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I turned the stereo volume down. “Did you get ahold of Gary?”
“Hey. That was Alice in Chains.”
“Did you?”
She sighed. “He called last night. Manning robbed someone. That’s why he’s there.”
But that made no sense at all. “Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
There were so many ways to tell her Manning couldn’t have committed any crime that night, but how? I’d have to admit I was with him, and I’d promised I wouldn’t tell. “What . . . who do they think he stole from?”
She looked up at me. “Guess.”
“How would I know?” Her eyes stayed on me so long, it was as if she actually expected me to respond. “Another counselor?” I asked.
“No.” She returned to her magazine. “He didn’t take anything. Just broke into some house in the suburbs during an alcohol run. Nobody, not even Gary, knows what happened between when he left and morning. At least, nobody has come forward.”
My throat went dry. There was no robbery. There was no house. Just a truck, a lake, and infinite stars. Manning was innocent. “Does Gary think he did it?”
“No. Neither do I, obviously.”
I tried to feel relieved. Gary and Tiffany were adults—they knew better. They’d handle this. “What else did he say?”
“Manning meets with his lawyer this week, and they’ll go before a judge. I forget what it’s called, but Gary says that’s when he pleads ‘not guilty.’ We’ll know more after that.”
“But what happens until then? Is Manning coming back?” Either my chest was caving in or my heart had begun to swell. I couldn’t picture him held at the station for days, just waiting, thinking of all the things he would’ve done differently that night. Maybe, even, regretting our time together. “Or is he already back?”
Tiffany carefully flipped a page and checked her polish. “I don’t know. I guess he’s in jail.”
On her desk next to her phone sat a pink, lined notepad with hearts doodled in the margin—and notes in her handwriting. “Did Gary give you the name of the lawyer?”
Tiffany tilted her head at the magazine. She didn’t respond for so long, I assumed she’d forgotten I was here. Upside down, I read the title of the article she found so engrossing: “Best Autumn Makeup.”
I was fed up. Either it was her narcissism that got under my skin, or the fact that autumn was practically here, pressing down on us when summer could so clearly not end this way. “Tiffany, you have to take this seriously. If you don’t want him anymore, fine, but he’s still a friend of ours.”
“What makes you think I don’t want him?”
“You said that at camp.”
“And he’s my boyfriend, not your friend. Why do you want his lawyer’s name?”
“Because I have to talk to him. I think I—I might’ve seen something that night.”
Tiffany closed her magazine and sat up, catching the bottle of nail polish just as it started to tip over. “Okay, so tell me, and I’ll call him.”
We stared at each other. I felt as if I were taking a quiz without knowing the topic. Tiffany was being weird and cryptic and I had zero time for that. I went over to her desk and grabbed the notepad.
“Stop,” she said, swiping for it.
I jumped back and read her handwriting. “Tuesday arraignment. One o’clock.” I looked up at her. “That’s today.”
“So?”
Manning was going to court for something he hadn’t done, and I still hadn’t told anybody my side of the story. For all the times he’d protected me, I owed him the same. I didn’t know much about the law, but I’d heard of attorney-client privilege on TV. I was almost positive Manning’s lawyer would need to know the truth, whether or not it could hurt Manning.
I returned to my room and carried my phone to the bed.
Making calls in this house was a dangerous business. At any moment, someone could pick up the line. Sometimes, you wouldn’t even hear the click, you’d just go on talking about stuff parents and older sisters could later tease you about. Vickie had once raved over Luke Harold’s hair, the ways in which it was better than even Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s. My dad had heard ten seconds of it and still hadn’t let me live that down.
Tiffany was the only person home, but she of all people couldn’t hear this call. She’d have every right to demand answers if she found out I had sensitive information about the night her boyfriend was arrested.
I read over her notes again—Arainment Tuesday. 1pm. Dexter Grimes public defender (lawyer).
Once Tiffany had turned her music back up, I dialed four-one-one, got Dexter’s office number, and made the call. As I waited for him to pick up, I glanced around my room. It needed a makeover. My CD collection was a quarter the size of Tiffany’s. Like her, I also collected stickers, but they were confined to my school binders and a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. Sweet Valley High and Goosebumps had to go. I hadn’t even picked one of those up since sixth grade.
