities, get my teacher recommendations—all that without any hand-holding.
A lot of my classmates, Dylan included, hired college coaches to manage the process because it’s too stressful for their parents. Even with a coach, Dylan still sent me his essay to edit, which hit my inbox a few hours before the early decision application to Bucknell was due. Boys!
To my father’s dismay, I wrote my essay about my school suspension. Dad thought I was giving the admissions folks a negative first impression, but I disagreed. “I’m explaining how I learned from my mistake,” I told him.
“Not sure lamenting that you should have created a GoFundMe campaign to pay for a billboard because that would have made a bigger statement than spray-painting on school property is learning much of anything,” Dad said.
“It’s about justice, Dad,” I countered, aware my effort to educate him was futile. “A T-shirt that says Bite Me! shouldn’t be in violation of anything. It’s ridiculous, and it’s emblematic of a larger social injustice. At best, dress codes violate my freedom of speech. At worst, they teach girls to cover up so we’re not a distraction. Someone has to take a stand for what’s right. We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.”
Dad looked impressed. “Are you quoting Churchill?” he asked.
“No. Albus Dumbledore, Goblet of Fire.”
With my college apps done, I finally turn my attention to Riley’s dilemma. I think I know how to find her bio-dad, but it’s not going to be cheap. Good thing she can afford it.
I meet Riley in the staff bathroom. She looks flawless in her white jeans, white top, and pink Vans that go perfectly with her pink earrings. Next to her, I look like Wednesday from the Addams Family. But looks count for nothing. My mom is fond of saying that if everyone threw their problems up in the air, people would race to catch their own. These words resonate with me more now than ever. I sure don’t want to catch what Riley is lugging around.
“So how’d it go? What did you find out?” Riley asks, speaking softly even though the staff bathroom locks from the inside.
“Plenty,” I tell her. From my backpack, I produce six plastic tubes with stoppers on them. “Hope you brought a good supply of spit.”
“I already took a test,” she says, as if I forgot.
“Right, I know. But you didn’t get enough quality matches. The major DNA companies share databases. But you have to send your DNA to multiple companies to get the most possible family matches, and hopefully some of those are close relatives to your bio-dad. Then you can reach out on the website messaging system. But fair warning, Rye. The people you match with might not want to help you find your biological father.”
“Why not?” Riley asks. “Won’t they be excited to meet me?” The notion seems utterly perplexing to her.
“Secret kids have a way of tearing families apart,” I say. “We have no idea about the circumstances. Anything is possible.”
I can almost hear the click in Riley’s brain.
“So my father—”
“Er—let’s call him your birth father. I mean, you don’t even know this guy’s name.”
“So my birth father might not know I exist?” She sounds shaken at the prospect. She might be all put together and insanely pretty, but what I see is a drug-addicted cheater who’s more than a little self-centered. She’s a hot mess.
Strangely enough, though, I feel better about myself for helping her. While I might not have the heart for revenge, this whole knight in shining armor gig seems to suit me just fine. Who knows—maybe after I find her bio-dad, I’ll help Riley get off the pills? I have a passing thought that I might be maturing. Oh well. Worse things could happen, I suppose.
“There’s another risk we should consider,” I say. “You don’t know anything about this new family of yours. What if they want to use you?”
“Use me for what?” Riley asks.
I toss my hands in the air. “I dunno. If they find out who your dad is—that he’s loaded—they might try to extort you.”
Riley scratches her head. “For money?”
“No, Pokémon cards,” I say. “Of course, money. And we all know your dad has a lot of it.”
Riley’s shoulders sag. “Guess I didn’t think of that.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” I tell her. “You still want to do it?”
She returns my unblinking stare with a barely perceptible nod.
I hand her a tube. “Okay, start spitting.”
Dylan is waiting in the hallway outside the bathroom when we exit with six tubes of Riley’s spit. He looks profoundly upset. He comes barreling toward Riley as soon as he sees her. Strings of dark hair partially curtain his sunken eyes, which are visibly red. I don’t know him to have seasonal allergies, so it’s my guess he’s been crying. He’s breathing hard, too, like he’s just finished a race. His jaw is set so tight it might well snap. I can see veins bulging on his neck.
“How could you do this to me?” he asks Riley.
Riley leans back on her heels, as if blown back by the force of his anger. “How’d you know where I was?”
“I saw you in the hallway and I followed you here.”
“Dylan, what do you want?” Riley’s voice has a nervous shake.
“I want to know who you’re screwing behind my back.”
“What?” Riley recoils.
Dylan reaches for her arm, gripping it hard as she pulls away.
“Oww!” she cries. “Let go. That hurts!”
Dylan lets go, but only to get out his phone. “Yeah, well, so does this,” he snarls, showing her something on the display.
I’ve never seen someone go catatonic before. Never watched the color drain from a person’s face fast as it does from Riley’s. For a moment, I think she’s going to pass out, but she stays standing. She stares at the phone, mouth hanging open as though she’s seen a ghost.
“Who sent this to you?” she asks.
“Do you know anyone named A. Dumas?” Dylan asks. “I sure as hell don’t, but that’s who sent it.”
Riley stammers. She can’t find the words.
“Dylan, what are you talking about?” I ask.
Whirling toward me, Dylan thrusts the phone in my face.
“I’m talking about my girlfriend sleeping with some other dude!” he shouts. He looks ready to pounce on us both.
The moment I see the picture, I feel the ground shift beneath my feet. This can’t be, I’m thinking. No. No. No. But even after a number of blinks, the image is still there, no doubt about it. It’s one of the photos of Riley taken outside McCormick’s on the rainy night Jay and I followed her out of town. Umbrella Man is in the shot, with his back to the camera so you can’t see much of him, but you can clearly see his hand on Riley’s ass.
The caption reads: Hey Dylan is this you?
“So who is he?” Dylan asks, pushing his phone back at Riley. “And who the hell is A. Dumas?”
My stomach shrinks to the size of a walnut. I happened to have read Alexandre Dumas in AP English—author of The Count of Monte Cristo, a classic revenge tale if ever there was one. I know damn well who this A. Dumas is, and I’m furious, too.
Riley appears stricken. “Dylan, let’s talk later, okay? Now isn’t a good time.” She turns to go, starts down the hallway, but Dylan lunges for her, grabs hold of her arm for a second time, and yanks her back, hard.
I don’t like the look in his eyes. A hurricane’s swirling in there; his whole expression is a dark and furious storm. I get it, too. His world, or at least his world as I saw it, was composed of a ball, a stick, and Riley. I didn’t think his dad’s put-downs had affected him any; didn’t think he had the depth to feel that wounded. But now I’m seeing it in his sorrowful gaze, the anger in his voice, his deflated stance. I feel for him, but I feel for Riley as well. Clearly she has her issues, so these two probably need to take a break. But not this way.
“Who is this guy? Does he even go to this school?”
I’m thinking: Actually, there’s a good chance he’s got a mortgage.
“Dylan, it’s over with us,” Riley says. “I should have broken up with you before, and I’m sorry. We need to talk about it later, okay?”
“No! Not okay. I want to talk now,” Dylan says. His grip on Riley’s arm tightens.
She winces in pain.
“Hey, let her go,” I plead.
Thank God he listens. Riley pulls her arm to her side like a wounded wing.
“I’m going to find out who he is,” Dylan says. His voice rumbles like a roll of thunder. “And when I do—he’s going to regret it.” He stomps off down the hall.
I’m angry, too. I told Jay in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want to hurt Dylan. Now I don’t want to hurt Riley, either.
I have some pretty strong words for Jay Kumar, but what really gets me is knowing that I’m not blameless in this mess. I was in the car that night. I asked for Jay’s help to expose Riley’s secrets. I was the stupid girl trying to impress an older boy.
As Dylan fades from my view, a troubling thought pulses in my head. If anything happens to my cousin—or to Riley, for that matter—because of the things I’ve done, I’ll never forgive myself.