Wrath - 4 (24 page)

“Check it. I think it’s a secret service agent!”

“No way.”

“No, look, he’s got a wire leading up to his ear, and—”

“Nice try, but I think that’s the janitor and his new iPod.”

“Whatever, they must be here somewhere, since he’s coming soon and—”

“Do you think there’l be a limo?”

“Or, like, a whole motorcade, with cops and shit?”

“Are those sirens? Adam, you hear that?”

“Adam?”

The pale cheerleader hanging off his shoulder was staring at him, waiting for some kind of answer. Adam didn’t have one for her. He’d checked out. It was the only way he was making it through this whole big-man-on-campus act. Hanging out in front of the school with his buddies and three hot cheerleaders—one of whom, he’d discovered the night before, could do this thing with her tongue that …

It should have been awesome. A walk in the park. Instead, Adam was just zoned out, waiting for the bel to ring. If he was going to be bored and miserable, better to do it inside a darkened auditorium, where he could slouch in his seat and stare off into space, undisturbed. Better than here, where something was expected of him. He mustered a smile.

“Who cares?” he asked. “It’s just the governor. Big deal. You aren’t even old enough to vote.”

“God, Adam, did you wave
hasta la vista
to your brain?” Mini-She gave him a gentle push, and he guessed he was forgiven for chickening out the night before after a couple kisses and a little over-the-sweater action. The whole double-your-pleasure angle had seemed so appealing in theory, but in practice, it had been too seedy, too sordid, too much.

And he had his doubts whether he could have handled even one of them; much as he hated to admit it, he was no longer into the one-night-only thing. Not that he’d admit it to the guys—or even to the girls, at least these girls. But he wanted something more, something better; he just didn’t think he’d ever have it, not again.

“He’s not just the governor,” Mini-Me protested. She snuggled up again him, shoving Mini-She out of the way. “He’s—”

“Here!” Mini-She shrieked, as the sirens blared and a ful motorcade pul ed up in front of the school. A fleet of Secret Service agents—and they didn’t disappoint, dressed in black suits, sunglasses, cocking their heads to the side as commands issued from their earpieces—swarmed out of the fleet of black SUVs, pushing the gawkers back to create a perimeter for the figure emerging from the long black limo.

It was real y him, he’d actual y shown up. This was official y more excitement than Grace had seen since the eighties, when a movie crew had shown up, along with the requisite stars, trailers, and paparazzi—and then turned around and left a week later, sets built, extras hired, and funding vanished.

Adam waited to feel some excitement now that the big moment had arrived, but he felt nothing.

Let this be the biggest day in Haven High history.

So what?

For Adam, it was just another crappy day.

Kaia had driven al the way to school before al owing herself to consider whether or not to go inside. She’d scanned the local paper that morning, but there was no mention of a lone, British bachelor found unconscious in his apartment. Not that you’d expect the
Grace Herald’s
crack reporting staff to be on the case so quickly, not when said staff included only two reporters, one of whom worked from his “office” in the Lost and Found, and the other who restricted herself to items on gardening or fashion (preferably both). And though she’d lain awake al night, listening for approaching sirens, an impatient rapping at the door or even a late-night phone cal , nothing had happened.

But Kaia had watched too much TV to be fooled into thinking she was in the clear. No, either Powel had woken up and elected not to tel anyone his twisted version of what had happened, or … he hadn’t woken up at al . And maybe wouldn’t.

Kaia couldn’t decide which option she preferred. She wouldn’t even al ow herself to consider the question, since every time her mind strayed to the image of Powel lying there, his blood on her hands, she froze. And she couldn’t afford to do that anymore, not while time was running out.

She could turn herself in, tel the truth, engage in the inevitable he said—she said, and hope things swung her way. She wasn’t stupid—she knew that was the responsible thing to do, probably the smart thing to do. But she didn’t feel very smart right now, and she’d never been a big fan of responsible.

She could waltz into school as if nothing had happened. Maybe Powel wouldn’t remember, or wouldn’t want to implicate himself, or wouldn’t …

There were any number of ways this could come out okay and she could slip away from the whole thing unseen and unsuspected, if only she could get it together and put on the right show.

Or she could get back in her car, drive away, and make a new life for herself somewhere. It was the dream option—the impossible one.

The alternatives were al shitty, and so instead of choosing one, Kaia leaned against her car and pul ed out her cel phone. There was one thing she was sure she needed to do, even if it was too late.

The voice mail picked up on the fifth ring, which gave Kaia enough time to col ect herself and plan her words.

“Reed, I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I need to tel you that I’m sorry. I was wrong, about everything. I’m sure you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you, to explain and … just cal me back. Please. Because I—” She paused, wishing she could bring herself to say more. “I’m sorry.” Showtime. The art room was serving as a greenroom for the presenters as they waited for the governor’s entourage to settle themselves on stage and the student body to filter in.

Everyone was buzzing about Powel ’s “accident” the night before—thanks to a cryptic announcement, they al knew the dreamy French teacher was in the hospital, but for what, and from what, no one had any clear idea. Fragments had spread, phrases like “stable condition,” “unforced entry,” “open investigation,” and “mitigating circumstances” floating through the grapevine courtesy of the sons and daughters of doctors, cops, nosy receptionists, and taciturn administrators. But no one had been able to piece together the ful story, and no one could let it go, wondering: Was his pretty face stil intact? Was it a bitter student? A jilted lover? Would French be cancel ed? Would the perpetrator strike again?

Beth didn’t care about any of it. She sat off to the side, alone at one of the large drafting tables, watching Harper across the room. Even from a distance, Beth could see her fingers tapping compulsively against the side, her knees jiggling, and, like Beth, she was steering clear of the huddling gossipers, locked in her own thoughts.

She looked nervous—
but not as nervous as I am,
Beth thought, clutching one of Kane’s little yel ow pil s in the palm of her hand. She’d done some research the night before and decided one should be enough. And, according to her calculations, it was time. You had to give it some time to kick in, after al .

Beth felt like the room was watching her, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and make her move. Two cups of coffee—the lukewarm instant crap courtesy of the faculty lounge. One for her—and one for Harper, with a little something extra mixed in for flavor.

Harmless fun, Beth told herself. That’s al it was. No one would get hurt. Beth would get even.

“What are you staring at?” Harper asked sul enly, when she realized Beth was hovering over her desk. “Just thought you looked a little nervous,” Beth said. “Thought this would help.” She offered Harper a cup, making sure to give her the right one. Harper took a sip and put it down on her desk. Then she lifted it again and took a long gulp.

There’s still time,
Beth told herself.
I could knock over the cup before she drinks any more. I could forget the whole thing
.

“Thanks, I guess.” Harper frowned. “As long as you’re here, there’s something I need to say.”

Here it came. Beth steeled herself. “Yeah?”

“I … I wanted to tel you … wel , about … I’m real y …” Harper closed her eyes, and a series of expressions flickered across her face as if she was having an indepth conversation inside her head. Then, al at once, she shook her head and her features relaxed into a familiar sneer. “Just don’t screw up, okay?” Forget turning back.

Beth smiled sweetly.

“Uh, thanks. Good luck to you, too.” Beth backed away, retreated to the other side of the room—but she snuck enough glances to spot Harper downing the cup.

Beth checked her watch. It should take no more than twenty minutes. She couldn’t believe she’d actual y done it. She didn’t know how she was going to wait.

At least this time she wouldn’t have any trouble choking out her introduction. The more lovely things she had to say, the higher the audience’s expectations rose, the harder Harper would fal .

Beth checked her watch again. Only a minute had passed. This was maddening. But there was nothing left for her to do now, nothing left to worry about.

Al she had to do was wait it out—and then sit back and watch the show.

Play it cool,
she’d told herself al night.

Play it cool,
she’d insisted this morning as she wolfed down a bowl of cereal, eager to get to school to see him.

It was time to face facts: Miranda wasn’t cool.

For years now, she’d borrowed cool from Harper, but that was over now. There was no one to tel her to keep her mouth shut and go with the flow. And there was no one to calm her down when Kane gave her a casual smile and quick wave as they passed in the hal —then kept going.

Was that it?

Was the whole casino trip a one—time deal? Or was he just keeping it casual, waiting to see what she wanted? Or—

Miranda couldn’t sift through the possibilities like a rational human being. They buzzed around her, worst-case scenario piling on top of dreamscape, misery and ecstasy mixing together, and al the while, she was only half present to begin with, thanks to the chunk of her mind stil dedicated to preserving the memory of his touch.

She hovered in the entryway of the auditorium, watching the students file in. No Kane.

No surprise—this wasn’t his thing. When Miranda was certain he wasn’t there, she waited until the faculty had turned away to view the main event, then slipped out herself. She knew she’d find him in the parking lot, half hidden behind a utility wal , enjoying a cigarette.

She wasn’t usual y the kind of girl who could confront a boy—not someone like Kane, at least, who’d cowed her into silence for years. But the not knowing was even more overwhelming than her fear. So she spurred herself into action, and found him just where she’d expected.

One problem: She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t planned that out, and could only hope that once she started, he would finish.

This is a bad idea,
she warned herself, knowing that Kane wasn’t the type to react wel to being pressured; he
was
the type to do things without thinking and then hope never to speak of them again.
A very bad idea
. Stil , she couldn’t help but be a little impressed with herself. Who knew Miranda Stevens could ever be this brave?

“Hey.”

He looked up and smiled as if he’d been expecting her. “Want a smoke?”

She waved away the pack. The way she was feeling now, the nicotine buzz would put her over the edge.

“So … get any flak when you got home last night? You know, for disappearing and—” She broke off at his laughter.
Stupid,
she berated herself. Of course
Kane
wouldn’t get in trouble. He probably did this kind of thing al the time.
Nice job letting him know you’re a loser with overprotective parents
. Stil , she’d raised the subject. It was a start.

“So,” she continued, in a smal voice—her stomach was clenched, and it felt like there was no air left in her lungs. “About last night …”

“Yeah, it was great, wasn’t it?”

Miranda beamed, and some of the tension leached out of her.

“You know, if you were any other girl, I’d be so screwed right now,” he continued.

“Why?”

“Oh, you know how it is—have a little fun and the girl gets al lame and clingy. Wants to know what it al means, where it’s al going, crap like that.” He took a long drag on the cigarette. “You know, girl stuff.”

“Yeah,” Miranda echoed weakly. “Girl stuff.”

“But not you.”

No, not good ol’ reliable Miranda. No girl stuff here.

“You know me, and you’re cool with it. And just because we had a great time yesterday, you’re not, you know, freaking out and wondering where we’l go on our honeymoon.”
The Italian Riviera. Or maybe Tuscany.

“It’s what I’ve always liked about you, Stevens.” He punched her lightly on the arm. Like she was one of his teammates. “You’re not like other girls.” Uh, thanks?

Miranda clamped her teeth together, afraid otherwise they would clatter, and her lip would start to wobble uncontrol ably as always happened when she was about to cry. She had to get away before it happened.

“Whatever, Kane.” She forced herself to laugh. “As if I’d go al gooey eyed over you. Please. Could your ego get any bigger?”

“Wel , I
am
working out.” He offered her the pack of cigarettes again. “Come on,join me. Its rude to let someone smoke alone.”

“Much as I’d like to join you on the road to lung cancer, I think I’l pass,” Miranda said, trying not to meet his eyes. “I just came out here for a little fresh air. So that would kind of defeat the point.” She checked her watch. “Anyway, I should probably get back inside. If someone notices I’m gone …”

“Who’s going to—”

“Later, Kane.” She had to leave now, fast, before he talked her into staying—and she so wanted to stay. Every moment she was around him was a moment of possibility. That
something
would happen. But it would kil her if something didn’t.

And it wasn’t going to.

“Suit yourself, Stevens.” Kane tilted his hand back and puffed out a perfect smoke ring. “I’l miss you.”