BIG SIS

11.3 There's a Thing Called Love - But This Ain't It

The paint game was a tough one to follow. Collin sat and ate while the Student Council reps attempted to lead some sort of coordinated sing-along of what started off as the school anthem and ended in the macarena, dance and all. He snapped a few pictures for Pak, knowing the other boy'd appreciate the nerdy chaos.

Things wound down around five-thirty. The crowd'd been thinning steadily as the afternoon advanced, which was probably the point of the lengthy program. A sort of trail by fire, except with paint and glitter.

"Need help cleaning up?" Collin asked Kira. Loudspeaker-girl'd officially called the show to an end, though the last of the crowd seemed reluctant to disperse. Some were making themselves useful – they had friends in the Council, Collin guessed, and'd probably been roped into clean-up duty. The rest were schmoozing ineptly.

Kira shook her head. Her hair sat a little wild, curls bouncing with the motion. "We've got it covered, thanks. Except if you want a ride home? My mom's picking me up in an hour."

"Thanks, I'm good," Collin said, a tad too fast.

"Are you sure? It's really no trouble," Kira said, then added, "David's coming, too."

She gestured at the far side of the room, where David was helping Loudspeaker-girl clean the tables. The boy's face was scrunched in concentration as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn spot. He still had the whiskers.

Collin swallowed a laugh. "I'm sure," he said.

"How're you getting back?" Kira pressed.

She wasn't offering Collin a ride home just to be nice; she genuinely wanted to help. Collin's easy smile wavered. "I'm catching a ride with a friend," he lied.

"Oh, okay. Don't keep them waiting," Kira said.

Collin nodded, throat tight. There was no telling what he'd find when he got back to the Weavers', and Kira and her mom were better off as far away as possible. The lie still tasted bitter.

It was dark out, and cold. The school looked a little eerie in the gloom, with most the windows dark and the walls painted with the shadows of rustling leaves. Collin had to walk a few blocks to get to a bus stop, then wait fifteen minutes for the bus to roll around. He sat in the back. It was good forty minutes until his stop; Collin dozed, head against the window. He checked his phone a few times, and tried not to make anything out of the lack of messages. Mrs. Weaver knew he'd be coming back late. There was absolutely no reason for Collin to think anything'd gone wrong.

Collin checked his phone again, then thumped his head against the window.

The ride dragged on. Collin was buzzing out of his skin by the time the bus got to his stop. He still had a mile or so to go – easy access to public transportation was neither wanted nor needed where the Weavers lived. Collin walked quickly. He was sweating by the time he rounded a familiar corner, less with exertion than out of nerves.

The sight of the Weavers' front lawn was as startling as it was anticlimactic.

Collin stopped short. He took a look down the street, then looked over his shoulder, just in case he'd missed a herd of news vans somehow, but there really was nothing. No cars in the street. No bright lights and dour-faced reporters. Collin'd forgotten how quiet the neighborhood got at night. They'd all been going to bed to the sound of cameras whirring a wall away for what felt like years.

Collin rang the doorbell. The hallway light was out, as was the kitchen's. Collin dug through his bag for his key with numb fingers.

The door opened suddenly. Collin startled, taking an instinctive step back.