Jake

It’s Monday, and after chewing me out for talking to the police by myself, Mom hires an attorney named Mr. Cline. He’s a tall, thin guy with a goatee and some dandruff on his shoulders, and he meets me at the courthouse for my arraignment hearing. Regarding my fight with Brendon, the police charged me with felony battery and causing great bodily harm with malice aforethought. Mr. Cline says I’ll plead not guilty.

“Why?” I ask in the chilly conference room. “His parents saw me do it.”

“It’s so I can form a defense,” he answers. “Your classmates put you through grievous personal trauma and then amplified it on social media. When you attacked Brendon, you were drunk and upset, but you surrendered peacefully to the officers at the shed. We’re lucky the damage to Brendon’s nose is minor, a hairline fracture.”

He pats my shoulder. “Look, Jake, no one wants to put a confused and traumatized high school student in prison. I think I can get your charges reduced to one count of misdemeanor battery and get you into a diversion program and anger awareness counseling. Brendon seems willing to let bygones be bygones.”

I nod, but really, I don’t give a damn anymore. All my problems started with that fucking bet and it was my girlfriend’s idea. I can’t believe it. Jessica goaded Tegan into kissing me and then let me cry and grovel at her feet, all without admitting her part in it.

Yeah, I went too far, I get that, but Jessica gave Tegan permission. I would never ask a guy, let alone one of her ex-boyfriends, to kiss Jessica. I’d never put her in that position, but if I did and she fell for it, I’d blame my fucking self, not her.

When Shawna said everyone is lying, did that include my girlfriend? Am I the only asshole who didn’t know what was going on?

My lawyer nudges me. “It’s time, Jake.” When we walk into my arraignment hearing, the first person I see is my mother, and she’s wearing makeup, something she hasn’t done since Dad’s funeral. She forces a smile for me.

Then I notice the reporters, four of them sitting in the front row, scribbling notes. The judge reads my charges, my lawyer makes my plea, and I receive a date for my preliminary hearing, along with an admonishment from the judge—and then it’s over. I’m released to my mother, and she is the proud owner of one juvenile delinquent and a shiny new credit card bill. “I’ll pay you back,” I tell her.

“Stop it, Jake. I’ll pay any price to keep you safe. You boys are all I have.”

I let it go and change subjects. “Where’s Cole?”

“At school. Talk about upset, he wet the bed last night.”

“Shit, no kidding?”

She rolls her eyes at me since we both know she’d never joke about that. “There were reporters at our house yesterday, Jake, and you were gone for three nights. He’s worried.”

Her words crush me because Cole doesn’t deserve this—reporters at the house, his brother in juvie. It can’t feel good. “I’ll talk to him, take him out for ice cream or something.”

Mom drives us home, and when we pull onto our street, she curses quietly. Two news vans are parked at our curb. “Duck down. I’m going straight into the garage.”

I do as she says, and soon the car cabin darkens as the garage door shuts behind us. Mom turns off the engine and we sit a minute. I laugh bitterly. “I’m so confused. I loved Jessica. Why did she do this to me?”

“Oh, honey.” She hugs me awkwardly between our seats. “You got caught in the middle of teenage bullying. That’s what this is.”

I pull away from her and stare at our messy garage, which is full of Dad’s tools, bins of old ski clothes from long-ago vacations, and bikes that have flat tires. “I wish Dad were here.”

Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “He is here, honey.”

Mom claims to sense Dad’s presence, but I don’t. I feel the place he used to be, which is cold and empty and fading fast. Sometimes I forget the color of his eyes. “I’m sorry you had to leave work again,” I mumble, and dart into the house for a shower.

Now it’s Thursday. I’ve been home “sick” all week, and I had to promise Mom I’d go to trauma counseling for her to excuse so many school absences. The police questioned and released Jessica on Sunday night, and she’s been calling me ever since and leaving messages, but I haven’t called her back. It’s one-thirty p.m. and Jessica should be at school, but I notice her car in the driveway.

The investigation against each of us has stalled due to delays at the forensic lab, and the police haven’t held a press conference in days. The Sheffields are livid that their daughter wasn’t discovered immediately and the headlines in the Crystal Cove Gazette are belligerent:

POLICE STYMIED BY MISSTEPS IN SHEFFIELD CASE

HIGH SCHOOL SEX PRANK BAFFLES POLICE

SENATOR’S DAUGHTER BRAIN-DEAD? BEST FRIEND MURDERED? SUSPECTS LOOSE? WHO’S IN CHARGE IN CRYSTAL COVE?

I haven’t been charged with anything other than my fight with Brendon. If the police truly suspect me, or Jessica, or Marcus, they’re holding their cards close. Tegan is still in a coma, and the tension in Crystal Cove is as thick as the storm clouds developing over the ocean. Another arrest feels imminent, but of whom? Waiting is surreal, like being in the eye of a storm, like that calm moment before the world is torn to shreds.

Rumors are spreading that Jessica and I assaulted Tegan together and tried to hide her body. People post memes online about us that imply what the cops suspect—that Jess is in charge and I’m the idiot doing her bidding. Everything is hashtagged #CrystalCovesKillerCouple. I deleted all my accounts.

I pad into the kitchen for orange juice, pour a glass, and drink it while staring across the side yard to Jessica’s house. Then, like an apparition, she appears in the window. I try to duck, but it’s too late. She spots me and motions for me to come over.

“No,” I mouth.

“Please,” she mouths back. Her amber eyes are swollen and red-rimmed from crying, her bottom lip is quivering in a way that would have driven me mad a few days ago, and her hair is tousled and tangled. She looks destroyed.

Fuck it. I have to face her eventually. I nod and pour the rest of my juice down the drain.