You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

  The art room is filled with the sound of gently scratching pencils and the smell of wet watercolor paper. The spring show is next month, and everyone’s busy working on their projects. Mr. Danziger looks up when we walk in, but he takes a sip of tea and goes back to reading his book. He’s been teaching art here for decades, and he doesn’t care about anything anymore. Last year I saw him smoking a joint in the faculty parking lot.

  Penn is here, too. He looks up when we walk in, scowls, and bends his head back over his work. The pencil in his hand looks ready to snap.

  On the opposite side of the room, Damian’s working on a large sculpture. Every few seconds, he glances at Penn.

  “Hey, Damian,” Cass says once we get close. “Got a minute?”

  Damian glances toward Penn again, then at me. “Um, okay.”

  “Tell me why you and Penn are fighting,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “We’re not.” Damian crouches next to his work. The sculpture is made of white stone. It’s a snake that knots and twists around itself, eating its own tail. The same one from his Instagram feed. He runs his hand over the surface, looking for flaws.

  Cass purses her lips at my lack of finesse. I don’t try to burn bridges, I’m just naturally good at it, and I’m still rattled from everything that happened this morning. I give her a look, silently telling her to take the lead.

  She crouches down to inspect the sculpture. “This is really impressive. What kind of stone is it?”

  He wipes away some more of the dust. “Carrara marble. Beautiful, right?”

  Cass gives him an encouraging smile. “Is it for the art show?”

  Damian hesitates. “Well, yeah, I’ll put her in the show. But”—he looks in Penn’s direction again—“she’s my entry into this contest, the Prisma Project.”

  “Oh, I’ve never heard of that. What do you get if you win?” Cass leans closer to look at the snake’s scales, each one carved in intricate detail. I can’t help but admire for the millionth time how good she is at this.

  Damian says, “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar prize, and it looks amazing on art school applications. The last kid who won got offered a full ride at Parsons and the Rhode Island School of Design.”

  I consider the sculpture. “Carrara marble, you said?”

  Damian nods and traces a finger over one of the snake’s eyes. His palms are covered in pale white dust.

  I try to copy Cass’s casual we’re-all-friends-here tone. “Wow, you must really want to win this thing. I guess for ten grand I wouldn’t want to use plaster from the art room.”

  The corner of Cass’s mouth twitches. She nods at me encouragingly.

  Damian nods without looking up. “People go all out for this thing. I have to win.”

  There’s a desperate edge to his voice that makes me pause.

  Cass is still looking at the snake. “I can’t get over how pretty the stone is. How did you even pay for this much marble? It must have cost a fortune.”

  Damian hesitates, looking nervous again. “My mom. She helped me buy it.”

  Cass gives me a nod. My turn.

  “Is your mom the ‘she’ in your note?” I ask.

  He grabs his chisel, refusing to meet my eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I push harder. “I saw you guys the other day in chem. I’m sorry, I had to do it. You don’t know what she’ll do to me?”

  He runs a hand through his hair, streaking white dust through the black. “You shouldn’t be reading other people’s notes.”

  “Damian,” Cass chides, “you told me you were ready to talk.”

  His eyes dart between us, then flick back over to Penn on the other side of the room.

  Cass says gently, “I already told you, we know about the Basement. We know Penn has been fighting there for money. You’re not ratting anyone out. Tell us what happened.”

  Damian casts one last, desperate glance at Penn, who’s stopped drawing.

  “Okay.” Damian gets even quieter. “Yeah, I needed the money for the marble. My ma, she doesn’t take the artist thing seriously. She wants me to go to dental school or something.” He looks down at the snake again and traces a hand over its undulating body. His touch is tender. Loving. “See how the marble has these natural blue and gray tones to it? The veining? I had this dream about the snake’s scales, how each one would be a slightly different color. It would almost look real. But it only works if it’s big. Like, if this were the size of a shoebox, it wouldn’t be so impressive, right?”

  Cass and I both tilt our heads. He has a point. The thing comes up to my knees. It’s huge. On this scale, it’s like something out of a Greek myth.

  Damian continues. “I could never afford a piece of marble this size. I work at the gas station. I make nothing per hour. One night, my mom was doing dishes in the other room, and her credit card was sitting right there.”

  Cass puts it all together. “But she found out, and you needed to pay her back.”

  Damian looks at us with pleading eyes. “I tried to explain it to Penn, but he wouldn’t listen! She was going to sell all my art supplies, my brushes, everything. I tried to tell her I’d pay her back once I won the contest, but you know. Parents, right?”

  Yeah. I know.

  “Why’s Penn so mad?” I ask.

  Damian picks some of the marble dust out of his cuticles. “I bet against him.”

  “You bet against your best friend?”

  “It’s not like I made him lose!” Damian insists. “Penn pulled his shoulder that day. I told him he shouldn’t fight at all, but he wouldn’t listen!” He leans closer. “Penn’s quiet. People overlook him. When he first started fighting, everyone thought he wouldn’t last, but he turned out to be really good at it. The odds were on him to win, but I knew about his shoulder.” He exhales. “I didn’t sabotage him or anything. I needed money, and this was the only way I could get it, like, immediately.”

  “What about Ava?” I ask. “Did she fight, too?” So far, no one’s been able to tell me exactly what her connection was to this place.

  Damian shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Besides Penn’s stuff, I didn’t know much about the Basement. That place freaks me out. I tried to talk him out of fighting in the first place, but he wanted to impress that stuck-up bitch Victoria.”

  On the other side of the studio, the pencil finally snaps.

  Penn flies across the room. “You asshole! What, it’s not enough to sell out your best friend, you have to mouth off to the nosiest girls in school?”

  Everyone turns to watch as Damian shouts back, “I’d rather talk to you about it, but you won’t listen!”

  Penn looks at him with disgust. “You’ve been a self-absorbed dick since we were in the sixth grade. I don’t know why I keep waiting for you to change.”

  “Gentlemen!” Mr. Danziger puts his book down. “As exhilarating as this brotherly feud is, I think we all want to simmer down. Let’s make art, not war, okay, folks?”

  Penn is gripping the neck of Damian’s shirt. He looks like he might punch him any second.

  “All right.” Mr. Danziger stands and claps his hands once. “Ms. Calhoun? Ms. Yang? I think that’s quite enough excitement you’ve stirred up for one day. Perhaps you could see yourselves to your actual classes?”

  Eyes follow us out the door. Penn’s words echo in my head. They sound uncomfortably similar to what Cass said to me in the car yesterday.

  Sixth-period classes are canceled, and we all file into the gym. It’s a totally inappropriate place for a memorial. The smells of sweat, old shoes, and basketball rubber have soaked in over the years. The McQueens are holding a private service for Ava this weekend, but it’s family only. This memorial is the one chance for the school to honor Ava—a week from now, everyone will have moved on to something else. I know. I’ve been here before.

  Eyes trail after Cass and me as we walk up the bleachers. Heads bend closer together as we pass.

 
“I heard she totally started a fistfight between Penn and Damian in the art room.”

  Ignore it. Ignore them.

  But they’re not only whispering about me.

  “Why is Cass even still friends with her?”

  “She used to have normal friends, but she’s, like, obsessed with her.”

  I start to turn, but Cass puts a hand on my arm.

  “I don’t know, Yang is pretty psycho, too. One time, she punched Chad Westfall in the face for no reason. They deserve each other.”

  I rip my arm out of Cass’s grip and spin around.

  The four gossiping senior girls abruptly fall silent. I lean right down in their faces. The one closest to me scoots back, and I smile.

  “Do you know what’s a really bad idea?”

  The girls trade glances.

  I smile wider. So sweet. “Insulting a psycho’s best friend. You never know”—I lean in closer—“when she might snap.” I pop the p, and one of them flinches.

  I straighten. The girls all look at Cass like she might have some explanation.

  Cass shrugs. “Sorry, she’s rabid. I can’t control her.” She starts to turn, then looks back. Her smile matches mine. Twin freaks. “If you think she’s scary, you don’t want to see what happens when you piss me off.” Cass grabs my hand and pulls me up the bleachers.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she mutters. “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “It bothers me.” She does such a good job defending me. I can do the same for her.

  “You know, they’re not totally wrong about Penn and Damian,” Cass muses as we take our seats. “They were best friends. Now look at them.”

  Penn is sitting a few rows ahead of us. His posture is stiff. From the way other people keep glancing at him, those girls aren’t the only ones gossiping about him and Damian.

  Cass gestures around the gym. “There’s got to be all kinds of resentment festering over the Basement. Friends beating up friends, people betting against each other. It’s not like that stuff just gets left at the door when the fight is over.”

  It’s not the first time she’s mentioned it, but she has a point. From the moment I walked through the doors into the Basement, I’ve had this feeling that there had to be something big at play here, more than just a brawl gone wrong.

  But after seeing the way Penn—the quiet, artsy kid in my chem class—clenched his fist like he was about to beat his best friend into the ground, I’m not so certain anymore. Maybe Cass is right.

  It seems like half the student body is involved with the Basement in some way. Any one of them would have reasons to keep it a secret. The question is, would one of them kill for it?

  The sight of Ava’s broken, limp body curled up on the dirty ground flashes through my head. Which one of our classmates would be capable of leaving someone they knew, someone they saw every day, to bleed out in the street?

  I look around the gym. People are still filing in, finding their seats. The space is filled with the low, rumbling chatter of high school kids set free from their regular classes.

  I should know by now that anyone is capable of that kind of darkness.

  “You might be right,” I say slowly. “Maybe things just got out of hand and Ava ended up dead. But if that’s the case, nothing has changed. The Basement is still up and running. It’s still hurting people.”

  Cass looks at me with sad, serious eyes. “So how long before someone else gets killed?”

  Her question hangs in the air for a moment. Someone takes the seat next to her, shaking us out of those disturbing thoughts.

  It’s Elliot Graham. “Hey, Cass. Flora.”

  Cass immediately turns to mush. It’s been an extremely shitty day, but I do enjoy seeing Cass turn that particular shade of pink.

  “Hey, Elliot,” I respond, since Cass seems to have lost control of her verbal faculties.

  “So, Cass.” He leans a little closer, and her face flushes brighter. “I wanted to talk to you about band stuff.” Elliot’s gentleman enough not to comment on her radioactive red cheeks.

  “Oh, ah, sure,” she stammers. It’s incredibly endearing. She looks at me with big, imploring eyes: Save me!

  As much as I’m enjoying her self-destruction, I can’t let her flail like this.

  “Elliot,” I jump in, “Cass barely told me anything about her audition. How did it go?”

  He grins. “Oh, she was incredible! I knew she’d be good, but she totally blew everyone away. That Bowie cover?” He nudges Cass’s elbow. “Brilliant.”

  Cass smiles weakly.

  “So are you up for a rehearsal tonight?” Elliot asks her.

  Cass glances at me, a different kind of nervousness in her eyes now. “Oh, um. Tonight? I thought we were meeting on Mondays?”

  “Yeah, we’ll get on a regular schedule eventually, but I think for the first couple weeks I want to meet as often as possible to help the group click together. That doable for you?”

  Cass’s eyes flick to me again, and suddenly I get it. She’s worried about leaving me alone tonight.

  “She’ll be there,” I answer for her. Elliot gives me a funny look, probably wondering why I’m micromanaging my friend’s schedule, but Cass understands.

  “Yeah.” She blows out a shaky breath and nods. “Tonight is great. I’m there.”

  His smile is blinding. “Excellent.” He lets out a wheezy little laugh, like he’s sort of winded talking to her. The cuteness is unbearable.

  Elliot rubs the back of his neck and looks around the room. His smile falters.

  “You know,” he says quietly, “Ava sure would have liked being the center of attention like this.”

  It’s like a punch to the stomach. Listening to Cass and Elliot’s ridiculously awkward flirting, I could almost forget for a minute. But Elliot was friends with Ava. Another person whose life is irreparably altered by her absence.

  Ava would have been in rock ensemble with Cass and Elliot for sure. I would have gone to meet them after rehearsal sometimes. To see Cass, technically, but then Ava would be there, too. I would have stood in the doorway and watched Cass leaning into the mic, harmonizing with Elliot. Ava’s hands gliding up and down the fretboard of her bass, her fingers fast and sure.

  That possible future is gone now, for all of us.

  Elliot’s picking at one of his fingernails. The glow from talking to Cass has faded, and there’s something worn and fragile in his face that hurts to see.

  I’m seized by the impulse to say something comforting, to reach out and pull him into a hug, but I don’t really know how to do either of those things.

  Microphone feedback cuts through the din. The chatter dies off.

  At the center of the basketball court, Principal Adams stands behind a podium.

  “Welcome, students. Hartsdale family members. I am deeply saddened to be here today. Ava McQueen was a star student, a passionate young activist, and a dear friend to this entire school. She is missed.”

  Someone sniffles a few rows ahead. I can’t see who it is. My ears pop.

  I’ve been to one of these memorials before. In this gym. Principal Adams said almost the exact same words.

  Lucy MacDonald was a bright and special girl, a force of nature. She charmed everyone she met.

  It was like she was describing a girl I didn’t know. Lucy wasn’t like that at all. She was a bitch. Everyone thought so, until she died. Until I found her. What was left of her, anyway. That pulpy red mess lying in the middle of the trail like forgotten medical waste. After that, everyone had nothing but nice things to say about her. At least for a little while.

  Principal Adams says, “Ava’s father hoped to speak with you all, but today he finds himself beyond words. Instead we will hear from one of the leaders of this community and a parent at this school, Congressman James Dorsey.”

  Goose bumps rise on my arms, even though they’ve way overheated the gym.

  Dorsey pauses to shake hands with Principal Adams and Ava’s
parents, who are sitting in the front row. The lines of his face are drawn together in a caricature of sympathetic concern. I can see even from this distance that Ava’s dad is openly weeping, endless tears streaming down his face. I met him a few times last summer. He had Ava’s same sly wit. Sometimes when we were holed up in her room, we’d hear him yelling at the news while he made dinner. Ava and I would laugh against each other’s mouths as we kissed.

  Hot, poisonous anger roils in my stomach. I can’t fault Mr. McQueen for not wanting to speak, but Ava was loved. She had friends who cared about her. Teachers who believed in her. Even setting aside my suspicions about Dorsey, at best he’s just some fake politician who didn’t even know Ava. They’re going to let him use her death to score publicity points?

  Dorsey adjusts the mic like a pro, no awkward fumbling. “Thank you, Principal Adams. It is a great honor and an even greater tragedy to speak here today, remembering the life of a remarkable young woman. Mr. and Mrs. McQueen, my heartfelt condolences are with you, of course, and with the entire Hartsdale community, for Ava’s death is a loss to us all.”

  He takes the microphone off the stand and walks a little to the left and then right as though he’s at some kind of folksy town hall event.

  “I come here today not as your congressman, not as your hopeful senator, but as your neighbor.” He dives into a litany of praises, like he’s reading from Ava’s résumé or, more likely, some dossier his staff put together ten minutes ago. “Top 10 percent of her class… young activist… underserved communities… organized her peers for change…”

  I dig my nails into the knees of my jeans.

  A flash of blue-green hair catches my eye. Lainie Andrews, Ava’s best friend. She hunches over in her seat. Her shoulders shake. Another girl puts her hand on Lainie’s back, but she flinches away.

  To my left, Elliot’s posture is rigid. His eyes are locked on Dorsey as he continues spewing generic, meaningless praise about Ava.

  It’s kind of like English class the other day: everyone had nice things to say, but they only made Ava sound like an idea instead of a person. Meanwhile, Lainie curls in on herself with grief, Elliot’s jaw tightens, and I remember the real Ava. The one who always laughed too loud in the library. Who walked right up and kissed me at that party. Who avoided me for months with no explanation, no matter how many desperate texts I sent her.