I startle when I see Rémy waiting outside Whitlock’s classroom, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.
“Seriously? You don’t quit, do you?” I hurry to the art room with Rémy keeping quick pace at my side.
“Can you quit something that hasn’t really started?”
Hasn’t it, though? I hate to admit it, but Blue was right. I like being around him. Rémy treats me like I’m no different from anybody else. And maybe I like the pictures he took of me, too. The problem is Mr. Whitlock was also right. I probably shouldn’t encourage him.
“I see. The direct approach didn’t work so you’re going with aloof, is that it? Playing it cool. I don’t think I’ve had enough caffeine today to go back-to-back classes with you.”
“You say these things, but I don’t think you’re as impersonal as you pretend to be,” he counters.
“Or, and I’m just speaking off the cuff, maybe you’re just not as charming as you pretend to be?”
“Was I pretending?” He gives me a crooked grin, and damn if that smile with the high dimple doesn’t make me feel something.
There’s a pack of girls converged in front of the auditorium doors. He could pester any of them. I’m sure they’d love it.
“Oh. My. Gawd! I want to be Katherina so bad,” one of them squeals, complete with a vocal fry that puts a temporary hitch in my step. Case in point.
She means Katherina from The Taming of the Shrew, our school’s fall production. A character who is the exact opposite of girls that purposely sound like they’re gargling olive oil when they speak just to fit in with everyone they see on reality TV. One more baahing sheep in the herd of mainstream popularity, even in Podunk, Washington.
I pick up my pace, glancing at Rémy out of the corner of my eye. He’s tagging along, step for step, grinning over whatever expression he caught on my face. “You want to audition?” he asks. “I think we’d be shoo-ins for the leads.”
“You mean—if the shrew fits?”
He does a jiggly thing with his head and blinks. “Wow. I honestly don’t know how to handle the number of jokes rolling off you lately. To be fair, I was thinking I could make something more decent of Petruchio, and you could work your way up to perfecting the acerbic wit of Katherina.”
“A real stretch, I’m sure. Does this mean you’ve given up on becoming D’Artagnan to the Juniper sisters? Moved on to greener pastures?”
He leans up against a locker outside the art classroom. “Not necessarily. What can I say? I appreciate a confident victor.”
“That was more Finnick Odair than Petruchio.”
“You would know.” He mimes shooting an arrow while making a single cluck with his tongue.
It’s hard not to grin when I know what Rémy’s doing. Turning my tendency to push him away back on me. “I get why you think no one in this school could embody the role of Kate Minola better than me. I don’t disagree with you. But I don’t have wiggle room in my schedule for twelve weeks of play rehearsals.” I yawn, reminding him I’m caffeine deprived.
He opens the locker he was leaning on and throws his chemistry book inside. “How about just letting me buy you that cup of coffee, then?”
“Now, that is something Petruchio would never offer a hell-kite like me.” I slip into the art room to avoid giving him an answer.
I’m ready to finish my painting, despite feeling like today is the longest Monday in my personal history. I even dressed for the occasion, wearing my favorite studio jeans, the lightest denim with paint swatches crosshatched on the thighs where I’ve wiped hundreds of brushes. They’re loose and worn to silky soft, and I chose them because I wanted to be comfortable and unencumbered enough to finish the part I’ve been avoiding. This past week showed me exactly what I want to say with my eyes.
I stare into the rectangular mirror clamped to my easel and see my truth, just like Ms. Everitt said. A girl who is independent and self-willed, unexpected and free-spirited, impersonal and unpredictable, stares back at me and I recognize her fully. The problem I had was trying to choose one facet of myself, but they’re all me. Maybe that’s why my eyes always seem too big for my face. They have a lot of facets to hold. Thankfully, this is a good mirror day. I choose a paintbrush with an extra-long handle and wind my tousled chocolate-brown hair around it and push it through to make a topknot.
I relax, mixing the paint for my sugar-pine-bark irises, building all the variations of umber and sienna from dark to light. Keeping my sore arm up for an extended period distracts me from what I’m doing, so I rest my foot on the easel’s crossbar, bracing my elbow on my knee for support. I work feverishly and with more concentration than I have the past week. Thirty minutes pass before I stand back and scrutinize my work. Something about Birdie is off, an imbalance in the way her leg is stepped out toward the viewer like she has someplace to go and is ready to walk away. I’m still letting everyone think they’re all me, but that’s one hundred percent Birdie. I’ve had to wrangle her back for as long as I can remember. But my dissatisfaction with this section of the painting is about more than Birdie’s leg. It’s the idea that I feel at odds with my sister. That I got mad she taught the cipher to Daniel when it doesn’t really matter if anybody knows the code. I pick up my skinniest paintbrush and load it with indigo-blue paint, mixing in plenty of medium to get it fluid. I want to add something decidedly Birdie that nobody else will understand. An artistic olive branch. Her leg is at the perfect angle for decoration. I tempt fate, inscribing the words Home Sweet Home down the length of her leg like an inky tattoo, along with the topographic coordinates of our house. I sign the painting the same way, in cipher. When I’m finished, I stand and walk backward a few paces to take in the whole piece from a proper viewing distance. It might be the best thing I’ve ever done. Ms. Everitt is probably right about the national self-portrait scholarship competition. I don’t want to leave my sisters, but I can’t help wondering if I’d actually have a chance at winning.
I’m standing there, nodding at my own work when I hear the click-double-click of Rémy’s camera shutter. I was so engrossed, I didn’t sense him lurking over my shoulder.
“You know Pigpen cipher?” he asks, like he’s eager for us to bond over our mutual love of encrypted messages.
The hairs on the back of my neck turn into acupuncture needles. “You can read that?”
“Home Sweet Home. I sent away for a secret decoder ring when I was little. I never learned the extended version with the numbers, assuming that’s what the rest of your message is.”
Everything I believed about the secrecy of our cipher crumbles, along with the lining of my gut. I felt the same way when I learned the tooth fairy wasn’t real. I understand what Rémy is telling me. I’m just having a hard time believing it.
“Pigpen cipher? That’s what it’s called?”
Rémy nods. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “Is it … do a lot of people know it?”
I get straight to mixing skin-tone paint, big R Ready to cover the message on Birdie’s leg in reaction to Rémy’s revelation.
“I doubt it. It’s pretty hard-core nerd. I learned about it from an old comic book.”
I accidently knock a tube of titanium-white paint off the edge of my palette, and several brushes clatter to the floor along with it.
“Why are you so jumpy?” Rémy asks. “Home Sweet Home. I think that’s pretty cool, considering the subject matter.”
“It’s just, I thought it was something I made up. Something I’ve always believed only my sisters and I could read.”
“It’s not something most people can read, if that makes you feel better, especially the numbers.”
Ms. Everitt comes over to my easel. “The eyes are perfect. You look caring and capable and ready to take on the world, just like the Honey Juniper that shows up to my class every day. I love that you’re letting the world see you for who you are. That kind of honesty, exposed through art, is a much-needed act of rebellion
in a world that wants to quiet you. All of us, actually. I’m so glad you took the time to consider what you could do with this painting, especially because of what it might mean for you and your future self.”
“Thanks. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out.”
I don’t tell her exposure and rebellion might be part of the problem.
“Ms. Everitt,” Rémy starts, “can you read the text on the leg?”
Our art teacher fiddles with her silver starfish necklace and shakes her head. “No. Is it a secret language? I thought it was just the pattern on her tights.”
“It’s Vulcan,” Rémy says. “But don’t tell anyone or they’ll take away Honey’s nerd card.”
Ms. Everitt raises her hand, palm forward and thumb extended. She parts her fingers between the middle and ring finger in a wide V. “Your secret is safe with me. Peace and long life.”
“Live long and prosper,” Rémy replies as she walks away. His eyes widen like someone just handed him tickets to a comic convention. “Can you believe Ms. Everitt is a Trekkie?”
Strangely, no. Because I don’t have a nerd card. That doesn’t stop me from wondering whether I can vaporize his enthusiasm with laser eyes. “Why are you always doing that?” I ask.
“Doing what?”
“Treating me like I’m the same as everyone else and not one of the weirds.”
“I just told you I understand Pigpen cipher, wore a decoder ring I ordered from the back of a comic book, and watch Star Trek regularly. What makes you think you three are the only weird ones?”
“You’re weird? That’s why you’re trying so hard to be my friend?”
“Is that what I’m doing? I thought I was sending out a different vibe.”
We stare at each other, too long and intense for two people anybody would consider just friends. I look around, remembering how Annalise ambushed us in the woods. Wondering if anybody is watching us now. But everyone is focused on their own artwork.
“Let me try a more direct approach,” Rémy says. “I was hoping you’d want to give being my girlfriend a try.”
“Why? There are easily twenty girls in this school who would want to go out with you. I’m out of place here.”
“There are twenty carbon copies of the same girl I could go out with, maybe. I like you, the way you do your own thing, even when it seems a little out of place. Like when the moon shows up during the day.”
“Whoa. Okay, Petruchio. Pump your brakes.”
Rémy throws his head back, mouth open in a silent laugh. “See. That’s what I’m talking about. You keep it real.”
“Then tell me something, since we’re on the subject of keeping it real. Why did you try to follow me into the air shaft the other day? I heard Mr. Whitlock stop you.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really have a plan. I just knew whatever you were doing, wherever you were going, seemed a hell of a lot safer than cowering in a classroom.”
“Actually, it was full of spiderwebs and mouse poop.”
A commotion kicks up in the hallway outside the classroom, stopping the conversation I’ve been waiting to have for days.
Rémy says, “Hold that thought,” and heads to the door.
He should know by now I won’t sit here and hold anything. I grab my EDC and rush to the door right behind him. Responsible, Reactive, and Ready. Hoping for a fistfight, or a fire sprinkler that’s sprung a leak and has people trying to save their belongings. The art room is the closest equidistant point from all our classes. If it’s anything worse, my sisters will be waiting outside the door.
“Hey, can they do that?” I hear someone ask.
I tap Rémy’s shoulder. “Do what? I can’t see.”
“A locker search.”
The answer is no, they can’t. Not without probable cause.
Remain calm. Size up the situation.
I push past a few people to get into the hallway. A two-person SWAT team is opening lockers and sifting through personal belongings, assisted by Principal Weaver. There’s not much to see: sweatshirts, water bottles, gym bags. I scan the hallway for my sisters. Birdie is making her way through a small cluster of students craning their necks. When we lock eyes, she points, and I spot Blue’s hair a few paces behind her. The one constant I can always count on is my sisters, even when they’re doing things that drive me nuts. Strike that. Even when Birdie is doing things that drive us nuts.
“Whose locker is this?” the SWAT officer asks.
“The fuck?” Rémy mutters under his breath. It’s the first time I’ve heard him swear. He clears his throat “That’s, uh, that’s mine.” He holds up his arm, index finger pointed.
“Yours?” Principal Weaver says, and his tone of disbelief expresses what we all feel. What I know has to be some sort of mistake.
THREAT ASSESSMENT CORRECTION:
RÉMY LAMAR|5’11” AVERAGE-STRONG BUILD|closed OPEN SOCIAL GROUP|TRUSTING
MOST LIKELY TO: marry a ridiculous trophy wife. Use his own judgement.
LEAST LIKELY TO: seduce me with his charms during art class. have anything dangerous in his locker.
Mr. Whitlock pushes through a throng of students and stands beside Rémy. “What’s this about?”
The SWAT officer holds up a soda can that’s been intentionally sawed in half. “We got an anonymous tip about another flash-bang grenade being put inside a locker along this corridor. Considering the recent incident, we decided it was necessary to investigate. Outside, the smoke from one of these will dissipate and is less noxious. Released inside, we’d have a different problem.”
“That’s not mine,” Rémy says. “That’s my locker. But that … whatever that is, doesn’t belong to me. I don’t even drink soda.”
“You’ll have to come with us anyway for questioning,” the officer tells Rémy.
The personal intel on Rémy’s beverage consumption is the least of his problems when everyone can see the unlit fuse hanging from the can. I want to jump in and shout, That’s not his. But I’m in the same awkward position of having to protect Birdie, just like Ansel. My eyes shoot to my sister. She’s shrugging, shaking her head as she reaches my side. I rip away the notebook and pen Birdie’s clinging to and write, Is that one of yours? in our cipher.
She pulls her lips into a tight line and nods.
Blue shows up a minute later. “What’s going on?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
Rémy stares straight at me and says, “That’s fine. I’ll come with you. But I seriously don’t know how that got inside my locker.”
I nod so he knows I believe him. I hope that’s enough for him to understand I’ll make some inquiries. Mr. Whitlock, on the other hand, shrivels me with the harshest I-told-you-so look I’ve ever seen, and the only thing I can do is look away.
That’s when I spot Annalise, leaning on a corner where this corridor connects to another. Watching me without a sliver of emotion in her icy eyes. Ansel was right. This wasn’t over. She casually rolls into the adjacent hallway with a mission-accomplished confidence that pisses me off. Whatever she’s up to, I’ve had enough of it.
BOV
BUG-OUT VEHICLE
I STORM THROUGH the parking lot with my sisters, looking for the Ackermans’ BOV. The black Ford monster truck towers above the other cars like it’s ready to crush them for scrap metal, making it easy to spot. If they’re so desperate to stay incognito they should reconsider the cap on their pickup truck’s bed because the camouflage paint job screams Bug-Out Vehicle.
Annalise and Ansel are climbing inside the cabin when I shove her hard from behind. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Ansel comes around to the driver’s side of the truck when he hears my voice. I don’t remember seeing him at school today. The bruise under his eye is turning putrid shades of ochre and violet oxide, but it’s the dullness in his eyes themselves that give him a newly haunted vibe.
“This isn’t the place to have this discussion,” he says.
/>
“No. Let’s,” Annalise says. “Come on, Juniper. What’s on your mind?”
She pushes my shoulder where she clipped me with her arrow. I muster all the strength I have to not flinch because my arm already hurts like fiery hell after holding it up in art class. I scan the parking lot to make sure there aren’t any Outsiders listening.
“Swatting. That’s your power play. I know you put that flash-bang grenade in Rémy’s locker. How? He wouldn’t have given you his combination.”
“Your boyfriend isn’t the only one with a high-powered zoom lens.”
My fists clench. “He’s not my … You know what? Think what you want. Rémy Lamar is the nicest guy at this school.”
Ansel blinks, taking offense. In all fairness, Ansel has been a good friend to me until he got all secretive. If he has ideas about us being something more, he only mentioned them vaguely in passing. I’m not a mind or a heart reader. With Rémy, I don’t have to guess.
“We needed somebody to take the heat off of us,” Annalise says.
“What heat?” Birdie asks. “Nobody has said anything to us at school.”
“Ask Daniel? Oh wait, you can’t. Because that’s what happens to snitches. They get stitches.” Annalise looks at my arm pointedly. “I guess Blue isn’t the only prophetic one.”
I touch the outside of my arm reflexively where the stiff ends of my stitches are poking through my sleeve. “I didn’t snitch. I haven’t said a word to anyone. Rémy doesn’t know anything about us.”
Last Girls Page 19