MEREDITH PAYNE-WHITELEY SITS RIGHT UP IN HER CHAIR
BLAIR has a phone call to make before she picks up Cam on the way to school.
But her heart is thumping so loud in her chest that she’s worried Meredith Payne-Whiteley won’t be able to hear her voice.
Her thumb hovers over the new contact in her list, trembling.
Come on, Johnson, Blair thinks.
What if Mattie’s story sounds stupid, or Blair can’t describe it the right way, and Meredith Payne-Whiteley thinks she is an idiot? What if Blair’s wrong, and it’s not a good story at all? What if she is an idiot? What if Meredith Payne-Whiteley tells her to never call again and hangs up on her? What if—
Blair’s thumb twitches so violently that it taps her screen. And then the phone is ringing.
She’s calling Meredith Payne-Whiteley whether she wants to or not.
“Good afternoon, CMA,” says a smooth voice on the other end of the call.
“H-hi,” Blair says. “This is Blair.”
Oh my god, you are an idiot, she thinks as the words leave her mouth. Hi, this is Blair? Like a kindergartener? Why didn’t she say “Good morning, can I speak with Ms. Payne-Whiteley” like a normal adult human being?
“Blair!” says the voice with sudden warmth. “Of course. Meredith’s just gotten out of a meeting. I’ll put you through.”
Blair is so astonished she can’t reply.
“Good morning, Blair,” says the crisp voice of Meredith Payne-Whiteley. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I have a story,” Blair says, finding her voice at last.
Meredith is silent through Blair’s long, rambling explanation of Mattie’s visit; their plea; the strange, surreal welcome-home party; the sailor suit. When Blair finishes, Meredith is silent for a long moment more.
She hates it, Blair thinks. I’m babbling. I sound like a fool. She hates it, and she hates me.
“Blair, this is incredible,” Meredith Payne-Whiteley says. “This girl really is an impostor?”
It’s a better story if she is, isn’t it? “Mattie’s completely certain,” she says.
“You think she killed the biological sister?”
“I—uh—could?”
“You’re making recordings?”
“Not—um, not yet,” Blair says.
No podcasts, she promised Cam.
What if Meredith Payne-Whiteley wants another podcast?
“I’m sure you’re thinking about doing another podcast,” Meredith Payne-Whiteley says. “But let’s make sure our planning here is impeccable. You already have your market edge. We don’t want to rush into anything potentially viral when we don’t have linked properties to promote. I want you to move quickly but carefully—let’s start with a book proposal, and then we can build out additional planned content when we’re ready to shop.”
“You’re absolutely right,” says Blair. Meredith Payne-Whiteley definitely sounds absolutely right, even if Blair didn’t understand much of what she said.
“Wonderful,” Meredith Payne-Whiteley says, with absolutely no change in her intonation. “I’m so glad we’re on the same page here. Why don’t you send me material as you develop it, and I can provide guidance.”
“That sounds great,” Blair says. She’s pretty sure she understands what she’s agreeing to, at least.
“I’m thrilled,” says Meredith Payne-Whiteley.
“Me too,” Blair says.
“More soon,” says Meredith Payne-Whiteley.
“Yes,” Blair says. “Lots more.”
Shit, she thinks.
What is she going to tell Cam?
What is she going to tell Mattie?
What did you already ask Darren? she texts Mattie.
Mattie’s response is almost immediate.
I haven’t talked to him since I was 9
But he told me the same story as everybody else. That he left at 2 and Lola was fine
I can show you my notes
Sure
Has he seen Lola since she came back?
No
Are you sure?
She never leaves the house. She doesn’t have a car yet
Ruth is talking about buying her a BMW
Jesus
Yeah
Has she talked to him?
I don’t think so
She doesn’t know he exists
Right, Blair thinks, thumbs hovering over her phone. Because Mattie thinks this Lola is a fake. And a fake Lola would have no idea who the real Lola’s friends were.
But Lola hadn’t looked like she didn’t recognize Becca at her party.
She’d looked like she was afraid of her.
I think Luke called Darren after the party
I heard him telling someone about it but I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying
Because he was in his room and I didn’t have time to get a glass
?
You know to put against the door
OK right old school
So Darren knows she’s back
ITS NOT HER
Right sorry
I mean that someone is back
That people think is Lola
I think so
And he hasn’t tried to talk to her
I don’t think so
Interesting
We’ll ask him why
Record it
We can’t without asking him
It’s not legal
I don’t care
I’m not going to record him Mattie but I promise I’ll tell you everything he says
…
…
…
fine
SCHOOL
High school is boring; high school is the same as it has always been and always will be. “Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this,” Irene often quotes when Cam complains. To which Cam always replies, “I’m a pacifist, and I’d rather not go.”
But Cam knows if—when—she gets her acceptance from MIT, they’ll still check up on her for the rest of the year. Ensure she commits no felonies, flunks no AP exams, amasses no tardies.
She could pass all her classes in her sleep, except maybe Journalism, where Mr. Park brooks no dillydallying. But outright truancy is frowned upon, even for the intellectually superior. As much as she would like to skip the rest of the year, including her own graduation and up until the moment she gets on the plane to Boston, she is tethered to a respectable attendance record.
But it’s not easy. And this year, her beloved Journalism is a shark-infested harbor in which to seek port. It’s her last class of the day again, and once again her only class with Blair. But this year, unlike last year, Journalism is full. This year Journalism had a waiting list. Everyone, it turns out, wants a piece of Cam and Blair’s magic. Or, more likely, their unwilling fame.
Mr. Park, at first thrilled by Oreville High’s sudden enthusiasm for his life’s work, caught on quick. The first week of class, he banned questions about Cam and Blair’s podcast. The second week of class, he banned questions about any lingering cold cases awaiting potential teen sleuths. The third week of class, he threw up his hands and shouted that for this year’s project they would put together a school newspaper, so help him god, and it would feature absolutely zero unsolved mysteries, disappeared girls, serial killers, or podcast elements.
Clarissa wasn’t murdered by a serial killer, Cam thinks dourly. But she would’ve been more famous if she had been. And if Cam and Blair had tracked down and defeated a real live serial killer—perhaps confronted him in his torture lair, surrounded by the heinous implements of his dark craft, at great peril to their own lives, et cetera—they would never have to work again.
In addition to giving her PTSD, Cam reflects, the last year has also made her rather cynical.
She still finds Mr. Park a great comfort; he remains the smartest adult she knows, except for maybe Irene. But this year everything is different, and not in a good way. This year, unlike last year, Cam comes to class on time. She sits in the back with Blair and keeps her mouth shut. She doesn’t steamroll other people with her (correct, obviously) opinions, and she doesn’t shoot down anyone else’s ideas.
She doesn’t have any ideas.
She doesn’t want any ideas.
Maybe she should have taken Woodshop.
If Mr. Park misses the old Cam, he hasn’t said anything. But Cam has looked up from her desk more than once, where she’s dutifully outlining potential puff pieces for the future Oreville High School Star, and found his sharp dark eyes on her and his expression thoughtful.
Today, Mr. Park is in fine form.
“Stories!” he shouts from the front of the room, cutting through the post-bell chatter with an authoritative boom. “Where are we at for stories, people?”
Next to Cam, Matt and Miles murmur to each other. They’re back this year too. Like Cam and Blair, they’ve decamped to the back row. Cam feels almost fond of them, as though they’ve all been through the wars together.
They did end up completing their Area 51 documentary last year, which they screened on the last day of school. It was two hours and thirty-seven minutes long and consisted primarily of spliced-together YouTube footage. Cam isn’t sure if they uncovered any conspiracies, since she fell asleep five minutes in.
“We’re almost done with our piece about teenage social media influencers,” Matt—Miles? Cam still can’t remember which one is which—says.
“Thank you, Miles,” Mr. Park says. “As you know, winter break is our deadline for the first issue.” He gives Mattmiles a pointed look. They nod. “We will also want to consider a reasonable length for our pieces,” Mr. Park says.
“But length isn’t really an issue, since the paper will be online-only,” Miles—Matt?—says in a surprisingly clear voice. Their status as Journo veterans has stripped away the worst of their shyness.
“My dear Matt, we must consider the needs of our readers as well as the capacities of our platforms,” Mr. Park says. “Two thousand words. Maximum. Got it?”
Mattmiles looks dismayed, but they nod.
Jenna the irritating sophomore, who is an irritating junior this year, waves her hand frantically from the front row. The corner of Mr. Park’s mouth twitches as he surveys the room, clearly hoping to call on someone else. Even Mr. Park, whose ass is being kissed, thinks Jenna the irritating junior is a kiss-ass. But there are no other takers. With Cam so quiet, Jenna has stepped into the role of Most Annoying Brownnoser with aplomb.
“Yes, Jenna?” Mr. Park asks. “How are you coming along with the website?”
Jenna has undertaken the task of coordinating with the school administration to set up the new site for the Oreville High School Star. Since she will probably end up becoming a high-school administrator herself, given her general temperament and love of bureaucracy, this is an excellent role for her. Nevertheless, she has proven herself to be a top-tier coder; she’s building the website from scratch, alone.
“We’ll be ready to launch, sir,” she says proudly. “You have my word. As you know, the code that generates the website is stored and tracked with the Git version control system and hosted by GitHub. But working manually within Git can be intimidating for non-natives, and we don’t want to have to worry about merge conflicts, so I’m building an editing interface that will allow—”
“Starship Oreville Star is nearly ready to launch. Great news, Jenna,” Mr. Park interrupts firmly. “And?”
“I finished my editorial about the issue with dress codes,” says Hannah, a freshman. Their hair color has already cycled through neon orange, electric blue, and, briefly, an unfortunate green that made them look moldy. They sport a daily uniform of shredded jeans and a green army jacket festooned with slogan buttons.
“Oreville doesn’t have a dress code,” Cam says, unable to help herself.
“Lucky for you,” Jenna mutters. Jenna is not the world’s biggest fan of Cam and Blair’s unexpected success.
The freshman turns pink. “Dress codes are sexist, and I think we should take a stand,” they say tremulously.
“But there isn’t—” Blair kicks Cam’s ankle, and Cam subsides.
“Great, Hannah,” Mr. Park says smoothly. “Do you have a critique partner? Who else is ready for feedback?”
So it goes until the bell rings, liberating Cam and Blair from Mr. Park’s scrutiny before either one of them is forced to confess they have written absolutely nothing for the debut issue of the Oreville High School Star.
“What should we do our piece on?” Blair asks Cam for the thousandth time on the way to their lockers.
“Ugh,” Cam says. “I don’t know. How America’s obsession with true crime has exacerbated privileged white women’s racist paranoia and increased the ongoing criminalization of already marginalized people rather than addressing the root causes of interpersonal violence, like poverty, inequality, and systemic racism?”
“That sounds like something Sophie would say.”
“It is something Sophie said.”
“We should write about something we would say,” Blair says.
“Do you think Sophie’s wrong?”
“No,” Blair says, dialing her combination. “I guess we’re kind of experts now.”
“We don’t have to work together,” Cam says, watching Blair carefully slot her textbooks into her orderly locker. Cam’s own locker looks like a site requiring FEMA involvement. At the least, a biohazard warning.
“What do you mean?” Blair asks, straightening up. “You don’t want to work together?”
“I didn’t say that,” Cam says. “Just, if you want to do your own thing, I won’t be mad.”
Blair narrows her eyes. “Cam, what are we really talking about here?”
“The newspaper,” Cam says.
Blair looks at Cam for a minute. Cam doesn’t blink.
“We don’t have to decide this second,” Blair says. “We still have a couple of weeks until it’s due. Want to come over later and plan what we ask Darren?”
“Darren who?”
“Cam,” Blair says. “You said you’d go talk to Lola’s boyfriend with me.”
“I’m having regrets,” Cam says.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Lola? Where she went?”
“Remember what happened last time we did this?”
“That was different.”
“Different how?”
“Clarissa was dead,” Blair says. “Someone in town killed her. We’re not doing anything dangerous this time.”
“That’s what we thought last time.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Blair asks. “The podcast was your idea, remember? You had to convince me. You were the one who wanted to solve crimes and get famous. Why don’t you want to help Mattie?”
“I don’t know,” Cam says, looking past Blair down the hall. “I’m busy this year. Did someone fill the drinking fountain with dish soap?”
Blair looks. “I believe they did.”
“Solve that mystery,” Cam says.
“Want to come over later?” Blair presses.
Cam won’t meet her eyes. “I have to do physics.”
“You do physics every day.”
“Physics requires a lot of upkeep.”
Blair gives up. “Okay,” she says. “But—come with me to talk to the boyfriend.”
“Why are you so into this?” Cam asks. “Your life got just as messed up as mine did last year.”
Now it’s Blair who won’t quite look Cam in the eye. “I feel bad for Mattie,” she says. “I want to help them.”
“Uh-huh,” Cam says. “Sure. See you tomorrow.”
And she’s off, her overloaded backpack slung over one skinny shoulder, her back crooked against the weight.
Blair watches her walk away.
“See you tomorrow,” she says.
But Cam’s too far to catch it.
Blair sighs and digs her track shoes out of her locker.