PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 978-1-4197-1944-8
eISBN: 978-1-6131-2895-4
Text copyright © 2016 Riley Redgate
Book design by Maria T. Middleton
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FOR NOELLE,
the stories we’ve written,
the ones we’ve lived,
and the superheroes
in them all
Contents
Olivia Scott
Kat Scott
Matt Jackson
Juniper Kipling
Olivia Scott
Valentine Simmons
Juniper Kipling
Claire Lombardi
Lucas McCallum
Olivia Scott
Claire Lombardi
Kat Scott
Matt Jackson
Valentine Simmons
Claire Lombardi
Kat Scott
Olivia Scott
Claire Lombardi
Kat Scott
Valentine Simmons
Matt Jackson
Lucas McCallum
Kat Scott
Olivia Scott
Matt Jackson
Claire Lombardi
Olivia Scott
Valentine Simmons
Juniper Kipling
Matt Jackson
Lucas McCallum
Juniper Kipling
Claire Lombardi
Olivia Scott
Valentine Simmons
Olivia Scott
Lucas McCallum
Claire Lombardi
Lucas McCallum
Valentine Simmons
Kat Scott
Matt Jackson
Lucas McCallum
Juniper Kipling
Olivia Scott
Juniper Kipling
Claire Lombardi
Kat Scott
Claire Lombardi
Valentine Simmons
Matt Jackson
Kat Scott
Juniper Kipling
Olivia Scott
acknowledgments
about the author
“ALL RIGHT,” I SAY, “EITHER THE FURNACE IS ON OVERDRIVE, or we’ve descended into the actual, literal fiery pits of hell.”
“I feel like ‘both’ is the answer here,” Juniper says. “Assemblies, eternal damnation . . . same basic concept.”
“Correcto.” I wipe sweat off my face, feeling as if I’m melting. “God, this is horrible.”
Other kids stream past to our right, flooding the overheated auditorium’s aisles, filling the seats ahead of us. Juniper ties back her hair, looking clean and sweat-free, like those airbrushed girls in deodorant ads who are always prancing through blank white voids. I’m used to it. Juniper is the kind of beautiful that we regular human folk can’t quite connect to. With guarded gray eyes, blond hair swept back, and the barest touch of blush, she’s a cautiously assembled girl. Always has been.
A noise from across the aisle catches my attention, a noise that could be either a violent throat-clearing or a cat being strangled. Looking over, I catch a glare from Andrea Silverstein that could level a building.
“Oh, good Lord, not this again,” I mumble, sinking down in my seat.
“Ignore her.”
“Trying, Juni.”
Seriously, though, can someone explain why they call it a “personal life” when it’s the one part of my life everyone knows? Today alone, I got three death stares in the hall, two whispers accompanied by averted eyes, and one So that’s Olivia Scott! face of recognition. Why do I even have a branded face of recognition?
Okay, granted: Andrea maybe has license to get defensive, since it was her brother I hooked up with. But the rest of the world can shove it up their collective ass.
Andrea’s eyes burn into the side of my skull for a straight minute. Finally, Juniper leans forward and gives her a cool, uninterested look. Andrea stops glaring at once.
I’ve been friends with Juniper since third grade, and I’m still waiting for her to pull out the magic wand she obviously owns. Something in her composure makes people stare; when she talks, she holds attention like a magnet. Juni chews on her words before saying them, as if she’s parsing the sentences in her head, ensuring they’ll come out perfect.
“Shit. Do you see Claire?” I say, looking around the auditorium. “I said I’d find her.” With the fluorescent lights bathing us all in sickly green, Claire’s red hair doesn’t pop out of the crowd as usual.
“Maybe she’s skipping,” Juniper suggests with a wry smile.
I snort hard enough to kill off a few brain cells. Claire skipping anything school-related would be the first sign of the apocalypse.
With one last scan of the auditorium, I give up my search, and preoccupation sneaks into my head. God knows what percentage of the student body skips assemblies, but I see a hell of a lot of empty seats—and I can’t help thinking that my sister’s supposed to be in one of them.
We keep getting calls at home about my sister skipping class. It’s the most bored-sounding voice mail of all time: “This is a recorded message from the Republic County School System. We are calling to inform you that Katrina Scott missed one or more classes today. Please send an excuse note within three days.”
The messages baffle me. What is Kat doing when she skips? She doesn’t have a car or as far as I know friends she could skip with. Not that I know much about Kat these days—she seems determined to delete me from her life by whatever means necessary. If it keeps going this way, I should watch out for snipers.
The lights dim, and the auditorium doors clank shut at the back. Teachers close in, standing guard on either side of the exit, as if they’re trying to discourage a revolutionary uprising. The stage lights glow as Principal Turner approaches the podium.
It’s a nice gesture, the podium and the microphone and all, but Ana Turner doesn’t need any of it. Our principal is a pearl-laden Air Force veteran in her mid-thirties, with the glare of a guard dog and the bark to match. Every time she opens her mouth, everyone under age twenty within a mile has a minor panic attack.
She clears her throat once. Silence drops like a bomb.
“Good afternoon,” she says, wearing a weirdly upset expression. I say “weirdly upset” because Turner has always done a stellar job of convincing the school that she does not, in fact, feel feelings.
She folds her hands on the podium. “Faculty and students, I’ve called this assembly to address a serious issue that has been brought to the administration.”
“This ought to be good,” I whisper to Juniper, rubbing my hands together. “You think they caught the guy who’s been pooping in the third-floor old wing?”
I blink a few times before it registers.
I look over at Juniper. Her mouth has fallen open. Noise swells back to life around us, and Principal Turner clears her throat again, but this time, the chatter doesn’t subside. Appearing to resign herself to the chaos, she talks over it. “The message we received was anonymous, submitted via our website. While it didn’t include names, we take such accusations seriously. If you have any information whatsoever about the matter, please come forward to myself or a guidance counselor. In the meantime, we’ve mailed a letter to your parents. It should arrive within two to three days.” The talk buzzes higher. Her voice booms out to compensate: “These measures are for the purpose of complete transparency. We can and will resolve this matter soon.”
I fold my arms, glancing around. The expressions in the sea of faces vary: shock, nervousness, and excitement. Normally I might wonder why anyone would get excited about a teacher-student sex scandal, but hey, even rumors of regular sex get our delightful peer group stirred up.
Turner brushes sweat off her forehead—apparently, even she isn’t impervious to the heat—and glances back down at her notes. “Unsubstantiated allegations like these are worrisome, but they serve as an important reminder that the student body’s safety is our first priority. We’ve called this assembly to reiterate our code of conduct and ensure a safe learning environment. I’ve asked Mr. García to prepare a brief presentation on how to handle unwanted sexual advances.”
Turner nods toward the wings. Our English teacher, Mr. García, wheels out an overhead projector and slides a transparency sheet onto it, a nice little throwback to the mid-1990s. García’s whole vintage obsession turns from quirky to exasperating whenever technology’s involved. Seriously, who gets nostalgic for overhead projectors?
As Turner exits the stage, García launches into a lecture. The longer he talks, the less sense any of it makes. I’ve seen shit like this on the news, but it always seems to be a crazy gym teacher and a pregnant fifteen-year-old. The idea of our gym teachers impregnating anyone makes me want to throw up—they’re both, like, sixty-five. It makes even less sense to look at it from the kid’s perspective. What person my age would get themselves into this? Wouldn’t they realize how life-ruining it would be if their name got out?
There are a few teachers young enough for a hookup not to be that gross. I always catch guys drooling over the econ teacher, Dr. Meyers, who’s short and curvy and in her mid-twenties. The calculus teacher, Mr. Andrews, is handsome in a super pale, vampire sort of way. And Mr. García’s definitely hot. Not my type, though. With the way he gets all swoony when he talks about Mercutio, I’m ninety percent sure he’s gay.
God, though, I can’t imagine any of them hitting on a student. Sometimes girls make eyes at Andrews or García, but if the teachers notice, they don’t let on. As for Dr. Meyers, she sent some kid to the office last year for saying she looked “real sexy today, Doc.” Points for her.
Half an hour later, the Powers That Be release us from the brick oven of the auditorium into the November afternoon. The chill air tastes crisp. As the sun’s harsh glare assaults my eyes, part of me feels as if the assembly weren’t real. A heat hallucination, maybe. Juniper and I head down the hill toward the junior lot. She seems just as dazed.
A voice jolts us out of our stupor. “Hey, guys!”
We stop at the edge of the parking lot, a few paces from Juniper’s Mercedes. Claire jogs up to us, her frizzy red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail for tennis practice. She elbows me. “Missed you at the assembly, lady.”
“I looked for you—promise,” I say. “Couldn’t see you. There were, like, you know, a thousand people in there.”
“True.” She clears her throat. “Where are you guys going?”
Shit. That expectant tone means I’ve forgotten something. “Um,” I say, shooting Juniper a frantic look. “To, uh . . .”
“Nowhere,” Juniper says. “Dropping off our stuff before the meeting.”
Right—student government. Juniper and I both promised Claire we’d run for junior class president, so she had at least two people guaranteed to be on the ballot.
I have a million problems with this, none of which I’ve voiced, since Claire’s so rabid about the whole thing. But Juniper and me running against each other is a hilarious farce of an idea. Juni could ask the whole school to jump off a bridge, and they’d be like, “Brilliant! Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”
Juni unlocks her car, and we sling our bags into the backseat. The three of us head across the green. Ahead, at the end of the long stretch of grass, Paloma High School’s main building looms above us like an architectural Frankenstein. They renovated the east wing two years ago. It’s three stories of glimmering plate glass and steel beams now. The west wing—brick, weathered, sixty years old—hangs off the new section like an unfortunate growth.
We cross the entire green before anyone speaks. “So, that assembly,” I say, opening the door to the east wing.
“Yeah,” Claire says. “Girl, dat shit be cray.”
I wince. “Yeesh, please don’t—you are whiter than Moby-Dick.”
Juniper laughs, and Claire flushes, flicking a curl out of her eyes. We head down a long hallway filled with afternoon sun. Light glances off the lockers, making them more of an eyesore than usual: red on top, green on the bottom. Our school colors. Also Christmas colors. Every year around the Christmas season, someone tags a red Rudolph graffiti nose onto the Lions logo out front.
“Seriously,” Claire says, pushing open the door to the stairwell, “when they figure out who’s sleeping with a teacher . . .”
“I know.” I jog up the steps after her. “We won’t hear the end of it for, like, twelve years.”
Claire aims a smirk at me over her shoulder. “It’s not you, is it?”
That stings—I bet half the school thinks it’s me—but I manage a laugh. “Go to hell.”
“Fine, fine,” she says, raising her hands. “It’s actually me. Me . . . and Principal Turner.”
Juniper mock-retches behind us. “Why, Claire?” I moan. “Why do you give us these mental scars?”
We come out on the third floor, dodging the after-school-club traffic. We pass the computer-science room, filled with Programming Club kids on their laptops, and the English room, where Poetry Society meets in a solemn-looking, somewhat cultish circle. We head into the Politics and Government room.
“Good crowd,” I say. The room’s empty.
“Three’s a crowd,” Claire says, checking her watch. “It’s just juniors today. And the girl who’s running for secretary emailed me—she can’t come. But there’s also a boy running for president, so . . .”
My heart sinks. If there’s only one other candidate, the odds of me wriggling out of this contest without hurting Claire’s feelings are way lower; and what with her hyperactive sense of responsibility, she won’t let it go for a while.
“Who’s the boy?” Juniper asks, perching in the empty teacher’s chair. Mr. Gunnar must be helping with the assembly cleanup. I bet they need a dozen people to mop up the sweat.
Claire unzips her backpack and thumbs through a folder. She draws out a sign-up sheet with one lonely name sitting at the top. “His handwriting’s terrible, but I think it says Matt something? Jackson, maybe?”
“I know him.” Juniper raises one thin eyebrow. “We did a group project together in bio, by which I mean I did the entire thing. The guy isn’t exactly a paragon of self-discipline.”
“Oh, wait,” I say, recalling the kid who slouches in late to English every day, reeking of weed. “Tall? Never talks? Kind of a pointy face?”
“That’s the one,” Juniper says.
“Well,” I say. “This’ll be, uh. Great.”
Claire scrutinizes my expression. “Something wrong, Liv?”
Claire makes a dismissive tsk sound between her teeth, setting her backpack down. “Oh, come on. Don’t pull that.”
“Dude, I’m being honest. I don’t know about this Matt kid, but everyone knows there’s no contest if it’s me and Juniper.”
We both look at Juniper. She stays diplomatically silent, spinning in Mr. Gunnar’s chair.
“Well, I guess you do have a lot on your plate,” Claire says knowingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe your latest conquest?” Claire wiggles her eyebrows. “Dan Silverstein, huh? Ees vairy eenteresting choice.”
I know she’s not serious, but it’s been a long day of stares. “Hmm, that’s funny,” I say. “I don’t remember telling you about—”
“I mean, no judgment. But, like, did you even know he existed before last Saturday?”
“Claire, give me a break.” I try to ignore the tug of hurt. “Can you stop doing this every time I hook up with someone? I know everyone else thinks I’m, like, Slutty McGee, Queen Slut from Slut Island, but you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Whoa. First of all, it was a joke, and second, there’s not a side.” She frowns. “Although I’ll admit, I don’t get why you sleep with so many guys.”
“It’s not like my reasoning needs to be public knowledge,” I say, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my voice level.
“Excuse me? So now it’s not my business?” Her blue eyes stretch wide. Surrounded by gold eyeliner, they look like gilded windows framing a sunlit sea. “Do I need a reason to care about you and your . . .” She gestures in the vicinity of my ovaries.
“My what? My sex life? What, want to hop on down to CVS and pick up some Plan B with me? Because I’ve never seen you or anyone else lining up to chat about that side of things.”
“I wasn’t going to say your sex life, Olivia.” Claire plants her hands on her hips. “Okay, look. You want me to be honest? You’ve been doing this more and more, and I’m starting to get worried about your emotional well-being.”
Seven Ways We Lie Page 1