I shrug. “Everybody knows he has a peanut allergy. That’s what you do.”
“I didn’t know about the pen.” She snorts out a laugh. “Cooper gave you an actual pen! Like you were going to write him a note or something. Oh my God.” She bangs her head so hard against the wall she might’ve cracked something. “I should go home. This is unproductive at best.”
“Offer of a ride stands.”
I don’t expect her to take it, but she says “Sure, why not” and holds out her hand. She stumbles a little as I help her up. I didn’t think alcohol could kick in after fifteen minutes, but I might’ve underestimated the Bronwyn Rojas lightweight factor. Probably should have taken the flask away sooner.
“Where do you live?” I ask, straddling the seat and fitting the key in the ignition.
“Thorndike Street. A couple miles from here. Past the center of town, turn left onto Stone Valley Terrace after Starbucks.” The rich part of town. Of course.
I don’t usually take anybody on my bike and don’t have a second helmet, so I give her mine. She takes it and I have to will myself to pull my eyes away from the bare skin of her thigh as she hops on behind me, tucking her skirt between her legs. She clamps her arms around my waist too tightly, but I don’t say anything.
“Go slow, okay?” she asks nervously as I start the engine. I’d like to irritate her more, but I leave the parking lot at half my normal speed. And though I didn’t think it was possible, she squeezes me even tighter. We ride like that, her helmeted head pressed up against my back, and I’d bet a thousand dollars, if I had it, that her eyes are shut tight until we reach her driveway.
Her house is about what you’d expect—a huge Victorian with a big lawn and lots of complicated trees and flowers. There’s a Volvo SUV in the driveway, and my bike—which you could call a classic if you were feeling generous—looks as ridiculous next to it as Bronwyn must look behind me. Talk about things that don’t go together.
Bronwyn climbs off and fumbles at the helmet. I unhook it and help her pull it off, loosening a strand of hair that catches on the strap. She takes a deep breath and straightens her skirt.
“That was terrifying,” she says, then jumps as a phone rings. “Where’s my backpack?”
“Your back.”
She shrugs it off and yanks her phone from the front pocket. “Hello? Yes, I can …. Yes, this is Bronwyn. Did you— Oh God. Are you sure?” Her backpack slips out of her hand and falls at her feet. “Thank you for calling.” She lowers the phone and stares at me, her eyes wide and glassy.
“Nate, he’s gone,” she says. “Simon’s dead.”
Chapter Three
Bronwyn
Tuesday, September 25, 8:50 a.m.
I can’t stop doing the math in my head. It’s eight-fifty a.m. on Tuesday, and twenty-four hours ago Simon was going to homeroom for the last time. Six hours and five minutes from then we were heading to detention. An hour later, he died.
Seventeen years, gone just like that.
I slide down into my chair in the back corner of homeroom, feeling twenty-five heads swivel my way as I sit. Even without About That to provide an update, news of Simon’s death was everywhere by dinnertime last night. I got multiple texts from everyone I’ve ever given my phone number to.
“You all right?” My friend Yumiko reaches over and squeezes my hand. I nod, but the gesture makes the pounding in my head even worse. Turns out half a flask of bourbon on an empty stomach is a terrible idea. Luckily both my parents were still at work when Nate dropped me off, and my sister, Maeve, poured enough black coffee down my throat that I was semicoherent by the time they got home. Any lingering effects they chalked up to trauma.
The first bell rings, but the speaker crackle that usually signals morning announcements never comes. Instead, our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Park, clears her throat and gets up from behind her desk. She’s clutching a sheet of paper that trembles in her hand as she starts to read. “The following is an official announcement from Bayview High’s administration. I’m so sorry to have to share this terrible news. Yesterday afternoon one of your classmates, Simon Kelleher, suffered a massive allergic reaction. Medical help was called immediately and arrived quickly, but unfortunately, it was too late to help Simon. He died at the hospital shortly after arrival.”
A low whispering buzz runs through the room as somebody chokes out a sob. Half the class already has their phones out. Rules be damned today, I guess. Before I can stop myself, I pull my phone from my backpack and swipe to About That. I half expect a notification for the juicy new update Simon bragged about before detention yesterday, but of course there’s nothing except last week’s news.
Our favorite stoner drummer’s trying his hand at film. RC’s installed a camera in the light fixture in his bedroom, and he’s been holding premieres for all his friends. You’ve been warned, girls. (Too late for KL, though.)
Everyone’s seen the flirting between manic pixie dream girl TC and new rich boy GR, but who knew it might be something more? Apparently not her boyfriend, who sat oblivious in the bleachers at Saturday’s game while T&G got hot and heavy right underneath him. Sorry, JD. Always the last to know.
The thing with About That was … you could pretty much guarantee every word was true. Simon built it sophomore year, after he spent spring break at some expensive coding camp in Silicon Valley, and nobody except him was allowed to post there. He had sources all over school, and he was choosy and careful about what he reported. People usually denied it or ignored it, but he was never wrong.
I’d never been featured; I’m too squeaky-clean for that. There’s only one thing Simon might have written about me, but it would have been almost impossible for him to find out.
Now I guess he never will.
Mrs. Park is still talking. “There will be grief counseling provided in the auditorium all day. You may leave class any time you feel the need to speak with someone about this tragedy. The school is planning a memorial service for Simon after Saturday’s football game, and we’ll provide those details as soon as they’re available. We’ll also be sure to keep you up to date on his family’s arrangements once we know them.”
The bell rings and we all get up to leave, but Mrs. Park calls my name before I’ve even collected my backpack. “Bronwyn, can you hold back a moment?”
Yumiko shoots me a sympathetic look as she stands, tucking a strand of her choppy black hair behind her ear. “Kate and I’ll wait for you in the hallway, okay?”
I nod and grab my bag. Mrs. Park is still dangling the announcement from one hand as I approach her desk. “Bronwyn, Principal Gupta wants all of you who were in the room with Simon to receive one-on-one counseling today. She’s asked me to let you know that you’re scheduled for eleven o’clock in Mr. O’Farrell’s office.”
Mr. O’Farrell is my guidance counselor, and I’m very familiar with his office. I’ve spent a lot of time there over the past six months, strategizing college admissions. “Is Mr. O’Farrell doing the counseling?” I ask. I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.
Mrs. Park’s forehead creases. “Oh, no. The school’s bringing in a professional.”
Great. I’d spent half the night trying to convince my parents I didn’t need to see anybody. They’ll be thrilled it was forced on me anyway. “Okay,” I say, and wait in case she has anything else to tell me, but she just pats my arm awkwardly.
As promised, Kate and Yumiko are hovering outside the door. They flank me as we walk to first-period calculus, like they’re shielding me from intrusive paparazzi. Yumiko steps aside, though, when she sees Evan Neiman waiting outside our classroom door.