Broken (22 page)

I grab my coat and Phil. Habit, pure habit. “Maybe I don’t need it?”

Tony opens his pack and drops Phil inside. “We’re not taking any chances.” He hesitates. “You should stay. But I don’t want to leave you here alone. We could—”

I open the door and step through it, ignoring him.

“Okay.” He closes the door behind me. It’s already dark. That weird twilight blue-black dark that happens when the sun is just starting to set. And chilly. I’m glad for my coat.

We walk together in silence for the first few minutes. I can’t remember the last time I was outside at night like this other than to be bundled into an ambulance.

I’ve never strolled through my neighborhood after dark. It’s kinda weird. Walking past houses with their warm lights, cozy families snugged inside, me on the outside, hiding in the shadows.

Freak.

Mitch and the others. They sensed it as soon as they laid eyes on me. Herd instinct, Darwin at work, I don’t know. But now I know they were right.

Tony takes my hand in his. I’m glad he’s there, but it doesn’t really help me feel better. Not now. Not after knowing what I know. Nothing can ever make me feel better.

“What’s the plan?” he asks.

I’m supposed to have a plan? No. That’s not the way things work. Everyone always has a plan for me: another doctor’s visit, another surgery, another pill to swallow…suddenly I’m supposed to be in charge?

Fear breathes down the back of my neck. I can feel it, pushing me away from my home, my safe haven, my plastic bubble of pinkness.

It’s laughing. Knows I’m clueless about how things work out here in the real world. It’s ready to snap me up, chew me up, and spit me out when I fail.

“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “Find my mom and—” What? Confront her? We have no evidence. This isn’t like
CSI
where we can drop off a can of Ensure and have it tested for some internet herbal penile enhancement drug and get results in thirty seconds before a commercial.

“Jordan,” Tony says. “His dad’s a cop. He’ll listen to us.” He glances back over his shoulder toward my house. “Maybe I should have grabbed one of those bottles. Evidence. Because if your mom comes back and sees everything—”

“So we need to find her first.” I sound more certain than I feel. Last thing I want is to actually see my mom. Ever. Again.

“Why do you suppose she took all that stuff last night?” he asks. “If she really wanted to get rid of the evidence, she’d have taken the spice jar too.”

My jumbled mind is trying to put pieces together—somehow everything fits, but I’m just not sure how. I pull out my cell phone. I’ve used it more in one day than in the year I’ve had it. I call Nessa. “Did you find Celina?”

“No. Jordan’s here, helping me.”

“We’re almost there.” I can see the lights of the stadium as we turn the corner. “How did my mom know about Celina’s injuries in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Gym class? Or maybe when she checked Celina after she fell?”

I’d forgotten about Celina’s fall. “If Mitch pushed Celina and that was why her secret was exposed, could she blame him as well?”

“Shit,” Nessa says. “Now we need to find Mitch too.”

“We know where he’ll be—in the locker room. Tell Jordan to keep an eye on him. We’re almost there.” I hang up.

Tony’s frowning. “Your mom was pretty pissed off when Mitch got off scot-free after sending those pictures of you.”

“Oh yeah. She hates when anyone defies her—” I break off. “You think she’s going after him, not Celina?”

“That sports bottle in the pictures. Have you ever seen your mom use one like that before?”

“No.”

“Maybe the ‘K’ wasn’t for Killian. It was for Kowlaski.”

Suddenly the pieces fall into place. So typical of my mom. Nobody crosses her and gets away with it. And she promised that she’d take care of Mitch. She just didn’t say how. “She’s going to poison Mitch. And frame Celina for it.”

Tony leads me across the playing fields. They’re on the other side of the gym from the football stadium, but we can hear the bands warming up and the murmur of the crowd. We make it to the equipment shed where Nessa’s waiting.

“Where’s Jordan? Is he with Mitch?” I ask.

Nessa leads us inside the school—she’s blocked the door open with a rock. The school is dark except for a few lights. And so empty our footsteps echo in weird ways that make me want to keep looking over my shoulder. The locker rooms are on the other side of the gym so we can’t see them from here. “He’s standing guard outside the locker room, watching for Celina.”

“Tell him to watch for my mom as well. Don’t let her into the locker room.”

“Why not?”

Tony answers for me. Thank God, because I’m not sure I can say the words out loud. “We think she’s going to poison Mitch’s water bottle and frame Celina for it.”

Nessa blinks hard then grabs her phone. “Your mom would do that?”

I look away.

“Can you get us into Celina’s locker?” I ask when she hangs up from Jordan. “We can see if there’s anything suspicious inside. Grab it if there is.”

“This way.”

Nessa leads us back to the main corridor then down a side hall to where Celina’s locker is. Someone, probably Mitch since it’s misspelled, has scrawled “Purvert” on it in red marker. I guess the rumor has morphed from Celina being a victim to her being an abuser.

Nessa spins the lock and opens it. Inside, there’s a plastic bag with white powder labeled:
JWH-018, not for human consumption.

“What’s that?” I ask, reaching for it.

Tony stops me. “Synthetic marijuana. Kids have died from it. Acts like PCP.” He points to a second bag, smaller and labeled with flowers. “That one is bath salts. Will also make you go nuts—like that face-eating crazy guy down in Florida.”

Nessa grabs both bags, shielding her hand in her coat sleeve to preserve any fingerprints, and carries them to the next row of lockers. She tosses them on top of the lockers where they skid out of sight. “Now we can find them if we need to, but no one can pin it on Celina.”

We’re staring at her in admiration. She brushes her hands together. “Hey, my two best friends are the kids of cops, what did you expect?”

“Let’s find Mitch before my mother does.”

We start down the next hallway, circling around to the other side of the gym. “What would happen if you add the JWH-018 and bath salts to the Exzyte?” I ask Tony.

He considers. “The perfect way to mask a heart attack as a drug overdose.”

At least he didn’t say “the perfect murder.” But that’s what we’re all thinking.

We meet up with Jordan outside the boys’ locker room. He looks haggard. “Did you find her?”

“No.” Nessa fills him in on what’s going on.

Jordan’s expression morphs from worry to anger.

“Jordan, we’ll find her. It will be all right.” I try to touch his arm and he flinches.

“You can’t know that.” He straightens, shoulders back, ready for a fight. He can barely look at me. I know he blames me for all this. “What the hell is going on with your mother? Do you really think she’s trying to kill Mitch and blame Celina? Like destroying Celina’s family wasn’t enough?”

Tony fills him in while I stare at my shoes, shame coloring my vision. Nessa makes a small gasp of surprise when Tony explains about my brother and my symptoms, but Jordan’s silent until he finishes.

Then Jordan smashes the heel of his hand into a locker so hard the metal buckles. “Damn it to hell, I trusted her. I told her everything. How could she?” He turns to me, fists bunched at his sides. “What if your mom isn’t satisfied with trying to frame her? What if she’s done something to Celina? Maybe poisoned her as well? She could be hurt, lying somewhere—” His voice trails off.

A loud rumble, forty pairs of stomping feet, interrupts him. The door to the locker room shakes and then everything goes quiet.

“The team’s run onto the field,” Tony says. “What should we do?”

Jordan answers, “I’m calling my dad. Then I’m going out there and getting your mother to tell me what she’s done to Celina.”

“Tony, go with him. Try to convince Coach to get Mitch off that playing field.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nessa and I will search Mitch’s locker. See if the water bottle is in there.”

“You can’t go in there,” he protests.

Nessa doesn’t wait. She pushes through the door. We follow her.

The guys head out to the field while Nessa and I start looking for Mitch’s locker.

“Do you really think your mom might have hurt Celina?” Nessa asks. I don’t answer—all my answers fled with the lies that were my life.

We find Mitch’s locker, emblazoned with his number and name. It has a padlock on it, but it’s not locked, just hanging there.

“There’s one place we haven’t looked for Celina.” She hesitates. I undo the padlock and open Mitch’s locker. There’s a wad of clothing shoved into the bottom. Spare toiletries on the shelf above. A dirty jockstrap hanging from one of the hooks.

“Where?” I can’t find the water bottle. Did he take it with him?

“Her office.”

I straighten. The nurse’s office has a set of large cupboards with locks, a big closet, lots of nooks and crannies. Plenty of places to hold someone captive. “Go. I’ll let the guys know the bottle isn’t here.”

Nessa rushes out.

Suddenly there’s silence. Not just the room, but inside my head also. Like all the crazy thoughts and feelings have canceled themselves out, leaving just me.

I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Try to remember my life before this nightmare began.

It’s a blur.

But I can see some things clearly. Nessa’s smile welcoming me in the library. Jordan’s touch that first morning. Celina’s bashful offer of help. Tony’s hazel eyes as he invited me to partner with him.

I can’t lose these memories. Not like I lost Ashley.

I’m still not sure what the truth of my life really is. But I’m willing to fight to find out.

“Hey, it’s the freak!” A man’s voice blasts through the silence.

I open my eyes. It’s Mitch Kowlaski. With Keith Young hard on his heels.

Both rushing toward me.

Before I can blink, Mitch slams me into the locker beside his. With his football pads on, he seems twice as big as normal.

“You snooping in my locker, bitch?” he screams into my face.

His skin is flushed; he’s so angry that each word is accompanied by a stream of saliva. His hand presses against my throat and I can’t answer. I can’t even breathe.

With strength that amazes me, he uses one hand to lift me off my feet. I’m dangling in the air, choking to death. Panic colors my vision. I kick and pound my fists against him, but he doesn’t even notice. He’s smiling—no, not smiling, more like the uneven gaping grin of a jack-o-lantern the week after Halloween.

Then he laughs and grinds his body against mine, pinning me between him and the locker. He’s enjoying this.

A rushing noise fills my head. The world goes dim. I don’t have any strength left to fight.

“Stop it! Mitch, get off her!”

Keith’s words penetrate the haze that’s drowning me. Suddenly I’m falling. I hit the bench and roll onto the floor, gasping. My neck is sore, I can’t even try to swallow, every breath scorches.

“Coach sent you in here to cool down, not screw around. You nearly took that receiver’s head off.”

I blink away the red spots dancing in my vision and see Keith holding Mitch from behind in a quasi-choke hold. Hard to do with all the pads they’re both wearing.

Scrambling back, putting as much distance between me and Mitch as possible, I finally find my voice. “Mitch, did you drink from your water bottle?”

Keith looks at me like I’m nuts. But Mitch says, “Of course I did. My rally girl left it for me with a special treat. She scored some Four Loko.”

Great. Caffeine and alcohol on top of the psycho-marijuana substitute and bath salts. Not to mention the Exzyte. And two hundred pounds of raging hormones to start with.

I struggle to my feet. “Mitch,” I keep my voice low and calm. “I think your water bottle was drugged. Are you feeling funny? Chest pain? Heart racing?”

He’s staring at me, eyes bugging out. His chin juts forward and with a roar worthy of the Incredible Hulk, he slams Keith back against the lockers, breaking free of his grasp.

Keith cracks his head so hard I can hear it. Blood streaks down the locker door as he slides to the floor.

Mitch charges me. “You did this! You bitch! What did you do to me?”

I turn and run. Have no idea where I’m running to, just searching for any escape.

Then I see an exit sign. Mitch seems blind to the obstacles between him and me—he’s tripping over the benches and gear strewn around the locker room floor. Which slows him just enough that I have a chance. I sprint toward the door, my own heart pounding so hard and fast I’m waiting for it to just give up and skid to a stop.

Push through the doors and find myself on a path walled in by chain-link fences heading below the bleachers and out to the field. The roar of the crowd drowns out my screams for help. There’s an empty police car parked on the other side of the fence but I can’t see anyone near it.

Mitch bellows incoherently as he slams through the doors. He’s gaining ground. All I can do is head for people, hope someone can stop him before he reaches me.

I keep running, my feet pounding against the cement. Up ahead, coming from the field, I see a group of figures. A little closer and I see it’s Jordan. He’s got his hands behind his back, a cop at his side, like he’s under arrest. Behind them is Tony.

They stop when they see me—or more likely when they see Mitch charging like a bull in heat. The cop pushes Jordan down and out of the way and takes a stand, hand on his weapon but not drawing. All he sees is a football player chasing a girl. He has no idea what’s going on.

Tony and Jordan are shouting at the officer. Before they can do anything, Mitch tackles me from behind. I go skidding face first along the path, bouncing off a cement support beam below the bleachers.

“I’m gonna kill you, freak!”

I roll over and see Mitch’s fist in the air, aimed at my face.

“Stop!” the policeman shouts.

To my amazement, Mitch stops. And he climbs off me. My jaw creaks as I draw in a breath. There’s blood on my knees, my jeans are torn, and my palms are scraped up. But other than that, I’m okay.

Tony rushes to my side and helps me up. Mitch is walking toward the officer, hands out, palms up, saying, “Officer, this is just a misunderstanding between me and my girl.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Tony yells.

“Watch out!” Jordan shouts as he’s struggling to his feet. I realize he’s handcuffed.

The crowd is roaring, stamping their feet on the bleachers, and the officer doesn’t have a chance to respond. Not before Mitch launches himself at him, aiming low, throwing him up and over his shoulder. The officer ends up in a crumbled heap beside Jordan while Mitch keeps running.

We rush after him. He pushes his way past the cheerleaders and launches himself onto the field in the middle of a play. Two guys from Bellefonte try to tackle him, but he’s too fast. He brings one down with a clothes-hook move and kicks the other in the face mask. Then he’s up again and running.

The crowd is on their feet. Everyone is screaming. The refs are blowing their whistles and throwing yellow handkerchiefs. Both teams are running around. Not sure if they should go after Mitch or the ball.

Tony and I get to the edge of the field just in time to see Mitch collapse.