Blood on My Hands

come you’re not sitting with us anymore?”
    “What does Katherine say?” she asked.
    “You know her. She never says anything.”
    “Has anyone asked her?”
    “Not when I was around
    What do they say when she’s not around?”
    It never ceased to amaze me how certain she and Katherine were that everyone talked about them. “Everyone’s just wondering what happened.”
    “And you’re sure Katherine hasn’t said anything?”
    “Not to me.”
    There was a short pause and then she said, “Have you spoken to Slade?”
    It didn’t feel like we were having a conversation. Rather, it felt like she was running down a prepared list of questions.
    “No,” I answered.
    There was another short silence, then that brief blank sound when another call is coming in. “It’s my mom,” Dakota said. “Talk to you later.”
    “Do you think I’m sexy?”
    “Sure.”
    “You’re going to do what I want you to do?”
    “I said I would, and I will.”
    “Good, because I did what I said I’d do.”

Chapter 31
    Tuesday 4:32 P.M.
    A HUNDRED YARDS south of the train station, a bridge goes over the railroad tracks. That afternoon around four thirty, I ride toward the bridge on Alyssa Lamont’s old pink bicycle. I have the lollipop in my mouth and I’m wearing the candy-cane framed glasses and pink baseball cap. I stop on the sidewalk at the middle of the bridge and look toward the station. On both sides of the tracks are long flat platforms. On the platform on the left side is the glass-enclosed warming room.
    People stand on both platforms—nannies, laborers, men and women in business clothes with briefcases, and teenagers with backpacks filled with books. A southbound train pulls into the station. People get on and off, and a few moments later, the train leaves. But strangely, two men, one at either end of the platform, don’t get on the train, nor are they now exiting the platform. They just stand there as if they’re waiting for another train. One reads a folded newspaper. The other appears to be fiddling with an iPod.
    A few minutes later, the same thing happens on the northbound platform. A train pulls in, people get on and off. But when the train departs, there’s still a woman on the far end of the platform and a man on the near end.
    I wait and watch. It is nearly rush hour and not long before more trains come and go and more people get on and off. But those four people remain.
    There was another change at the table. Katherine turned cool to me. Once again I felt like I was out of the loop. I felt confused and uncertain of what to do. But this time I wasn’t as eager to find out why she was acting that way. I was still bothered by and unsure about what had happened at the party the night before school had begun.
    Mia still came to the table at lunch, but she no longer asked whether anyone had plans or wanted to do something with her after school. She would just sit there quietly, trying to act like she didn’t care.
    Most of the girls at our table ate salads or brought yogurt and fruit or vegetables from home. Everyone agreed the school food was gross. The exception was Mia, who bought a school lunch each day and clearly enjoyed pasta and pizza and fries, as well as ice cream, pudding, or cake for dessert. One day at lunch, I noticed that Katherine had a frown on her face. She was staring at Mia, who, somewhat obliviously, was sliding her finger around the inside of a plastic container, collecting the very last traces of chocolate pudding, then sticking her finger in her mouth and licking it clean.
    When Mia got up to return her tray to the kitchen, Katherine immediately turned to me. “Tell that fat pig that she’s no longer sitting at this table.”
    The cheerful mood around the table vanished. Everyone went silent. Mia might not have been skinny, but she hardly qualified as fat. “Why?” I asked.
    “Because she’s disgusting and the way she eats is gross.”
    It was an order, and I knew I had a choice. Follow it, and remain at the table, or disobey, and be cut loose.
    I watch from the bridge over the tracks while those four people below stand around not taking trains. Strangely, instead of feeling angry at Jerry, I feel bad. When my phone suddenly became untraceable, did the police figure out that I’d gone to his house and that he’d helped me? I wouldn’t be surprised if they threatened to arrest him if he didn’t cooperate.
    But what if I’m wrong? Those four people could be standing