Chapter 15

Ema went in next, leaving Rachel and me alone for the first time since I knocked on the door and told her the truth about her mother’s death. For a few minutes we avoided each other’s gaze. I stood there feeling ridiculously awkward, shuffling my feet, casually fake whistling. I had no idea why I was fake whistling, but that’s what I was doing. I bounced on my toes. My hands felt really big and like I had no place to put them. I jammed them in my pockets.

Rachel was beautiful. It was as simple as that. Physically she was the complete package. Everyone thought so. At our school, she was “that” girl, but I’ve often found that the “high school hot,” while obviously attractive, can often have looks that are somewhat blank or standard or like some kind of formula—that when you are universally considered hot, that hotness can also be bland.

That wasn’t the case here. Rachel’s beauty was, well, interesting.

I moved toward her hesitantly, half expecting her to shake her head for me to go away again. She smelled great, like honeysuckle and lilacs.

“Hey,” I said, because I’m smooth like that.

“Hey.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Your father thought it’d be better if you didn’t know the truth. He didn’t want me to tell you what happened to your mom.”

Rachel tilted her head. “So why did you?”

I hadn’t expected her to ask that. I guess that I expected to get credit for being honest, but her eyes were pinning me down, wanting an answer.

“It was something my uncle said.”

“Your uncle Myron?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“It was about lies. Even when they’re for someone’s good.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t remember his exact words, but he said that it might be a good lie, it might be a bad lie, but either way, the lie would always be in the room with us.”

Rachel nodded. I wanted to ask more. I wanted to know how her father had reacted, but it wasn’t my place to ask. We stood in silence for a few more seconds. I broke it:

“I was surprised to see you here. Did Spoon call you?”

“No,” she said.

“So how did you know to come?”

“This was in my locker.”

Rachel handed me an essay she had written for Mrs. Friedman’s history class. She had gotten an A with a comment in Mrs. Friedman’s script saying, “Great job!” But that wasn’t the important thing. The important thing was the image someone had stamped onto the top right-hand corner of the first page.

The Abeona butterfly.

“Did you do this?” she asked.

I sighed. “You know better.”

“So who was it?”

“I don’t know. And yet we all know.”

Rachel shook her head. “You sound like a fortune cookie.” She looked toward Spoon’s door. “So there’s another kid who’s missing.”

“Maybe. What did Spoon tell you before we got here?”

“That Thomas Jefferson had a pet mockingbird and when he was alone in his study, he’d close the door and let the bird fly around.”

I smiled.

“So who’s missing?”

“A guy Ema met online. His name is Jared Lowell.”

I filled her in on what I knew. When I finished, I said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you and Troy . . . ?”

“No. You of all people should understand.”

“Understand what?”

“He loves basketball like you love basketball.”

And it had been taken away from him in his final year. Troy was maybe good enough to play college, get a scholarship even, and now it was all gone.

“Do you think he did it?” I asked.

“Took steroids?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He says he was set up.”

“Is that possible?” Rachel asked.

“I don’t know. You know him”—ugh—“well. I want your opinion.”

“Why do you care what I think?” she asked.

“Because he asked me to investigate it.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Troy wants me to prove that the test was wrong or fixed or whatever.”

“You?”

“My reaction exactly.”

She shook her head. “Wow.”

“So?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never knew him to cheat. He was overly competitive, for sure. He has a lot of pressure on him and, yeah, maybe he’s been acting out more. But a cheater? I don’t think so.”

Ema came out and Rachel went in. A few minutes later, Rachel exited the room. We were all going to leave together, but I told them that I needed to stay behind with Spoon for a while. They understood and started home.

I entered Spoon’s room nervously, but he immediately put me at ease. We laughed a lot. Life was funny, I thought. The most poignant moments always ended up being the most mixed. I had a great time with Spoon even while my heart broke. Laughter can be more intense when it’s blended with tears.

It was getting late, but I didn’t want to leave him. I texted Uncle Myron and explained what was going on. He understood: I’ll pick you up when you’re done. Don’t worry about the hour.

I told him not to wait up—that I’d walk—and then I turned off the phone before he could argue. Time passed. Spoon put a sitcom on the television. At some point, I realized that he had stopped speaking, which was something that never happened. I turned toward him.

Spoon had fallen asleep.

I watched him. Lots of emotions passed through me. I didn’t stop or analyze them. I just let them flow through. I felt my eyes grow heavy. I decided that I would close them for a minute, no more, and then I would make sure Spoon was okay and head home. That was my plan anyway. Rest the eyes for a second.

I don’t know how much time passed. It may have been an hour. It may have been more. I was dreaming about the car accident that killed my father, the sound of brakes screeching, the crunch of impact, the way my body flew. I saw my father lying on the ground, bleeding, his eyes closed, and that paramedic, that damn paramedic with the sandy-blond hair and green eyes, meeting my eye . . .

A hand touched my shoulder.

“Mickey?”