Gone Too Far by Natalie D. Richards Page A

chirpy.
    â€œHey back,” he says, looking at the door. “What are you doing?”
    â€œI figured I’d head in a little early,” I say.
    â€œWhy are you heading in at all? I’m grabbing coffee. Want to come?”
    I chew the inside of my lip. I do want to go with him. More than anything, I want to criticize his driving and dredge up some old jokes. I want to fix this weirdness that’s been lingering since the college mess—and the notebook.
    â€œI can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œI know. You’re not a slacker like me.”
    My stomach twists. Hurts. “I didn’t say that, Manny.”
    He puts up his hands defensively. “I know, I know. Don’t start. I shouldn’t have said it.”
    But he did, so I’m taking the opportunity. “I was worried about you. I’m still worried, but I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
    He smiles at me. “You really needed a little sister to look after or something.”
    â€œI’m not trying to mother hen you. I just believe in you.”
    â€œWell, that’s mistake one.” He kicks my shoe and chuckles. “I’m not planning a life of crime. It was a one-time thing, and I had my reasons. We all do shit we’re not proud of when we’re pushed hard enough.”
    The auditorium doors click open and he bumps my arm with knuckles. “That’s my cue. Friday, then?”
    â€œDefinitely.”
    Manny waves as Coach Carr ushers me inside with the freshmen. He’s headed for caffeine and sunshine, and I’m being herded into the seating area like cattle.
    Everyone immediately climbs toward the preferred seats, high in the back of the auditorium. Those are the places teachers don’t pay much attention. I choose the center section, lower level. Not a popular address by any stretch, but closer is generally better when you need to take pictures. Question is, what the heck am I taking pictures of?
    I take a seat in the sixth row from the stage, close enough to get whatever might happen, far enough back to go unnoticed. I hope.
    Students continue to arrive from all the class levels. I change my lens and settings, knowing I’m going to have to pull this off without a flash. It won’t be my best work. My palms are damp on the base of my camera, but I force myself to act natural, snapping shots of the students taking their seats and of Principal Goodard when he steps up to the podium.
    He greets us with a Claireville High welcome and makes some comment that I assume relates to the football season, given the volume of the cheers that erupt. My heart begins to pound as I watch the stage, but Kristen’s nowhere in sight.
    A couple girls provide details on the winter formal, and I force my feet to stop jittering. One of the football coaches pitches an off-season development camp. The girl next to me asks me if I can stop tapping my fingers on the armrest.
    Finally, someone gets up to talk about the gardening club, and my body goes absolutely still. Because I get it now. I know why it’s happening here.
    Tacey’s words echo through my mind as the presenter flips through a slideshow presentation with butterfly gardens and ornate topiary mazes.
    â€œShe even told me about this fashion club she’s going to start at school…”
    Polite applause ripples through the crowd as the student sits down. A junior stands up next, Ethan Crawford. He’s small and lean with a shock of blue and black hair and an irresistible grin. He starts talking about the skateboarding club, with big arm gestures and promises of unprecedented parties, which ticks Mr. Goodard off plenty. I actually dare a picture of him—thin lipped and glaring—mostly to check the light.
    It’s all right. Not perfect, but stage shots are tricky.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Crawford,” the principal says, cutting Ethan off. He points to the side of the stage, and I scoot