Whistleblower ✓

25 | targeted crime

I made the executive decision to skip the after party. Hanna, who'd volunteered to help with set-up, sent me several Snapchats from Andre's saying she'd miss me but didn't try to talk me into coming. I think she understood that my absence was a necessary thing, considering the entire football team would be rolling through The Palazzo.

Besides. I was still recovering from the thralls of my hangover and, therefore, neither mentally nor physically prepared to smell alcohol again.

This left me with two options: I could either sit in the apartment all night rewatching Gran Hotel on Netflix (and inevitably diving four years deep in Yon Gonzalez's Instagram) while I nibbled on granola bars, or I could get in my car and do something productive with my night—like restock my snack stash with more exciting options.

I chose door number two.

Dressed to impress in my cleaning-the-apartment leggings and a size XL grey hoodie that Andre had made the mistake of leaving at our apartment (mine now), I grabbed my car keys and hopped in my white Corolla. The old Jonas Brothers CD I'd had in the player since I was sixteen came on automatically.

I rolled down the windows and headed to my usual destination for time-killing and snack-perusing.

Target.

Garland, California had two of them: the enormous one out by the country club, and the trimmed-down version closer to campus (which always seemed to be out of Tide pods and instant coffee). I decided to head to the one near the club, since the farther I got from campus, the less my mind ran circles around the memory of Bodie St. James stalking off the field.

The sun was going down when I arrived and maneuvered into a spot on the far side of the crowded parking lot.

I sat in my car for a moment trying to take a picture of the sunset. I was so busy trying to pick a Snapchat filter that did the pink and orange streaked skies justice, I almost didn't notice when a car pulled into the space across from mine—a black Tesla Model X crammed door-to-door with guys wearing various forms of athletic wear. Charcoal grey sweatshirts. Dark green t-shirts. Matte black jackets.

Kyle Fogarty was in the driver's seat.

We locked eyes.

"Fuck," I said aloud.

There was no way he heard me through our cars and over the bass of the music he was blasting, but he probably read my lips—or, at the very least, gathered what I'd said from context clues. I ducked my head and pretended to be searching for something in my center console. Napkins. My Ziplock bag of nickels and dimes. A melted chapstick. Actually, I had been looking for that, but it was a little late now. Bummer.

The music went silent.

Car doors opened, then slammed shut.

Part of me expected to hear someone tap on the driver's side window of my Corolla. Instead, I heard chatter and laughter fade off into the distance. I looked up just in time to see the pack of muscular bodies shuffle through the sliding glass doors and into the store.

My hand moved to jam my keys back in the ignition.

But I caught myself.

I'd already compromised to keep out of the football team's way tonight. I wasn't going to keep making myself smaller so they could have more room—especially not when Target was the size of an independent city-state.

No, I was getting my errands done.

I climbed out of my car, retrieved three reusable tote bags from my trunk, and grabbed a cart someone had left in the designated return space.