Chapter 22

"Fighting violence with violence solves nothing, kids."

"They made him sick, Mom!" I insist, fists balled up at my sides. Izzy and Waylon shuffle quietly behind me, letting me deal with this. "They're mean bullies and deserve to pay!"

We just got home after Mom had to pick us up early from school for fighting. We're suspended for three days. All three of us. I was hoping since we did it for a good reason, we wouldn't get in trouble.

Mom's mouth thins in that way it does when she's about to do a lecturin', and she gestures for us to take a seat at the kitchen table.

Because Izzy's parents are at the hospital with Jeremy—he went to the ER last night when he threw up blood after dinner—she's staying with us tonight.

Waylon too, since his dad had to work doubles yesterday and today. And we're still too young to stay home alone.

Mom was able to take off from the diner, given what's going on.

I glance at Waylon. He's been extra quiet since Principal Gibson called his dad to tell him what's going on. Pale too. His dad's really strict, so I don't blame him for being worried about punishment. He's probably going to be grounded twice as long as Izzy and me.

"Your dad's a cop though!" I'd told him in the car, when he looked like he was gonna throw up. "If anyone will understand why we had to do this, he will."

Waylon didn't seem too sure about that. He just turned away to rest his head against the window and closed his eyes.

Izzy, on the other hand, spoke with her mom on my mom's cell phone. I was sitting in the middle between her and Waylon, so I could hear everything. Mrs. Montgomery told her they'd talk about this at home, and said she needs to let the grown-ups handle this. She also told her she loved her—that they all love her—and Jeremy said hi.

I haven't seen Jeremy since before he went to the hospital. I asked Mom if we could go visit him, but she said he'd be home by tomorrow, and I can stop over to see him when we drop Izzy off.

Now, the three of us take a seat at the table, with Waylon taking the furthest chair away from Mom, the one at the opposite end facing her. Izzy and I sit across from each other in the middle.

"Look, kids, I get you guys feel helpless right now with what's going on," Mom says.

I push my lips together in a frown.

Izzy's got hers pursed, cheeks puffed out like a balloon—like she's trying really hard not to say a word.

Waylon just hangs his head, black hair falling all around his face, long over-do for a trim. But he doesn't seem to mind.

"But JJ's going to be okay," Mom goes on softly. "And the grown-ups will handle what's been going on at school. Not you three little fighting musketeers, okay?"

Izzy giggles at that, and I wiggle in my seat, grinning evilly.

Waylon's peeking up through his bangs.

Mom looks at each of us and sighs. "You three are gonna be trouble when you're older, aren't you?"

Izzy and I look at each other and nod real big.

Even Waylon's lips twist in a smile.

Later, Mom lets us watch The Three Musketeers on our new big TV in the living room, after we beg and beg and beg. Mom tells me I'm grounded starting tomorrow, once Waylon and Izzy go home. But after that—and after visiting Jeremy of course—I'm cut off from the world for a whole week.

Whatever that means.

Sounds scary.

I tell her as much and she just laughs. "Go enjoy your last night of freedom."

So that's what we do.

And at the end of the movie, the three of us lower our swords from where we've been fighting in the middle of the room—the table pushed back. Or rather, Waylon and I lower our light sabers, and Izzy lowers the fog-horn I'd bought last year at the St. Patrick's Day parade.

The end credits roll, music filling the room.

Izzy looks at each of us and says in a very serious tone, her face flushed, "If the grown-ups fail, we step in. The three musketeers."

Waylon chuckles as I raise my light-saber in the air, roaring, "All for one!"

"Wait, wait!" Izzy says, holding up a hand. She curls the fingers of her free hand, leaving just her pinky up. "We have to spit on it. It won't count if we don't."

Waylon groans as I nod strongly and meet her in the middle, hooking our pinkies together.

"Come on, Way. Don't be a butthead. It's for the greater good."

He rolls his eyes, but sighs, and says, "Fine. But I don't wanna get in trouble."

"We won't, not unless we have to. We'll be stealthy. Plus, we're the good guys. We just might have to get our hands dirty sometimes. But heroes always come out on top, right?"

I nod. "Right."

She nods back firmly, and Waylon and I grin. She's so ridiculous when she gets like this—all serious and in charge.

She huffs and shakes our curled pinkies impatiently in Waylon's face.

He finally joins us, awkwardly twisting his finger with ours. When we're finally all connected, Izzy looks at each of us, her brown eyes blazing red in that way they do when she's excited and determined. "For JJ."

"For JJ," I say back. Waylon murmurs the same.

"And for anybody else gettin' picked on," Izzy adds, scowling. "Stupid bullies."

I nod, and this time Waylon's the one who mimics her words, his voice low and bitter.

"All for one?" Izzy says, looking at each of us.

Waylon and I murmur back, our pretend swords raised in the air. "And one for all."

At the same time, we all lean forward, kiss the side of our knuckles, and then spit behind our shoulders.

It's this moment, right here, that I realize just how happy I am that Mom moved us to Shiloh.

I have the best friends ever.

Izzy and Waylon and…

And Jeremy.

I frown, wishing he was here…

A horn beepingfrom somewhere has me flinching, the memory dissolving.

A heavy tension permeates the car. Save for the low hum of the engine, and whoosh of passing cars, it's utterly quiet. I wish Ray would turn on the radio. But he's pissed, so I don't risk asking.

Just like all those years ago, the first time we got in trouble for defending Jeremy when he was hospitalized for an ulcer, we had to be picked up from school for fighting. Only this time, Waylon's not with us. And Jeremy… well, he's not in the hospital, so that's something.

I flex and release my fingers in my lap a couple times, wincing at the stiffness as a bolt of pain shoots up my elbow.

The nurse said I was lucky I didn't break my hand, punching Clay like I did.

I've never punched someone before. And while I know I did it right—Mom had this boyfriend once, a couple years ago, who taught me how to form a proper fist and had me practice on this heavy bag he hung from our garage rafters—I didn't account for how hard a human jaw would be.

Lucky I didn't break anything is right.

Though I don't feel so lucky right now, wondering how long it'll be before I can play piano again.

As soon as that thought appears though, a different thought moves in, followed by flashing images of Jeremy's downturned face. The bruise. The cut. His tears…

And that picture.

That fucking goddamn picture.

Gritting my teeth, I turn to look out the window. My gaze catches on Izzy's reflection in the rearview mirror where she sits in the passenger seat, right in front of me.

She gives me a small smile, like she senses what I'm thinking.

And I'm thrown back to our conversation outside the Principal's office earlier, ice packs on both of our dominant hands as we waited for them to decide what to do with us.

"They need to let us go," I rush out, bobbing my knee.

"I know, I know."

"He ran out. You didn't see his face. What if? What if—" I can't even get the words out.

Izzy turns toward me and nods. "I know. Trust me. But he's okay." She lifts her hand—the one not currently being crushed by a bag of ice—and splays it over her chest. "I'd know if something was wrong."

I frown, not sure I believe all that twin voodoo.

She rolls her eyes. "He wouldn't do anything."

You didn't hear him in the hallway, I think. You didn't see his face in the bathroom.

"He wouldn't," she repeats firmly, as if reading my mind. Her jaw tightens, eyes growing red, and I wonder if maybe that twin connection is as much a coping mechanism as it is bullshit.

"The picture… they sent it to….to everyone…"

"I know."

"They made him do it."

"I know," she grits.

"I'm gonna kill them."

She quickly hushes me, darting a paranoid look around. "Don't say that. They know about the picture. Teachers saw his face in the cafeteria. We told them everything we know…" Her mouth thins and she stares hard down at the ice pack resting against the hand she used to bloody Ethan's nose.

There's some on her shirt.

At least one of us got a proper hit in. I stupidly went for the jaw instead—eye for an eye and all. It probably won't even bruise.

I should probably feel some shame that my girlfriend can hit better than me, but all I feel is glad.

Glad at least one of those assholes bled for what they did.

Not enough. Not fucking enough.

A long moment passes, and I realize why she's being so quiet.

She's crying.

"Iz?" I whisper.

She lifts tear-filled eyes to mine and shakes her head. "I hate this," she whispers near-soundlessly.

Throat tight, I nod. "Me too."

"I thought it stopped."

My eyes slide shut, and I nod. Me too.

She sniffs. A beat passes, then?—

"Thank you."

I open my eyes. Frown. "For what? I didn't?—"

"You did though. You always have." She shrugs, smiling, and it's a wet, shaky thing. "I'm so glad he has you as a friend." Her voice breaks, hitching with a restrained sob.

My throat and eyes are on fire. All I can say, my voice rough, is, "You don't have to thank me for that. That's not?—"

"I know. You know what I mean."

"It's not out of pity," I utter carefully, just to make sure it's out there.

She quickly shakes her head, and reaches over with her good hand, clasping my good one. "I know, Mason. You don't have to convince me. You two…you've always been close. Sometimes closer than I think even you and I are."

I huff a quiet laugh at that, about to disagree—she's my girlfriend after all; she's supposed to be the closest person I have—but we're interrupted by a door opening, and Principal McIntyre waving us in.

"Showtime," Izzy whispers.

I'm jerked backto the present once more when Ray makes an unexpected right at the intersection, leading us under the bridge, rather than parallel to it.

"Dad?" Izzy says.

"Mason's going home."

I sit up straight, the seatbelt keeping me back in my seat. "But, Ra?—"

Our gazes meet in the mirror. "You both are grounded. I spoke with your mom on the way to the school. She agreed. You two can survive a week without seeing each other."

A week…

"But Dad?—"

"No buts Isobel. You both are lucky you didn't break your hands. What were you thinking?"

I look down at my knuckles which are already twice the size they normally are, bruises already forming. I didn't break skin though.

Lucky.

Jeremy wasn't so lucky.

"We were thinking that Ethan and Clay needed their skulls bashed in."

"Isobel!"

"What?" Izzy explodes, whirling toward the driver's seat. I can just make out her profile, and the long brown hair swinging with her movements. "You didn't see what they did."

Ray's eyes fall shut for a beat, before refocusing on the road ahead. His fists tighten around the steering wheel. "I did though. I saw the picture."

An ache spears through my chest.

Jeremy…

"And his face?"

Ray's jaw works. "Not in person. Mom sent me a picture. I showed the principal, and they printed a copy for evidence should we decide to press charges."

I perk up at that. "Charges?"

Ray's gaze flickers to mine. "Ethan's going to be expelled regardless. That's already been decided." He blows out a breath and refocuses on the road ahead. "He was already on his third warning, apparently. The picture combined with Clay's cooperation?—"

"Cooperation?" Izzy interrupts. "He was part of it. He?—"

"He backed up what happened. Confessed to taking the picture. But it was Ethan who…who hurt Jeremy."

My gaze grows hazy, anger once more rising to the surface.

"And Clay? What about his role in this? He's the one who orchestrated it all. He's been the problem all along. The others are just his…"—she waves a hand—"idiot lackeys."

Ray nods. "I know. But…" He lifts a shoulder. "This time…this time it was Ethan."

Shaking my head, I aim a glare out the window, watching the trees pass in a blur without really seeing anything.

"So Jeremy's home?" I say.

A beat passes, then, "Yeah. He ran home. Eva left work early, same as me. She went right home and checked on him."

Jaw clicking, I nod.

Izzy mutters, "This is bullshit."

"Isobel."

"What?"

"Do you kids think we're not aware of what's going on?"

"Then why aren't you doing anything?" she shouts again.

"We're trying. He—he told us it got better. We keep tabs as much as we can without violating his privacy, same as you. We can't fix what we don't know about."

There's a sniffle from the front seat, then, "I should've known."

"This isn't on you, Bells."

"He's my twin. I should've…I should've sensed it. Should've protected him."

No one says anything after that, not for the remaining two minutes of the drive.

I check my phone again, but still no response to my messages. As soon as I was in the car and buckled up, I popped back in the battery and turned my phone back on—they'd confiscated it when they broke up the fight and escorted us to the office. I've tried texting Jeremy. So far, no response.

But he's home.

His mom's there.

He'll be fine.

The car turns, slowing to a crawl as my house appears through the trees. When he stops the car, I unbuckle, and throw my door open at the same time Izzy does the same.

Our eyes meet, and she smiles, shrugs. "A whole week."

My mouth twists. "Whatever will you do without me?"

She presses her swollen, bruised hand to her chest, and the back of the uninjured one to her forehead, pretending to swoon. "Surely, I shall perish."

We meet together in a hug, being mindful of our injuries.

It feels weird that Waylon's not in on this this time around, but he's been out sick with the flu the last couple days. Which is probably for the best. His dad's a real piece of work—drunk more often than not. A total deadbeat. Waylon's all but raised himself, with the exception of the Montgomerys of course. And my mom. Linda and Gavin too, to some degree, over the years. And occasionally, an uncle who I've only met a handful of times.

Waylon insists his dad's just neglectful—that he doesn't hit him or anything—but sometimes I have my doubts. Izzy too. But he insists it's never gotten that bad. That he can handle it.

Still, he tries to keep a low profile.

"I'll miss you," Izzy says quietly, pulling back.

I nod. Smile. "Me too."

She pushes up on her toes and kisses me, and I kiss her back. I feel the wet tip of a tongue, and flinch back, bugging my eyes at her, before darting a pointed look at the car. Her dad is literally right there.

She just laughs and winks, before whirling away from me, and climbing back inside the vehicle.

Crazy girl.

Just before she slams the door, she throws out, "All for one?"

I grin, and salute her. "And one for all."

She salutes me back, and closes the door. Behind her, I can just make out Ray shaking his head.

Turning for the house, I take out my phone, hiking my bag up on my shoulder. I tap the screen. Still no messages.

This time I try calling.

"Come on," I mutter.

It goes to voicemail.

Shaking my head, I stare up at the overcast sky.

And everyone says Izzy is the stubborn one…