Whistleblower ✓

12 | hitting the fan

The next morning, after a breakfast of leftover celebratory pizza (which was second in deliciousness only to Pepito's carne asada tacos) and green tea (to provide the illusion of health), I popped in my headphones and made my way onto campus ten minutes before passing period, to avoid the crowds.

It was an ungodly hot Tuesday.

I'd worn shorts and a floral-print top as thin as tissue paper, but by the time I marched up the concrete steps of the biological sciences building on the far side of campus, there was sweat everywhere—under my arms, between my boobs, in the small of my back.

Just, everywhere.

So stepping into some air conditioning was a massive relief.

I hiked the straps of my backpack up on my shoulders and headed for the elevator, which I had all to myself today. But, of course, my thoughts went to Bodie St. James—like he was there with me, broad shoulders and six and a half foot frame filling the tiny space.

I had no idea how many people at Garland actually bothered reading the Daily, but it seemed obvious that word would get to Bodie pretty quick that someone at the Daily had used his interview to offer compelling evidence against Truman Vaughn. The thought of him having even the slightest bit of resentment towards me made my stomach churn, but I was able to comfort myself with the knowledge that he probably had only the vaguest, most fleeting memory of what I looked like.

Brunette, on the tall side, desperately uncomfortable making eye contact.

And besides. Whatever betrayal he felt when he saw his own quotes in the article would likely be overshadowed almost immediately when he learned his head coach had been doing drugs and assaulting young girls.

I knew Bodie would be heartbroken.

I'd be heartbroken, too, if a man I looked up to had been hiding such a depraved side of himself.

But I had faith that, once Bodie read the article in its entirety, he'd understand why I'd interviewed him. He'd appreciate the investigation, and he'd forgive the faceless girl who'd asked him about Vaughn's obsession with The Godfather.

I was sure of it.

Down in the basement, the lecture hall was mostly empty, since there were only a handful of people who'd beaten me to class. They were scattered around the auditorium, heads bent down over their phones and laptops as if in prayer. I sauntered down the aisle to the pair of seats three rows from the back where Andre and I had been sitting since the first day of class, dropped my backpack to the floor, and plopped down into a chair.

Eight minutes until class.

I tapped open Candy Crush, my go-to time killer, and took my time working through one level, then another, while students trickled in and the lecture hall filled. I was halfway through a third level—and had just tucked my knees to the side so a pair of guys could slip past me and take the last pair of empty seats further down in my row—when my phone buzzed with a text.

It was from my dad.

I think they were talking about your article on the radio this morning!

My eyebrows pinched together. I read the text again. Then a third time, because it felt like there had to be some mistake.

My dad lived two hours from Garland. He was still in Southern California, technically, but far enough north of Los Angeles (into the suburbs and rural stretches of the Central Valley) that he usually listened to the local radio stations that were nothing but static on this side of the Grapevine. They couldn't be talking about our article. Could they?