“Or I could,” I say. “I’m the one who allegedly went scorched earth.”
Charlie shoots Cal a speculative gaze. “O’Shea-Wallace,” he says abruptly. “Your dad’s the dean of Carlton College, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Cal says warily. “So?”
“So, Stefan goes there,” Charlie says. “He says your dad’s really popular.”
“He is,” Cal says with a note of pride in his voice.
Charlie yawns and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Does he know about you and Ms. Jamison?”
Cal’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing to know. We’re friends.”
“Do you think he’d see it that way?” Charlie asks. “If someone, hypothetically speaking, decided to give him a heads-up that you two were hanging out today?”
Cal blinks. “Are you…are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Yup.” Charlie nods, matter-of-fact. “Is it working?”
“You can’t…I’m not…your house got ransacked,” Cal sputters. “How are you going to explain that to your parents?”
“Houses get broken into all the time,” Charlie says. “I’ll call them, and they’ll call the police. Totally separate crime from Boney.”
“Except it’s not,” Cal grits out.
I understand his frustration. I really, really do, because I share it. We’re doing so many things wrong that it’s almost physically painful. But every alternative comes with its own set of problems, and I’m not ready to face any of them. I don’t think Cal is, either, so there’s a sense of inevitability in the air even before Charlie plays his trump card.
“Dean O’Shea-Wallace’s son and his art teacher,” he says, leaning forward. “Now, that would make one hell of a YouTube video.”
Cal blanches, eyes darting around the room like he’s searching for an escape hatch, before his gaze settles reproachfully on me and Mateo. Neither of us are doing a thing to stop Charlie’s blackmail, and while I know that sucks, I also don’t know what else to do. “Fine,” he says heavily. “I guess we’re going to Sorrento’s.”
“Cool. And I’m going to Stefan’s,” Charlie says, getting to his feet. “I’m not hanging around my house to get arrested or murdered or whatever.”
Ugh, Cal’s going to hate me even more for this, but…“You can’t drive,” I point out. “You’re still drunk. We’ll take you.”
“Sure,” Charlie says, then shoots me a sly grin. “You should come with me. Stefan’s having a party tonight. Everyone’s gonna be there.” He clocks Mateo’s grim expression and adds, “Including the Weasel, probably.”
“Thought you said he’s not real,” I say, sidestepping the invitation to make my way toward our coatrack. I grab one of Daniel’s hooded sweatshirts and put it on, smoothing it over my top and almost half of my skirt. Then I lift the hood over my head and tuck my hair beneath it. Now that I’m local-news infamous, hiding my face seems like a good idea.
It feels strange to walk outside and see Cal’s Honda at a haphazard angle in my driveway. I wonder if any of our neighbors drove by and clucked their tongues at the bad parking job. That seems like the kind of thing Carlton people would notice, while missing the teenage drug dealer living under their noses.
“Me and Ivy call back seat,” Charlie says as we approach the car.
“No we don’t,” I snap. Any other day, it might have been flattering that Charlie St. Clair suddenly decided to notice me, because he’s cute, popular, and the type of guy who usually looks right through me. But in this particular context, it’s just weird and annoying. “I have shotgun,” I add, and despite the fact that I know Mateo and I are doomed, I still get a little thrill from how hard he glares at Charlie.
We settle into the car, and Cal inserts his key in the ignition. The dashboard lights up, displaying 2:45 p.m. “Can you believe there’s still ten minutes left of school?” Cal asks as the engine roars to life.
“No,” Mateo and I say together.
“Where does Stefan live?” Cal asks, firing up the navigation system. Charlie rattles off a Carlton address, and the screen tells us it’s only five minutes away.
Cal reaches for the car radio, which is playing so softly that I can barely hear it, and he turns up the volume. Before we’d gone into Charlie’s house, Cal’s dial spinning had stopped on an oldies station, and now it’s playing a cheesy song called “Afternoon Delight.” The poppy, vaguely porn-y chorus fills the car, and it’s so ridiculously out of place that, after a few moments of startled silence, all four of us start cracking up. Semihysterically, and for so long that my laughter almost turns into sobs, and I have to press my palm against my mouth to hold them back.