The Perfectionists (9 page)

Mackenzie swallowed hard. Then she felt someone's hand in hers. Claire's fingers held tight. Her lips were trembling.

Mac gawked at her, surprised. “Are you okay?”

Claire shook her head. “
We
were at that party. It means we'll have to talk to them.
I'll
have to talk to them.”

So?
Mac wanted to say. What did
Claire
have to feel guilty about? They'd gone to Nolan's party together, but Claire had disappeared the minute she caught sight of Blake.

Detective Peters gave their teacher a pleasant nod. “Thanks so much for your time.” He exchanged a meaningful glance with Detective McMinnamin, and they both slipped out into the hallway.

Mac peeked at Claire again. Her knees were jumpy, and she was biting her thumbnail to the quick. “Hey,” Mac said softly, touching Claire's hand. “If you're worried about talking to the cops, don't be. I'm sure it will be fine. They're going to be nice. You didn't do anything.”
But I did
, a voice in her head said.

Claire's throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Thanks,” she said shakily. “I don't know why I'm so nervous.” She squeezed Mac's hand again and took a few deep breaths.

Mackenzie's phone beeped. She peeked into her bag at the screen.
New text from Blake
, it read.

Her heart started to pound. She whipped it out and read it, hiding it from Claire's view.

Hey
, Blake wrote.
Need to work on new sets. Extra practice this week? My house, tomorrow night at 7?

Mac held the phone between her hands, deliberating. She didn't understand what had happened between them that night at Cupcake Kingdom. The only time she'd seen him since the kiss was at Matt Hill's party, where Claire had led Blake toward the big cushion-filled den, leaving Mackenzie alone by the snack table, holding both their beers. Reminding her that yes, Blake had kissed her, but he was with Claire, and Claire was her best friend.

Her gaze fell to the bag of gummy violins on the ground. She looked at Claire next, her face so vulnerable and open. From this day forward, Mac would be a different person. A
better
person. Which meant she'd never kiss Blake again.

I guess so, but it'll have to be quick. Audition's looming
, she typed, and sent off the text. There. Hopefully that sounded clinical. Uninterested. Like she was just another member of his band.

Then she deleted his text, wishing she could erase the memory of their kiss just as easily.

AFTER SCHOOL THAT DAY, CAITLIN
pulled into her driveway to grab her soccer cleats, which she'd forgotten for practice. She found them right away and rushed out of her room, back to her car—with any luck, she'd only miss warm-ups. But then she noticed the TV on in the den. A news reporter stood in front of Nolan Hotchkiss's house, which was now surrounded by yellow police tape, sawhorses, and gawkers.

“At the moment, the police are just asking questions, gathering facts, and canvassing the Hotchkiss home,” the reporter said. “There were a lot of students at the Hotchkiss home the night of the party, and it's unclear exactly what happened—and when.”

Ursula Winters appeared on the screen. “I loved Nolan so much,” she said, her voice full of feeling. “Everyone did. It's such a horrible blow.”

Caitlin's mouth hung open. Ursula hated Nolan. Not because of what he did to Taylor, but because he'd rejected her when she asked him out. She even remembered Ursula bad-mouthing him on the soccer field shortly after he died:
You can talk about a dead guy if he was an asshole.
And then she'd looked at Caitlin pointedly, as if those were
her
words. Which they kind of were.

Then came a shot of Mrs. Hotchkiss, a thin, severe-looking, overly Botoxed woman who had a plaid headband holding back her ash-blond hair. Her eyes were red, and her mouth wobbled. “I just don't understand who would do this to my boy. He was everyone's friend.”

“Are you freaking
kidding
me?” Caitlin snarled.

“Ahem.”

She looked up. One of her moms, Sibyl, was sitting in the slipper chair in the corner, a stack of papers and a calculator balanced on her lap. Her mom was an accountant, so she often kept odd hours, coming home in the middle of the day for lunch, rushing off to finish a tax return on a weekend, practically absent from March to April.

“Caitlin,” Sibyl said gently but also firmly.

“What?” Caitlin glared at her. “I'm sorry if I sound callous, but Nolan was
not
everyone's friend. You know it, too.”

Sibyl put the papers on the table next to her and stared at her lap. “I know what I know,” she said softly. “But I let go of the fury I had for that boy a long time ago. If I didn't, it would consume me. Like perhaps it's consuming you.”

Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, well. You're a stronger person than I am.”

Her mother rose from the chair and came over to stand next to Caitlin. Up close, she had minute lines around her eyes and threads of gray through her hair. Her body was soft, comfortable, the way a mom's should be. Her lips parted, and she said, “You were at that party, weren't you? Michelle and I were talking about it. She said you and Josh went together.”

“A lot of people were at that party,” Caitlin said quickly, her heart starting to pound.

“I know, I know. I just hate that something so . . .
awful
happened somewhere so close to you. Again.” Her mother looked at her hard. “You know, sometimes, when I'm angry, I do things that I shouldn't. I've told you I was teased a lot in high school for being gay. One time, I got revenge on one of the girls who teased me the most. Her name was Lindsey.”

“What did you do?”

Her mother fiddled with the Bic pen in her hand. “During gym class, I snuck into the locker room and cut out the crotch of her jeans and stole her underwear. No one locked up their stuff—I didn't even have to break in.”

“Mom!” Caitlin's eyes widened. “That's horrible!”

“I know.” Sibyl's brow furrowed. “It
is
horrible. And you know what? I felt awful as soon as I did it. It just wasn't worth it at all.”

Caitlin could feel her mother watching her. There was a long silence, like maybe her mom was waiting for her to confess something.

A memory flashed in her mind of that night. Nolan had collapsed woozily onto his bed. For a moment afterward, Caitlin felt a pang of guilt. Lying there, Nolan looked almost vulnerable, sort of like how her brother looked when he used to fall asleep on the couch.

But then he'd gazed at Caitlin and smiled. “You know what your brother sounded like when I swirlied him?” Then he'd made this horrible, girlish wail, a sound so humiliating that she'd almost slapped him. Instead, she'd written
Not to be trusted
across his face.

She turned away. “I didn't do anything to Nolan, if that's what you're getting at,” she lied.

Her mother held her gaze for a beat longer, then nodded. “Of course you didn't.”

Then she stood up, gathered her things, and walked out of the room. “I'm running to the office,” she called over her shoulder. “I've got a meeting. Be back later.”

The door slammed. Caitlin sat with her hands in her lap, feeling jumpy and strange. She hated lying to her mom, but what was she supposed to do?

She was still struggling with the fact that someone really
had
killed Nolan. So many kids had been at the party. But was there someone who hated
her
, specifically? Someone who would have wanted Nolan gone—and wanted her to be blamed? Someone who was in her film studies class
and
at that party?

Ursula
, she realized with a start. The girl sat in the back of film studies and usually nodded off as soon as Granger turned out the lights. But they were just soccer rivals. Ursula wasn't nutty enough to kill someone and frame Caitlin just to get her spot on the high school team.
Was
she?

Caitlin stood and shook out her hands, itching to get on the field. Maybe it would help her blow off some steam. She grabbed her cleats, strode to her car, and swung into the driver's seat.

When she turned the key in the ignition, though, nothing happened. Caitlin frowned. No lights came on. The radio didn't come on. The car charger didn't glow blue. She tried the ignition again and again, but it seemed as though the battery was dead. “Crap,” she whispered, glancing around the driveway. Sibyl had already left. Could anything
else
go wrong today?

Pulling out her phone, she tried to think. First she called Vanessa, but she didn't pick up, probably already on the field for warm-ups. Shannon, Sujatha, and Gina didn't answer, either. Voice mail, voice mail, voice mail.

“Damn it,” Caitlin whispered, pacing around the car. After a moment, she pressed the number two on her speed dial—Josh. He didn't have practice today; the boys' coach was out sick.

Josh's cell went to voice mail, though that was typical—half the time, he left the thing at home. She dialed his landline next. It rang a few times, and then a gravelly voice picked up and mumbled hello.

“Hey,” Caitlin said gratefully, the words coming out in a rush. “My car won't start, and I really have to get to practice.”

“Oh, I'll drive you,” the voice on the other end said.

Caitlin blinked. “Jeremy?” He and Josh sounded eerily similar. “Wait, is Josh there?”

“No.” Jeremy sounded a little disappointed. “But really, Caitlin. I can drive you. It's no big deal.”

“Uh, are you sure you don't mind?” Caitlin asked.

Jeremy laughed on the other end. “If I minded, I wouldn't have offered. I'll be there in five.”

“Okay.” Caitlin hung up and tried to start the car a few more times, but it didn't magically work just because she wanted it to. As she got out and slammed the door hard, she heard a faint buzzing sound in the distance. A pale green Vespa scooter appeared at the end of the road. Caitlin squinted as it drove right for her house, the helmeted driver hunched forward.

Caitlin drew in a small breath at the sight of him. He wore a pair of cargo shorts and a puffy North Face vest over a long-sleeved shirt, his longish hair falling into his eyes. She couldn't help but notice how muscular his bare legs were.
He looks hot
, she thought. Then she shut her eyes, surprised at the notion.

“So. How'd you break your car?” Jeremy asked.

Caitlin stared at the ground. All at once, she felt her eyes fill with tears.

“Hey.” Jeremy's voice dropped. “Oh my god. Caitlin. What is it?”

Caitlin didn't even know what it was. Her mom's weird confession about that girl who picked on her? Taylor? Nolan?
Definitely
Nolan. All of it, all of it.

Jeremy stepped closer. He put his hand on her arm. “I get it,” he said softly. “You need to get to soccer. You need to run around and get loose and lose yourself. Right?”

She blinked at him. It was as though she'd said the words herself.

“I feel like that sometimes,” Jeremy admitted. “Like . . . if I don't do something, and I don't do it right that second, I'm going to explode.”

She blinked hard, willing her tears back. “So what do you do?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Usually, I get on this and just go.” He patted the Vespa. “You cool with this? Or do you still think these things are for losers?”

“I don't—” Then Caitlin clapped her mouth shut. She remembered the day Jeremy had gotten the Vespa. He'd been fourteen years old, not technically old enough to even ride one, and he'd bought it secondhand from someone on Craigslist. The thing was thirty years old and didn't run, but he'd taken it to his parents' garage, downloaded an old manual, and asked questions on a bunch of discussion forums. He had it running in a few months.

Those things are for pussies
, Josh had said.
It's a freaking scooter.
And Caitlin had giggled, too. Jeremy's face had fallen. That was back in the day when Josh's opinion had mattered to him.

Now, as she looked at the bike, she fully realized the effort he'd put into restoring it to its former glory . . . and how
cool
it looked. Could
she
do something so amazing? Could Josh? Maybe that was why he'd teased: because, in a funny way, he'd been jealous.

Caitlin had laughed along with Josh's jokes at Jeremy's expense because it seemed unfaithful to side with her boyfriend's little brother. But now she realized how immature that had been. Jeremy was a person—a seemingly interesting person. She'd known him for years now, and she was just realizing that. It struck her as the same, blindsided way she'd dealt with Taylor—not really
seeing
him, understanding him, until it was too late.

“Can I wear your helmet?” she asked.

“I insist.” Jeremy's eyes shone as he handed it to her. It was warm from his wearing it moments before. It smelled of some sort of hair product.

Jeremy stuffed her gear into a canvas saddlebag, then straddled the bike. Caitlin climbed on behind him, his torso warm against hers as she slid her arms around his waist. His shirt smelled like wood smoke and fir trees, as though he'd taken a long nature walk. She'd never noticed that about him.

“Hold on,” Jeremy instructed.

They swooped out of Caitlin's subdivision and onto a wooded, undeveloped road. The watery sunlight filtered down through the treetops, making everything greenish-gold below. Caitlin felt like they were flying.

“This is amazing,” she admitted when they slowed for a traffic light.

“Right?” Jeremy glanced at her and grinned. “Riding is my favorite thing in the world. You know what I'd love to do someday? Take a trip across the country. Like Jack Kerouac in
On the Road.
Meet all kinds of crazy people. Have adventures.”