Piper The Day She Fell

Piper

The Day She Fell

As soon as Savannah's door creaks open, my ears perk up. Something rustles in the kitchen. Of course—minutes after shattering my world, she's grabbing a snack. I tiptoe down the hall, lift the keys to her car slowly from the hook, and ease open the front door. Then I slip out into the afternoon sunlight.

Tears blur my vision as I drive the short distance to Grayling High. I left at the beginning of sixth period, so school has only been out for half an hour. Mr. Davis will be in the athletics office. Alex called after my fight with Savannah, asking if I wanted to study for our AP physics quiz. I had to talk to someone, so I answered. Maybe I shouldn't have, because he didn't like my plan, and he sounded like he might try to stop me.

I pull the chain link from my pocket, tumbling it around in my hand. I ended the call with Alex before he managed to talk sense into me. The truth is, I know that what I'm about to do doesn't look good on paper. My big sister should be solving my problems, not causing them. Yet I'm the one sitting here in tear-streaked desperation, waiting for Mr. Davis to escort me to the gallows.

I still have to do it.

Before homecoming, I really thought Savannah and I had turned a corner. I'd forgiven her, shown her that being sisters trumps everything. And she'd sacrificed all the pre-dance pomp and circumstance that goes with being queen to help me. For the first time in forever, I'd felt like we were close.

And then when Noah and Jacey betrayed me, she was nowhere to be found.

I remember her words from earlier today with a stab. We're done, Piper. As far as I'm concerned, you don't exist.

As far as my sister's concerned, maybe I've never existed at all.

But after today—after I save her from her own mistakes and probably ruin my entire future in the process—she's going to remember me.

And maybe even love me.

I wipe my tears, dry my hand on my jeans, and knock on the athletics office door. Mr. Davis doesn't answer, but the door is cracked, so I give it a nudge. The small room is empty. Some papers are scattered over the desk, and his laptop is here, screen saver flashing. He must've gone to make copies or grab coffee in the teachers' lounge. The last of the students has long since shuffled out of the hallway, leaving only the distant rumble of voices on the outdoor fields. I pull out my phone—four p.m.

Then, with a pinch of disappointment, I remember. Survival Club is meeting up on the trail this afternoon.

I start to leave, but something on the desk catches my eye. Something Mr. Davis has never left out before. The thing I've searched this office, his classroom desk, and the equipment locker for countless times since I heard him whispering with Jaime Sanderson two weeks ago.

His soccer binder.

It's finally here, right in front of me, after all these hours of playing TA and survival girl. Of course it's here, now that I'm in so much trouble the story no longer matters.

Or maybe it does .

I don't know exactly what I heard that day with Jaime. Maybe Mr. Davis has simply been helping some troubled students and that threat I found in my Survival Club backpack was someone messing with me. Maybe there's no deeper meaning, and if I close this case once and for all—if I can clear Mr. Davis's name and get the school board off his back—he'll overlook Savannah's and my crimes.

At this point, I certainly don't have much to lose. If he's hiking all the way to the Point, I should have plenty of time before he returns to lock up. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder into the hall and then stride to the desk.

The binder is thick, filled with dividers labeled things like PLAYER CONTACT INFO and HEALTH RELEASE FORMS. But on the first try, it opens to the subsection I'm looking for.

RANDOM DRUG TESTS.

I've done enough snooping over the last month to know that the league is looking into whether performance-enhancing drugs are the reason for the team's sudden spike in wins. I flip through the forms, all of which are marked "normal" in the results space in the upper right corner. Each is signed and stamped by a company called Phelps Lab, and there's a large manila envelope, already addressed to the athletics association. But for whatever reason, Mr. Davis never sent the forms.

It's a rather thin stack. I count them, and there are only eight forms, not even enough to field a team. It's still preseason; maybe these are the only returning players. But something gnaws at me as I flip through the pages. Ben Walters is a returning senior. His test isn't in here. And another player's form is missing too.

Jaime Sanderson's.

I shut the notebook and pull out my audio recorder. "Found Mr. Davis's random drug tests. Some are missing, including Jaime Sanderson's. Mr. Davis never sent the forms to the athletics association." I press stop, slide the device back into my jacket pocket, and stoop to check the trash. But there's nothing besides a browned apple core and a few crumpled sticky notes.

I spin around, the vein in my temple pulsating faster than it ever has before. Mr. Davis could return any second. There's a paper shredder in the corner. I kneel down clumsily and tug at the lid until it pops off, then sift through the slivers. It's impossible to tell if any of them came from a drug test without piecing them together, fragment by fragment.

I hold up one sliver to the light that filters through the small window, squinting to make out a word. I might have the beginning of a name. Ja —this could be it. My heart lifts, but then a deep voice hits me like an ice-cold wind.

"What are you doing in here?"

Keys jangle in the doorway as I turn to face him.