The Force of Gravity(45)

“They are here to witness this meeting and gather the information you provide for us,” he continues. “You of course know my secretary, Mrs. Miller, who is also here to record the meeting and serve as a witness. Everything you say is confidential; we just need to collect all the facts so we’re prepared if this case goes any further.”

Case? . . . Any further? The air around me turns stale.

Why didn’t I demand more answers from Elijah last night? Why didn’t I ask for advice on what to say in this situation? I saw worry in his eyes last night, but I just ignored it. Why did his stupid, sexy face and phenomenal physique have to distract me from the seriousness of what went down yesterday?

Idiot.

Yet another ominous yellow notepad makes its appearance as Mr. Bentley pulls one from his desk, and I’m pretty sure my ass is sweating. I keep glancing at the door, wondering if Tommy or Elijah is expected.

“So, Ms. Kennedy,” begins Mr. Bentley. He clicks open his pen, but it feels like he’s cocking a gun. “Please tell us what happened yesterday after school.”

All eyes swivel in my direction.

Really? He can’t begin with something smaller? How am I supposed to answer such a loaded question?

“Kaley?” says Mr. Bentley. “Everything said in this room is strictly confidential, understood?”

Goodness knows what expression I’m wearing. I glance around the room again. It seems the meeting is starting; hopefully, that means I don’t have to state my case in front of Tommy or Elijah. Four gazes patiently wait, holding their pens ready. Locked and loaded.

Perspiration trickles down my neck, and I clear my throat. “Sorry, it’s hard to know where to begin.”

Mrs. Miller’s comforting smile catches my eye, slightly lowering my anxiety for a moment. I’m glad she’s here.

“Just start at the beginning,” says Mr. Bentley. “Before Mr. Slate intervened.”

I feel my face flush at the mention of his name and drop my gaze, knotting my fingers together. “Um . . . well, Tommy and I were in the middle of an argument.” My voice sounds small. Like it belongs to somebody else.

“And for the record, this is Tommy Bradford, correct?” says Mr. Bentley.

“Yes,” I say. Everyone scribbles on their notepads, and I clam up.

“Go on,” says Mr. Bentley. “What was the argument about?”

The room feels like it just shot up fifty degrees. “Well, I . . . I mean, it’s complicated.” Am I supposed to bring Avery into this and reveal my life drama? Everyone stares, waiting for me to continue. So, I do. “We were fighting about something that happened after prom.” The room of eyes burn through me, and I feel like a baby seal surrounded by sharks. “T-that’s all I want to say about the fight.”

Mr. Bentley shifts in his seat. “Kaley, you don’t have to tell us what the argument was about if you’re uncomfortable. But you do need to tell us what happened during the altercation.”

I hate this. I hate what I have to do.

“Tommy got really upset with me and punched my locker. And that was after he kicked another locker.”

“He punched your locker?” says Mr. Bentley, clarifying.

“Yes.”

“Where were you standing?”

“I was right next to my locker. On the right. He kicked the locker underneath mine, then he punched my locker. There’s a big dent in it now. I didn’t realize that until this morning. It was jammed and the custodian had to help me get it open.”

More scribbling on notepads.

“Okay, so he punched your locker, damaging it, then what happened? Did he get physical with you?”

“No!” I burst out. “Just with the lockers.” I squeeze my eyes closed and hold my breath. “And he was yelling.”

I feel like an asshole.

“And is that when Mr. Slate intervened?”

I open my eyes and rub my lips together. Intervened. That sounds like a positive way to put it. I run with it. “Yes. Well, almost. Tommy got in my face and was shouting. I was trapped between the lockers and the people around us, and I was getting scared, to be honest. That’s when El—uh, Mr. Slate stopped him.” My hands tremble after my slip-up, and I shove them under my legs.

“Mm-hm,” says Mr. Bentley as he jots something down. My eyes dart around the room. No one seems to have caught it. “And then what happened?”

I hesitate. Everything I say is being recorded—and I’ve already slipped on his name. I suck so badly at this. I grit my teeth and sit up straight.

No, I can do this.

“Mr. Slate asked Tommy to come take a walk, but Tommy refused.” I pause and meet my principal’s eyes. “Tommy was still in my face, and I was really afraid. He wouldn’t let up. He wouldn’t leave.” I choose my next words carefully. “That’s when Mr. Slate took Tommy by the shirt and . . . walked him to the office.”

I sit back as the group vigorously scrawls on their legal pads.

“When you say Mr. Slate ‘took’ him by the shirt, how do you mean exactly? Please elaborate.”

I pull my hands onto my lap and squeeze them together. “Is Tommy pressing charges?”

“We are not at liberty to discuss details regarding any other party. Just answer the question, Ms. Kennedy.”

I swallow hard. “He just grabbed him by the shirt collar, I think.” Crap. I shouldn’t have said “grabbed.” That sounds too aggressive. “He didn’t hurt him or anything,” I rush. “Tommy wouldn’t listen to him.”

No one replies, or even looks up from their notes, and I decide to keep my mouth shut. The less I talk, the less possibility for more slip-ups.

Mr. Bentley is still writing as he asks the next question. “Did he have him by the shirt the entire time he walked him to the office?” He looks up, meeting my eyes.

“Um . . . I’m not sure,” I lie. “There was a crowd of people, and I couldn’t see.”

“Did you see Mr. Slate handle Tommy in any other way?” His eyes search mine, and I feel like he can read my deepest darkest secrets.

My mind flashes to Slate pushing Tommy with force into the office. So many witnesses.

I shake my head. “No, not that I saw,” I lie again.

After more torturous note-taking, he addresses me.

“Okay, Ms. Kennedy. Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything you would like to add?”

Should I tell them I was glad Slate was there? That Tommy was out of control? I don’t want to overdo it . . . but I don’t want to underdo it either.

“That’s everything,” I say.



WHEN I’M BACK in Slate’s classroom, I feel the weight of several eyes on me, but I ignore them. The only eyes I’m interested in are his, but they don’t meet mine. The bell rings shortly after, and I linger as the class disperses. He catches my eye and gives a quick shake of his head, then turns his back to me and resumes cleaning the whiteboard.

Not good.

I grab my things and walk out the door.



THE ENTIRE WEEK sucks. Big time. Tommy and I aren’t speaking. The stares and whispers are obnoxious, but quickly fade by Wednesday. Every lunch period is the same and goes something like this: I sit next to Emily as she leans an elbow on the table and picks at her food, ignoring the mindless chatter. I never ask her what’s wrong—I know it’s the breakup of our group. Once in a while, I catch Avery staring wistfully at Tommy, but he continues to give her the cold shoulder. I almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

But none of this compares to the lack of contact with Elijah. He’s distant in class. He never looks my way and never sends a text at night. I know he said we couldn’t communicate unless it’s an emergency, but he’s already broken that rule twice. Why would he leave me in the dark now? It certainly feels like an emergency to me. I sustain a brave face in front of my schoolmates and friends, while every fiber of my being yearns to speak to him. I’m finding myself more and more apprehensive about our relationship and even more stressed about the status of his job. Is his career in jeopardy? Why won’t he tell me what’s going on? Is he sending me hidden signals that I’m supposed to decode? He has done this sort of thing before. But that was before we . . . we what? What are we really? My insecurity gathers into the pit of my stomach, and I start to contemplate the unthinkable: is it possible our relationship is over before it even began?





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO



STILL NOTHING.

It’s Friday and I’m in hell. To make matters even worse, I’m without my car again. My dad took it in for an emergency tune-up first thing this morning. Emily is kind enough to pick me up, but I’m taken aback when I climb into her car and find her more docile than I’ve ever seen. When I ask her if she’s okay, she gives me a weak smile and a nod. I guess she’s taking the split of our group pretty hard, but I don’t indulge the conversation. I love my best friend, but there’s too much on my mind. Too much I can’t talk about. I can’t find the capacity to hold a normal conversation with anyone. . . . I need to speak to Slate.



BY THE END of first period, panic has overtaken me. He still hasn’t made the slightest bit of eye contact—not even during roll call. I decide to swallow my fear and initiate the conversation. There is no way I can go an entire weekend without knowing where we stand, or what’s going on. I take my time as I pack up my stuff, waiting for Avery to leave the room.