One of Us Is Next

by McManus, Karen M.

  “It’s not a trick question,” Luis says, and I realize that I’ve been silent all the way through the rose garden. We’re in a mini-meadow of wildflowers—all bright colors and tangled greens—and I still haven’t told him what I spend my time thinking about. “You can say anything. Music, cat memes, Harry Potter, empanadas.” He shoots me a grin. “Me.”

  My stomach does a flip that I try to ignore. “You caught me. I was just wondering how many flowers it would take to spell your name out in rose petals across the lawn.”

  “Fifteen,” Luis says instantly, then gives me a look of wide-eyed innocence when I snort. “What? It’s a very common occurrence. The gardeners won’t even let me come here during peak season.”

  My lips twitch. “Tienes el ego por las nubes, Luis,” I say, and he smiles.

  His hand brushes against mine, so quickly that I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or by accident. Then he says, “You know, I almost asked you out last year.” My entire body goes hot, and I’m positive I heard him wrong until he adds, “Coop didn’t want me to, though.”

  My pulse starts fluttering wildly. “Cooper?” I blurt out. What the hell? My love life, or lack thereof, is none of Cooper’s damn business. “Why?”

  Luis laughs a little. “He was being protective. Not a fan of my track record with girls when we were in school. And he didn’t think I was serious about making a change.” We’re halfway past the wildflowers, and Luis glances at me sideways. “I was, though.”

  My breathing gets shallow. What does that mean? I could ask, I guess. It’s a perfectly valid question, especially since he’s the one who brought it up. Or I could say what’s running through my head right now, which is I wish you’d followed through. Want to try again? Instead, I find myself forcing out a laugh and saying, “Oh well, you know Cooper. He always has to be everyone’s dad, doesn’t he? Father knows best.”

  Luis shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low and threaded with what almost sounds like disappointment. “I guess he does.”

  Bronwyn used to tell me, when we were younger, that I had crushes on unattainable boys because they were safe. “You like the dream, not the reality,” she’d say. “So you can keep your distance.” And I’d roll my eyes at her, because it’s not like she’d ever had a boyfriend back then either. But maybe she had a point, because all I can bring myself to say is, “Well, thanks for the intervention. You were right. I needed it.”

  “Any time,” Luis says, sounding like his usual carefree self. It hits me with dull certainty that if there was any chance for something to happen between us, I just let it pass.

  * * *

  —

  After dinner, I’m restless and anxious. There are now three items on my list of Things I Can’t Stand to Think About: nosebleeds and bruises, the Truth or Dare prompt that’s hitting its deadline in fifteen minutes, and the fact that I’m an utter emotional coward. If I don’t do something that at least feels productive, I’m going to crawl right out of my skin. So I take out my laptop and perch on my window seat, then plug my earbuds into my phone and call Knox.

  “Is there a reason you’re using voice technology?” he asks by way of greeting. “This is such a disconcerting mode of communication. It’s weird trying to keep a conversation rolling without nonverbal cues or spell check.”

  “Nice speaking with you too, Knox,” I say drily. “Sorry, but I’m on my laptop and I need my hands free. You can let the conversation lapse at any point.” I type a bunch of search terms into Google and add, “Have you ever wondered how somebody can block their number from showing up in a text?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question or are you going to tell me?”

  “I’m looking it up right now.” I wait a few beats until my screen fills. “There are three ways, according to wikiHow.”

  “Are you sure wikiHow is the authority on this subject?”

  “It’s a starting point.” I clear my throat. To be honest, it’s embarrassing to remember how eighteen months ago, I was hacking into Simon’s About That control panel to grab evidence the police had missed, and now? I’m Googling wikiHow entries. I wish I understood mobile technology half as well as computer and network systems. “So, this says you can use a messaging website, an app, or an email address.”

  “Okay. And this is helpful why?”

  “It’s foundational knowledge. The more important question is, how do you trace a number from an anonymous message?” I frown at my screen. “Ugh, the top Google result is from three years ago. That’s not a good sign.”

  Knox is quiet for a while as I read, and then he says, “Maeve, if you’re worried about Unknown then maybe you should just text back Dare. Those are harmless.”

  “Jules kissing Nate wasn’t harmless.”

  “True,” Knox concedes. “But it could have been in different circumstances. If Nate and Bronwyn were solid, she might’ve been annoyed at Jules planting one on her boyfriend, but she would’ve gotten over it. She wouldn’t have been mad at him for it, anyway. Or Jules could’ve picked someone else and made it into more of a friendly thing. Like a kiss on the cheek.” His voice turns musing. “Or maybe that would have been considered cheating the game.”

  A window pops onto my screen, and I pause. It’s a PingMe alert: The website you are monitoring has been updated. I’ve been getting these constantly for Vengeance Is Mine, on both my phone and my laptop, and I’m starting to regret setting it up. There’s nothing useful, just lots of creepy venting. At least Jellyfish seems to have calmed down lately. Still, I open a new browser tab anyway and type in the familiar URL.

  This time, there’s a string of posts by someone named Darkestmind—and as soon as I see the name, I recognize it as the person who piqued my interest in the first place. The one who mentioned Simon, and Bayview.

  “Knox,” I say eagerly. “Darkestmind is posting again.”

  “Huh? Who’s doing what?”

  “On the revenge forum,” I say, and hear Knox sigh through the phone.

  “Are you still stalking that place?”

  “Shh. I’m reading.” I scan the short string of posts:

  Cheers to all of us who are GETTING SHIT DONE this week.

  And by us, I mean Bayview2020 and me.

  Tip for the uninitiated: don’t screw with us.

  “He’s talking about Bayview again,” I report. “Or more specifically, someone who has Bayview in their user name. I’ll bet it’s someone who goes to school with us.”

  “Or—now, this is just a thought, but hear me out—maybe it’s a weird Simon fanboy who uses the name because they’re a weird Simon fanboy. Which we know, because they’re hanging out on a weird Simon fanboy subforum,” Knox says.

  I take a screenshot of the posts before hitting Refresh. “Are you being sarcastic?” I ask mildly. I’m not surprised Knox isn’t taking me seriously; Bronwyn didn’t either until my research made national news on Mikhail Powers Investigates.

  “Very.”

  When the page reloads, I yell so loudly and triumphantly that Knox lets out a muted “ow” on the other end of the line. “AHA! I knew it!” I say, my chest thumping with excitement. “There’s a new post from Darkestmind and listen to what it says: I’ve always wanted to out-Simon Simon and damn it, I think I have. More to come soon. Tick-tock. Tick-freaking-tock, Knox! That’s exactly what Unknown says when they’re getting ready to send another Truth or Dare prompt. It’s the same person!”

  “Okay. That is admittedly interesting,” Knox says. “Could be a coincidence, though.”

  “No way. There are no coincidences when it comes to this sort of thing. He mentioned Simon, too, so there’s that whole gossip-as-a-weapon connection. This is our guy.”

  “Great. So now what? How do you find out who Darkestmind actually is?”

  Some of my excitement ebbs awa
y. “Well. That’s Phase Two, obviously, and I will get to that…later.”

  Knox’s voice fades, like he’s holding his phone at a distance. “Okay, yeah, sorry. I’ll be right there.” He returns at normal volume. “I have to go. I’m at work.”

  “You are?” I ask, surprised. “Don’t you have play rehearsal tonight?”

  “Yeah, but there’s a ton going on at Until Proven and my understudy could use the practice, so I skipped.” Knox says it like it’s no big deal, but I can’t remember him ever missing a rehearsal before. “Listen, Maeve, it’s almost six, so—if you’re gonna text back Dare, now would be the time.”

  “No way. I told you, I’m not playing their game.” Even as I say it, though, I swallow hard and look at the clock on my laptop. Five fifty-nine.

  I can’t tell if Knox’s answering sigh is frustrated or resigned. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Phoebe

  Tuesday, March 3

  Emma, the queen of punctuality, is late.

  I’ve been standing at her locker for five minutes after last bell, and there’s no sign of her. We’re supposed to go to Owen’s spelling bee together—presenting a united front so Mom can stay clueless about the fact that we’re not speaking—but I’m starting to get the uneasy feeling that my sister has ditched me.

  Two more minutes, I decide. Then I’ll call it, and walk.

  I shift a few feet to my right to scan the hallway bulletin board while I wait. BE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO MAKES EVERYBODY FEEL LIKE SOMEBODY, a rainbow-lettered poster tells me, except someone’s crossed out SOMEBODY and written SHIT under it.

  Oh, Bayview High. You are nothing if not consistent.

  A shoulder bumps mine, and I half turn. “Sorry!” Monica Hill says breezily. She’s in her basketball cheerleading uniform, her platinum hair pulled back with a purple-and-white ribbon. “Checking out your ad? It’s so nice that you and Emma are going into business together.”

  “We’re not,” I say curtly. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. Monica is tight with Sean and Brandon, so her fake-friendly act doesn’t fool me. Besides, she’s been trying to steal my best friend for weeks. And succeeding, I guess, considering Jules told her about the Dare instead of me.

  Monica’s lips curl into a small smile. “Your flyer says different.” She reaches across me and taps a familiar pale-blue sheet of paper that says Emma Lawton Tutoring across the top. My sister puts them up all over school, with her phone number and a list of subjects: mathematics, chemistry/biology, Spanish. But this particular ad says more than that, in a Sharpie scrawl beneath Emma’s neat printing:

  Threesomes (special offer with Phoebe Lawton)

  Contact us on Instagram!

  I swallow against the lump in my throat as I stare silently at my Instagram handle written across the bottom of the page. Payback from Brandon, I guess, for me throwing him out of the apartment last week. That asshole.

  There’s no way I’m giving Monica the satisfaction of a reaction, though. Whatever I do or say right now is going straight back to Brandon. “Don’t you have a game to go to?” I ask. Then a hand reaches over my shoulder, catching the blue sheet by one corner and yanking it off the bulletin board.

  I turn to see Emma in her usual headband and oxford shirt, her face a smooth mask as she crumples the ad in one palm. “Excuse me,” she says to a smirking Monica. “You’re trash. I mean, you’re blocking the trash.” Emma reaches around Monica to toss the paper ball into a recycling bin, then tilts her head toward me, still perfectly calm. “Sorry I was late. I had a few questions for Mr. Bose after history. Ready to leave?”

  “Ready.”

  I follow her long strides down the hallway, almost running to keep up. My mind is churning as we go. Does this mean Emma forgives me? Or at least doesn’t hate me anymore? “Thanks for that,” I say, my voice low as we push through the doors leading to the parking lot.

  Emma slides me a sideways glance that’s not friendly, exactly, but it’s not angry, either. “Some people take things too far,” she says. “There are limits. There have to be limits.”

  * * *

  —

  The auditorium at Granger Middle School is exactly like I remember: stuffy, overly bright, and smelling like musty fabric and pencil shavings. The front half of the room is filled with folding chairs, and I spot Mom waving energetically from the third row as soon as Emma and I enter. A heavy curtain is pulled across the stage, and a middle-aged woman in a baggy cardigan and knee-length skirt steps through it. “We’ll be starting in just a few minutes,” she calls, but nobody pays attention. Mom keeps waving until we’re practically on top of her, then pulls her bag and her coat from the two seats beside her, shifting her knees to one side so we can get past her and take our seats.

  “Perfect timing,” she says. My mother looks pretty today, her dark hair spilling around an autumn-toned scarf that makes her olive skin glow. The sight of it cheers me up, because it reminds me of what my mother was like when I went to Granger Middle School—always the best-dressed parent at every school event. Mom has a lot of natural style, but she hasn’t made much of an effort since Dad died. Working on Ashton and Eli’s wedding has definitely been good for her state of mind. She plucks lightly at Emma’s sleeve and adds, “I could use your help with a couple of wedding tasks.”

  Emma and Mom put their heads together, and I surreptitiously take out my phone. Emma actually talked to me on the ride over, and I didn’t want to spoil our fragile truce by checking Instagram. But I need to know how much shit I’m getting.

  Notifications flood my screen as soon as I pull up my account. So, a lot.

  My last post was a work selfie that got twenty comments. Now it has more than a hundred. I read the first one—yes hi sign me up for threesomes 101 please—and immediately click away.

  “Welcome, families, to Granger Middle School’s annual spelling bee!” My heart is already thudding against my rib cage, and the loud voice booming through a microphone ratchets it up another notch. It’s the same woman who spoke before, standing behind a lectern on one corner of the auditorium stage. Ten kids, Owen included, are arranged in a line beside her. “Let me introduce the scholars who will be dazzling you with their spelling prowess today. First up is our only sixth-grader in the contest, Owen Lawton!”

  I clap loudly until the principal moves on to the next kid, then return my attention to my phone. It’s like I just yanked off a bandage, and now I can’t help but poke the wound beneath. I set my Instagram account to private, which I obviously should have done a week ago, and scroll to my message requests. They’re full of guys I don’t know begging me to “tutor” them. One of them just puts a phone number. Does that ever work? Has any girl in the history of the world texted a stranger because he slid his digits into her DMs? I’m about to hit Decline All and erase them from my account forever when a name at the bottom of the screen catches my eye.

  Derekculpepper01 Hi, it’s Derek. I was

  That’s all I can see without opening the message. Ugh, what does Emma’s ex want? We haven’t spoken since the night in Jules’s laundry room. We never exchanged numbers, obviously, or he wouldn’t be going through Instagram now. If he’s going to apologize for telling someone about us, I don’t care. Too late.

  I eye Decline All again, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Hi, it’s Derek. I was hoping we could talk sometime. Can you text me? With a phone number.

  Well, that raises more questions than it answers.

  I cup my hand around my phone so it blocks the screen from Emma’s line of sight and navigate to Derek’s profile. He has literally no selfies. His entire Instagram feed is pictures of food or his dog. Who does that? It’s not as if he’s terrible-looking. Just sort of unmemorable.

  Emma coughs lightly, and I sneak another look at her.
I would rather chop my own arm off and beat myself senseless with it than talk to Derek Culpepper again, and I’m pretty sure Emma feels the same way. That leaves Derek as the only person in our twisted triangle who’s interested in reopening the channels of communication, and nobody cares about him.

  “And now let’s begin with our first word of the day, for Owen Lawton. Owen, can you spell bizarre for us, please?”

  I look up just in time to catch Owen’s eye as he grins and gives me what he thinks is a stealthy thumbs-up. I put my phone away and try to smile back.

  * * *

  —

  A couple of hours later, Mom is at a Golden Rings wedding planner meeting and Emma and I are in our room. I’m stretched out on my bed with a textbook on my lap, and Emma is at her desk with headphones on, her head bobbing silently to whatever music she’s playing. We’re not being social, exactly, but everything feels less tense than it has for a while.

  A knock sounds on our door, and Owen pokes his head in. “Hey,” I say, sitting up. “Congratulations again, brainiac.”

  “Thanks,” Owen says modestly as Emma pulls her headphones off. “It wasn’t really a contest, though. Nobody else at that school can spell.”

  “Alex Chen made a solid showing,” Emma points out.

  Owen looks unconvinced. “You’d think an eighth-grader would know how to spell parallel, though.” He perches on the edge of my bed and angles toward me. “Phoebe, I forgot to tell you.” His glasses are a mess of smudges, so I pull them off and wipe the lenses with the hem of my T-shirt. His eyes look unfinished without them. “You have to invite your friend over. Knox something?”