Please Don't Tell - Laura Tims Page 0,24
we were meant to be a whole person, and we would have been okay that way, but we got split up and now we’ll never be . . . right. Technically, I mean medically, I guess we were supposed to be one person.”
“Can I paint you?” he asks suddenly.
“Are you joking? Why would you want to paint me?”
“I like painting interesting people.”
“You should paint Joy.”
“I want to paint you.”
He gives me a special look, like he’s already painting in his mind.
If I spend more time alone with him, maybe I can get him to be interested in Joy. And maybe I can ask him more about Adam.
“Okay,” I say. “You can paint me.”
SIX
October 5
Joy
THE COPS DRAG PRINCIPAL EASTMAN OUT of school by 10:00 a.m.
Or he escapes through the fire door, or he breaks a window in his office. Depends who you listen to. But everyone agrees that Savannah ran out five minutes into advisory. They didn’t even have time to call her to the office.
I did this to her. A freshman girl, and I ruined her life.
I’m the person who hurts people, the girl who destroys other girls. The failed knight. If nobody’ll exile me, I’ll exile myself. I hide from Levi for the rest of the day. I don’t look for Preston. I spend detention writing apology letters I won’t send and shredding them into thin piles of paper. After school, I make the ten-minute bike ride to Preston’s house.
The Bell house is a healthy kind of messy, the furniture and nineties wallpaper in different floral shades. Preston’s first step, first birthday, first ice-cream cone, it’s all documented on the walls. He says he hates constantly looking at his past.
There’s a zillion notes on his bedroom door: Do not enter. Do not touch my things. Do not clean.
“Pres, I’m coming in.”
“Don’t,” he replies, muffled.
“I’m not mad at you for putting the photos in everyone’s lockers. But we need to talk.”
A long silence.
“Someone told me that Savannah girl is taking the rest of the semester off,” he says.
“It’s not your fault,” I say desperately. “You just didn’t want anything to happen to me.”
He opens the door, slouching more than usual. His curls corkscrew like he just whipped a blanket off his head. His shades are shut as always, the dim light deepening the circles under his eyes.
“Last night, all of it felt like something from Sherlock Holmes. It didn’t feel real. But now I’m panicking. And I think I wrecked someone’s life because I was scared about someone wrecking yours.”
Which one of us is gonna be the strong one?
“I’m the one who got the envelope. I’m the one who showed it to you.” I try to smile.
He hugs me. Pres hates hugs. It’s stiff, uncomfortable, and it’s the best hug I’ve ever had.
“It’s Adam and this blackmailer person,” he says. “Not you.”
It’d be so much easier if that were true.
“Have you heard anything else from the blackmailer?” he asks.
“No. I watched the window all night.”
“You can’t sleep there.”
“I’m gonna stay awake in case he comes back.”
“You can’t stay awake forever.”
“What if he comes through my window, goes to Grace’s room?” The knife under my pillow won’t be enough. “I stay awake or I tell the cops.”
“No cops.” He’s agonized. “Please.”
“Maybe now that Eastman’s arrested, it’s done with.”
“We have to talk to Cassius. Tonight or tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe Cassius would do that to his sister. And if I ask him about it, and it wasn’t him, what if he realizes the photos were because of me?”
Outside, a car gravels into the driveway. Pres shrinks back into his room. “I can’t talk to Mom when I’m—she can always tell.”
“I’ll distract her.”
“Text me if you get another envelope.”
“I bet I won’t,” I say for him. “I bet it’s over.”
I hope it is. But I’m getting a sharper knife and setting my alarm for every ten minutes tonight.
I shut his door and head downstairs, tripping over Ms. Bell’s shoes and scarves, scattered like she sheds accessories on her way to her room every night.
“Hello, Joy. Visiting Pres?” Ms. Bell is wearing a simple blouse and a high-waisted skirt. No bright lipstick, no ten-cent craft store flowers in her ponytail. “Long day. Staff meetings about . . . those photos.”
She beckons me to the kitchen, which is cluttered with spices and mismatched plates, and fills a bright purple mug with water. She sticks it in the microwave, finds a box of hibiscus tea. I bite my tongue. There’s no way to wish someone else was