The main hallway of the school is wide and open, lockers on either side. A few bulletin boards are placed outside classrooms, displaying art and poems I don’t have time to look over. It’s nice, though. It seems . . . safe. Encouraging. Way more encouraging than the talk shows I’d have on in the background while writing essays for my online class. I think I would have liked this.
There is a set of metal doors at the end of the hallway with the word GYMNASIUM in block lettering posted on the wall above them. I continue forward, wishing I’d brought a backpack or something more scholarly so I could have fit in. I feel too much like myself—which feels the same as exposed. But I can’t turn back now. I’m just steps away from finding Virginia Pritchard.
I open the doors and slip in, trying not to draw too much attention. I hear the squeaking of sneakers on wood floors, the shouts of players. I don’t look at them. I duck my head and start for the bleachers, where a few other people are sitting.
The bench creaks as I climb up a few rows and sit. I wait a beat and then lift my head, relieved when I don’t feel anyone watching me. I look out at the court, searching for the face of Virginia.
I realize then that I’ve never really considered who I’ll find here. Do I expect a girl who’s drawn and sad because she recently lost two friends in Lake Oswego to suicide? Do I think she’s like her father, calculating and cold? Or is she something worse than I imagined?
And yet, as I search, no one sticks out. I settle in and watch the girls on the court. They’re in the middle of a scrimmage game, a detail I overheard from the girl in front of me. I’ve never played a sport, and I’m in awe of how easy it seems for these athletes. One girl actually throws herself forward, hitting the volleyball with the inside of her wrists before her padded elbow smacks the court. She hops up, unfazed, and I smile, admiring her tenacity.
About fifteen minutes go by, and I forget my task, absorbed instead with watching the scrimmage. But then I notice her. She’s wearing a uniform, and her muscles are flexed from playing, her brown hair tied back in a ponytail. In an instant I know it’s Virginia, although I can’t pinpoint exactly how I know. Perhaps it’s the way she’s apart from everyone. Not in location—she’s on the team—but emotionally. She doesn’t seem to register the game the same way the others do.
Virginia dives for the volleyball, spinning and landing on her back as she sets up the score for another player. The other girl makes the shot and then helps Virginia up from the floor before slapping her hand.
I’m fascinated, wondering how a person who recently experienced such heavy loss could carry on like nothing was wrong. Then again, I just found that my whole life was a lie, and I still managed to have a burrito on my way over here. I guess even in grief we have to continue to live. Continue to play volleyball and eat burritos.
Which tells me that Virginia Pritchard is an excellent liar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT THE END OF THE game the coach blows her whistle, and the girls slap hands and laugh together. The group of people in front of me leaves to meet their friends on the court, and I stand up, watching Virginia as she talks to her coach. I never did make a plan. I figured I would seem more authentic if I didn’t overprepare, a trick I sometimes used when providing closure. I’m a little wary; I’ll need to be damn convincing if I plan to earn her trust and ask her about Catalina.
I hop down from the bleachers and move to the edge of the court, not wanting to appear too aggressive. I wait for a natural pause in her conversation, and then I start forward and call Virginia’s name.
She gives a quick look that sizes me up, her brow slightly furrowed.
“Go ahead,” her coach tells her, touching her arm. “I’ll catch up with you later so we can go over the plans for next week’s tournament.”
As the coach walks away, Virginia smoothes her damp hair back toward her ponytail before turning to me, her posture rigid. “And who do you work for?” she asks coldly.
My heart nearly explodes in my chest, and I have to do absolutely everything to keep my panic from showing. She knows.
“Excuse me?” I ask, feigning confusion. “I . . . I’m actually a new student here.”
She waits a moment as if thinking that over, and then she shrugs apologetically. “Didn’t mean to be rude,” she says. “It’s just that you’d be my third reporter this week, and I’m kind of tired of telling them to fuck off.” She grins, and I instantly like her.
“I’m sure,” I say, smiling like Liz would. “And I’m sorry I interrupted you and your coach.”
Virginia waves away the sentiment. “Don’t be,” she says. “She would have talked forever, so I’m glad you’re here. Coach Bryant is a worst-case scenario type of person, which leaves me with the task of being fatally optimistic. And honestly, I’m too tired today.”
Virginia walks past me to where a stack of small white towels waits on the bottom bleacher step. I follow, aware of how awkward I feel—like this really is my first day of school. Virginia takes a towel and wipes it across her forehead, around her neck, and even under her arms.
I stand, waiting, and it isn’t until she grabs a bottle of water and takes a sip that she sits down and pats the bench as if inviting me to join her. I take a spot, and before I can properly introduce myself, I’m startled by how different she looks up close.
Although I thought her eyes were dark, I see now that their color is actually green or hazel, but her pupils are dilated so large that they nearly crowd out the irises. There are patches of foundation that haven’t gotten wiped off, leaving behind streaks of pale white skin. It’s unsettling, this peek behind her mask, and I look away from where the makeup is darkest on her jawline.
“Like I mentioned,” I start, thinking out each word before I speak, wanting to cause a reaction. A bond between us. “I’m a new student—Elizabeth Major.” I turn to her and smile. “My friends call me Liz.”
Virginia watches me, seemingly amused, and sips from her water. “Nice to meet you,” she says, but she really means Why are you telling me all of this? My nonthreatening demeanor is setting her at ease, though, so I continue down that path.
“When I was filling out paperwork this afternoon,” I explain, “there was a girl in the office—I’m not sure of her name. Anyway, we were both waiting, and I asked where people around here hang out. She told me to ask you.”
Virginia chokes on a sip of water as she laughs. “Really?” she asks, dragging the back of her wrist across her mouth. “Did she give you a reason for her suggestion?”
“She said you’re everyone’s friend.”
My comment is the right choice. I see a slight tint of melancholy in her expression, but in front of that is warmth at the idea that someone else thought highly of her. Seems her self-esteem may be a little on the low side, understandable considering what she’s been through.
Seeing the crack, I settle my back against the bench and pull my legs under me, like we’re two girls chatting at a sleepover. “I moved from Eugene,” I tell her. “Just me and my mom, and she’s always working. I was pretty sure my entire social life would take place on the computer, but then there was a small glimmer of hope.” I smile, pinching my fingers together.
“Where’s your dad?” Virginia asks, catching me off guard and killing the levity of the conversation.
“He died.” The minute I say it, I’m struck with guilt. The father I know is alive and well. Okay, maybe not well. But alive. But then I have the eerie sense that my real father might be dead—like speaking it out loud makes it possible. There’s a phantom pain in my heart for the person I don’t know to love, the possibility a blank spot waiting to fill.
“I’m so sorry,” Virginia says, making me start, almost like she read my mind. “I didn’t mean to press,” she continues. “My mother’s dead, and now it’s . . . it’s a point of curiosity for me.” She rolls her eyes, embarrassed. “Morbid, I know,” she adds. “Imagine my surprise to find that there aren’t many kids with dead paren
ts out there. Started to think it was just me.”
I murmur my condolences, noting that this is a connection I can exploit later, when she trusts me more. “Well,” I say, lightening my tone, “what does everyone do around here? Back home we spend most of our time hiking. Some shopping.”
“It’s mostly the same here,” Virginia says, reaching up to pull the elastic band out of her hair. Brown waves cascade over her shoulders, and she rubs her scalp like it’s sore from wearing a ponytail for too long. Virginia shakes her hair out and then loops the elastic band around her wrist. When she’s done, she glances at the clock over the doorway and jumps up with a loud sigh. She hikes her thumb toward the locker rooms.
“I have to go,” she says. Before I have time to be disappointed, she puts her hand on her hip and smiles at me. “Are you doing anything for dinner?” she asks.
I swallow hard, afraid she’s going to invite me to her house. “Uh . . . no,” I say, readying my excuses if Arthur Pritchard is going to be there.
“Cool,” she says, taking a few steps backward. “My dad’s never home, so I grab food at the Mill around seven. It’s a diner around the corner. You in?”
“Yeah,” I say, relieved. “I’ll see you there.”
She holds up her hand in a wave and spins on her sneakers, jogging for the locker room. I watch after her, my heart in my throat. Just before she opens the door, Virginia takes the elastic band from around her wrist and ties her ponytail up high. She pulls the threads of her hair through and adjusts her posture. I recognize what she’s doing—the façade she’s putting up for others.
When she’s gone, I’m left to wonder how I can possibly convince her to trust me, and to tell me the secrets she’s hiding from everyone else.
* * *
The Mill diner is small, with only a handful of tables, most of them taken by what look like regulars. An old man with his hat set beside him in the seat, a club sandwich in front of him. A middle-aged man reading his phone while he spears his pasta salad with a fork. A mom with two kids, smiling when the waitress sets a coloring page in front of the little girl.
I grab a table near the back and order a Coke. The waitress comes by twice to ask for my order before the bells above the door jingle and Virginia appears. She scans the room until her gaze falls on me, and I straighten, folding my hands in front of me. I’m suddenly insecure of my hair extensions and makeup. I feel obviously fake. But Virginia’s smile gives none of that away as she comes to join me.
I watch her approach. Instead of her volleyball uniform, she’s wearing a crisp white T-shirt with a baby-blue scarf tied in a knot over her chest. Her hair is flowing down over her shoulders, and for a moment I’m struck with the sense that I know her. But of course I don’t. I can see how she fit into Catalina’s life—how they were friends. Their mannerisms are similar.
Virginia slides into the booth across from me and unravels her scarf before setting it aside. She looks up at the waitress, who comes over immediately.
“What can I get for you?” the waitress asks in a husky voice.
Virginia puts her elbows on the table, hands folded under her chin. “A Dr Pepper,” she says, and then looks at me. “Any objections to pie for dinner?” she asks. “It’s really good.”
“That sounds perfect,” I tell her, although I’m still full from my afternoon burrito.
“Apple, please,” Virginia says. “Extra whipped cream.” When the waitress leaves, she turns back to me. “The pie is my treat,” Virginia says. “Since I was kind of a bitch when we first met.”
I laugh. “You were fine. But thank you. And thanks for letting me intrude on your personal life,” I say, leaning in to sip from my drink. “I don’t usually invite myself into friendships.”
“To be honest,” she says, “I could really use a friend. So your timing is perfect.” She turns to look out the window at the street, letting her smile slowly fade. I want to ask her everything—all about Catalina, about the suicides—but it’s not time yet.
“I had to leave my friends behind,” I say, more honest than I planned to be. “I miss them.”
Virginia looks over sympathetically. “Moving sucks,” she says. “I can relate. I was in Washington, and then I spent last summer in Lake Oswego and made friends there. It’s amazing how far a few hours can seem, isn’t it? Might as well be a different planet.”
My pulse kicks to life at the mention of Lake Oswego. “I know what you mean, and Corvallis is even closer.”
Virginia tilts her head. “I thought you said you moved here from Eugene?”
“Corvallis is where my ex-boyfriend goes to school,” I say without missing a beat. Silently I’m cursing myself for the slip. Great, Quinn. Why not tell her you live there and work for the grief department? “But hey,” I add, trying to change the subject, “enough about me and my boring life.”
“Are you kidding?” Virginia asks. “Ex-boyfriends are my favorite kind. I want to hear all about him. Because by the look on your face, I’m guessing he’s not quite as ex as you’d like.”
“It’s that obvious?” I’m alarmed at how easily she could read my feelings for Deacon.
“Totally obvious,” she says. “Now tell me—is he cute? Funny?”
“He thinks he’s funny,” I say, feeling a sense of relief at being able to talk about Deacon, even if I can’t tell her the whole truth about us. I smile. “Okay, he’s really funny,” I admit.
“Cute?”
“Stupidly so.”
“Oooh . . . ,” Virginia calls playfully, leaning back in her seat before rolling out her wrists. “Please go on.”
I do just that, describing my favorite features, never mentioning his name. When I’m done, she’s gazing at me. “What?” I ask.
“You still love him,” she says. “Maybe he shouldn’t be as ex as you want.”
“No, he definitely should,” I respond, and start to fiddle with my straw wrapper, tying it in knots. I stop pretending that Deacon is a regular guy and we had a regular relationship. The truth is way more screwed up than that.
“Too bad,” Virginia says under her breath.
“Yeah.” We’re both quiet for a moment, and then I look up at her, daring to get us on course. “So earlier,” I say, “you mentioned reporters. What’s that all about?”
Virginia stiffens as if I’ve struck a nerve.
The waitress appears at the end of our table and puts a Dr Pepper in front of Virginia. “Pie is on its way,” she says.
“Thanks,” Virginia responds, and quickly grabs the drink and sips straight from the glass. We don’t speak as the waitress leaves and comes back with an oversize slice of pie, whipped cream piled on top. She puts it in the center of the table and asks if we need anything else.
“No,” Virginia tells her. The waitress nods and walks away. Around us the diner is getting busy. Several new customers have come in to fill up the seats at the counter. I’m happy for the distraction, the white noise. I can see that Virginia appreciates it as well.
She picks up her fork and takes the first bite of apple pie, smiling at me after she does. I follow suit, and sure enough, Virginia was right. It’s delicious.
We eat quietly; the mood has shifted, and I know that I made a mistake by bringing up the reporters. After the waitress drops off the check and leaves, Virginia lifts her eyes to meet my gaze.
“I didn’t want her to hear us talking about it,” she says quietly. “She’ll tell my father.”
Her tone pricks my skin, drawing me in. The paranoia in her words is completely infectious, and I find myself glancing around the room as if we really are being spied on.
I lean forward, hands on the table. “Tell him what exactly?”
Virginia smiles sadly. “I’m sorry you came here, Liz. Sorry you came to me,” she says. “Although at this point, I’m not sure it matters where you go.”
“Why doesn’t it matter?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about
it. Hell, I’m not even supposed to know about it.”
“Okay,” I say. “You’re starting to freak me out. Talk about what?”
“Death.”
Maybe it’s the way she whispers it, but goose bumps rise on my arms, a chill over my entire body. I wonder immediately if she’s talking about Catalina—if right now she’s going to tell me everything I need to blackmail her father. Taking advantage of Virginia is a necessary evil I’m willing to carry out, but I still feel like shit about it.
“Whose death?” I ask, my voice unintentionally hushed.
She pauses a moment, studying me. Then her eyes well up, and when she blinks, tears spill onto her cheeks. “My friends are killing themselves,” she says. “And everywhere I turn, it’s on the news: gory details and speculation on why. Why, why, why? It’s all anyone can think about anymore. Obsess about. But my father told me not to listen, not to speak it—as if it’s a contagious thought.”
“Perhaps it is,” I say. “Behavioral contagion—copycat behavior—is common, especially in teenagers.” Virginia lifts her eyes to mine, and I realize I’m showing too much of my closer side.
“Sorry,” I say. “I read that in the paper once.” I take a quick sip of my drink, feeling Virginia watch me. I’m pissed at myself; I let my disappointment compromise my carefulness. And despite the tragedy of her story, it’s not the sort of information I need on Arthur Pritchard. Maybe he didn’t tell the grief department about his daughter’s involvement with Catalina because he wanted to spare her the details. That’s hardly blackmail-worthy.
“Yeah,” she says, easing back in her seat, “that’s what some of the doctors think.” She exhales heavily, checking around once again to make sure no one is watching. When she’s sure it’s safe, she goes on.
“Brandon Vega and Tracy Thurgood were the first in town,” she says. “Both died after ingesting a self-mixed poison. Since them there’s been five other suicides.”
I stare at her, shocked. “Five?”