Piper The Day She Fell

Piper

The Day She Fell

"I don't know anything about it," Grant says. I've led him around the main building, following the chain-link fence that borders the athletic fields. The football players must be at weight training, because there's no one around. At least, no one Grant cares about. An occasional cross-country runner jogs by, and color guard flags twirl in the shade of the trees at the far side of the fields.

"Please," I beg, shutting my eyes, racking my brain for how to make him see. But instead, the tears finally come, and Grant stares at me like I've lost my mind. "You don't understand how much I need this. How everything will be ruined if I can't write this story."

"Maybe I should call your sister." He glances at his phone.

"No!" I say, too fast.

"Then talk to me. Don't go snooping around Mr. Davis's office, though." Grant's tone is stern, but his hazel eyes soften as I sniffle pathetically. "He's not covering up some drug scandal. You of all people should know that."

"If you tell me what you know, I'll leave your name out of the story. I promise."

"You'll leave my name out of the story because there is no story."

He turns to leave, but a spark alights in my brain, pushing me to go after him.

"That's not what I gathered from Mr. Davis's office. Some random drug tests were missing. Including yours." This is a complete gamble; I never had the chance to look for Grant's test. "Any idea why that would be?"

He only frowns, so I press on. "Because I have a guess. I think it's because you and those other guys tested positive for anabolic steroids, and now Mr. Davis is scrambling for a way to fake the tests before he sends them to the athletics association."

Grant peeks over his shoulder, then leans in close. "You don't know what you're talking about." His breath is hot on my face.

But I see it in his jaw—a nervous twitch, like a worm beneath the skin, trying to bust its way out. He knows something.

"I'm going—"

"You'll talk, Grant," I interrupt, flinging a strand of hair out of my eye. "Or I will." He licks his lips, and he's still so close to me that my insides bunch up. But I force my shoulders down, force my face to relax. "Now, tell me why some of the drug tests are missing."

He glances around one more time, and then exhales slowly. "Mr. Davis called a handful of us into his office. He said we had to retest because our results had been compromised."

"What does that mean?"

Grant crosses his arms. "If my name comes up—and I mean ever —you're going to pay." He bares a flash of teeth like an animal, and I want to back up.

Instead, I force out, "It won't." Despite his threats, Grant knows I have the upper hand. Even if he's not worried about his athletic future, he's still worried about what my sister thinks of him. He can't walk away now. "You can tell me."

He flushes, fingers twisting the sports watch on his wrist. "I let those other guys use my"—his eyes drop down to my sneakers—" sample to pass the test. And I guess it was a mistake. The lab must've known we'd all used the same sample."

"You cheated."

"To help out some friends."

"Right," I say, trying to sound indifferent. Trying hard not to make a comment about how he and Savannah really are a match made in heaven.

A perfect pair of cheaters.

"Mr. Davis made us retest right then," Grant says, "only this time, we went into the bathroom individually, and the door was guarded. Our new test results aren't in his office because it takes a few weeks." He stretches to look out at the lot over my shoulder. "We shouldn't talk about this here."

"Okay, then." I spin around and head down the steps toward the parking lot. "Anywhere you want to talk about it is good with me. Who's driving?" I dig my keys from my pocket, but when I look up, I spot Abby. My steps halt.

Her curly red hair is unmistakable across the parking lot. "Ab—" I start to call out before thinking better of it. Her back is pressed against the driver's side door of a black truck, and she's looking at her phone.

She's supposed to be up on the trail with the rest of the club. Something definitely isn't right. She spins around and says something through the window to a person sitting in the driver's seat. Probably Sam. Which means only half the club was invited to this extra meeting.

Or was it only me?

I want to go over there and ask why she handed me a fishy invitation to a meeting that no one's attending, but Grant is still standing behind me, shoe tapping anxiously on the asphalt.

"Sorry," I say. "So? Where to?"

"I can't be seen with you," Grant hisses. "Not by them. Not if you're going to write this story."

"Not by who?"

Grant scratches his head, then tips it subtly toward Sam's truck.

"Other Survival Club members?"

"They aren't just Survival Club members," he mumbles. "Look, like I said, I never took stuff. Never even bought anything. But I've seen the other guys—the ones who had to be retested—buy stuff. And that scruffy kid…"

"Sam," I say. Grant shoots me a be quiet look.

"He's their supplier," he says through barely cracked lips.

"No way."

"I've got to go." He starts fumbling for his keys. "Don't try to contact me about this again."

"Wait a minute," I say, but he's already past the first row of cars. And I'm not sure I care. Because across the lot, Sam gets out of the driver's side of his truck and walks off toward the football bleachers, maybe to have a smoke. I wait for Abby to follow, but she climbs into the passenger side of the truck, and the door clunks shut behind her.

Too many bizarre things are going on, like that invitation to a club meeting that doesn't seem to be happening. And Abby's part of it all. I'm not sure how, but after bending Grant to my will like I have telekinetic powers, I feel like I just might be able to get a few more answers. Abby's dating the dealer, so she might have some.

And she's right over there.