Call It What You Want Page 11
“Nice phrasing, Mom.”
She winces, then picks up her glass to take a sip. “When it was all going to hell, I’d hoped you’d be able to lean on him.”
A pause, and her voice softens. “We were all so close, Rob. You know that. It was hard for Bill to blow the whistle—but I don’t blame him. I can’t blame him. What Dad was doing was wrong. Marjorie even came to sit with me the day after the FBI showed up.” Mom’s expression turns solemn. “Did you know that? It took a lot for her to do that. It meant a lot that she didn’t treat me like—”
“I don’t want to talk about this.” Connor and I were best friends because our fathers were best friends. I’ve often thought about what I would have done if our situations were reversed: if Bill Tunstall was the one who’d been stealing, and Connor was the shamed son.
I consider the way Connor rags on me at school. The way he smacked my head and stood over me, waiting for me to clean up the spilled money. His smug superiority.
I would like to think I’d never act that way. But I consider how I used to look at kids like Owen Goettler and I realize I’d probably be exactly the same.
This thought gives me no comfort whatsoever. It makes me glad I told Maegan to keep our relationship to schoolwork. I don’t deserve her friendship. I don’t deserve kindness. Not from anyone.
But her fingers were so warm on mine. The air so quiet between us. The beginning of trust.
Then her friends showed up.
We know who he is.
My father used to say, “I don’t carry a grudge, but I have a functioning memory.”
He was talking about people who screwed him over in business, but that expression always stuck with me. I won’t let bitterness over Drew’s comment stew in my gut—but I’m not going to forget it, either.
“Do you want to talk about when you’re going to go see a counselor?” Mom says.
I freeze. No. I want to talk about that even less. I almost fell apart when I made an offhand comment to Maegan about Dad’s care. I can’t sit in a room with a stranger for an hour. I can’t do it.
“Because I made you an appointment,” she continues. “A girl at work says her pastor works with a lot of troubled youth in the community. It’s not religious, just someone—”
“I already made an appointment,” I say quickly.
The words fall out of my mouth automatically.
I expect her to call me on the lie immediately, but maybe the wine is working in my favor. Or worse, maybe I’ve never given her a reason to think I’d be dishonest. Her face brightens. “You did? Where?”
“The school psychologist.” Another lie. But I can fix it. Tomorrow. I can make an appointment.
I think. I think we have one. I’m sure we have something.
In the back of my head, my conscience is at work with a pickax. Did my father lie so easily? Did my mother believe him so easily?
“Really?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
For some stupid reason, I’m thinking of Maegan at the restaurant, how she nearly spilled all her sister’s secrets right out on the table. She’s honest. She’s good.
I’m standing here lying to my drunk mother about something completely inconsequential.
I should take it all back. Promise to see this pastor and not mention it again.
But I’ve buried myself in the lie. She’s already enveloping me in a hug.
“You’re such a good boy, Rob. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well.” I clear my throat. “I made a promise. I kept it.”
I’m a horrible son.
Tonight, my father’s eyes seem to follow me. It’s in my imagination, I’m sure, but I feel like he knows I lied. He’s judging me.
I want to get up and turn his chair around.
No, on second thought, I don’t. I want him to sit there.
I want him to watch what he’s created.
The next morning, I need to hit the library again. I couldn’t sleep after everything that happened, so I sat up in bed and read that whole book. I didn’t drift off until after four in the morning, so it was a real treat when the alarm blared at six.
My phone sat beside me when I was reading, and I kept hoping Maegan would text me, but of course she didn’t. We’re doing a math project together—and I specifically told her to keep it to that. Her closest friends believe I helped my father embezzle seven million dollars. No big deal.
Lack of sleep is doing nothing for my mental state.
“Mr. Lachlan! Back again so soon!” Mr. London’s false cheer is like a dart gun. Every word pierces. Pew. Pew. Pew. “What did you think?”
Today, I have no tolerance for this. “You don’t have to do that,” I growl. “I know you hate me. Just own it, okay?”
He snaps back. Any happiness falls off his face. Now he looks like I’ve shot him.
I wish I could say I felt vindicated, but I don’t. I feel like a jerk.
A girl’s voice speaks from around the corner. “I need to find a physical source for this sociology project. Come on, Con-con.”
Con-con. It’s Lexi Miter. Connor’s girlfriend. I used to mock him for that nickname. I have no idea how he’s tolerated it for so long. Honestly, I have no idea how he’s tolerated her for so long.
Lexi is the kind of girl who thinks everything is funny—even things that really aren’t. If I had money to gamble, I’d bet she made a joke about the way I found my father. She has a credit card that her parents pay without question. Someone online got ahold of her number once and racked up $3,000 in charges from Amazon. Her parents paid it all and didn’t realize for six months the charges were fraudulent.
At that point, the credit card company wouldn’t reverse the charges. They said it was the Miters’ responsibility to review statements in a timely manner.
I only know all this because Lexi thought it was hilarious. “Who has time to read a bunch of stupid statements? I’ve got a life.”
Three thousand dollars. Hilarious.
The worst part is that at the time, I remember thinking my dad would chew the credit card company a new one for refusing to reverse the charges. I wasn’t thinking about how Lexi had been careless. Or that her parents were.
A few days after that all happened, Lexi texted her credit card number to our inner circle. She said, “If my parents don’t care, you all should be able to reap the benefits.”
I still have it saved somewhere. I remember being tempted but never used it.
It felt too much like stealing.
The irony.
“I need to ask Mr. London where they keep the older periodicals,” Lexi is saying, and her voice gives me a little jolt. In a second, they’ll be in view.
I remember again the expression on Connor’s face when he stood over me, the open cash box in his hand. I’m torn between ducking behind the counter and balling up a fist to clock him upside the head.
I must look like it, too, because Mr. London steps back and raises the counter. “Want to hide in my office?”
I suck in a breath, startled. I’ve basically just told Mr. London to go to hell. The last thing I deserve is compassion.
But then Connor says, “Whatever, Lex. But hurry. I want to get a bagel.”
I slip through the opening and into Mr. London’s darkened office.
My breathing is too quick, loud in the space around me.
After lying to my mother and stealing from the fund-raiser, it shouldn’t feel so humiliating to add hiding to the list, but it does. I listen as Lexi asks for directions, and Mr. London offers to show her whatever she needs.
Then I’m alone, standing here in the quiet dimness.
His office is tiny, with no windows, but it’s homey. His desk takes up most of the space, and one of the school’s ancient computers occupies almost half of that. Books and slips of paper are stacked everywhere, but there are three chairs: one for him, and two for whomever else.
Dozens of photographs are tacked
to the wall. My eyes flinch from the ones of him and his husband—the husband my father ripped off. I swallow, and it hurts. I need to get out of here.
Mr. London appears in the doorway. “They’re gone.”
“Thanks.” I can’t quite meet his eyes. “I didn’t touch anything.” My ready anger from a minute ago feels foolish, but I can’t quite work out how to apologize.
He leans against the doorjamb. “I wouldn’t have told you to wait in here if I was worried about you touching anything.”
Suddenly, I feel trapped. Confronted. My skin is all prickly. I wish he’d get out of the doorway. My breathing quickens again, and I rub a hand over the back of my neck. I still haven’t been able to meet his eyes. My fingers tighten on the strap of my backpack.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice is low. “Sit down a minute.”
“I need to go to class.”
“I can write you a pass.”
I shift my feet. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“Rob … what you said—”
“I didn’t know, okay?” My chest is so tight that the words fall out of my mouth like they’re trying to escape. “Everyone thinks I knew, that I was helping him. But I didn’t know. I didn’t help. I wouldn’t … I wasn’t …”
I choke to a stop. I have to swallow this emotion before it pours down my face. I’m nearly shaking from the effort.
I hate my father so much.
Mr. London hasn’t moved. “Rob. Sit. Take a load off.”
His voice is no-nonsense, and maybe I needed someone to tell me what to do, because I drop into a chair and dump my backpack on the ground beside me. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’m distantly aware of Mr. London sitting in his desk chair, when it gives a squeak of protest.
Then the room falls into silence, only broken a moment later when the first bell rings. After a minute, I lower my hands. I keep my eyes on the edge of his desk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it.”
He’s still quiet, and the chair squeaks again as he shifts his weight.
He’s quiet so long that my emotion dries up and my breathing steadies.
I finally look up. He’s studying me, his expression inscrutable.
“What?” I say.
“I don’t hate you, Rob.” He pauses. “I won’t lie—it was … hard at first.” Another pause. “Especially when you kept coming into the library.” He grimaces. “I thought … I thought maybe you were taunting me.”
I frown. That never occurred to me. A new kind of shame sets up shop in my stomach. I shake my head quickly. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I—”
“No, I know that now. At first I didn’t think you were really reading the books. I thought you were coming in every other day to screw with me.” He catches himself and half smiles. “To mess with me. But then you checked out the Harry Potter books in order, and then the Winner’s Curse series, and then all the Throne of Glass books, and I realized you were actually reading them. I mean, if you were trying to get to me, you’d grab any book off the shelf and check it out. You wouldn’t spend fifteen minutes reading book jackets.” He hesitates. “You would have given up when you didn’t get a reaction from me.”
I consider how brightly he asks about every book I return. “So, you’ve been screwing with me. Got it.” I grab the strap of my backpack.
“At first, yes. But not now. I can’t read everything. And I really am curious to hear what you think.”
I hesitate. I’m not sure what that means.
“I didn’t realize you were hurting,” he says.
“I’m not.” But I am, and we both know it. I almost sobbed all over his desk.
A part of me wishes he would press the point, but he doesn’t. It’s probably inappropriate for me to want anything from him. I should be holding a tissue box while he cries.
“Did you finish Torch Against the Night?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But I can’t return it yet. Owen Goettler wants to read it.”
His eyebrows go up. “You’re friends?”
“I have no idea.”
That makes him smile, but his eyes are a little sad. “You don’t have to dash in and out of here, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Really.”
“I know.” But I don’t. In a way, his honesty has put me on edge. A little.
He hesitates. “You want to bolt now, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” He pulls a pad of late slips out of a drawer. He signs his name.
I take it and go.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maegan
My father’s warnings are still rolling around in my head on Thursday morning. I keep up my end of the bargain and take a seat in the back of Mrs. Quick’s class, waiting for Rob. I’m still not sure whether to apologize—because I want to—or keep it to math, because that’s what he wants. I keep hoping I’ll see him and my path forward will be clear.
But then the bell rings and he doesn’t show up. Mrs. Quick calls the class to order. I’m sitting in the back by myself.
Great.
I’m still on pins and needles. There’s a text on my phone from Rachel last night, asking me why I’m so upset. She points out that I was the one upset about him being my partner.
I don’t know how to respond to that.
So I haven’t.
I’ve left the text go unanswered so long that it’s going to be awkward when I see her at lunch. The thought makes my stomach roll.
Maybe I should forget the last few days. We were assigned to do a calculus project together. It’s not like Rob asked me out or we’ve been flirting over coffee. It’s math. And he’s not even here.
I hope he’s okay.
The thought comes unbidden, wrapped up in imaginary scenarios of his father having some kind of emergency—medical or otherwise.
The worst part of me wonders if he’s cutting class. He said he has an A in calculus, but it’s not like he whipped out his transcript to prove it. Maybe he knows how to lie so thoroughly that I’d believe anything he said. Dad’s words about Rob’s losing everything weigh heavily on my mind.
That boy’s had a rough time of it.
I chew at my lip. I can’t decide whether to feel sorry for Rob or to steel my emotions against him or to be wary of him.
I wonder if people feel this way about me, too.
Then he appears in the doorway. He looks tired and drawn. He raps on the door frame, and when Mrs. Quick pauses to look at him, he holds out a pink slip of paper. A late pass.
She nods and resumes her lecture.
He makes his way down the row of desks and drops into the chair beside me.
He says nothing.
I say nothing.
Now it’s awkward.
I pull a slip of loose-leaf out of my binder and write a quick note to him.
Are you okay?
When I slide it on top of his notebook, he stares at the words for the longest time.
I wish I could crawl inside his head and figure him out.
He gives me a brief nod, folds the note in half, and tucks it into his backpack.
And then, for the rest of the period, he keeps his eyes focused forward and never once turns to look at me.
By lunchtime, I feel as though a line has been drawn in the sand. Well, on the tile floor. I carry my tray away from the cashier and spot Rachel and Drew at our regular table over to the right—and Rob sitting with Owen Goettler way at the back to the left.
That seems like an odd combination. For an instant, I hesitate and consider heading left. I don’t like how things ended last night, and I don’t like how tense he was in calculus.
When I swing my eyes back around to the right, Rachel is looking at me.
Her expression says she’s already followed the line of my gaze. She knows exactly what I was considering.
If I sit with Rachel and Drew, it feels like I’m taking a stand against Rob. It shouldn’t, but it does.
Finally, I take my tray and head to a table to sit by myself. I point myself in a direction so I’m not looking at Rob or Rachel.
Then I pull out my phone to scroll mindlessly.
The whole time I’m sitting here, I expect Rachel to come over. To ask what’s wrong. To put her arm around my shoulder and ask if we’re okay after last night.
Maybe she’s waiting on me, and I went and sat all the way over here.
Does she owe me an apology? Do I owe her one?
Does Drew owe Rob one? I think he does—regardless of everything he said after Rob left.
No one texts me.
No one apologizes.
I pick up my fork and start eating.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rob
Maegan isn’t eating with her friends. She’s at a table by herself.
I, however, am not.
“Why do you keep looking at that girl who cheated on the SAT?” says Owen.
“I’m not.” I keep thinking about what she said when we were at Wegmans, how her dad expects a lot from her. I never felt unfairly pressured by my father, but I know Connor did. I put my eyes back on my food.
“Did you know that when they caught her cheating, they had to scrap the scores of everyone in the room?”
I did hear that. “I don’t care.”
“They couldn’t prove whose tests had been compromised, so—”
“Leave it, okay?”
“Okay.” He pulls a bag of chips out of his backpack and tugs it open.
I frown, realizing he doesn’t have a tray of food in front of him. “Wait. Why didn’t you buy a lunch?”
“I feel like we’ve been over this.”
“But …” I hesitate. “Did you give that cash to your mom?”
“No.” He pops a chip into his mouth. “I didn’t realize there was a mandate attached to it.”
I flush. “There wasn’t. I just … sorry. Forget it. Do what you want with it.”
Irritation pricks at me, though. My neck is on the line for that money—not his.