54. candy hearts

                                    

                                              
I was all but certain that the visit to Principal Ackerman's office would've concluded with my immediate expulsion from Chanler High just one month into the semester, recognizing in the back of my mind that this might have been a little harsh for my first ever school offense but perhaps that was the usual punishment for such a prestigious private school that prided itself on the high standards for their students, vaguely remembering an old fable that had been floating around the hallways since before even my sister attended that there was once a student expelled just for smoking a cigarette on the track field. 
Thankfully, Principal Ackerman described himself as lenient, given the...emotional circumstances involved—you know, like the death or even maybe murder of another one of their students—and sentenced me to an afternoon of manual labor around campus that weekend before encouraging me to give both Blane Harding and Thea Foster an apology for violating their privacy on schoolgrounds. 
I nodded dutifully, although noted that he had mentioned it as a suggestion, so it didn't sound as if it were required of me necessarily to avoid something like a suspension or even the looming threat of expulsion I still felt even as I left the office. If he told me that I had to apologize like he told me that I had to reorganize the gym equipment that Saturday, then I would've but he didn't, so I wasn't going to. 
However, I was being honest with him when I said that I would never take another scandalous photo of a student again on campus, adding truthfully that I would never do it again off-campus either, which seemed to placate him. 
I told him that I was just so startled to see the boyfriend of my missing best friend in such a compromising position with another girl that I made what I could now understand was an impulsive and regrettable decision, staring at him earnestly as I inwardly marveled at how easily the lies rolled from my tongue and how convincing the words must have sounded to bring Principal Ackerman to nod his head sympathetically at me like that. 
Maybe it sounded so believable because for a few brief moments in the girls' restroom, I did have some remorse about what I had done, but then Thea Foster lied about the circumstances involving her relationship with Blane, which seemed kind of important given that it was a possible motive for Bridgette's murder, right after she used me as a distraction for the wolves by theorizing to Jenna Brookes that I might have been the one responsible for Bridgette's death. 
Which was how I found myself secluded in my room that night, the late hour looming over my head like the untouched homework piled on the corner of my bed, the chapter from the biology textbook I still had to finish reading and the notes for an upcoming calculus exam that I needed to write out on index cards, a paper for my AP English class that I still needed to research but instead I was curled up on the chair in front of my desk, scrolling through song lyrics from Bridgette's album. 
My cheek was slumped against my knuckles, the lenses of my blue-light glasses rubbing the back of my hand as I blinked hazily at my laptop, the light emanating from the screen only becoming harsher with each hour past eleven o'clock. I thought there might have been something that could've alluded to the identity of the girl Bridgette had written about, something I could wave around like evidence that Thea Foster had lied about when she started seeing Blane but there was nothing, not even a reference to her hair color or the kind of car she drove, nothing. 
I groaned, the cursor to my mouse lingering beneath the lyrics of the last chorus of her song bored games after staring at them until my screen fell asleep for the last two hours. I listened to the song over a dozen times, mouthing along to the part about this supposed girl being Camilla's best friend and living in Bridgette's shadow—but she didn't notice, though, Bridgette's voice added coolly—and I had nothing to show for any of my research but a pounding headache and a mound of homework still waiting for me, much like the four or five hours of sleep I was suspecting I would get that night. 
I thought about giving up as I traveled back to the album's Wikipedia page, an unreliable source that was banned from every works cited page, but it was the site with the least amount of ads and my computer was making an unsettlingly loud humming sound that I was beginning to feel burn through the keyboard while I stared at the album's track-list, something I already knew by heart, but I still counted each familiar song by its title. Spellbound, Candy Hearts, Indian Summer, Stoplights—
Then it occurred to me, startling me awake from my drooping eyelids as I realized that Bridgette hadn't written these songs alone, she had the help of two other songwriters for most of the tracks on her album, people she might have confided in while she created this album that was essentially about the beginning and end of her relationship with Blane Harding—the first time, anyway, before they got back together a few months after the album's release. 
Olivia Burke was one of the songwriters credited for four of the songs on luv u, and a quick Google search told me that she was a moderately accomplished songwriter slash producer who had worked with an impressive handful of other artists, in her mid-thirties and located in California with an Instagram account that predominantly featured two adorably wrinkled pugs that momentarily distracted me before I quickly messaged Olivia Burke. 
I used my most professional email voice as I greeted her with an appropriate number of exclamation marks and asked if she minded if I asked her a couple of quick questions about her songwriting process with Bridgette Rosenbloom, adding that if not, I totally understood and no worries, which wasn't exactly true because there would be worries, but this message needed to appear formal, accommodating, cheerful. 
Then, in an attempt to charm her a little further, I ended my message by complimenting her dogs, who were, after all, worthy of the praise. 
Then I went back to retrieve the name of the second songwriter, Leo Navarro, who had been credited with writing nine of the songs featured on the album, as well as producing all twelve tracks and providing background vocals on three of them, but I couldn't find much more than that when I Googled his name a few minutes later, nothing but articles including the credits on luv u's track-list appearing on my screen as I scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. 
It appeared as if Leo Navarro had never worked with any other client, had no website with a business email that I could message or Instagram account with endearing photos of his pets, and I couldn't find a biography on him anywhere, nothing that stated how old he was, where he lived, accolades he might've had or how he apparently spawned out of nowhere to produce an album with Bridgette. 
I was typing his name into a new search engine after reluctantly abandoning Google when I paused, the tip of my finger brushing against the key as I stared at the name taunting me with its anonymity much like the unnamed mistress in the final track, but here there was something else. Something that made me backspace each letter so I could deliberately type out his name. 
Leo Navarro. 
Then I hit the backspace key again, tapping it loudly until I found what I wanted. 
Leo N. 
Noel. 
I grinned at my computer screen, feeling as if I had been revived while the name—or perhaps should I say pseudonym—stared back at me as I shook my head in wonderment, whispering quietly to myself as the rest of the Fairview slept, "Huh. Well, who would've thought?"