“What are you doing?” The fear gives way to anger. “I said nothing.”
“Which means you lied to me again.” Mrs. Cross sorts through tissues, notebooks, homework assignments, spare tampons. “Where do you go when you sneak out at night?”
They know about that?
“Are you going to Michael’s?”
She should say yes. All it would take is one nod.
Mrs. Cross looks down at the table, scattered with Avery’s belongings. She examines them almost clinically, as though they belong to a stranger and she needs to reconstruct an entire life. “I don’t see any condoms. Are you using them?”
“Mom!”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” her mom’s eyes have taken on a steely glint. The shock of her baby taking drugs has given way to rage. “I need to know.”
Avery doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know how. If she pretended she snuck out for Michael, her mom would call Michael’s mom, and then Michael would say he hadn’t seen her after dark for weeks, and then it would be an endless stream of who and why and it would ruin everything.
“Repack,” Mrs. Cross says. “I’m going through your gym bag, and then I’m driving you to school. Your room will get a thorough cleaning while you’re gone, and you’re coming home with me straight after cheer. We’ll talk more when you get home.” She takes a deep breath. “And you’re grounded. Obviously.”
“You need this.” Natalie passes Avery her makeup kit at lunch.
“Thanks. Sweat it all off during gym,” Avery says. Definitely didn’t cry in the bathroom. The cafeteria’s crowded, and noise bounces off the brick walls. The wolf pack is tucked against a corner, leaning against lockers and the door of a supply closet. The sky outside is slate and low-hanging, and it’s too cold to go out, and so the world is constricted to this tiny space where all of Jefferson-Lorne High is crammed.
“You’re going to the party tonight, right?” Shay calls over the noise.
“Of course.” Lyla takes a drink from her Gatorade. “Jason’s going to be there, and I’ve got to snag him before any of you other bitches do.” Shay and Natalie giggle.
“No drinking at the party.” Avery doesn’t feel like being the mom of the group today, but she has to. She runs her tennis shoe back and forth on the linoleum and keeps her skirt pulled down. “Remember we’ve got the competition tomorrow. And you have to be fresh on Monday so we can hit the ground running for next week’s away game.”
“Aves.” Lyla puts a hand on her knee. “Relax. We’ll do fine. We can take a night off. You’re coming, right?”
“I can’t,” Avery says, just as Michael says, “Of course.”
Michael turns to her with reproachful brown eyes. Across the hall a bunch of students oohs as the freshman dance committee drops a glittering snowflake with a three-foot diameter instead of hanging it from the ceiling. Somebody shouts, “Glitter bomb!”
“Babe, you said we’d go together.”
“No I didn’t.” Avery’s tone rises defensively.
“Yeah, you did,” Lyla said. “Last week. Remember? I said Kyle would definitely have beer, and maybe weed, and Claude would be there, and then you said you couldn’t let Michael go alone—”
The other wolves are watching carefully. The persistent rumor that Claude once lured Michael into a supply closet rears its ugly head about once a semester. Avery swallows bile and hunger, putting her uneaten bowl of soup off to the side. “Well, I can’t.” She hasn’t told them she’s grounded.
“You’re going to miss out,” Lyla says.
“Yeah, we’re going to make our signature cocktail,” says Shay. Their signature cocktail is pink Gatorade and vodka. “Aves, you love that.” Avery doesn’t love it, but everyone else does, so she goes along.
“You can take a night off, Aves.” Michael tries to slide an arm around her. “You don’t have to practice every free minute.”
She doesn’t shove his arm away like she wants to. But she doesn’t tuck into it, either. “I’m not going.”
Her voice is louder than normal to compensate for the noise level around them. And god, she’s heard Michael use this assertive tone dozens of times. But the pack stares at her like she sharpened her nails and tried to rip Lyla’s heart out.
“Oh . . . kay.” Lyla talks like she would to a bear. But her expression says, Psycho much? “Take it easy, Aves. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want.” Like she didn’t just start a pile-on. “What’s got you so worked up?”
Everything. Her parents and drug tests. Anna’s Run. Emma. The cafeteria cheering as the freshmen successfully put up their monster snowflake. The party Kyle didn’t cancel even though a girl is dead. Michael, and being with Michael, and being with someone else and knowing how wrong it is. “I’m just not allowed to go out right now. Because of Emma.” She hates herself a little for lying, but she knows her mom would want her to. The Crosses don’t want to be the type of parents who have to ground their kid. “My mom thinks the police are going to arrest Adams West at whatever party I go to.”
“Ohmygod, mine too.” Shay frames her face with her hands. “I’m going to have to sneak out tonight. Mom thinks I’m going to get abducted and tossed in the river.”
“My mom thinks West did it. Like, the murder. And she thinks he sits next to me in math. And history. And APCoGo. And everything. She’s worse than the cops.” Natalie takes the eye shadow kit back from Avery and slings it into her backpack. “She thinks he’s out for the whole squad.”
Lyla raises her eyebrows a few times. “Maybe he is.”
“Noooo.” Natalie scoots closer to Shay, who giggles again.
“He stalks through the halls.” Lyla leans in. Pitches her voice low. “Exposing the embarrassing secrets of JLH, one by one. Feeding on young, innocent blood.” Her gaze flicks to Avery. “So Aves is right out.”
The squad oohs. “That’s not funny,” Avery snaps. She brings her knees up to her face like a shield. The air thickens and the semiscandalized solid noises cut out. Lyla curls her lip. “It’s a joke, Aves.” Avery doesn’t smile or demure or say sorry. “Jesus.” Lyla picks up her prepackaged soup and takes a sip out of the container.
Avery doesn’t know how to reply. She doesn’t know how the police investigation has already become something to joke about. A cold sweat breaks out under her arms. The room spins and she’s pretty sure she wants to throw up.
Michael puts a hand on her knee and presses his nose against her jaw. She used to find it endearing. Now it’s all she can do not to yell at him to stop.
She turns her head, and he kisses the corner of her mouth. “I need to talk to you after school,” she says.
Poor Michael shrugs. He has no idea what’s coming. “Okay.”
Lyla’s talking again. “Anyway, I do think West is here at JLH. Who else could have this kind of information? I bet he was boinking Claude at the time and that’s how he knows she’s innocent.” Lyla gasps. “Oh my god, do you think it’s Kyle?”
Michael laughs. “Kyle’s dumber than a bag of rocks. It’s more likely to be Aves than Kyle.”
She’s definitely going to throw up. Avery leans over to Lyla. “Do you have a tampon?”
Lyla digs around in her backpack. “So that’s why you’re all weird.”
Avery grabs the tampon and virtually launches to her feet. She doesn’t even say thanks.
She doesn’t head for the nearest bathroom, which’ll be full of girls avoiding lunch and speculating on murders and bloggers and other things she wants to escape. She goes to the empty one at the end of the hall. There’s only one girl in the stall there. Avery puts the wrapped tampon behind the sink—no need to waste it—and turns on the tap. She dabs her cheeks and presses a wet paper towel to her forehead.
She has to go back out. She has to be perfect Avery Cross. Not the Valium-using, lying little girl the police are investigating. But right now, she can’t. She can’t face the wolves.
The toilet flushes. Before A
very can flee, the stall unlocks and out storms Gwen Sayer, all intent and fury shoved into a girl. She sticks her hands under the tap, then looks up. Their eyes meet in the mirror—Gwen, dark and serious and angry, Avery, smudged and blotchy and dripping water from the paper towel plastered to her forehead. Oh, shit.
“Again,” Avery says, putting her hands on her hips. The wolf pack groans, but good-naturedly. “Break for Gatorade, then back at it. Two minutes.”
They make a beeline for the zero-sugar cherry Gatorade that Mr. G buys by the case. It’s officially for the lacrosse team, but he lets them nab extras, especially when they’re cooped up in the gym because it’s too wet outside to do back handsprings. It’s impossible to hear the music amid the shouts and clash of lacrosse sticks, and Avery’s on the cusp of an SAT-vocabulary-worthy headache. But she can’t quit. It’s just half an hour more. She goes over to Mr. Pendler and Mr. G. Mr. Pendler’s filling in for Mrs. Halifax, who was “unavoidably detained” today and couldn’t make it to practice. As she approaches, Avery tugs the skirt of her uniform down.
“The squad’s getting tired,” Mr. G says. “They’re making mistakes. Be careful out there.”
“We’ll practice till it’s perfect,” Avery says with her trademark chipper smile.
“You know, Aves, in theater they say a bad dress rehearsal means a good opening night,” Mr. Pendler offers. “Maybe you just need to get the mistakes out of your system.”
“You’ll be pumped up on adrenaline tomorrow,” Mr. G adds. “I think you’ll do great.”
The smile turns up a notch. “Thanks.”
“Watch out for the jumps. They can be dangerous when you’re this practiced out,” Mr. G says.
Avery nods. Of course she’s not going to tell the girls to avoid the jumps. She goes back to the circle of cheerleaders and grabs her own Gatorade.
“What about Mark?” Lyla’s still speculating on the identity of Adams West.
Shay wrinkles her nose. “He’s way too nice. He’d never start a public speculation blog.” She taps the Gatorade with a long nail.
“You’re right.” Lyla sighs. She frowns at something on the edge of the bleachers. “What is she doing here?”
Avery glances over her shoulder. Gwen picks her way down from the top of the bleachers. The battered and thrice-labeled JLH Inquirer camera swings from her neck.
“I guess she’s doing a piece on the lacrosse team,” Avery says, shrugging.
“Unbelievable.” Lyla shakes her head. “Emma’s not even declared dead and the bitch is going after her extracurriculars.”
“That’s cold,” Shay agrees.
Gwen looks down. She spots the whole cheer team, staring. Avery spins around, but she can feel the burn start in her cheeks, flushing downward. “Time’s up.” Her voice is a knife’s edge. “Get in formation.”
“Hang on, I want to see where she’s going.” Lyla bends around Avery to get a better look.
“Now.” She surprises even herself with the snap of the word.
“Jeez, jeez. All right.” Lyla rolls her eyes and turns back. The rest of the team hastens to get into place. Lyla mutters something that makes the freshman next to her giggle.
The count’s off from the start. A good captain would stop and make everyone start over. But Avery’s not a good captain. She’s a selfish one. She launches into a lift half a moment before Natalie gets a solid grip, feels her shoe slip out of the cradle. She lands ankle first, then rolls, smacking her head on the gym floor. Pain rattles her jaw and explodes in the back of her head. When her eyes flutter open, the wolves gather around her, silhouettes blocking the light.
A larger dark shape parts the waters. Mr. G says, “Avery? Can you hear me?” The girls back off. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“My ankle,” she groans. She thinks about throwing her wrist over her forehead, but that’d be too dramatic.
He slides an arm under her back to guide her up. “Come over to the bleachers and have a seat. I have to get the lacrosse team out of here, so can you ladies clean yourselves up? Great practice today—you’re really going to kill it tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry, Aves,” Natalie squeaks, fingers crushed against her mouth. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah. It was my fault.” She hops toward the bleachers, one hand on her temple. “I probably just need to ice it.”
Lyla scoots in and slings her arms around Avery’s shoulder. “Aves, this is awful,” she says, and sounds a little miserable, like maybe she thinks she threw Avery off with her comments. “What are you going to do about tomorrow? You can’t cheer on a bad ankle.”
“Good thing you’re my second, right?” Avery says with a weak smile.
Lyla’s arm tightens. “Avery Cross, don’t you dare make me do that jump. Get better.”
“I will.” She’ll have a miracle cure by tomorrow, walking on the ankle like nothing’s wrong at all. Because nothing is.
“We need space to work, girls.” Mr. G makes a herding motion with his hands. “Avery will be fine. Don’t worry.”
They chatter as they pack up. Some of them send a few worried glances Avery’s way, but they don’t talk to her again.
The slam of the gym door brings silence at last, punctuated only by the occasional squeak of Mr. G’s shoes as he rummages around in the supply room and trots back to the bleachers.
“Let’s take a look at that.” He rolls her sock down, fingers brushing against her flesh. She flinches and gasps involuntarily. “Hurts?” he says.
“Yes.” She’d hate herself for the tremble in her voice, but at least she’s trying to sound pathetic.
His hand rests on her calf just above her ankle. “I warned you it was dangerous to keep going when the whole squad was tired.” His fingers tighten fractionally.
Avery nods. Her mouth is dry.
“You know I’m looking out for you.” The hand moves up her calf, more toward her knee. She squeaks. “Hurts?” Mr. G asks again.
“It’s fine,” she whispers.
“Keep your ankle up. I’d say take some painkillers, but I guess you’ll have to talk to your mom about that.”
Because of course Mrs. Cross called Mr. G. She trusts him. Everyone trusts him.
Mr. G’s other hand moves to her shoulder. “I’m not here to judge you. I just want to help you. I know you’ve been hit hard by the news, and working with the police is just an extra stress.” His hand squeezes. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”
And though she still wants to throw up, Avery smiles at him. “I know, Mr. G. That’s why you’re my favorite.”
The gym door crashes open. Avery jumps and winces again as her ankle bounces off the bleachers. Mr. G pats her leg.
Michael comes into the gym. He glances between her and Mr. G, brow furrowing. “I grabbed you some Monster. Everything all right?”
“Always nice to have a boyfriend to look after you, isn’t it?” Mr. G stands up. “I’m going to get a bandage. Don’t put any weight on that leg.”
“Wait—” Avery fumbles as he makes for the gym doors. “I need to talk to you!”
“I thought you needed to talk to me,” Michael points out.
She stares at him for a moment, openmouthed. “I can’t,” she says finally, too brusque and too cold.
She sees the hurt in his eyes before he shoves it down. “All right. I mean, you were the one who wanted it. Maybe I can walk you to your car?”
“My mom’s picking me up,” she says, cringing. “But, um, we can wait together?”
“Sure.” He hands her the can of Monster. “We can talk while we wait.”
The last thing she needs is to break up with her boyfriend in front of her mom. So she pops the tab on the Monster. If she takes a couple of quick sips, she can appease him and maybe get him to hold the can when Mrs. Cross shows up. She gets to her feet, leaning on his arm. “How was lacrosse?”
JLPD cares more about some blogger than they do about Emma Baines<
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Do you smell that in the air? The smell of snow and river water? Do your Christmas carols drown out Anna? Do the twinkling, cheery lights help you forget the dark woods beyond Lorne? Well, happy fucking holidays, nerds.
You know who I hope isn’t having a good holiday season? The JLPD. They’ll be working overtime on the Baines case this weekend, and whose fault is that? I told you Claude Vanderly was a dead end. I told you it was useless. Maybe you should’ve listened to me instead of searching high and low for my identity.
You’ll never find it, so stop trying.
In other news, the JLPD suspects someone from JLH as the culprit in Emma’s death. Oh, really? Are these the detecting skills for which we pay hard-earned tax dollars? Let’s see. Who does that narrow the pool of suspects down to?
Oh yeah. Everyone.
I know what you’re all thinking. What about you, West? How do you know so much? How close are you to all this? Ordinarily, I’d be flattered that you’re all so obsessed with me. But we have bigger problems. You’re so focused on who I am, you forget that you never even cared who Emma was. Fuck that. You don’t even know who Emma was. You’re in love with a fake dead girl. And if you want to get to know the real Emma?
You should have put in effort before she died.
Everyone puts on a false face. Now her true one is lost to time. It’s just too bad no one can find her diary. Now that might tell us something interesting.
Sincerely,
Adams West
Diary Entry
Emma Baines—February 1, 2018
I still can’t believe I snuck out. This is how fucking weird things are getting. I’m sneaking out, risking death a la Dad, but I have to know what happened. Lizzy, this is for you. This is for us.
The boot prints belonged to a slightly small foot, but after today’s excursion I’m pretty sure it was a man’s boot. According to Reddit the print belongs to a Pine Nation hiking boot with a rubber sole, probably a 6' waterproof deluxe. If anywhere had them, it’d be Lorne’s Hunting and Sport.
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