See You in San Francisco

07 | my lifelong fear of turning into my mother

          "Grace Sato?" one of the deputies called and instantaneously assumed he'd gotten the right person, as I simply stood there and waited for them to walk up to me. The nameplate on his shirt read JOFFREY and I mentally snorted. "I'm Deputy Joffrey and this is my partner, Deputy Clare." The woman standing next to him gave me a short nod. I didn't return it. "We need to ask you some questions about Juniper Beaumont. We understand this is a difficult time—"

          "There's a vigil going on inside," I said, before I could stop myself from running my mouth. I had an awful tendency to do so whenever I was nervous, which had been happening way too frequently for my liking. "I need to sit down. I sprained my ankle."

          "Of course." Deputy Joffrey gestured towards a cement bench, and I knew Christina would have wanted to bash his head against it as soon as his fingers curled around my arm. You know, as one normally would under those circumstances. "We'd just like to clarify you're not under arrest; we just have a few questions we'd like to get out of the way while we proceed with the investigation. You're seventeen—"

          "My lawyer is in San Diego and my mother is inside." Just as I finished that sentence, the gym doors burst open and my mother stomped her way towards us, completely invalidating what I had said. "Never mind."

          ". . . minor . . . lawyer . . . Miranda," she breathed out, pressing a hand against her side. Once again, I was suddenly overcome with the strangest urge to burst into laughter. "She . . . knows . . . her rights."

          "With all due respect, ma'am," Deputy Clare intervened, "we just want to ask Grace a few questions." My mother put a hand on my shoulder, standing behind me, and I really wish I could dig a hole and hide in it. "We've found some evidence that could potentially place Grace in the scene of the crime—"

          "Crime?" my mother gasped. "You think Grace killed her friend?"

          "As of right now, we can't disclose any details to the public, but we're considering the possibility of murder, yes." I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. Despite knowing I hadn't done anything, I hadn't had anything to do with June's death besides letting her steal my bike at one in the morning, I still knew the circumstantial evidence could point towards me. "Murder, accident, suicide—those are all possibilities we're exploring, and we want to make this investigation swift."

          "So you've resorted to pointing fingers? Grace never left her house that night; whatever that Beaumont girl did or had be done to her had nothing to do with our family."

          "We found Grace's bicycle at the scene, ma'am," Deputy Joffrey explained, then set a reassuring hand on my free shoulder. I raised my head to look at him, proving I could tell the truth while looking him in the eyes. "Where were you on the night Juniper died?"

          "At home," I replied, feeling my body shake beneath their hands, "asleep. I didn't—I only found out about it in the morning, and my bicycle was gone by then. June took it."

          "I see." His tone told me he didn't see it. At this point, they were grasping at straws to give the Beaumonts some answers, and I understood. "Had you noticed any changes in Juniper's behavior? Did she seem . . . upset? Angry?"

          I shook my head. "No. That's why it's so strange to me, but"—I stared down at my lap, with guilt gnawing at my brain, my words, my lungs—"I suppose we were all so busy with our own lives she could have been acting differently and no one noticed."

          "How do you know she'd been the one to take your bike?"

          I sniffled. "The lock was picked, not broken, so it wasn't some random person. It had to be someone who knew how to do it, and June likes—I mean, she liked Nancy Drew." I pulled out my phone and opened my conversation with June, handing him the device. "She sent me this text that night. It wasn't personal. Whatever happened in that motel room, it didn't involve me, but I wish I had woken up when she texted me." I exhaled, and watched my breath form a cloud in front of my mouth. "Maybe I could have stopped her from leaving. Maybe—maybe she'd still be alive, you know? I think all of us feel that way, especially with all the texts she sent us—"