Top 8 (22 page)

I whirled around to see Turtell standing in front of the door, looking uncomfortable. He let go of my arm and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Glen!” I said. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I had to talk to you, Mad,” he said. “And that I had to talk to you alone.”

“Oh, right,” I said. With everything that had been going on tonight, I'd forgotten about his crush. I tried to think how to let him down easy, and wished that Kittson hadn't given me a makeover. It was probably just making this harder for him. “Listen, Glen,” I said as kindly as possible, “you know I like you as a friend. And I really think we should stay
friends
. It's just easier that way, and —”

“Madison, what are you talking about?” he said. “Listen, I need to talk to you about your computer.”

“Oh,” I said, trying not to feel disappointed. But this was the second guy in four days who hadn't actually been hitting on me when I'd thought he had. It was getting a little demoralizing. “Well, what about it?”

“Listen,” he said. “You know I'm in the office a lot.”

“I'm aware,” I assured him.

“So I've had access to certain things — to seeing certain things. And when you have that kind of information, it's hard to know what to do with it, you know?”

“Glen,” I said slowly, taking a step back from him, “what are you saying?” I suddenly remembered all the miraculously returned Metallica CDs, and how he seemed to get so anxious whenever anyone talked about the locker thefts.

“I'm saying,” he said, running a hand through his hair and looking frustrated, “that I probably should have told you this before. And I'm sorry. But the database of locker combinations, Dr. Trent's database —”

The door swung open then, and Kittson stood on the other side, looking surprised to see me.

“Madison,” she said, frowning at me. “What are you doing here?”

“Kittson,” I said, wishing that people would just stop walking into rooms I was in, “I'm kind of in the middle of something here.”

“Yes, but why?” she asked, glancing at Turtell, then double-taking and looking back at him for a long moment. “I mean, he's not that Nate guy.”

“No,” I said, “but we were in the middle of a conversation, so —”

“That's okay, Mad,” said Turtell, whose eyes hadn't left Kittson since she entered the room. “I can find you later.”

“I thought you said it was important,” I said, frustrated.

“It's okay,” he said, placing a hand above Kittson's head and leaning against the doorframe, “I'll catch you later.”

“You're Glen, right?” Kittson asked, running a hand over her bangs. “The one who's always getting suspended?”

Turtell looked down modestly. “I don't know,” he said. I noticed that his voice was suddenly about an octave deeper. “Sometimes I just can't help myself.”

“I know what you mean, Glen,” Kittson purred.

I was suddenly feeling very in the way, and also a little surprised at Kittson's audacity. I mean, she'd only been single for forty-five minutes,
tops
. Still, I couldn't help but admire her directness.

“I'm going to go,” I said. Neither of them were paying any attention to me anymore, and I sighed and squeezed past them in the doorway. The door shut behind me almost immediately.

What had Turtell been about to say? Had he been the one who'd stolen my laptop? It certainly sounded that way, but somehow I just couldn't believe it. But had he
known
who had done it? Cursing Kittson and her distracting ways, I went in search of Nate, so we could finally finish our conversation.

After giving a quick survey of the main rooms — which were looking distinctly worse for wear — and not seeing him, I moved into the back section of the house, and had just stepped into the mudroom and turned on the light when I realized I wasn't alone.

Justin was in there, sitting on the cushion-covered bench.

“Hey Justin,” I said, backing out of the room. He probably wanted some time to mourn the loss of his relationship. I was half-tempted to tell him to avoid the study, but figured he would just have to learn that on his own. “Sorry,” I said, turning to go.

“No, Madison, wait,” Justin said, standing up and walking towards me. “I want to talk to you. I've been looking for you.”

I looked around. “No, you haven't,” I said. “You were sitting here in the dark.”

“But I
wanted
to look for you.”

I was on the verge of telling him that this was not at all the same thing, when he took a step closer.

“Madison,” he said, “I think that it was a mistake for us to break up. I mean, don't you? I've really missed you,” he said, leaning even closer.

Shocked, I took a step back. “Justin,” I said, “what are you talking about? That isn't even true. I know that Kittson just broke up with you.”

“I broke up with her,” he said earnestly.

I was not quite able to prevent myself from rolling my eyes.

“I did,” he insisted. “Things haven't been right between Kittson and me for a while. I just missed you, Mad. And since you never really wanted to break up with me in the first place, it makes sense to get back together, right?” He looked at me expectantly.

I was silent, trying to think about all of this. “So,” Justin continued, “to make a long story short —”

“Too late,” I said automatically.

“What?” he asked. He stared at me blankly. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You wouldn't understand.” I looked at his cute, entirely bland face and realized this was true. How could I ever had thought he was my tortoise? We didn't even have anything in common. “Look, Justin,” I said, “I think we should just —”

I had been about to say “call it quits” or “call it a day.”

But I didn't get the chance, because in that moment, Justin took another step toward me and kissed me.

I immediately tried to get away, but Justin was being particularly enthusiastic with his kissing, and this made it a little difficult. Finally, I pushed him away and stepped back.

Which was when I saw Nate standing in the mudroom doorway, staring at me with a shocked expression.

He only stood there a second before turning and walking away.

“Nate!” I called, starting to follow him, but Justin grabbed my hand.

“Where are you going, Maddie?” he asked, a dopey expression on his face. “We were just getting started, right?”

“Justin,” I said, yanking my arm free, “we're not getting back together.”

“We're not?” he asked, looking crestfallen.

“No,” I said, then realized he'd just been dumped twice in one night. “Um, sorry.” With that, I ran out of the mudroom, looking around for Nate. I had to tell him that that hadn't been what it
really
must have looked like.

The front door had been left ajar and I ran out, to see a tall figure walking down Brian's driveway.

“Nate!” I yelled, starting to run after him. But Brian had a gravel driveway, and I knew I wouldn't get more
than three steps without my shoes. Cursing Justin, and Brian and his stupid shoe idea, I grabbed the first pair of flip-flops that looked like they'd fit me. Then I ran down the driveway and into the street, just in time to see the taillights of a red pickup truck disappearing down the street.

Nate was gone.

 

I was sitting on the top front step half an hour later, trying to figure out what to do. I had to tell Nate the truth, obviously. That I hadn't been making out with Justin; I'd been kissed against my will. But would he believe me? And after what he'd seen, would he even want to?

“Heyyyy Mad,” Ginger said, stumbling up to me and sitting down next to me on the step. “Howzit going?”

“Okay,” I said, lying through my teeth. “How are you?”

“Tired,” she said, her head lolling dangerously close to my shoulder. Once Ginger passed out, she became almost impossible to move. This was why, at last year's
Willy!
cast party, we'd had to let her sleep off her O'Doul's on a trampoline in Mark's backyard.

I sighed. “Go find your keys,” I said, standing up and pulling Ginger to her feet. “I'll drive you home.”

It was 3
A.M
., again, and I was awake. Again.

My mind was swirling with everything that had happened at the party — with Nate, with Justin, with Ruth, with Kittson and Turtell. It was all adding up to something, but I couldn't seem to quite get my head around it. And normally I was pretty good at math.

I turned on my bedside light, got out of bed, and walked over to my window. My parents had been asleep when I'd come in, and I hoped I could get up early enough so that I could drive Ginger's car back to her before they'd start asking pesky questions about the strange SUV parked in their turnaround. I pushed open the window, leaned my elbows on the sill, and breathed in, trying to clear my head.

Then I walked over to my cork wall, looking at the pictures I had pinned to it.

Me. Lisa. Dave. Justin. Schuyler. Connor. Jimmy and Liz. Ruth. Ginger. Sarah. Brian. Turtell. Kittson. Dell.

I pulled them down, one by one, feeling like I needed to get my thoughts up on the wall where I could see them. I took out the list Ruth had made for me a week ago, when all this had begun, and pinned it to the center.

Then I started putting up pictures in different corners, trying to figure out people's agendas and wants and feelings. Trying to work through the time line of everything that had happened. When I was done, I stepped back and stared at it for a minute. It still didn't make any sense.

Then I wrote on notecards the three things I still had lingering questions about, and pinned them to the board.

 

Pizza/Lower Cross Lane

Jonathan

Q

 

Then, feeling like I was getting a little closer to the answer — whatever it might end up being — I went to bed.

But I didn't go to sleep for a long, long time.

 

“Where are we?” Ginger asked, blinking unhappily in the bright sunlight.

“We're going to my house,” I said for the fourth time in what was only a mile-long drive. “Now make a left up here.” I'd gone over to Ginger's as soon as I had woken up, to try and make the car switch before my parents noticed her car. I had done this often enough after parties to know the routine, but that didn't make it any less nerve-wracking.

“Here?”

“Yes,” I said, “and it's the third house on the right.”

Ginger pulled into the driveway a little more sharply than I would have advised, and parked in the turnaround. “Thanks,” I said. I studied her closely. She was looking pretty rough. “Are you going to be able to get home okay?” I asked her. “Do you need me to GPS your house?”

“I'll be okay,” she said, drinking from the bottle of water I'd brought her when I'd gone to her house. “But, um, I needed to ask you something, Mad.”

“Shoot,” I said, casting a glance toward my house, and hoping my parents weren't up and about yet.

“Did you…I mean…” Ginger rubbed her hand over her eyes. “Marilee told me that one of the blogs that got sent out when you were hacked…you said that I was annoying and chatty and a lightweight.” She looked at me, her eyes red. “Did you say that about me, Mad? I
thought we were friends. I mean, I know the lightweight thing is true, but the other stuff?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said, almost by rote now. “I mean, I never would have written it, and certainly never put it online, there's a difference….”

Then I looked at Ginger, and saw how hurt and surprised she seemed even in her hungover state. And I realized that I'd gotten it wrong from the beginning. There
wasn't
a difference, after all. “Yes,” I said slowly. “I did say those things. And I'm really, really sorry, Ginger.”

She blinked at me. “Oh,” she said. “Well…okay.”

“Okay?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, just don't say it again though, okay, Mad? Or if you do, say it to me.”

I smiled at her, incredibly relieved. “You got it.”

 

“Dad,” I said, walking into the kitchen, surprised to see him there. I'd kind of been hoping I could sneak in on little cat feet before anyone noticed I'd been gone.

My father looked up from where he was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the Scrabble board. He looked surprised to see me as well. “Where did you come from?” he asked. “I thought you were upstairs sleeping.”

“Getting coffee,” I said. I then realized I wasn't holding anything. “That…I drank already.”

“Oh,” my father said, turning back to his board.

I took a seat across from him at the table and looked at all the empty squares and tiles. “I don't get why you and Mom are so obsessed with this game.”

“Well,” my father said, eyes going between his tiles and the board, “it's a puzzle. And most of the time, the answer you need is sitting right in front of you, if you can only see it.”

A faint bell started ringing in my head.

“Huh,” I said. I stared down at his board again. “Go here,” I said, tapping a freestanding
T
that could be filled in.

“No, no,” he said, eyes on his tiles. “You want words that are going to intersect. You're not going to get very far if you're using words on their own. They're stronger if you can get them to work together.”

The bell was getting a little louder.

“Interesting,” I said. I watched as my father stared at the board, wishing I'd gotten some real coffee, not just alibi coffee. “That's not a word,” I said when he put down OCCAM.

“Sure it is,” he said, making a note on his paper. “Fourteenth-century monk.” I sighed, sensing my dad going into trivia mode. “He coined Occam's Razor: ‘The simplest solution is usually the best.' Or something like that.”

The answer was in front of me…if only I could see it. Things are stronger when they work together. The simplest solution is usually the best.

The bell in my head suddenly got very loud, and I felt myself on the verge of the answer. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, dashing upstairs.

I walked to the corkboard, looking at everyone who was up there, and all their different and potential motives.

And just like that, I saw the answer.

I couldn't believe it, but the pieces were all falling into place.

It was only half the story, though. I grabbed my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and called a number. We had a brief conversation, and verified what I'd had a lingering question about.

Then I looked up an address on Lower Cross Lane, just to make sure. It was correct. It was all coming together, even if the answer was breaking my heart. I'd been betrayed by someone I'd thought would always have my back.

I took a deep breath and made three phone calls, two to the people who had done it and one for moral support. I said the same thing in each one.

“Hey,” I said, three times, “I need to talk to you about something. Can you meet me in Putnam Park in twenty minutes?”