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Chapter 10: Who is He (And What is He to You?)

Who is He (And What is He to You?)

Jack, October

Since she made that touchdown Friday night, the entire school is buzzing about Peyton. She's been taken from the shadows and thrust into the spotlight, over night. Most people are being cool about it, but there are still the haters who are more comfortable with the status quo.

Bree might just be one of them.

"I just find it very suspect, that's all," she says to me as we're walking to lunch.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it. Cash is out due to injuries. Injuries inflicted on him by her boy, Marshall. And now that Cash is out, she gets her opportunity to play. Don't you think that was all part of her plan?"

"Her boy, Marshall?" I'm starting to get annoyed.

She shrugs. "Haven't you noticed that they're always together? Like in the halls and stuff."

"So, you're saying that she's the mastermind behind this whole thing?"

"I'm saying it's possible that all of this isn't a coincidence."

"Who's telling you this shit? Cash?"

She stops and turns to stare me down. "I can think for myself, Chap."

"Okay, detective. But it still doesn't make sense. She got to play because Louie Diaz was failing chemistry. Do you think she and the chemistry teacher are in cahoots too? I really don't think she's that calculating." I start walking toward the cafeteria again.

"You're too trusting," she says, catching up and looping her arm through mine. "And you underestimate how manipulative girls can be."

I don't tell her the real reason Marshall attacked Cash. Maybe I should, but that can't come out. Peyton would be humiliated if everyone knew. And I'm not so trusting to believe that Bree would keep that info to herself. Or wouldn't twist it to make Peyton the guilty party somehow.

Bree sits across from me as I unpack my lunch. "Did your mommy make you that?" She asks with a sly smile.

I look down at my smoked turkey with cream cheese, avocado, and spinach on a whole grain bun, protein shake, banana, and chocolate chip cookies.

"Ma likes her boy to stay well-nourished."

"Must be nice," is all she says.

Her mom moved away to Nashville to pursue her dream of being a country singer when Bree was only fourteen, leaving her with the grandmother. And her dad struggles with some kind of addiction. Bree doesn't like to talk about him because she's embarrassed. He lives in the trailer park, taking odd jobs now and again, but he's basically unemployed and surviving on food stamps. Her folks separated when she was still a little kid, but before that, I get the feeling it was an abusive household. Her grandmother takes good care of her in that big house on the square in the historic district, making sure that Bree has the best—private piano lessons, nice clothes, a reliable car. To the outside world, Bree appears to have lived a charmed life. I've been friends with her long enough to know otherwise. I'm not even sure Cash is aware of the whole story.

"You want half my sandwich?" I ask.

She shakes her head. She hardly ever eats anything.

"Banana?"

"I wouldn't want Mama Chaplin to be upset that I robbed her boy of nutrition," she snarks.

"You need to eat something, Bree."