Brandy Colbert - Pointe

I usually sit in the middle of the room, in the row closest to the door. Far enough from the slackers to avoid being associated with whatever they’re getting into, but not too close to the front. You miss everything up there and I like to know what’s happening, even if I’m not involved.

Two days after I meet up with Hosea in the science lab, Klein slips into the room shortly after the bell rings. He never carries a notebook or pencil to this period, doesn’t even pretend he’s here to do anything other than act like a total asshole. Gellar’s eyes don’t leave his crossword puzzle. He stopped calling roll and marking tardies the third week of school. It’s a wonder anyone shows up at all.

Klein usually sits at the back with his druggie friends, but today he slides into the seat behind mine. He scoots his desk up until he’s nearly sitting on top of me, then moves his mouth so close to my ear I feel violated.

His breath is on my skin. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Ellie Harris is pissed at you.”

My stomach clenches into a hard knot. I turn my head to show I heard him, but just slightly. I won’t look at him dead-on or he’ll be able to read my eyes. “What did I do to Ellie Harris?”

Besides kiss Hosea and want Hosea and wish that he were my boyfriend? But this isn’t just about hooking up. We have a connection. We have a place.

“She thinks he’s fucking around on her,” he says, his voice low.

“So?” My heart thumps three times in rapid succession.

Klein cranes his neck so uncomfortably close that I have to look at him. Dark circles are lodged under his eyes, and his lips are dry. He looks as if he hasn’t been to bed in days.

“She thinks he’s fucking around with you, Legs.” The desk groans as he leans forward, as he claps a hand down on my shoulder so hard that I wince. “Said she’s seen you guys talking a lot lately.”

A lot? The gazebo at Klein’s party and—

“Where?” I twist halfway around in my seat to get a better look at him. He startles, then his green eyes narrow to slits.

“Well, shouldn’t you know the answer to that, Legs?” I want to slap the smirk off his face.

But shit. Maybe someone did see us around the science lab? But we were so careful. We waited until no one else was around, and left at different times, just like we arrived. Lark. Did she tell Ellie she saw me with the clove? Maybe, but she can’t prove that I got it from Hosea. Or maybe someone saw us driving around that night I saw the video of Donovan? But no. That would be enough evidence for her to confront Hosea, not simply speculate to Klein. If he’s even telling the truth.

“Gossip is gross,” I say, throwing him my hardest death stare. “You should mind your own business.”

He holds up his hands in fake surrender. “Hey, I’m just giving you a heads-up. No judgment here. But Hosea’s my buddy and you’re . . . well, anyway. I thought you should know.”

I turn back around. “And I think you should leave me alone.”

His hand squeezes down on my shoulder again—too hard, again—before he pushes his desk back, stands up, and retreats to the rear of the room with the other burnouts. “Good to see you, too, Legs.”

The classroom door opens and Gellar’s head of wispy gray hair finally shoots up. An office attendant shuffles in with a blue hall pass. Everyone who’s noticed is cringing, praying that pass isn’t meant for them. Blue means Crumbaugh, and in a room like this there’s a good chance anyone could be called up to her office. Gellar glances down at the name before he mumbles, “Theo Cartwright.”

This day is getting worse by the minute.

I have no idea what Crumbaugh wants, but I sigh and tuck everything into my bag and follow the hall monitor out of the room. The only consolation is that I don’t have to feel Klein’s eyes piercing through me for the next sixty minutes. I look back at Gellar. Eyes down, he licks his thumb before turning the page in his book to a new puzzle.

I don’t know what to expect when I get to Crumbaugh’s office, but it is not my parents.

Yet there they are when I walk in. And there’s an extra chair pulled up for me between them. I sit but I don’t have the patience for pleasantries, so when Crumbaugh says hello to me with a weak smile, I look at my parents instead.

“What are you guys doing here?” I push the steel legs of my padded chair back a few feet. Not so close to Crumbaugh’s desk.

“Sorry to take you out of class,” Dad says, and he already sounds unsure, so that’s not a good sign.

“We came right over as soon as . . .” Mom trails off like she doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Like she’s not even going to try. She’s wearing makeup—a touch of mascara on her almond-shaped eyes, her thin lips a muted burgundy. “And Mrs. Crumbaugh was kind enough to let us use her office to talk to you.”

Yeah, kind enough to let us use her office while she sits two feet away listening to our conversation. That totally makes her the best.

My palms sweat because they must have found out about Chris Fenner. And instead of going straight to the police, they’re going to make me talk about him, here in this room with the guidance counselor.

“Babygirl—” Dad clears his throat, looks swiftly at Crumbaugh and back at me. “Theodora, there’s been a new development. With Donovan.”

“He’s talking?” My voice is so shaky it takes even me by surprise.

“Well, no,” Dad says. He leans forward a little, his hands on his knees. “But the arraignment for Donovan’s abductor was this morning.”

Right. How I managed to forget that for even a second is beyond me. Maybe my conversation with Klein wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened.

“He pled not guilty.” Dad sounds as if it physically pains him to say so.

Not guilty.

I will have to testify.

A headache throbs immediately behind my eyes. It pulses steady and hard in the same spot as I think about what this means. Chris Fenner was many things—charming, focused, pouty when he didn’t get his way—but he wasn’t stupid. Whether Donovan went voluntarily or not, Chris must think that he won’t say anything to get him in serious trouble.

“It’s a complicated case.” Dad pushes up his glasses. “Donovan isn’t talking, and he also wouldn’t let anyone touch him when they got him back here. Of course some of that—that man’s DNA was found on his clothing—”

“DNA?” I practically whisper as I stare at the perfectly pressed sleeve of his white dress shirt. He’s wearing small, oval cuff links. Silver.

“Not—no. Hair. Skin cells.” Dad scratches at his clean-shaven chin. “Anything you’d find on someone who’d been living in the same house, but not enough to prove anything that happened was . . .”

“Of a sexual nature,” Mom finally pipes in, her eyes cast down on her lap. She crosses and uncrosses her thin legs a couple of times. Runs a hand over her short, curly hair before she brings it down to her lap. “They couldn’t prove anything like that happened.”

I think the room would collectively blush—my mother more than anyone else—if we weren’t so disgusted by the topic at hand. My eyes rest on the finger-painted picture hanging on the wall behind Crumbaugh. It’s framed.

“They couldn’t do a . . . thorough test,” Dad says. “It was Donovan’s choice and he refused . . .”

Shit.

“Maybe this Chris guy was an idiot who didn’t understand you can’t go running around with kids half your age,” Dad says. “Maybe he didn’t do anything to him.” He shakes his head. “But it’s just so rare.”

He clears his throat. “The prosecution’s testimony will be crucial to the case. Donovan’s old neighbors and classmates— anyone who can speak about him or the situation so we can make sure this guy gets the maximum sentence.”