Page 24 of That's Not My Name

Mr. Moore sits at his desk and opens a textbook. The rest of the class follows suit, but I don’t bother. All I can think about is the corpse in the woods.

It turned out to be a hiker who fell down a ravine. It was on the news this morning. Some college student from the University of Oregon who was found by another hiker. Nowhere near the boat launch.

It wasn’t Lola. But it could have been.

Where the hell is she?

Someone clears their throat and I look up with a start. Mr. Moore walks over and leans on the edge of the seat in front of me. The rest of the classroom is empty. I must have missed the bell.

“Whatcha doing, Drew?”

Mr. Moore is young. The kind of guy who posts dance videos on social media and shaves his head on purpose. Who wears sweater-vests for the irony, and pairs them with aviator sunglasses. ’Cause he’s the cool, relatable teacher. Or whatever.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

I gather my stuff as fast as I can. I’m over school for today. I won’t get any work done, not when I keep imagining Lola’s broken body at the bottom of a ravine somewhere.

I shudder and slide past him.

I’m almost at the door when he says, “You might want to reconsider cooperating with the police. We all need a little closure, you know?”

I stop dead.

“Excuseme?” I turn to face him. Indignation stings my chest and makes my question come out louder than I intend it to be. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He folds his arms. “It means what it means. We need closure, especially her parents, and you’d be doing the whole town a kindness by telling the truth about what happened.”

Yeah, that’s what I thought he meant. “I’m sorry, did I miss the day you got deputized by the police department? I thought you weresupposed to support your students, not coax them into false confessions.” But even as I say it, I know a line has been drawn. Mr. Moore istryingto be here for his students—his other students. And Lola. They’re all on one side of this tragedy, and I’m on the other.

I shake my head. “You know what? Why don’t you make another out of touch dance video and leave me the fuck alone.”

Mr. Moore steps back, eyes wide, like that was the last response he expected from me, even though it’s the only one he deserves. I leave the classroom before he can give me a lecture on language. Or detention.

If I thought I was done with school earlier, I’m more than done now.

I head for the hallway at the back of the building, passing rows of lockers, alternating gold and electric blue, and glare at the big pelican mural on the wall by the cafeteria. The Washington City pelicans. It’s a stupid mascot. Lola always hated that creepy bird.

Hates. Shehatesit.

Present tense.

I pass a wall of windows framing the art studio and instantly feel eyes boring into my body. I almost expect to see the entire class staring me down.

But it’s only eagle-eyed Autumn.

This period, the art studio is used for fashion design. She sits at her little sewing machine in the front row with a dozen other people, mutilating some curtains. Well, the rest of the class is mutilating them. Autumn’s creation looks great. Floral and bright, with strips of lace around the edges.

She glares at me from her workstation and makes aVwith her fingers, motioning from her eyes to mine.I’m watching you.Or in Autumn’s case,I’m watching you, ya giant piece of shit. Come here so I can sew your hand into this curtain.

I think about flipping her off, but as much as she pisses me off, she’s hurting too.

The side entrance looms ahead of me, and I’m brainstorming what to say to my dads if the school calls to say I ditched, when something catches my eye and I jerk to a stop.

My locker sits in the stretch of wall between the side entrance and the cafeteria, only now, it’s plastered with my Lola fliers. They’re taped from top to bottom, completely covering the blue metal beneath them. And someone’s written “Murderer” down the front in bold letters the size of my face.

Fucking Autumn. Nobody else would have the balls.

I stalk over and rip them off, tearing each flier into little pieces that scatter across the linoleum. I shove the side doors open a little too hard, and they slam against the outside of the building. All the kids pretending to play baseball on the field for PE turn to look at me, but I don’t care. I stomp toward the parking lot, cursing Autumn’s name under my breath.

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