She seemed nonplussed, like she hadn’t anticipated his arrival and didn’t know what to say.
But I did. “I’m leaving,” I announced and, letting Edward’s soothing hand fall away, strode off. I didn’t look at Joyce as I passed her. Something about the way she’d contacted Edward said she knew everything, and, at that moment, I was too angry at the world for betraying me to be able to deal with the shame of my crime.
At least, Michael Shanahan hadn’t shown up, although the day wasn’t done.
I hurried down the corridor to the back exit, pushed the door open, rushed outside—and stopped short. Not Michael, but Chris Emory. With his gray hoodie, curved back, and gangly legs, he was propped barely six feet away on the split-rail fence that led to the parking lot. Though he had clearly tried to hide his hair in the fleece, wayward curls caught thelate-day sun like a halo intent on escape, but that was the most benign thing about him. His hands were visible fists in the hoodie’s muff pocket, his shoulders hunched, his brows tight.
I didn’t look around for the press. Chris would have scoped the parking lot before exposing himself this way, not to mention that I was too irritated just then with all of it to care who saw me, him, us. As he stood, his expression went from forbidding to frightened. I should have been worried. But he was fifteen, no baby, and his face wasn’t what I needed.
Willing sympathy away, I stood rock-still and stared. “Problem?”
“Yeah.” He came toward me and said in a grudging voice, “People. Everyone’s talking about it, and Mom won’t answer texts.”
The door opened behind me. That would be Edward.
“She’s still working,” I said, but Chris was eying Edward with unease. “Ignore him. He’s with me. Does Grace know you’re here?”
His wary gaze hung on Edward for a minute, before sliding back to me. He lowered his voice to keep the conversation private, though Edward was there at my shoulder. “I told her I was. She didn’t say anything about that either—like, she doesn’t tell me to stay or leave, just ignores me, but I have to see her. She’s blaming me for everything.”
I raised both brows. “Uh, who else should she be blaming?”
Forgetting caution, he reeled off the list with full resentment. “People, Ben Zwick, the media, and the crazies who listen to their stuff—Idon’t know.Ididn’t ask them to come snooping around.”
“Christopher,” I fairly shouted, “listento yourself. You hacked into school computers, then you hacked into Inn computers, then you hacked into the Twitter account of a journalist with a national following. You are the reason this is happening. So, excuse me, but itisyour fault.” I was breathing fast, perhaps not thinking about the fact that this wasn’t the best place to be talking, but I didn’t see other people, just the three of us. So I asked outright, “Why did you do it? Were you trying to get someone’s attention?”
“No.”
“Trying to goad your mother into telling you about your dad?”
He shook his head, but his mouth was shut so tight that I figured at least part of the answer was yes. “Whatdidyou hope to accomplish?”
He stuck out his chin.
“Do you understand that what you did was wrong?”
He looked away.
“Are yousorry,Chris? Tell me that, at least, please, tell me that.”
The gaze that met mine was liquid. “Yes, I’m sorry,” he said, more boy than man now. “If I could go back and delete everything, I would, but it was like”—frantic eyes skittered away, then returned—“like this addictive thing, and being able to do it was awesome, because I’m a nobody—I mean, a nobody. I’m not a star at much, and I was feeling screwed over, so I wanted to show them—showsomeoneI could—only it blew up in my face. So now I’m totally fucked, but I didn’t know, I swear I never thought—never thought anything like this would happen.” His voice stopped, but his throat continued to work, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the hoodie’s throat.
Anger notwithstanding, my heart did chip then. Stepping forward, I rose on tiptoe and hugged him. He smelled of ratty sweatshirt and boy, and his breathing was rough, but I didn’t feel crying. He would refuse to do that with Edward watching.
I didn’t speak, and it had nothing to do with the March chill, our audience, or the fists pressing into my back. Truth be told, I was too keyed up to say anything profound.
Truth be told, I was tooinexperiencedto say anything profound. I didn’t have a child. Parenting anything older than a five-year-old was foreign to me.
When I pulled back, he was looking destroyed. The last two weeks had done that to him, and I hadn’t helped. My sin here, now, was one of style, though, not substance.
“Blaming everyone else won’t help,” I said softly.
“But my mom—”
I turned, about to tell Edward to get Grace, when he nodded his understanding and went back inside.
“She hates me.”
“A mother never hates her child.”
