Locked (7 page)

“We don’t have time for that right now.” I stand up.

“Don’t we?”

“I have to go to school. I’m not going to let a stupid thing like this ruin my attendance record,” I say fiercely.

“You and your attendance record. I’m sure the two of you will be very happy together. I look forward to
attending
your wedding someday.”

I can’t help but smile. Some of the tension bleeds out of me. “If I hide, it’ll just make it worse. And anyway, what does it matter? I’m already verging on outcast. I gave up on keeping up with friends after Carol died. Maybe no one will even care. Maybe it’ll blow over.”

Sherlock is watching me inscrutably, his eyes full of that strange light they get when he’s thinking.

“Anyway, thanks for warning me,” I say. “It was neighborly.”

“I’ve never been accused of being neighborly before.”

“Maybe you just haven’t had the right neighbor.”

And when I walk out the front door, he follows me.

|||

“Did you see it?”

“Everyone saw it.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“Of course she knows. Look at her face.”

I’m counting every smudge of marker on the whiteboard—fifteen so far, four blue smudges and eleven black—but it doesn’t stop my ears from working. I should have sat in the back, with Sherlock. The front seat is good for catching everything the teacher says. It’s also good for catching everything the people sitting behind me are saying.

I’m early, despite this morning’s events. By the time the bell rings and everyone else filters into the classroom, there’s a little circle of empty desks around me. As if naked pictures were contagious.

Halfway through a lesson on the Civil War by an oblivious Mr. Jennings, I get a text:

SH:
Are you all right?

IA:
Now that’s a question I never thought I’d get from you.

SH
: I’m being neighborly. And I asked you after the car incident.

IA:
Felt a bit better then than I do now.

SH:
Tell people you bruised your wrist fighting a bear.

SH:
Maybe then they’ll be too intimidated to make remarks.

IA:
Was that you making a joke?

SH:
If you have to ask, I’m assuming it wasn’t an effective one.

I smile. It’s a smile that doesn’t last long, though, because in the next minute August Berthold, a standard brand rich kid with a eyebrow piercing that he thinks makes him a rebel, leans forward and in a stage whisper says, “Slut.”

Hushed giggles circulate. I lean forward, my face flaming. I don’t care. I totally absolutely do not even care. I don’t care so much that August Berthold can go and screw himself sideways. But I don’t say that.

In the back, there’s the sound of a chair scraping back. Mr. Jennings looks up from his diatribe on the Civil War. “Do you need something, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m having difficulty hearing the lesson. Which I’m sure is scintillating, so I’d hate to miss it.”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing up. Someone that tall should be ordered by the government to remain sitting at all times.

“Well, you can move up front if you like—”

But Sherlock is across the room before Mr. Jennings finishes, dropping into the seat next to me with unnecessary noise. He hooks his arm over the back of his chair and says to August with his most deadly vampire smile, “May I borrow a pen?”

August hands one over, scowling.

When the bell rings, I get up quickly, leaving before Sherlock or anyone else can catch a glimpse of my face. I don’t need Sherlock’s dramatics. I don’t need Sherlock, period. I’m halfway to the cafeteria when August rushes by, swearing and holding his ink-drenched shirt out in front of him.

Huh.

Five minutes later, I reach for the pizza at the same time as Robyn Brighton.

“Irene!” she yelps like she’s been burned. “Did you hear?”

I slap another slice of pepperoni onto my tray. “In what universe do you think I wouldn’t have heard about my own naked—”

“Not that.” She shakes her head hard so that her ponytails fly everywhere. “Sherlock Holmes. That hot new British guy. Apparently he borrowed August’s pen in class and then snapped it in his face when he was handing it back. Got ink all over his shirt. We all know how August feels about his polos.”

August is very fond of his polos. He’d probably done something to annoy Sherlock. Used poor grammar, most likely. Maybe the polo on its own had been enough. “Hot? You don’t think he’s weird?”

“Of course I do, but he’s still hot. Like freakishly hot. Like Twi—”

“Don’t.”

“Twil—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Twilight hot.”

“Nobody even cares about Twilight anymore, Robyn. Welcome to the modern day and age.” I stab my plastic fork into the salad bar. The wilting lettuce deserves it.

“There are people on the internet who care,” she sniffs. “And anyway, don’t worry about the picture. I wouldn’t judge you for that. Guys are dicks. You send them one boob selfie and suddenly—”

“It’s not a boob selfie!” I shout. Heads turn. Mostly boy heads. The word
boob
is like a dog whistle to them. I lower my voice. “It’s not my boob. Boobs. They aren’t my boobs. It’s Photoshopped. Christ.”

Robyn pats my arm. “It’s okay, Irene. Nothing to be ashamed of. You have great boobs.”

I give up on life forever.

When I sit down, Robyn goes to join her real friends. The people I might have tried to sit with if I cared more. If naked photos of me weren’t floating around in everyone’s inbox.

I’m almost finished with my crappy salad when Sherlock takes a seat beside me. He’s too tall for the cafeteria table. It makes him look ridiculous. Like an adult playing with a kid’s plastic toy. And suddenly, I’m annoyed. For absolutely no reason on God’s green earth.

“You probably don’t want to be seen with me,” I point out.

“I’d say the opposite is more true. I guarantee that by the end of this month, people here will hate me more than they could ever look down on you for that photograph.” He scans the cafeteria disinterestedly.

“You’re optimistic.”

“That’s the third time you’ve called me something no one has ever called me before.”

I eye the space in front of him. No tray. “Where’s your lunch?”

“High school cafeteria food is the closest metaphor to death I can make.”

Suddenly I feel like I’m going to scream. The entire school has seen me naked, or they believe they have, and he’s making wry comments about the cafeteria food like—like it hasn’t made him think less of me. But it has. It must have. I throw my empty milk carton on my tray and stand up. “You don’t need to keep hanging around me, just so you know. I’m not entertainment anymore. Not interesting. I’m done with Ares.”

“You’re breaking up with your alter ego, are you?” He leans against the table, its sharp edge pressing into his ribs. “I should have brought my violin.”

“If Ethan’s girlfriend knows it was me in the picture, then she knows I’m Ares. Don’t think she’ll be keeping that information to herself. Keeping things to herself doesn’t seem to be a habit of hers.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock brushes his hair out of his eyes. He really does need a haircut. He looks like a shaggy dog. A weird alien model shaggy dog. “People at this school like Ares. Ares helps them.
You
help them. If she revealed that piece of information about you, people would be more inclined to be on your side. This photo is about punishing you, not gaining you support.”

“Why would she want to punish me?” I definitely sound as pitiful as I think I do. “She asked me to do it.”

“Maybe she assumed he wouldn’t go through with it and in her distress, found it easier to blame you. People frequently misplace blame,” says Sherlock. “For instance, you could hardly blame me for half the things people get angry with me about.”

“Yes I could.”

He’s not listening. Suddenly, his eyes sharpen like a knife and he looks almost happy for the first time. “Or maybe…oh.
That
is interesting. Clever, even.”

“What is?”

“I have to investigate first to confirm,” he says, mostly to himself. “But in the meantime, I have a plan to help you with the backlash.”

I stare at him. At this absolutely bizarre, unfeeling genius who is offering to help me for no reason at all. The worst part is that I’m glad about it. And I definitely don’t deserve that. “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says automatically, but he frowns a little.

“I thought I was just entertainment to you. Remember?” My voice comes out dull. “You don’t need to help me feel better about rumors or anything like that. It doesn’t seem very
you
.”

He stops leaning on the table, his back straightening. “And you know me so well, do you?”

“You make your personality pretty obvious. Smart. Doesn’t care.”

“You did say I wasn’t a heartless bastard, so maybe you don’t know me,” he says curtly.

“Didn’t know you paid that much attention to what comes out of my mouth.”

“It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

I stop. There’s an odd smirk on his face. Is he being sarcastic? I can’t tell. I’m too tired to figure it out. Today is not a good day.

This time, when I leave, he doesn’t follow.

I mean to go to class, but I can’t face it. Instead, I skip for the first time in history. I nearly walk out the door, but what if the people in the front office see me? Instead I lurk in the hallway between the art department and the gym. One hour and I can go home. Take a nap.

And see Mom.

If she finds out about the photo…

There’s the click of a door opening nearby. Someone’s coming out of the boy’s bathroom. I freeze midstride when I see who it is.

“Irene!” stammers Ethan Thomas, wiping his still-wet hands on his pants.

“Oh…hi, Ethan.” Excuses. Quick. “Hey, I’m sorry I left super suddenly the other day. I got a crazy stomachache.”

“Don’t worry about it. I figured it was something like that. Hope you’re feeling better.” He keeps wiping his hands even after they’re dry, eyes fixed on me. He’s sort of cute, in a creepy hangdog way. He’s short, at least. My height. “I wanted to tell you…that picture—I didn’t take it. Like there aren’t any hidden cameras in my room or—or anything. I wanted you to know.”

“No. I took it. Sometimes the urge to take a selfie strikes at the strangest times.” I laugh weakly and take a swift look around to confirm Sherlock still isn’t nearby.

“Right,” says Ethan, clearly confused. Kind of endearingly so. I almost feel bad for him before remembering he cheated on his girlfriend. Albeit a girlfriend who spread naked pictures of me around school. Speaking of…

“Hey, Ethan, what’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Girlfriend?” He pales and starts toying with his belt loop, his fingers slipping in and out. “What girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend. No girlfriends around here.”

“I heard you’re dating someone,” I say cautiously. “Or at least you were.”

“Me? Not me. Do you think I’d invite you over to my place if—” He breaks off, hesitating like the protagonist in a romantic comedy. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to get together again? Since you had to leave before. I thought this time we could take it slow, get dinner at Adolfo’s, see a—”

“I can’t.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“No thanks, Ethan.”

He literally hangs his head. I almost feel bad again, but my negative emotion generator has worn itself out for the day.

“Well…I’ll see you around, then, “ he says, wandering
off with his head still down.

It’s been ages since someone has asked me out. It used to happen often enough. Carol always said—but it’s not a good time to think about that.

So Ethan’s determined to pretend his girlfriend doesn’t exist. That’s fine. The only real reason to get her name would be revenge, and I’m not interested in that. It wouldn’t make anyone forget the photo.

I’m just beginning to feel guilty about how I snapped at Sherlock when the bell rings. I wince. Should have left early. Now I’ll have to fight through the end-of-day rush to get to the doors. Maybe I’ll just stay down here until everyone’s gone.

But that doesn’t work either, because everyone who was in gym class bursts out into the hall, some still in their shorts. I shrink against the wall. Most buzz by without seeing me, but August Berthold and his friends don’t.

“Hey!” August crows when he spots me. He’s wearing a different polo. He probably carries a spare at all times. “It’s Nice Tits. Hey, Nice Tits, why don’t you give us a show? I heard it’s free.”

Sherlock would say something about the lack of creative nicknames in the world. But I’m not Sherlock. I hunch his shoulders and try walking away, like they tell you to, but someone grabs my wrist. The wrong one. Ow.

“Come on,” August coos. I’m inches away from his ugly rich boy face. I wish I was miles away. Eons. “Just a peek?”

“There you are, Irene.”

It’s Sherlock. Of course it is. He rounds the corner of the hallway, and our eyes meet. In the next second, he’s beside me. With one hand, he pulls me against his chest, and with the other, he wrenches August’s arm upwards.

What is happening?

“What the fu-
uck
.’ August’s voice gets reedy as Sherlock twists harder. His face is ice-granite. Inhuman. His eyes are glittering. One time I took personality test in a magazine that asked if I’d ever be willing to kill someone if I knew I wouldn’t get caught. Looking at his face, I know what he’d have picked.

“It’s that psycho,” someone behind us says, and anger rushes into me. Who’s the psycho?

Sherlock doesn’t relinquish his grip. “Tell me, August, because I’m curious—does this misdirected aggression stem from the fact that your childhood pet dog, Ringo, was run over by a car? Or is it the fact that you’re addicted to online porn and you’re used to seeing women as objects? Or perhaps it’s the fact that your parents are separated and you rarely see your mother. Is that why you’re harassing my girlfriend?”