I grit my teeth, but she just sips her beer and waits. I yank the bottle out of her hand and shove it at Duke. “Let’s go.”
I grab her by the back of the neck and haul her out of there. I’d let her walk her ass home on her own if I trusted her not to lurk and snoop. She’s worse than Harper when she gets something in her head. When we step out into the baking August heat, I give her a little shove toward her house.
“This is the last time I’m walking you home,” I snap.
“Fine,” she says. “I knew it would be.”
For a minute, we stalk along beside each other, neither of us speaking.
“You told her, didn’t you?” I ask at last.
“Told who what?”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Lo,” I say. “She knew, and there’s only one person who could have told her.”
Gloria’s eyes widen, and she visibly gulps. “I…”
“Don’t,” I snap. “I don’t want any excuse. I just want to hear you say it.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurts.
We stop at the end of her driveway. She stares up at me with her big blue eyes shiny with crocodile tears. Fuck her. She doesn’t get to cry about fucking betraying me, trying to make me feel bad. I have to ball my hands into fists so I don’t reach out and choke the shit out of her.
“Say it.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she wails, a tear spilling down her cheek.
I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to hear a single word out of your mouth except a confession,” I say. “So until you have that, don’t speak to me. Don’t text or call. And don’t let me see you in my fucking house. My brothers are too good for your conniving, low-class, fake-ass family.”
I hit her where it hurts—her family’s financial situation. She’s not the only one who knows secrets. I know they’re all on scholarship because they can’t afford Willow Heights. Hell, Dad sponsored their scholarships last year. I know that everything about them is as fake as the manicured lawn and custom landscaping outside the house they inherited from an uncle because they were destitute.
Gloria swallows and wipes her tears away, squaring her shoulders and facing me like the tough chick she is and not the sniveling little bitch she plays to get sympathy.
“I told her,” she says. Her voice is weak, barely above a whisper. But I respect her for having the decency to say it to my face.
“I know,” I say. “And now you can be dead to me, too.”
fourteen
Harper Apple
I look back over my shoulder at the prestigious façade of Willow Heights one last time before climbing into Mr. D’s truck. It feels surreal in a different way from when I’d walk in Royal’s world. Now, it just seems unreal altogether, like coming back for a ten-year reunion, a different girl in a different decade than the one I was when I went here.
No other kids were here, since school hasn’t started. I just had to talk to the admin, who are here getting ready for everyone to return. Even though public school starts in August, Willow Heights’ students don’t return until the first of September, so there was no chance of running into anyone I know. I think about Blue as I drive home, about inviting her to go for a ride in the truck today. I try to remember what it was like to be a girl who thought a ride in a Cadillac was exciting, but I’m not sure if I was ever a girl like that. I don’t remember what kind of girl I used to be.
But I know that Blue shook some sense into me, even if she did it in her quiet, unassuming way. I’m too smart to give up without a fight, too smart to drop out of school. Maybe I’ll never get into an Ivy League school or even the University of Arkansas, but a community college is within reach. I got the runaround at school, but the counselor said I could probably make up most of the work I missed and not be held back, since I’m already older than most people in my grade. I’ll have to pull double duty, making up work from junior year at WHPA while going to Faulkner, but at least I’ll graduate.
Or hell, maybe I’ll leverage my connection with Mr. D to get me and Blue jobs as high class hookers and live the high life, spreading our legs for our keep. It’s not like I have any special skills, anyway. Lying on my back is a pretty leisurely way to make a living.
I pull up onto the side of the road in front of our house, since Mom’s car is in the driveway. She’s halfway out the front door, struggling to haul a mountain of grocery bags inside with both hands, a cigarette tucked in the corner of her lips. I hop down and go to help her drag the haul inside.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. “You having a party or win the lottery?”
She stands up and flicks her hair out of her eyes, leaning a palm on the edge of the counter and surveying me. “I didn’t buy all this shit,” she says. “I figured you got paid.”
She cackles as I shrug and start putting away groceries. If Mr. D wants to feed me even though I didn’t return his truck, I’m not about to complain. The bags are full of stuff we never buy—instead of discount hamburger, there’s steak; instead of instant rice, it’s quinoa; instead of canned green beans there are bags of fresh vegetables I never ate before living with Mr. D and sure as fuck don’t know how to cook. What do people even do with artichokes?
When I’m done putting stuff up, I head back out to grab the packet of stuff the counselor gave me to look over and fill out. I’m not motivated the way I used to be, when I wanted to leave Faulkner, but it’s as if I’m coming out of shock. My brain is still moving slow, processing things in a disjointed way. Which explains why I’m three steps out the front door before I see what’s waiting for me. My heart stops in my chest.