Deadly Cool

by Gemma Halliday

  DEADLY COOL

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

  Dedication

  FOR MY MOM,

  WHOSE TOFU RICE CASSEROLE

  IS THE MOST COMFORTING FOOD

  ON THE PLANET

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  EXCERPT FROM SOCIAL SUICIDE

  ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author

  Credits

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  THERE ARE THREE THINGS YOU NEVER WANT TO FIND in your boyfriend’s locker: a sweaty jockstrap, a D minus on last week’s history test, and an empty condom wrapper.

  Lucky me, I’d hit the trifecta.

  I pushed past the near-failing grade and underwear, honing in on the ripped foil packet. I grasped it between my thumb and forefinger, actually feeling my jaw drop open like some cartoon character as I leaned against the locker for support.

  “No way,” my best friend, Sam, said as she peered over my shoulder. “Hartley, is that . . . ?”

  “I think so,” I croaked out.

  “Holy effing crap, that sucks!”

  I turned to her. “Effing?”

  Sam shrugged. “What?”

  “We’re censoring now?”

  “Kyle says I have a mouth like a trucker.”

  “You do have a mouth like a trucker. It’s one of the things I love best about you.”

  “Kyle says it’s not very feminine.”

  I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Yeah, I’d be taking femininity tips from a guy who lives in his football jersey.”

  Sam put her hands on her hips and threw me a pointed look. “Yeah? Well, at least my boyfriend’s not effing the president of the Chastity Club.”

  I looked down at the Trojan wrapper in my hand. She had a point.

  “God, this cannot be happening,” I moaned.

  Which is exactly what I’d been saying ever since Ashley Stannic texted me during first period English that someone had seen my boyfriend, Josh DuPont, feeling up Courtney Cline after cross-country practice yesterday. At first, I’d dismissed it. Because (A) Courtney Cline was the staying-a-virgin queen, putting up Earn Your Right to Wear White! posters all over the cafeteria and even urging students to sign an abstinence pledge the first day of school, and (B) Josh and I had been dating for, like, ever. Our relationship had even survived going long distance for two whole months this summer—one while I went to Ohio to visit my grandma Mimi and another when Josh went to soccer camp in Sacramento. Each one had felt like an eternity, but once he got home again, we spent the entire week before school started glued to each other’s sides, only letting go when one of us had to sleep or pee. We were solid. I knew there was no way he would step out on me. Ashley must have been mistaken.

  Only, by second period both Jessica Hanson and Chris Fret were mistaken, too, texting me to ask if the rumors of Josh hitting second base with Courtney were true. By lunch, half the school was mistaken, and I was the recipient of sidelong glances and barely concealed snickers over trays of pizza sticks and applesauce.

  And I was questioning that solidity.

  So, I did what any good girlfriend would do. I broke into Josh’s locker. Would the more mature thing have been to confront him directly with the rumors? Possibly. Would it have been as effective?

  I looked at the shiny gold-foil square in my hand.

  Doubtful.

  No matter how much I may love—scratch that, loved, past tense—Josh, I was no dummy. Everyone knows the Y chromosome carries with it the instinctive urge to lie under pressure.

  Which, incidentally, was what Josh was going to be under when I found him. Serious pressure.

  On his larynx.

  I balled the wrapper in my fist. “Where is he?” I demanded of the world at large. “Where is that cheating piece of—”

  But I didn’t get any further. The bell sounded above me, echoing off the halls of Herbert Hoover High. Immediately conversations around us stopped, lockers slammed shut, and hundreds of shoes squeaked against the overwaxed floors as people scattered to fifth period.

  “Look, maybe there’s a good reason for it being there,” Sam offered, shrugging her backpack onto her shoulder.

  “Such as?” I shoved the wrapper into my plaid book bag, slammed Josh’s locker shut, and followed Sam down the hall.

  “Well, maybe it’s for sex ed class?”

  “I don’t know about you, but the last time I had sex ed was in eighth grade.”

  “Good point. Okay, maybe it’s for some science project about, um, reproduction?”

  “You’re totally grasping.”

  “Fine. But maybe it’s just one he used with you, and the wrapper got stuck in his backpack or something. That could happen, right?”

  I bit my lip. No, it couldn’t. Because my dirty little secret that I couldn’t even share with my best friend? Unlike the president of the Chastity Club, I was an actual virgin.

  Okay, I hadn’t signed any pledge or made any promises to save myself for some hyped up Mr. Right to propose. It just . . . well . . . it hadn’t really happened for me yet. I’d tried. Once. During freshman year when it seemed like everyone was doing it, and I thought I was destined to be the only virgin left in the entire Silicon Valley. I’d been going out with Cole Perkins for a couple months at the time, so when he wanted me to come over to his place one Friday after water polo practice, I agreed.

  His room had smelled like stale pizza, gym socks, and the Glade air freshener his mom used. He’d docked his iPod and played some horrible list of Christina Aguilera songs that I guess were supposed to put me in the mood but really just made me question what I was doing getting naked with a guy who downloaded Christina Aguilera songs. Cole swore he’d done this lots of times before, but I’d bet money that was his Y chromosome talking because it had been awkward, kinda painful, and in the end he’d squirted all over his bedsheets before we could even really do it.

  After that one experience, I figured I probably wasn’t missing out on much after all and gave up on the idea.

  Until Josh. I’d always assumed that I’d do it someday with Josh. You know, when the timing was right.

  Apparently the timing had been right with Courtney Cline first.

  “Look, we’ll track him down after school,” Sam promised, pausing outside her lit class. “Don’t worry, Hart. I’m sure this is all some big misunderstanding.”

  She gave my arm a quick squeeze before disappearing into the classroom. I stared after her, vaguely hearing the tardy bell fill the hallway with its ugly warning.

  Right. Misunderstanding.

  Josh better pray that’s all this was. Otherwise, I was gonna effing kill him.

  TWO

  THE FIRST THING I DID WHEN I GOT TO CHEM (ONLY two minutes late) was text Josh. If he had a good explanation, now would be an excellent time to hear it.

  need 2 talk asap.

  I set my cell to vibrate and shoved it in the pocket of my jeans. Then, reluctantly, I opened my chem book, trying to follow along with the class while my entire being was focused on waiting for that telltale vibration of Josh’s
response.

  One explanation of ionic versus covalent chemical bonding later, my phone still hadn’t buzzed. As Mrs. Perry turned her back to write our homework assignment on the whiteboard, I pulled it out and tried again.

  911 call when u get this.

  Then I tucked it away again, pretending to care about atoms swapping electrons.

  But by the end of the class my phone was still conspicuously silent. I tried to catch a glimpse of Josh in the hallway as we scrambled for last period, but considering he had history in the east wing and I had trig in the west wing, it was a lost cause.

  I sent three more texts during math, trying to concentrate on functions of acute angles, but completely distracted by the lack of activity coming from my pocket. With each second that ticked by, I could feel the possibility of this being just some stupid misunderstanding becoming slimmer and slimmer, until by the end of the period, it began to resemble an Olsen twin. On crack. After a colon cleanse.

  So, as soon as the bell rang and the halls filled with people making their mad dash for freedom, I called Sam and told her to meet me on the field where the cross-country team practiced.

  By the time I’d navigated the mass exodus, Sam was already there, watching the team stretch before their first run. I scanned the group of guys in orange and black HHH Wildcats jerseys for any sign of Josh’s blond hair. Usually he stood out in a crowd—tall and lean, a shaggy-chic haircut, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Think Zac Efron. But blond. And hotter. There was something about his smile—kinda lopsided with dimples—that drew both guys and girls into his circle like little mosquitoes buzzing toward a bright, shiny bug zapper. For better or worse, no one could resist Josh DuPont.

  But, today, there was no sign of him.

  Undeterred, I stalked up to a short guy with wiry black hair at the head of the track who was struggling to touch his toes. “Hey, Cody.”

  Cody Banks looked up, sweat already collecting on his wide brow. “Hey, Hartley. ’Sup.” He nodded at Sam. “’Sup.”

  Sam nodded back.

  “Where’s Josh?” I asked.

  Cody shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “He’s not at practice?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. He hung out for a few minutes, but then he said he wasn’t feelin’ well. Maybe he went home.”

  Coward. If Josh thought he wasn’t feeling well now, just wait till I got my hands on him . . .

  “So,” Cody said, leaning in closer, “is it true? About Josh and Courtney?”

  I shot him a look that clearly said if he valued his life, he wouldn’t go there.

  “She found a condom wrapper,” Sam supplied instead. “But we’re pretty sure it’s for a science project.”

  Cody shook his head. “Dude. Sucks.”

  “I know, right?” Sam said.

  I ignored them, squinting into the sun as I swept my gaze across the field toward the bleachers where the Color Guard was practicing, twirling their oversize flags in the afternoon breeze like fluttering batons. While it wasn’t a total given that all members of the Color Guard also belonged to the Chastity Club, twirling flags was considered one of the most wholesome activities on campus, meaning the ratio of Chastity girls in Color Guard was something like that of Mormons in Utah. I scanned the line of girls in short-skirted little uniforms. One perky brunette bob was conspicuously missing from the formation.

  Courtney’s.

  I turned to my friend. “Sam, think you could borrow your brother’s car?”

  “Probably.” She paused. “Why?”

  “Because if I find Courtney Cline at Josh’s and kill them both, I’m going to need a quick getaway.”

  Sam bit her lip, her eyebrows doing a concerned pucker on my behalf. But, good friend that she was, she finally said, “Okay, but we need to think of a convincing alibi on the way.”

  Half an hour later we were rolling down Blossom Hill Road in her brother Kevin’s 1986 Volvo sedan with Live Green! bumper stickers plastered all over the back. Much to their parents’ dismay, Sam’s brother had dropped out of college and joined Greenpeace last year instead of graduating from Stanford like his father had. And his father had. And his father had. It was a Kramer family tradition that had ended painfully when her mom had found Kevin not in the undergrad Business Law class he was supposed to be taking, but outside the Whole Foods with a clipboard in hand, urging shoppers to sign a petition to decrease urbanization in the swamps of the black-spotted river toad. While her parents freaked, Sam had been cool with her brother either way—Stanford alum or hippie frog lover. That was, until her parents made it clear she was now their sole hope of having a child graduate from college, go on to be a celebrated surgeon, and make enough to support them in a fancy retirement village in their old age. Needless to say, Sam’s trig grades had become the sole topic of conversation around the Kramer family dinner table.

  Lucky for us, Sam’s parents were still both at work, and Kevin had traded us his keys in exchange for a promise to use recycled paper for our homework that night.

  Unluckily, a 1986 Volvo sedan crawls only slightly faster than a Segway.

  “Can’t you make this thing move?” I asked, watching an old lady in a giant Buick pass us.

  “Sorry. Kevin put an SVO conversion on the engine, and it’s kinda slow.”

  I cocked my head. “SVO?”

  Sam nodded. “Straight vegetable oil. It burns cleaner than traditional fuel. Basically just dump a bunch of cooking oil in the tank, and we’re good to go.”

  “Seriously?” No wonder Granny was passing us.

  “Yep. Kevin goes around to all the fast-food restaurants to collect their used oil once a week.”

  “Gross.”

  “I know. But it’ll get us there,” Sam promised. “Which leads me to ask . . . what exactly are you going to do when we get there?”

  I thought about it. “Rip Josh’s nuggets off and feed them to his hamster?”

  Sam nodded. “Creative.” Then she turned to me as she slowed for a stop sign. “But seriously. What are you going to say?”

  I sighed, leaned my head back on the seat, and closed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Which, I realized, was the truth. I had no idea what I was supposed to say in a situation like this. I knew I was supposed to be angry at him. And I was. That feeding-his-family-jewels-to-the-hamster thing might have been a joke, but it wasn’t too far off the mark. Every time I thought of that condom wrapper burning a hole through my book bag, I wanted to hit something.

  Hard.

  Preferably his face.

  But, as much as I hated to admit it, part of me kinda didn’t want to hate him. Kinda didn’t want to break up with him even though that seemed like the logical next step. What I really wanted was to go back to yesterday when everything was fine, I had a great boyfriend, and Courtney Cline knew how to keep her legs together.

  Sam rounded the corner onto Beacon and pulled our clean-burning machine to a stop with a quick cough of relief from the engine. Which was starting to smell like French fries.

  Beacon was like any other street in suburban Silicon Valley: California ranch-style homes built one right next to the other, squares of lawn out front with mature trees acting as a buffer between the street, minivans and SUVs with those little stick figure families in the back windows resting in every drive. By seven, the neighborhood would be filled with the scents of meat loaf and the sounds of Jeopardy. Currently, the only sign of life was a guy three doors down, taking photos of an old Camaro with a dented bumper in his driveway.

  And Josh’s Jeep Wrangler parked in front of the curb.

  I took a deep breath. God, what was I going to say to him? What was he going to say to me? Would he try to deny it? Lie his way out of it? Maybe he’d confess and beg for forgiveness, promise he’d never touch another girl again as long as he lived. Would I believe him?

  “So . . . you going in?” Sam asked from the driver’s seat.

  I nodded. “Uh-huh.” But for some
reason, my butt stayed firmly glued to my seat.

  “Sometime soon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Before we graduate?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You scared?”

  “Totally.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I nodded. “Would you?”

  Sam grinned. “Hey, I’m already driving the getaway car. I might as well be a full-blown accomplice. Let’s go.” She hopped out of the car, forcing me to do the same, and grabbed my hand as we crossed the street and made our way up the walkway to Josh’s front door. A little stone goose dressed in a rain slicker sat on the porch, two pairs of muddy gardening Crocs beside it. On the door hung a wreath of dried flowers with a little Welcome sign in the center.

  “What if his mom answers?” Sam asked, staring at the goose as if it might come to life and begin pecking her kneecaps.

  I shook my head. “His parents are on some cruise to Alaska. Anniversary.” Which yesterday had meant we could make out all we wanted on his living room couch with no one to bother us. Today . . . the thought of my tongue touching any tongue that had touched Courtney Cline’s tongue sent a wave of nausea running through me.

  I sucked in a breath of courage, squeezed Sam’s hand for support, and rang the bell before I could change my mind. Muted chimes echoed on the other side of the door, and I strained to hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Silence greeted us instead, so I hit the bell again, feeling Sam shift nervously from foot to foot beside me.

  No answer.

  I gave up on the bell, pounding a fist on the front door just below the Welcome sign. “We know you’re in there, Josh! Open up!”

  I thought I heard movement inside, but after waiting a full minute we were still standing on the porch like idiots. I grabbed the door handle and jiggled it. Locked. Great.

  “Maybe he’s not here.” Sam peered in the front window, craning her head to see around the oversize sofa and oak entertainment center.

  “His car is here.”

  “Maybe he’s just not answering? Maybe he figures if he doesn’t answer the door, you can’t break up with him.”