The Betrayal of Natalie Hargrove

by Lauren Kate

  But from the innocent look on her face as she watched the Dick spoon out the last of the grits, I knew Mom was clueless to this new development. It was almost as if Mom had convinced herself by now that her husband really did die in a sailing accident.

  "There you are, Nat." The Dick stepped forward to give me a kiss. The humidity was making his comb-over act up again, and he had cheese grits in his handlebar mustache. But I knew Mom would flip if I flinched away from his lips.

  "Look at you two," the Dick said, gesturing back and forth between his daughter Darla and me. "Two of Charleston's finest up-and-comings in one room." He put his arm around Mom. "How did we get so lucky?"

  Darla had dressed for church in a simple yellow sheath dress whose high neckline covered her long span of cleavage. Add the frizzy dirt-brown hair and droopy earlobes she'd inherited from her father, and the Double D's dream of getting in with the inner Bambi circle at Palmetto was about as likely as Mom's desperate attempts to get the third pew status at church. Mom at least had the guts to go after what she wanted, but when it came to Darla's playing power, dull was very much an understatement.

  "Did you leave Rex's early last night?" she asked me, sipping her orange juice through a straw. "I saw you cheering for J.B. at the keg stand, but I couldn't find you after that."

  Who on earth would have even realized Darla was at the party last night? I glanced at Mom, who was nodding encour agingly--her eyes practically begging me to take Darla under my wing.

  "I was tired," I explained. "I always like to get my beauty sleep on a church night."

  "Speaking of which," Mom sang, raising a red-painted fingernail in the air, "that third pew's not getting any emptier. Everyone had enough to eat?"

  I grabbed a banana for the road and threw a last-ditch pair of pantyhose at Mom, and the four of us filed out the door.

  "Sorry everyone, my Porsche only fits two," the Dick said, laughing as if there was a hilarious hidden pun there. "I hope you don't mind if we take the Duke of Jessamine's van to church."

  I looked at the full-size white van with the Duke of Jessamine's logo (a cartoon of Richard's face surrounded by cartoon trumpet-shaped flowers) slapped on the sliding back door. Oh God, forgive my mother for doing this to me the week before Palmetto Court.

  I started to wonder whether maybe I deserved this little bit of karma. After all, I had stuck J.B. with that nasty walk of shame this morning. Was it just in the cosmos that I'd have to publicly descend from the Flower Van?

  If my reputation at Palmetto weren't already as solid as a tube of ChapStick in December, I might have been a little nervous. But as Dick pulled out of our driveway, I reminded myself that I was inches away from Palmetto Princess--and this little joyride was merely an example of . . . what was that old saying? Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

  "Sweet Jesus," Mom gasped from the front seat when we were half a block away. "What in the Lord's name is going on at the church?"

  For the first time since last night, it crossed my mind that J.B. might still be outside. I figured whoever found him first would untie him, setting him--but not his reputation--free, and that he would run shamefully home.

  Now, as we turned into the lot, I prayed that last night's little prank would have worked itself out by now. Okay . . . worst case, if he was still there, I crossed my fingers that he'd at least be out of it enough not to remember how he'd gotten there.

  Wait--

  What were all these flashing blue lights?

  What were the cops doing at church during prime doughnut-eating time?

  And why would they have called an ambulance?

  My heart practically lurched into the front seat as the Dick lurched to a stop. I slung open the massive sliding door of the van to jump out of. Mom, Dick, and Darla were hot on my heels, but I didn't stop running until I reached the mass of people circled up around the Palmetto where I'd left J.B. last night. Around then, my body went completely numb.

  "What happened?" I called into the buzzing crowd. "What's going on?"

  Steph Merritt turned around and put a trembling hand on my shoulder. "It's J.B.," she sobbed, twitching her nose. I bit my lip, remembering that she was rumored to have been spotted in the backseat of J.B.'s Camero more than a few times this semester. I'd never had a whole lot of respect for Steph or her dark roots.

  "What about J.B.?" I pressed.

  "He's dead."

  My brain knew that my hands had flown up to my cheeks, but my body couldn't feel a thing. The world turned quiet except for a rushing sound that seemed to come from inside my head. He couldn't possibly be--

  "He never went anywhere without his pills," Steph sniffed, blowing her nose on an embroidered handkerchief.

  So what if J.B. had some pills on him? They were fun pills. They were party pills. They were . . . in-Mike's-jacket-pocket pills. I remembered the rush of cold air from my dream and shivered.

  Mom came up behind me and stood up on her tiptoes. "Ohhhhh, J.B., sweet boy, what happened to youuuuu?" she moaned.

  I gripped her hand and squeezed it, willing her to shut up. Don't make a scene, Mom, don't make a scene. Of course you'd be the type to fall for his charming flirty act, but now is not the time.

  But before Mom could fully overpower the rest of the crowd, the paramedics wheeled out the empty stretcher. There was something so awful about the idea of them already wheeling him away. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to replay the worst parts of last night in my mind. I didn't understand what was going on. Justin. Justin couldn't be dead. There was some sort of confusion, that's all.

  At the sound of the whole congregation gasping at once, I opened my eyes. J.B.'s limp body popped up with the stretcher.

  His skin was the color of an old bruise, dull and yellow, and his hair was matted to his forehead. He was still in the black-leather skirt and the fishnet stockings, still with that one high heel dangling from his foot.

  I looked down at my hands. I had just held that ankle in them last night--and now I could hardly feel my fingers. I could hardly feel anything at all.

  Just before the paramedics lifted J.B. into the ambulance, I noticed Mrs. Balmer. She hunched over her son, stroking his cheeks. She unwound the hot-pink feather boa from his dead neck and tucked it, shakily, into her purse. Then she broke down in a long, labored series of sobs until, eventually, they pulled her off his body.

  I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath, and suddenly, I thought I might faint. I was looking around for some clear air and a place to sit down when I felt my phone buzz in my bag. Who could be texting at a time like this?

  Doll face--don't give me the cold shoulder. Cut your dad a little slack and call me, okay? I miss you, kid.

  My head spun. There was no way I could deal with my father now. Delete, I punched. Delete delete delete. I practically beat the message out of my phone. This would be my texting mantra from here on out. At least until I caught wind that Dad had ducked back out of town. At least until this awful J.B. mess had . . . settled down? What was this awful mess, anyway? I couldn't see straight. I couldn't figure it out. I was having a hard time grasping for breath.

  Behind me, I heard someone say, "Thus endeth the competition for Palmetto's throne."

  Rex Freeman's loud voice was cheerless when he chimed in, "Looks like you've pretty much got Prince locked down now, huh, King?"

  Mike. Where was he? I needed him. He needed me. I swayed. My eyes raced through the crowd to find my love my love my love--

  There. Mike was standing stoically across the circle in his church suit. He was flanked by his parents, stroking Diana's hand.

  But he was looking straight at me.

  I started toward him in a hot rush through the crowd, feeling alive again, feeling the blood pour back through my body. My heart was hammering so hard I thought my ribs might break. I needed to get to him. Mike would know what to do.

  He shook his head and narrowed his dark eyes as I approached. A chill ran down my spine as
he mouthed, "Nat, what did you do?"

  CHAPTER Eight

  AN ABSOLUTE TRUST

  On Monday morning, I went through an entire pack of Juicy Fruit gum during the twenty-minute drive to school. With an aching jaw and a sinking feeling in my stomach, I parked in my usual spot under the leaning Palmetto. I got out of the car and had to follow suit by leaning on the driver's door for support. Sweat poured down the back of my neck. How was I going to make it inside?

  Suddenly, I got a little extra push from Ms. Cafiero, my mustache-sprouting eight-period algebra teacher who practically hauled me toward the front steps by the earlobe.

  "Wait, I never meant--" I started to confess.

  "Save it," she interrupted, grabbing the kid in the car next door by the earlobe too and shoving us both in the direction of the auditorium.

  "Do not pass go," Ms. Caf commanded. "Do not collect two hundred dollars. Go to the assembly. Go directly to the assembly."

  "But I have shop class," the kid beside me whined.

  "Not today, you don't," Caf snapped. "A fellow student loses his life in a freak accident. I think your model airplane can wait."

  A freak accident. That's what the school was calling it. It was the first piece of non-terrifying news I'd heard since yesterday morning when my whole world fell apart. I needed to know more before I went inside. If I could just make a pit stop at the junior bathroom to pay Tracy Lampert a visit. . . .

  "Nature calls," I tried on Ms. Cafiero, failing to edge my way around her Botticelli hips.

  "Well, you're going to have to hold it," Ms. Cafiero frowned, steering my tense shoulders into the assembly hall. I held my breath and stumbled inside.

  Once I crossed the threshold into the large, high-ceilinged auditorium, I was hit with a rush of semi-comforting deja vu. I'd practically come of age in this room. It was one of those chameleon venues, a catch-all for Palmetto's big-ticket events. We held the final pep rally here before the homecoming game each fall. We'd squirmed in these seats last year listening to the creepy male gynecologist they'd flown in from the CDC when a rash of STDs swept the school. We'd even sold out the place the night Mike played Marcus Antonius in last spring's performance of Julius Caesar. But never had I heard such a buzz in the auditorium as the one I walked into this morning.

  Everyone was wearing black. A few of the junior girls even had dark veils covering their faces. I looked down, suddenly grateful that my dark gray cowl-neck cashmere would pass for the mourning attire that was suddenly what people wore at Palmetto.

  And it wasn't just the costumes that were wigging me out. The whole energy of the room seemed to swarm as kids darted in and out of conversations, up and down the aisles. No one could sit still. We looked like a colony of ants who'd just had our farm kicked over.

  Chaos made me dizzy. I reached into my purse for more gum and remembered I was already out. My jaw throbbed. I wanted Tracy and I wanted Mike. Was I really going to have to wade through this sea of sobbing Bambies to find them?

  Up ahead, I spotted Kate's long hair glimmering under the florescent gym lights. I sidled toward her, and the sophomore foursome huddled around her. They were all sharing a box of tissues, like it was popcorn.

  "What if he's gone for good?" Kate moaned to the other girls. I had to do a double take to realize she was crying.

  "You have to prepare for the worst," Steph Merritt jumped in, helping Kate to blow her nose.

  Jesus. How much more proof did these kids need? Kate hardly even knew J.B. I know it sounded weird for me to feel protective over his death, but I had known him. I had known him a little too well. Hadn't I earned the right?

  "What, he didn't look dead enough yesterday morning?" I blurted too harshly, too quickly. The other girls almost jumped back in surprise, but Kate just sniffed without judgment.

  "We're not talking about J.B.," she said. "Haven't you heard about Baxter?"

  "What about him?" I said quickly, glancing around the auditorium.

  Kate gave the girls an apologetic frown and stepped forward to take me by the arm. She led me a few feet away toward relative quiet.

  "Baxter's phone," Kate shuddered. "It's been shut off all weekend. I'm so lame; I must have tried him twenty times yesterday." She looked at me. "He said we were going to study."

  "So he didn't call you back," I shrugged. "That could mean anything. Maybe he hired a tutor--"

  "But Saturday night . . ." She blushed and looked away. "We kind of . . . at the party . . ."

  I sighed and rubbed my temples. I could feel the tension mounting in my skull.

  "Kate, do you have any idea how many senior guys at this school sleep with sophomores only to blow them off?" I asked.

  Kate opened her mouth to speak and shook her head. Tears sprung to her eyes. I hadn't meant to make her cry, but usually her skin was thicker than it was today.

  "I'm sorry," I said, squeezing her shoulder. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just freaked out about the J.B. news. I shouldn't have--"

  "It's okay," she said quietly. "I'm freaked out, too. One of the partners at my father's firm heard Justin was D.O.A. by sunrise on Sunday morning. He was already gone when the grounds-keeper called the paramedics. Baxter, I mean. They're pinning J.B.'s death on a bad combination of drugs. But--" She glanced up and her lip quivered. She gave me the most tortured look.

  "But what?" I asked, feeling yesterday's numb tingle wash over me again.

  Kate leaned in to whisper. "But Baxter's not at school today," she said. "And now the juniors are saying he might have had something to do with what happened."

  "I'm sure it's purely speculation," I said, knowing full well that Tracy Lampert never speculated.

  Kate shook her head. "No, they're talking about this video Baxter was filming that night. The juniors said J.B.'s in a lot of the footage on the DVD, and if the cops get a hold of it . . ."

  She trailed off, but my overactive imagination kicked right in. Kate had been there when Baxter was egging J.B. on from the library balcony during the keg stands. If he had a DVD full of J.B. footage, who could blame those brilliant juniors for putting the pieces together?

  "Where's the DVD now?" I asked.

  Kate shook her head and blew her nose. She didn't know anything else.

  It was time for a more reliable source of information. I stood up on a chair to get a better aerial view of the room. With so many small groups of students-turned-mourners clustered together, the auditorium looked like a convening of witches.

  Finally, in the back corner, I spotted Tracy and her minions. They were huddling up around someone so closely that I couldn't quite make out . . . Mike. Well, two birds, one stone. I hopped down from the chair and started to beeline toward them. But then I heard the infamous triple gavel rap of Principal Glass. He was calling us to order.

  I know delusions of grandeur are not unusual in high school, but usually they're limited to quarterbacks with God complexes--not the faculty. But after our last principal was hauled away on house arrest, Palmetto was blessed with the kind of temporary fill-in whose big dreams of sitting on the Supreme Court were smashed after, oh, the fifth time he failed the South Carolina bar exam.

  It was obvious, as Principal Glass stood behind the podium in his tweed and his toupee, that lording over a bunch of high school kids with a gavel was his small way of coming to terms with his life's shortcomings.

  "All sit," he boomed into the microphone, rapping the gavel until everyone lowered the pitch of their gossip to at least a whisper. I was still a good five rows away from Mike and Tracy. Too far. I had to get there before the assembly started.

  "I suggest you find a seat."

  Ms. Cafiero had appeared out of nowhere to thwart me again. I was losing patience for this lady fast, but when I considered the likelihood of making it past her with both my earlobes intact, I gave up and sank into the nearest seat.

  To my left was June Rattler (of the unforgettable tuba-blowing Palmetto Court poster), and to my right was Ari Ang (
the Anger of the mysterious green beaker). Ugh. I could not have special-ordered a lowlier crew for gossip potential.

  "A great tragedy took place this weekend, as some of you may know," Principal Glass began, waving the gavel with that this-is-gonna-be-a-long-one air.

  Thirteen minutes into the world's most transparent speech about the sanctity of life, I was at the end of my already frazzled wits. Everyone knew that the administration at Palmetto (called the "fishbowl" for the glass walls around their cluster of offices) had only ever seen J.B. as a thorn in their collective thigh.

  If Principal Glass had known anything about the school he was "running," he would know that Palmetto was a place that fed, cleansed, and healed itself on the therapeutic powers of the rumor mill. If we were going to get past J.B.'s accident, it was going to happen in whispered corners in the hallways, not under the bang of Glass's gavel.

  "In conclusion," he droned, "I must stress the importance of carrying on with our daily lives." By now, he had to raise his voice over the rustling of students taking their cue to grab their bags.

  "Which is why I remind you that the Nutritional Fair will still take place at lunch today." Louder still, he shouted, rapping his gavel as the room began to clear out, "And don't forget to cast your votes for the Palmetto Prince and Princess today. We will mourn the loss of Justin Balmer, but we will carry on as a school."

  That last tidbit of advice fell on an almost empty auditorium. It was probably for the best--even though Palmetto Court and J.B.'s death were scarily intertwined in my brain, I didn't exactly want the rest of the school to relate.

  Back in the crowded hallway, I raced to find Mike.

  "Thank God," I said, wrapping myself in his arms. "What'd you hear from Tracy?" I blurted.

  Whoa. That was not the first thing I meant to say.

  "I mean--how are you?"

  Mike looked at me strangely.

  "Didn't you get my texts?" he asked. "We need to talk."

  Crap. I closed my eyes. Ever since that second text from my dad yesterday, I'd been deleting all my text messages, sight unseen.