My first impulse is to lie—it’s not like the motel was up to code—but I need him to run when I tell him to. So I say, carefully, “I upset someone.”
A tense pause, then: “Was it him?”
“Who?”
“Because if it was, if he was mad at you for leaving him, or trying to destroy the stuff I stole or whatever, I’ll help you hide the body.”
It takes me several seconds to unravel this, at which point I shout “No!” more forcefully than is necessary. “He would never, ever—none of the stories about him are true—he’s”—kind and stupid and desperately driven, tormented by his own stubborn honor—“he’s okay,” I finish, weakly.
“I see,” Jasper says, with such mildness that I feel heat creeping up my neck.
Another mile passes before I recover enough to say, “It was that Baine woman.” Well, mostly. “She wanted something from me. I wouldn’t give it to her.”
“Jesus.” I hear bafflement in his voice, and I get it. Since when have I ever stood up for anything or anyone, other than him? “Wait—was it the notes I took? Because I’m really—”
“No,” I assure him.
I bet it’s even true. They took the notes, but I don’t really think they needed them. I think Baine set fire to the motel, framed me for it, had me sit in handcuffs while my great-uncle threatened Jasper’s whole future, solely because she wanted Arthur Starling to come save me. And he did.
The image of him walking into the room, looking at me like I was something valuable, even vital, like there was nothing on his list but my name, sends another flush of heat through me.
We pass the detention center, and I can’t help looking for a lanky shadow, but the lot is empty. I wonder if he got a ride from Charlotte, or if he walked. I wonder if he took the old railroad bridge, if he paused to wallow in that old, stale guilt.
I turn right just past the detention center and cut the engine. The cab is quiet except for the hum of old neon and the distant screaking of the crickets.
Jasper clears his throat. “I actually ate at Logan’s, so I’m good.” The light from the Waffle House windows has turned his face an eerie, electric gold.
“We’re not here for waffles, bud.” I rest my head briefly on the steering wheel, reminding myself that this is for the best, that I worked very long and hard for it. Then I dig my phone out of my pocket and pull up the Stonewood Academy website.
I pass the phone over to him. “I had a whole brochure thing and an acceptance letter wrapped up, for your birthday, but the fire . . .”
Jasper’s face is very, very blank. “What is this.”
“Your new school.”
Jasper scrolls down the page, taps twice. “A private high school? A boarding school?”
“It’s all paid for. Tuition, room, board, everything.”
“How the hell did you—actually, don’t answer that. I don’t—why is my face on this website.”
“I—what?” I take the phone back and flick through the images on their slideshow. There—it’s the picture of Jasper leaning against the motel wall, hands in his pockets, hoodie pulled up. But they’ve put it in grayscale and added sans serif font over the image. It doesn’t matter where you come from—it matters where you go next.
“Okay, that’s . . .” I don’t know what it is. Weird, funny, sweet, awkward? The expression on Jasper’s face suggests it’s none of those things, that I have screwed up on a colossal scale.
I rush forward, trying to skate over it. “The semester starts in August, which is a little ways away, but—”
“So I’m already enrolled. Like, you enrolled me.”
I wet my lips. “Yes?”
“Because you thought I would be happy at”—he takes the phone back—“Stonewood Academy. Where Greatness Grows.” He taps the screen. “Jesus, how did you find someplace whiter than Eden?”
“I didn’t—it won’t be like that—”
“This is like Charlotte shouting at the principal all over again. I know she meant well, but those next few weeks were hell.”
I feel like someone who has just leapt out and shouted “Surprise!” on the wrong date, to the wrong person: defensive, embarrassed, even a little angry.
I take an unsteady breath. “Look, we can talk about all that . . . later. What matters right now is that you have to get out of here now. Like, tonight. There’s something I should have told you a while ago.” I take a small, bracing breath. “Our mom was Old Leon Gravely’s daughter. So . . . you and me are Gravelys. Technically.”