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Get Kaitlyn out of her situation with Ryan and help my friend? It’s an easy decision. “Deal. But given our history, I’m going to need some insurance.”
She scoffs. “I won’t go back on my word.”
I pull out my phone and unlock it. “Perfect. That’s why we’ll call this insurance.”
I point the phone camera at her. “I won’t send this anywhere if you hold up your end of the deal and get Anna back into King. Now state your name and say that Anna’s innocent.”
Her eyes narrow at me. “You realize that people having recordings-slash-pictures of me is how I’m in this mess in the first place, right?”
I put the phone down and give her a “duh” look. “The difference is that I actually keep my word. I’ll delete this as soon as Anna’s back at King.”
“This is ridiculous. Fine. Start rolling.”
I aim the phone at her and press Record.
“Hi. I’m Kaitlyn Anderson and I’m a big fat liar. Wacko Anna White may be wacko, but she didn’t injure me. Ryan Simms did. She should be unexpelled and allowed to come back to King City High.” She looks at me behind the camera. “Happy?”
“Are you saying all this of your own free will?”
“Oh, screw you.” She flips me the bird and walks to the passenger side of the car.
I bite back a grin and end the recording. I guess that’s as good a confession from Kaitlyn as I’ll get, even if she does insult Annalisa in it.
“You know this doesn’t mean we’re friends, right?” she states as she clicks her seat belt into place.
Despite everything, I laugh. “I’m completely fine with the fact that we’ll never be friends.”
I’m not going to post her confession anywhere. I realize that I can just plaster this video all over the place and call it a day. But I’m not going to do that. I genuinely want to help Kaitlyn. Would she do the same thing for me if the roles were reversed? Probably not. She’s been a terrible person to me, sure, but can I just stand around knowing this information and do nothing?
Definitely not.
I follow Kaitlyn’s instructions and soon I’m pulling into a quiet neighborhood with sprawling green lawns and large houses surrounded by even larger trees that must be hundreds of years old. Almost all of the properties are fenced in and have electric gates, and as we drive through the neighborhood, each house looks more impressive than the last, as if the neighbors are trying to outdo each other with their landscaping, with their immaculate lawns, with the grandiosity and importance of the house itself. None are as grand as Andrew’s house, which I visited during his campaign gala, but I’d still classify these as mansions, making me see Kaitlyn in a new light. The wealthy display doesn’t seem to affect her like it does me; she’s not subtlety trying to crane her neck to gawk at the architecture like I am, and either doesn’t notice my wonder or just doesn’t care. She must be desensitized to it from years of this being her normal.
She directs me to a house, and I pull up in front of the gate, lowering my window to punch in the code she recites with clear boredom. The black iron gates slide open, and I creep up the driveway that’s illuminated by lights and lined by large trees. The drive circles around a landscaped patch of greenery, so I steer around it and stop in front of her front door.
Her house is average size for the neighborhood, which is at least five times the size of mine. The outside lights are on but the inside looks still and quiet, not a single light on. I wonder how many rooms there are, how big Kaitlyn’s room is, how many people live here, how alone she feels in the grandness of the house.
She’s about to open her door but then pauses, her hand resting delicately on the handle. “We’ll fine-tune our plan tomorrow after school. Right now I just want a bath and bed.”
The silence of the car and darkness of the night suddenly feels heavy with all the words left unsaid, with this newfound, fragile truce we hold between us. “Are you sure you don’t want to get yourself checked?” I eye her injuries.
“I’m fine.” She pulls the handle and even though she must be sore, gets out of the car more gracefully than even I can sometimes manage.
She pauses before closing the door, ducking down to peer at me, but doesn’t quite look at me. “Um . . .” Her jaw works for a moment as she thinks through whatever’s on her mind. She meets my eyes, and whatever softness was on her face has disappeared. “Don’t drive to school tomorrow. And for God’s sake, don’t get dirty tomorrow or you’re not sitting in my car.”
Without so much as a good-bye, she closes my door with something slightly gentler than a slam, and marches up her front steps, opens the huge front door, and disappears into the house without a backward glance.
I sit there staring after her for only a few beats before I shake off whatever misplaced shock I’m feeling and drive away. I might have been delusional in thinking that she was going to thank me. That’s not the kind of relationship we have, and I can’t expect it to change over the span of a car ride. But even so, I can’t stop the tug of a smirk at my lips, or the bubbling excitement in my chest.
