Jack Hunter is just meant for bigger and better things than Northplains, Ohio.
His legion of admirers makes a quick comeback. Poetry girl has piles of paper taped over his locker. The statue in the art room has the sheet taken off its head and it’s moved to the middle of the room again, the artist happily chipping away at the features. Dramaclub wailer primps and preens in front of the bathroom mirrors like a seven-year-old who’s just discovered her mother’s makeup. Jack’s cake plans are bigger and better than ever and going to be entered in a baking contest downtown instead of being thrown at Kayla. The girls have returned with an admirable vengeance.
Avery hasn’t come to school in three days. No one talks about her bat-wielding fury, so I can only assume she threatened them to keep them quiet. But people say she isn’t well. The official rumor is she’s sick, but I know better. She’s licking her wounds, trying to figure out which designer skirt will hide the tail between her legs when she finally does come back. It’s only a matter of time. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. But then I remember what she did, and I just feel sorry for her body parts.
I take deep breaths to calm my rage, and focus on something else. Mrs. Gregory drones on. I doodle her face on my paper and then gracefully draw a banana for a nose. I still can’t remember what happened that night at the party. I was pretty drunk, so it’s understandable, but I’ve been drunk a few times before, and though things were fuzzy I’d always remember bits and pieces. But the other night? Nothing. It’s a massive black blank smeared across my memory. I don’t slip up like that – my mind is a fantastically sexy piece of equipment I keep in tip-top condition. So why can’t I remember even a scrap of that night?
Kayla’s taken over Avery’s position as temporary queen bee. I watch her mope through the lunch line, the girls around her cooing sympathetically and insisting she’ll find someone better even as they shoot sultry glances at Jack from across the cafeteria. Jack eats alone, reading a book as he munches a sandwich. I wonder what the girls would do if they knew I’d worn his shirt? Probably put an apple in my mouth and roast me to suckling browned goodness. I’m ready to die, but I’m not ready to die with a fruit in my mouth. That’s a whole other ballgame.
“What’s a whole other ballgame?” Wren asks, sliding his stray across from me and sitting.
“Ah, nothing.” I wave him off. “So what’s up with you, my majestic prez? Busy making peace treaties with Iran? Scouring the globe for alternative energy sources?”
“Making sure Avery comes back to slightly less power around the school. You’d be surprised how many teachers she has under her sway.”
“No surprise at all. I’ve seen how she works.”
“Hopefully she’ll have the sense not to work for a while,” he sighs. “I really don’t want to go to Evans about the GHB.”
“Or what happened that night in middle school.”
Wren’s eyes flash behind his glasses. “That was a bluff.”
“And you huffed and you puffed, and you bluffed the house down.”
Wren watches me for a moment before lowering his voice to a bare murmur.
“She was our friend.”
I look up from my hot dog. “Who?”
“Sophia,” Wren continues. “Jack, Sophia, and I. We were best friends in elementary school. We lived next to each other. We played on the same street, in each other’s yards. Every summer and winter break we were together, for days on end. It was the happiest time of my life.”
He inhales, and pushes his tray away.
“Avery was on the outskirts. She’d come over sometimes, since she was Sophia’s best friend. She wasn’t anything like who she is now. The old Avery was loud, and bossy, but kind. She’d do anything to make Sophia laugh. She hated Jack – but I always knew that was because she liked him and also didn’t like the way Sophia liked him. She was jealous of him getting Sophia’s attention, and jealous of Sophia getting his. She was caught in the middle and it ate away at her as we got older, I think.”
I try not to move, or breathe too noisily. The last thing I want to do is jolt him out of the story. Wren looks up.
“There’s something I want to show you. After school. Can you drive us there?”
I nod, and he smiles.
“Good. I’ll see you then. I’ve got a Run for Charity to organize, so, I better go.”
“Later,” I try to sound casual. I watch him leave the cafeteria, the curiosity eating me alive.
***
After school, Wren instructs me on where to go. He leads me to the airport, almost all the way in Columbus. After a few more turns, we’re in an airport-adjacent suburb, complete with cracked road, constant overhead noise from the planes as they go rumbling by, and faded yellow grass yard. Chipped paint houses and trash line the streets. A pair of tennis shoes hangs mournfully from a power line above. I park, and follow Wren. He leads me up the stairs of a tiny, two-story house with clean, yet old-looking windows. The porch is weather-beaten and strewn with plastic kid’s toys. A woman answers the door, peering through the screen.
“Wren!” Her face lights up. “Come in, come in!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hernandez.”
“Is this a friend?”
“Yeah, she’s helping me at the food bank.”
“Oh, how nice.” Mrs. Hernandez wipes her hands on her apron and holds one out to me. “I’m Belina. It’s good to meet you.”
“Isis. Nice to meet you too.”
“Well, come in! Don’t just stand there in the cold!”
She ushers us into the tiny house. It smells like spicy meat and fresh laundry. A porcelain image of Mary hangs from almost every wall, and the couches and chairs and tables are shabby, but clean. Two kids race by, screaming and chasing each other with toilet brushes, using them like swords. Mrs. Hernandez snaps something in Spanish at them and they cower and immediately run into the bathroom.
“Sorry about that.” Mrs. Hernandez smiles. “I’ve been baking tostadas all day and letting them play with whatever.”
“As long as they don’t wave those swords around the food,” Wren jokes. She laughs, and motions for us to come into the kitchen.
“Would you like some juice? I have milk, too.”
“No, it’s alright. We’re just here for a moment. I wanted to know if you could get me your WIC paperwork. I need the pin on it and I was in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d drop by.”
“Of course! One second.”
She shuffles upstairs. Wren turns to me and sweeps his arm around.
“It’s cozy, isn’t it? Four bedrooms. Three baths. Not bad for a single mom with two mouths to feed.”
“It’s nice, but I don’t understand –”
“She works as a maid. Almost minimum wage.”
“So how does she get the mon –”
“Jack.”
I immediately start choking on nothing. “What?”
“He sends the money. Through me. To Belina, I’m a student who works with the food bank’s outreach program to supply funds to single mothers. But in truth it’s only her who gets the money.”
“But why –”
“I don’t know what Jack does exactly to get this money,” Wren interrupts coolly. “But I have an idea. If only someone could confirm it for me, I’d be very grateful.”
I bite my lip. “I can’t. He made me promise, Wren. He has my voice on tape –”
“I understand. That’s more than enough. Thank you for confirming my suspicions.”
“You can’t tell him you know.”
Wren chuckles. “Do I look like I have a death wish?”
“So –” I lower my incredulous voice. “So why Belina? What did she do?”
“It’s not what she did. It’s what Jack did.”
It dawns on me, a slow crawl of illuminating light-thought.
“Whatever he did that time in middle school. That’s linked to Belina?”
Wren nods. I’m about to ask another question when Belina trundles down the stairs. Wren makes a show of checking her papers and making small talk. So the money’s not just for Sophia. He lied. But why? Because he didn’t want me to know? Why the hell would Jack feel he owes Belina money? It’s a nice thing to do, but it has to have a reason. I feel like I’m missing some huge part, the one clockwork gear in the middle that’ll connect all the others and make them move in tandem.