Vengeance by Megan Miranda Page B

you,” she said.
    Guess Janna was right. Dead dad cuts me some slack. “A rough year , really,” she continued. “And part of me understands what you’re trying to do.”
    She hadn’t seen Janna’s face in the woods. She didn’t see all the places Carson should’ve been.
    “But I can’t let this go, you understand. What kind of message would that send?” She tapped the eraser of a pencil against the desk blotter. “But I see no reason to involve your mother. Or your record. Are you in any sport?”
    “Not in the fall.” I ran track in the spring. Hoped she wouldn’t kick me off the team.
    “Clubs?”
    “Nope.”
    “Good. Then I’ll see you after school until it’s fixed—you can see Mr. Hayes at the athletic center. He’ll set you up with everything you need. You start today.”
    I was in the parking lot with Justin and Janna. Justin was asking Janna who she was trying to impress with her skirt, and Janna was telling Justin to fuck off in every iteration possible. I saw Kevin from across the parking lot and waved him over.
    “I’m not in trouble—”
    “See?” Janna said. “Told you.” She ruffled my hair, like I was a pet she was proud of.
    “—but I have to fix it.”
    “What do you mean, fix it ?” Janna asked, arms folded across her chest.
    “Sand it and paint over it, I guess.”
    She leaned toward me, stuck a finger in my chest. “You’re not going to, right?”
    “I pretty much have to,” I said.
    “Carson would never paint over your name,” she said, and it stung. Because it was true. But I wasn’t him. Neither was Kevin, who put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Sorry, Janna.”
    She shrugged him off.
    “So,” I said. “Work detail. Starts today. I figure we could get it done in a couple of days if we all do it.”
    Kevin cringed. “Dude, yeah, that’s kind of like an admission of guilt on our part.”
    Janna nodded. “I’ve run through dead brother goodwill.”
    I eyed Justin.
    “I … have a test to study for.”
    “I hate you all,” I said.
    And as I left, I heard Kevin yell, “Go, Decker!” like a baseball chant, and then they all clapped and cheered as I walked away. It was hard to hate them. Really.

Chapter 7
    There were worse ways to watch September slip by. I spent the afternoons scraping off paint, and not just over the letters—over the entire field house. Guess they figured it was a good time to repaint the whole thing, and I was free labor. A week of scraping off paint and sanding. A week of painting. So far, two weeks of avoiding just about everyone. The field house doors were usually locked—though that had never stopped Carson, who’d flip the lock on the window during afternoon practices whenever he was planning to use the field house after—but Mr. Hayes had to leave the doors open for me while I was working so I could paint the trim up to the hinges.
    I’d spent three days pretending to do just that, but mostly I was just passing time. There was a riding mower in the back corner. Football equipment along the wall, nets and balls and hurdles in various states of wear. The floor was wood, finished enough to protect from the weather but not finishedenough to make it comfortable. It was cool inside—cooler than the air outside, turning to fall. I spent three days lying there, in the center of it all, with an open container of paint, with my hands under my head, smelling sawdust and sweat and paint and the faint odor of gasoline from the containers next to the riding mower.
    I’d stay until practices were over and people started dragging equipment back inside, then drive to my mom’s office, where we ate by ourselves and didn’t talk about the fact that she’d been lying to me.
    Then we’d go to Delaney’s, where I’d say meaningless things like it’s raining or the phone is ringing or where do you keep the laundry detergent and also I don’t know how to work the dryer , and didn’t talk about the fact that she’d been lying to