Finally, he began to dial.
He hesitated for a few seconds before pressing the final number.
Nothing happened for a long time. Then he twitched and tightened his grip on the phone.
“Don’t hang up,” he said. “Please don’t hang up.”
I straightened and leaned closer to the window, momentarily forgetting the throbbing pain in my calf.
He opened his mouth and his shoulders fell. “I know. I know. I wanted—” The words came out crowded together, apologetic.
I strained to hear the other side of the line, but it was too quiet to make out.
“No, I don’t think anyone knows anything.”
He turned his mouth closer to the phone and turned, making it difficult to hear everything he said.
“—promised not to tell—”
He began to shake his head vigorously.
“How can you say that? You know it wasn’t like that.”
“Of course I lied about that night.”
“Of course the school wouldn’t have liked it—I know that. They don’t like anything that doesn’t fit into their narrow-minded understanding of how life should be.”
His free hand froze beside his head, palm up, as if beseeching an invisible audience.
“Why don’t you understand why I feel like this? I can’t talk to anyone, can’t explain….”
He slumped down on the couch, his voice low, his eyes closed. “Don’t. I cared about that girl. You know that. But—”
I stayed stock-still, not breathing.
Then, right before he hung up the phone and put his head in his hands, before he sat motionless, devastated, it came—what I had both wanted and not wanted for so very long:
“Anna’s death changed everything.”
I started to feel guilty. Started to miss how things had been before. So I told him that maybe we should slow down. Think about an exit plan. Find a way so that no one got hurt, no one had to know.
He waited for me to finish my speech, outline all my reasons, before he pulled out his phone, and brought up the photo.
I’D THOUGHT WHEN I FINALLY learned who Anna had been going to see that I’d confront them about it, right then and there. But instead, I staggered home, dazed. It was hard to believe I’d finally gotten what I’d been waiting for—real confirmation. I’d begun to think it might not happen, that I’d never know. That maybe Mr. Matthews had simply been her coach, her English teacher, and nothing more.
I barely knew what to do with what I had now.
Which was basically a full confession. More than enough to make him talk to me, to convince him that I knew. The only thing I didn’t know was who he’d called. Which hardly mattered. Nothing mattered except that he had been the one. Anna’s one.
I’d thought there’d be a measure of relief when I learned the truth. To finally know who to talk to, to finally know that all this skulking around had served a purpose. I’d thought I’d come to terms with the possibility of it being Mr. Matthews, that I’d gotten to a place where I could handle it. Instead, I felt ill, unable to rid myself of the thought of them together, touching. Of him touching someone who looked almost exactly like me.
Images of skin on skin, with pressure and heat.
Not like butterflies.
Not like butterflies at all.
I DIDN’T EVEN PRETEND TO pay attention in any of my classes the next day. I didn’t pretend to take notes, didn’t look toward the front of the room.
I waited until the end of the day to confront Mr. Matthews, hoping to catch him alone, before track. When I arrived at his classroom, though, a girl was still there talking to him. She looked annoyed and Mr. Matthews looked frustrated. They both kept pointing to the same piece of paper.
I stayed outside until the girl left, her expression dark. Then I went in, closing the door quietly behind me.
He was walking around to the back of his desk, shaking his head.
“Mr. Matthews?”
His head jerked up, his face irritated, and then he saw me. For once he looked relieved to see me—he probably expected it to be that girl again, coming back for round two.
“Oh, hi,” he said, sinking into his chair. “I’m sorry—I didn’t hear you come in. I guess I’m a bit off-balance—it’s amazing how hard people will fight for the grade they want, even if it isn’t the grade they deserve. Makes you wish they put that same amount of energy and passion into writing the paper to begin with.”
I stood rooted in front of his desk. He turned a little pink.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—it wasn’t very professional. What I can help you with?”
I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. His casual chatting had thrown me off. I’d expected to be able to get right to the point.
Another breath. I could do this.
“I know it was you Anna was going to see that night.”
He stared at me blankly, like he didn’t know what I meant. It was almost convincing.
I continued. “I know you were involved with her.”
His eyes widened and he straightened up in his chair. “Wait,” he said. “What?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t backtrack—I needed to get through this, and I’d begun to shake. “I want to know if she was with you that night. I want to know if—”
“Involved? Are you serious?”
I nodded forcefully. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble. I don’t care about that.” I clamped my hand on my arm to try to stop the shaking.
He began to stammer. “Jesus Christ, I would never— I can’t believe you’d actually think—”
“Stop it,” I said. “Stop. I know you were. I know. I heard you.”
“What are you talking about? You heard what?”
“I heard you say it. At your
