Keep Them Close(78)

“I don’t think you should start deleting stuff off your phone,” I say. “They can recover things. And then you start getting into the territory of obstruction of justice and evidence tampering.”

“First of all,” she says, “I can’t imagine why they’d look at that app at all. And second of all, I don’t think they’d be able to tell what I’ve deleted. Not on a third-party app.”

I think about that. “Fair points. But…what about Luke’s case? He needs a defense in the drug case. Losing the video takes away his defense.”

We go quiet.

“There’s got to be something we can say,” says Luke, “without that video.”

An idea comes to me. “Actually,” I say, “there is.”



* * *





Ten minutes later, we have a story. I can’t find any holes.

“I’m freezing,” I say. “We’ve talked long enough. If we need to talk further, let’s do phone calls. It wouldn’t be suspicious for us to be talking, and they won’t know what we’re saying. Text messages leave words they can read later.”

“Allison, I…” Trinity’s eyes start to fill again. “I don’t know what to say. You and I are not friends, and what you did last night, the risks you took…”

I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “I did it for two reasons,” I say. “One, I think I’m the one who got Finley so riled up last night. I primed him pretty hard, and he took it out on you.”

Luke looks at me. “And the other reason?”

I lower my head, then raise it again. “Because I owe both of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Finley didn’t cut the brakes on your bike that day, Luke. I did.”





69


Allison

The day of Luke’s accident. A Tuesday in May, the year 1998.

Ally, my mother called up to me, though I was already coming down the stairs before school. Are you wearing the beret?

My mother was taking a more assertive role in dressing me each day, even though I was twelve, to make me look more “appealing.” Meaning pretty, or at least feminine.

I frowned when she looked at me, her excitement. Very cute! she said, almost squealing.

I felt ridiculous, the little wannabe French girl. I didn’t mind the top, the horizontal stripes, a departure for Mom (she liked vertical stripes on a top, as they “slim you down”), but the skirt was too much. The beret wasn’t my favorite, but I hated when she played with my hair, and it allowed me to let my hair hang just short of my shoulders, as I preferred. It was a compromise, at least slightly less girly-girl than the pink hats she’d been pushing on me.

Hang on. Let me look at you. She sized me up—literally. More vegetables for you and less starch, she said. But there’s hope for you yet.

I brushed past her, then remembered something. Mom, you have to make reservations by today for the state tournament. Scholastic Bowl. You keep saying you’ll do it.

She let out a sigh. I stuffed my backpack with my schoolbooks.

Um, Ally. That weekend’s a problem.

What do you mean? I hiked my bag onto my shoulders.

Well, that’s…that’s when Luke’s playing in that “15 Under 15” game in Texas.

I turned to her. You’re not—you’re not going to my—

We can’t be in two places at the same time, honey.

Well…can’t Daddy go to Luke’s game, and you come to the Scholastic Bowl tournament?

Sweet lid, said Luke, bounding down the stairs in a Cubs jersey and track pants, with a gentle whack of my beret. He bit into a piece of toast and waved. Bonjour, mon amie!

You need to eat more than that, bucko, Mom called to him, but he was out the door.

I looked at my mother. You and Daddy can split—

Oh, come on, Ally. We can’t miss that game. Luke’s being recognized as one of the best players in the—

And we might win the state title in Scholastic Bowl for the first time ever!

Yes, honey. She wet her lips and thought a moment. And it’s really important. And you know how proud we are of you. But that’s a…scholastic event, honey. There will be plenty of those.

There will be plenty of baseball games! That’s all we do is go to baseball games.

Yes, but for Luke, this—

Luke, Luke, Luke! I shouted. All you talk about is Luke!

Now that’s just unfair, Ally—

Would you quit calling me that? I’m Allison! I hate “Ally”! I’m not some Barbie doll!

Now, young lady—

I’m sorry I’m not a cheerleader! I’m sorry I’m not pretty! I’m sorry I have a brain!

I stormed upstairs. I eased the backpack off my shoulders and reached inside for my paper razor, the razor blade folded within the index card. I had to do something, something to make her stop.

I put the blade against my skin, just under my eye. Do it, I told myself. Cut a long ugly scar down the side of your face. Then we can stop worrying about whether a boy will want me.

But I couldn’t do it. It made no sense to hurt myself to hurt her. Tears streaming down my face, panting like an animal, I looked at myself in the mirror. No, I said. No. She doesn’t get to decide. Not anymore. You’re Allison fuckin’ Rankin.