Who is Clayton Ozmore? This burning question stirs so many emotions inside me, and it’s the reason I’m on my way to Blandford Prep right now. Story or not, I need to know who he really is. I’m not willing to let myself fall for a guy I think I know, only to find out he’s someone completely different. As I zip along the highway, it’s not lost on me that he ditched Sam for doing the exact same thing I’m doing now. This is yet another reason why he and I will probably never work out. No matter how hopeful I am.

I roll my window down. The sun shines in and warms my arms as I clutch the steering wheel. While I hum to “Bitch Better Have My Money” by Rihanna—it’s my jam—my phone dings. I pick it up and see two messages, one from now and one from an hour ago. I try to read and drive but find myself unable to do both so I pull over for a moment.

Brad says he’s sorry for going off on you.

E

No. He’s not sorry. At least, I doubt he is. He’s making nice with Emily, and that’s okay. I like Brad and I like how he makes her feel. She’s had her share of jerks over the years, but Brad is attentive and sweet. On Valentine’s Day, he stood on the grass below our window with an old stereo held high in his arms, reenacting a scene from an old movie Emily absolutely loves. I could tell from the look on her face that this guy might be it for her. I was more envious of her in that moment than I ever have been. I was jealous and I hated myself for it because, ultimately, I want nothing but the best for her.

Tell him I'm sorry. I promise I will try not to hurt him. Charlie

I scroll down to the next message. A crow lands in front of the car and starts picking at stray rocks and some small carcass rotting away to nothing. The car shakes as a car whooshes by, and then another.

What r u doing tonight? O

He wants to see me again. When I crushed on Dennis Henry in eleventh grade, I asked my sister for advice. She said, “If a guy wants to hang out with you, he’ll hang out with you.” This simple statement made my situation glaringly obvious at the time. Dennis had no interest in me. Now, her advice is still relevant and makes me realize that Ozzie is into me. He wants to see me, and he’s trying to make sure it happens.

I sigh and tilt my head back against the headrest. Then my mood dampens. Please be the guy I think you are.

My calendar is open. C

My finger hovers over the send button. It’s hard for me to put my feelings out there without fear. It’s almost instinctual. I press send anyway and figure we’ll work out the details later. After I find out everything I need to know about him.

I drive the rest of the way in silence except for the random instructions from the GPS on my phone. I’ve never been to Blandford before. It’s near Halifax, about a half hour outside of the city. The final mile is nothing but trees and an extra-long driveway that is flanked with blossoming trees that hang over the road, littering the blacktop with old leaves left over from last fall.

I pull up to the front before noticing a sign that says Parking at the Rear. I find a narrow spot with cars on each side that parked too close to the yellow lines, but the little hatchback my parents bought me for my sweet sixteen manages to squeeze in between them.

When I get out of the car, I adjust my skirt and stare up at the old stone-walled building that was built in the early eighteen-hundreds. It looks updated with new plastic-rimmed white windows, but the rest of it looks the same as it does from online pictures. I check the map on my phone and realize I’m where I want to be: the main offices. I give the rest of the campus a quick look and settle on the students on the soccer field as a girl kicks a ball and scores a goal. The people on the sidelines cheer her on. I turn my attention to the other half-dozen brick and stone buildings that stand in a semi-circle around the field.

Inside the main building, I’m lost. There is no interior map or signs with arrows on the walls. There are only a handful of people around to ask questions. I stop the first person I see, a girl in a black and white uniform. Chewing her gum, she raises her eyebrows at me in a what the hell do you want? kind of way.

“I’m looking for the principal or headmistress, or whatever you call them here.”

“Why? He’s a douchebag.”

Well, all right then. I swallow hard to avoid the dryness in my mouth. My intention was to interview the principal today. I put on makeup, though I hate it. I curled the ends of my dark brown hair, and I wore high heels and a shirt with two buttons undone. My hands instinctively go to my chest to cover my bare neck—as if she’s looking. I wanted to look older, like a real reporter. “I still need to talk to him.”

She raises an arm and points to the left of the hallway. “Mr. Fuck. Last door on your left.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Mr. Fuck. I know, right? No wonder he’s an asshole. There’s no way he wasn't bullied as a kid…” She turns away and trots down a handful of stairs to the same door I just walked through.

Mr. Fuck? That can't be right. It has to be a nickname. She’s setting me up to make an idiot of myself.

Before I reach the principal’s office, there is a secretary in a space off to the left. She waves me in. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“Hi, I'm Charlie Morrison, and I’m writing an article for Martha’s Musings."

“With who?”

“The newspaper at Saint Martha’s University.”

“Oh, I see. Did you just drive up?”

I nod, smiling.

“Do you have an appointment?” She stares at her computer, taps a couple of times on her mouse, and then her eyes slowly lower as if she’s scrolling down her screen. I could lie, but I'm sure she's already looking at Mr. Fuck’s schedule.

“I don’t. But I’m doing a wonderful human piece on one of your former students who has gone on to excel in varsity hockey. There’s rumors he may go pro. I would love to hear more about how this student was as a young man and what contributed to his motivation and drive.”

“I see. Who’s the student?” She stops clicking and folds her hands on her desk as she smiles up at me.

“Clayton Ozmore.”

“Clay Ozmore, you say?” She stands and clicks a button on her computer. From the glass-framed picture of the school behind her, I’m able to watch her screen switch to the login screen.

“One moment, please.” She powerwalks around her desk and passes by me. “I’ll see if Mr. Phoque can see you.”

There are three leather-backed chairs behind me but I don’t consider sitting. I am too nervous. So I pace in front of her desk, my heels clicking on the tile. I only stop when she returns.

“You’re in luck. Mr. Phoque had a cancellation this morning.” She pronounces it very similar to the girl I just met in the hallway. But she says it with a bit of an accent that stresses the O. I'll have to avoid using his name because I'm confident I won't say it the way I should.

“Can I get you a drink? Water? Coffee?”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

She leads me to his office. She knocks and opens the door. A short, stout man inside rises and walks around his desk to come and greet me. All his features are average, and he doesn’t easily stand out. He could be anyone. Except for his long mustache that’s groomed and waxed. His handshake is firm as he eyes my face.

The secretary introduces us before she leaves.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Mr. Phoque says.

“Same to you,” I say sweetly.

“Have a seat.” He motions to one of the leather-armed chairs in front of his large wooden desk. Behind him, a tall bookcase spans the length of the entire wall except for a single window. He takes a seat after waiting for me to take mine.

“Maryanne tells me you’re writing a story for Martha’s Musings?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And you’re doing a story on Clayton Ozmore?” He makes a sour face as he spits out Ozzie’s name. There’s no love lost between them, and he’s not trying to hide it.

“Also, correct,” I say, smiling.

“Hmm.” He rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his hands while he stares at me. The silence grows uncomfortable.

“Clayton is doing well at Saint Martha’s. There’s talk of him going pro, and we’d like to do a story on him before he gets picked up and swept away.” I did some research last night, and I share the tidbits I found out with him now. “It turns out only one other student has been picked up since the university opened. He plays for the Toronto Geese now.”

“Scott Montgomery. I’m familiar with him.”

I point to him enthusiastically. “Exactly. Yes.”

“You have to understand that I’m limited with the information I can provide. Yes, he was a student. You could find that information online if you look up hockey stats, but beyond that, I’m not sure I can help you without his express permission.”

I wave him off, chuckling nervously. The last thing I need is for him to talk to Ozzie. “I understand your hesitation. If I were in your position, I’d do the same thing.”

“Oh, no. It’s not hesitation. Our school has strict rules in place to protect the privacy and confidentiality of our students. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“Of course...for statements on the record. But what about, off the record?”

He smiles, but it feels more like a courtesy than anything else. “Do you know Clayton?” he asks.

“I’ve…met him. Yes.”

The old hot water heater against the exterior wall kicks in. It starts to tick as water rushes through it. It’s chilly in his office. Almost as chilly here as it was outside. Here I thought spring was coming early after the nice days we’ve had lately.

“What do you think of Mr. Ozmore?” Phoque asks.

I take a breath. I need to convince him to talk, though it’s unlikely. What do I say to put us firmly on the same side, to entice him to see my way? “I think there is more to him than meets the eye.”

He leans back in his chair. The springs creak, and he rocks a little before he stops and the chair settles and quiets. “All of the students that attend Blandford come from wealthy, privileged families. In rare cases, we admit students on academic or athletic scholarship. Sometimes, those students fit in well with the student population, sometimes they don’t. We also accept children of faculty members or employees, on a case by case basis.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Ozmore?”

He sighs and narrows his eyes at me. His expression becomes dark. “Miss Morrison, I can’t answer that.”

“I see.” I tap a finger to my lips and take a moment to rethink my strategy. I knew it might be difficult to get him to talk, but I don’t intend on giving up. I just have to find the right motivation. “You know, I have several other sources to talk to about Ozzie. If someone gave me information, I would never reveal who gave me the information. It could have come from anywhere. I would take my source to the grave, go to jail for contempt of court. You can trust me. And I have a feeling Clayton may have wronged you in some way...that he may not have appreciated or respected you. Sometimes that happens. And I know how that can hurt. If you talk in generalities, no one could connect you to my story. No. One. I’d make sure of it.”

“You have a silver tongue, Miss Morrison.”

I grin at him, relieved that I’m getting somewhere.

“What did Clayton do to you to make you dislike him?”

He hesitates. Words on the tip of his tongue, he just has to spit them out.

I pull my seat closer and smile wide. “It’s okay. I’ve already forgotten your name. I was never here.”

He’s at war with himself. Desperate to unload anything and everything about Ozzie. I can see it in his eyes.

“Like I told you, I can’t help you. But...” He holds up a finger. “I’ll give you a clue that will help you find out whatever you need about him. October 27, 2009.”

I pull out my day-timer from my messenger bag. I click, click, click my pen and press my pen to the notes page beside today’s date. I write down the date and circle it twice. “Why is this day significant?”

This man is cryptic, and it’s pissing me off. He clearly wants to tell me everything about Clay, but his hands are tied. He seems to think he’s given me a clue to find out what I need, but that date means nothing to me. Even if I looked it up on the internet, there is a million things that could have happened on that day. How do I find something that happened to Ozzie when I've already scoured the internet for hits on his name?

“Can I ask you another question?”

He shrugs. “I can’t promise an answer.”

“He’s no longer your student. You owe him nothing. Can you tell me—off the record, if you need to—what was your impression of Clay when you knew him?”

He thinks about my question. A ding sounds on his computer, and his eyes flicker to the screen. After a couple of taps on his keyboard, he leans forward on his desk, focusing his beady eyes on me.

“Clay is a talented athlete. Surprisingly, the kid is equally as smart. But the boy has a dark side…one that he hides well.”

Dark side.

I circle those words, too. “What do you mean by dark side?”

“I’m sorry. You don’t know how much I wish I could help you, but the truth is I’ve already said too much. And while I’d love to discuss this further, I have to prepare for a meeting in the next hour.”

I sigh. My whole body deflates in frustration and disappointment. I thought he might come around and give me something to help my research. Instead, I have more questions than when I came here.

For a guy as nice as Ozzie seems, he sure has a talent for inspiring mistrust. First Jack, and now Phoque. What do they know that I don’t? And how the hell am I going to find out?