Please Don't Tell - Laura Tims Page 0,9

the right words are—

She closes the door before I can find them.

We used to crawl into bed together and turn off all the lights and watch YouTube videos until we sobbed with laughter.

Back in my room, I check Adam’s Facebook. His wall goes straight from thirty-seven happy birthday posts to fifty-eight death posts. He’s got more friends now.

Maybe he reeled drunk through the woods to look soulfully at the moon and think about what a fucking “artist” he was. And that last birthday shot caught around his ankles, and the wind carried him into the quarry.

The breeze drags a splintered piece of the overgrown oak tree branch against my window screen. Must’ve done that when I snuck out. The breeze rustles Grace’s old drawings taped to my wall, crayon versions of us. She always drew me taller and gave me a sword.

I get up to close the window. But there’s an envelope on the sill. Sealed neatly, thick. My name’s written on the back.

A weird feeling settles in my stomach.

I tear it open, feel inside. Photographs, stiff and glossy, and a folded piece of paper. A letter.

Only the first few lines make sense to me before the rest blurs and my mind gets stuck and my hands stop feeling like anything.

To Joy Morris—

I was at the party. I was at the quarry. I saw what you did.

I saw you murder Adam Gordon.

THREE

June 7

Grace

“YALE.” PRINCIPAL EASTMAN THROWS A PAMPHLET onto the pile on his desk. “Brown.” Pamphlet. “Penn State. Even Harvard, Grace. I called you in here because your grades, your test scores, they are outstanding. The best in your class. Yes, it’s only the end of your sophomore year, but you should be thinking about college.”

Fourteen pamphlets on the desk. A mountain I have to climb every day. Schedule: study for three hours daily, minimum. Social life: nonexistent.

“A lot of students see summer as their vacation time, so this is your chance to get ahead. Volunteer work? Amazing on an application. And it’s never too early to start SAT prep classes.”

Schedule: study four hours a day, minimum. Two hours volunteer work. SAT prep class on weekends. Two hours exercise—there needs to be less of me. Five hours for sleep. Makeup: two hours.

My phone buzzes on top of my backpack. I adjust my shirt, comb bangs out flat with my fingers, look down at the screen. It’s my sister.

LAST DAY OF SCHOOL YASSSSS. ME AND NOV IN FRONT OF BUS CIRCLE, FIND US.

Principal Eastman leans forward, looking at me like I’m the best photo he’s ever taken. “The Honors Club and the Environmentalism Club and the—what was the other one?”

“Art Club,” I mumble, chewing the inside of my cheek.

“They’ve appreciated your participation this year. You ought to think about helping out with the school newspaper. To be honest, I’m a bit worried about the direction it’s taken under November Roseby.”

My phone buzzes. Her again.

big plans for this summer! gonna be v fun.

Eastman claps my shoulder. I’m dismissed. I get up, pulling my shirt down flat over my stomach.

GRAACEEEEE where r u?

She gave up on me being social during the school year. She’s trying hard again, now that it’s summer. Why does she want me so bad? What’s there to have?

I text her back.

don’t wait for me! i have some stuff to do! :)

I have to walk the hallway loop of the school twice before I can go home. If I can do it in two hundred steps, I’ll burn fifty calories and I won’t disappoint anybody.

I start my lap. Lockers left open, empty classrooms. Around the corner of the science wing are the glass doors to the outdoor relaxation garden. Ms. Bell’s idea, a place for students to unwind. One more way for Principal Eastman to claim our school’s different, even though we’re exactly like every public high school in every small town in every state. Nothing special here. Keep going. The city’s that way.

I step into the little outdoor courtyard, full of cheap plants. The seeds in the bird feeder are moldy. It was only filled once. Even the birds are headed someplace better.

Ninety-five. Ninety-six. Keeping steps small so I don’t go over. My phone buzzes twice in my back pocket. Two more texts from Joy, I’m sure, all in caps.

“You high?” someone says.

Startled, I turn. Adam Gordon, inches away. Him. Really cute junior. Sitting on the plaster bench, glossy acoustic guitar on his lap. I’ve looked at him all year, but he’s never looked at me. I drop all