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TWENTY-FIVE
“AND WE’LL BE TEAMING UP IN PAIRS FOR THIS ASSIGNMENT.”
Margot’s head snapped up. Short of “I’m accusing you of murder,” Mr. Heinrich had just spoken the words Margot dreaded most in her school experience: “teaming up.”
Whether it was kickball on the elementary school playground or a presentation for first-period AP Government, Margot would inevitably be the odd girl out, paired up with whomever was unlucky enough to still be standing in the game of musical chairs once the iPod shut off.
“Pick your partners,” Mr. Heinrich continued, “and remember this will count for twenty percent of your final grade.”
Alarms bells went off in Margot’s head. She was in a class full of seniors, which is what happens when your parents insist you enroll in summer semester every year so that you can load up on AP classes before you even start applying for college. She only knew one person in the room, and despite the fact that she was probably the smartest student in the class—a niche that occasionally meant a classmate with failing grades would beg her to be their partner in an assignment like this—it was only the second week of school, so no one knew that about her yet. She was barely holding her nerves together since the announcement that Theo had falsely confessed to Ronny’s murder, and now this?
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Margot?” Logan asked. “Do you have a partner yet?”
“No,” she managed.
He paused, looking embarrassed. “Do you want to pair up with me?”
Margot could have hugged him. “Sure,” she said simply, hoping it sounded somewhere between “OMG THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME” and “I might be more terrified of pairing up with you than being left unpartnered.”
“This looks like a lot of work,” Logan said, flipping through the packet of materials Mr. Heinrich handed out. “What are your nights and weekends like?”
Totally open as long as my parents think I’m doing schoolwork. “I can work something out.”
“Okay.” Logan’s eyebrows drew together. “Mine are a little wonky. I’ve got rehearsals for the school play almost every night for the next three weeks.”
“Why so intense?” Margot asked.
“We’ve got this special performance of Twelfth Night for some Big Kahuna director.”
“‘If music be the food of love,’” Margot said softly, quoting the opening line of Twelfth Night, “‘play on.’”
“You know Shakespeare?”
Margot dropped her chin, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush creeping up her neck. “We did a Shakespeare module in AP English last year. I’m good at remembering things.”
Logan pointed at her. “You know, Mr. Cunningham is totally overwhelmed with this show. I bet he could use someone like you to help run lines with the actors.”
Slipping out of the house once in a while for a Don’t Get Mad meeting couched as a study group was one thing, but hanging out in the theater department every night for the next three weeks? Margot wasn’t sure her parents would buy it.
“Come on,” Logan said. He bumped her shoulder playfully. “We can work on our AP Government project whenever I’m not in a scene, so it’s academic and extracurricular. They keep telling us it looks good on college apps, right?”
He had a point, but Margot wasn’t sure she could sell her parents on it. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good enough.”
The bell rang, and the class began to pack up. Logan laid his hand lightly on her arm. “Do you think . . .” He blinked several times. “Um, do you think I could get your phone number? So we can coordinate?”
It’s just for school, Margot told herself, trying to suppress her excitement. “Sure.”
She rattled off her cell phone number as Logan typed into his phone. “Sweet. I sent you mine. So you have it.”
Margot sat at her desk, dumbfounded, as she watched Logan bound out of the classroom. Had that really just happened? In the course of an hour, had Margot agreed to join a theater production and given her phone number out to the cutest boy she had ever met in her life?
Margot slipped her hand into her backpack and pulled out her cell phone. She needed to see Logan’s text, to make sure it was real and not some elaborate practical joke engineered by Amber Stevens. There was an incoming text on her screen.
It’s Logan! Now you have my number. J
Nausea. Fear. Excitement. Panic. It all swamped her at once. Part of her wanted to text Logan back and say, “No! I made a mistake. Can’t do this!” But fear had motivated so much of her life, Margot refused to give in to it this time.
Margot was still in a haze as she walked down the hall, but as she swung her locker door open, all thoughts of Logan evaporated.
Sitting on top of her textbooks was another manila envelope.
Margot had never been late to a class in her entire academic career, but she didn’t regret the decision to duck into the second-floor ladies room, even with the ’Maine Men patrolling the halls during class. Whatever was in the mysterious envelope was not something that could (a) wait for the break, or (b) be opened in a crowded classroom.
And while a toilet stall wasn’t exactly her first choice for privacy, it was the only place she was likely to get it.
She was oddly calm as she studied the envelope in her hands. It was exactly like the first—a generic office supply with a single piece of tape meticulously centered on the flap—and left in exactly the same way. And though part of Margot cringed at what she might find, her hand was steady as she popped the tape and peeked inside.
More photos. Three of them.
But unlike the first, Margot had never seen any of these.
She thought of the first photo, the one of her overweight body wrapped in plastic.
It had all been a part of Amber’s plan. But Margot was too naive to realize that it had been a setup when she overheard Amber in the locker room, telling Peanut and Jezebel about this amazing new weight-loss sensation. All you had to do was bind yourself in plastic wrap before bed each night, and you’d sweat the pounds off in your sleep.
It had sounded like the miracle she’d been waiting for. As soon as she was free of her parents for the night, she’d stripped down and swaddled herself before bed.
It wasn’t until the next day, when the photo of her chubby body encased in plastic wrap was infecting every phone in school, that Margot realized the whole thing had been a horrible joke.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, a group of eighth-grade boys had come to school with plastic wrapped around their arms and legs and stomachs. Wherever Margot went someone was mocking her, pointing, laughing. It had been too much. Margot had left school at lunch, walked six miles home, and taken her dad’s straight razor with her into the bathtub.
She would have succeeded too, if the cleaning lady hadn’t shown up.
For four years, Margot had nursed a secret hatred of Amber Stevens. Amber, who had set her up, taken that photo, and circulated it to the entire school.
Margot stared at the photos in her hand, cycling through them slowly. The first two were from outside Margot’s house, but too far away from the bedroom window to see what was inside. The third was closer, probably taken from behind the sycamore tree outside Margot’s window. It showed Amber standing near the windowpane, turning to the camera with a wicked smile on her face and a flashing two thumbs up. But there was a second figure in the photo, reflected in the darkened window. The flash from the camera phone obscured the photographer’s face, backlighting her to a vague, monochromatic silhouette. All Margot could make out was that she had long, curly hair.
The realization made Margot’s hands turn ice-cold. Amber wasn’t alone that night.
And Amber didn’t take the photo.
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TWENTY-SIX
“ANY IDEA WHAT MR. CUNNINGHAM’S GOING TO DO WITH US non–acting types?” Bree said, as she and John trudged across the quad.
The bell rang as they reached the theater. “Personally,” John said, holding the door open for her, “I’m hoping you get put on wardrobe detail. I’m sure Amber Stevens and Olivia Hayes would love to have you as a dresser.”
Bree gagged. “Barf.”
“Everyone take a seat,” Mr. Cunningham called from the front of the house. “I’ve got crew assignments to hand out before we jump into staging act three.”
John leaned down so his lips were inches from Bree’s ear. “Wardrobe,” he whispered.
The feel of John’s breath against her neck sent a chill racing down Bree’s spine. What was that all about? She laughed uncomfortably as she spun away from him. “Yeah, perfect.”
“We’ll begin with the set crew,” Mr. Cunningham said, consulting his clipboard. “Does anyone—”
“Mr. C!” Shane raised his hand.
Mr. Cunningham sighed. “Yes, Mr. White?”
Shane shot to his feet. “Can I make an announcement?”
Mr. Cunningham sighed. “I don’t know, can you?”
“Um . . .” Bree cringed as Shane scratched his chin, missing Mr. Cunningham’s grammatical commentary.
“Proceed, Mr. White.”
“Awesome.” Shane turned to face the class. “There’s a Bangers and Mosh show next Sunday night at the Ledge. All ages, and we’ll be premiering the new songs for the play.” He looked at Mr. Cunningham. “Cool?”
“Absolutely cool, Mr. White. I think that will be a mandatory field trip for all drama class members.”
Bree elbowed John in the ribs. “The Ledge? Seriously?”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“John.” Bree turned to face him. “Stop downplaying this. A gig at the Ledge is a big deal.”
“If you say so.”
Bree narrowed her eyes. “I do. Enjoy it for once in your life, okay?”
John’s face softened and a shy smile broke the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try.”
Now it was Bree’s turn for a smart-ass comeback. “Do or do not,” she said, throwing the Star Wars in his face. “There is no try.”
“Crew assignments,” Mr. Cunningham said, picking up where he left off before Shane’s announcement. Olivia tuned out as he rattled off a bunch of names, appointing people to sets, props, wardrobe, lighting, and sound duties.
While she waited for her first scene to be called to the stage, Olivia wandered around the expansive wings, basking in production glory. A graveyard of old stage lights had been removed from the rafters, their aging color gels awaiting replacement before they were remounted. Carpenters assembled set pieces, the cacophony of drilling and staccato hammering more sublime to her ears than a Mozart symphony. A group of student crew members gathered around scenery flats, paintbrushes in hand, ready to turn empty canvases into retro Harlem.
Olivia leaned against a wall behind the electrical grid and smiled to herself. This was home.
Footsteps clacked against the concrete floor and Olivia instinctively pressed herself into the shadows.
“I don’t understand,” Jezebel said. “Why do I have to lie?”
Amber tsked her tongue. “I told you, my dad might ask where I was. Just tell him I stayed at your place.”
Jezebel stopped and folded her thick arms across her chest. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t want Daddy to know where I was that night.”
“Fine.” Jezebel sighed. “What night?”
“Tuesday,” Amber said.
“You slept over at my place Tuesday night,” Jezebel recited, her voice intentionally monotonous. “Good?”
Amber turned and dragged Jezebel onto the stage. “Perfect.”
Olivia stayed in the shadows, confused. Amber bragged all the time that her parents didn’t care where she spent the night, implying that her sleepovers at Rex’s house were frequent and condoned. So why would she be suddenly worried about a cover story for Tuesday night?
Olivia stiffened. Tuesday was the night Ronny was killed. Could the two things be related?
Bree stared at the anarchy of stage lights in dismay. “We have to do all of these?”
“I think so,” John said.
The heavy black lights were all coated with dust and grime, and several of them were so corroded, they looked as if they’d been buried in a swamp for a decade. “This makes wardrobe look like fun.”
“You want me to go tell Mr. Cunningham?” John asked playfully.
“No!” She peeled off her hoodie and plopped herself in the middle of the chaos. “This kind of dirty is much more palatable, thank you very much.”
They worked in silence. For each light, Bree had to unscrew the gel frames from the rig, then extricate the little square of colored plastic from its holder. Some slid out easily, while some had melted to their metal holsters and required a vigorous scraping and tearing in order to dislodge. There was something mind-numbing about the process that Bree found soothing, and after half an hour, the backstage looked as if a piñata had exploded, littering the floor with its multicolored skin.
“I heard the police will be on campus indefinitely,” John said, apropos of nothing. His eyes were fixed on his pile of lights.
“Whatever,” she said dismissively.
John sat up straight. “You do realize how serious this is, right? If Uberti tries to frame us, there will be real consequences. There’s more at stake now than forcing Daddy to pay attention to you.”
Bree winced. Is that really what he thought of her?
John sighed. “You know, there are better ways to piss off your dad than getting arrested, Butch Cassidy.”
Bree seriously doubted that.
“Your dad would probably freak the hell out if he knew you had a guy up in your room three days a week . . .” John struck a laughably sexy pose, and tossed his hair out of his face like Fabio at a romance-novel cover shoot. “Without parental supervision.”
Bree burst out laughing.
John swung around onto all fours and crawled through the sea of lighting rigs toward her. “That’s right. I make you laugh with passion. We’re the hottest couple in school.”
“Oh my God,” Bree managed, blurting out the words between heaves of laughter. “No one thinks we’re a couple.”
John stopped his gyrations. “No one thinks we’re a couple,” he repeated. He planted his boots on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. His face was drawn as he looked down at her. “Especially not you.”
Without another word, he slipped through the curtains onto the stage.
Bree sat there, staring at the empty space that John had vacated. “Shit,” Bree said to no one in particular.
Was Mercury in fucking retrograde or something? Her entire world seemed to be falling apart. What would be next: Earthquake? Meteoroid strike? Seven hours of religion homework?
She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.
Maybe she should text John? But what would she say—sorry people don’t think of us as a couple, we’re still cool, right? Yeah, no. She felt as if a chasm had opened up between herself and her best friend, and she had no idea how to bridge it.
She sat on the cold concrete floor, her eyes searching the backstage wings as if an answer to her problem might magically appear amid the discarded light gels. Eventually, they landed on her ammo bag. The flap was open, and something was sticking out.
Something flat and long and antique yellow in color.
Manila envelope? Back the truck up. No way had Bree put that in her bag.
The fine hairs stood up on the back of Bree’s neck. She glared at it, no longer a mundane office supply but a harbinger of doom.
Really, Bree? Ridiculous didn’t even begin to cover it. Like the last one, this envelope was probably from one of the gir
ls, trying to tip her off on John’s investigations into DGM without telling the others. Nothing ominous. She whipped it out of her bag and popped the seal.
A piece of computer paper slid out onto the floor. It was a printout of an email to John from an anonymous account.
Bree quickly scanned the contents, and her stomach dropped.
There’s a photo of DGM if you know where to look. Check the school library.
Olivia was halfway to fifth period when Peanut came tearing after her. “Liv! You forgot this.”
“What?” she asked, turning around.
Peanut shrugged. “Dunno. It was under your purse in the theater. You left it on the seat.”
“Oh.” She reached out and lifted the object from Peanut’s hand. It was a plain manila envelope.
Olivia stared at the envelope as Peanut ran back down the hall. It was exactly like the first one. With a shaky hand, she broke the Scotch-tape seal and peeked at the contents.
It was a photo of Kitty and another girl, both in volleyball uniforms and knee pads. It was definitely a younger version of Kitty, taken a year or two ago. The other girl looked familiar, but Olivia wasn’t sure why.
There was no note on the photo, no hint as to why it had been sent to her. One thing was for sure—this photo had nothing to do with Twelfth Precinct, which meant Mr. Cunningham hadn’t left it for her.
What the hell was going on?
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TWENTY-SEVEN
OLIVIA LAMINATED HER SHOULDERS WITH SPF 85; THEN, confident every square inch of her skin was adequately protected from the bright September sun, she pulled a wide-brimmed hat over her short curls and snuggled back into the chaise longue.
Jezebel sniffed the air disapprovingly. “What’s the point of sunbathing if you wear all that crap?”
Olivia tightened the halter straps on her cherry-print bikini top. “I like the way the sun feels.”
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