Whistleblower, page 13
“I’m only twenty,” I admitted.
“That’s okay,” Olivia said with an easy wave of her hand.
“I’m sure we can find over-eighteen places.”
The doors on our side of the lecture hall swung open.
Nick entered with a “Good morning!” that I could tell meant Please be quiet, you greasy little heathens, and marched down to the stage. I went to shuffle out of his way at the same moment Bodie stepped forward so a girl could squeeze into Ryan and Olivia’s row. We bumped shoulders. Well, my shoulder bumped into his (very solid) biceps. But I wasn’t too concerned about that technicality. I was too busy blushing from my collarbone to my hairline.
“Sorry,” I blurted.
Bodie cleared his throat and took one comically large step back from me. Brutal.
“Let’s meet up tomorrow afternoon,” Olivia said quickly, so focused on the fact that our professor was starting class that she’d completely missed my horrifically uncomfortable interaction with Bodie. “I can reserve us a study room at Buchanan.
Does three o’clock work?”
We all looked at each other, checking if any of us had a conflict or objection. Somehow, this little burst of team spirit resulted in Bodie and me looking each other dead in the eyes and nodding just as he said, “Works for me.”
I stifled a grin and said, “Me too.”
Tomorrow, Bodie St. James would have to talk to me again whether he wanted to or not.
Chapter 14
Ellison Michaels turned from her office windowsill, where she’d been watering a potted purple orchid that did little to brighten up the dingy and outdated room, and regarded me with a frown. It was Wednesday afternoon. The student union was pretty quiet, save for the incessant laughter of a group of boys who were trying to play hacky sack with one of the beanbag chairs out on the floor of the media center.
“I want you in the press box for the next football game,” she said.
“Aren’t there already people covering football?” I asked, fidgeting with the button on the sleeve of my denim jacket. “I wouldn’t want to, like, step on anybody’s toes—”
She didn’t honestly think that sticking me on a glorified lawn with eighty-five very large, adrenaline-drunk boys who hated my guts could end well, did she?
“You won’t be alone. You’ll have Mehri. She’s photographed football games before, so she’ll know what the rules are for media.”
“I really don’t think . . .”
Ellison plopped into her university-issued desk chair.
She’d pimped it out with a white faux sheepskin cover, but I could tell it was old and sort of janky by the way it creaked under her weight.
“Laurel,” she said, “you can handle this.”
“They’re not going to talk to me. How am I supposed to do a postgame report when the team won’t answer any of my questions?”
“They’ll talk. They’re used to answering questions. And if your interview with St. James is anything to go by, you’re pretty damn good at asking them.”
“That was—”
Ellison beat me to the punch. “It was not luck. You have good instincts. You knew the right questions to ask, and you went off script when you needed to.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“This is just because my name is attached to the Vaughn stuff now,” I accused. “If I get enough material to write something, it’ll get a ton of hits on the website. If I get decked by a linebacker, then Mehri takes a picture of my lifeless body and you still get a ton of hits on the website.”
“You’re not going to—” Ellison began, then huffed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god, Cates. Worst-case scenario, you get snubbed and you have to write a recap of the game without any quotes. But whatever you write is going to get attention from them, whether it’s directly about Vaughn or not. And I know you don’t like attention, but what are you going to do? Just stop writing?”
I ran my tongue over my front teeth, embarrassed to admit that I had thought about that. I loved writing. But I already missed the comfort of knowing that nobody would be reading my work. Sure, I hadn’t been getting any recognition, but I also hadn’t been getting coffee dumped on me in petty retribution.
“The only way for us to make progress on this investigation is to be unapologetically nosey,” Ellison continued, her voice gentler, borderline sisterly. “I need someone who can ask the right questions. And you’re my girl.”
You’re my girl. What a cheap shot.
“I can handle it,” I said like the sucker I was.
“Good,” Ellison said with a triumphant smile. “Because I took the liberty of ordering your field pass for you last week, so it should be ready for you to pick up by Saturday. Just show them your student ID in the communications office at the athletics center. Mehri can fill you in on the protocol for getting into the stadium through the media entrance, and I’ll draft a couple of questions for you to ask the players, too, just so you know where to start.”
I knew then that Ellison asking me to cover game day had been a formality. She’d made up her mind. The rest was inevitable.
Ellison’s cell phone vibrated on her desk, clattering loudly against the wood surface. She glanced down at the screen and sighed, though her smile didn’t fade.
“I should take this call. Why don’t you swing by tomorrow afternoon?”
I stood, saluted her, and turned to leave.
“And Cates?”
I stopped with one hand on the doorknob.
“Your makeup is amazing today,” Ellison said. “Seriously.
Your eyebrows are so symmetrical they look photoshopped.”
I reached up unthinkingly, then remembered Hanna had told me not to put my grubby little fingers anywhere near her masterpiece because I’d inevitably smudge something. The eyeliner, the eyeshadow, the contour, the brows. There was a lot to be smudged.
“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. “My friend did them for me.”
Ellison hummed thoughtfully. “Special occasion?”
“Nope. No occasion.”
—
The second floor of Buchanan reeked of permanent markers, energy drinks, and despair. At the far end of the sprawling space, separated from the elevators by a maze of study cubbies and tables strewn with books and empty coffee cups, were the study rooms. These were nothing more than glorified closets with glass doors (a feature meant to discourage students from using the rooms for activities that were decidedly not academic in nature).
The one Olivia had reserved for our group meeting was barely large enough to house a circular table and a couple of chairs. She sat to my left, her dirty-blond hair pulled back in a choppy ponytail and her bushy eyebrows furrowed as she glared down at the screen of her phone. The stacks of delicate rings on her fingers winked under the fluorescent lights as she typed out a monologue of a text message to someone whose contact name was CAN GO TO HELL. On my right was Ryan, who’d worn a floral-patterned silk bomber jacket and white suede Chelsea boots to an entirely casual afternoon meeting.
I had no room to judge. I’d asked Hanna to do my makeup like I was competing in Miss Universe at four.
And so it was with winged eyeliner, glittery champagne and chocolate brown eyeshadow, and a set of false lashes (a strange and alien weight Hanna had promised I’d get used to eventually) that I glared at the empty chair on the opposite side of the table.
“It’s three fifteen,” Olivia murmured, setting her phone facedown on the table.
Bodie wasn’t coming. I didn’t have to say it. We were all thinking it. This was why he hadn’t asked to switch groups—he was trying to get back at me. He was going to sabotage our group project by leaving us a man down and forcing us to drag his apathetic ass across the finish line for a passing grade.
To be clear, I was upset because he’d slighted our whole group.
Not because I’d wasted the day’s makeup. Definitely not that.
“He probably got caught up with team stuff,” Ryan said with an easy shrug.
It was Ryan giving Bodie the benefit of the doubt that really set me off. What was it about St. James that made everyone want to forgive him? He showed up fifteen minutes late to lecture, and Nick was ready to burn the entire attendance sheet to erase any evidence of his tardiness. He stood up our group project meeting, and Ryan was happy to shrug it off.
He accused me of fabricating accusations to destroy a man’s life and then (accidentally) approved two girls’ plan to dump coffee on me, and all I could think about was how I hoped the wrist he’d had wrapped up didn’t hurt because the guy was having a hard enough time as it was.
Was it the understated confidence? The biceps? The boyish, charming smile that made you feel like he could read you with one look and liked every bit of you, from opening line to closing chapter?
“Whatever,” I snapped. “Let’s just go over the rubric and divide up the work without him.”
If my teammates noticed that I slammed my notebook down with a bit too much force and immediately snapped the lead on my mechanical pencil when I went to jot down the date, they didn’t comment on it.
But Olivia did say, “I like your eyeliner, Laurel.”
—
After we were done in Buchanan, I figured while I was on campus I might as well pick up the field pass Ellison had so kindly ordered for me. My makeup was nice. I needed to maximize the number of people who saw me.
The athletics center was a palatial shrine of overrated prestige. The whole compound was made up of three floors of administrative offices, two practice fields, and one brand-new training facility. This part of the building was closed off to those who weren’t student athletes, barricaded behind a row of turnstiles you had to swipe an ID card to get through.
Commoners were expected to use the main gym, where the combination of crowds and poorly maintained equipment meant half-hour lines just to use a squeaky elliptical.
The gatekeeper of this elite portion of the fifty million–dollar shrine to athletic achievement was a polo shirt–clad student with chlorine-bleached hair and an enormous pimple on his chin. I marched across the lobby, my sneakers squeaking on black marble as I passed gilded portraits of old white men and glass cases of assorted trophies, ribbons, and medals, and stopped at the front desk.
“Hi, I’m with the Daily. I’m here to get a field pass.”
The kid behind the desk smacked a button on the key-board and the nearest turnstile swung open. I barreled forward into the unknown.
The architect who’d designed Garland’s training facility had to have been big on space movies, because the whole complex looked straight out of Star Wars. The walls were smooth, dark concrete. The floors were a black marble so polished they reflected everything as clearly as mirrors. It felt like a fun house. A really, really overpriced fun house. The deeper I wandered into the labyrinth of hallways and workout rooms, the more idiotic I felt. Eventually, I found myself in a hallway lined on one side with floor-to-ceiling windows. They overlooked a full-sized indoor football field nestled one story below. The turf glowed neon green under the rafter lights.
There were two assistant coaches and a handful of players out on the field running drills. Bodie wasn’t among them.
I continued down the hall to a juncture next to an alcove with a pair of water fountains tucked in it, and wondered why there weren’t maps posted all over this maze of a building.
A man’s voice carried through the walls of the office next to the water fountains. The plaque on the door read GORDON.
The assistant coach. Still not the communications office, so I wasn’t all that interested—until I heard a second voice. Bodie’s.
“Well, obviously, you guys don’t think so.”
I knew that, ethically speaking, I shouldn’t eavesdrop on a conversation that was so clearly personal and contentious.
And then there was the matter of expectation of privacy, which meant that I couldn’t legally report on anything I overheard Gordon talking about in his private office with the door shut.
There was really no reason for me to linger. It would be best if I walked away. At the very least, I should’ve turned on the water fountain or dropped my backpack or something, so they knew someone was within earshot (and that Gordon should really get a thicker door or learn to use his inside voice). But I’ve never exactly been a shining example of great decision making.
I ducked into the alcove with the water fountains, so I’d at least be hidden if someone came out of the office, and leaned one shoulder against the wall of the head coach’s office.
“That’s not what we’re saying,” came Gordon’s voice again.
“I just think you’re spreading yourself thin, all right? You’re all over the place in practice. You couldn’t make a solid throw to save your life against the University of Washington—”
“I had a bad day,” Bodie said. “Since when am I not allowed to have a bad day?”
A third voice spoke up: “You’re failing that general ed class I got you in.”
It was Vaughn. A sharp chill rolled up my spine. There was silence. Drawn out, horribly uncomfortable silence. It was almost a relief when Bodie finally spoke again.
“We haven’t even had the midterm yet. I can’t be failing.”
“Oh really?” Vaughn said. “Because your professor emailed the entire coaching staff about it. You got a zero on a reading quiz. He says he’s concerned you might land yourself on academic probation.”
Gordon sighed wearily. Bodie remained silent.
“I’m done with this discussion,” Vaughn said.
Gordon’s door swung open and heavy footsteps thudded out. I froze, horrified that Vaughn might turn and see me hidden in the alcove, but he marched off in the opposite direction.
A long moment after he was gone and my heartbeat had slowed back down, I heard Bodie say, “I didn’t want to take that class.”
“Then why the hell are you in it?” Gordon asked.
“Vaughn heard the professor graded easy.”
Gordon sighed. Something rustled—it sounded like that stiff, water-resistant material the team jackets were made out of—as he shifted in his seat. His desk chair was definitely nicer than Ellison’s, because instead of the terrible groaning of rusty metal, there was just a muted creak of leather against leather.
“If you’re serious about changing your major,” Gordon said, voice gentler now, “you’ve got to get your grades up.
Look, we can get you hooked up with a tutor, but I really think you should consider getting—”
“I’m not changing my major,” Bodie interrupted.
“Really?” Gordon sounded surprised.
“I talked about it with Vaughn. He thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“And what do you think?”
There was a pause.
“I think he’s right,” Bodie said at last. “You’re both right. I can’t handle any more on my plate right now.”
Another long silence. Then, “Bodie, if you’ve heard anything—”
“I’d tell you.” The reply was immediate. Decisive.
“No,” Gordon said. “If you’ve heard anything, you don’t come to me. You don’t come to anyone in this department.
You take it right to the police. Do you understand me? Don’t be stupid, St. James.”
This was, on Gordon’s part, a horrible choice of words.
“I am not stupid.”
“I know you aren’t. That’s not what I’m saying here.”
“You guys can’t bench me because I failed one fucking reading quiz, all right? I’m fine. I’ve got this. I just— fuck. I want everything to go back to normal.”
I wished I hadn’t stopped to eavesdrop. I wanted to give it all back—to rewind and unhear the frustration and embarrassment and desperate insistence that everything was fine.
Bodie stepped out of the office and slammed the door behind himself so hard that the wall I was leaning against shuddered. I held my breath, listening closely for any indication that he might come around the corner to use the water fountain. There was an outraged grunt of frustration. Then, so quietly I almost didn’t catch it, a solitary sniffle. I waited a long time after the sound of his stomping footsteps had disappeared before I scurried out of the alcove and resumed my search for the communications office.
Chapter 15
“I love you,” Hanna said, “but if you don’t stop moving your pinkie, I’m going to snap it in half.”
Being a hand model was difficult. I hadn’t realized this when I’d volunteered. I’d just wanted to shut Hanna up about how she was going to fail this figure drawing class and let down her parents, who’d always supported her pursuing her art despite the less-than-abundant job prospects waiting for her on the other side of graduation. Five minutes into me holding still while Hanna ripped out pages of her sketchbook and brushed eraser dustings all over our bedroom carpet, Andre had shown up (still bleary eyed and yawning from a postdinner nap) and asked if he could join in. Hanna lent him a pack of charcoal sticks and one of her giant pads of newsprint paper, then scooted over so all three of us could fit on the floor between the beds.
“I’m fine if you want to take a break soon,” Andre told me, using the back of his hand to push his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Just got to do some shading.”
“Good for you,” Hanna muttered, reaching for her eraser again.
She was about to start attempt number seven on my left pinkie finger when Andre’s phone buzzed where it sat on the carpet. He looked down at his charcoal-stained hands, then at me. I looked down at my carefully posed hands, then at Hanna. She groaned, smacked down her sketchbook, and reached across Andre’s lap to check his phone for him.
“There’s a party at the Baseball House tonight,” she said.
“Can’t go,” Andre said without looking up. “Fogarty said he was going out tonight. If he’s too hungover tomorrow, Coach might put me in.”
