Truth Read Free Page B

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    â€œI’d better not find out otherwise.”
    We smile as if he’s joking, but he doesn’t smile back. He turns and struts off towards Officer McBride’s car.
    â€œPower trip” is Scott’s assessment as we leave.
    When I get home, I’ve had enough of cops for the day. Still, I call the detachment and the receptionist faxes a press update to the machine in my dad’s den. I start to skim through, and it says almost exactly what Officer McBride said it would. Then something catches my eye.
    â€œAt present, the detachment is investigating the possibility that more than one assailant may have been involved in the attack.”

Chapter Three
    Here’s a diary of my hellish Thursday:
    8:15 a.m.
    Georgia’s on-again, off-again crush on Nate is definitely on at the moment. Personally, I don’t see what’s so attractive about a hockey jersey, but the girl’s obsessed. I’m trying to talk to her about the murder before the homeroom bell rings, but she’s not paying attention. She’s scanning the hallway, hoping to spot Nate.
    â€œWe had lunch in the courtyard together twice last week, but this week he’s totally avoiding me,” she complains.
    â€œI don’t know what you see in him,” I tell her. “Jerome says he’s on steroids. Probably can’t even get it up. Steroids do that, you know.”
    â€œOh, and you have so much experience in that area.”
    She’s got me there. I think Jerome’s been expecting things to heat up soon, and I haven’t decided yet what to do about that.
    â€œWhether he can get it up or not, you still shouldn’t be following him around like a puppy dog. He’s not worth it.”
    â€œI’m not following him around.”
    I give her my “you’re not fooling anyone” look.
    â€œListen, Nate’s one of those guys who doesn’t say much. But when he does, the whole room tunes in because it’s important.”
    That’s true. Especially when I think about how Nate took control at the party. Before I can tell Georgia that, he’s walked by andshe’s left me in the dust to skip along beside him. Waiting for his next words of wisdom, I guess.
    8:25 a.m.
    It’s a relief to be alone for a few minutes. I’ve been up late the last two nights writing my news script. It turned out to be a basic summary of facts — the usual who, what, when and where. Except the “who” is only who was murdered, not who did the murdering.
    I slide down to sit on the floor, leaning back to rest against my locker. With each sentence I’ve written, this whole situation has become more real. A man died. Was killed. Is dead. The stomach ache I had the night of the party has come back on a permanent basis.
    As the murder gets more real, school gets more surreal. Everyone’s back to chatting and laughing and, in Georgia’s case, boy chasing, like nothing ever happened.
    I close my eyes for a minute. When I open them, it’s because I can feel someone standing over me.
    â€œHey, Jen.”
    It’s Ross, his hair still damp from the shower. He squats in front of me, his knees on either side of mine, his hand pressed against the locker above my shoulder for balance. I’m caged by his body, and he’s close enough that I can smell his deodorant.
    â€œWhat happened at Ian’s blows, huh?”
    I nod, though this is the understatement of the century. The bell rings, and people start to sort themselves into their homerooms.
    â€œPoor Ian’s grounded for life. Might be allowed out when he’s forty.”
    This time I give him an obligatory smile, but I’m feeling weird. Ross and I are friendly, but we don’t talk a lot. He’s Jerome’s friend more than mine. And he’s suffocating me. “I should get to class.”
    â€œLots of time. Relax,” he says and leans even closer. “Jerome tells me