All around, I hear people pause, conversations dropping into nothingness. Stella clenches her teeth so hard a muscle in her jaw jumps.
I look for an escape route and find Nick’s eyes on me. His gaze feels like a question. And what the hell answer would I have? I have less than nothing to do with any of this. I reach back to close my own locker quietly and try to blend into the wall.
“I…” Despite her slamming, Stella’s voice is strangely small and unsure. “I didn’t—”
“Oh, it’s pretty clear that you did,” Jackson says.
“And that you enjoyed it,” Tate says, that tension in his voice edging into something bitter. “So that’s what you like now? Giving the whole world ringside seats?”
“Hey, whoa,” Nick says softly, grabbing Tate’s arm. “Let’s go, man.”
Stella shuffles her books, and I eye the onlookers like a cornered dog, looking for an opening. But the crowd has closed in tight. No one wants to miss this. Stella’s not the kind of girl you feel sorry for, but God. This is awful.
Tate lunges from Nick’s grip. “Is this what you’re doing for extra cash now? I mean, I knew you were broke but—”
“Are you finished?” Stella asks, finally sounding like the spitfire she’s known to be. “Or do you get off on humiliating people in front of an audience?”
“Apparently, you getting off requires an audience these days,” Tate shoots back.
“You unbelievable ass. You don’t even know…” Stella trails off, looking like the words are choking her.
The warning bell cuts through the tension and jerks me back to my senses. The crowd scatters and I shove my way through, desperate. People push in every direction, almost crashing me into the main players. I have to look right at them.
Tate’s face twists as he leans close to Stella. “Would have been nice to know what kind of slut you—”
“Tate!” Nick cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder.
And just like that, it’s over. The boys move off and everyone else is on their way and I’m heading down the hall on autopilot. Until I stop.
I look back. I don’t even know why, but I do. Stella’s still there. Something in me pulls tight as I watch her, her narrowed eyes taking in the dissipating crowd. A few people laugh as they pass her. Others look on with expressions of pity I don’t really buy.
The truth is, people enjoy seeing girls like Stella suffer.
“Ready for the test?” Aimee, one of my fellow AP chemistry students, pauses inside our classroom doorway. She’s smiling big and bright, proof that she escaped this entire mess.
I shake my head and force myself to return her smile. “Uh, yeah. I think so.”
Aimee wishes me luck and moves inside. Everyone else is already in there. I can see Harrison lining up his pencils on the desk. I should be in there too.
And I will be. I just…
I look down the row of lockers again, thinking maybe Stella will still be there. That maybe, in the quiet, empty hallway, she’ll be standing alone with her beautiful face crumpled up, needing… I don’t even know what she’d need. Or why I think I should be the one to help, since I don’t know her.
But it doesn’t matter. Because the hallway is empty. All I can see is her locker door, still half-open.
CHAPTER TWO
I stare at my fifty-year-old lab table and practice deep breathing while Mrs. Branson passes us our tests. She starts with the first row. Tim Gentry. Shay McAllister. Aimee Johnston. Harrison Copeland.
Mousy and whippet-thin, Harrison doesn’t look like much, but if someone in this school is going to turn into the next Stephen Hawking, it’ll be him. His GPA has landed him the number one rank in the class every year, so he’s almost guaranteed to graduate in the top spot.
As long as he holds off Aimee.
Aimee’s every bit as smart as Harrison, but that’s not all. Pretty and popular, she’s the student vice president and a beloved cheerleader. If she manages to overtake him, she’ll be the first black female valedictorian in our school. Aimee’s the one popular kid everyone loves. In the eighth grade, we took a class trip to a local nursing home. There was a deaf patient. It was awkward. The rest of us forgot about it on the bus ride back. She signed up for sign language classes. That’s just Aimee.
Mrs. Branson drops my test on my desk and my happy thoughts wither. I use a single finger to drag the paper front and center. Showtime.
“You will have forty minutes total for both the written and lab portions,” Mrs. Branson says, resuming her place at the front of the room.
Harrison mouths something to Aimee. It looks like “Good luck,” but his eyes are sending an entirely different message. Aimee ignores him and focuses on her table, choosing a pencil.
Mrs. Branson waves at the room. “You may begin.”
The lab portion is worth more, so I grab the small plastic supplies box and turn on my burner. It’s a fairly simple recrystallization. I finish it quickly. I breathe a little easier then. I’ve still got twenty-two minutes. Plenty of time.
In the front, Aimee turns her paper face down and reaches for her box. She doesn’t look at Harrison, but I wish she would because he’s sweating bullets. He’s hunched over, one hand furiously writing, the other crammed on his lap beneath the table.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he might actually be doing something vile under there. But he’s not. He’s holding something small and rectangular. It looks like a phone.
Because it is a phone.
I blink. I have to be wrong. It’s got to be his wallet or maybe a lucky deck of cards or something. No way does Harrison Copeland, High Lord of Claireville Academia, forget the rules about cell phones and tests. It’s a big deal. Automatic zero on the exam. Possible suspension. He wouldn’t dream of having his phone out during a test, so it has to be something else.
And yet…
A second later he checks it, the soft bloom of light barely visible. I look around, seeing nothing but bent heads. Is this actually happening?
“Miss Woods, kindly keep your eyes on your desk,” Mrs. Branson says.
My cheeks go hot with an angry flush. I look back at my test, answering the next two questions in quick succession. I should double-check them, but I’m preoccupied with Harrison.
I answer another question and he looks down. Again. I’ve met friendlier pencil sharpeners, so I doubt he’s chatting up a buddy between questions. Aimee measures something into her beaker with shaking hands. She wants this so bad she’s practically vibrating, but Harrison’s never going to slip. He’s perfect.
Unless he’s not.
My fingers itch, hand wanting to shoot into the air. Because someone should know. If our head-of-the-class-teacher’s-pet is cheating, I can’t just ignore that. But Harrison’s lap is empty now. No glow. No darting eyes. Whatever I saw—or thought I saw—is long gone.
• • •
I skip the cafeteria during lunch. The little juice my phone battery had is drained now, so I decide on a granola bar in the parking lot to give me the chance to charge it. On my way back from the vending machines, I notice Manny and Tacey at our regular table, waving me over. I waggle my dead phone in explanation before turning away.
I head for the side entrance, which swings me right by the student store. It doesn’t sell anything interesting and probably exists only to provide another volunteer opportunity for the students and free Lost and Found babysitting for the faculty.
Speaking of Lost and Found.
I pause just outside the store opening. A kid I don’t recognize is at the counter, looking at his phone. Which sucks. I’d really rather drop this notebook off without an audience.
My bag turns heavy on my shoulder. It’s like I can feel the notebook in all its disturbing glory. From the psychopath pictures to the Latin on the cover, this thing squicks me out. But I definitely don’t want
people seeing me with it. Or trying to pin it on me.
I take one last look at the Lost and Found tubs before I head outside.
It’s bright and crisp—one of those perfect late fall days when the blue sky hasn’t been lost to the bone-white ceiling of winter. I cut across the side yard, where a group of guys are tossing a football, guys from the team, which means Jackson, Tate, and Nick are in the mix. Of course. My whole day has been a unicorn ride through a field of rainbows, so naturally they’re out here.
I keep my head down and try to move fast.
“Heads up, Nicky!” someone shouts.
Something thunks nearby. I hear a groan and then glance up through my hair to see Nick on the ground maybe twenty feet away. He’s got a football cradled to his gut and he’s flushed to the roots of his hair, but grinning. Jackson and Tate laugh so hard they double over.
Two and a half hours ago, they were eviscerating Stella in the hallway, and now they’re having the time of their lives. Why am I even surprised? Cold fingers burrow into the base of my skull, reminding me of the evolution of this group over the years. If you were to look for a line in the sand, you’d find those boys on the side most people want. The side opposite of me.
In third grade, it was spies versus ninjas. What started as a pick-your-side game became an invitation-only club. In fourth grade, it was the seats in the back of the bus. By fifth, it was lunch tables. Year after year, the same kids found their way to the top of our small-town social stratosphere, while the rest of us wondered where we’d made the wrong turn. I stopped wondering freshman year. I have Kristen’s special party invitation to thank for that.
I move fast, wanting as much distance as I can get between them and me. Two steps later, my foot catches on the grass. I stumble wildly, barely managing to stay on my feet. My backpack flies off of my shoulder, unzipped of course. It lands upside down and crap flies everywhere.
No one says a word. In seventh grade, this would have been a field day—insults slung from every direction. They think they’ve outgrown all that. Now, I just feel their eyes on me. I hear the ache of silence where laughter—or, even worse, pity—is hiding. A shuffle-hiss in the grass tells me someone’s coming.
Nick. He’s smiling down at me, but he’s been on the right side of the line since they first started drawing it, so I don’t trust him. He must see it on my face too, because the aw-shucks grin he’s wearing droops into something awkward. Maybe even embarrassed.
I claw desperately at my stuff, shoving the notebook and my keys and every other damn thing I own back into my bag. I don’t even know if I have everything, but Nick is way too close. I yank my bag over my shoulder and move in double time to the parking lot, wishing I’d taken another entrance—or maybe that I’d just stayed in bed altogether.
I’ve never been so grateful to see the unique slopes and angles of my old Subaru. The sun feels even more delicious inside the car. I soak in the heat, slouching down in my seat with a sigh.
Okay. Damage control. I open the mirror on my visor. Given the day I’ve had, I’m half expecting a human-girl version of the Kraken. It’s just me though—long dark hair, big brown eyes. Mom says I look doe-eyed. Dad says soulful. I think I look like I’m perpetually on the verge of tears. Ironic, since I rarely cry.
I snap the mirror shut and my gaze drifts to my bag. I don’t like it. Feels like I’m sitting beside the future potential serial killer of Claireville High. Which is…way more dramatic than it needs to be. It’s just a notebook. For all I know, the kid’s making it all up for a screenplay.
Still, curiosity picks at me. This is dumb. I need to figure out who this stupid thing belongs to so I can get over it.
I flip the cover to find the pictures have shifted in my bag. One corner of Anna’s photo is visible, vacant eyeholes changing her smile into something sinister. I push them back into the folder. I don’t think the pictures are going to tell me anything. Or maybe I just don’t want to look at them anymore.
Either way, there are other things to focus on. Like all those stupid names. Or the Latin, which I could ask Hadley about.
I flip to November 2nd to get Shane’s nickname from the accident entry. RJG. I know jack all about him, so it could mean anything. I’ve got to find something else.
I flip through the pages, looking for another mention. The only other mention of RJG/Shane is an ass smack in the middle of the hallway, but I wasn’t there for that. And it’s hardly newsworthy. But there are other, scarier things in here. Like the cretin sending crotch shots to freshmen, or whoever Tricky is and whatever goods he’s dealing.
I’m guessing Tucker Smith for that one. Most of the kids around here are content to get drunk in someone’s hot tub or maybe pass around an occasional joint. Dealing pharmaceuticals on school property is a bit big city for us.
I thumb through a couple more pages but stop on October 12th.
LQ says he’ll beat the shit out of Shutter if she doesn’t shut her piehole
My arms tighten with goose bumps. That’s me. Me and Manny. I’d given him a ride that day. It was a crap morning. Manny wasn’t ready when I got to his place, and then on the way to school, he’d dropped the bomb on me that he was bailing on his post-graduation community college plans for at least a year. Told me not everyone had a fat education fund waiting for them like I did.
I was so shocked that I almost missed Hemlock Street. Spilled my coffee all over both of us to make the turn.
We fought the rest of the six blocks to school over the college thing and the money thing, even over the stupid coffee. And halfway down the main hallway, he said this. These exact words.
I can still see him shaking his blond head, coffee spatter staining the hem of his ancient Green Day T-shirt. I was sporting a matching stain on my jeans.
“I don’t get why you can’t just take a loan like you planned,” I said. “It’s like you want me to nag.”
“Really don’t.”
“Then don’t give up on college, Manny.”
“You sound like a public service announcement.”
“If you’d prefer, I could try a jaunty song about the merits of higher education.”
He’d finally grinned. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you if you don’t shut your piehole.”
It was a joke. That comment was the end of the fight, not the beginning. And anyone who knows anything about us would know that. Manny wouldn’t hurt me. Not ever. He’d pound anyone else who tried.
We’ve been friends since before the beginning of time. We even dated briefly—a disastrous error in judgment for both of us—during sophomore year. If whoever wrote this thought what he said that morning was some sort of legitimate threat… I don’t know, maybe the whole book is crap like this, stuff blown way out of proportion.
Maybe.
A quick scan of the pages reveals that I’m only listed once. Unless I’ve got more than one nickname. I search again, this time for Manny, who, for reasons I can’t fathom, is LQ.
I find his nickname three more times. Once propositioning Candace for sex. No surprise there. Two other times in October.
I spot the first one on October 7th.
IB paying LQ to clear some record up
And then on October 23rd.
LQ blackmailing Reese, possibly over attendance corrections?
A breathless laugh spurts from my mouth. I read the entries again. Manny. Blackmailing someone. Sure.
The idea’s so ridiculous I throw the book back in my bag and close the flap. I laugh again. Look at me. Hiding in my car like I found Charles Manson’s diary or something. Whoever wrote this is delusional. So desperate for drama, they’re turning every little overheard comment into a conspiracy. And I darn near bought it.
I’ve been sitting here scanning a bunch of cryptic messages for what? My best friend’s super-secret underground life of crime? Come on.
Manny’s life of crime includes Slurpees lifted from the Stop and Rob near his house and some seriously tasteless Internet browsing.
It can’t be true. Can it?
My chest knots. Manny, tell me you did not get mixed up in anything.
My eyes are drawn to the bag, the notebook tucked inside. It’s only two entries, but if anyone else figures them out, it’ll be serious. God, I need to find out who wrote this thing.
There’s a tap on my window and I jerk hard, my thigh slamming into the gearshift. I turn to my window and Nick holds up his hands, like he’s trying to seem disarming.
I roll down my window. “Don’t you know it’s creepy to sneak up to a girl’s car?”
“I wasn’t exactly sneaking. I did knock.”
I narrow my eyes, but he looks harmless. That’s probably Nick’s default setting though. He’s standing here with his messy surfer hair and his dimpled smile, wearing a pair of shorts even though it can’t be more than fifty-five degrees outside. The boy is so All-American he should be selling apple pie.
He’s also enormous. Or at least it seems that way when he leans down to see me better. His shoulders are so broad they deserve their own zip code.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Piper, I swear.”
Suddenly, I remember his eyes on me in the hallway, and then his friends laughing today on the field. My defenses rise, sending the hair on the back of my neck upright.
“Adrenaline overload aside, I’m fine,” I say, aiming for breezy and missing it by a mile.
“You sure?” he asks.
I tense. This whole situation is bringing to mind a lot of crappy makeover scenarios where some football-wielding tool makes a play at the smart but dorky art girl.
Not that I’m a dork. I’m a skirt-the-fringe type, maybe. An avoids-his-kind-like-the-plague type, definitely. But that’s not the point. The point is he doesn’t have any reason to talk to me. So everything about this feels like a setup.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, looking around for his friends. Or maybe his girlfriend. This is exactly the kind of trap Marlow loves to set.