Page 9 of What Boys Learn

“Izzy left a note that hinted at a suicide pact.”

“But Izzy and Sidney weren’t even close friends anymore. They had a falling-out.”

“So, youdohave information you haven’t shared.”

Duplass seemed to be suggesting I was hiding something, intentionally. Even a hint of an accusation sent my blood pressure rising.

“Did I miss a checkbox I should have ticked? Normal teen drama?”

“You didn’t mention it to her father.”

“Breaking off a friendship is common. They were kids.”

“It might be important, a girl getting cut off from her friend. It might lead her to do something she wouldn’t normally do. So much for your theory.”

“It wasn’t a theory.”

“Your doubts, then. It looks like these girls had a plan.”

In the mirrored closet door, I saw my reflection. Mussed hair in a ponytail. College T-shirt, damp with sweat. I still looked and felt like a student, not an experienced counselor by any means.

Duplass said, “Don’t come to school tomorrow. Let’s call it a soft suspension. You’ll get your final paycheck. We’ll call when we hear more.”

“Yes, keep me in the loop, please,” I said. “Dean Duplass—”

But she’d hung up.

5

Iwas grateful to have an hour to myself before Benjamin arrived home, face pink with sunburn, shaggy dark hair still slightly damp from his swim.

“I have to tell you something,” I said as soon as he closed the door behind him.

He evaded my glance, slipped his sockless feet out of his big running shoes, and proceeded directly toward the refrigerator. “I know about Sidney. Everyone knows.”

“There’s something else.”

My plan was to deliver the news calmly and then embrace him, but he scooted away too quickly. I sank down into the couch and called out, “When you’re done grazing, please come in here.”

The apartment was tiny. The living room and kitchen formed a nondescript rectangle bisected by a laminatecovered peninsula. No entry hall. No front closet. No dining room. It looked more like a motel room with a kitchenette than a family apartment.

Finally, the fridge door closed and Benjamin made his way to the living room where he stood in front of me. Generic soda in one hand, turkey lunch meat in the other, dark brown eyes still pink ringed with the impressions left by his swimming goggles. He’d been in the pool a long time, but I could never tell if those endless laps were a sign of discipline, frustration, or something else he wouldn’t share with me.

“Isabella Scarlatti was found dead,” I said.

He pushed the lunch meat into his mouth. His expression didn’t change.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know how to break the news. It must be terrible for you.”

His eyes went to the ceiling, like he was thinking. Or angry. Or maybe just trying not to cry.

“Were you close to them?” I asked. “Sid, or Izzy? Both?”

“Not really,” he said, his jaw moving. He hadn’t swallowed the turkey completely. He was in shock, I told myself.

“I need to explain, or you won’t understand tomorrow, when I drop you off and don’t come in—”

“I can bike to school.”