Page 64 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

“Uh—yes. Maybe.” Emily felt her mouth fill with cotton. Ricky passed out in the front yard. Nardo and Blake in the house somewhere. Clay and Emily outside by the pool. They wouldn’t have been swimming. The pool had been covered and the water was too cold anyway. Why were they alone outside? That had to mean something.

“All right, that’s settled.” Mr. Wexler tapped her notepad. “Write it down if it helps. You called me because you were arguing with Clay. I picked you up. I brought you home. End of story.”

Emily started to write the words, but she had to ask, “What was I arguing with Clay about?”

“Fuck if I know. Just pick an earlier fight and say it was ongoing. You kids piss each other off all the time.” Mr. Wexler stood up. “You should get to class. Don’t talk to any of them about this, okay? You know they’ll take Clay’s side and I don’t want you to lose your friends over something stupid.”

The cotton in her mouth turned to concrete. She had worried about losing the clique, but now she could feel the loss in a very real way. They were going to abandon her. The friends she’d clung to, the pals she’d known since first grade, the people she’d hung around with for every free moment outside of school for the last decade, would abandon her when things got difficult.

Especially if the difficult thing involved Clay.

Mr. Wexler said, “If your parents confront you about it, just stick to the story and we’ll be fine. I’ll tell them the same thing.”

Emily looked at her notebook. She had written one word—Clay.

“Emily.” Mr. Wexler looked at his watch. “Come on, go to class. I can’t write you guys any more late passes. Mr. Lampert already told me that some of the teachers are ratting me out for playing favorites. I bet it’s Darla North. God, that stupid bitch can’t keep her fat mouth shut.”

Emily packed up her notebook and pen. She stood up. She walked toward the door.

And then she turned around.

“Mr. Wexler?” she asked. “There’s just one more thing.”

He looked at his watch again. “What is it?”

“My grandmother …” Emily had to stop strategizing. She needed to open up her mouth and talk. “That night you brought me home. She said that my dress was torn. And that it was on inside out.”

Mr. Wexler’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like a piece of glass was sticking out of his face.

Emily said, “That’s what she noticed about me when I got out of your car.”

He rubbed his scruffy cheek again. She could hear the bristle scrape against his fingers.

Emily dropped the hammer. “What should I say when my father asks about that?”

He was motionless at first, and then he moved so quickly that Emily found herself incapable of reacting until he’d pressed her back against the wall and slapped one sweaty hand over her mouth and grabbed her neck with the other.

She choked for air, clawing at the back of his hand. Her feet brushed against the ground. He had lifted her just enough so that she could do nothing but gasp for air.

“You listen to me, you little bitch.” His breath was a foul mixture of coffee and whiskey. “You’re not telling your father a goddamn thing. Do you understand me?”

She couldn’t answer because his fingers were digging into her throat.

“I picked you up from Nardo’s. You were having a bullshit fight with Clay. I took you home. That’s it.” His grip tightened. “Do you understand me?”

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Her eyelids started to flutter.

In an instant, he had let her go. Emily dropped to the floor. Her fingers went to her bruised neck. She could feel the arteries throbbing. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mr. Wexler squatted in front of her. His finger jammed in her face. “Tell me what you’re going to say.”

“It—” She coughed. Blood dribbled into her throat. “It wasn’t you.”

“It wasn’t me,” he repeated. “Nardo called me to pick you up. I went to his house. You were fighting with Clay. I drove you home. I never touched you, or ripped your dress, or …”

Emily watched his eyes narrow. His gaze traveled slowly down from her face to her belly. She could almost hear a bell go off inside of his head.

“Fuck,” Mr. Wexler said. “You’re pregnant.”