“Oh, sure,” Sarah teased. “Blame it on a woman.”
“Isn’t that what they’re for?” Chuck asked.
“Well, actually, Chuck . . . ,” Matty started, eyebrows raised.
“Hold it, Matt,” Sarah said. “You should quit while you’re ahead.”
“I’m going to have to agree with Miss McKenzie on this one, gentlemen,” Mr. Ruskovich said firmly. “Now if we could get back to the lesson . . .” He went on to explain circular versus elliptical splatters, angle of spray, and impact. “Once you’ve identified the point of contact, you’ll be able to test the various weapons”—Mr. Ruskovich flashed a second set of Clue cards showing a lead pipe, candlestick, revolver, and the rest—“reenacting the crime to see how close our new splatters come to the old ones.”
He told us to take turns with the measurements so we wouldn’t disturb the crime scene. Then he pivoted and opened the door behind him.
“Nice,” Chuck said appreciatively. The walls and shelving in the closet had been covered with long sheets of white paper, splattered with drops of dark red. Right away I could see the ellipses and spray Mr. Ruskovich had talked about. Of course, I could also think of at least ten things wrong with this experiment—how the force of impact or part of the weapon used might change the pattern, that Mr. Ruskovich wouldn’t have been able to precisely record locations. But we all—Mr. Ruskovich especially—knew those variables weren’t properly accounted for. That he turned boring lectures about cosines, angles, and projection into a murder mystery was at least half of why physics—and all of his science classes—were always my favorites.
The forty-three minutes flew by, and no one really wanted to move on to our next class when the bell rang. Reluctantly we stood, closing our notebooks as Mr. Ruskovich shut and locked the “crime scene,” the inside now taped and marked where we’d begun work.
“Guess you were wrong about that headache, Matty,” I said as we started down the hall.
“I’m telling you, man, particle theory burns my brain. I might have run screaming from the room.”
“Or committed hara-kiri,” Sarah suggested.
“At least we’d be able to figure out what he used and where he was standing when he did it,” I said.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “It’s always with a sword, Riley. That’s the definition of ‘hara-kiri.’”
“I knew that,” I lied, feeling my ears redden.
“Hey, did you guys get your SATs back?” Chuck called, jogging to catch up to us.
“No.” Matty whirled to face him. “Yours came?”
Chuck nodded. “On Saturday.”
“And?”
“Twenty-one forty.”
Matty whistled. “Nice.”
Chuck smiled, embarrassed. “I’m sure yours’ll be better.”
“You didn’t leave me a lot of room,” Matty said, turning back to me and Sarah. “Did you guys get ’em?”
She nodded. “Twenty-two hundred.”
“Well, well . . .” Matty grinned, raising an eyebrow at Chuck. “Whaddaya think about that, Chuckster?”
“I think your margin for claiming the Brainiest Brainiac title is shrinking.”
“Indeed.” Matty looked at me. “Ri?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “I got nuthin’.” I hoped Matty would leave it at that, but I could tell the way his eyes narrowed that he wouldn’t.
“You still didn’t take them, did you?”
I could feel all of them watching me, Sarah’s stare especially penetrating. Matty had gone down this path with me before, but never with her there. And definitely not with the memory of her na**d in bed floating around in my brain. I’d thought my Sunday night at the hospital had made me forget the feel of her in the binoculars, but the way she was looking at me brought it rushing back. My throat felt hot and tight. I shook my head. “No.”
Matty stopped, turning to face me. “What are you waiting for, Riley?”
“I’ll get around to it.”
“When?” he demanded. “Next year? The year after?”
There was a lump in my chest. I knew this was how it started, the kind of future he was talking about—being stuck here majoring in grunt labor, Drinking 101, and hating life instead of chem or physics. The kind of future Moose and any number of our classmates were headed for. It shouldn’t be mine, but I didn’t know any way around it. Not right then. I hoped if I worked full-time for a year, maybe I could save enough to go to school. Maybe things with my mom would get better and she wouldn’t be out of work so much. Maybe she’d even find a better job.
Maybe pigs would fly, too.
“You’re too smart to get stuck here,” Matty said.
“That’s high praise, coming from the Brainiest Brainiac.”
“Joke about it if you want,” he said shortly, “but I don’t think you’ll be laughing next year.” He turned and started down the hall with Chuck toward their next class.
I wasn’t laughing now. But I also wasn’t about to spell it out for him. If Matty was so damn smart, he should have been able to figure it out. I was hardly the only kid in Buford with money problems.
Sarah was still there, watching me. I glanced over, but she didn’t ask.
“Have you seen Nat today?” I said.
She shook her head. “No. Why?”
CHAPTER 4
AT LUNCH I WALKED TO the quad with Sarah, Trip, and Tannis. Nat had a student council meeting but had told Trip she’d find us later. A bunch of kids were already outside, sitting on steps or benches with their food. It was cold, but there was no snow on the ground. We all knew that wouldn’t last much longer.
We passed Moose with a few of his buddies, headed in the opposite direction. He barely acknowledged my brief nod. I’d have done the same if he’d nodded first. That was how we rolled at school.
“What do you think really happened?” I asked once we found a free spot on one of the stone walls around the quad.
Trip unwrapped a sandwich, shaking his head. “Man, I don’t know,” he said. He’d been the first to bring up Nat and her bruise. They’d had earth sciences together, and she’d given him the same story she’d given me. Verbatim.
“Do you think her dad—”
“Hit her?” Trip finished. “The million-dollar question. I’ve never seen him violent, but it’s been a long time since I’ve really been around him.” Trip used to ski with Natalie when they were kids, before her mom left and her dad holed up in that trailer. “Nat’s so crazy-protective of him. It’s hard to imagine it.”