“I tried it with both of them and you can’t taste either one. I’m not sure we should use both, though. What if it’s too much for his heart or shuts his kidneys down?”
“Good point.”
Death was too fast.
I wanted to make him as miserable as he’d made Claire; it was no good if he had a heart attack. Things like that led to autopsies and overly sympathetic views of the guy who died. No way did I want him painted as the tragic boy with a bad heart who was cut down in the prime of life. I wanted Brooks to forget what happy felt like and stay healthy enough to regret his mistakes for many, many years.
“Which one do you want?” she asked.
“Isn’t ma huang a hormone?” Brucey asked, still trying to unstick the chocolate fudge from the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Use that one. Make him grow boobs.”
“That’s Dong quai, moron.” Tabs hit him with the lid of the cupcake bowl.
“Oooh … you should turn his pee blue.” Brucey bounced up and down in his seat.
“See? This is why I tell you not to feed him sweets.”
“Sorry,” Tabs said.
“I’m serious.” Brucey pouted. “There was this show and they used a chemical, and you can put it in soda, and he’ll pee blue, and you can make him think something’s seriously wrong.”
“I thought we all agreed you would stop watching reruns of anything made before you were born.”
Brucey had been taking his cues from old TV shows since his dad got cable when we were nine. If he hadn’t had such a low tolerance for pain, Jackass would have done him in.
“Just because they did it on TV doesn’t make it stupid,” he said, sulking.
“Let’s stick to things anchored in this millennium.”
“Fine.” He tapped the trackpad on his laptop. “Here you go.” Brucey spun his computer around and showed us what he’d been working on besides my profile. Brooks Walden’s head was now sitting firmly atop the shoulders of some other guy in a boy-clench. “Say the word and I’ll mass email Lowry’s class list with my masterpiece. I doubt there’s too many guys at Lowry coming out of the closet.”
“Not helpful, Brucey.”
“What? You said you didn’t have any ideas.… This is an idea.”
“A stupid idea,” I said. “And where did you get that picture?”
The photo he’d used of Brooks wasn’t one I’d snapped at lunch. He couldn’t have snagged it from Brooks’ profile, either. Brooks had everything on lockdown; I’d looked for a picture of him after I found Claire’s letters, but the only thing I found was a drawing of an insanely detailed futuristic sports car with a stick-figure man behind the wheel.
“I used the password the school gave you and skimmed their archives.” He shrugged.
Lowry had archives? Who knew?
“If emailing the whole school is too much,” Brucey said, “I’ll aim smaller. This guy’s one of those WASPy types, right? Find out where his family goes to church—I’ll send it to his pastor as an anonymous concerned parishioner.”
“No.”
“I can make an official notification stating he’s got twenty-seven STDs and post it to the school’s bulletin board for public health reasons.”
Brucey with a password was a dangerous thing.
“No.”
“Do the fish-in-the-tire-well thing! It’ll rot and he’ll never figure out where the smell’s coming from. Or instead of putting the powder in his orange drink, you could mix milk and juice to make him sick, or—”
“So help me, if you start quoting Heathers—” Tabs looked like she was considering hitting him again.
“Do not mock the cinematic classics.”
“Brucey, this is serious. I need some real ideas,” I said.
“No, you need real information,” he corrected. “What does he want? Find out and take it. What’s his dream? Find out and crush it. Who does he love? Find out and make them hate him. You have to crack whatever wall he’s got around him and get on his good side.”
There’s no way to describe the evil look that took over Brucey’s usually placid face, but it gave me goose bumps, and I was suddenly very happy that he was on my side.
14
The food court at the Five Points mall always filled quickly. It was worse on the weekends, when the mall’s major design flaw showed through—they’d built it half as big as it needed to be to hold the number of people flooding out of the stores when their blood sugar crashed. Tabs, Brucey, and I got there early and claimed a strategic table before the retail pilgrims descended for tacos and pizza.
Since this was Brooks’ meet-cute with Claire, and he’d said he’d be here today, I figured the mall was his hunting ground of choice. But he stubbornly refused to make an appearance.
“Remind me again why calling the cops on this guy ranks below your almost-sure-to-fail plotting skills?” Brucey asked. Armed with my Lowry-issued password, he’d combed through the school’s old newsletters and yearly reports and was currently building something he referred to as a dossier on Brooks Walden. Apparently Brooks hadn’t been lying about the extra-curriculars. He’d won all sorts of awards and medals for the school and on his own. It was also worth noting that there was no mother listed as an emergency contact for him, only his dad and a set of grandparents who lived in Wisconsin.
“What’s she going to tell them?” Tabs asked. “She found the diary of a girl with mental issues who decided to strip down and follow a guy under the pier, then didn’t scream for help?”
“The Cuckoo bird was fourteen, right? It won’t matter whether she said yes or no.”
“Forget it,” I said. “If I turn Brooks in without a confession from him, then all the cops will do is maybe question him. Claire can’t speak for herself, so they’ll fill in the blanks by making her out to be some kind of slut. She doesn’t need that waiting for her when she wakes up.”
Rumors wouldn’t die just because Claire refuted them later. Brooks would get the benefit of the doubt—and his dad’s bank account—and the whole thing would be forgotten by the time he was ensconced in whatever Ivy League school his dad bought him a place in. Claire would still be seen as trash.
“I’m not letting them destroy what’s left of her by making this her fault. We stick to the plan: make everything Brooks touches wither until he’s so off center he thinks his own karma’s got it in for him. He’ll either confess to try and get some peace or he’ll go crazy.”
“Gimme your phone,” Brucey said. “I want to see the pictures you took in the cafeteria.”
“You’ve got a half-dozen photos of him.”
“I want to see him in the wild, not posing for the school newspaper.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket but held it out of his reach.
“Swear you won’t send any emails without asking first.”
“I sw—”
“On your celluloid collection,” I added. “Any unauthorized messages and I’ll melt them in their cans.” Brucey has about two hundred flat, round cans of movie film like they use in the projectors at the old drive-in. He’s also got an unhealthy attachment to every one. They live in his dresser and closet while his clothes get piled on the floor.
“When did you get so mean?”
“Five minutes after Claire cut her wrists.”
“Fair enough—I promise all I want is another look.”
I handed him my phone and let him scroll through the pictures.
“This is the fallback girl, right?” he asked, pointing to Chandi.
“Yeah.”
“How boring. Barbie-blondes are so last decade. Her bestie’s hotter.”
“Bestie?”
“One of your new friends: pixie haircut, twenty pounds soaking wet, built like a mini Victoria’s Secret model.”
He turned my phone around to show me Jordan-from-homeroom.
“What makes you think Jordan’s her best friend?”
“Look at her,” Brucey said as he zoomed i
n to get a better look at Chandi. Tabs and I leaned closer, but all I saw was a packed cafeteria table.
“What are we staring at?” Tabs asked.
“Body language,” Brucey said. “The girlfriend’s Miss Painted Perfect, but it only goes as deep as her topcoat. Look at the way she’s holding herself—arms bent in at the shoulders, hiding, body leaned toward our nefarious villain, eyes down. She’s trying to appear angry, but she’s biting her lip; she’s embarrassed, and terrified. See the way she’s picking at her sleeve cuff? It’s a nervous habit for people trying to control social anxiety.”
“You got all that from a snapshot?” I asked. It still looked like lunch to me.
“And six years of therapy with Dr. Useless.” He flipped the phone sideways to stretch the picture. “Look at your other girl. If anyone’s angry, it’s her. The others are watching the blonde, but her eyes are on that guy with the stupid grin. Whatever he did, she’s pissed about it.”
He was right. I’d missed it, since my focus was homed in on Brooks, but if looks could kill, Jordan and Dex would have both been dead—the kickback would have dropped her. In my mind, Jordan inched away from Tweedle status to possible enemy.
“What’d he do to her?” Tabs asked.
“He was just being himself,” I said. “Dex and Chandi don’t get along. It’s almost like the two of them are competing for Brooks’ attention.”
“You think this Dex person is jealous? He could be pretending to hate the girlfriend when he’d really rather hook up with her.… Maybe you could help him get what he wants.”
“I saw them all day—it wasn’t an act. He picks at her and she loathes him for it.”
“Either way, they’re your weak links,” Brucey said. “The point of contention is the easiest broken. Pick one and wear them down.”
Chandi already hated me, so that left me with Dex.
Dex, who I was truly beginning to think had me LoJacked, because he had just entered the food court. His Lowry blazer and slacks had been replaced by an untucked T-shirt, flannel, and worn-out jeans. Rather than the regulation combed-back horror the school required guys to maintain as a “respectable and nondistracting” hairstyle, he looked like he’d walked here straight from the shower and let his hair dry on the way. I was forced to retract my initial opinion of “not handsome.”
Lowry Dex wasn’t handsome. Real Dex could have set fire to a glacier.
“Who’s that and why are we watching him?” Brucey whispered.
He and Tabs moved their chairs around so that I was in the middle and their viewpoint was the same as mine.
“Yum,” Tabs said.
“That’s Brooks’ best friend.”
“I want one.”
“That’s the grinning idiot?” Brucey asked. He checked my phone again. “Nah—can’t be.”
“Leave,” I told them quickly.
“I think she’s ashamed of us, Tabby Cat.” Brucey sniffled. “She doesn’t want us meeting her new friends.”
“I’m serious. Get out of here. I can’t operate as Lowry Dinah with the two of you here to make me fall back into my real self.” I wasn’t trying to hide who I used to be—it was no secret, as Dex pretty much knew where I’d come from—but I couldn’t keep my personalities straight with Tabs and Brucey nearby. (Once upon a time, I’d only had one personality to worry about.…) “Stop looking at him!”
“How about gawking? Can I gawk at him?” Tabs tried to weave around my hand as I turned her head away. “Is ogling allowed? Eyeballing? Gaping with intense interest? Give me something to work with, here.”
“Stop it,” I snapped. “Dex has some kind of weird sixth-sense thing. He’ll know you’re staring.”
“And now I’m waving,” she said through a phony grin. “He’s looking right at us.”
“Dinah?”
Dex left the line where he’d been chatting up a girl wearing a track jacket. He cocked his head to the side, trying to fit my non-Lowry self to my face. Ratty shorts and an old sweatshirt didn’t scream “private school” any more than his scuffed Converse did.
“Hi,” I said, then started praying for a freak meteor shower to shatter the mall’s glass dome and knock me through the floor.
Dex grabbed the free chair at our table, spun it around, and sat with his legs straddling the back. I cringed, anticipating Brucey’s usual tirade against people who sit backward. (He claims it’s a sign of social deviance, but considering his habit of taking things that don’t belong to him, I tend to ignore his assessments of other people and their quirks.)
“She said hi.” Brucey scowled. “She didn’t say you could steal our seat without even introducing yourself.”
“Maybe I’m shy,” Dex said. “You should introduce yourself first.”
“Bruce Wayne Bateman.”
Crap. That’s Brucey litmus test number two—the one he uses whenever someone makes a bad first impression on him. Depending on their response to his full name, he can sprout wings and a halo or horns and a tail.
“Marcus Norwood,” Dex said, and stuck his hand out.
“Guys, this is Jackson Dexter,” I corrected. “Dex goes to Lowry, too. Dex, this is Tabs and Brucey.”
“You were serious about the name?” Dex asked. “My bad. I thought maybe I needed a secret identity to sit here.”
Brucey relaxed. The last time he’d told someone his full name, the kid had come back with “Holy evil parents, Batman.” And since Brucey had actually watched enough old reruns to get the joke, he hadn’t been amused.
“You know they kick you off the tables here if you don’t eat,” Dex said.
“Urban myth,” Tabs said.
“If you say so.” Dex cut his eyes from side to side in a comical rendition of suspicion. “But I used to work here, and I’d rather not do the escorted walk of shame to the escalators for being a ‘nuisance’ to the police academy dropouts.”
“Then maybe you should leave before they decide you’re guilty by association,” Tabs said sourly.
“Not me.” He pointed to his T-shirt, which was likely the only thing he was wearing that was new. “Sixth Street Shelter” was stenciled across the front in giant block letters. “We’re having a toy drive for the trauma center. I’m one of the good guys today.”
“Only today?” Tabs asked.
“It’s no fun being the good guy all the time.” He flashed that same smile that had nearly melted the soles of my shoes to the floor of not-trig the day before.
His head popped up higher, like he’d locked eyes with someone across the crowd, and he raised his hand to beckon them over.
Double crap. All that time waiting for the devil to show and he found me as soon as I stopped looking. Brooks approached our table, wearing a flaming orange shirt identical to Dex’s.
“ ’Scuse us,” I said, hauling Brucey away. When Tabs didn’t move, I hooked her arm and dragged her behind me.
“Stop staring at them,” I said.
“I can’t help it. Your friend Dex looks familiar, and it’s driving me crazy.”
“The two of you are driving me crazy, and he’s not my friend.” I was also starting to hate Mr. Tripp for imprinting Alice on my frontal lobe. Everywhere I went, my world slanted through the looking glass, and now I was hearing the Mad Hatter cackle about how we were all going mad. “I can’t handle both of them with you trying to psychoanalyze their nacho-eating skills. If this is going to work, then I have to at least act like the person they think I am. Which means you two need to stick to the background unless I need a bailout.”
“Aye, aye, mon admiral—run silent, run deep.” Brucey stood up straight and saluted.
“What does that even mean?” Tabs asked.
“Go!” I ordered, shoving my keys into her hand. “Take the Mustang. You’ve just ditched me, so I have to beg a ride home.”
“Have fun—so long as there aren’t any witnesses.” Tabs grabbed a fistful of the front of Brucey’s shirt and pulled him away.
“Later,” Brucey said.
As he and Tabs left, Brucey angled just close enough to Brooks to make me certain he’d lifted something while Brooks was busy talking to Dex. Then Brucey and Tabs ran off toward the escalators, leaving me to wonder how much trouble he’d managed to pick out of Brooks’ pocket.
“Did I scare your friends off?” Brooks asked when I sat back down.
“Not really,” I said. “They’re headed for the cineplex.”
“Without you?”
“I told them to go. Dex was telling me about your toy drive and I thought I’d see if you needed a hand.”
For the first and only time in my life, I found value in my failed-pageant past. Drilled-in lessons about how to stand and smile in order to create the best possible image flooded back, as some sort of latent secret power I never knew I possessed. Like Dex said, there was no better cover than pretending to be one of the good guys. If the snake could pull it off without shedding his skin, then so could I.
15
It took exactly twenty-six minutes to figure out what Brucey had stolen, because twenty-six minutes after I chased my friends off our table, Brooks finished eating and tried to use the phone that was no longer in his pocket. And it took exactly one minute longer for Brooks to begin retracing his steps from the moment he entered the mall to see if he could figure out where he’d dropped it.
Dex had neglected to mention that both he and Brooks were on the morning shift for the shelter’s charity drive, and it was now over, which meant that if I wanted to stick close, I had to go with them and look for a phone that wouldn’t be found unless Brucey decided to give it up.
“I need someone to dial it,” Brooks said. “Maybe it’s close enough to hear the ring—or someone could find it.”
“Can’t call without a phone,” Dex said. He turned a bit red, crossing his arms and looking at his feet as he ground his toes into the floor.
“I’ve got mine,” I said, quick-scrolling through my very short contact list to find the number Brooks had put into it after Cavanaugh’s class. I pressed the button and prayed my mad genius of a best friend was either out of range or had thought to turn the ringer off.
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