The secretary was no longer pretending to be absorbed in her game of Minesweeper. She, too, had noticed Mark's tears. And she, too, looked as if she did not know what to do. Her startled gaze met mine, and she shrugged in bewilderment. Then, as if she'd had an idea, she jumped and waved a box of Kleenex at me.
Oh, great. Some help.
Still, there didn't seem to be anything else I could do. I got up and took the Kleenex box from her, then went and sat down beside Mark, and offered it to him.
"Here," I said, laying one hand on his shoulder. "It's okay."
Mark took a handful of Kleenex and pressed them to his eyes. He was swearing softly beneath his breath.
"It's not okay," he said vehemently, into the Kleenex. "This is unacceptable. All of this is unacceptable."
"I know," I said, patting his shoulder. It felt strong and muscular beneath my fingers. "But really, it will all work out. Everything is going to be okay."
It was at that moment that the door to Mr. Goodhart's office swung open, and Special Agents Johnson and Smith came out. They looked down at Mark and me curiously, then seemed to realize what was happening. When they did, both their faces grew hard.
"Mark," Special Agent Smith said, in a voice that I did not think was very friendly, as she took a step toward us. "Would you please come with me?"
When she reached the couch, she bent down and slipped a hand beneath Mark's arm. He rose without protest, keeping the Kleenex to his eyes. Then he let her lead him away, toward one of the conference rooms down the hall.
Special Agent Johnson stood looking down at me, his arms folded across his chest.
"Jessica," he said. "Don't even think about going there."
"What?" I spread my hands out in the universal gesture for innocence. "I didn't say anything."
"But you were about to. Jessica, I'm telling you now, leave this one alone. Unless you know something—"
"Which I don't," I said.
"Then stay out of it. A young woman is dead. I don't want you to be next."
Whoa. Okay, Officer Friendly.
As if realizing how unctuous he'd sounded, Special Agent Johnson changed the subject. "I'm still anxious to hear"—he unfolded his arms—"about this girl in San Francisco."
"There is no girl in San Francisco," I protested. "Really. I swear."
Special Agent Johnson nodded. "Right. Okay. If that's the way you want it. Read my lips then, Jess. Stay out of this one. Way out."
Then he turned around and followed his partner and Mark.
I looked at the secretary. She looked back at me. Our looks said it all. No way was Mark Leskowski, a boy unafraid to cry in public about his dead girlfriend, a murderer.
"Jessica." Mr. Goodhart came out of his office and looked surprised to see me still sitting there, waiting for him. "Go home."
Go home? Was he nuts? I had just sunk my fist into another student's face. And he was just letting me go home?
"But. . ."
"Go." Mr. Goodhart turned to the secretary. "Get Sheriff Hawkins on the line for me, will you, Helen?"
Go? That was it? Just go? I thought I had one more strike, and then I Was Out? Where was the anger-management lecture? Where were the sighs, the "Oh, Jess, I just don't know what I'm going to do with you"s? Where was my week-long detention? That was it? I could just … go?
Helen, noticing that I was still sitting there, put her hand over the phone receiver so whoever she was calling wouldn't hear her when she hissed to me, "Jess. What are you waiting for? Go, before he remembers."
I didn't waste any more time after that. I went.
I was sitting on the hood of Ruth's Cabriolet when she came out of the assembly, looking vaguely harassed.
"Oh, hey," she said in surprise when she saw me. "What are you doing here? I thought Mulder and Scully were on your case again."
"It wasn't me they were after this time," I said. I still couldn't keep the wonder out of my voice. The whole thing had just been so bizarre.
"Really?" Ruth unlocked the door to the driver's side and climbed into her car. "What did they want, then?"
"Mark," I said.
"Leskowski?" Ruth looked shocked as she leaned over to unlock the door to my side. "Oh, my God. They must really think he did it."
"Yeah, only he didn't." I opened the door and slid in. "Ruth, you should have seen him. Mark, I mean. I was sitting next to him, you know, outside of Mr. Goodharf's office, and he … he was crying."
"Crying?" Ruth turned away from her examination of her lips in the rearview mirror. "He was not."
I assured her that he had been. "It was so sweet," I went on. "I mean, you could tell. He really, really loved her. He feels so bad."
Ruth still looked shocked. "Mark Leskowski. Crying. Who would have thought it?"
"I know. So how did the rest of the memorial service go?"
Ruth described it as she drove us home. Apparently, after the interpretive dance, there'd been a long lecture from a grief counselor the school had hired to help us through this trying time, followed by a moment of silent reflection in which we were all to remember what we had loved about Amber. Then the cheerleaders announced that, directly after school, they were heading back up to Pike's Quarry, to throw flowers into the water as a tribute to Amber. Anyone whose heart had ever been touched by Amber was invited to come along to watch.
"Yeah," Ruth said. "Anyone whose heart was ever touched by Amber was invited. You know what that means."
"Right," I said. "In Crowd Only. You're not going, right?"
"Are you kidding me? Perhaps I didn't make it clear. This particular soiree is being hosted by the Ernie Pyle High School varsity cheerleading squad. In other words, 'fat girls, stay home.'"
I blinked at her, a little taken aback at the vehemence in her tone.
"Ruth," I said. "You're not—"
"Once a fat girl," Ruth said, "always a fat girl. In their eyes, anyway."
"But how you look is not important," I said. "It's what's inside that—"
"Spare me," Ruth said. "Besides, I have chair auditions tomorrow. I have to practice."
I eyed her. Ruth was hard to figure out sometimes. She was so supremely confident about some things—academic stuff, and not chasing boys—but so insecure about others. She really was one of those enigmas wrapped in a mystery people are always talking about. Especially since the same way Ruth claimed cheerleaders felt about fat girls, she felt about Grits.
"I mean, I'm sorry she's dead and all," Ruth went on, "but I highly doubt they'd ever hold an all-school memorial service for you or me, you know, if either of us happened to croak."
"Well," I said. "She did die kind of tragically."
Ruth said a bad word as she turned down Lumley Lane. "Please. She was a cheerleader, all right? Doesn't that about say it all? They don't hold all-school assemblies in the memory of dead cellists or flutists. Just cheerleaders. Hey." Pulling into my driveway, Ruth gaped at me. "Wait a minute. We drove right by Pike's Creek Road, and you didn't say a word. What gives? Don't tell me Mark Leskowski's big baby-blues have replaced the memory of the Jerk's."
"Mark's eyes," I said, with some annoyance, "happen to be brown. And Rob is not a jerk. And I happen to think you're right. Chasing Rob is not the way to get him."
"Uh-huh." Ruth shook her head. "Skip mentioned he gave you and Claire a lift from the bus stop this morning. You talked him into stopping for crullers, didn't you?"
"I didn't talk him into doing anything," I said indignantly. "He stopped of his own volition."
"Oh, please." Ruth rolled her eyes. "Well? Did you see him?"
"Did I see who?" I asked, stalling for time.
"You know who. The Jerk."
I sighed. "I saw him."
"And?"
"And what? I saw him. He didn't see me. End of story."
"God." Ruth laughed. "You are a piece of work. Hey. What's that?"
I looked down at myself, since that's where she was pointing. "What's what?"
"That. That red spot on your shoe."