Trust(12)

I put my hand up again.

The teacher gave me a sour look.

"It's just that I already studied this book at my last school."

"Then you should have no trouble this time around," she said.

"But it's pointless," I continued. "He's a depressed kid wandering around New York, having random encounters with friends and strangers, none of whom particularly make him feel any better, then he gets sick and goes back to school, the end."

Absolute silence. Every eye in the class was on me. The ones behind me belonging to a certain boy held particular weight.

"It's a work of great American fiction." Mrs. Ryder's lips were pursed.

"But it's a book that comes with a body count." I couldn't shut up; I wouldn't. I had to make her understand. "People have died because of it. I'm surprised the NRA hasn't slapped a certification sticker on the front cover, for Christ's sake."

Behind me, John swore.

"Edith." Her gaze gentled and she rose to her feet. "Calm down. That's enough."

"But what if it happens again?" I asked, also standing, heart and lungs working hard. "What if Holden Caulfield's teenage masturbatory angst yet again sends someone into a rage and they go shoot a few people? What then? It's happened before, but this time it'll be on your head."

"Edie-"

"Holden Caulfield is a killer!"





The couch in the shrink's office was comfortable. Seriously comfortable. I could have curled up and gone to sleep if not for all the dumb questions.

"And how do you feel today, Edie?" 

"Fine." I slumped back into the peach-colored sofa, a smile stuck on my face. Not sure if I could keep it up for the full fifty minutes; my cheeks were already starting to ache. "Thanks."

Everything in the office had been decorated in a soothing, nonthreatening off-white. A neat line of framed college degrees hung on one wall. Out the window, a lovely view of a park. Nice.

"Why don't we talk about the night of the robbery?" said Mr. Solomon, his eyes kind, curious.

I could do without either emotion coming from a stranger. "Because it was horrible, shitty, and messed up and now it's over?"

The counselor frowned.

"Look, let me explain my open aggression to you. You see, my mother made me come here," I said, wiping damp palms on the sides of my jeans. Like I needed more stress in my life. Honestly, I could have screamed. "I'm here to make her feel better. I don't want to talk about the robbery. Not to you, not really to anyone, not ever. You see, this can't help, us talking, because it'll just make me think about it more and I'm really doing my best to avoid that."

"All right. What do you want, Edie?"

"I want to leave."

Mr. Solomon looked at his watch. "With your mom waiting out in the reception area, I'm guessing you're probably not going to want to do that for another forty-five minutes."

Awesome.

"So why don't we talk about something else?"

I sighed, stared at the ceiling. "Do you read?"

"Mostly medical journals." He scrunched up his lips, obviously thinking deep thoughts. "I don't suppose you're into bowling?"

"Not in this lifetime. You watch movies?"

"Only every chance I get."

I leaned back, crossed my legs, and got comfortable. "Okay then. Let's talk."

At the end of the hour he referred me to a doctor for a prescription for some happy pills. Guess my predilection for zombie films gave him concern.





For the rest of the week, I had after-school detention due to tardiness (a.k.a. hiding out in the bathroom during a couple of minor freak-outs) and not paying attention in class once or twice. Or a few more times than that. I'd never had detention before; I was always the bookish and quiet type. A good girl. Punching people, arguing with teachers, and running late to class . . . good girls generally didn't do that sort of shit. Unfortunately, I found it hard to care. I mean, what did it matter? Life went on; no one had died as a result. The principal said it would go on my permanent record. Permanent? Please. Bullets were permanent. Everything else was temporary.

Mom would even get over it eventually.

The usual array of naughty types surrounded me. One girl with cool blue mermaid hair was scratching her name into her desk. Some were reading, doing their homework. Others stared at the ceiling or out the window. Up front, the teacher stayed busy on her cell phone, probably playing Candy Crush or sexting someone.

"Psst," came from behind me, followed by a sharp tug on the end of my braid.

"Hey," I growled, frowning back at the buffoon. "Don't touch."

"Sorry. I'm Anders." His grin was wide, his hair cut short. The package contained an excess of both cuteness and cooldom.

I said nothing.

"You're Edie," he said. "John told me about you."

"He did?" I frowned, realization slowly dawning. The basketball kid who'd caught a lift home with him the other day. Right. "Hi."

"Hi." Chin in hand, he looked me over. God, here we go. Shoulders tensed, I waited for the usual array of insults-fat, ugly, whatever. Maybe I had a chip on my shoulder. More than likely, I'd gotten used to expecting the worst from people. At any rate, instead, he said, "We should be friends. Spend time together. Stuff like that."



       
         
       
        

Huh. "Why?"

"Yeah, you, me, and John. I like it. Let's do that." His mouth just went on and on, rattling out the words. "Is it true you lost it in class the other day and started raving about a book killing people?"

I turned away. "Yes."

"Excellent." He chuckled. "What do you think about basketball?"

"I don't."

"That's a shame." He picked up the end of my braid again, swinging it back and forth between us until I smacked at his hand. What a weirdo.

"John talked about me?" I asked, trying not to sound excited because that would be dumb.

Anders shrugged. "Yeah, he said something like ‘That girl was at the Drop Stop.'"

"That's not a lot."

"It's more than he's ever said about pretty much any other girl." He clasped his hands together and put them on the desk. "Generally, I do the talking for both of us. It's become a bit of a problem, actually."

"I see."

"No, you don't. Problem is, John's gotten a bit . . . how should I say this? Fucky. Yes, John's been in a bit of a fucky mood since the whole robbery death thing."

"Oh." I froze.

"But still, you're not seeing my real inner pain over this whole talking thing at all. You're not seeing how it affects me. I mean, I'm on the basketball team. This shouldn't even be an issue for me. But the thing is, Edie my friend, some of us have to actually talk girls into taking off their clothes," he said, one brow raised. "Fucky mood or not, he doesn't. JC just kind of looks at them and their panties and bras go up in flames. They spontaneously combust or something; I'm not sure what the exact scientific term for it is."

I winced. "I'm not sure I needed to know that. And actually, it sounds painful."

"Right?" He leaned in closer. "Between you and me, I think it's his Fabio hair."

"Fabio?" I asked.

"You don't know Fabio? Edie, friend, Fabio's an important and glorious part of American romance fiction history. My mom told me so."

"I'll look him up."

"You do that."

"What's going on with John?" I pushed, concerned.

"Good question." He chewed on the end of his pen, giving me a speculative look. "Going to the party this weekend?"

"What party? Sabrina's?" I seemed to recall that was the name of the girl who'd left the invite under my windshield wiper.

"Yep."

I frowned. "I hadn't been planning on it. I'm not really very social." 

"No." Mouth hanging open in exaggerated surprise, Anders started slipping off his chair, catching himself only at the last second. "I cannot believe that. You seem so friendly and outgoing."

Smartass. "I do dazzle most people, it's true. Can we please talk about John?"

He just blinked. "Come to the party."

"Me? Why?"

"Is it not enough that I said to?"

And I contemplated that for all of a second. "No."

"Actually, I can respect that." He picked at his teeth with a fingernail. "What else are you going to do in this town on a Saturday night, hmm?"

Sit alone in my room, read a book, and eat a packet of Oreos. Pretty much exactly in that order. And it sounded like heaven. One of the true benefits of being an only child: no needing to share the snacks. But still, I was worried about John. And getting information out of this nut was difficult.

"Come to the party and bring your other friends," he said. "Ones that are girls, okay?"

I frowned. It's not like I usually got invited to a lot of things; maybe I should make an effort to be more social and fit in. I wondered if Hang and co would be up for it. On the other hand, a party. Ugh. Lots of people gathered in one place with social expectations, etcetera. "I don't know. Will John be there?"