23

LATE DECEMBER

My hands are on the steering wheel, and the music’s pounding. Chloe’s got the flap to the mirror up so she can recheck her eye makeup. Chloe usually gets a ride to school from one of her friends, but they had an argument last week, so she begged a ride from me. I’m glad.

I turn down the volume. “So tell me about your boyfriend,” I begin, thinking how strange it is that I don’t know how to start a conversation with my own sister.

She turns the music back up.

I turn it back down.

“Come on, Chloe!” I scold, sounding way too parental as she turns it up again. “I want to talk to you.”

“Fine.” She turns it back down. “I was just messing with you anyway. That’s what I do to Mom when she corners me in the car to talk.”

“Nice. Well, I didn’t corner you, and you were the one who asked me for a ride, remember?” I flip on my signal to pull into the parking lot.

I turn my head to peek at her and she’s grinning. Wide.

“So spill,” I command.

“Okay. I’m still figuring him out, but he’s a hottie.”

“Define ‘hottie.’” I see a parking spot up ahead, a good one, and I speed up to nab it.

“Yeah, well, your hottie and my hottie are definitely different.” She holds on to the door handle as I accelerate.

“Clearly,” I agree, thinking of the guys she’s dated in the past. “Define your hottie.”

“Great eyes. Quirky sense of humor. Older.”

My antennae perk up. “Define ‘older.’” I ease into the spot. It’s tight, but oh well. We’ll just have to be careful not to open our doors too wide.

“God, who are you? Mom? He’s older. Not like illegal older, just older.”

“Got it.” We are parked now, car still running, but I don’t want to shut off the engine.

“He’s got his own style, kind of grunge. Brilliant underachiever, just like me.”

I laugh. Not because she’s not smart. She is. But because somehow being a “brilliant underachiever” is a compliment in her mind. “Sounds like a winner.” My voice is a teeny-weeny bit sarcastic.

“He is.” Apparently she doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm.

“How’s your boyfriend?” she asks.

“Great.” And it’s true. Ever since my pseudo-birthday à la mode, Miguel and I have been hanging out almost every day. I tell Mom I’m going to study group. She buys it, which makes me feel a little guilty, but whatever.

“Maybe we can double date to prom,” Chloe teases. I turn to look, and she socks me in the arm. “Just kidding. You know I hate school events.” She flashes me a smile. “Okay, okay. Enough with the bonding, Gabi. You’ve done your sisterly duty. I feel loved, okay?” Chloe wraps her arm around my shoulder for an awkward hug. “Turn off the car, already. Haven’t you ever heard of global warming?”

I take the keys out of the ignition. She’s right.

Miguel’s waiting for me by the flagpole, so Chloe rushes off ahead, her left eyebrow arched high. She flips around after she passes him and walks backward for a moment, giving me a thumbs-up. So now she knows Miguel is my boyfriend. I need to figure out hers. I wonder why she’s being so secretive about it.

“Hola, bonita!” He greets me with a smushy peck on the lips. Why does that always make me tingle? But now whenever he kisses me in public, I think of Eric and wonder if he’s nearby. God, I really messed that up.

The warning bell rings, and Miguel gives me a second peck. “Adiós, bonita!” He spins around and walks backward for a moment, nearly crashing into two clueless freshmen, who narrowly escape his path. Then he turns on his heel and books it toward the math wing. I have to laugh.

When I round the corner to my locker, Beth’s leaning up against it. “What’s up?” I ask her, sort of breathless.

“Oh hey,” she says all casual, like she wasn’t just standing here waiting for me.

“Hey.” I set down my backpack. “Can you scootch over while we talk?” I ask. “I just have to grab a book.”

She does.

“So what’s up?” I ask again, while I twist the combination lock.

“I know things have been weird between us.”

A little. No—a lot. I crack the locker door open so that nothing spills out.

She goes on. “But we used to be close, and I just have to tell you that I’m worried about you.” She leans in when she says it, and something about her tone is insulting.

“About me?” I close my locker.

“You’re acting strange, Gabi. You’re changing. Don’t let some stupid puppy love make you forget what matters.” She fiddles with her backpack strap. “Don’t forget who your friends are.”

I’m not forgetting. I’m just changing my definition of “friend.” “You’re still my friend, Beth. I’m not ditching you. Let’s all eat lunch together.”

“Gabi, come on.” She lowers her voice. “You’re hanging out with losers.”

The L word catches me like a fish on a hook. “What is your problem?” I snap.

“What?” Beth turns to me, her eyes wide, like she seriously has no clue what just happened.

“God, Beth. What do you think gives you the right to pass judgment on all kinds of random people? Just ’cause they’re not like you? That somehow makes them less worthy as human beings? What kind of holier-than-thou shit is that?” My voice is too loud. I try to rein it in, but fail miserably. “You’re mean. And I’m mean for listening to you all these years and not telling you what I really think.”

Beth’s face turns white, and I worry she might pass out. “Are you serious? Ask anyone on this campus. They’ll tell you how nice I am. You know that.”

I can’t stop myself at this point. All that I’ve wanted to say is just bubbling out like a science experiment gone wrong. “Yeah, but they don’t know you. Not like I do. You think that because you took Bruce under your wing, that somehow gives you license to talk shit about everyone else? What a hypocrite!”

“Bruce is special. You know that.” Beth whispers this all softly, like she doesn’t want anyone to hear.

“Sure, Bruce is special. And so am I. And so is my sister. And my boyfriend. And every person on this freaking campus. We’re all special.” For a brilliant person, she sure is stupid.

“Come on, Gabi. I shouldn’t have to censor with my best friend, should I?”

“What makes us best friends, Beth? Because I’ve sat here and listened to you spout off social commentary for the last four years? Because we cram for tests together? When high school’s over, what are we gonna remember? How we aced a physics test? God, I hope there’s more to me than that.”

Then Beth’s eyes completely well up, and she flees to the girls’ restroom. My eyes burn with tears. Shit.

I jerk my locker open again, this time all the way, and a landslide of loose papers floats down to my feet. I bend to gather them up, and as I stack them, two playing cards slip out of the pile, face down. I turn them over slowly, my heart thumping.

Two queens.

Same as before, black Sharpie scrawled over the images, making the bottom halves of both queens look like ducks. And their hair drawn long and flowy. Just like mine. And Chloe’s. And Beth’s. And eighty percent of the girls at Central.

Printed in neat capitals around the top edge are the words pretty sitting ducks.

I glance around to see if anyone is watching. The halls are empty. Who put these here? Did someone get here before me and slip them in through my locker slats? I try to remember who was near my locker when I walked up. Well, Beth, of course, but was there anyone else I recognized? Miguel and I have this prank war going on, but this isn’t prank material. It’s heart-attack material. I stand there, leaning against the side of my locker, chewing the heck out of my lip.

The tardy bell rings, scolding me.

I drop the cards in my backpack and stand there with my hand on the door, frozen.

I can’t remember which book I need for class.

The helpline office is looking more like a college dorm room every week. We all keep adding to it—our own decorations, posters, our bracelet peace sign, and so on. Janae’s on a call. She’s got this reflection thing down and she sounds like a pro. She ends the call by giving some referrals for low-fee counseling centers. The girl is a natural.

Miguel jams out for a bathroom break. Shortly after, the phone rings again. Janae scoots away from it, and I pick up. “Helpline, this is Gina.” I write down the name Gina at the top of the page.

“Gina.” The voice is fake gruff, like a teenager trying to talk like a man. Or disguise his voice. “Is that your real name?”

This catches me off guard. I fumble around for an answer. “I’m here to listen.”

“Gina, were you on campus for the lockdown?”

I don’t see any harm in answering this one. “I was.”

“Where were you?”

I don’t like the way this is going. I try to shift directions. “What exactly did you want to talk about tonight?”

“I want to talk about how scared you were. Were you scared enough to piss your pants?”

Okay, so now this totally freaks me out. Because I did, you know. Piss my pants. Just a little, but still. “Why do you want to talk about that day?”

“Because I need to know if it worked.”

“What?” My voice is shrill.

“Did it have the effect I wanted?”

Omigod. I am talking to the bomber. Or someone pretending to be him. Help! I write to Janae. It’s HIM. Use RAPP to call the police. Can we have this call traced?

Janae writes back with a question mark.

I ask, “What do you mean?” I think immediately of the two playing cards I found this morning, still sitting in my backpack.

“I think you know,” the voice speaks quietly. “And I don’t think your name is Gina. Although it just might start with a G. Funny thing with aliases. People usually pick a name that has the same first letter as their real name.”

My mouth dries. Does he know who I am? “What made you decide to call tonight?” I’m stalling.

“Your voice is familiar,” he says.

“I just have one of those voices.” If he knows me, do I know him? “Let’s get back to talking about what made you decide to call tonight.” I point at the sentence I wrote on my paper, and I nudge Janae. I need her to call the police.

“I told you. I need to know if it worked.” He pauses. “Can I stop now? Or do I need Phase Two?”

“Phase Two?” I ask. Janae leaves my side and I hear her picking up the RAPP line.

“The second act. I have it all planned out. The question is, can you stop me?” Now he laughs, sarcastic. “You are a helpline, aren’t you? Can’t you help me?”

“You need to talk to someone about what’s going on.” Garth is scribbling on my paper, wanting more info. I ignore it.

“I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you.”

“No, I mean, a professional.”

“What I need to do is hang up the phone.”

“No, wait.” I plead.

“I know your tricks, and I’m smarter than you. I’m smarter than everyone.” Then he clicks off. And I am stuck with two thoughts in my mind. The first—does he really know who I am? He called my bluff about my name. He recognized my voice. The second—Phase Two?

Janae whispers loudly, “Did he hang up? I don’t have anyone on the line yet.”

“Never mind,” I tell her. “He’ll call again and we’ll be ready.”