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The poem is… hers?
I turn toward her, leaning my back against the car door. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s for my eyes only! I tuck it between my mattress and bedframe. How did you get it? Did you steal it when you were in my room that night?” She stares out the windshield, thinking,then shakes her head. “No. You didn’t have time. I was there every moment. You couldn’t have taken it then.”
My chest is tight. My fingers grip the steering wheel too tightly. None of this makes sense. All the turmoil I first felt when I found out I’d been had comes bubbling to the surface, bile rising in my throat.
I feel the heat from her eyes flinging fire at my face. “You haven’t snuck in my room before, have you?”
“No. I haven’t.” I grip the wheel tighter to keep from pounding it with my fists, demanding answers.
Bewildered, she whispers. “I’ve never shared that journal with anyone.”
Everything tilts. If the poem came from her journal, did her mom steal it? “It was one of your mom’s messages to me. It… meant something to me, and I typed it in my notes on that profile. Didn’t realize it saved as the screen cover.”
“Wallpaper,” she snaps.
I shoot back, “Whatever.”
“Mom? She said she wasn’t even the one who sent the messages?—”
I open my eyes, turning toward her. I feel my brow wrinkle. “When did she say that? I thought you had no idea about that other than your mom saying your tuition was paid.”
She waits a beat to answer, and when she speaks, her words sound breathless, like she’s been running. “When she told me about the tuition, she also said something funny about having the money but not being responsible.” She heaves a breath. “Ican’t exactly remember—but it was something like that. It didn’t make sense then, but now...”
Her words trail off. She peeks over at me.
I’m deep in thought. “Why would your mom steal a poem from your journal?”
“Four lines,” she grumbles. “The rest was better.”
“I liked it.” I laugh at myself. “Obviously.”
“Thanks.”
The best I can think of is, “She was probably leaving breadcrumbs in case you eventually found out about the stolen money.” I stare at the house, thinking.
“My mom respects my privacy.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t see her rooting through my room.”
“If she wasn’t sending me the messages…” I catch her gaze. “Who the hell was I talking to?”
She eases back against her seat. “I have no idea. But whoever it was will get a piece of my mind.”
“The messages came from your home. We know that by the VPN. It was someone who was in your house and had access to your journal and the family desktop.” I think of the boy. “Could it have been someone from school? Who has been in your house this past year?”
“Let’s see… me, Mom, Grandma—Grandpa can’t even log in to the computer—and…” She’s debating saying his name, but finally, it comes out. “And Carter. There have been times when he’d be waiting for me to return from work. It could have been that he was in the house alone, but not often.”
I hate feeling this way again. Humiliated. Hopeless. I rake a hand through my hair. “Fuck!”
“Wow.”
I glance over at her. “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” she smiles. “We’re home. Let’s go in.”
Home. There’s that funny word again. I think of our two bedrooms.
She clicks off the phone, sliding it into the cupholder. “Want to have a sleepover in my room tonight?”