They All Fall Down

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Another girl what?” Except I know. I know from her face and her voice and, oh, God, the sirens. I just know.

  “Dead.”

  I slowly put my hand to my mouth, a cold sweat stinging my neck. The truck … the truck … the truck that made Levi Sterling run. “Who is it?”

  “I just got a call from Barbara Gaines, whose daughter is married to a paramedic who was in the ambulance. She knows you go to Vienna and wanted to see if you knew her.”

  “Who? Who died, Mom?” I demand.

  “Someone named Chloe.”

  “Chloe Batista.” I croak her name.

  “Do you know her?”

  “She’s …” Oh, God. Second.

  And I’m fifth.

  CHAPTER XV

  We gather around the computer like I imagine people flocked to CNN when news broke in the pre–social network days. Our news comes from Facebook and Twitter, which is far more informative than anything on TV.

  But in the social networks of Vienna High, rumors, conjecture, and warnings are flying fast. Fortunately, my mother is content to let me give her highlights from my screen rather than read over my shoulder. Because forget about it if she saw the word second or the list or, God forbid, my name and fifth. If she realized how close to home these posts were hitting, she’d wither and cry.

  “What does it say, Kenzie?” Mom asks, crossing her arms and pacing the kitchen, nervous energy electrifying the room. “Are there details? What happened?”

  “Nobody has a clue, Mom. It’s just teenagers railing about how much they loved Chloe. And rumors.” About the list. The one I’m on.

  “My friend’s son-in-law said her dad found her.” Mom nearly shakes with horror at this and it’s the third time she’s mentioned it. She makes a little whimpering sound and drops into the chair across the table from me. “What was she doing at that house?”

  “Watering plants.” That much I knew from her last post.

  “The paramedic told his wife the girl was in some kind of shock.” She leans closer and almost reads my computer, but I tip the screen.

  “Just let me look, Mom,” I tell her, turning the laptop away completely.

  “Oh, Lord, that poor family.” She drops her head into her hands, and I know this is hard for her, a woman whose greatest fear is an accidental death. This is hard for me, a girl who fights that same fear every day … and is just two short spots away from being next.

  But that’s crazy. This has to be a coincidence, right? Or a curse. Or a—

  “How well did you know her?” Mom asks.

  We were “sisters” on a list. “Barely.”

  On my phone, I check Instagram, which has blown up with pictures of Chloe all the way back to kindergarten, tagged with #rememberchloe and #ripcb and, oh my God, #secondtodie.

  “Who would write that?” I murmur, my insides turning cold.

  “Write what?”

  I shake my head, and she pushes back from the table to head to the coffee machine.

  “You don’t need that, Mom,” I tell her before she even pulls a K-Cup from the carousel. “It’ll keep you up all night.”

  She gives a soft, derisive snort. “Like that’ll be any different from any other night.”

  I hear her, of course, every night. Fretting. Worrying. Pacing every inch of the first floor. Suffering from dystychiphobia, which Google tells me is a very real fear of accidents.

  And during all that insomnia, she never goes upstairs, never. Not to my room for any reason—pretending to give me privacy. But I know she can’t bear to go near Conner’s room. She just leaves it untouched. Dad’s begged her to turn it into something other than a shrine to their dead son, but she refuses.

  Even when that refusal cost her Dad.

  Frustrated, I don’t respond, going back to Facebook to see if there’s anything new.

  There is: someone has posted a picture of a house surrounded by ambulances and police cars, with the words Where Chloe died.

  “Oh, here’s …” I trail off as I click on the photo to enlarge it, my breath suddenly drawn in so deep it feels like my chest is going to explode.

  “What?” Mom demands. “They know what happened?”

  “No, no.” I’m trying to think straight, to be cool, not to give away that …“They don’t know what happened.” But I might.

  I almost can’t look, but I have to, leaning in and squinting at the slivers of fieldstone visible between two ambulances, at the lush landscaping.

  “Looks like money.” Mom’s looking over my shoulder.

  Richie McRich. That’s what Molly said when we saw this very same house … just a few hours ago, with a dark pickup truck parked in front of it. There’s no pickup parked there in this picture.

  I stare hard at the street and then remember the numbers I got off the truck’s license plate.

  Oh my God, I can solve this murder.

  Except … no one has said anything about murder. And I might be the only person in the world who thinks that. Me, with the over-the-top imagination.

  Me, who’s on the same list and has had three brushes with death in less than a week.

  “What’s the matter?” Mom asks, studying my expression.

  “My friend is dead,” I say, hoping the explanation staves off more questions I do not want to answer.

  “You just said you barely knew her.”

  “I mean my classmate. We’re like friends. I was just talking to her at a party on—”

  “When were you at a party?” she demands, a spark in her gray eyes.

  Oh, crap, crap, crap. Why did I speak without thinking? Next thing, I’ll be confessing about the list. And the fact that Olivia and Chloe were first and second … and I’m fifth.

  “When?”

  I swallow, not a great liar under the best of circumstances. “Molly and I went to a party last night.”

  “When you slept over?” She leans closer, all that nervous energy directed to one place, one person … the one child she has left.

  “It was no big deal, Mom, I—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice rises.

  If someone stuck a camera into the Summerall house and watched this fight, they’d figure it was a typical rebellious teenager who lies about what she does and the demanding, distrusting parent who wants control.

  But that’s not what’s going on at all.

  I can go two ways here: fight and stomp out of the room, like I did on Thursday night when I wrecked my car, or a gentle, calming talk down from the ledge—that usually works.

  But tonight? All bets are off.

  “Mom, I swear it was not a big deal. Molly got invited to some boy’s house and everyone was just sitting around talking about Olivia.…”

  Another stupid mistake, reminding her of the other girl who died. She searches my face, as if she can find the crack in my armor. God knows it wouldn’t take much. I feel so fragile I could break down right there in front of her.

  Any other mom, any other life, and I would. I’d tell her about the close calls and the nurse and the truck and the low-grade, inexplicable fear that everything has just taken a turn for the worse.

  But she’d fall over dead with worry right in front of me. And, honestly, I can’t have another death in the family on my conscience.

  “Mom.” I stand up and reach for her shoulders; she’s been shorter than me for over a year, and that alone makes me a tad protective of her. “I’m sixteen. You can trust me. I don’t drink.” Except that tiny sip of vodka with my list sisters—the list with two dead members. “I don’t mess around with boys.” Except I did make out with Josh Collier. “And I don’t lie to you.”

  Except about everything tonight.

  Her features soften a little. “I am not the least bit concerned about any of those things,” she says.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about.” More lies.

  “I have everything to worry about.” She manages a sad smile. “That’s what I do.”


  I pull her closer, grateful this conversation, which usually makes me ache with suffocation, isn’t turning that way tonight. Probably because this time … she might be right.

  I squeeze her shoulders and give her a rare hug. “I have to be normal,” I say, as much to myself as to her. “I cannot live in fear because this happened.”

  I feel her nod in agreement and turn my head to look at the Facebook screen, my eyes falling on the latest post in all caps.

  CHLOE DIED OF ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK!!!

  I inch Mom away to read the rest, not in caps. “She ate something with peanuts in it,” I say as we both turn to the computer.

  “Was she allergic?” Mom asks.

  I can see Chloe’s face at the party, the grape vodka in her hand. Thank God I’m allergic to peanuts and not grapes.

  “I think so.”

  Mom shakes her head. “At her age, with a potentially fatal allergy? She should know not to eat something unless she’s sure of what’s in it.”

  Yes, she should. I dig for relief. This was a real accident, unless …

  Unless someone forced her to eat food that would kill her. Then it wouldn’t be an accident … it would only look like one.

  CHAPTER XVI

  No surprise, Vienna High School is at a virtual standstill on Monday morning. When we left on Friday, Olivia Thayne and Chloe Batista were alive. Now, in two separate, awful, fatal accidents, they’re gone. And the halls are on fire with speculation.

  There’s a curse.

  There’s a killer.

  There’s a very bizarre coincidence.

  While the prevailing winds blew toward the last guess, there were enough curse and killer conspiracy theories that I felt the stares of all my classmates. The strongest connection between Olivia and Chloe—the Hottie List and their order on it—became the focus.

  In Latin class, I’m barely listening to Mr. Irving telling us that grief counselors are available at the office for anyone who is having trouble coping. I feel a few eyes on me and know what people are thinking, so I look out the window to the parking lot.

  Even Irving gives me a glance, his usually crisp, cold features turning soft as he adjusts his horn-rims. I hate that teachers know, that everyone knows. I look at my desk, avoiding the pity or worry or whatever it is.

  I turn back to the window just in time to see a Vienna police cruiser pull into the front lot, followed almost immediately by another. My imagination goes right to a place I don’t want to go: another accident, another death.

  But these guys are moving slowly, gathering in a small group and talking, one on the phone. No one’s hustling like there’s been another incident. Another car pulls up and parks illegally, and two men and a woman get out and join the others.

  Grief counselors?

  No, they’re too familiar with the officers. Detectives, I guess. Or whatever you call plainclothes police. My stomach knots up and so do my fists as I watch them slowly make their way to the front of the school, out of my line of vision.

  Police are good. If there’s a crime, the police will solve it.

  They must be here to talk about Olivia and Chloe. I’m not a big fan of those procedural shows on TV and haven’t a clue how these things work, but they can’t just dismiss two kids dying in freak accidents in one weekend, can they? They have to talk to people … which means it’s only a matter of time until they hear about the list. And then they’ll want to talk to everyone on it.

  The other girls can tell them about their strange near-miss accidents, like Kylie being stuck in the garage with her car ignition on, and I can tell them about the truck I saw in front of the house where Chloe died. They can’t ignore that.

  Will my mother have to be there? If not, I’ll tell them about the accident on Route 1, with my brake-fluid line broken, like my dad said. And the gas leak and—

  “Do you, Kenzie?” Mr. Irving’s question pulls me out of my thought spiral. I stare at him, waiting for a hint on how to answer.

  But there’s no clue, just that soft sympathy on his face, and I remember that we’re talking grief, not Latin. “Do you want to go to the office, Kenzie?” He holds out a hall pass. “Probably not a bad idea for you to at least meet the grief counselors.”

  Probably not a bad idea for me to get the heck out of this classroom. I scoop up my bag—we hadn’t even bothered to take out books—and snag the pass. “I’m going to be a while,” I tell him.

  Irving nods. “Take your time, Kenzie.”

  “I wasn’t close friends with them,” I say under my breath, as though I need to offer him some relief. Or maybe that’s not what he’s worried about. Maybe he knows about the list and thinks I’ll be dead, too, and won’t get to State and pull Vienna High a first place.

  “Everyone’s affected,” he says gently.

  Everyone on that list is what he means. I slip out into the hall with absolutely no intention of going to the office to have my grief counseled or to talk to the police—not until I know they won’t alert my mother. She’d die.

  I’m just about to hide in the bathroom when I see the posse of police leave the office and step into the hall, with Principal Beckmeyer right in their midst. He looks a little redder than usual—and he’s always pink and sweaty—talking to one of the officers and pointing in the other direction. From the office door, the dean steps toward them. I hang back, watching them, wondering what their plan is.

  After a moment, they break into two groups, the dean taking two of the cops and two of the plainclothes guys one way, and Beckmeyer heading toward me with the rest.

  On instinct, I slip into the bathroom, not willing to get my pass checked by the principal and some cops. The girls’ room is empty, and I wait behind the door long enough to hear them go by; then I step back out to see them head toward the atrium that feeds into the cafeteria and media center.

  Staying back as far as I can, I follow them to the wide center hall, where giant skylights bathe everything in a natural light, making the atrium a cheery gathering place no matter the time of day. Rimmed by bright-blue lockers and peppered with long tables where kids can eat or study, this hall is the center of Vienna High. We have pep rallies and assemblies here when it’s too cold to go outside, and the place always echoes with laughter and talking and life.

  Today it’s silent but for the heavy footsteps of the cop brigade. It’s early, but the smells of fries and pizza are starting to roll out of the cafeteria as we get closer to first lunch. There are a few kids in small study groups, but no one’s working. They’re whispering in hushed tones, and then everyone is silent as they stare at the arrivals.

  The police and Principal Beckmeyer head toward the media center, and I can’t follow them without getting on their radar. I have a feeling I’ll be on it sooner or later anyway, when they get wind of the list. I drop onto one of the benches and let my backpack hit the floor with a thud.

  I refuse to meet the eyes of the few kids in the atrium—I don’t even know them except for one who was in driver’s ed with me last year—so I reach down and grab my phone from the side pocket of my backpack. What did people do before they could fake text to not look like an idiot?

  One touch of my screen and I realize I don’t have to fake anything. I’ve missed three texts, the first from Josh.

  Want to skip 4th per and take a ride? Need to talk.

  I stare at the words for a second, trying to decide just how they make me feel. Good, I guess. I mean, Josh really seems to like me. I don’t know why that surprises me so much, but it does. Maybe because he’s been the object of my crush for so long that it just seemed incomprehensible that he’d ever notice me. I don’t want it to be because of the list, but hey, if that’s what put me on his radar, then fine.

  But I can’t fight the facts anymore. I feel absolutely nothing for him. I mean, he’s cute, obviously. And he’s cool and popular and, oh my God, if his grandfather could really do something about a scholarship for me, then I ought to be nice to him, but sh
ouldn’t I feel all buzzy inside? Shouldn’t I want to text Molly with a cyberscream? But all I do is click to the next text, from Dena Herbert.

  Holy shit, are you scared?

  Dena. Sixth on the list. If what we might be scared of had any merit, then I should be exponentially more terrified than Dena. After all, I’ll be dead before she is.

  But I’m jumping to crazy conclusions too soon.

  No one pushed Olivia off that cliff or held her underwater. The official word was that her foot got trapped between two rocks and by the time they got to her, she was dead. And Chloe had a food allergy that could—and did—kill her. She shouldn’t have raided the fridge while watering her neighbor’s plants. The truck could turn out to belong to a next-door neighbor. We didn’t know everything yet, so that must be why the po—

  “Hey.”

  I jump a foot in the air as two girls sit down, one on either side, trapping me. I look from Amanda to Kylie and back again, feeling very much like I’m in the middle of a cheerleader sandwich.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” I say, slamming my hand over my hammering heart.

  “Then you’re as smart as they say you are.” On my left, Amanda turns to straddle the bench and face me. “We need to be scared.”

  They look at each other and Kylie nods, giving permission to Amanda to speak.

  “We need to have an emergency meeting of the Sisters of the List,” she whispers. “As soon as possible.”

  Under any other circumstances—like, you know, if two people weren’t dead—I’d laugh in their pretty faces. The Sisters of the List business is too stupid for words.

  “In secret,” Kylie adds.

  I whip around to look at her, taking in her heavily made-up amber eyes and bright-green slut-liner, as Molly calls the inside-the-eye pencil. It doesn’t look slutty on Kylie, though; it looks stunning. And it does nothing to hide her abject fear.

  Amanda grabs my arm and makes me turn to her. She doesn’t cake on the makeup, but she doesn’t have to. Blond, blue-eyed, and blessed with every bone-structure gift, Amanda Wilson totally belongs on the Hottie List.

  I’m ready to fire off a response when the media center doors open and Principal Beckmeyer steps out, a frown on his ruddy face. Behind him, the two uniformed cops come into sight, their arms posed as if they have someone between them, but Beckmeyer’s six-foot-two blimp-shaped body is blocking my view.