Social Suicide

by Gemma Halliday

  Chase looked at me for a long moment. “How do you know she wasn’t going to tell you to back off and leave her alone? Maybe she felt so persecuted and hounded by the entire school—you included—that she killed herself.”

  I bit my lip. “Please don’t say she killed herself because of me.”

  “I didn’t. I just think that if we’re going to run with a story saying she definitely didn’t kill herself, we need to offer more than circumstantial evidence. We need proof.”

  I nodded. “Right. That’s what I intend to get.”

  “How?”

  “Quinn Leslie.”

  “The girl Sydney got caught cheating with?”

  I nodded. “And her former best friend. If anyone had a reason to hate Sydney, it would be her.”

  Chase stared at me as he chewed on this angle. “When are you going to talk to her?”

  “I’d planned on now.”

  “Cool. I’ll go with you.”

  I paused. “I can do this on my own. I’m not gonna screw up,” I said, unable to help the defensive edge that crept into my voice.

  Chase grinned, showing off one dimple in his left cheek. “I know. But I’m in the mood for a little entertainment.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but he didn’t wait. Instead, he slammed my locker shut for me and turned toward the back parking lot.

  “You coming, Featherstone?” he said over his shoulder.

  While I wasn’t thrilled with being considered “entertainment,” I had little choice but to follow.

  I only hoped Quinn didn’t mind a crowd.

  Chapter Four

  UNFORTUNATELY, QUINN LIVED A GOOD FIVE MILES AWAY from the school, which left me with two choices to get to her before sixth period started: the city bus or Chase’s car.

  As soon as I’d turned sixteen, Mom had started the lectures about riding in cars with my friends who had their licenses: (1) never ride with more than three people at a time, (2) do not turn on the radio, as it distracts the driver, and (3) do not get in any vehicle that doesn’t look like it’s passed a ten-point safety inspection in the last six months. Chase’s car was a 1985 Camaro with a dented back bumper, a muffler that was holding on for dear life, and a crack down the right side of the windshield. It wouldn’t pass a two-point safety inspection. But more disturbing than that car was Chase’s driving itself. On the scant few occasions where I’d ridden with him, I’d felt like I was in the running for a NASCAR cup.

  He unlocked the passenger-side door of the Camaro and held it open for me.

  I stared at it.

  “You getting in or what?” he asked.

  I bit my lip.

  “Earth to Hartley?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Chase rolled his eyes. “Just get in the car, Hart.”

  He walked around to the driver’s side, got in, and gunned the engine, creating a cloud of black smoke in the region of his muffler (which I was 99 percent sure was just for show).

  Without much other choice, I hopped in, buckled my seat belt, and gripped the side door for dear life.

  The first thing Chase did was crank up the radio so high the Camaro’s windows vibrated.

  I said a silent prayer and held on tight.

  Ten minutes, two “orange” lights, and three “California stops” later, we arrived in front of the two-story ranch house listed under Quinn’s name in our school’s buzz book.

  I pried my fingers out of the white-knuckled position they’d frozen into, then silently counted to see if my teeth were still intact. Yep, all there, despite rattling together like Tic Tacs as we’d caught air on the speed bumps leading to her neighborhood.

  Chase, oblivious to my concerns, hopped out of the car, shoving his hands in his pockets as we made our way up the front walk. He rang the bell, and a beat later, it was opened by a guy with dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark-looking scowl on his face.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  I shifted from foot to foot, suddenly nervous. “Um, hi,” I said, doing a little wave. “Is Quinn here?”

  “Quinn’s grounded,” he said, moving to shut the door.

  “Wait!” I said, raising a hand.

  He paused, lifted an eyebrow at me, but continued the scowl thing.

  “We’re, uh . . . here about homework,” I lied.

  Chase shot me a look but thankfully remained silent.

  “Homework?” the guy asked.

  “Um, yeah. Quinn’s teachers didn’t want her to get behind so we’re here to tell her what her homework is.”

  He paused a moment, then looked from me to Chase. Then back at me. Clearly Chase wasn’t what he’d expect in a messenger of the teachers, but he finally shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll get her. But she has five minutes, that’s it.”

  I nodded. Hopefully that was all we needed.

  He stepped back, pulling the door shut again, as we heard him call out to Quinn.

  Chase elbowed me in the ribs. “Nice one, Featherstone,” he whispered.

  I tried not to grin at the praise as the door opened again to reveal Quinn.

  While Quinn and Sydney had been best friends all through high school, the two could not be more opposite in the looks department. Sydney had been brunette, green eyed, tall. She had long, straight hair that was usually worn in a ponytail or stylish-sloppy bun, and had her finger (and closet) firmly on the pulse of the latest fashions. Not only had Sydney been captain of the lacrosse team, a starting pitcher on the girls’ softball team, and a 100-meter-dash record holder on the track team, she was also on the debate team, the yearbook club, and was head of the Spirit Week committee.

  Quinn’s extracurricular activities, on the other hand, started and ended with the athletics department. She was a sporty girl through and through. The only time she wasn’t wearing a pair of sweats was when she was in an HHH jersey of some sort. Quinn was slimmer than Sydney had been—all lean muscle—and half Japanese, giving her pale skin, straight dark hair, and brown almond-shaped eyes that created an exotic look.

  Today, Quinn was wearing the Sporty Girl uniform of pink sweatpants, a T-shirt, and Ugg boots. The word Juicy was written down the right leg of her sweats, which was ironic, considering I couldn’t see an ounce of body fat on her.

  While Sydney may have been her ex-BFF, I could see that Quinn’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, like she’d spent a fair amount of the morning crying. I suddenly felt bad for her and just a little guilty that we were there to question her as a suspect.

  “Hey, Quinn,” I said as she stared at the two of us on her doorstep. “I’m Hartley. I’m on the Herbert Hoover High Homepage.”

  Quinn nodded, her ponytail bobbing up and down behind her. “I recognize you,” she said.

  “We wanted to ask you some questions about Sydney for the paper,” Chase added.

  “Oh.” Quinn’s eyes hit the ground. “Um, sure, I guess.”

  “You two were friends, right?” Chase asked.

  Quinn nodded, her eyes flickering up from the cement porch. “Yeah. Since sixth grade.”

  “But she’s the reason you’re suspended?” I asked.

  For just a second I could have sworn I saw anger flash through her veil of grief, but it was quickly swallowed up as Quinn replied. “Yeah, but she was my best friend for four years. We did everything together, you know?”

  “Including cheat on tests,” Chase pointed out.

  Quinn bit her lip. “Look, it was stupid. I know.”

  “Sydney told the principal that it was your idea.”

  “It was. And it was stupid,” Quinn repeated.

  “Then why did you do it?” I asked.

  “Because I needed to get a good grade on that test! Look, Mr. Tipkins is one of the hardest teachers on campus. I’m not a brainy kind of person, you know? I mean, math isn’t my thing. I was struggling just to get a C in that class, and unless I got a three-point-four overall GPA, I was going to get cut from the lacrosse team.”

  “Lacrosse m
eans that much to you?” I asked. According to Sam, it was just this side of hell on earth. Then again the only thing sporty about Sam was her collection of cute hoodies.

  “I need to stay on the team,” Quinn explained. “I’m counting on a sports scholarship. My parents can barely afford my brother going to community college. There’s no way they can foot the bill for a UC.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t count how many thinly (and sometimes not so thinly) veiled references to the cost of college my own mom made on a daily basis. The day I started looking at UC Berkeley, she’d started playing the lottery.

  “Why did Sydney cheat?” Chase asked. “Was math not her thing, either?”

  Quinn paused. “Actually, Sydney was pretty good at math. But lately, with lacrosse and homecoming plus her after-school stuff, she didn’t have any time to study. When I suggested cheating, she was relieved. Like she had one less thing to worry about.”

  “Did she seem overly worried to you?” Chase asked, jumping on the word. “Stressed, depressed . . . suicidal?”

  Quinn pursed her lips together, taking a moment with that one. “If you had asked me that last week, I would have said no way. Sydney was all about overachieving. And overachievers don’t throw in the towel. But now . . .” She shrugged her shoulders in indecision. “Honestly, I don’t know. I mean, I hadn’t really seen her much since Tuesday.”

  “You mean, since she ratted you out?” Chase said, coming to the point of our interrogation.

  Quinn turned on him, that flash of anger clearly visible this time. “Yeah. She did.”

  “Which must have pissed you off,” I added.

  Quinn nodded. “Yeah, it did. It was her idea to put the answers on our nails. I told her we should just memorize them, but she said she didn’t have time. Then she gets caught, just like I said she would, and she points a finger at me? Totally unfair.”

  “I agree,” I said. “So unfair. Where were you yesterday after school?”

  Quinn cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you have an alibi for Sydney’s time of death?”

  She blinked her dark eyes at me. Then she turned to Chase. “Is she for real?”

  “Unfortunately,” Chase mumbled. Though, I could have sworn I saw the corner of his mouth tilt upward into a grin.

  “Look, if Sydney wasn’t suicidal, she must have been killed by someone else,” I jumped in. “You seem to have a pretty good motive.”

  Quinn shook her head from side to side so hard her ponytail swished in the breeze behind her. “No way. Look, yes, I was pissed at Sydney, but I’m not a killer!”

  “Then where were you?” I asked again.

  “Here! Geez, I’m grounded for the rest of my natural life. I can’t even sneeze without my dad hovering over me,” she said, gesturing behind herself. “Like I could get out to kill someone.”

  She had a good point. Dad seemed pretty vigilant. I felt my best-friend-killer theory slowly crumbling.

  “Do you know anyone else who might have had a problem with Sydney?” I asked instead.

  Quinn shrugged again. “No clue. I mean, we totally creamed West San Jose High last week at the game.”

  “How did you and Sydney get the answers in the first place?” Chase pressed, switching gears.

  Quinn paused, looking from him to me. “Sydney bought them.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “From who?”

  She gave me a blank look. “Got me.”

  I shot her a “get real” look.

  “Seriously!” she protested. “I don’t know where Sydney got them. I told her, ‘Wouldn’t it be cool if we could just get the answers to the test?’ and the next thing I know, Sydney says she’s got someone willing to sell them to her.”

  “And she didn’t tell you who it was?”

  Quinn shook her head. “She didn’t know, either. The buy was all set up anonymously.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Some senior gave her this cell number. She texted the guy which class she wanted the answers for, then exchanged cash for them.”

  “Where did she do the exchange?” I asked.

  “At the football game last Friday night. That’s where this guy does business. She was supposed to put the money under a big rock outside the mascot’s dressing room before the game started. Then she went back at halftime, and the answers were waiting for her there.”

  I nodded. It sounded like a perfect drop place to me. Lots of people would be around at the game, so it wasn’t likely the guy selling cheats would stand out. But the mascot room was isolated enough that it was a safe bet no one else would stumble across the cash before he could.

  “He does this every Friday?” Chase asked.

  Quinn nodded. “That’s what Sydney said.”

  “Quinn,” her dad called from inside the house. Apparently our five minutes was up.

  “I gotta go,” she said. She moved to close the door but paused just before she got there. “Look, I would never hurt Sydney. We had our differences, but she was my best friend. I don’t know what I’m gonna do without her.”

  “So,” Chase said as we walked back down the front walk to his car. “Do we believe her?”

  I shrugged. “She could have slipped away from her dad long enough to shove Sydney into the swimming pool.”

  Chase nodded. “It’s possible.” He opened the Camaro’s driver-side door (which groaned loudly in protest) and got in. “But I say we follow the cheating angle.”

  I followed suit, steeling myself for another wild ride back to school. “So you think Quinn was telling the truth about how they got the answers?”

  Chase shrugged. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” He turned to me, grinned, then shot me a wink as he gunned the engine. “Want to go to the football game with me tonight, Featherstone?”

  Chapter Five

  IT WASN’T UNTIL LAST PERIOD WAS OVER THAT I GOT A chance to fill Sam in on what Quinn had said. She was on the west field again, at lacrosse practice. Only today, I noticed as I made my way toward the bleachers, the team had a whole different vibe. While Sydney and Quinn being suspended might have dampened their hopes of making nationals this year, Sydney’s death had put a virtual black cloud over the team, seeming to cause the girls to run just a little slower, the coach to yell just a little softer, and the energy level to fall several enthusiasm notches down the spirit scale. On the upside, Sam was only two yards behind all the other players today instead of three.

  I waited until the coach blew her whistle, signaling a water break, before hailing Sam over.

  “Hey,” she said, panting as she jogged toward me. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.” She leaned on her stick, taking in deep breaths. “I almost touched the ball once today.”

  “Awesome!” I had to hand it to her—she was optimistic if nothing else. Quickly I filled her in on Chase’s and my interview with Quinn.

  “So do you think she did it?” Sam asked when I was finished.

  I shook my head. “Not sure. Her alibi seems solid enough, but I still like her on motive. Being ratted out to the vice P is a pretty big thing to forgive.”

  Sam nodded. “True.”

  “But,” I hedged, “Chase has a point about the test answers. It’s just as likely Sydney knew something about who was selling them and the guy killed her to avoid exposure.”

  “So you’re going to the football game tonight to find him?”

  I nodded, then replayed the plan Chase and I had concocted in the car as we’d driven back from Quinn’s house. It was pretty simple, really. We’d wait until the game started, then hide out where we could watch the mascot room. As soon as the cheat seller showed up to collect his cash and drop off that week’s answers, we’d catch him.

  “Wait,” Sam said when I’d finished. “You and Chase are going?”

  “Yeah.”

  “As in together?”

  “Well, kinda . . .”

  “As in you’re going to the footb
all game together?”

  “I’m not really sure if—”

  “Ohmigod. Did Chase ask you out?”

  “No!” I made a “pft” sound through my teeth. “God no. We’re going to the game to catch the cheater. It’s a stakeout. That’s it.”

  “But he did ask you to go with him, right?”

  I pursed my lips together, trying to remember what he’d said. “Well, yeah. But I’m sure he didn’t mean with him with him.”

  “Tell me the exact words he used,” Sam ordered, leaning forward on her stick.

  “He said, ‘Want to go to the football game with me?’”

  Sam threw her hands up. “That’s it. He asked you out. On a date.”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t think he meant it like that.”

  “Are you sure?” Sam narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Yes. No. I . . . I don’t know! He said it, and he winked at me.”

  “Whoa!” Sam dropped her stick, putting both hands up. “You didn’t mention a wink. You never said anything about a wink!”

  “Why? What’s the wink mean?” I asked, starting to get a little nervous.

  “Ohmigod, Hartley. He totally fluffin’ asked you out.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not.” I paused. “I mean, I don’t think he did.”

  “As soon as practice is over, we’re getting you home and dressed to kill just in case.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is so not like that, Sam.”

  “Yeah, well, better safe than sorry.”

  An hour later, the entire contents of my closet were strewn out on my bed, and I was beginning to feel sorry I’d ever agreed to let Sam help me play it safe.

  She held up a pair of jeans and a tank top with a sparkly butterfly on the front.

  “The jeans say casual, but the top says flirty.”

  “I’m not sure about flirty—” I started, but Sam ran right over me. She was in her element, in the zone.

  And I was in serious trouble.

  “But see, this skirt,” she said, holding up a white denim mini, “says flirty, and if you pair it with this pink Henley,” she added, holding up the button-top shirt, “it says casual, yet feminine, too.”