“Yeah,” he says, and I know he’s thinking of Jackson now. A boy he tossed footballs with and jumped on beds with—a boy who was his friend once too.
My mom emerges from the conference room, pulling me into a tight hug as soon as she’s close enough. I breathe in her hair and touch her hand, noticing her wedding ring still there.
“Mom?”
She pulls back, but shakes her head. “Not now. But I told you, this will be okay. All right? For now, we go home. You rest.”
I nod, knowing there won’t be any more answers tonight. And maybe that’s okay. I think I’ve had enough answers for a lifetime.
• • •
Four weeks later and all that’s left of the madness are three empty lockers. Stella DuBois, Locker 268. Empty because she took a walk on the train tracks and never came home. Jackson Pierce, Locker 221. Empty because Jackson was shipped off to specialized correctional school as part of a plea bargain last week.
And Manny Raines, Locker 164. Empty because he’s been expelled. Sentenced to two years of probation. Kristen’s parents decided not to press charges, but the Internet libel on Tacey proved to be a big deal. Like two-years-of-electronically-monitored-probation big deal.
True to Detective Findley’s word, I was never arrested. But I’m on a disciplinary action plan with an unbelievable number of mandatory school service hours for the rest of my senior year. I think I got off too easy.
I slide my books into my locker and glance at Stella’s locker door. It’s been covered in stickers since the truth came out. Stickers of rainbows and cartoon characters. Stickers that belong on the back of skateboards and—my favorite—a scratch-and-sniff You Are Berry Good that reminds me of the first grade.
I don’t really know who started it, but everyone keeps it going. It’s stupid, maybe, but it’s how we remember. It’s a way to keep her with us.
“Hey, you,” Nick says.
I smile even before I feel his hand touch the small of my back. Then he takes my books and we make our way down the hall.
“Burgers tonight?” I ask. “That rubbery crap at the Dock is one step away from plastic.”
He shakes his head but pulls me closer. “Maybe I like my plastic pizza.”
Tacey jogs past. She offers me a quick nod. I smile back, holding my wince. Nick presses a kiss to my head. “She’s coming around.”
“It’s okay.” Even if it hurts like hell, it is okay. She needs time. I owe her that. I owe her a lot of things.
“Sadly, that’s not the only tough thing you have to deal with today,” Nick says. I can tell he doesn’t want to say the rest, but he does. “Manny’s here.”
“What do you mean? He’s expelled.”
“He is. He’s in the office with his dad. Waiting for files or something.”
I stop in the middle of the hallway, staring at my shoes, trying to imagine it. I haven’t seen him since the night in the locker room. I keep my eyes on the ground. My black shoes. Nick’s sneakers.
Another pair of feet comes into view. Just as big as Nick’s.
“Hi, Tate,” I say without looking.
“I take it she’s heard,” Connor says from behind me. I smell Hadley’s perfume, so she must be there.
“We can just take off,” Nick says. “The, uh, five of us. Cut class.”
I give him an incredulous look. Talk about a motley crew of misfits.
“Yeah, except Piper and I have service in half an hour,” Tate says. He’s got his share of school trouble too. It’s cool. Gives me somebody to talk to while we’re dismantling bulletin boards.
He’s right, though. We can’t go anywhere. Still, it’s nice that they’d try. That they’re working hard to be my friends despite this mess. I try to smile at them, but my mind is fixed on Manny.
He’s sitting in that office alone.
“I’m going to talk to him,” I say.
They want to argue. All of them. I can see it in their faces. But Nick squeezes my hand. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I am. The last time I walked away, we know what happened. I have to live with that.”
“Which is easier said than done,” Tate says. “I get it.”
He probably does. Better than anyone.
“I’ll be here,” Nick says. “I’ll wait.”
The rest of the crowd disperses, promising texts or calls, or, in Tate’s case, promising nothing.
The office is quiet. Mrs. Bluth is in the back making copies and Manny’s dad is filling out forms. Manny is slouched in the chair in the corner, staring so hard at the wall at the back of the office that I’m surprised it doesn’t crack under the strain.
I step inside, feet shuffling on the multicolored carpet. Manny’s dad sees me first. His face tightens and my stomach clenches, and I can tell right away that he doesn’t know what to do.
I hurt him. I hurt them both by turning Manny in. I doubt either one of them want me here.
But he’s still a good man. We exchange halfhearted smiles, and I long for the times of burned sandwiches and nicknames.
Somewhere in the office a vacuum cleaner hums to life. I think Manny has seen me now. I hear him shift on the wooden chair, and I force myself to look at him in a vague way that doesn’t let me see anything.
Ten feet stretch between me and Manny’s chair. It feels like ten miles. Maybe ten galaxies.
Enough. Get on with it.
I span the distance and eye the chair next to him. I aim for carefree but end up throwing myself down a little violently. Overthinking it as usual.
“Hey,” I say, and that’s pretty much all I’ve got.
“Sure you want to be this close to the criminal of Claireville High?”
There’s no friendly teasing in his tone. It’s cold and clipped.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“I wanted to say hello.”
“Why? We’re not friends.”
“We were once.”
“Well, if you’re expecting me to apologize and get all flowery and shit, it’s not going to happen,” he says. “I…”
He doesn’t finish, but his voice goes soft and I already know. He can’t say it. Good and bad, I still know him. So I know what it means when his words come out fast and clipped like this. Just like I know what it means when he grips the armrests of his chair so tight I can see his knuckles going white.
He’s hurt.
Hurt and scared and probably a few other things. All of them bad.
“I get it,” I tell him, dropping my voice to something soft and private. “I don’t agree with what you did. I never will. But I think I understand.”
He looks at me, eyes flinty. “Stop dressing it up. I went bad. It’s that simple.”
“It’s never that simple.”
I don’t realize how much I mean the words until they’re out of my mouth. There is no room for simple anymore. I’m not sure there ever was.
The secretary is stapling the copies, and I know this little bubble we’re in is about to pop. I turn to him, touching his arm.
“There’s still good in you, Manny. I won’t forget that. I hope you don’t either.”
“Hey. What did you ever do with that weird book?”
“I burned it.” Not technically true. We burned it. Me and Nick. Three days after the mess in the gymnasium. Despite his vow to destroy it, he still let me choose in the end.
He clucks his tongue. “That was a mistake. There was a lot of truth in that book.”
“Only parts of it. You can’t pick through the pieces. You have to look at the whole picture to see anything.”
He doesn’t respond, but when he looks back at the ground, I see his face go a little softer. He’s thinking it over. It isn’t a miracle. It isn’t much of anything, but I’ll take it.
Nick is waiting outside
on the steps. The sun is warm and the air smells like a promise. I move close to him, shielding my eyes with my hand. He leans in and kisses me, and we take off across the parking lot.
I hear a train whistle in the distance, low and long. I smile and think of Stella. This time it doesn’t feel like good-bye; it feels like a reminder. I hold it tight and walk on.
Thank you for reading!
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing Piper’s journey was tough stuff, and I couldn’t have done it without a lot of support. First and foremost, thank you God for giving me so many wonderful people to help me along the way.
Gone Too Far wouldn’t have been possible without an amazing publishing team at Sourcebooks. To Kate Prosswimmer, Rachel Gilmer, Adrienne Krogh, Kelly Lawler, Will Riley, Gretchen Stelter, and all the other geniuses that have touched my book and made it better—my sincerest thanks. Most of all to my editor, Aubrey, I’m so grateful for your insight and enthusiasm for my work—you are the coolest beans ever. Thanks so much for helping me find the heart of this book.
I’m blessed with an agent who’s as sweet and funny as she is wise—Cori, thank you for the late nights and holiday weekends. Your friendship and guidance mean the world to me.
I also want to thank Leah, who found a critical missing piece of this story early on. Unlike a Lannister, I have no idea how I’ll repay this debt.
I’m so grateful for my wonderful friends Robin and Sheri for always being available to brainstorm and talk me off a thousand ledges at every odd hour. Thanks for making me laugh and keeping me sane.
To my darling Doomsdaisies Meg, Pintip, Cecily, and Steph, and to my lovely friends in OHYA, Erin McCahan, Julia Devillers, Lisa Klein, Margaret Haddix, Edith Patou, Linda Gerber, and my writing soul sister, Jody Casella, you guys are all wonderful.
Gone Too Far wouldn’t have gone anywhere without my fifth Doomsdaisy, Romily Bernard. Rom, I’d still be editing this book if you hadn’t scraped me off the floor and pried it from my hands. I owe you a bedazzled monocle, my friend. Can we go to the island compound yet?
I’d also like to thank Shaina, who taught me about cheerleading and kept me sane on countless oh-dark-thirty shifts. Also to Angela for her photography expertise, abundance of awesome, and lemon chicken soup. And of course to the real Dr. Stiers, who probably does speak five languages!
A hug and a thank you to Dad, Karen, and Leigh Anne. You read it first and said it was special. I adore you for that. And to Tiffany, who’s close to the heart of this story for many reasons.
There are lots of great people in my life, more than I have space to name, but I’m thankful for you all. Some of the newest folks I have to thank include the ones I’ve met on my publication journey. So a special thanks to the readers, bloggers, librarians, booksellers, and teachers who embraced my first book and are back for more. I feel so incredibly lucky. Truly.
As always, thank you, David. You know the often ugly reality of living with a writer on deadline and I’m so grateful for your support. And to our three children, Ian, Adrienne, and Lydia—you teach me so much about goodness. I love you guys.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natalie D. Richards spent years writing factual, necessary things for financial and legal companies before deciding she’s much better suited to making things up. She traded in her cubicle for a preferred corner of the couch, where she writes fiction for teens. Natalie lives in Central Ohio with her husband, three children, and a giant fur ball named Yeti.
For more information, visit her at www.nataliedrichards.com or follow her on Twitter @NatDRichards. Gone Too Far is her second book.
Forgetting changed her. Remembering might destroy her.
Don’t miss
SIX MONTHS LATER
Natalie D. Richards
CHAPTER ONE
I’m sitting next to the fire alarm, and my best friend is going down in flames. Irony or divine intervention? I can practically feel the metal handle under my fingers. It might as well be whispering my name.
Tempting. One strategic arm stretch and I could send this whole school into an evacuation frenzy.
I could end Maggie’s nightmare right now.
At the front of the classroom, she swallows hard. She is as pale and shaky as the paper in her hands.
“The social p-pressures and isolation encountered b-by male n-n—”
I can’t let her suffer like this.
Maggie shakes her head and tries to shrug it off with a sheepish grin. “S-sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Mrs. Corwin says, playing with the cat pendant around her neck. “There’s no reason to be scared.”
She thinks stuttering is a fear problem? Aren’t teachers supposed to know about speech issues and all that crap? Then again, what can I expect from a woman who has professionally framed pictures of her beloved Siamese, Mr. Whiskers, on her desk?
Maggie takes a breath. “The p-pressures and isolation encountered by male n-nurses in a predominantly f-female occupation is a compelling argument f-f-f—” She trails off, going crimson.
Someone snickers from the front.
“Go on, Maggie,” Mrs. Corwin says. Again.
I’m going to do it.
Beside me, Blake Tanner shifts in his chair. I know this partly because I have good peripheral vision, but mostly because I have freakishly sensitive Blake radar. I hesitate, breathing in the clean hint of his cologne, watching him softly drum a thumb on his desktop.
My face goes hot. I can’t do this with him sitting here. I’m completely invisible to this guy. And now I’m finally going to get his attention by, what? By pulling a fire alarm? Yes, I’m sure that will send a great message. To the guy who’s been on the student council since the eighth grade.
Maggie tosses her hair back, forging on. “It’s a compelling argument f-for s-s-sexism against men. In most modern contexts, concerns about s-s-s-s—”
Maggie goes pink and then red. Tyler and Shannon laugh in the back, and my eyes start to well up. Screw it. I can’t sit here for one more second of one more minute.
I sink down as far as I can in my chair and start sliding my arm back along the wall. I reach up, but I’m grasping blind. It kind of hurts. I touch something cool and metal. Bingo. Two seconds and this misery is over.
Blake clears his throat and I bite my lip. Is he watching me?
What’s wrong with me? Of course he’s not watching me. I’m invisible.
I turn my head because I’m sure I feel someone’s eyes on me. I do.
Adam Reed. He’s slouched low in his seat, his dark hair in desperate need of the business end of a pair of scissors.
Adam arches one of his brows at me. The half smile on his lips asks me what I’m waiting for. I don’t really have an answer, so I curl my fingers over the alarm handle and pull hard. And then I kiss my detention-free junior year good-bye.
• • •
Maggie is waiting outside the principal’s office. She’s got a couple of notebooks clutched in her arms and a pencil securing her strawberry blond waves into a bun.
The office door is barely closed when she starts in on me. “What were you thinking? You c-could have been expelled.”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and offer our school s
ecretary, Mrs. Love, a wave. Maggie takes the cue and follows me briskly back into the hallway. Students are slamming locker doors and texting madly in the few minutes between periods.
Someone whistles, and across the hall, Connor holds two thumbs up. “Let’s hear it for fire safety!”
The hallway bursts into a smattering of applause and wolf calls. I blush but give a little bow with a flourish of my hand.
We make our way to the stairs, climbing them two at a time.
“So what happened, Chloe? How b-bad is it?”
“I got a week of detention and a lecture about applying my interest in psychology to evaluating my episodes of acting out.”
Maggie looks away, and I can tell she’s biting her tongue.
I know that look. It means she’s working hard to say something in a way that won’t offend the hell out of me.
“Spit it out. You’re obviously dying to insert commentary.”
She sighs. “Look, I know you w-wanted to help me, but you’ve got to start thinking about yourself, Chloe. Sometimes it’s like you’re running away from everything you want.”
I try not to look as hurt as I feel. “It’s not like I’m afraid of being good, Mags.”
She just laughs and takes my arm. “You jumped off the Third Street Bridge on a dare, which proves you’re not afraid of anything. It also proves you’re insane.”
“Watch it.”
I take a breath as we pass the drinking fountains, heading close to the last stretch of lockers in the hall. An otherwise unremarkable place in this building except for the fact that it’s the Blake Zone.
As if on cue, he closes his locker door and appears, the tall, popular king of this lonely hallway. He laughs at a joke I don’t hear. It’s a perfect laugh that matches his perfect teeth and his perfect everything else.
I sigh. “Did Blake seem…disappointed?”
She blows out an impatient breath and rolls her eyes at me. “I didn’t really think to dissect Blake’s expression in the chaos and p-panic of the fire evacuation.”