Jake found me on the roof late that night, one of my last in the dorms, and I fell asleep sobbing into his arms.
He never asked why. I never told him.
I shake my head. “No. That’s not why.”
This kind of honesty may be what I need, but right now, it’s more than I can handle. “Anyway, my mom has depression and she takes meds too, but my dad doesn’t know about any of that because he thinks big pharma is trying to turn us all into chemically dependent zombies, when instead we should be searching out our mind-body balance through holistic means. My mom claims she and my dad were never closer to divorce than when the subject of childhood vaccinations came up.”
What I don’t say is my mother would never stand for divorce, not when she married Dad against her mother’s wishes — a fact Grandma Caldecott has never let her forget. And my dad would never be able to undergo the confrontation long enough to try it, not to mention it’s Mom’s family that has the real money.
Sometimes I’m convinced they both want to keep me home forever because they’re terrified of being left alone with each other.
Jake says, “Jesus, Caroline,” but I don’t hear any of the rest, because I’m frozen, steps away from Madison’s locker.
I’ve autopiloted through this walk more times than I can count. Madison let me use her locker because mine is four buildings over, in a hall where I’ve had exactly two classes in four years, because I got last dibs on placement after Mom yanked me from the dorms middle of freshman year.
But I can’t use Madison’s locker anymore, and not just because there’s a rainbow-colored collage of notes and messages tacked to the door. Or because of the haphazard mound of flowers and plushies covering the space beneath it.
It’s because her locker is empty, off-limits now. I know, because the coat and books I had in there when Madison went missing were confiscated by Detectives Brisbane and Harper.
The next day, identical versions appeared on my desk, like replacing them might make me forget the reason they were gone.
Jake whispers, “Do you think it’s true? What Madison’s mom said?”
I should say something. Point out I don’t even know what part of what Mrs. Bentley said he’s talking about. But I can’t stop the vision of the cops with their hands in Madison’s locker, pulling out pieces of her life one by one. Searching for secrets she didn’t have, like it’s her fault she’s not here right now.
She’s not even supposed to have a locker. Only day students are eligible since lockers are limited and St. Francis is 95 percent boarders. But when your family name is etched into the stone of the campus’s newest building and generations of your family are proud graduates of the academy, locker rules don’t apply.
Jake finishes, “About someone out there knowing something but not saying it?”
My gaze snaps to his. “Do you?”
He doesn’t answer, but my thoughts are too busy tripping over each other to listen. And then I’m walking before I can put together the reason why.
Madison knows my combination as well as I know hers. If she needed a place to hide something no one would find, my locker would be the perfect spot.
It’s barely a theory, but I don’t slow down when Jake calls my name, and by the time I burst through the doors, I’m in a full sprint, racing through the hushed campus.
He has no problem matching my speed, and neither of us let up, even as we climb the stairs to the second floor of Barton Hall.
Our breathing fills the silence, my fingers trembling over the ridges of the lock I haven’t opened in months, and it’s all I can do to remember what number comes next.
The metal creaks open and even the air smells empty.
Empty.
Just like the locker with the shrine around it. Like the parking spot she used to claim, right next to mine, so we could leave each other stupid notes beneath the windshield wipers.
Heat washes over my back as Jake steps closer, peering over my head and into the locker.
He reaches inside but I block him, hoisting myself higher with the help of the locker’s bottom edge. Cold metal greets my palm as I run it over the top shelf, expecting a layer of dust and finding none.
My finger snags on a sharp corner and I grasp tight to whatever it is, tugging it free from where it’s lodged along the shelf’s edge.
I’m still wedged in the locker, my body shielding my discovery from Jake, which is good, because I have no idea how to explain this.
The matchbook from The Wayside sits heavy in my palm, black background fraying at the worn edges to reveal papery white.
This isn’t mine. My second life at The Wayside isn’t something I risk mingling with the one I have here. Too dangerous. Too many chances of someone seeing the wrong thing.
The Wayside is my secret. The one not a single living soul at this school knows about. Not even Madison.
Jake says, “What did you find?” and I hear myself respond that it’s nothing, but my hands are sweaty where they grip the edge of the locker, and I hold my breath as I flip the cover open to reveal a phone number I don’t recognize scrawled in handwriting I do.
Looping, scripted. Madison is the only person I know who writes every number like she’s practicing calligraphy.
Madison went to The Wayside. She talked to someone there, wrote down their number. And now she’s gone.
A deep voice calls, “Ms. Lawson,” and I jump so hard my head cracks against the top of the locker.
I stumble back and Jake catches my shoulders, propping me upright so I have no choice but to look at Mr. McCormack instead of running away.
Mr. McCormack carries himself with the kind of confidence that comes from rarely being denied anything, and the kind of self-esteem that comes from being born with phenomenal genetics and the kind of pedigree St. Francis Preparatory Academy salivates over.
I’d hate him for it if I didn’t owe him for more mercies and favors than I can track.
He’s also the person I’ve worked the hardest to avoid the last few weeks.
He’s planning to force me into a conference. I’ve learned the signs from the teachers that came before him. If he succeeds, it’ll be my fourth “I’m worried about you, Caroline” conference of the semester — holding at a steady two-per-month pace. The others were easy enough to pacify, but Mr. McCormack will be a challenge.
And by challenge, I mean he won’t believe me when I lie to him. Which is a problem, because he could ruin everything for me. A single meeting where he tells my parents what he knows — everything he knows — and my years of planning toward escape will crumble.
I rub my throbbing head with the pad of my finger, hoping I’ll need a few stitches so I can avoid this conversation.