Courtney Crimsen. What a pretty name. And yes, a very pretty girl, as well.
Pretty hair. Pretty smile. Perfect skin.
And you're also very nice. Everyone says so.
I stare at the picture in the scribble book. Hannah's arm around Courtney's
waist at some random party. Hannah is happy. Courtney is nervous. But I
have no idea why.
Yes, Courtney, you're sweet to everyone you meet in the halls. You're sweet
to everyone as they walk with you to your car after school.
I sip my coffee, which is getting cold.
You're definitely one of the most popular girls in school. And you . . .
are . . . just . . . so . . . sweet. Right?
Wrong.
I pound back the coffee to empty the mug.
Yes, my dear listeners, Courtney is nice to whomever she comes in contact
with or whomever she's talking to. And yet, ask yourselves—is it all a show?
I carry my mug to the pour-it-yourself bar for a refill.
I think it is. Now, let me tell you why.
First off, to everyone listening, I doubt Tyler will let you see the pictures he
took of me giving Courtney a backrub.
The container of half-n-half slips from my grip and clatters to the counter. I
catch it before it falls to the floor, then look over my shoulder. The girl behind
the register tips her head back and laughs.
Courtney's the one from Hannah's room?
Hannah takes an extra-long pause. She knows that info needs to sink in.
If you have seen those pictures, lucky you. I'm sure they're very sexy. But
as you now know, they're also very posed.
Posed. What an interesting word to sum up Courtney's tale. Because when
you're posed, you know someone's watching. You put on your very best smile.
You let your sweetest personality shine.
Unlike Courtney's photo in the scribble book.
And in high school, people are always watching so there's always a reason
to pose.
I press the top of the urn and a stream of dark coffee spills into the mug.
I don't think you do this intentionally, Courtney. And that's why I put you
on these tapes. To let you know that what you do affects others. More
specifically, it affected me.
Courtney does come off as genuinely sweet. Hearing her story here, on
these tapes, must have killed her.
A shiver crawls up my back. "Killed her." A phrase I will now drop from
my vocabulary.
Courtney Crimsen. The name sounds almost too perfect. And as I said, you
look perfect, too. The only thing left . . . is to be perfect.
With my coffee, cream, and sugar cubes mixed, I return to my table.
So that's where I give you credit. You could have taken the bitch route and
still had all the friends and boyfriends you could handle. But instead you took
the sweet route, so everyone would like you and not a soul would hate you.
Let me be very clear. I do not hate you, Courtney. In fact, I don't even
dislike you. But for a time, I thought you and I were becoming friends.
I don't remember that. I don't think I ever saw them hanging out.
It turns out you were just grooming me to be another tally mark under
People Who Think Courtney Crimsen Is a Really Neat Girl. Another
guaranteed vote for Most Liked in the senior yearbook.
And once you did it to me, and I realized it, I watched you do it to others.
Here, Courtney, is your contribution to the anthology of my life.
Did you like that? The anthology of my life?
I just made it up.
I pull my backpack onto my lap and unzip the largest pocket.
The day after Tyler took the candid shots of our student bodies began like
any other. The bell to first period rang and Courtney, as usual, ran in a
couple seconds late. Not that it mattered, because Mrs. Dillard wasn't there
yet, either.
Also not unusual.
I remove Hannah's map and unfold it on the small table.
When you were done chatting to the person in front of you, Courtney, I
tapped you on the shoulder. The moment you looked into my eyes, we both
began laughing. We spoke a bunch of two- or three-word sentences. But I
don't remember who said what, because whatever you said were my thoughts,
as well.
"So weird."
"I know."
"What the hell?"
"Can you imagine?"
"So funny."
Then, when Mrs. Dillard finally came in, you turned around to face the
front of the room. And when class was over, you left.
I search the map for the red star at Tyler's house. Part of me feels strange
about keeping such a close track of Hannah's story. Like I'm obsessed. Too
obsessed. While another part of me wants to deny the obsession.
It wasn't until I stepped into the hall on my way to second period that I
thought, Wait a sec. She didn't say good-bye.
I'm just doing what she asked. That's not obsession. It's respect. I'm living
out her last requests.
Did you say good-bye on any other day? No, not often. But after the
previous night, this time it felt intentional. I guess I thought that after what
we'd experienced less than twenty-four hours before, we would now be more
than just casual acquaintances.
A-4. A red star on Tyler's house.
But that, evidently, is what we'd become once again. We said hello in the
halls and sometimes you said good-bye to me after class, but never more than
you said it to anyone else.
Until the night of the party.
Until the night you needed me again.
I need a moment to catch up. I can't listen anymore till I do that.
I slip off the headphones and hang them around my neck. The girl I took
Wood Shop with walks around with a plastic tub, gathering mugs and plates
from empty tables. I look away toward the dark window when she clears the
place next to me. Her reflection glances my way several times, but I don't
turn around.
When she leaves, I sip my coffee and try my hardest not to think. I just
wait.
Fifteen minutes later, a bus drives by the front door of Monet's and the
waiting is over. I grab the map, toss my backpack over my shoulder, and run
out the door.
The bus is stopped at the far corner. I race down the sidewalk, up the bus
steps, and find an empty seat near the middle.
The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. "I'm ahead of schedule," he
says. "We'll be sitting here a couple minutes."
I nod, press the headphones into my ears, and look out the window.
Let me tell you that there is a much bigger, more important party later in the
tapes.
Is that it? Is that where I come in?
But this is the party that brings Courtney into the mix.
I was at school, backpack on my shoulder, heading out of first period when
you grabbed my hand.
"Hannah, wait up," you said. "How are you?"
Your smile, your teeth . . . flawless.
I probably said, "Fine," or, "Good. How are you?" But truthfully, I didn't
care, Courtney. Every time our eyes caught each other in a crowded hall and
I watched your gaze jump to someone else, I lost a little more respect for you.
And sometimes I wondered how many people in that one hallway felt the
same.
You went on to ask if I'd heard about the party later that night. I said that I
had, but that I didn't feel like going and wandering around looking for
someone to talk to. Or I didn't feel like wandering around looking for
someone to save me from talking to someone else.
"We should go together," you said. And you tilted your head to the side,
flashed your smile, and—though I'm probably imagining this—I think I even
saw you bat your eyes.
Yeah, that's Courtney. No one can resist her, and she flirts with everyone.
"Why?" I asked. "Why should we go to a party together?"
That obviously took you by surprise. I mean, you are who you are and
everyone wants to go to a party with you. To at least be seen entering a party
with you. Everyone! Boys. Girls. It doesn't matter. That's the kind of
admiration people have for you.
Have? Or had? Because I have a feeling that's about to change.
Most of them, unfortunately, don't realize how carefully you plan that
image.
You repeated my question. "Why should we go to a party together?
Hannah, so we can hang out."
I asked why you wanted to hang out after ignoring me for so long. But of
course, you denied ignoring me at all. You said I must have misread things.
And the party would be a good chance to get to know each other better.
And although I was still suspicious, you are who you are and everyone
wants to go to a party with you.
But you knew, Hannah. You knew, but you still went. Why?
"Great!" you said. "Can you drive?"
And my heart tumbled a bit.
But I pulled it back up and ignored my suspicions once again. "Sure,
Courtney," I said. "What time?"
You flipped open your notebook and ripped out a piece of paper. In tiny
blue letters you wrote your address, the time, and your initials: C.C. You
handed me the paper, said, "This is going to be great!" then gathered up your
stuff and left.
The bus door slides shut and we pull away from the curb.
Guess what, Courtney? On your way out the door, you forgot to say goodbye.
So here's my theory as to why you wanted to go to a party with me: You
knew I was pissed at being ignored by you. At the very least, you knew I was
hurt. And that was not good for your flawless reputation. That had to be fixed.
D-4 on your map, everybody. Courtney's house.
I reopen the map.
When I pulled up to the curb, your front door flew open. Out you came,
bounding off the porch and down the walkway. Your mom, before shutting the
front door, bent down to get a good look inside my car.
Don't worry, Mrs. Crimsen, I thought. No boys in here. No alcohol. No
drugs. No fun.
Why do I feel so compelled to follow her map? I don't need to. I'm
listening to the tapes, every single one, front and back, and that should be
enough.
But it's not.
You opened the passenger door, sat down, and buckled up. "Thanks for the
lift," you said.
I'm not following the map because she wants me to. I'm following it
because I need to understand. Whatever it takes, I need to truly understand
what happened to her.
A lift? Already having doubts about why you invited me, that was not the
hello I wanted to hear.
D-4. It's only a handful of blocks from Tyler's house.
I wanted to be wrong about you, Courtney. I did. I wanted you to see it as
me picking you up so we could go to a party together. And that is very
different from me giving you a lift.
At that moment, I knew how the party would play out for us. But how it
ended? Well, that was a surprise. That . . . was weird.
Bolted to the back of each seat, behind a square sheet of Plexiglas, is a
map of all the city's bus routes. From where I caught this one, the bus will
drive by Courtney's house, turn left a block before Tyler's, then stop.
We parked two and a half blocks away, which was actually the closest spot
we could get. I have one of those car stereos that continues playing even after
I shut off the engine. It won't stop until someone opens a door. But that night,
when I opened the door, the music didn't stop . . . it just sounded distant.
"Oh my God," you said. "I think that music's coming from the party!"
Did I mention we were two and a half blocks away? That's how loud it
was. That party was absolutely begging for a police visit.
Which is why I don't go to many parties. I'm so close to being
valedictorian. One mistake could mess it all up for me.
We took our place in the stream of students heading to the party—like
joining a bunch of salmon heading upstream to mate. When we got there, two
football players—never to be seen at a party without their jerseys—stood on
opposite sides of the gate collecting beer money. So I reached into my pocket
for some cash.
Over the loud music, you shouted to me, "Don't worry about it."
We got to the gate and one of the guys said, "Two bucks a cup." Then he
realized who he was talking to. "Oh. Hey, Courtney. Here you go." And he
handed you a red plastic cup.
Two bucks? That's it? They must charge girls differently.
You nodded your head in my direction. The guy smiled, then handed me a
cup. But when I grabbed for it, he didn't let go. He told me his replacement
was coming any minute and that we should hang out. I smiled at him, but you
grabbed me by the arm and pulled me through the gate.
"Don't," you said. "Trust me."
I asked why, but you were scanning the crowd and didn't hear me.
I don't remember any stories of Courtney and any football players.
Basketball players, yes. Many of them. But football? None.
Then you said we should split up. And do you want to know my first
thought when you said that, Courtney? Gee, that sure didn't take long.
You said there were a few people you needed to see and that we should
meet up later. I lied and said there were some people I needed to see, too.
Then you told me not to leave without you. "You're my ride, remember?"
How could I forget, Courtney?
The bus turns onto Courtney's street, with For Sale signs posted in about a
third of the yards. When we pass Courtney's house, I half expect to see a red
star spray-painted on the front door. But the porch is buried in darkness. No
porch light. No lights in any window at all.
But you smiled at me. And finally, you said the magic word. "Good-bye."
And good-bye was exactly what you meant.
"Miss your stop, Clay?"
An icy chill shoots up my spine.
A voice. A girl's voice. But not from the headphones.
Someone called my name. But from where?
Across the aisle, the dark belt of windows acts like a mirror. I see the
reflection of a girl sitting behind me. Maybe my age. But do I know her? I
turn my body around and look over the backrest.
Skye Miller. My eighth-grade crush. She smiles, or maybe it's more of a
smirk, because she knows she startled the hell out of me.
Skye's always been pretty, but she acts like the thought's never crossed her
mind. Especially the past couple of years. She dresses in dull, loose clothing
every day. Almost burying herself within them. Tonight, it's a bulky gray
sweatshirt and matching pants.
I pull the headphones from my ears. "Hey, Skye."
"Miss your house?" she asks. More words than she's spoken to me in a
long time. More words than I've heard her speak to anyone in a long time.
"He'll stop if you ask him to."
I shake my head. No. Not my house.
The bus takes a left at the next intersection and pulls up to the curb. The
door slides open and the driver yells back, "Anyone?"
I look to the front of the bus, into the rearview mirror, and catch the
driver's eye. Then I turn back to Skye. "Where are you going?" I ask.
The smirk returns. Her eyes stay focused on mine. She's trying so hard to
make me feel uncomfortable. And it's working.
"I'm not going anywhere," she finally says.
Why does she do this? What happened between eighth grade and now?
Why does she insist on being an outcast? What changed? No one knows. One
day, at least it seemed that fast, she just stopped wanting to be a part of
anything.
But this is my stop and I should get off. It's halfway between two of the
red stars: Tyler's house and Courtney's.
Or instead, I could stay and talk with Skye. To be more exact, I could stay
and try to talk with her. An almost guaranteed one-way conversation.
"See you tomorrow," she says.
And that's it. The conversation's over. Part of me, I admit, is relieved.
"See you later," I say.
I lift my backpack over my shoulder and walk to the front of the bus. I
thank the driver and return to the cold air outside. The door shuts behind me.
The bus pulls away. Skye's window passes with her head resting against the
glass and her eyes shut.
I pull my backpack onto both shoulders and tighten the straps. Alone once
again, I start walking. To Tyler's house.
Okay, but how will I know which one it is? This is the block, I know that,
and it's this side of the block, but Hannah gave no address.
If his bedroom light's on, maybe I'll see the bamboo shutters.
With each house I walk by, trying not to stare too long, I look for those
shutters.
Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe there will be a sign posted in his yard. PEEPING
TOM—COME INSIDE.
I can't stifle a laugh at my own lame joke.
With Hannah's words ready at the push of a button, it feels wrong to smile
like this. But it also feels nice. It feels like the first time I've smiled in
months, though it's only been hours.
Then, two houses away, I see it.
I stop smiling.
The bedroom light is on and the bamboo shutters are down. A spiderweb of
silver duct tape holds the fractured window together.
Was it a rock? Did someone throw a rock at Tyler's window?
Was it someone who knew? Someone from the list?
As I get closer I can almost picture her, Hannah, standing beside his
window whispering into a recorder. Words too soft for me to hear at this
distance. But in the end, the words reach me.
A square hedge divides Tyler's front yard from the next. I walk toward it to
shield myself from view. Because he has to be watching. Looking out.
Waiting for someone to bust his window wide open.
"You want to throw something?"
The icy chill comes slicing back. I spin around, ready to hit someone and
run.
"Hold it! It's me."
Marcus Cooley, from school.
I lean forward, resting my hands on my knees. Exhausted. "What are you
doing here?" I ask.
Marcus holds a fist-sized rock just below my eyes. "Take it," he says.
I look up at him. "Why?"
"You'll feel better, Clay. Honest."
I look over at the window. At the duct tape. Then I look down and close
my eyes, shaking my head. "Let me guess, Marcus. You're on the tapes."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. When I look up, the corners of his
eyes struggle to hold back a smile. And in that struggle, I can tell he's not
ashamed.
I nod to Tyler's window. "Did you do that?"
He pushes the rock into my hand. "You'd be the first to say no, Clay."
My heart starts racing. Not from Marcus standing here, or Tyler standing
somewhere inside, or the heavy rock in my hand, but from what he just told
me.
"You're the third to come out here," he says. "Plus me."
I try to picture anyone other than Marcus, someone else on the list,
throwing a rock at Tyler's window. But I can't. It doesn't make sense.
We're all on the list. All of us. We're all guilty of something. Why is Tyler
any different than the rest of us?
I stare down at the rock in my hand. "Why are you doing this?" I ask.
He nods over his shoulder, down the block. "That's my house down there.
With the light on. I've been watching Tyler's house to see who comes
around."
I can't imagine what Tyler told his parents. Did he plead with them not to
replace the window because more might be coming? And what did they say?
Did they ask how he knew? Did they ask why?
"The first was Alex," Marcus says. He doesn't sound the least bit ashamed
to be telling me this. "We were hanging out at my house when, out of
nowhere, he wanted me to point out Tyler's house. I didn't know why, it's not
like they were friends, but he really wanted to know."
"So, what, you just gave him a rock to throw at his window?"
"No. It was his idea. I didn't even know the tapes existed yet."
I toss the rock up a few inches then catch its weight in my other hand.
Even before the previous rocks weakened it, the window would stand no
chance against this. So why did Marcus choose this rock for me? He's heard
the rest of the tapes, but he wants me to be the one to finish off the window.
Why?
I toss the rock back to my other hand. Beyond his shoulder I can see the
porch light at Marcus's house. I should make him tell me which window is
his. I should tell him this rock is going through one of his house's windows,
and he might as well tell me which one is his so I don't scare the hell out of
his little sister.
I grip the rock hard. Harder. But there's no way to keep my voice from
shaking. "You're a dick, Marcus."
"What?"
"You're on the tapes, too," I say. "Right?"
"So are you, Clay."
My voice shakes from both rage and an attempt to hold back tears. "What
makes us so different from him?"
"He's a Peeping Tom," Marcus says. "He's a freak. He looked in Hannah's
window, so why not break his?"
"And you?" I ask. "What did you do?"
For a moment, his eyes stare through me. Then he blinks.
"Nothing. It's ridiculous," he says. "I don't belong on those tapes. Hannah
just wanted an excuse to kill herself."
I let the rock drop onto the sidewalk. It was either that or smash it in his
face right there.
"Get the hell away from me," I tell him.
"It's my street, Clay."
My fingers close and tighten into a fist. I look down at the rock, aching to
pick it back up.
But I turn away. Fast. I walk the full length of the sidewalk in front of
Tyler's house without looking at the window. I can't let myself think. I pull
the headphones from my neck and place them back in my ears. I reach into
my pocket and hit Play.
Was I disappointed when you said good-bye to me, Courtney?
Not much. It's hard to be disappointed when what you expected turns out to
be true.
Keep walking, Clay.
But did I feel used? Absolutely.
And yet the whole time Courtney was using me, she probably thought she
was polishing up her image in my eyes. Can you say . . . backfire?
That party turned into a night of firsts for me. I saw my very first fistfight
—which was horrible. I have no idea what it was about, but it started right
behind me. Two guys were shouting, and when I turned around, their chests
were about an inch apart. A crowd began to form, egging them on. The mob
became a thick wall, not about to let the situation die down. All they needed
was for one chest to close the gap, even accidentally, and it was on.
And that's what happened.
The bump of a chest turned into a shove, which, right away, became a fist
pounding a jaw.
After two more punches, I turned away and pushed through the wall of
people, which, by that time, was four bodies deep. Some in the back were
standing on tiptoes for a better view.
Disgusting.
I ran inside, searching for a bathroom to hide in. I didn't feel physically
sick. But mentally . . . my mind was twisting in so many ways. The only thing I
could think of was that I needed to vomit.
I pull out my map and look for the nearest star that isn't Courtney's. I'm
not going there. I'm not listening to Hannah talk about her while I stare at her
dark, empty house.
I'm on to the next thing.
In Health, we once saw a documentary on migraines. One of the men
interviewed used to fall on his knees and bang his head against the floor, over
and over during attacks. This diverted the pain from deep inside his brain,
where he couldn't reach it, to a pain outside that he had control over. And in a
way, by vomiting, that's what I hoped to do.
The exact locations of the red stars are hard to see if I don't stop walking,
if I don't stand still beneath a streetlamp. But I can't stop walking. Not even
for a moment.
Watching those guys pummel each other so no one would suspect them of
being weak was too much for me. Their reputations were more important than
their faces. And Courtney's reputation was more important than my
reputation.
Did anyone at that party actually believe she brought me there as a friend?
Or did they simply think I was her latest charity case?
I guess I'll never know.
I refold the map and tuck it under my arm.
Unfortunately, the only bathroom I found was occupied . . . so I went back
outside. The fistfight was over, everything had returned to normal, and I
needed to leave.
The temperature continues to fall and I tighten my arms around my chest
as I walk.
When I approached the gate, the same gate where I entered the party,
guess who was standing there all by himself.
Tyler Down . . . fully equipped with his camera.
It's time to leave Tyler alone, Hannah.
When he saw me, the look on his face was priceless. And pitiful. He
crossed his arms, trying to shield the camera from my view. But why would he
do that? Everyone knows he's on the yearbook staff.
But I asked anyway. "What's that for, Tyler?"
"What? Oh . . . this? Um . . . yearbook."
And then, from behind me, someone called my name. I'm not going to tell
you who because it doesn't matter. Like the person who grabbed my ass at
Blue Spot Liquor, what he was about to say was just an aftereffect of someone
else's actions—someone else's callousness.
"Courtney said I should talk to you," he said.
I exhale quickly. After this, your reputation is ruined, Courtney.
I looked behind him. At the far end of the yard, three silver kegs sat in the
middle of an inflatable pool full of ice. Beside the pool, Courtney was talking
to three boys from another school.
The boy standing in front of me took a slow sip from his beer. "She says
you're fun to hang out with."
And I started to soften. I started letting my guard down. Sure, maybe I was
right and Courtney was only concerned with saving her image. Maybe she
thought that by sending a cute boy over to talk to me I'd forget all about her
ignoring me at the party.
Yes, he was kind of cute. And okay, maybe I was willing to have a little
selective amnesia.
But something happened, Hannah. What?
After we spoke for a while, this guy said he had a confession to make.
Courtney didn't actually send him over to talk to me. But he did overhear her
talking about me and that's why he came and found me.
I asked him what Courtney said, and he just smiled and looked down at the
grass.
I was through with these games! I demanded to know what she said about
me.
"That you're fun to hang out with," he repeated.
I started rebuilding my guard, brick by brick. "Fun . . . how?"
He shrugged.
"How?"
Ready for this, everyone? Our sweet little Miss Crimsen told this guy, and
whoever else was standing within earshot, that I've got a few surprises buried
in my dresser drawers.
My breath stops like I've been sucker punched in the stomach.
She made that up! Courtney completely made that up.
And out of the corner of my eye, I watched Tyler Down start walking away.
By now, the tears were welling up. "Did she say what was in there?" I
asked.
Again, he smiled.
My face felt so hot, my hands started shaking, and I asked him why he
believed her. "Do you believe everything people say about me?"
He told me to calm down, that it didn't matter.
"Yes!" I told him. "It does matter."
I left him to have a little conversation over by the keg pool. But on my way
there, I had a better idea. I ran up to Tyler and stood in front of him. "You
want a picture?" I said. "Follow me." Then I grabbed his arm and led him
across the yard.
The picture! The one from the scribble book.
Tyler protested the whole way, thinking I wanted him to take a picture of
the keg pool. "They'll never print it," he said. "You know, underage
drinking?"
Right. Why would they want a yearbook that showed actual student life?
"Not that," I said. "I want you to take a picture of me. Me and Courtney."
I swear, at that moment his forehead was glistening. Me and the backrub
girl, together again.
I asked if he was all right.
"Yeah, no, sure, fine." And that's an exact quote.
In the picture, Hannah's arm is wrapped around Courtney's waist.
Hannah's laughing, but Courtney isn't. She's nervous.
And now I know why.
Courtney was in the middle of having her cup filled, and I told Tyler to
wait right there. When Courtney saw me, she asked if I was having fun.
"Someone wants to take your picture," I said. Then I grabbed her by the
arm and pulled her over to Tyler. I told her to put down her cup or the
yearbook wouldn't be able to use it.
Tyler put it in the scribble book at Monet's. He wanted us to see it.
This was not a part of her plan. She only invited me to the party to clear
her beautiful name after ignoring me for so long. A permanent photograph
linking us to one another was not supposed to happen.
Courtney tried to pull out of my grip. "I . . . I don't want to," she said.
I whirled around to face her. "Why not, Courtney? Why did you invite me
here? Please don't tell me I was just a chauffeur. I mean, I thought we were
becoming friends."
He must have put it in the scribble book because he knew we would never
find it in the yearbook. He would never turn it in. Not after learning what the
photograph really meant.
"We are friends," she said.
"Then put down your drink," I said. "It's time for a picture."
Tyler aimed the camera and focused his lens, waiting for our beautiful,
natural smiles. Courtney lowered the drink to her side. I put my arm around
her waist and told her, "If you ever want to borrow anything from my dresser,
Courtney, all you need to do is ask."
"Ready?" Tyler said.
I leaned forward, pretending someone had just told me the funniest joke in
the world. Click.
Then I told them I was leaving because the party sucked.
Courtney begged me to stay. She told me to be reasonable. And maybe I
was being a little insensitive. I mean, she wasn't ready to leave. How would
she get home if her chauffeur didn't wait around for her?
"Find another ride," I said. And I left.
Part of me wanted to cry for being so right about her invitation. Instead,
on the long walk back to my car, I started laughing. And I shouted into the
trees, "What is going on?"
And then someone called my name.
"What do you want, Tyler?"
He told me I was right about the party. "The party does suck."
"No, Tyler. It doesn't," I said. Then I asked why he was following me.
His eyes dropped to his camera and he fiddled with the lens. He needed a
ride home, he said.
At that, I really started laughing. Not specifically at what he said, but at
the absurdity of the whole night. Did he really have no clue that I knew about
his night prowling—about his nocturnal missions? Or did he sincerely hope I
didn't know? Because as long as I didn't know, we could be friends, right?
"Fine," I said. "But we're not stopping anywhere."
A few times on the ride home he tried talking to me. But each time I cut
him off. I did not want to act like everything was okay, because it wasn't.
And after I dropped him off, I took the longest possible route home.
I have a feeling I'll be doing the same.
I explored alleys and hidden roads I never knew existed. I discovered
neighborhoods entirely new to me. And finally . . . I discovered I was sick of
this town and everything in it.
I'm starting to get there, too, Hannah.
Next side.