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There is nothing I want more than to believe her. But I can’t. I don’t.
I knew this conversation would happen, eventually. No matter how much I tried to avoid it. And I know what I have to say. I even planned it out, knowing that otherwise I couldn’t say the words. “I didn’t love you, though. And I still don’t.”
The change is immediate and terrible. She pulls back from me. Her face looks pale and shuttered. “But that night in your room. You told me that you missed me and that you—”
“I’m not crazy,” I say, trying to keep my tells to a minimum. She’s known a lot of liars. “I said whatever I thought would make you sleep with me.”
She takes a quick, sharp breath of air. “That hurts,” she says. “You’re just saying it to hurt me.”
It’s not supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to disgust her. “Believe what you want, but it’s the truth.”
“So why didn’t you?” she asks. “Why don’t you? If all you wanted was some ass, it’s not like I’m going to say no. I can’t say no to you.”
The bell rings somewhere, distantly.
“I’m sorry,” I say, which isn’t part of the script. It slips out. I don’t know how to deal with this. I know how to be the witness to her grief. I don’t know how to be this kind of villain.
“I don’t need your pity.” Dots of hectic color have appeared on her cheeks, like she’s running a fever. “I’m waiting the curse out at Wallingford. If I’d told my dad what your mother did, she’d be dead by now. Don’t forget it.”
“And me with her,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “And you with her. So get used to the idea that I’m staying.”
“I can’t stop you,” I say quietly as she turns away from me and heads for the stairs. I watch the way the shadows move down her back. Then I slump against the wall.
* * *
I’m late for class, of course, but Dr. Kellerman only raises his bushy eyebrows as I slink in. I missed the morning announcements on the television suspended over the blackboard. Members of the AV club would have explained what lunch was going to be and when after-school clubs were meeting. Not exactly thrilling stuff.
Still, I’m glad Kellerman decides not to give me a hard time. I’m not sure I could take it.
He resumes explaining how to calculate odds—something I am pretty good at, being a bookie and all—while I concentrate on trying to stop my hands from shaking.
When the intercom on the wall crackles to life, I barely notice it. That is, until I hear Ms. Logan’s voice: “Please send Cassel Sharpe to the headmistress’s office. Please send Cassel Sharpe to the headmistress’s office.”
Dr. Kellerman frowns at me as I stand up and gather my books.
“Oh, come on,” I say ineffectually to the room.
A girl giggles.
One thing’s in my favor, though. Someone just lost the first bet of the year.
3
HEADMISTRESS NORTHCUTT’S office looks like a library in a baronial hunting lodge. The walls and built-in bookcases are polished dark wood and lit by brass lamps. Her desk is the size of a bed and is made of the same wood as the walls, with green leather chairs resting in front of it, and degrees hanging behind it. The whole thing is designed to be intimidating to students and reassuring to parents.
When I’m shown in, I see Northcutt is the one that looks uncomfortable. Two men in suits are standing beside her, clearly waiting for me. One has dark sunglasses on.
I check for bulges under their arms or against their calves. Doesn’t matter how custom the suit is, the fabric pulls a little over most guns. Yeah, they’re carrying. Then I look at their shoes.
Black and shiny as fresh-poured tar, with rubbery flexible soles. Made for running after people like me.
Cops. They’re cops.
Man, I am so screwed.
“Mr. Sharpe,” Northcutt says. “These men would like to have a conversation with you.”
