Find Me (3 page)

I stop by my locker, trading my history book for my math notes, before heading to the computer lab. Mrs. Lowe leaves the classroom open in case her students need to use the equipment for one of her assignments. She should know better. Really. I mean, anyone could walk in here and start using the computers for their own purposes.

People like me, for instance.

I push open the door, anticipating a stretch of isolation, and realize it’s
so
not going to happen. I’m not alone. In my haze, I missed seeing Griff. He looks up, and his eyes kind of . . . flicker. I don’t know how to describe it, but I know he’s surprised.

Maybe it’s my hair. I’m a natural blonde, the kind of pale yellow that belongs to princesses in fairy tales, Barbie dolls, and my dad. So I dye it. Frequently. I changed the color to dark red yesterday afternoon, picked the shade because it would make me look like a graphic novel character. I thought the superhero red looked awesome. I guess Griff doesn’t agree

I don’t care—
I don’t
—but my ears still go all hot. These days, I keep wishing I were someone else even though I kind of am. My new life is crammed on top of me, pinching like it will never, ever fit. I hate how stupid I feel. Maybe my mom felt like that too. Maybe that’s why she jumped. Makes me wonder if she had the right idea.

She didn’t, of course—I’d never leave Lily like she left us—but the running-away part I get. She was escaping my dad. It was her salvation, but it made our lives worse.

“You’re here early.” Griff’s smile feels like a kick to my stomach. He straightens—so he can see me better, and I have to fight the urge to squirm. I don’t know why he pays attention to me. It makes me nervous.

“Yeah, pretty early.” I start to say more, mention something about my upcoming English project, anything that won’t keep me standing here like a total dork with my mouth hanging open, but I don’t. This is kind of a problem I have with Griff. He has the weirdest bottle-green eyes. They’re very clear, and they make me feel very . . . muddy.

I clear my throat. “I actually got up on time.”

“Me too.” Griff returns to concentrating on his notepad. He’s drawing again—actually he’s always drawing and I want to ask about it, but I chicken out.

You’d think we would be friends. Until I went into the foster system, I lived two streets away from him, but we’re nothing alike. Griff moves pretty easily through school. He’s funny, gets along with everyone, and has even been known to save bullied band geeks. If I stood up to one of Matthew Bradford’s roid rages, I’d be a smear on the gym floor. Griff never hesitated. Part of me really admires him for it . . . part of me is jealous he can pull it off.

I weave through the scattered chairs, heading for the computer workstation closest to the rear. Lauren Cross, my best friend, would say it’s my favorite, but probably because it’s her favorite too.

Back here, there’s a little more room for my stuff, and I can lean against the concrete walls. If anyone asks, I say it’s because I like to sleep through the lectures. But honestly, I just like it better. It’s almost as good as being invisible.

I have a few things for my biology class I should do, but I’m not in the mood to mess with any of them. Carson is branded on my brain.

He’s after our dad. And I say have at it, buddy. Party on. Unless . . . unless he knows about me. Could I have made a mistake? Could it have led Carson to me?

I don’t think he left Tessa’s diary—I don’t think he even noticed it was there. Doesn’t mean the detective isn’t keeping tabs, though, and if he wants a closer look at me, I should get a closer look at him. Email would be a good starting point. I don’t remember if he had a BlackBerry, but they’re easy enough to break into if he did.

In fact, I’d love to start now. The want is bad enough to make my teeth ache, but I don’t dare try anything at school. The availability of hardware is attractive, but not enough to chance the administration’s spyware. I’m willing to risk it.

Yet.

A few Google searches never hurt anyone, though, and I spend almost forty minutes scrolling through online newspaper articles that mention Carson. His picture is on the police department’s website, and there’s a blurb commending him for his superior level of community involvement.

Community involvement? Is that what we’re calling it now?
Carson’s grinning like a jackass, and I’m sure it’s supposed to be charming, but all I see is the skull behind the smile.

Outside the classroom, the noise level is swelling. Windows line the front half of the computer lab, and I can see more students dragging in from the parking lot. Their voices are unusually low, humming like wasps.

Well, except for one.

Jenna Maxwell is crying.

Sobbing, actually.

This is unusual for a lot of reasons,. Mostly because Jenna is never unhappy. She has the proportions of a Barbie doll and the temperament of a pit viper. She’s president of our class, heads up the Beta Club, and enjoys watching nerds get tossed into Dumpsters.

As one of those nerds, I’m pretty interested in anything that would make Jenna cry. Part of me really hopes her convertible’s been keyed, but I would also settle for an STD.

Jenna briefly disappears into a pack of girls, and I slide my eyes back to the computer screen. Something’s definitely up. There’s too much hugging going on.

“Amazing,” Griff says, stretching his arms behind his head. “I didn’t think she was programmed to cry.”

“Yeah, it makes her look almost lifelike.” The words shoot out of my mouth before they can be swallowed, and I envision them writhing around on the table in front of me.

Shit.
I cut my gaze to Griff. He’ll look at me the same disappointed way Bren and Todd do. The same way everyone does.

Except he doesn’t.

Our eyes touch, and one side of his mouth slants up in what might very well be a smile. It makes my insides grow two pounds heavier, and suddenly, I don’t know what to say. I should look away, but I don’t.

Actually, I don’t think I can.

Griff has a smile that can charm teachers, but never cheerleaders. I spent all last year kinda sorta maybe wanting him to give me that smile. Then he did, and I had no idea what to do.

Apparently, I still don’t.

Griff returns to studying the cluster of girls. “I always thought they were frenemies. I guess she really was close to Tessa.”

Was?
I sit up a little, pressing my shoulders into the plastic chair. “What do you mean?”

Griff takes so long to answer I don’t think he’s going to respond, but finally he says, “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Tessa jumped off a building.”

The room narrows and narrows until it’s sleek and long. I focus on Griff, who looks embarrassed, like he’s afraid I’ll cry.

Most people get that way when they’re talking to me about jumpers. They stare at me, but can only think about my mom.

“Tessa jumped off a building?” I repeat it carefully, because the words in my head are so loud I worry they’ll spew from my mouth:
Find me. Find me. Find. Me.

“Yeah, it was early yesterday.” Griff passes one ink-stained hand across his face. It does nothing to loosen his gritted expression. He shakes his head like Tessa’s news is a bone he’s choking on.

I concentrate on the computer keys, but all I can think of is the diary curled up in my bag, pressing against my leg. You can barely see the bulge, but the edges are blooming razor blades.

“There has to be some sort of mistake.”

“That’s not what Jenna’s saying.” Griff reaches into his pocket, pulls out his cell. After briefly fiddling with the keypad, he shows me the screen. It’s Jenna Maxwell’s Facebook page,. “She says Tessa committed suicide.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

He says I’m his. His forever.

—Page 18 of Tessa Waye’s diary

Suicide.

At first, I’m gaping because I can’t believe it, and, then I’m gaping because I’m struggling to breathe.

Suicide? No way.

“No. You’re wrong—
she’s
wrong. There has to be some mistake.”

“Wick, I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. Please. Sit down.”

Sit down? I’m not
—I glance down. Blink.
Well, look at that. I
am
standing.

I’m also making a scene. Across the computer lab, Mrs. Lowe’s homeroom students are trickling in. Gazes slide in our direction.

Find me.

But I can’t. I’m too late. Poor Tessa.

“Wick?” Griff edges close. Too close.

Well, shit, now I really can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. I need to focus. Why would Tessa commit suicide? And why the hell would someone leave me her diary?

“Wick!” Griff’s long fingers circle my wrist. The touch burns me straight to my bones. “Are you okay?”

What?
I look at him and regret it. I recognize the expression twisting up his features. Griff thinks, because he knows about my mom, he knows about me. He thinks he understands—that he gets me.

He
so
doesn’t. I’m not even sure I do.

“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Lowe—red-eyed and rumpled—elbows her way through the students now staring at us. She takes one look at me and grabs my sleeve. “Miss Tate, are you sick?”

No, but I’m going to be if you don’t move.
The woman’s breath reeks of coffee. As much as I love caffeine, I almost gag.

“It’s my fault.” Griff eases himself in between us, and for a moment, all I can see is how his shoulder blades press through his faded polo. “I told her about Tessa.”

The teacher’s eyelids squeeze shut like she’s making a birthday wish. “You poor thing. I guess you would’ve found out sooner or later. Principal Matthews didn’t want to break it to everyone like this, but Miss Maxwell’s already told half the school. Here. Sit down.” She pushes me into my seat, holds me down with one hand. “You look horrible.”

Gee, thanks.
“I’m—”

“You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”

“No, she’s just . . .” Griff trails off, which is far better for him than he realizes. If he had agreed with Mrs. Lowe, he’d be waving good-bye with a stump.

“Is it a panic attack, dear?” Our teacher peers into my face again, and for the first time, I notice how her makeup is smeared from tears. “Do you need a paper bag?”

Seriously?
I stare at her and try to formulate some sort of response. Yes, I was kind of hyperventilating. No, I’m not having a panic—

Wait a minute.

“Yes, ma’am.” I rub my breastbone like my chest is shrinking and try to look ill. “Yes, I am. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Mrs. Lowe nods like this stuff is totally normal, like it’s just another day in the Wick Tate Neighborhood. It kind of makes me hate her.

“Do you want to go to the nurse?” she asks.

Hell yes, I do. The nurse, the moon, the ninth circle of hell, I don’t care where I go as long as I’m away from the feeling of Griff’s hands and everyone else’s stares. I need space, and the nurse’s office will have to do.

I shove myself up, stabbing both palms into the desktop. Mrs. Lowe steps back, but Griff gets closer, and heat swallows my neck.

“I’ll go with you.”

The hell you will.
I jerk my elbow away, not realizing until now he was holding it—he was holding
me
. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re going to faint.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, amazed the sentence can even make it out of my mouth. My teeth are clenched. “I just need to go to the nurse’s office. She’ll know what to do.”

I don’t wait for them to agree. I push my way past them, even though Griff reaches for me like he doesn’t want me to go, and Mrs. Lowe is screeching about a hall pass. I shoulder my bag and run for the door.

In the hallway, everyone’s pairing off, clumping into groups so they can hug and cry.

Not a single person notices as I weave past. I’ve never been more grateful.

Nurse Smith’s office
is near the front of the school, part of the campus I carefully avoid because of its close proximity to the principal’s office. And the attendance office. And the counselors’ office.

You can probably see the theme here. I’m not a big fan of authority figures, and they’re not a big fan of me, either. But even though I’m not very familiar with this side of the school, it’s easy to find the glass door to Nurse Smith’s office, because it’s crawling with people.

Good God, they’ve brought in reinforcements.

Counselors, from the well-adjusted look of them. It’s almost enough to make me turn around, but Nurse Smith sees me first. “Wicket?”

Great. We’ve never met, but the nurse knows me on sight. My charming reputation must precede me.

Nurse Smith presses one hand to my forehead. “You look pale, Wicket. Are you about to be sick?”

No . . . well . . . maybe. I haven’t decided yet. The migraine is starting to bloom behind my left eye.