“Monica.” Rach waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me? Are you going to help with the memorial?”
“I don’t know.” After a moment, I say, “Do you ever wonder if we know everything about what happened that year they all died?”
Rachel gapes at me. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” I pick up my sandwich. “Never mind.”
“No, seriously. Tell me what you mean.”
“It’s like…the accident, and the murders…” I have to swallow. “And Jen. Sometimes it feels like they’re all dots that no one ever tried to connect.”
Rachel almost looks scared. “Monica, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Forget it, okay?” I grab my empty water bottle and stand, aware that she’s staring at me the entire walk to the recycling bin across the cafeteria.
* * *
—
Rachel doesn’t bring up what happened at lunch again for the rest of the day. In the first fifteen minutes of dance team practice, it becomes clear she has bigger problems.
Our warm-up is a series of stretches, leaps across the floor, fouetté turns, and pirouettes. Moments before the song is supposed to end, the music stops abruptly.
We all turn to Coach, trying to suppress our panting. She’s standing by the speakers, arms crossed in front of her chest. Coach is only five foot three, but somehow that makes her scarier.
The sophomores in the row in front of me glance at each other. Which one of us is it?
My stomach sinks; I know who it is.
“Steiger,” Coach barks. “Get the triple by Monday.”
Coach starts the music from the top. I spot Rachel blinking rapidly as we move back into formation. In the row in front of us, Ginny Cordero looks over her shoulder. When our eyes meet, she looks away.
When it’s time for a break to rehydrate, the Kelseys plop themselves by Coach’s feet. What are you doing this weekend, Coach? Are you going to the game?
It’s been three years, and they haven’t given up on needling her for signs that she is, in fact, human. There’s a photo of her son—a doughy blond kindergartener—on her desk, but we have yet to confirm that he actually exists.
She’s been the coach for four years now, taking the team all the way to nationals every February. Before she arrived, the dance team was all glorified ass shaking to the sorts of rap songs that suburban white girls have no business dancing to. Anyone with talent was a cheerleader, until the girls died and their coach quit and Principal Heinz thought it was way too painful to keep the squad together.
Coach ignores the Kelseys and turns to the rest of us, who are chatting in our groups. Ginny Cordero is off in the sidelines, eyes on her water bottle.
“Hate to interrupt your riveting conversations,” Coach says. “But your new uniforms are here.”
Some squeals of delight as everyone gathers around the box Coach drops at her feet. Alexa picks up a package labeled SMALL. She looks at her chest and sighs, exchanging the uniform for a medium. We each grab our proper sizes and head off to the locker room.
Last year’s uniforms had V-necks, and apparently they were too scandalous, because now we have sleeveless triangle tops that cover everything but our arms and shoulders.
Coach shouts into the locker room, asking what’s taking us so long, and we trickle out, tugging at the waistbands of our pants, smoothing the spandex over our butts. The uniforms, slick as a seal’s skin, show every lump, every roll, and no one wants to be forced to try on the next size up.
At the end of the hall, there’s a series of smacks and squeaks of rubber on linoleum. A pack of cross-country guys is running toward us; they can’t run outside in the thunderstorm, so Brandon must be making them do laps inside the building.
My stomach twists. I angle myself behind Rach as the pack of guys flies by. Kelsey G preens, stretching her arms over her head. Some of the seniors whistle; Joe Gabriel slaps one of them upside the head.
“That’s my sister, dumbass.”
“Keep moving. No gawking at the ladies.” Brandon. He’s trailing behind the guys, a small smile of amusement on his face.
“Hi,” Alexa shouts, and I want to strangle her.
Brandon doesn’t look up from the stopwatch in his hand. “Hi, girls. Better not keep your coach waiting.”
When he’s out of earshot, Alexa lifts her ponytail off the back of her neck. “He is so hot.”
“He’s got a girlfriend,” Kelsey B says, bored with us all.
My shoes stick to the floor. I lurch forward.
Alexa eyes Kelsey. “How would you know?”
“I saw him at the mall,” Kelsey G says. “He and some girl were looking at coffeemakers in Macy’s.”
I force out a single word: “When?”
“This weekend.” Kelsey shrugs. “Kels was with me.”
We all look at Kelsey B, who nods. It’s true.
This weekend. While I was under the covers, heating pad smashed into my abdomen, pillow over my mouth so Tom and Petey wouldn’t hear me crying, Brandon was playing house with his girlfriend.
Girlfriend. Brandon has a girlfriend.
After practice, I tell Rachel I have to get something from my locker and that I’ll meet her and Alexa by the car. Once the halls have emptied of the after-school athletes, I pause outside Brandon’s office door. Inhale. Rap on the doorframe.
His eyes go wide when he sees me. “Hey.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Okay. Come in.” Brandon steps aside. He motions to close the door but promptly drops his hand to his side, realizing what a bad idea that would be.
I shoot a glance into the hallway. No one’s there. I whisper anyway. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Brandon’s lips part. He clamps his mouth shut.
“Okay,” I say. “Great. Good to know.”
“Monica, wait,” he says, even though I haven’t shown any intentions of leaving. “She and I weren’t together over the summer. I swear.”
She. The word lands like a kick in the gut. She confirms that she exists. A girlfriend. Brandon has a girlfriend.
“I’m sorry I never asked you why you stopped texting me,” he says softly. “She moved back from Boston a couple weeks ago. We broke up when she took a job there a year ago. It just kind of happened.”
“It’s fine. It was done. Whatever we were doing.” Pressure builds behind my eyes. “I’m going to go now.”
He says my name, but I don’t turn around. Two hard blinks and a look at the light overhead in the hall. Foolproof tear quelling.
Ginny Cordero is sitting cross-legged on the ground, her back against her locker. She looks up from her copy of The Grapes of Wrath as Brandon steps out of his office.
My stomach goes hollow. Ginny looks from Brandon, to me, then back down to her book. Cheeks pink. Brandon steps back into his office and closes the door, but it doesn’t matter; it’s too late. She knows I was in there, alone with him.
“I missed the bus,” she blurts. “I’m waiting for my mom to come get me.”
I don’t say anything. I just haul ass out of there, too ashamed to look at her for some reason.
* * *
—
The locked drawer in Tom’s desk has been haunting my thoughts.
My brother has soccer on Wednesday evenings, so the house is empty when Rachel drops me off after practice.
I close and lock the front door behind me. Mango runs circles around my feet. I sidestep him and make my way into the kitchen. He gets on his hind legs and scratches my calves until I relent and dig a Milk-Bone out of the pantry for him.
Mango loved Jen more than he loves any of us. He slept in her bed every night, and every afternoon, he would sit on the back of the couch, looking out the bay window, waiting for her to get home from cheer practice.
While the dog spreads out on the kitchen floor and crunches his treat, I eye the dark hallway leading to Tom’s office.
Petey’s practice started at five, so he and my mom won’t be home for at least another hour, and Tom’s shift ends at seven. I head up to my room and peel off my sweaty dance tights, replacing them with cotton pajama bottoms.