“Good morning, Kitty,” Mrs. Baggott said as Kitty walked into the office. It was her usual greeting, but Mrs. Baggott’s voice lacked her characteristic cheerful, singsong quality. Instead, both the words and the sentiment seemed forced, and her smile, usually so genuine, was tense, her face lined with worry.
“Morning, Mrs. Baggott,” Kitty said. “Still crazy around here today?”
Mrs. Baggott pushed her wheelie desk chair across the floor to a short file cabinet and nodded toward Father Uberti’s office. “You can say that again.”
The blinds in his office were open and Kitty stole a glance inside as she shuffled through the inbox. Uberti paced in front of the window, arms clasped behind his back like a man deep in philosophical thought. Sitting on the other side of the desk, arms waving erratically as he spoke, was Coach Creed.
Coach Creed and Father Uberti in conference? Perfect opportunity to find out what they knew about Ronny’s murder. Feigning a visit to the filing cabinet next to Uberti’s office, Kitty pretended to search for something, her ears straining as she eavesdropped.
“Bullshit!” Coach Creed barked. “Uh, sorry, Father.” He cleared his throat. “I just mean, we’ve got a dead student. Murder is still a crime, isn’t it?”
Father Uberti gritted his teeth. “Yes, Dick. Murder is a crime. But there’s no evidence that they’re guilty.”
Coach Creed pounded his fist against the desk. “We can’t let John Baggott and Bree Deringer get away with it!”
Kitty stiffened. Bree and John?
“Shh!” Father Uberti hissed. “Maureen will hear you. And you can’t go around throwing out murder accusations willy-nilly.”
“But they’re guilty!” Coach Creed said.
Father Uberti shook his head. “Maybe of being behind the DGM pranks, but of murder? I’m not willing to go that far.”
“Fine,” Coach Creed mumbled. “But we can’t let them get away with it.”
Father Uberti smiled. “You mean murder or making you look like an ass in front of the entire school?”
Coach Creed scowled but didn’t answer.
Father Uberti renewed his pacing. “We need probable cause.”
Coach Creed’s head snapped up. “How do we do that?”
“Weren’t you at some military academy before you came here? Out in Arizona?”
A military academy in Arizona? The list Bree saw in Ronny’s room popped into Kitty’s mind. Could that be the connection? Could Coach Creed have taught at Archway?
“Yeah,” Coach Creed said slowly. “What about it?”
Father Uberti sighed heavily. “Use your brain, Dick. Bishop DuMaine has its own army of peer enforcers.”
It took Coach Creed a full ten seconds to grasp Uberti’s meaning. “You mean the ’Maine Men? You want us to—”
A massive bang ripped through the office as the door burst open and Rex sprinted into Uberti’s office. “They got him!”
Kitty froze. Him?
Coach Creed vaulted to his feet. “Baggott? They’ve arrested him?”
In the lobby, Kitty watched the color drain out of Mrs. Baggott’s face.
Rex shook his head. “No. He confessed. And you’re never going to believe this, the killer is—”
Before Rex could answer, the two police officers who had been manning the side entrance marched into the administrative lobby, half-dragging a student between them. Kitty’s jaw dropped.
It wasn’t John Baggott who had confessed to Ronny’s murder. It was Theo Baranski.
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TWENTY-ONE
“TELL ME AGAIN WHY WE’RE EATING LUNCH IN THE LIBRARY?” Bree asked.
John snuck a bite of his turkey sandwich, clandestinely hidden in his backpack. “More comfortable than my mom’s minivan.”
“Is it? Is it really?”
John sniffed the air. “Well, the library doesn’t make my lunch smell like car freshener, so yes.”
“Point taken.” Bree slouched in her chair. Shane was out in the quad eating lunch with his friends, while she was stuck in the library, hiding. “But why can’t we eat in the quad like normal pariahs? You heard the news: Theo confessed. The ’Maine Men have been called off. Isn’t that the end of it?” Bree hoped more than believed that the case was closed.
“Please,” John sputtered through a mouthful of turkey. “He didn’t do it.”
Bree stiffened. The moment the rumor swept through school, Bree had felt a tremendous weight lifted from her shoulders. If Theo had killed Ronny, it meant that the list she’d seen in Ronny’s room had everything to do with his death, and DGM was totally innocent. Now, John was bursting her bubble, and she prayed that he was wrong. “How do you know?”
John chewed thoughtfully. “Theo confessed to protect DGM. It’s pretty obvious. Probably feels he owes it to them after what they did to Coach Creed.”
“Confessing to a murder you didn’t commit is kinda overkill on the payback, don’t you think?”
“He probably has an alibi,” John said. “Ten-to-one odds he’s back in school tomorrow.”
Bree wasn’t sure how she felt. Part of her wanted to believe that Theo had killed Ronny. His name was on the list that had disappeared from Ronny’s room—clearly they had a connection no one knew about.
On the other hand, Bree cringed at the thought that Theo had only confessed to protect DGM. She couldn’t let him go down for a crime he didn’t commit, could she?
While thoughts of Theo and Ronny did a square dance in her head, John pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper out of his bag and studied it closely. From what Bree could see, it was a list, in John’s frenzied scrawl, and the anonymous envelope in her locker rushed back into her mind.
If someone other than John had slipped that envelope into her locker, it could only be a warning: someone’s on to you. Thankfully, since Bree and John were the prime suspects on Father Uberti’s DGM short list, such a warning wasn’t totally off the wall.
The other option was significantly more terrifying. If John had left her the envelope, was he trying to tell her that he suspected her involvement with DGM? Of course, he could simply be showing off his deductive powers. But if that was the case, why all the cloak-and-dagger crap?
Bree didn’t even realize she was staring at the list in John’s hand until he snapped his fingers in front of her eyes.
“It’s a set list,” John said, patting her hand. “It won’t hurt you.”
“I take it they haven’t kicked you out yet?”
“No,” John said with an exasperated sigh. “Your boyfriend hasn’t kicked me out yet.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “Give it a rest.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you don’t have a crush on Shane White?”
“I don’t know where you get the idea—”
John interrupted her. “Stay on target.”
“I mean, how can you—”
“Stay on target!”
Bree took a deep breath. “Look, Shane White doesn’t even know my name. And that’s the beginning and the end of it.” It was painful to admit, but it was almost as if Bree needed to hear herself say the words out loud. She hadn’t told John that she’d transferred into fourth-period drama, and suddenly the reality that she’d changed her class schedule in order to chase a boy who barely knew she existed felt simultaneously pathetic and embarrassing.
John stared at her for what felt like an eternity, then slowly turned his attention back to the set list. “If you say so.”
Peanut wrung her hands as she and Olivia approached the theater. “I’m so nervous,” she said, glancing at Olivia. “Aren’t you?”
“It’s just a play, Peanut,” Olivia lied. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I know, but what if . . .”
Peanut’s voice trailed off, but Olivia knew exactly what she was going
to say: What if you don’t get cast?
Olivia pushed the thought from her mind. She had to trust that her audition, coupled with Mr. Cunningham’s assurance that he’d do everything he could for her, would be enough to counterbalance whatever power Amber currently wielded over the theater department.
Now that Ronny’s killer had confessed, Olivia could turn her attention back to the scholarship to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. This cast list could make or break her.
A crowd of drama students had already gathered around the door; their voices drifted across the courtyard.
“Can you believe it?”
“Duh, she practically told everyone she’d get it.”
“Who’s that?”
“The smoking new guy.”
“Gang Member Number Two? Do I even get any lines?”
Peanut made a beeline for the door, but Olivia paused as Jezebel and Amber appeared at the far side of the courtyard. Jezebel raced up to the cast list and practically danced a jig in front of it.
“You got it!” she squealed. “You’re playing Olivia.”
Amber breezed through the crowd, looking as nonchalant and uninterested as possible. “Logan as Count Orsino,” she read aloud, starting at the top of the list. “Excellent. Our acting styles are remarkably complementary.”
Olivia suppressed a gag.
“Donté as Sebastian? Intriguing choice.” Amber continued down the list. “Oh look, Peanut. Even you got a part!”
Peanut squeezed her head in front of the cast list. “I did?”
“Fabiana. Originally Fabian, a male role,” Amber lectured. “Mr. Cunningham confided that he’d be taking some liberties with the play.”
“Look!” Peanut squealed, her head still lodged in front of the cast list. “Olivia got Viola.” She stood on her tiptoes and waved. “Liv! You got it!”
“What?” Amber roared.
A wave of relief engulfed Olivia. “I did?”
Peanut rushed up and hugged her, and soon other members of the drama class gathered around, offering their congratulations.
Everyone except Amber. She stood in front of the door, her fists balled up so tightly her hands were turning white. After a moment, she grabbed Jezebel and dragged her into the theater.
Olivia didn’t need to hear what Amber was saying. Her body language implied enough. She was furious that Olivia had been cast in the play, and a pissed-off Amber was a dangerous Amber. Olivia would need to watch her back.
It was going to be a long three weeks.
Bree was practically in front of the theater before she realized that John was still at her side.
“Where are you going?” she said with a nervous laugh. “You’ll barely make it to art history before the bell.”
“I’ll be fine.” John just stood there, without making the expected dash across campus.
Bree didn’t open the theater door. After the conversation at lunch, she didn’t want John to see that she’d transferred into drama class with Shane. At least not yet.
“The bell’s going to ring any second and . . .” She was getting impatient.
“Didn’t I tell you?” John said. “I transferred into drama.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I know. But Shane asked me to.” John yanked the door open and smiled over his shoulder as he ducked into the darkened theater. “See you later?”
Bree stood outside the theater as John let the door close in her face. Well, crap. For some reason, the idea of flirting with Shane in front of John made her uncomfortable. Maybe she should march herself to the office, say she made a mistake, and go back to fourth-period French?
Bree sighed and opened the door. No, she was going to do this, John or no John.
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TWENTY-TWO
BREE STOOD IN THE BACK OF THE HOUSE, TRYING TO ACCLIMATE her eyes to the low lighting. She wasn’t sure what to do. Introduce herself to the foppish British guy who appeared to be running the show? Eh, she wasn’t there to kiss ass. He’d figure out who she was eventually. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could hide from John all semester. Better to take the bull by the horns.
She scanned the auditorium and saw John sitting between Shane and some redheaded senior chick Bree had never met. Here goes nothing.
“Hey,” she said, slipping into the row in front of them.
John started as if he’d seen a ghost. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are.”
John planted a boot-clad foot against the back of her seat. “I seriously doubt that.”
Bree didn’t like the clouded look she saw on his face. What right did he have to be pissed off?
The redhead leaned on John’s arm. “Who’s your friend?”
Bree eyed the girl. She wore heavy purple lipstick and more black eyeliner than the lead singer of KISS, and the way she touched John’s arm—so familiar and comfortable—rubbed Bree the wrong way. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“It’s Bree, right?” Shane extended his hand.
Holy shit, he knew her name? “Yeah.” She shook his hand, praying her palms weren’t gross and sweaty.
“Are you joining drama?” he asked.
The redhead rolled her eyes and nodded toward Amber and Jezebel, posing on the stage like they were auditioning for a Madonna video. “I don’t know why anyone would want to join this freak show.”
“When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,” Bree said, carefully quoting Nietzsche. She’d memorized a dozen or so of the philosopher’s best, just in case she got the chance to drop one in front of Shane.
But instead of smiling in recognition, Shane tilted his head to the side. “Huh?”
John snorted. “I believe she’s quoting Nietzsche.”
“Oh!” Shane’s eyes grew wide. “I had to do a report on him last spring. Didn’t understand most of it.”
John grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, Bree’s a huge Nietzsche fan.”
Bree wanted to slap the smugness off his face.
Shane smiled. “I’m Shane, and this is Cordy,” he said, thumbing at the redhead. Bree noticed that her knee was touching John’s leg. What the hell was that about? “Cordy does the promo and shit for Bangers and Mosh. She’s sitting in on class today to get the DL on the gig.”
Bree had no idea what gig he was talking about, but clearly Shane thought John had filled her in, so she flashed Cordy a shit-eating grin and played along. “So you’re a groupie.”
Cordy wrinkled her nose. “Look who’s talking.”
“Dude,” Shane said, slapping John on the shoulder. “Glad you could transfer in. This gig is going to be epic for us.” He stepped into the aisle. “I’ll go tell Mr. C. that you’re here.”
Cordy climbed over John and followed Shane, assiduously avoiding Bree’s eyes as she went. Bree waited until they were halfway to the stage before she turned to John, eyebrows raised. “Cordy seemed really friendly,” Bree said. “Why haven’t I heard about her?”
“Why haven’t I heard about your sudden interest in the theater?” John countered.
“You weren’t exactly sharing that little nugget either,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “And what the hell is this about a gig?”
Instead of answering, John linked his fingers behind his head and crossed one combat-boot-clad foot over his knee.
Bree narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or am I going to have to rip that boot off your foot and beat you senseless with it?”
“Pay attention, Miss Charming,” he said with a nod toward the stage. “Class is starting.”
With a series of cringe-inducing squeaks, Shane helped Mr. Cunningham wheel a massive computer display across the stage. “All right, everyone. We have a lot to cover today, so let’s start with a few announcements. Thank you, Mr. White.”
Shane saluted, then jumped off the stage in one bound and took a seat in the front row next to Cordy.
“Um, right,” Mr. Cunningham said, eyeing Shane suspiciously. “First off, congratulations to everyone who was cast in our fall play. I was impressed with your auditions, and I believe we’re going to have a fabulous production. Now, I want to share with you the concept for this semester’s production of Twelfth Night.” He plugged his phone into an auxiliary jack and connected it to the screen. His browser appeared, showing a photo gallery marked “Twelfth Precinct.”
“Thanks to the generosity of our donors, we are building this production from scratch, based on my own original concept.” He tapped on the gallery and opened a slide show. The first image was a watercolor mockup of the stage, portraying a run-down urban landscape: New York–style brownstones pockmarked with boarded-up windows, a burned-out hulk of an old sedan peeking out from the wings, and graffiti plastering every available surface.
“This is our main set. It’s a near-future dystopian landscape, based on New York City as depicted in the 1979 cult classic”—he paused and swiped to the next photo—“The Warriors.”
Mr. Cunningham waited, clearly expecting some sort of reaction to the production still of several shirtless dudes in brown leather vests, open to show their glistening torsos, hairless like Ken dolls. It was a seventies explosion—afros and feathered headbands, beaded necklaces, and ridiculously low-slung jeans.
“What the hell is that?” Bree said, out of the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, come on guys,” Mr. Cunningham said, practically pleading. “The Warriors? ‘Can you dig it?’”
Giggles erupted from somewhere near the front of the theater. Mr. Cunningham ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. “No matter. We’ll be watching it in class tomorrow.” He cut off the groans with a wave of his hand. “Save it. Be thankful I’m not assigning it for homework. The point is that we are recreating a gritty, dangerous gangland. Think West Side Story on steroids. And we’ll be going all out—original sets, costumes, even an original score.” Mr. Cunningham waved Shane to his feet. “This is Mr. White, who performs in a local rock band.”
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