Game of Fear

by Kabongo, Glede Browne

  My bull-crap radar is usually sharp and accurate when it comes to guys. He just jammed it. I don’t like that.

  “Popularity contests are a waste of time. No one is going to care once we leave Saint Matthews and take on the real world. I have better things to do with my time.”

  “Like studying. Avoiding relationships. Hiding your feelings.”

  “I have plenty of relationships, thank you.”

  “You know I’m not talking about your brother.”

  “So what? I’m in no hurry.”

  “Who are you waiting for, Abbie? What if he never comes?”

  That fastball hit me square in the face. I think back to Frances’s comment at lunch, about Ty. He didn’t want to ruin our friendship, so I’m permanently in the friend zone. I’m sure Christian’s cousin Kerri was the reason nothing happened between us, not that I’m bitter or anything. Ty went off to Yale. I put my feelings on lockdown and haven’t let them out since. It was the only way to preserve our friendship.

  “I’m not waiting on anyone, okay?”

  “So, is there a chance for us?”

  “A chance for what, Christian?”

  His breathing comes down the line. “Anything and everything.”

  Before I can respond, Miles bangs on my bedroom door. “Abbie, it’s dinnertime.”

  I place my hand over the phone and yell back that I’ll be right down. After Miles leaves, I speak into the phone. “I have to go, Christian.”

  “Think about what I said.”

  I’m tired, and it’s time to call it a night. I put in another couple hours of studying after dinner and general goofing off with the family. I slip into my favorite pink pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt. I pull out my accessories drawer from my dresser and wrap my hair in a silk scarf, then head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I return, I plug my phone into the electric socket to charge overnight and then climb into bed. I shut off the lamp on the nightstand.

  Seconds after my head hits the pillow, my cell phone rings. Who could be calling me so late? I reach for the phone, pulling the plug out first. The screen says Blocked Number.

  “Hello?”

  “I know what you did. Hypocrite! Justice will be served. The Avenger.”

  I squeeze the sides of the phone tight. It’s a girl. If I had to guess, she’s my age or a little older. She repeated the note I found in my locker, verbatim.

  “Sidney, I’m going to kick your butt. This isn’t funny anymore,” I shout into the phone.

  The caller hangs up.

  CHAPTER 4

  I gaze at my locker, fearing it will turn on me like some evil beast. I’m not requesting a new combination yet. Sidney won’t get away with this. I don’t care that her dad worked for the President and may know CIA agents who could make me disappear.

  Christian isn’t around this morning. Probably giving me some space to think about what he said. I take a deep breath and give myself a mental pep talk about not being a wimp. I shouldn’t be afraid of my own locker.

  I turn the combination and pull the door open with confidence. As if in slow motion, I exchange my books. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. My dream board is still intact—a collection of photos that help me stay inspired and focused on my goals. The biggest one in the bunch is Dr. Keith Black, one of the top neurosurgeons in the country. Next to him are pictures of Serena Williams and Malala Yousafzai. They’re both fierce in my opinion.

  I ignore the morning ritual going on around me: students on the way to class, the buzz of multiple conversations, and lockers banging shut. I’m too distracted. I can brush off a random note, but two things bother me. I was contacted on my personal cell phone. The caller knew what was written on the note found in my locker. She knows me. Sidney is the only she who fits the bill.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. I drop the book in my hand. It barely misses my toes.

  “Abbie, what’s wrong? Why are you jumpy?” Trevor Forrester picks up my giant calculus textbook from the floor and hands it to me. Trevor and I have English lit together, and Frances takes advantage of that. I’m her lookout in case Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, Brooke Westerly, tries anything funny.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the book from him. “I’m fine. Just spaced out for a minute.”

  “Are you sure? You look worried.”

  He adjusts his clear, rimless glasses. With dirty-blond hair styled in a layered cut, sharp cheekbones, and a muscular build, Trevor has the hunky nerd look cornered.

  “All good. Ready for another epic lecture by Dr. Campbell?”

  “Arrggh. I swear if I have to dissect another didactic poetry piece, I’m going to hurt someone.”

  “I thought you lived for English lit,” I say, clicking my combination lock shut. “You know, so Brooke can drool all over you.”

  “Don’t joke about that. I don’t want Frances breaking up with me over something stupid like Brooke causing trouble.”

  “She’s part of Sidney’s clique. They wear trouble like a badge of honor.”

  I slide into my usual seat, three rows away from the front of the classroom. Dr. Campbell sits at her desk, scribbling something on a notepad. We have about three minutes before class begins. I hear giggling one row over from me. Sidney and Brooke are whispering, their eyes peeled in my direction.

  “You should just give up, Abbie,” Brooke says.

  They remind me of signs at the park that say don’t feed the pigeons. If I say anything, it will unleash an avalanche of shallow and disparaging comments. Instead, I roll my eyes at them and let out an exaggerated sigh of disgust. I pull out my notebook from my bag and start scribbling. A couple of minutes later, someone taps me on the arm. Sidney.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “You should keep the hostility in check, Abbie. It makes you unattractive. Maybe that’s why no one will date you.”

  I look past Sidney. Brooke and a couple of other girls crack up. Trevor drops his head on his desk in embarrassment over their antics.

  “That’s what you came over to tell me? Get a hobby and stop making a nuisance of yourself.” I go back to my scribbling.

  Sidney slinks back to her seat.

  After English lit, I head to the student lounge for an important meeting. This is my free period to do whatever I want. The lounge is empty except for one lone soul watching a program on the large, flat-screen TV at the front of the room. Leather armchairs are clustered in groups with a table at each center. I come here often to relax and chat with classmates who are boarding students. Equipped with Wi-Fi, a vending machine, and a pool table, the lounge also doubles as a study area.

  Dahlia Sessions walks in, her gold bracelets making a racket as she shuts the door behind her. I secretly refer to her as a chocolate lollipop—long and thin with a big head of unruly curls. Her parents are high-powered lawyers based in Atlanta, and she wants to follow their example. Dahlia and I aren’t close the way I am with Frances and Callie, but we’re on friendly terms. As a Resident Assistant, she’s a good person to know.

  She sits in the armchair across from me and blows a bubble with her chewing gum. She removes the sticky substance from her lips after it pops. “What’s up, Abbie?”

  “What, no small talk?”

  “You didn’t ask to meet me in the lounge for small talk.”

  “I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “Security footage.”

  Dahlia looks all around the lounge as if she expects people to pop out of nowhere to listen in on our conversation. Once she’s satisfied it won’t happen, she leans forward and whispers, “Are you crazy? Abbie Cooper is an uptight goody-two-shoes who freaks out if she’s five minutes late for school. Who are you? What did you do with Abbie?”

  Everyone at school thinks they have me figured out, with their cliché labels and simplistic assessment of who they think I am. They’re dead wrong.

  I whisper back, “I’m right here. I came to you because you’re the only person
who can help me.”

  She fiddles with the heart-shaped, gold pendant on her necklace. “What kind of trouble came looking for you, Abbie?”

  I haven’t thought out every angle, only enough to persuade Dahlia to help me. My answers must be vague, yet specific, so she feels comfortable.

  “I found something in my locker. I can’t say what, but it’s serious. I have to know how it got there.”

  “You want me to talk to Lance.”

  Lance Carter is Dahlia’s boyfriend, and his dad, Theo, runs school security. Lance is my insurance policy. I feel horrible for even thinking it. If we’re caught, his dad won’t squeal on his own son, especially since Lance gets free tuition because his father works for the school. A random news item that turned out to be useful, thanks to Frances.

  “Yes. Do you think he can get me a copy of the footage that records the hallways near the lockers?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, fiddling with her necklace again. “That’s a huge favor you’re asking.”

  “I know it is. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a big thing I’m dealing with.”

  That’s it, my plan to catch the culprit. Security is serious at Saint Matthews. Ever since those school shootings in Boston last year, Kellogg spent a lot of money upgrading Saint Matthews’s security, and we’re all well-versed in lockdown drills, just in case a similar tragedy occurs at our school. He told the parents who objected to surveillance cameras that if they didn’t like his methods, they could send their kids to another school. As far as I know, the cameras are confined to main areas like hallways, the perimeter outside of the school, and the main entrance.

  “Please, Dahlia. Talk to Lance and see if he can get his dad’s keys to open the security office. I know the date, so it won’t take long at all. I can hang around school until everyone leaves for the day.”

  “Why should Lance do this for you?”

  “Because if I don’t find out who left that stuff in my locker, and it escalates, it looks bad for Mr. Carter. He’s supposed to be protecting us.” I feel like a total douchebag for saying it out loud, but I need to convince Dahlia this is a good idea.

  She shrugs. “Okay, I’ll ask him. But, if he gets in trouble for this—”

  “He won’t,” I assure her. “I want to see what’s on the tape between the time school ended the previous day and when I arrived at my locker the next morning. Lance is a tech genius. This should be easy for him.”

  “You better hope nothing goes wrong if he agrees to do this.”

  “Nothing will.”

  Dahlia picks up her bag and leaves. I remain in my seat for a while. If Sidney is behind the note and phone call, I’ll confront her, and she’ll deny it. The tape will incriminate her, and that will be the end of it. What if it’s not Sidney, though? I haven’t thought that far ahead. I don’t have enemies. Sidney doesn’t count. She’s more like a turbo-charged nuisance right now. I try to do the right thing as much as I can. Except for that one time. I’m still ashamed, but everyone makes mistakes, right?

  CHAPTER 5

  After I move through the lunch line, I head to our usual table, place my food tray down, and take a seat. Frances gives me a puzzled look.

  “What?” I ask, my senses on high alert.

  “There’s something different about you,” she says.

  “I haven’t changed in twenty-four hours,” I reply.

  But she insists. “Nothing crazy, just something.”

  Then Callie leans over and inspects my face. “Smile.”

  “No,” I say and swipe her hand away. “Stop it, both of you. Especially you, Callie.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You gave Christian my number without asking me first.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her naughty grin says otherwise.

  “You would have said no if Callie didn’t handle the situation,” Frances says. “You should be thanking her.”

  “He begged. It was so sad. I felt sorry for him,” Callie explains. “And he was so sincere.”

  “How do you know he was sincere?”

  “It’s obvious he has it bad for you.”

  Frances agrees. “What did he say?”

  “He wants me to give him a chance.”

  “Will you?” Callie asks.

  “I don’t know if he’s the guy for me. He’s dazzling and says all the right things, and he makes me weak in the knees. In the end, I wonder if it’s all a game.”

  “You’re doing it again,” Callie says. “Overthinking. Just go with it and see what happens. We’re out of here in seven months. You don’t want to look back and wonder what could have been.”

  “I can’t get past his reputation.”

  “Pfft, that’s in the past,” Callie says. “I don’t see him chasing Sidney or anyone else. People change, Abbie.”

  “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us,” Frances pleads. “We want to stick it to Sidney. She’ll have a coronary when she finds out she has zero chance of getting back together with him.”

  “Really? You want her to try and kill me the way she almost did Willa Schofield?”

  “You’re tough. You can take Sidney any place, anytime.” As if to prove her point, Frances glances across the dining hall to where Sidney is sitting with her clique. Sidney makes eye contact with us. Frances smirks, and Sidney flips her the bird. Frances returns the gesture with a big old smile on her face.

  “Don’t get her started, Frances. Please. I don’t need the drama.”

  “That’s exactly what you need,” Callie says.

  “We don’t have enough turmoil in our lives, between my mysterious stalker and Callie’s parents’ ongoing divorce battle?”

  The split came as a shock to Callie and the rest of the world. Nicholas Furi is a famous movie director, with a bunch of mega blockbuster and Oscar-winning films to his credit. Callie’s mom, model-turned-actress Penelope Bradshaw, met her dad on a movie set, and it’s been a fairytale romance, until now.

  “Don’t remind me,” Callie says rolling her eyes.

  “Sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” I feel guilty for bringing up the sore subject.

  “It’s in my face all the time,” she admits. “At the supermarket, on TV, online, here at school.”

  “Don’t listen to the losers here at school,” Frances says, leaning back in her seat.

  Callie looks up from her plate. “What are they saying? I mean the stuff that I don’t know. My parents won’t tell me the truth. They give me the canned answer, the one I’m sure their publicists came up with. They still love each other and will remain friends, but they decided splitting up was in their best interest.”

  “What about your interests?” I ask.

  “I’m eighteen. My interests are less complicated for them. I’ll be away at college for the next four years, starting next year.”

  Her cobalt blue eyes shimmer, like the moon casting a glow on the ocean. Frances and I rally, taking her hands in ours. “You’ll get through it, Callie. You have us, day and night. Right, Frances?”

  “Duh,” Frances says. She looks at me like I’m an imbecile who shouldn’t even ask the question.

  “My dad called me this morning. He’s filming in Budapest. He’s already moved on, and the divorce isn’t even final yet. I’ve decided not to speak to him for a while.”

  “How do you know?” I ask. I’ve long abandoned my lunch, which now looks as appetizing as dirty dishwater.

  “I heard her in the background. I asked him who it was. He claimed it was his assistant director, trying to keep him on schedule for the day’s shooting. Whatever.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “Come on, Abbie. You can’t be that naive. At 5:00 a.m. Budapest time, in his hotel room? She’s just the first in a long line of rebound relationships to come.”

  We stay silent for a beat. I’m still holding her hand. I can feel the rage and disappointment in her dad pumping through
her veins. Callie is a daddy’s girl, like me. He’s her superhero, and she just discovered he’s a regular guy who was just pretending all along.

  Callie lets go of our hands and wipes a tear before it escapes.

  I try to lighten the mood with humor. “Okay, fine. I’ll be your human pin cushion again. You don’t have to get all dramatic about it.”

  “Ha-ha,” Callie says, amused. “Lucky for you, I have a couple of dresses I just sketched. You know what that means.”

  Callie is a talented designer and always has her sketchpad with her, although lately I haven’t seen it much. Since I’m the tallest one in our group, all her design ideas are tested out on me. I’m always being poked and prodded. She’s still working on pulling her portfolio together for application to Parsons and Fashion Institute of Technology in New York.

  “Ooh, light bulb moment,” she says, bobbing up and down in her chair. “How about I dress you for Evan Mueller’s senior bash?”

  “I didn’t confirm I was going.”

  “You are going,” Frances says, like an Army General issuing orders.

  “I have the perfect outfit in mind,” Callie says.

  Callie follows twenty different fashion and style blogs. I don’t know how she keeps up with them all. I know whatever she has in mind, I’ll find some reason to object. She’s been trying to get me to raise my hemline ever since we met.

  “I guess I’m going to Evan’s party,” I say. Any further objections would fall on deaf ears.

  CHAPTER 6

  Callie kept her word. The outfit she picked for the party is laid out on my bed, and we’ve been debating for the past twenty minutes. Frances is in the bathroom, putting on her makeup. Callie was the first to get ready in a purple, bell-sleeved mini dress with a gold belt. Adorable.

  “It’s too short,” I argue for the fourth time.

  “With the matching tights, it will be fine. Stop being a killjoy. I wish I had legs that went on for days.”

  I glance at the outfit again. The chocolate suede mini skirt is cute, a nice contrast to the pale-yellow, form-fitting angora sweater she picked out. Callie has great taste. But I don’t want to flash anyone, which is what will happen if I wear this skirt. Okay, I’m exaggerating. I’ve just never worn anything this short before, and it’s making me crazy.