You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

  No way I’m backing down now. “You first.”

  He looks me dead in the eyes, hardly blinking. My mouth goes dry, but I meet his stare head-on.

  He begins, “Well, there’s the absent-father-figure thing practically radiating off you, but I won’t bore you with cheap thrills. I’ll start with this: you weren’t there as a spectator tonight. Didn’t even know what you were walking into, I’m thinking. It’s the clothes. Jeans. Leather jacket. The other girls, they come dressed for a party. Tottering around in their heels.” He leans over the side of the table and looks at my feet. “You, on the other hand, chose combat boots. Now, lots of people imagine themselves punks these days, but your treads are all worn down on the sides, like sometimes you get caught places you shouldn’t be, and you gotta make a break for it.”

  Elbows on the table, he leans in closer, voice low. “You didn’t flinch once watching me fight, not until that bastard sucker punched me after the bell. Before that, I cracked his face open real good, blood all over, but it was that last punch that made you look away. You’re no stranger to violence, but you like things fair. No cheating. People have two good reasons to sneak around a place like that: crook, or cop. What with the whole honor code, I’m going to go with cop.

  “Course, you’re no older than seventeen, so not a real cop. Cheerleader assassin? Girl detective? Avenging angel?”

  I force myself not to twitch. He gets a look in his eyes like a jaguar with the scent of blood.

  “But then,” he drawls, “pretty little redheaded schoolgirls don’t go sneaking around playing detective because they’re well-adjusted. There’s some dark tale of woe in your past. Unsolved mystery? If you could just figure it out, you’d be done?”

  I focus all of my energy on remaining still.

  He traces a finger around the edge of his water glass. “I’ll bet you have help. Family connection? Ex-cop? FBI? Yeah, something slick like that. Quantico, criminal profiling. All about reading people, getting into their heads. ’Cause you’re young, and you’re small, but you are always, always smarter than everyone else. And if you’re that smart, you can almost forget that a bad guy like me could reach across the table and break your little wrist before you had the time to move away.”

  I scoot back, bringing both wrists under the table.

  He laughs. “Almost. But not quite. So, how’d I do?”

  Scary well, but I’m not telling him that. “No Quantico.” VT raises his eyebrows, a challenge, and I relent. “My grandfather. CIA.”

  He grins. “And the rest?”

  “The rest was right enough. Got a little Psych 101 for my taste, but trueish.”

  “All right, then, Cherry, let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  My awareness sharpens. I’m ready to rip a hole in that smile.

  I lean back and tilt my head, mimicking him, then begin. “It’s an act, obviously. The tough-guy thing. That’s always the case with you Rebel Without a Cause types in some way or another, but this is something more. You’re smart, but it’s not Artful Dodger street smarts. You recognized Vanya and Telemachus as literary characters, so you like to read everything from classics of Russian drama to Pippi Longstocking.”

  VT is eerily still. No reaction yet.

  I continue. “Pippi and Anne of Green Gables are what stupid people call ‘girl’ books, but you read them anyway. You were one of those kids. Up late, flashlight under the covers, reading anything you got your hands on. You’re not huge now, more like wiry. You were probably small as a kid, and a small boy who reads girl books means bullied.

  “But you grew up to fight in illegal underground clubs, so at some point you came home crying and your father told you to handle it like a man. A dad like that wouldn’t buy Pippi for his son. You had an older sister.”

  VT blinks. He wets his lower lip. His expression is still blank, but I swear his breathing has gone shallow.

  I see you. You can’t hide.

  “You read her books. You obviously looked up to her, worshipped her, even, and she protected you.” I keep my voice soft. “But nerdy little boys don’t grow up to be street fighters because they’re well-adjusted. Something horrible happened.”

  His jawline is as hard and straight as an arrow. One bandaged hand grips the tabletop. His cuticles are white and bloodless.

  “If I were a betting girl, I’d say it was the sister. If she were around, she’d hardly approve. Her darling, sensitive baby brother getting his face beaten in every night? She’d be so disappointed. She’s gone, isn’t she? And you’ve never been the same.

  “So you turned into this.” I gesture in his general direction. The black eye. The bloody knuckles. “This ridiculous caricature of a bad boy. I mean, who even smokes anymore? And the way you talk? It’s like you’ve read The Outsiders too many times. No way that’s real.”

  I go quiet for a second. “Here’s the thing, though: this is who you are now. Maybe it started out fake. An identity you made for yourself because something awful happened, and you needed to be a new person. But now you’ve been this for so long, you don’t know what’s real anymore.”

  For a moment, the world is soundless except for our breathing. Neither one of us blinks.

  This time, I’m the first one to look away.

  I pick at the peeling edge of the linoleum tabletop. “Oh, and I’ve also got this theory you’re a down-on-your-luck dancer, but I’m waiting on more evidence before I commit.” I take a sip of water and risk another look at him. “How’d I do?”

  The spell is shattered, and his mask slips back into place.

  He smirks. “Not half bad, Red. Won’t say what’s true and what’s not—too fun watching you squirm—but not half bad.”

  I resist the urge to jump over the table and hyena maul his stupid, pretty face. “You’re scum.”

  “Bet that took all your detecting skills, Nancy Drew.”

  The waitress returns with our food.

  I take a minute to bask in the glory of French fries and chocolate shake, but something bothers me. “What you said before, about me flinching?”

  He gives me a wary look. “Yeah?”

  “You were watching me from the ring?” My voice wavers, and I already regret asking. I just want to know why he followed me, but now he’s going to get all kinds of ideas.

  He surprises me with the tiniest, softest smile. “Your hair, Cherry. Catches the light.” The smile disappears, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

  We both look down.

  Time to get back on stable ground. “Are you going to give me anything useful? I thought you had intel.”

  “Be easier if I knew what you were looking for.”

  I chew a fry. “Tell me about the club. Who runs it?” I don’t want to ask about Ava, not yet. He might spook if he figures out I’m investigating a murder, and then I really will go home with nothing.

  He drums his fingers against the tabletop. “The big boss? Don’t know for sure. We don’t see any trouble from the police, though. My hunch is it’s all connected up top with local business or politics.”

  “Why?”

  “I see them sometimes, in the VIP section. Nice suits and American flag pins. They go there to make deals. It’s too loud for a wire, or for anyone to overhear. The profits must be a decent chunk of change. Could add some nice padding to a campaign slush fund, or maybe they’ve got a mistress to pay off. Who knows?”

  What he’s saying lines up with what I’ve been thinking, but it’s also exactly what I’ve been afraid of. If Ava had anything to do with that place, it sounds like she might have gotten tangled up with some shadowy and corrupt people. The kind who can make things dangerous for those who get in their way.

  I set that aside for now. “So what’s the setup? For the club, I mean.”

  “Schedule changes every week. Some weeks, there’s nothing. Others, might be a fight every other night. You have to know someone who knows someone to get the schedule for that week. Then it’s twenty at the
door, plus betting and booze inside.”

  “You get paid?”

  “I get a cut of the night’s take, nothing much, plus a purse when I win. Usually works out to around five hundred a night, give or take.”

  I take a slurp of my milkshake, remembering those words on Ava’s NYU student page: Paid in full. What VT’s talking about is decent money, but Ava would have had to fight multiple nights a week for eight months, at least, to make tuition. How did she not get caught? And that’s not even factoring in all the bruises and injuries she would have had to cover up.

  “The girl,” I say. “The Butterfly. You know her?”

  He twirls the saltshaker between his fingers. “A bit.”

  “She was pretty young.” The milkshake sits heavy in my stomach as I remember her round cheek smushed against the dirty floor.

  He looks up at me, surprised. “Yeah.” He squints, like he’s reassessing me. “Most of the fighters are kids. High school, college students needing a little cash. Figured a girl like you…” He trails off with a flash of that shark’s smile.

  “A girl like me what?” It’s infuriating, but it’s safer to be back at each other’s throats like this.

  He laughs. “You live around here, yeah?”

  “And?”

  “There’s got to be at least a dozen kids from every high school in a fifteen-mile radius fighting in that ring. Bet you know more than one person who’s in on it. You pass these people in the halls, trade notes in math class, and you didn’t notice?” He shrugs. “Thought a smart girl like you wouldn’t be so clueless to what’s going on around her.”

  I look down at my lap. I don’t want him to see that he got me, but my skin is too hot. Too tight.

  What’s wrong with me? The kinds of fights I watched tonight, they leave scars. Fractures. Bruises. Penn’s limp in chem class the other day, his bruised cheek, come back to me in a rush.

  What other injuries have I written off as nothing? Matt Sharma got to type our history midterm because his arm was in a sling. I think he said he fell on a ski trip? Tara Jacobson was absent from Spanish for like a week with a concussion, but she’s a really intense soccer player so it’s not like that’s the first time it’s happened.

  Have I been oblivious all this time? Were all of these little things, each one barely a blip on my radar, actually connected to something much darker?

  He says, “Bet you’re having one hell of an identity crisis right about now. Not as observant as you thought, huh, Cherry?”

  Enough. I want what I came here for, so I can get this guy out from under my skin.

  I pull up a picture of Ava on my phone and turn it to face him. “You know this girl?”

  He stares at her photo for a long time. “This is the girl who got murdered.” He slides my phone back. “Seen her around. And you’re, what? Going to find who killed her?”

  I nod.

  VT’s eyes travel all over my face, like he’s picking out every detail, every clue. “Why? She a friend of yours?”

  “It’s the right thing to do.” I’m not going to get into the situation with me and Ava. Not giving him that ammunition. He gives me a shrewd look, like he sees through me.

  But all he says is, “Cops think it’s a mugging. Senseless act of violence, that whole deal.”

  “The police like convenient explanations as much as anyone.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I don’t.”

  A second passes, then two. He’s still watching me. There’s a sharp, quick curiosity in his eyes, like I can see his brain whirring too fast. It’s uncomfortably familiar.

  He breaks the moment. “Like I said, saw her around. Don’t know much more than that.”

  “Did she fight?” I ask.

  “Not that I ever saw.” He shrugs. “Could find out, though. Call you if I learn anything.”

  I stir my straw in my melted shake. “Why?”

  He props his chin in his hand and bats his eyelashes. “It’d give me a chance to see you again, wouldn’t it?”

  I know he’s not telling the truth. He’s hiding something. I’m not going to push, though. Not when he has something I want.

  He pulls out his phone and takes my number. A second later, I get a text:

  Hello, Cherry.

  For some idiotic reason, the words on the screen make my pulse stammer.

  I hate myself for it. Three nights ago, I was kneeling in an alleyway, covered in Ava’s blood. I’m here investigating the murder of the one person I ever had real feelings for. And now I’m flirting with informants?

  “Why are you helping me?” I ask again, hating how desperate I sound.

  He gives me a strangely earnest look. Maybe I’ll get a real answer.

  He shakes it off. “What can I say? I’ve always been a sucker for redheads.”

  We don’t say much on the walk back to my bike. I expect VT to disappear right away, but he lingers while I put on my helmet.

  “Well, good night, then. Sort of okay to meet you, I guess.” I flip up the kickstand with my toe.

  VT starts to say something, then stops. He looks down and takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself. “It’s Valentine.”

  My foot hovers over the pedal. “What?”

  “My name. VT. Stands for Valentine.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” The mood between us has changed, gone serious somehow, when neither of us was paying attention.

  “Yeah, well. My girl knows me so well, should probably know my name.” The bravado is back, but his eyes keep twitching from the ground to my face, like he can’t help it.

  I don’t know what to think about him at all.

  “Not your girl. But thanks.”

  Olive is sitting on my bed when I get home.

  She watches me with wide eyes as I climb through my window. “Where were you?”

  The day hits me like a pillowcase full of bricks. God, I’m tired. I ignore Olive and hunt for pajamas.

  “I came in here to apologize, but you were gone.” Her voice is soft.

  I concentrate on unbuttoning my jeans. This is exactly why I snuck out, so I didn’t have to think about this stuff anymore.

  Olive says, “I am sorry, you know. I didn’t mean it.” I look at her, and she wilts. “Okay, I did mean it. But I was dumb.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “It’s okay. I’m dumb all the time. You had to catch up eventually.”

  She laughs, a little too loud in the late-night hush of the house.

  I finish changing and climb onto the bed next to her. We face the same direction, staring straight ahead.

  “I called Mom,” she says eventually.

  My chest aches. “You did?”

  Olive picks at a thread on my comforter. “I told her she should come home.”

  “And?” I already know the answer.

  Olive’s mouth tightens. “She said everything’s confusing enough right now. She doesn’t want to shake things up.”

  Another time, Olive might have believed that excuse, pitiful as it is, but I can see from the sad, worn look on her face that she’s too old for it now.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “I know.” Her breath catches. “I just wish she was, too.”

  There’s that familiar swell of rage toward my mom. I’ve felt it a million times before. Only now, I don’t need her. It still hurts that she left, but I’m used to the pain.

  Fuck her for doing this to Olive, though.

  I reach over and grip her hand so tight, it must hurt.

  She turns to me with serious eyes. “I want to help. With the case, I mean. I can be helpful.”

  She’s thirteen. A kid, really, but so was I when this all started. Do I want Olive to be like me, though?

  I’m too exhausted to get into that now. “We’ll see.”

  A long silence, then Olive says, “I’m sorry about Ava. I know you guys dated, or something.”

  I’ve never talked to her about Ava before, so who k
nows how she figured that one out. Then again, Olive is observant, and Ava came over almost every day last summer. My heart constricts, remembering Ava giggling and kissing me in this very bed.

  I know you guys dated. I don’t correct her, because what would I even say? It feels wrong, though. Like I have a claim to Ava, or something. Like she’s mine to grieve. I don’t know how to feel about that, not after tonight, with all my confusing thoughts about this girl I thought I knew.

  We sit together in the silence for another moment, then Olive lifts herself off my bed.

  She pauses in my doorway. “If we’re going to survive this, you and me and Grandpa, we can’t be so scared of each other.”

  I nod, staring at the wall. “I’m trying.”

  I wake up sore the next morning. My spine crackles like I got the crap beaten out of me last night.

  I can’t stop seeing the Butterfly, crumpled and limp on the ground. I’ve been turning the same question over and over in my head since I saw her in the ring.

  How did I miss something this huge?

  I need coffee.

  Gramps is sitting at the kitchen table, and I pause in the doorway. I don’t want to talk about Mom or Olive. Even though she and I made up, I’m still covered in a thousand little cuts from the things we said.

  He takes in the sight of me—motionless, half in the kitchen and half out—with the same blank, patient attitude as always. When I don’t move or speak, he takes a sip of coffee and turns the page of his newspaper.

  I make my coffee. Mug. Milk. Two sugars. Stir. Don’t look at him.

  He speaks. “Thank you for the note.”

  The knot between my shoulder blades releases a bit.

  I sip my coffee and turn to face him. “Sometimes I listen.”

  “Indeed.” He turns the page. “Well then, what did you find?”

  Images from last night flash through my head. The spray of blood and sweat under the ring lights. The shoves and screams of the crowd.

  One ankle rests on his other knee, the pant leg of his suit pulled up to reveal a sliver of his periwinkle argyle socks. His posture is meant to show he’s relaxed, but I know him better than that. He’s waiting.