“I’m sorry,” I say pleadingly.
“Are you? It seems to me sorry is the convenient thing to say when people want something. Because if you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have laughed.”
I knead both of my hands over my face, feeling like I’m standing at the gallows watching a noose swing in front of me. I’m on trial for crimes I committed, crimes almost everyone perpetrates, but never have to encounter judgment for. “I am sorry.”
“Because you want something from me,” she repeats.
I stare straight into her eyes. “I didn’t always laugh.”
She blinks once and something moves inside me: a boulder that had been bracing back the sludge I try to repress when it comes to Stella. Call it guilt. Call it my conscience. Either way, there’s no denying what I have and haven’t done.
“You know that already, don’t you?” I say.
Stella already knows when I laughed and when I didn’t. She could probably tell me each article of clothing I wore the times Cooper made her the butt of his jokes. I know this about her, because I could tell her every sound and every taste in the air the night James Cohen died. When horrible things happen your mind will never let you forget.
The knowledge in her eyes—it’s like a movie screen that plays the recordings of all the previous years of her life.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stella whispers. “Not laughing doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” I agree, and not because I w {t bkneant something from her. It’s because she’s right. “It doesn’t.”
Stella turns to walk away, then stops. “You need to go. Not me. This place is mine and I’m not the one who doesn’t belong.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and move in the direction of my car. I’m here because James Cohen died. He’s in the ground and buried and I know I can’t continue to live like this.
10
Stella
Ten minutes before the bell signals we can head to our lockers and go to class, I’m wandering the stacks of the library. Lots of classics, and while a ton of girls at my school eat up anything that has the words ’tis or thee or long-ass descriptions involving powdery sheep on rolling hills with millions of twinkling stars, I don’t. I always have a worn copy of something written by Gena Showalter to keep me company at lunch.
In fact, I should be tucked away in the beanbag chair on the other side of the library reading about true love and all that, but since my fight with Jonah last night, it’s hard to concentrate on the words on the page. It’s as if I developed post-traumatic dyslexia.
I run my fingers along the bindings of the books and pause when a single red rose clutched in a fist pops through the shelving space less than a foot in front of me.
“Hey, Stella.” The voice is faux high-pitched, but I’d recognize Jonah anywhere.
I c**k a hip to the side and cross my arms over my chest, glaring at the “talking” rose. “What?”
“Jonah’s sorry.” The rose moves from side to side to mimic a puppet talking.
I glance around, but we’re so far back in the stacks that no one else notices. I’ve replayed the fight we had again and again in my mind, trying to figure out how something I’d been enjoying over the past couple of weeks went toxic so fast. What bothers me more is that it went so wrong on the day he bought flowers for Lydia.
The rose tips all the way to the side. “Still with me, Stella?”
Am I? “I know he’s your friend, but Cooper’s a jerk.”
The rose droops and then disappears back into the stacks. In a second, Jonah walks around the corner with the rose in his hand and a baseball cap on backwards. “I’m the jerk. I know what he’s done to you—what I’ve done—and I never should have tried to defend any of it.”
He stares at me. I stare at him. He’s saying the right things, but I’m not sure I’m ready to forgive him. “How do I know you aren’t playing me for some big senior prank that you’ll sit around and laugh about when you’re a bald, fat forty-year-old loser? I’m Trash Can Girl and you’re Jonah Jacobson, best friend of the great Cooper Higgins.”
Jonah twirls the rose in his hand and a redness forms along his neck. “I like you, Stella. There are times Cooper’s been a real friend to me, but he’s been an ass to you and I don’t expect you to see him as anything else.”
I huff out a surge of air and Jonah continues, “I can’t ask you to trust me but I can ask you to let me earn your trust. If you want me to tell Cooper we’re friends, I will. You can sit next to me at lunch—”
I slice my hand over my throat to cut off ~ the histhat awful idea. “I got it. You’ll publicly announce that we share a strange fascination with cemeteries.”
Jonah shrugs, unable to look at me. “It’s more than that.”
A tremor courses through me at the word more and I close my eyes. More belongs in the realm of fantasy.
The bell rings and I open my eyes to see Jonah holding the rose out to me. “Whatever terms or conditions, they’re yours, but I want you to be my friend.”
When I make no effort to move or talk, Jonah places the flower on the shelf. “If you take it I know you’re still my friend, and if it’s still here by the end of today I know I’ve destroyed the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
With that, Jonah turns and walks away.