Mercy Rule Page 13

  Except—

  Except Sam hasn’t given up on me. Not yet. I can see it in his face while I’m pretending not to watch him watching me.

  But he won’t wait forever. He shouldn’t wait forever.

  I have to fix it. I can’t risk losing him because of something I did. If he’s not for real with me, fine. But how stupid would it be to chase him away if he is for real?

  So I resort to middle school tactics: I start writing a note.

  Dear Sam,

  Please don’t be mad at me. Something happened yesterday before 7th hour and I don’t know if I can really tell you what—

  Right then, the PA system crackles to life, cutting off my thought process and Mrs. Garcia’s lecture.

  “Faculty and staff, your attention please,” says Dr. Flores. “We are now in hard lockdown. All outside activities are canceled. All students and staff in classrooms are to remain there. If you are outside, return to the school building immediately or proceed to the designated alternative gathering point. The code word is notebook. The code word is notebook.”

  “Oh, great,” Mrs. Garcia sighs. “Okay, well, everyone up here and sit down, I guess.”

  Somehow, when we all stand up, I end up at Sam’s side. My heart beats fast. “What’s going on?” I say to him as we all shuffle to the front of the room.

  “It’s just a drill,” he says. “They have these code words for when it’s a drill and when it’s the real thing. I guess ‘notebook’ means drill.”

  My heart slows down. Then it speeds back up as I realize Sam has my hand in his. Like nothing happened. Like I haven’t been ignoring him.

  “Okay, okay,” Mrs. Garcia says, sitting us all down with our backs against the wall. “No talking.”

  No one obeys her.

  “Mrs. G!” someone stage whispers. “Mrs. G!”

  “Yes, Patty.”

  “If you get shot, will there still be a quiz tomorrow?”

  Mrs. Garcia laughs. So do we. Tension breaker.

  “There will be now, thanks for reminding me,” Mrs. Garcia says, and everyone pretends to get mad at Patty.

  Sam and I sit side by side, our entwined hands hidden between our hips.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, barely audible. “About— everything.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Will you tell me what happened later?”

  I don’t want to, really. But I say, “Yes.”

  Another squeeze. We’re okay. I’ll have to tell him what happened, but we’ll be fine.

  I look at Brianna Montaro.

  She is reading a paperback of Hamlet fiercely and writing in her notebook. Like she’s angry the drill has interrupted her learning time.

  I decide I will ace the next quiz.

  “Whoa,” Sam whispers.

  I turn to him. “What.”

  “You just got a really intense look on your face.”

  “Oh. Just— thinking.” There’s still a low buzz in the classroom from all the whispered conversations, and Mrs. Garcia is leaning her head against the wall as if grateful for the break. I scoot even closer to Sam. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That Friday a couple weeks ago … when we went to the coffee shop …”

  “Yeah? Hey, I won’t order for you again.”

  I laugh— short and quiet. “It’s not that. It’s … why did you do that?”

  His expression turns serious. “Wait, the ordering thing?”

  “No, I mean, why did you ask me to do that at all? To go?” I lower my voice even more. “Was it to get back at her?”

  Sam relaxes, like that’s a much easier question. “No. No. You just looked like you needed copious amounts of chocolate, that’s all.”

  I feel stabbed in the stomach. “That’s all?”

  “Ah, no. There’s, um … there’s more.”

  I like the direction that’s going. The stabbing feeling goes away as I whisper, “Well, lots of people do need copious amounts of chocolate, I guess. Look at Mrs. Garcia.”

  Sam laughs— long and loud. Loud enough for Mrs. Garcia to open her eyes and frown. Sam waves an apology.

  “Fair enough,” he whispers.

  Doodling on my notebook cover, I say, “You said there was more?”

  He keeps his voice quiet as he says, “Well … you’re very pretty.”

  That doesn’t suck to hear.

  “But also,” Sam says, then pauses with a strange little smile on his face. “Also, I liked the way you take notes.”

  I can’t even respond to that. Sam’s little grin gets bigger.

  “You write freehand faster than I can type,” he says. “And you hardly even look down at your notebook while you do it. Like you can daydream and take notes at the same time. It’s the weirdest thing. Weird cool, I mean. Did you not know you did that?”

  Truthfully, I say, “I had no idea.”

  “Yeah. It’s sort of intense. Like it just comes easily to you. That’s intriguing.”

  Trying to be covert about it, I glance at Brianna again. She’s still madly flipping pages and scribbling notes. She looks angry at the text. I’ve never felt that way before in my life, that I can remember.

  “So, I was intrigued,” Sam goes on. “That, and the aforementioned ‘pretty’ part.”

  I want to say thank you, but somehow it feels wrong.

  But I’m spared having to say much of anything because Dr. Flores’s voice comes over the PA. “Your attention, please. The lockdown has ended. The lockdown has ended. Please return to your classrooms. This has been a drill.”

  We go back to our seats. I try very hard to give Brianna Montaro a confident smirk. I don’t know if it works or not.

  I sit straight and attentive in my desk, making sure to give Mrs. Garcia my undivided attention.

  There’s a quiz coming up.

  COACH

  “You two,” Coach says to Donte and Brady. They’re in the hall between sixth and seventh period, standing by their lockers. The flock of pretty, underclassmen girls crowded around them scatters when Coach approaches. He enjoys the effect he has, though his two players clearly do not. But they give him their attention.

  It’s good to be king.

  “My office,” he says.

  The boys follow without complaint. The bell rings, but none of them care. This is official coach business. He’s got a whole pad of passes for just such an occasion.

  They swagger into his office. Coach hurls himself into the ancient office chair and pulls his wallet from a desk drawer.

  “Here,” Coach says. He yanks a gold-colored Starbucks card from the wallet. He hands it to Brady, but looks at Donte. “You got that new car, right?”

  “Hell yeah,” Donte says. “Got a nice system in it, too, good bass—”

  “Yeah yeah, I know about the bass,” Coach says, feigning anger. It makes Donte grin. “All right, take this, go get me a, uh … get me a cup of coffee and a doughnut or something. Then you two heroes get whatever you want.”

  The boys trade surprised and thrilled glances, but don’t ask questions. They hustle out the door with hurried Thanks, Coach-es over their shoulders.

  You did that right, Coach tells himself. God damn if you mess things up sometimes, but that one you did right.

  He picks up the phone to make a report to the facilities guy. Someone beat the almighty crap out of some lockers in the boys’ locker room, and they’ll need replacing. He hopes it doesn’t come out of his budget, but has a feeling it will. It always does.

  DANNY

  President Jason and Mrs. Tanner are in her office in the drama department when the bell for seventh period rings. I ignore it. I mean, how much more trouble could I possibly get in, right?

  Jason looks pissed as fuck, sitting on an old vinyl couch from the seventies.

  I don’t ask. I have business.

  Mrs. Tanner looks up from her desk and smiles. “Hey, Danny. What’s up? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “
I have to drop out of the show.” It comes out in a robotic voice, dry and monotone.

  Her face falls. Jason looks up with a scowl. At the exact same time, they say, “What?”

  “Sorry,” I say in that same tone. “Nothing I can do about it. Good luck.”

  Jason jumps to his feet like he’s going to square off with me, but of course he doesn’t. “You can’t just do that! People are counting on you!”

  “Everything’s fine, though, thanks for asking,” I say. “Take it easy.”

  Mrs. Tanner says my name as I walk out of the office. Jason, on the other hand, calls me an asshole.

  Yes, because I’m the asshole in this scenario. Jesus Christ, fuck you, too, Mr. President.

  I almost go back in. I almost tell them both the whole sordid, stupid fucking story. But I don’t. Why bother? Nothing’s going to change.

  Thanks, Dad. Well done, sir.

  I spend seventh period in a bathroom, which stinks like … everything a high school boys’ bathroom stinks like. I really should just go home. But I’ve got to try and at least fix things with Cadence, if nothing else. That might at least be a nice way to end the day.

  Probably shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  VIVI

  Seventh period. Last class of the day. Not my favorite either, and not because it’s math but because Mr. Donelly is so old-fashioned that he still makes people come up to the board to solve problems. Does he keep a switch in his desk, too? Slates and chalk?

  Mr. Donelly scans the class. “Let’s see … Vivian.”

  I freeze. Try to hide. Shrink. Ungrow. Travel back in time to before I took a breath in this world.

  It doesn’t work.

  “Can you come up and complete the graph?”

  A trillion eyes pierce me. Their invisible blades pin me to my seat.

  I try to form words. Nothing. Try Spanish instead. Nothing.

  “Vivian?” Mr. Donelly says. He holds the marker out, like a dog treat. As if that will work. “Do you not know the answer, or do you not want to come up?”

  The answers to these questions are, in order, Yes, I know the answer, and No, I do not want to come up.

  Then magic happens.

  Sam stands up, arms straight down at his sides, and shouts, “I volunteer as tribute!”

  Half the class starts laughing. Many even hold up three fingers, pressed tightly together. When others see them, they join in, still giggling.

  “All right, all right,” Mr. Donelly says. “I get it. You win. Sam, come on up.”

  Sam marches to the front of the class and takes the marker. Mr. Donelly sits on the edge of his desk, eyes me, and says, “He’s a keeper.”

  The class laughs again. I keep growing in reverse.

  But not quite as fast as a moment ago.

  When class is over, I take Sam’s hand the instant we’re out of the room.

  “You’re awesome,” I say.

  “Thank you,” he says. “So, now that we’re all friendly again, can you tell me what happened yesterday?”

  “You want to come with me someplace?” I say instead of answering.

  “Anyplace.” His hand tightens on mine for a second.

  We pass a kid sitting in the hallway near the library doors, knees drawn close to his chest and arms folded over his stomach. I recognize him from the Jamaican Blue coffee shop. He starts to glare at us as we walk past, but then stops.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” he grunts.

  He and Sam trade nods, but that’s it.

  We keep walking, right past the library windows. I see Brianna Montaro alone at a table with a textbook open in front of her, plus her phone, an iPad, and a notebook. She’s staring down at the textbook with her head in both hands, pulling her skin tight around her face. Something in the book is driving her crazy.

  I don’t realize that I’ve stopped to watch her until she looks up, right at me, like she sensed my gaze somehow. I expect her expression to be bitchy. Instead, for one second, maybe before she realizes who it is she’s looking at— me, the A+ SLUT herself— her eyes are pinched and haunted.

  We hold each other in our sights for a moment. She turns away before I do.

  Good.

  “What’s up?” Sam asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  We head for my new car, its red paint shining under the sun. Sam says, “Whoa. This is … a car.”

  “Do you like it? Smell inside.”

  Sam climbs in behind the wheel. “Oh my. Yes, a guy could get used to this. Very easily. Holy crap, is this leather?”

  “The best money can buy.”

  “Can I drive it?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe. Okay.”

  “Vivi?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m totally screwing with you. I wouldn’t drive this thing on a bet.” He gets out and shuts the door. “Uh … I didn’t just lock your keys in your shiny new car, right?”

  I jingle them.

  “Good,” he says. “Because that would have been a really awful way to end a Tuesday.”

  I smile.

  I smile. At school.

  “Hop in,” I say to Sam as I get behind the wheel.

  “Gosh, I don’t know … okay!”

  He gets in beside me, and I peel out of the parking space. I’m being stupid, but it feels good. People glare. I like it.

  But then I drive carefully out of the parking lot and onto the street.

  “Is this what you were doing this morning?” Sam asks as I drive.

  “Yes. With my Aunt Marlene.”

  “Wow. Does your Dad know?”

  “Yes. I showed it to him this morning. He likes it.”

  “Well, this is nice.” Sam takes a moment to admire the interior again before facing me. “All right. So, yesterday. I don’t necessarily need you to apologize or anyth—”

  “Sorry.”

  “Now, see what you did there? I wasn’t even done.” He smacks my knee, smiling.

  I smile, too, a bit ashamed and a lot grateful.

  “You don’t have to apologize. I just want to know what happened, if I did something wrong.”

  “No. It was me. Me and that stupid …”

  Sam waits. We come to a stoplight.

  “My mom works at a car wash,” I say as we drive north.

  “Okay?” Sam says.

  “It’s … you’ll see in a minute.”

  Sam nods, and sits back in the leather seat. Twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of my house, with Sam’s side facing it. I park on the street, not the driveway, because with Sam in the car, I feel like a visitor, not a resident.

  “This is where I live now.”

  “Oh,” Sam says, eyebrows whisking up. “So, your mom owns a chain of car washes across the developed world. That’s what you meant to say. Right? Because, and I don’t say this very often— holy shit that’s a nice house.”

  It’s a monstrosity. That’s what I think.

  But Sam’s not stupid. Still looking at the house, he says, “So this is from the lawsuit.”

  “The settlement from Dad’s accident, yeah,” I say. “I swear to God, I think he picked a neighborhood and just bought the most expensive one he could. I don’t even know when he could have come to look at it.”

  “So then your mom … ?”

  “She left us,” I say, staring at the house, alternating my focus between it and Sam’s head, like a movie camera. “Then Dad got hurt. And when he got this place, he couldn’t … God, he could not wait to give her the change of address. He was thrilled.”

  “Okay, so … I don’t get it. I mean, I get your dad wanting to show off for the woman who left him. What’s this have to do with whatever happened at school yesterday?”

  “Brianna Montaro.”

  “What about her?”

  “When I was in the bathroom, she came in with her little group—”

  “I saw them go in, yeah. Brianna’s the nice one, belie
ve it or not.”

  “They said when I moved here, their property values went down. I don’t even know what that means.”

  Sam’s face becomes fierce. Not an expression I’ve seen on him before.

  “Brianna said that?”

  “Her or one of the others. They all sound alike.”

  “See, now I’m pissed,” Sam says. “Really, sincerely, righteously pissed. How can someone … ? Damn. I’m sorry, Viv. No wonder you took off.”

  I nod a little, wondering if I should tell him what else they said.

  “Does she embarrass you?” Sam says.

  “Sometimes. Yes. I’m afraid to go into the restrooms now. I don’t even want to be here anymore, I never wanted to be here. I want to be back in the Dez with my friends and my aunt. Everything sucks here except …”

  My voice drops.

  “Except for you.”

  Sam, who has been studying my house, turns slowly to face me. He looks into my eyes, and I can’t read his expression. I just told him more than I ever, ever wanted to. And I’m almost glad. Mostly scared. But still glad.

  “Wow,” he says softly. “Okay. Well. First off, thank you for trusting me with all that. Seriously. And second? I was actually asking about your mom.”

  Oh.

  My first thought is, God, am I stupid.

  My second thought is, That’s hysterical.

  A snort escapes. Then one high-pitched bark. Then: laughing. Hard.

  Sam looks uncertain for a moment, then he starts laughing with me. It’s so ridiculous and so stupid and so … so …

  Sam leans in and kisses me.

  And— it’s so … so …

  Yes.

  BRADY

  Pay for my Trenta iced mocha and two muffins with Coach’s scratched-up gold Starbucks card. Donte gets a Venti mocha frap and a croissant. I call him a pussy.

  Most everyone is gone by the time we roll back up to school with Coach’s tall coffee. People are rushing to get off campus. I wonder what that feels like. To be in a hurry to get home.

  Walk to Coach’s office and hand over his coffee. He says, “Didn’t you guys get anything?”