Shatter Page 25

  Fury hits me fast. Hard.

  I run toward the cameras. The world is going to know who took Carrie from me.

  Dad and the students call after me. I focus on my goal. Eyes on Cordero, Rick’s face is twisted with hatred. He still hasn’t taken the teen’s hand. Rick knows Cordero could call him out on two murders.

  Just a few yards away from Cordero and Rick, I collide with an officer, who steadies me with one hand.

  “Watch it.” The officer’s other hand holds the arm of a man sitting on a gurney. The man is Benicio de la Cruz, president of the union. A second officer holds his other arm.

  Benicio has an oxygen mask around his neck. He speaks in a slow, heavy voice while the second officer takes notes. “… had a courthouse security guard help us. We were only supposed to pass bags of rope around security. If one of the bags had explosives in it, I … I’m … I’m so sorry.” Fat tears roll down his cheeks. “I didn’t know. I promise.”

  Meanwhile, under the eye of the news cameras, Rick lifts his hand to shake Cordero’s. He pauses before coming into contact with the gang member. I push toward him through the crowd, passing cameras and bystanders. Cordero notices me. His expression becomes alarmed. He shakes his head. Rick’s face is still enraged, still focused on Cordero.

  The crowd seems to hold its breath.

  Rick finally masters his anger. “These two boys were up on the second floor with me, both of them.” He grabs Cordero’s palm in a hearty shake and reaches for Tito’s shoulder. “The three of us barely got out.” He pulls each into a hug, voice emotional. People cheer. Cameras are rolling.

  Cordero’s gaze locks on mine. Our lips are mutually parted, our eyes wide, mirroring each other’s shock. I finally get through the crowd to the inner circle where Cordero and Rick are. Rick’s face is hidden behind Cordero’s shoulder.

  Rick thinks Tito was the person in the hallway with Cordero. That’s what he just said. He said that two boys were on the second floor with him—two boys. Rick doesn’t know at all who he attacked after Cordero got the knife from him. He doesn’t know it was me. I’m standing practically right next to him, and he’s not even bothering to notice me.

  It means Rick has no reason to come after me. Keep my mouth shut, and he’ll never know I saw him try to kill Cordero.

  It means I’m safe. It means Carrie’s killer could get away with murder and I could live out my days without the killer ever knowing I know.

  Dad, Elena, and AddyDay have nearly caught up, calling to me from behind Benicio and the two police officers.

  “Salem, what are you doing?” Dad calls, worried.

  No way can I keep my mouth shut. It doesn’t matter if I’m safe. Rick could kill someone else.

  Carrie needs justice.

  “Rick Thornton!” I knock into two microphones, pushing to stand right in front of him.

  “Salem.” Cordero grabs my arm. His iron gaze orders me to quit talking.

  “Salem?” Rick’s brows rise in surprise.

  I can’t believe he doesn’t know I saw him try to kill Cordero. I can’t believe I would have fallen for his good-guy routine if I hadn’t.

  Reporters stick microphones under my nose. This is it. I’ll accuse Rick right now. It doesn’t matter that I have no evidence and that the only witness who can back up my story is a gang member who will refuse to say a word. So what if I look crazy?

  But for once it’s not my emotions screaming that I can’t look crazy, it’s my brain. I can’t look crazy or no one will believe me. Rick will go home and play the hero. And I can forget proving Rick’s guilt in my spare time. I won’t have spare time once he gets rid of me.

  I notice a strap resting diagonally across Rick’s chest. It’s black. It belongs to his laptop case.

  I’m hit with a series of realizations that come so fast, I see only a string of images. Rick, carving his murder-signature on the plaque Carrie gave him. Rick, dropping the plaque when Cordero tackled him. Rick in a haze of smoke, searching the ground for something while Cordero and I tried to escape from him.

  I launch myself forward and hug Rick. I wrap my arms around him and dig both hands into the laptop case behind his back. The crowd cheers.

  “There, there.” Rick pats my back. “You okay? These kids.”

  I feel smooth wood at my fingertips. I start shaking. It’s here. The plaque with the murder signature is here. Rick must have grabbed the plaque after Cordero got away from him.

  Rick chuckles, sounding uncomfortable. “All right now. Let’s get you to your dad.” He tries to pull away from me, craning his neck to see what I’m doing behind him.

  I try to lift the plaque and cut my index finger, crying out. His switchblade is in there too, still open. The plaque slips farther down into the bag.

  At my cry, Cordero moves to meet my gaze above the killer’s shoulder.

  I angle myself to reach farther into the case with my right hand. Blood makes my fingers slick as I push aside a mini laptop to get to the plaque. “Help. Please,” I plead with Cordero.

  Cordero is motionless, yet intense, looking at me with black eyes made fierce with understanding. “The symbol.”

  In a flash of decision, Cordero supports Rick’s laptop case from underneath while his opposite hand joins mine in searching, never more warm and welcome.

  Rick pushes me away in confusion. “What are you doing?” He turns, yanking my arm, which is still in his laptop case. Cordero is jostled as well.

  Rick’s face is now angled to see Cordero, rather than me. There’s a pause. Then the man’s motions become strong and forceful, shoving us away from him.

  “Hey, stop.” His cries are loud, like we’re a pair of poisonous snakes. “Stop it! Get them away from me!”

  A reporter grabs my arm. One of the policemen near Benicio’s gurney comes toward me, shouting for me to settle down. Rick gets away from me and Cordero, taking his laptop case with him. I come out empty-handed. Cordero has seized the switchblade.

  “Rick has a knife!” Cordero shouts, holding it above his head.

  Someone screams. My view of Dad and AddyDay is blocked by Officer Haynes, cutting in front of them at a run. He looks right at me, alert and questioning. He shouts for officers to follow him.

  In front of me, Rick swings his laptop case around to be at his stomach. His face is cherry-red. He speaks to first one camera and then another. “Of course I have a knife. I saved the people at the sit-in strike. I cut them free. That knife did good.”

  A man from the crowd touches Rick’s shoulder, thanking him. I’m jostled by a reporter trying to get the scene on camera. In the background, Benicio is shouting. He struggles to stand from his gurney, his tan face fierce with emotion. I can barely make out his words. “… it’s him. Rick. He’s got a knife. He got a knife through courthouse security. He could have gotten explosives through security too. It’s my fault.”

  I step in front of Rick, who’s still facing the man thanking him. I make my voice loud and distinct. “You used a knife to cut a symbol into Juan Herrera’s shoe after you killed him.”

  At my accusation, the sounds of shuffling and protests break out. Hundreds of people push to see and hear better. Microphones appear.

  Mouth ajar, Rick shakes his head vigorously. “You’re insane.” He hugs the laptop case to himself, staring at me like a deer caught in the headlights.

  “You killed Carrie too.” My loud voice gets thick with emotion. A dozen microphones are aimed to catch my words, some within two inches of my mouth, some several yards away. “You tried to kill Cordero and me, and you have a plaque in your bag right there with a symbol cut into it—a Roman numeral twelve crossed by an upside down V, the symbol found on Juan’s shoe.” I nod at his laptop case.

  Rick turns tail and runs.

  Shrieking, people dart to get out of his path. With determined faces, a camerawoman and a male reporter directly behind Rick come after him, blocking his way through the tight circle of reporters. Rick elbows the
woman and leaps to pass between her and an ambulance worker. A camera falls off a tripod onto the grass with a thud. Officer Haynes dashes from around the ambulance worker and tackles Rick. The laptop case is tipped upside down. The plaque slides out, landing face down on the grass.

  I dart past the camerawoman and grab the plaque, bringing it directly in front of a camera resting on top of a man’s shoulder.

  “Look? See?” I trace the thin grooves of the knife with my uninjured index finger. I lean into the nearest microphone. “A Roman numeral twelve, to make it look like Juan was killed by Primeros. And an upside down V to warn of old power—the power of the people.”

  Cordero comes to my elbow, tall and calm. He announces to all the people watching. “Rick Thornton cut that symbol. I watched him.”

  Shaking with every emotion possible, I move to make room for officers racing past us, rushing in from all directions. They surround Officer Haynes as he cuffs Rick, who is lying on the grass with a tuft of rope stuck in his hair.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he shouts, no longer physically struggling. “I … I am for the union! United we stand!”

  Camera operators film the officers reading Rick his rights. Reporters shout questions to Cordero and me. We’ve moved closer together. His arm comes around me.

  “Will you testify?” one yells to me.

  “If police help protect Cordero.” I look at him.

  He turns to face me, sliding his other hand behind my back. I let my eyes take in his V tattoo and closely cropped hair. The crowd around us disappears. We’re in a moment as intimate as anything under the willow tree.

  My breath hitches with hope that borders on desperation. “You’ll leave.”

  He nods slowly, his eyes one-part fearful and one-part hopeful. “I’ll leave.”

  I smile with my whole body, pressing close to him. His gaze sweeps my mouth. We’re on the edge of a pool, about to fall in. He pulls my waist to his and kisses me.

  “Where are you? Salem?” Dad voice sounds frantic, approaching from within the crowd.

  I lower my face from Cordero’s.

  Dad comes to my side next to Cordero, who still holds me close. Nearby, AddyDay covers her mouth while Elena tries not to smile at Cordero kissing me. I realize I don’t have to figure out a way to feel comfortable around her anymore. She stood beside Dad when he faced murder accusations and made herself part of the family without my help.

  Cordero moves away to let Dad hug me, clearing his face of all emotion except self-respect, like he’s worthy of kissing anyone who wants to kiss him back. Like he has no time for people who want to treat him as just another gang member. He’s never had time for them.

  “Cordero,” Dad says, addressing him with a nod.

  “Mr. Jefferson.” In spite of the continuing drama just a few yards away from us, Cordero turns back to me. “I should get to Marissa. She’s my ride home.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Why don’t you catch a ride back to Verona with us instead?”

  Dad acts like his offer is no big deal, but Elena and my friends are amazed. Cordero hesitates, maybe sensing a trap. But I know better. Taking sides and refusing to compromise has made Dad lose too much already. The other growers—spread throughout the crowd, hugging union members and family—seem to feel the same way. For the first time, I sense a hope for negotiation regarding the wage increase and an end to the peach strike.

  “There’s plenty of room in our car,” I assure Cordero. “Why don’t you come?”

  He relaxes into a smile, sharing a look with me. “Sure.”

  Elena and AddyDay beam at each other. Dad puts his arm around my shoulders. I realize Dad is proud of me for talking so easily with Cordero. I think he’s wanted me to be confident around others for a long time. He’s happy for me.

  After police assure us they can get more details later, the five of us leave for the car, with Dad and Cordero on either side of me. Strangers, growers, classmates—dozens of people stop to thank Cordero and me. They cheer for us. Some of them, like Mayor Knockwurst, specifically assure us that Cordero won’t be forgotten, no matter his background. I sneak a final glance behind me at Rick’s bowed head and think of Carrie. She did it. She fought for a cause she believed in and brought a killer to justice, losing her life in the process. I wasn’t the strong one and neither was she.

  We were both strong.

  Author’s Note

  According to the Journal of Adolescent Health, 400,000 teens will join a gang every single year. These youth are disproportionately male, black or Hispanic, from single-parent households, and from families living below the poverty level or already affiliated with a gang. The public has been led to believe that once someone joins a gang, that person cannot leave the gang, which is patently false. The truth is that nearly 400,000 teens leave a gang every year, almost as many as join. Gangs have to recruit constantly. They promise the good life. They do not deliver. Approximately one in four juvenile gang members will live in a correctional facility by the time they are eighteen years old. Gang members are significantly more likely than the general population to become victims of violent crime, including murder. Please reach out with kindness to anyone trying to leave a gang. If you or someone you know is at risk of joining or staying with a gang, please visit www.nationalgangcenter.gov. A better life is out there.

  Discussion Questions

  After Carrie dies, Salem feels like she has no social identity. Why is it important for teens to have their own identity? Do adults understand this?

  Carrie believed her concern for the union and farm workers made her choice to get involved with a gang “right.” Do you agree? How far is too far when you think your government supports repression?

  Cordero doesn’t report a crime he witnessed because, like some people involved in the #BlackLivesMatter movement, he believes the American justice system will be unfair to him. Is this a belief you feel you understand? What advice would you give to someone who believes this?

  AddyDay suffers from emotional bullying. It’s easy to blame Jeremy for this, but most of the students in the school also hold some responsibility, even Salem. What can we do for the AddyDay’s in our life? Do you think you always know who they are?

  Salem and her dad have a strained relationship. Do you think this is because their personalities are very different or too similar?

  Salem distrusts Cordero the moment she becomes aware of his ethnicity and affiliation with a gang. Does that make her prejudiced? How can we avoid someone who seems dangerous while still accepting and loving those who are different?

  Crop-pickers want more pay. Growers want more profits. People who eat—like you and me—want cheap food. This fight for resources has left our country with racial, illegal-immigration and poverty issues that often breed crime and gangs. Are these problems that can be solved? How do you grow up as a laborer, a grower, or even an eater, and keep from mistrusting the other “sides?”

  Acknowledgments

  Publishing a book is more journey than event. As a debut author, I owe huge debts of gratitude the many hands who support this work, some for more than a decade.

  First, a tremendous thanks to my editor, Hali Bird, for seeing potential in me and to my author liaison Jessica Romrell for feeling my feelings. To the rest of the team at Cedar Fort—Priscilla Chaves, Vikki Downs, Devin, and others—you rock! Quick shout out too to my former agent, Josh Getzler, who doesn’t work in YA anymore, but made Shatter what it is.

  Long before a publishing contract, I had the Wasatch Mountain Fiction Writers—Kathi Oram Peterson, Maureen L. Mills, Dorothy Canada, Char Raddon, Roseann Woodward, Ann Chamberlin, and Brenda Bensch. Kathleen Dougherty, no content editor outshines you. I also want to thank Sarah Beard, Caryn Caldwell, Rebecca Scott, Juliana Ali, Sabine Berlin, Janelle Youngstrom, and Shari Cylinder. Because girl parties.

  Eric James Stone, I miss our original B&N writers’ group—Spencer Ellsworth, Carlajo Webb, Becca Fitzpatrick, Jade Weedop, Faith Hofer and
others. May Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Caleb Warnock tie us together forever.

  Heather Clark is the best best friend and not a bad writing webinar co-host either.

  At the beginning of this journey, I was terrified to pipe up on social media circles. J. Scott Savage pushed me to post news about my writing webinars, attended by James Duckett and his many (many) friends. Jenny Proctor and Melanie Jacobson said, yes, I could to host a random dance party at the LDStorymakers Conference and put me on the committee. Nichole Giles and Michael Bacera kept my ideas for the newly reformed Storymakers Tribe sane. All media following I have, I owe the tribe. You are family!

  Jolene Perry and Emily Wheeler, you came to the rescue with endorsements for Shatter. Thank you. Karen Gifford, I’m proud to have a sister who will always be more famous and attractive than I am. Thanks for lending me The Food Charlatan’s media reach.

  Hannah Price, Linda Trionfo, Kaylie Walker, Eliza Hinton, KJ, Kimber Young, and Emily Nelson—you were my first readers! Thanks for encouraging me to try for a publisher.

  My success in this dream of writing stories ultimately rests with new readers. I’m in awe you would take the time to read something I care so much about. I have a survey at www.nikkitrionfo.com/Shatter for feedback and encouragement. Encouragement fuels the stories burning inside me. I can’t thank you enough!

  The seed of this story was planted exploring my grandparents’ almond orchard, blooming in my early adult years as I studied Spanish, taught English-language-learners and lived for a time in Puerto Rico. Class-tension and culture-duels laced my childhood. Shatter let me re-examine with an adult lens the hardened teens I used to crush on, sneer at, and play with. This novel represents both my deepest fears and greatest hope.