by Pintip Dunn
A decidedly female figure tapes a flyer to the wall. She wears black clothes and a ski mask, looking remarkably like Sam and I did almost a week ago. Dozens of papers line the hallway, like moths preparing for flight.
The acid spurts up my throat, and all my fear morphs to anger. Not this. Not again.
I grit my teeth and grab the paper closest to me.
Sure enough, it’s another picture with my head on it. Only the body I’m on isn’t just nude. This time, it’s doing grotesque sexual acts with a dog.
My rage grows wings and breathes fire. “HEY! What are you doing?”
The masked figure takes one look at me, drops a sheaf of papers, and runs.
I sprint after her. I slide on the scattered papers, but I don’t go down. The figure’s got a head start, but I ran track in middle school. I’m a little out of practice, but adrenaline takes the place of muscle training, and I run faster than ever.
We tear down the hall. She dashes out the double-glass doors. The door swings and begins to close. I slap my hands against the glass, forcing it open again.
My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I refuse to notice. We’re outside now. I whip my head around, searching for the fleeing figure, but there are too many shadows. Maybe Sam was onto something with the black clothes, after all.
Come on, come on. Where are you?
There! The figure scampers through the parking lot, giving up her advantage. Stupid. No cars to weave between. No obstacles to hide behind. Just a wide expanse of open space. I’ve got her now.
I pour on a burst of speed and begin to close the gap.
Twenty feet.
She looks over her shoulder, which takes time, energy. I stare straight ahead, slamming one foot in front of the other.
Fifteen feet.
She’s slowing. I can feel it. I can almost taste it. Sweat—grueling, salty, and harsh.
Ten feet.
Where is she going? Her car? Out of the corner of my eye, a silver bullet of a vehicle gleams in the moonlight. She’ll never make it. I won’t let her.
Five feet.
It’s like fishing in a barrel now. I’ve got her on a hook; it’s only a matter of reeling her in.
Four, three, two . . .
OOOOFF.
I crash into her body, and we go flying across the pavement. Even though I’m on top, the breath’s knocked out of me as we hit the ground, hard. My bare arms skid across the parking lot, tearing up my skin. My knees join the bloody slide, rubbing bone against asphalt.
Still, I don’t think. I don’t feel. A split second after we stop, I straddle the figure and yank off the ski mask.
And look right into the eyes of Mackenzie Myers.
Chapter 42
The parking lot tilts. If I weren’t straddling Mackenzie, I might slide right off. I should’ve known it was her. I definitely suspected. But now that she’s under me, caught like the rat she is, my mind’s not computing.
“You. It was you, this entire time?”
Mascara streaks down her face like tangled roots, and her lower lip trembles. All of a sudden, the slight gap between her two front teeth makes her look very young.
My shoulders collapse. “I thought it was Sam, but it was you, all along.”
“I couldn’t let you tell them about me,” she moans. “I had to stop you.”
“Tell them what, Mackenzie?” I jiggle my head, trying to clear it. “I don’t know anything about you, other than you’re a spoiled, rich bitch. But everybody already knows that.”
“So you don’t know my secret?” The air rushes in and out of her mouth, picking up speed like an out-of-control train.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I ease off her torso. Given how hard she’s working to breathe, I highly doubt she’s going anywhere. Plus, I’ve already identified her. Even if she takes off now, the damage is done.
She sits up and drops her head between her knees. The stars glitter in the black sky. My elbows are a smear of blood and gravel. Knees, too. Wincing, I extend my legs. Very likely I’ll need a gallon of antiseptic, not to mention stitches.
A few minutes later, Mackenzie’s breathing resembles a human’s again. “Why did you want to talk to Tommy so badly? Wasn’t it to dig up dirt about me?”
“So I could find out about my mom,” I say. “Not you. What do I care about your business?”
“Oh.” Her voice is small, like I might forget the words if she says them softly enough. “I . . . uh, guess I shouldn’t have listened to Justin and hung up those photos of you.”
You think? “And you shouldn’t have doctored the hotline posters with my phone number. And sent me a bunch of creepy text messages. I didn’t deserve any of that, either.”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t do any of that. And neither did Justin. After the bonfire, he was pissed that you embarrassed him, and I didn’t want you talking to Tommy. So we decided to teach you a lesson. You really did see him in the hallways that morning, but I lied and said he was out of town. But that was the only thing we did until tonight. I swear it.”
I wouldn’t trust Mackenzie to file my nails, but I believe her. Because she has no reason to lie. Because the other harassment was about getting me to stay away from the hotline, and all Mackenzie cares about is Tommy. Because the timing makes sense. The posters went up the Monday after the bonfire. She was even the one who first showed them to me.
I rub my temples. What does this mean? If Mackenzie and Justin are only responsible for the posters, who did the other stuff?
“I thought you got the message because you seemed to back off,” she says. “But when you won that date with Tommy, I knew I had to step it up.”
“Step it up? More like launch it out of this world. Mackenzie, that dog . . . that dog was in her crotch. Where did you find that photo?”
“It wasn’t easy.” She shudders. “Some of the photos I saw, I’m going to have nightmares about for a long, long time. But I was desperate.”
“What could Tommy possibly have on you that’s worth this?”
She clasps her hands over her knees. Even her nails are painted black. Trust Mackenzie to color-coordinate her vandalism getup. “I guess you deserve to know.” She licks her lips. “You see, in all the months Tommy and I dated, we never slept together. I was more than ready to take the next step, but he never seemed to pick up on my hints. Finally, I sent him a sexy photo of myself, thinking it might pique his interest.” She ducks her head. “Nothing like your mom’s photo, of course. Just me in some lingerie. But instead of getting excited, Tommy completely blew up at me. Next thing I know, he’s telling everybody he’s sleeping with your mom. And I knew it had to be because my ass is too big and my tits are too small.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I sputter. She doesn’t know about Lila’s explicit photos, so of course she wouldn’t understand Tommy’s reaction. But, still. Mackenzie Myers, insecure about her looks? It doesn’t make sense. “Every boy in school is dying to go out with you.”
“Because of my money. I’m like the emperor with new clothes. I pretend I’m hot shit, and everyone’s happy to go along with that fiction. At least for now. But I knew once you told everyone how Tommy was disgusted by my photo, they’d admit to each other how ugly I really am.”
Your personality’s ugly, maybe, I want to say. Nothing more. But I can’t. As awful as she’s been, I can’t bring myself to her level. “He wasn’t disgusted. He was probably just, um, surprised to get a picture like that from you. You’re not ugly, Mackenzie. Far from it.”
“Easy for you to say. You and your mom, you both look like supermodels. I’d give anything to have a body like yours.”
I stare. “You want Justin Blake to stick his tongue between his fingers every time you walk by? Oh, and how about harassment from the resident mean girl? How would you like your head to be plastered on topless, disgusting photos?”
“I guess I never thought about it that way before.” She lays her hand on my arm
. The bloody knuckles and black nails blend with my elbows, and for the first time since grade school, Mackenzie Myers and I don’t seem so different after all.
She pulls her hand back and twists her rings around her fingers. Black opals. Surprise, surprise. “Please don’t tell anybody about me sending those photos to Tommy.”
“Not my business to tell.”
She rotates the rings again, faster this time, like she’s trying to corkscrew them off. “But what about the posters? They are your business. Are you going to tell Principal Winters what I did to you?”
“Would you deny it?”
“No.” Her fingers fall to her knees. “I messed up. Even if you really were threatening to expose me, I shouldn’t have done that. So, whatever punishment’s handed down, I’ll take it.”
“Then I won’t tell.” I close my eyes, wondering if I’ll regret this in the morning. Not sure Sam would agree with my decision. But he’s not the person I thought he was, and so many people have already been hurt by the lies Tommy spun. It won’t make me feel better to hurt Mackenzie any more.
I crack open my eyelids. “As long as not a single one of these new photos gets out.”
She stands up, brushes the dust off her vandalism pants. “Come on, then. Let’s go take down those posters.”
“There’s only one problem,” I say, my limbs turning into lead. “The doors lock automatically behind us. And I closed the window in the girls’ bathroom.”
Her eyes widen. “Which means there’s no way for us to get back inside?”
“Not exactly.” I sigh. “Looks like I’ll need to call the janitor once again.”
Chapter 43
In the end, Mackenzie took charge of contacting the janitor. Using an old tissue I found in my pocket and some spit, she wiped the mascara off her face. And when she gave the janitor a winning smile and tucked a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, he didn’t even grumble about being pulled from his recliner a second time. What’s more, he left us at the door, once again—which meant he only had time to shoot me just one or two sympathetic glances.
It took an hour and two broken nails to remove all the tape and flyers, and yet, when I get to school in the morning, groups of students huddle together, buzzing excitedly about something.
Did we leave one of the photos up by mistake? Or is it Sam’s article? It was supposed to come out this morning. Did he go with the harassment angle, after all?
I peer at my face in the small mirror inside my locker, as if I can find the answer there. My skin looks like stale Wonder Bread, and I know it’s Sam’s article. It has to be. He could have printed everything in my mom’s journal. I took the notebook back home with me, but the damage was already done. He had hours to reproduce every entry, every word. It’s all fodder for an article that will mark his start as a rising star.
Should’ve known better. He’s a reporter, for god’s sake. His job is to unearth the truth. He never hid his purpose from me. He never made any promises. It was my own fault I trusted him. My own naivety that I thought he would place my feelings above his future career.
I slam my locker door closed, leaving my books inside, and lean my forehead against the cool metal. I can’t do this today. Can’t have them gawking at me, like I’m an exhibit at the zoo. Can’t listen to the whispers, with a few choice words rising to the level of hearing. Words like “slut” and “serves her right” and “shoulda known.”
Shoulda known. Shoulda known. Shoulda known.
I shouldn’t have trusted Sam. Shouldn’t have dug up the past. And I really, really shouldn’t have fallen in love in him.
I’m about to escape to the girls’ restroom when Alisara’s colorful bangles jingle to my side.
“Did you hear? Mr. Swift’s been suspended. Everyone’s going crazy with the news.”
“What?” I straighten, my heart racing down the hall, around the faculty lounge, into the school’s darkroom. So, not about me, after all.
“Principal Winters got an anonymous tip this morning to check out the darkroom. And guess what he found in Mr. Swift’s personal drawers? Yearbook photos of girls in our senior class, blown up to poster size. What a sleazebag.”
Something clicks in my mind. Something Sam told me a week and a half ago about my study hall teacher. “Wasn’t he using the photos for a class project or something? I heard he asked the yearbook staff for those photos.”
“A project involving his penis, maybe.” She leans closer, and I can see she’s used five different shades of eye shadow to match the bangles. “There’s more. Apparently, Principal Winters also found a bunch of candid shots of a senior girl, which were clearly taken from a distance. Guess who it was?”
“Who?” Please don’t say me. Please don’t say me.
“Raleigh! She’s strutting around the halls like she’s some kind of goddess. Like it’s a compliment Mr. Swift was stalking her. Personally, I think it’s creepy as hell.”
Not to mention gross, disgusting. And something Phoenix would do. “Was he involved with Raleigh? Or any of the others?”
She shrugs, pushing the bangles up her arm as if they were sleeves. “I don’t think so. Raleigh says this is the first she’s heard of his fixation, and I believe her. But one of the photos is a closeup of her cheerleading bloomers, as she bends over to tie her shoe, so the school’s turned the case over to the police. You can bet they’ll start interviewing the girls whose pictures he had.”
She cocks her head, watching me reopen my locker and retrieve my books. So long as the gossip isn’t about me, I guess I’ll go to class, after all.
“Maybe he’s the one who Photoshopped those posters,” she says softly. “I mean, it kinda breaks pattern, because the other photos were untouched. But you never know.”
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally.
But for the first time in days, I’m able to breathe deeply again. Because the police have Phoenix now. And I didn’t have to tell my side of the story. Didn’t have to explain about my mom. Didn’t have to put myself out there and risk the world’s censure. Once they start investigating him, surely they’ll uncover his underage pornography ring. From there, they should be able to uncover clues that will lead to his guilt as my mother’s murderer. And if they don’t, I can point them in the right direction by leaving anonymous tips, so that they don’t discount my allegations.
My hand tightens on my textbook. An anonymous tip. Didn’t Alisara say that an anonymous tip led to the discovery of the photos? Who could’ve tipped off Principal Winters? And why?
I suppose it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the police have him. I push the unease away and walk down the hall feeling like I have balloons tied to my body. For the first time since I mistook Ms. Hughes for a student, I think everything might be all right. The police will stop Phoenix, and I’ll go back to being invisible. No grand romances, no silly laughter with friends, no reason to believe anything I say or do makes a difference. My mom’s name still isn’t clear, and her murder hasn’t been brought to light, but that’s okay. It’s only a matter of time before they will be.
When I enter the classroom, Mr. Willoughby nods at me but thankfully doesn’t try to talk. I hurry to my seat. Sam is already sitting at his desk. The article. It must have come out, but nobody’s talking about it. Nobody is darting glances at me. So whatever he published must have been innocuous enough to disappear under the news of Mr. Swift’s suspension. That doesn’t mean I forgive him.
I sit down and refuse to look at him, although he tries to catch my eye throughout the entire class period.
I weaken once. I just want to see how the sun falls on the smattering of freckles across his nose. That’s it. But as soon as I look, his gaze grabs onto me like a hook and holds on tight. “Phoenix?” he mouths. “Mr. Swift?”
I duck my head and refuse to be drawn in. In the world of lures, his bait is a shiny, neon-glowing fish with iridescent scales. I fell for it once, and I’m not going to again.
I still do
n’t know what he wrote in that article, and I’m not going to care. I’m not. My classmates are leaving me alone. That’s all I can ask.
After school, I get in my car. The radio’s still broken, and the scratches on the leather interior still look like a treasure map. But for some reason, it feels . . . lonelier than usual. I should be celebrating. Punching the air because my ordeal is done. I’ve stopped Phoenix. He can’t hurt anybody else.
And yet, I’m still lost. As bereft as I was in the weeks following my mother’s death.
A knock rattles my window, and I jerk, the key scraping across my palm. It’s Sam’s sister.
I roll down the window and fashion my lips into a smile. Her black hair is tucked into a knit hat pulled all the way to her eyebrows, and she’s holding a newspaper. “Hi, Briony. How are you?”
She must be devastated. Not only was her boyfriend arrested, but he was caught with photos of other girls. I don’t know how that feels, but I’m no stranger to betrayal. If she needs to talk, I’ll listen all night.
But she doesn’t seem at all upset as she thrusts the paper at me.
“Sam’s article came out in the Lakewood Sun,” she says. “Did you see it?”
I shake my head. I was saving it for, oh, sometime like never. But she waggles the daily at me, folded open to the right page, and I have no choice but to take it.
“Read it,” she demands.
I scan the article. A brief summary of the hotline’s history. General quotes about the importance of connecting from Mr. Willoughby. Statistics from crisis call centers around the country. Even a throwaway sentence about the vanilla air fresheners the hotline uses—which has to be an inside joke for me. And that’s it.
I sag against the steering wheel, my arm hitting the horn. BLEEEEEP. The sound of tension being released from soul, body, and spirit. I knew the contents of the article couldn’t be scandalous—but that’s nothing compared to seeing the bland words for myself.
“He thinks he’s going to get fired over this.” Briony’s voice jabs holes in my relief. “And if he does, he can kiss that Winkelhake scholarship goodbye.”