Melanie

 

 

 

 

The Drug Ed class meets in a decrepit classroom in the lower level of the public library. The lights are too bright and institutional, like someone thought lightening up the room would make it more cheerful. All it does, though, is give a spotlight to the many flaws: the cracked linoleum floor, the dusty blinds on the windows, the green blackboard covered with faint writing that somebody didn’t quite erase all the way.

I pull out my phone to surf the internet before class starts, but there’s no reception down here in the library basement, so I stuff it into my backpack and look around me instead, careful not to make eye contact with anybody. I’m not interested in making friends.

It’s not really called Drug Ed. It’s called Life Choices, or something like that. It’s part of a program run by the local police department to get first-time underage offenders off drugs through mentoring and education instead of punishment.

I’m here because the principal of Columbus High, where I go, pulled some strings when a Marlboro box filled with joints was found in my locker during an all-locker search a few weeks ago. “Melanie, you can’t throw your future away like this,” she said. “You’re a good student. You’re lucky you’re still seventeen so you can get into the program.”

I stared at her eyes, which were sympathetic, so I wouldn’t have to look at her frown. I wanted to tell her I was disappointed in myself enough for everyone. But instead I looked away.

My eighteenth birthday was literally the day after the drugs were found, but I was still underage when I was caught, so at least I won’t get a police record. I’m relieved, of course, because I don’t want anything to mess up my chance to get far away from Bells Park. But I’m angry too, and worried, and lately I feel like I’m trying to climb out of a deep hole in my mind, but I keep sliding back down again and again.

I bite my nail idly and check out the other people. There’s a blonde in the front row, dressed in a skirt and blazer—what kind of high school student wears a fucking blazer? Her hair is brushed shiny, and I wonder what she’s here for. Weed’s too pedestrian for someone like her. Must be pills or heroin, which I’ve heard is a problem in some of the richer suburbs around here. And she’s definitely not from this podunk town.

Some guy sits a few desks to my right, his ripped-jeans–clad legs stretched out in front of him. He’s wearing ragged flannel, and his hair is long and slightly greasy. He catches my eye and smiles, his teeth yellow and crooked, and I look away quickly.

Nope. Not interested. First, he’s gross. And second, the only thing I want is to get through this class—and the next five—as quickly as possible and be done with this. It’s stupid because the joints weren’t even mine, but whatever. I’ve known for a while now that life’s not fair, and fighting that only makes things worse.

The clock on the wall above the dirty blackboard says it’s 7:05. Just because we start late, I hope it doesn’t mean we’ll end late too.

Suddenly the door opens, and the librarian, a sour-looking man in his fifties in a thread-worn brown suit comes in, frowning. “Apparently,” he says, “the officer teaching your class had to cancel.” He does air quotes when he says cancel, but what he means by that I’m not sure. Weirdo. “So we’re waiting on a substitute, who should supposedly be here in about ten minutes. I’m to instruct you to stay put.” More air quotes around supposedly. Then he leaves abruptly, sighing.

Ten minutes. I head to the bathroom. Despite the fact that smoking’s not allowed anywhere inside, the bathroom reeks of stale cigarettes mixed with oversweet institutional air freshener. I’m feeling rebellious and nervous, though I’m not sure why, so I light up a generic cigarette—if I’m going to kill myself, at least I’ll pay as little for the privilege as possible—and inhale.

When I blow the smoke out, it fills the small two-stall bathroom with a haze. I take a few more pulls, then carefully put the cigarette out on the side of the sink to save for later. I wash my hands and clean the ashes off the dingy porcelain.

In the dim hallway I shake my arms around, hoping the smell won’t follow me, because when I glance through the window in the classroom door, I catch a glimpse of a man in front of the room. The teacher’s already here. Fuck.

I put my head down and slip in, heading straight to my seat without looking up.

“There’s a $200 fine for smoking inside this building,” says the teacher, and I cringe but sit down, letting my hair cover my face and looking down at my desk.

The chalk squeaks on the board, and I glance up to see what he’s writing. “Detective Beck” he scribbles, but I only see the words for a moment. Because class suddenly got way more interesting.

Instead of a chubby middle-aged balding cop or a pinched-faced woman with something to prove, this guy is young, or looks like it from behind. He’s in plainclothes, wearing jeans and a tucked-in black T-shirt. His belt is black leather, a holster holding his gun. For a second I stare at his arms, because they’re really muscular and strong, and I can see ink on one of them, disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt. And his ass. Of course I check out his ass, which is magazine-worthy. Six sessions staring at that won’t be so bad.

“All right,” he says. “I’m Detective Jake Beck.” He clears his throat and something about the “Jake” and those tattoos on his arm make me sit up straight.

There’s no way.

But as he slowly turns around, I gasp. The thick brown hair. The scruffy jaw. Those glinting eyes.

It’s him. The guy I went home with the night after getting caught with Stacey’s drugs in my locker. The night I wanted to do something stupid and reckless. The night I turned eighteen.

This is the guy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, because even though the “no strings” was my idea, and even though I lied-without-actually-lying about my age, I wanted to see him again.

Except not like this.

“You’re here because you’ve all made a mistake, and this is your…” His voice breaks off as his eyes meet mine.

You know that phrase about the blood draining from someone’s face? I finally see it right in front of me. He’s pale as a sheet of paper as he stares at me.

My heart hammers, and I can barely breathe.

He recovers quickly and continues talking, but I can’t hear him over the pounding in my ears.

What the actual fuck? I take a deep breath and will my body to calm down.

He starts taking roll, and I look up, studying him as he glances at the other students. Part of me hopes I was wrong, that it’s not the guy from the other night. But it’s definitely him. And even though I’m shaking from this horrible coincidence, I can’t help noticing again how sexy he is.

His face is rugged and needs a shave, which conjures up images of bad boys, though “boys” doesn’t exactly fit since he’s the oldest guy I’ve ever been with. His jaw’s chiseled, the kind of jaw they write about in the romance novels my mom sometimes reads. He has light brown hair that’s tousled and messy, and brown eyes that, when I sneak a glance at them, look half pissed and half scared out of his mind.

“Melanie Cannon.”

“Um, here,” I say quietly, but I don’t look up.

“See me after class, Ms. Cannon.”

Fuck.

The kid with the yellow teeth makes a low “oooh,” and I shoot him a pissed-off look.

Jake—Detective Beck—clears his throat. “I don’t usually teach this class. I’m doing a favor for a friend and taking it over, so I’ll be your instructor for the next five weeks.”

He’s pacing in front of us, but then he sits on the edge of the desk, kind of leaning back so his T-shirt pulls over his chest. I can actually see the outline of his pecs through his shirt, and even though I know I’m in deep shit with him, my heart beats quickly looking at his muscles.

He runs a hand through his hair and continues. “You’re all here because you were caught in a drug-related offense. I want to remind you that you’re lucky to be here.” He gestures around the crappy room like it’s a palace. “This class is a slap on the wrist. You’ll have no record. You’ll have a second chance. Don’t fuck that up. I expect you to be here every week. I expect you to pay attention. I expect you to pass all the tests I give you. I expect you to be on time. And I expect you to follow the rules.” He glances my way.

My cheeks flush.

He gives each of us a worksheet with blanks to fill in, and we laboriously read each question out loud and discuss the answers, which he instructs us to write down.

Regular use of methamphetamine causes chemical and molecular changes in the brain.

Marijuana affects learning and memory, coordination, and judgment.

Like in school, I begin to doodle at the bottom of the page. First I draw an intricate flower. Then I print the word fuck, because I can’t help feeling pissed that I have to be here and that this situation is really messed up, and start to draw viney designs around it. It’s the fanciest fuck I’ve ever seen, and I get really into it, while a part of my brain listens to the discussion around me and writes down the answers.

I do plan to pass this class. But I don’t need 100% focus to do it. School stuff—memorization and all that—has always been easy for me. In real school, including AP English and AP Psychology, I have straight A’s. I’ve always known that if I wanted to get away from this crappy town, I’d have to do it myself, so I’ve been working hard for years.

I spend the two hours of class working on my doodles, writing down facts about drugs, and studiously avoiding all eye contact with Detective Beck. It feels like the longest two hours of my life, and all I want to do is run out of the room so I can breathe again.

“OK,” he finally says. “Turn in your work. I’ll see you next week.”

I look in dismay at my paper, covered in drawings and a dark and prominent fuck across the bottom. How the hell did I miss the part about how we’d have to turn them in? I consider crossing it all out, but then decide it’s not worth it. That’ll make it look worse, and anyway, it’s not against the law to write a swear word, is it? Besides, I’ve got bigger problems when it comes to the teacher.

Slowly, I gather up my things and drop the paper on his desk as I start to leave the room. I’m the last student out.

“Ms. Cannon.”

I freeze.

“I thought I asked you to stay after class.”

I turn to meet his blazing eyes, which are staring at mine, holding me in place.

“Sit.” He gestures with his chin at the desk right in front of his.

I slink into the seat and play with my fingernails. I’m embarrassed to be here. Horrified that he probably thinks I’m some sort of druggie. I even feel a flicker of concern for him; I didn’t set out to get anyone in trouble.

Yet despite all that, I can’t help the swirling in my belly, the tingle that makes me wish he’d touch me, that makes me hope he’s thinking about that night we shared.

For a few moments that seriously seem to stretch on forever he’s silent. Outside the classroom the fluorescent lights hum, and one flickers on and off with a buzz.

He picks up a file from the desk and opens it, leafing through the papers. Apparently he finds what he was looking for because he puts it down again. “Eighteen,” he says. “You’re fucking eighteen years old. Melanie.”

“I am so sorry,” I whisper.

“Your birthday was… two weeks ago?” He looks at the paper again. “Were you eighteen when we slept together?” His eyes are blazing though his voice is low.

“We, um, met after midnight. On my birthday. So I was technically eighteen.” I wish I sounded defiant, but my voice is low and quivery instead.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” His chair squeals against the floor as he pushes it back and stands. He comes around the desk and sits on it, directly in front of me. We’re only about two feet apart, and something about the closeness makes my heart thud.

He stares into my eyes, and I stare back. Neither of us moves. The radiator in the corner hisses, and somewhere in the building the elevator creaks.

He glances at the door, then looks back at me before speaking in a low rumble. “What the hell were you thinking? Why were you in that bar? You’re definitely not old enough.”

I shrug. “Fake ID,” I whisper. That’s not completely true. I have a fake ID, but Jones, the owner, lets me study there sometimes if I promise not to talk to anyone. I don’t want to get him in trouble, though. No need to bring anyone down with me.

A muscle in his jaw tightens. We stare at one another for another small eternity, and then I summon my sanity and stand up, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

“I’ll see you next week,” I say as I head to the door. I don’t look back. And he doesn’t say anything. But I’m positive he’s staring at me as I walk out.

~~~~

Bells Park is a crappy suburb in Illinois, about one hundred miles from Chicago. Suburb makes it sound nice. White picket fences and pretty ponytailed moms in minivans driving homemade cupcakes to the school bake sale. But it’s ugly here. A railroad runs through the center of town, and long slow freight trains covered in graffiti rumble and screech through day and night.

A decade ago, the downtown was bustling, but things have changed, and now everything’s run down or shut down. Or both. The only places open now aren’t worth even glancing in. A greasy diner. The dusty antique shop, which is really a secondhand store, where I work part time after school. A real estate office with sun-bleached photos of homes that sold years ago, because nothing sells here anymore.

There’s a gas station that features sandwiches wrapped in wrinkled Saran wrap and live bait for people heading down to the river to fish, but even the river is gross now, half-dried and mucky. It always smells like rotten fish and algae.

I walk through the downtown on my way home from class. It’s dark out and getting cold, the March air biting. Lamps along the street are dim, and not all of them are working anyway, so I grasp my pocket knife in my jacket pocket once hard for strength. I’m small, but I’m pretty sure I could fight if I had to. I don’t have a car, so I have to walk the mile home. And my mom’s probably been drinking, so she can’t pick me up.

I shiver and pull my hooded sweatshirt tighter around me. Headlights approach from behind, brightening the street, and a car crawls to a stop next to me. It’s a cruiser. The front driver window rolls down and I’m looking at Detective Beck.

I turn back to the sidewalk in front of me and keep walking. What the hell does he want?

“It’s late. Isn’t there someone who can pick you up?” he asks, the car keeping pace with my brisk walk.

“Nope.”

“Not the safest neighborhood.”

“Don’t have much choice.” I pick up the pace.

“Let me give you a ride.” He doesn’t sound convinced that he really wants to.

“No. I’m good.” It’s fucking freezing, and I’d love a ride. But I don’t want to talk about what happened. Or why.

“Suit yourself. See you next week.” He drives away, and I watch his taillights fade in the distance.

When I get home, his car is waiting outside my house. He drives away as soon as I get inside.

~~~~

“Melanie! Come here. You’ve got to see this.” My mom’s got a big glass of wine. I mean really big. When she drinks wine, she doesn’t sip. She gulps, like it’s Kool-Aid or something. The good thing is she’s not a “bad drunk.” Not that there’s such a thing as a “good drunk,” but at least she’s not mean or ugly or getting arrested for public indecency or anything. I’m the only one in trouble with the law around here.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, setting my backpack down. She’s at her computer, and I briefly put my arm around her for a hug. Dirty plates and utensils, stacked haphazardly, look like they’ll fall at any minute, and I grab what I can to bring to the kitchen. Like an archaeologist, I can decipher the strata by the crusted stains: Canned noodles and sauce from two nights ago. Brown remains of Salisbury steak gravy in a microwave-meal tray. A coffee mug with dried wine rings instead of coffee dregs.

“Check it out,” she says, pointing at her screen, when I return. “Watch.”

She pushes the “play” button on a PowerPoint presentation, and music starts—“The Wind Beneath My Wings”—while images, some pixilated, of kittens and puppies interspersed with words flash across the screen. “Love.” “Compassion.” “Cute.”

This is what she does. She collects her disability checks—she had a minor accident at work a few years ago—and makes PowerPoint videos all day long. In between watching reality TV shows and drinking.

“That’s nice,” I say, but really it makes me want to cry. All of it, but especially, for some weird reason, the fact that “love” and “compassion” are nouns, but “cute” is an adjective.

“Do you really like it? This one’s going on my YouTube channel,” she says. “I got twenty comments on my last one. I think this one’s really going to get a ton of views.”

“For sure.”

She frowns and bites her lip. “You know, I think I should replace this kitten here,” she points at the screen, “with something just a tad cuter, Mel. And maybe have it flash for a second longer?” She clicks, adjusts. “I know the kittens are appealing to people, so I just need to figure out how to increase my viewership.”

“I have homework.” I head to the kitchen and run water over my mom’s dirty dishes. I’ll wash them tomorrow morning, maybe, or this weekend. Whenever. I know my mom won’t.

I’m suddenly starving, but there’s not much in the fridge, so I grab the ends—all that’s left—from a bag of bread on the counter and a bruised apple and head to my bedroom.

“Hey! How was your drug class thing tonight?” my mom calls after me.

“Fine. Boring. One down, five to go.”

“Good,” she says, and I hear her clicking away on her keyboard, consumed once more by her videos.

I guess I should be happy she’s not on my case about it, but when I explained to her what happened, she accepted it, no questions asked. That’s good, right? I’m lucky.

In my room I put the bread and apple on my desk and crawl under the covers, still fully dressed. I finished my homework at school before the drug class, and all I want to do right now is fall into a deep sleep.

~~~~

In my locker the next morning is a note. “Sorry,” it reads with a sad face at the bottom. That’s it. It’s taped to the inside of the door to make sure I’ll see it. I know it’s from Stacey, because she’s the only one with the combination to my locker. Other than the principal, of course.

Stacey’s locker is on the third floor of the high school, and mine is on the first floor, and we shared combinations so we could store stuff in each other’s lockers. Because we trusted each other and that’s what best friends do. Until one of them lets the other take the blame for a cigarette pack full of joints.

For a second I consider folding the note up into a small square and sticking it in my back pocket, but instead I crumple up the paper and toss it into a trash can on my way to class. Fuck Stacey. I don’t need her. She screwed me over, and I’m done. In my head I picture myself clapping my hands together, ridding themselves of dust and crumbs of the past.

“Melanie!” Principal Evans comes up behind me and puts her arm around my shoulder in a motherly way as she walks me down the hallway. “How was class last night? You went, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I went, Mrs. Evans.”

She stops me and puts her hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes. “I believe in you, Melanie.” Her expression is so earnest, like she’s waiting for a significant or meaningful response.

“OK.” What am I supposed to say?

“Great. Oh, I almost forgot. I stopped at Subway—the one just outside town—and bought a sandwich for lunch, but they accidentally gave me beef instead of chicken, and they let me keep the extra one. I’d be grateful if you’d take it off my hands.”

“Oh. Um, sure.” I can see right through her, and I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me, but I’m starving. I think of the sad apple and the bread crusts on my desk at home, and I take the bag, swallowing hard, trying not to tear up.

“Well, get to class then,” she says with a smile, and I head to Trigonometry. I love math, all the certainty and proofs and correct answers. I like that even though there’s more than one way to reach the same conclusion, the end is always concrete and non-debatable. I’ve actually been working ahead in Trig, mostly because my lunch periods, which used to be occupied with gossiping with Stacey and her boyfriend, have been lonely since we started fighting. Instead, I do schoolwork.

In class, I let my thoughts drift, thinking about the stupid drug class and Detective Beck and what a messed-up situation that is. But even though I know I should be horrified about it all, warmth gathers in my belly when I think about that night at his apartment. And how, in class when he stood before us, gun in his holster and scruff on his cheeks, he looked all adult and strict but I knew.

I knew the way he kissed. The way his hands felt, tracing rough patterns over delicate skin. The sounds he made when he came. And he knew the exact hidden spots to send me into bliss so layered and complex I could barely even breathe.

~~~~

“Melanie!” A smile brightens Mrs. Hart’s wrinkled face when I enter the antique shop, the bell on the door jingling. I work in the shop three days a week after school, from whenever I get there until seven p.m. when the shop closes. It’s an easy gig. Almost nobody comes in. Ever. So I don’t mind that the pay is way less than minimum wage. I get to finish whatever homework I didn’t finish at school, be out of my house, and have peace. And I get paid, even though it’s a minuscule amount, for the pleasure.

“Hi, Mrs. Hart,” I say. “What do you have planned for this evening?” I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. Mrs. Hart’s kindness is infectious, and despite the dust and mildew here, this place is warm and welcoming to me.

“Oh, not much. Going to start the supper for Mr. Hart.” She always refers to her husband as Mr. Hart, never by his name or “my husband.” It’s weird but actually really cute too.

“Are you going to cook that pot roast dish you talked about last time, the one with the pineapple?”

She winks. “I am. But don’t tell him what’s in it! He thinks he hates pineapple, but every time I cook it mixed in, he never notices. Just says how good it is.”

“You could always use that cooking for kids book that’s on the shelf over there.” I gesture at the bookcase with a grin. “The one about how to sneak fruit and vegetables into food so kids don’t notice?”

Her laugh is such a great sound. “I should! He’s such a stubborn old man. But at our age, Mr. Hart and I need all the nutrients we can get.”

She smoothes her loose flowered blouse over what looks like elastic-waist jeans and shapes her white hair with both hands before heading to the door. “Do you know,” she says, stopping and turning to me once more, “that he practically had a fit because I made our scrambled eggs with just the whites this morning? You would have thought I’d served him pigeon’s feet or something!” She shakes her head fondly.

“Eggs need the yellows! And they need to be fried in butter, not that spray junk.” Mr. Hart appears at the bottom of the staircase that leads to their apartment above the store. He puts his arm around his wife and grins at me. “Is she filling your head with stories about how difficult I am?” He pushes his glasses up on his nose.

“Oh you!” Mrs. Hart playfully dismisses him with her hand. “You can help me with dinner tonight if you’re going to be so particular.” She starts slowly up the stairs.

“Nice seeing you, Melanie.” Mr. Hart’s eyes are warm as he looks at me.

“You too. Have a good dinner. I’ve got it covered down here.”

“We know you do, Melanie,” he responds before turning and following his wife. He closes the door at the bottom of the stairs, and I hear their footsteps till they reach their apartment.

When they’re gone, I sit in the chair behind the counter, smiling from my encounter with them. They’re so kind, the kind of people who seem to understand you immediately, and who seem to love me despite everything. They don’t have any kids, so no grandkids either, and sometimes that makes me a little sad. Anyone would be lucky to be part of their family.

The shop supposedly sells antiques, but with the exception of a few items, there’s not much of value for sale. Over the years it’s turned more into a secondhand store, and though Mrs. Hart tries to display items so they look fancy, it’s still mostly old Nancy Drew books, lace doilies, and oil paintings, the thick paint cracking and dulled with age. Sometimes I’m surprised that the store is still open, or that the Harts manage to pay me the measly amount I get every week.

My homework’s all done, and I check outside for Molly, the orange stray cat who stops by sometimes. I’ve stashed a couple of cans of food for her just in case she shows up. She’s nowhere in sight, though, so I check out the bookcase, where each book’s price is handwritten in pencil on the title page. I settle on a beat-up copy of House of Stairs by William Sleator, which I’ve read before, but it’s so psychologically fucked up that I don’t mind rereading it. Instead of sitting on the hard stool behind the counter, I settle into a worn-out armchair next to the cash register and get comfy.

I’m half reading, half dozing, when the rusted bell on the front door gives a flat jangle and I look up.

It’s Jake. Or Detective Jake Beck. I slam my book shut and stand up, then head behind the counter to the stool where I perch, looking at him with a forced calm face.

He nods. “Melanie.”

“Detective Beck.” I smirk, trying to get control over my nerves.

He stands in front of the case with the old pocket knives, each with a string attached to a tiny white tag with the price on it. He’s got jeans on again, just tight enough so I can see what he’s got, with a black T-shirt tucked in and a holster holding his gun. With our roles so defined now, it’s hard to believe that I was in his bed just a couple of weeks ago, that he saw my body. Touched it. Made me come three different times.

We’re both silent, until he abruptly moves to the counter and braces his arms on it, leaning toward me.

“We need to talk.” His eyes are angry, but hungry too, I think. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see.

I shrug, playing it cool. “OK. What’s up?”

“You know what’s up. Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing anything,” I mutter.

“Yeah? You were playing something at Lucy’s when you lied about your age. Aria.”

“I didn’t lie,” I argue, though it’s probably just a matter of semantics. “You didn’t ask. I didn’t tell.”

“You weren’t even supposed to be in that bar in the first place!”

“Fake ID. I already told you.”

He holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“No way. I paid a lot of money for it.” The truth is, I didn’t pay anything for it. Stacey and I both got IDs from this kid at school who, with some heavy flirting, would have done just about anything for us for free.

“I’m not fucking around, Melanie. Give it to me now.”

“Whatever.” I pull my wallet out of my backpack and hand him the ID. He sticks it in his pocket without even looking at it. I could have given him my Frequent Flyer card from Boss’s Frozen Yogurt, which shut down a year ago, and he wouldn’t have noticed. “I don’t think it’s the ID you’re mad about.” We might as well get this conversation out of the way.

“You’re right. What I’m mad about, Melanie, is that you were barely eighteen when we slept together.” His voice is lowered, and he glances out of the corner of his eye at the closed front door to the shop as he speaks.

I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I wanted it. You wanted it. It’s over. And I’m, like, legal and everything.”

But my nonchalance is belied by the way my pulse picks up when he looks at me, even in anger. At the way it almost physically hurts to say it’s not a big deal. Because it was a big deal. It was desperate and scary and dangerous. And sexy and outrageous and amazing.

There was something about being with Jake that made me feel safe and happy in ways I didn’t even know existed. And I’d never, ever been with someone as good in bed. The other three guys I’ve slept with, all of them in high school, fumbled around while pretending to know what they were doing. Being with Jake made me realize none of them had even a clue.

But it doesn’t matter because he’s a cop and my teacher, and to him I’m just trouble.

He shakes his head and stands back, crossing his arms over his muscular chest. “Look. We need to clear the air. That’s why I’m here.”

With my thumbnail I scrape at the sticky remains of a sticker on the counter and studiously avoid making eye contact. Because I want to look at him. I want him to look at me. But he’s here to tell me what a big mistake we made—what a big mistake he made. And I’m not anyone’s mistake.

“It’s fine,” I finally say. “Just… you know… forget it. OK?”

He clears his throat, and out of the corner of my eye I see him moving a little closer. “Right. I’m sorry. Are we good?”

“Yup.”

“We both, uh, could be affected a lot if people found out…”

“I’m not going to tell anyone. Detective.” Now I do look up, glaring at him. Somehow the fact that he’s worried about people finding out makes me angry.

He looks away, then rubs at the stubble on his chin with one hand. “Dammit, Melanie. Just… I’ll see you in class next week.”

I nod.

He stares at me for a few moments like he wants to say something else, but then he shakes his head and starts toward the door.

“There’s nobody I’d tell anyway, so don’t worry.” I don’t know why I say it. It makes me feel pathetic, but I blurt out the words before I know what I’m doing.

Jake stops and turns.

I’m blushing, but I can’t stop talking. “Like, the whole reason I’m in that stupid class is because my best friend betrayed me, and she and her boyfriend were pretty much the only people at school I talk to. And my mom…” My voice trails off. I don’t want to get into that.

“What do you mean your friend betrayed you?” He takes a few steps back toward me.

“It was hers. The stuff they found in my locker.”

“Did you tell that to anyone?” He looks pissed.

“No. I thought she’d say something on her own. I guess I was giving her the benefit of the doubt.” I feel like a fucking idiot now, though.

“And she let you take the fall?” His eyes are blazing.

I nod.

“Some fucking friend,” he mutters. “Look, I can talk to the principal and…”

“No. Just leave it, OK? It’s over. I’ll just finish the stupid class and forget it.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “I’ll see you next week.” He stares at me past the point of comfort, but I don’t look away.

It feels like a challenge, and I never back down. It’s kind of like playing chicken, two cars speeding toward each other until one of them turns the wheel first. But it’s not going to be me.

Jake licks his lips and bows his head. Then he turns and leaves the store.