AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 9
When I pull into the student lot, Adele and Trina are standing in the spot next to Adele’s bimmer, saving it for me. I tap the horn twice as I pull up, and they scurry out of the way like I might actually hit them. I’m out of the car with my phone out and email open before they can even say “good morning.”
“Read this.”
“She wrote back?” Trina asks.
“Last night. Here.” I hand the phone over, and we start walking.
“Read it out loud,” Adele insists, struggling to get a view of the screen.
Subject: Re: Fwd: BACK OFF, SKANK
From: Rosalie Bell
I’m sending this from my regular email because in case you write back, you can’t use my school account, okay? They monitor that shit.
I’m really sorry about Carter, and you have every right to be angry. The truth is complicated. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’m going to end things with him. I was never trying to mess with your future. Promise.
About the texting. That’s not me. I’m sorry someone’s bothering you, but I wouldn’t even know how to send an anonymous message.
Take care,
Rosalie
When Trina finishes reading, we’re all silent for a moment. She hands my phone over, and I slip it into my bag.
“Too easy,” Adele says. “One email from you, and she’s just going to roll over?”
“She’s a coward,” Trina says. “Maybe you should have done this two months ago.”
“No, Adele’s right,” I say. “Something’s off. ‘I was never trying to mess with your future’? What else would you call what she’s doing? And anyone can figure out how to send an anonymous text; it’s not rocket science. We Googled four ways in ten minutes on Sunday.”
We push through the main doors to Logansville South, and it’s like walking into a wall of sweaty boy sound. Half the wrestling team seems to be staging an impromptu match outside the auditorium doors, and a group of freshmen clog the hallway mouth, eyes fixed on their phones, too obsessed with completing this week’s Battle Pass challenge to notice we’re coming through.
“Watch it.” I shoulder one of the freshmen out of the way, in no mood for graciousness.
“Anyway,” Adele says when we’ve made it through the press of the main entrance, “I don’t buy it. She’s feigning ignorance on purpose.”
“Don’t buy what? Who’s feigning ignorance?”
Suddenly Ben is walking with us like he’d been there all along. My already thin patience bottoms out.
“None of your business,” I snap at the same time Adele says, “Just some bitch who’s bothering Mandy.”
“Someone’s bothering you?” Ben’s face is filled with concern. He looks like he wants to hug me, but thankfully he thinks better of it and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Why would anyone bother you, Amanda?”
“Don’t worry about it. The situation is under control.”
We turn from the main hallway down the corridor that leads to my locker. I wish he would just leave. I wasn’t done debriefing with Trina and Adele, but I’m definitely not continuing this conversation with Ben Gallagher hovering.
“Isn’t the rest of the debate team waiting for you?” I put on my nicest voice, hoping Ben will get the hint.
He doesn’t. “Huh? We don’t have practice until Saturday.”
“Holy shit.” Trina stops in her tracks and flings out her long, skinny arms, pinning the three of us behind her.
“What the—?”
“Amanda,” she cuts me off, “is that your locker?”
I stare down the corridor toward a group of kids gathered in front of what might be my locker. Then again, it might be any locker in my alcove; it’s impossible to tell from here, especially with so many people milling around. Everyone is whispering and snapping pictures. All I can see for sure is that there’s something bright red on the floor, and everyone seems to be freaking out in a hushed, slow-mo kind of way.
“Wait here,” Ben says. “I’ll go make sure it’s safe.”
I roll my eyes as he runs ahead of us down the hall like he’s acting out some video game. We ignore him and start walking. Whatever it is, it’s probably not a bomb. What does Ben think, he’s going to diffuse it before we arrive?
It’s obvious it’s my locker from the way people stare when I get close. A few people step aside, letting me in.
“What the hell?” My locker door is covered in blood. It’s streaked all down the gray paint and pooled on the floor in front. Resting in the middle are a dozen formerly white roses, now stained a sticky red, and a small teddy bear. Trina digs in her bag for her Canon and starts snapping photos.
“Evidence,” she whispers, forehead scrunched in concentration.
Ben touches my elbow, and I flinch. “I don’t think it’s real blood,” he suggests. “It’s too bright. It looks like corn syrup mixed with red food coloring, like they did in old movies.”
“Thanks, Sherlock,” I spit. Then, I spin around and glare at all the shocked, vacant faces. “Who did this?” I shout. “Who saw something?”
No one says anything. They just stand there like a herd of big-eyed cows.
“Seriously? There are, like, eight hundred people in this school. No one saw who did this?” My locker alcove may be in a low-traffic zone, but this scene is unmissable.
My skin is hot; I can feel bright red blotches breaking out across my face and neck. This is not okay. This is taking things way, way too far. I reach down and snatch up the teddy bear. I need to throw something. I need everyone to get out of my face.
Adele lets out a shriek. The bow tied around the bear’s neck falls to the side, and its head plops down into the pool of fake blood, splashing sticky red syrup on our boots. Yellow stuffing pokes out where its head should be. I’m so startled, I drop the body, and it sprays us with even more syrup.
“Shit.” My hands are shaking.
“Who the hell did this?” Ben shouts into the crowd. No one answers.
“This is sick.” Trina takes me by the shoulders and steers me away from the mess at my locker and toward the main hallway. “Let’s get Ms. Walker, okay? She’ll handle this.”
A trip to the vice principal’s office turns out to be unnecessary, because by the time we’re halfway there, one of the Spanish teachers has noticed the crowd and suddenly all the teachers on the first floor seem to respond to some secret teacher radar, emerging from their classrooms to take charge. Everyone is ushered away from my locker and into homeroom. Ms. Walker is headed down the hall toward us. Someone must have called her.
“Amanda, please wait in my office, honey,” she says. “You can help yourself to some coffee.”
“I just need to wash my hands,” I mumble.
She smiles at me kindly. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
In the bathroom, I turn the water on as hot as it goes. My hands are still shaking as I run them under the stream. The water turns pink and then clear. Trina stays with me, dabbing at my boots with a wet paper towel. At least they’re black; it’s not going to stain.
A minute later, Adele bursts through the bathroom door.
“There you are. I couldn’t find you.”
I ignore her and stare at my face in the mirror above the sink. It’s gone from blotchy red to pure white. I look like I’m in shock, which I guess I am. What was that? Fake blood. Teddy bears with severed heads. It’s like I’m living in some Christopher Pike novel. What’s next, a cow heart pinned to my desk with a butcher knife? Creepy chain letters and graveyard scavenger hunts?
“I thought you should see this.” Adele is holding a little white envelope with my name scrawled across the front. “It was with the flowers. I grabbed it before the janitors came.”
I take the envelope gingerly and flip it over. Inside is a white card, the kind florists use for writing greetings, but this one doesn’t have a store logo. The note is in classic typewriter font, but the card looks laser-printed.
I asked you nicely. I told you he was no good. Now you know I’m serious. Before January 24, you will break Carter Shaw’s heart. Make it public, make it hurt. I know I can count on you to make a scene. End it—or I’ll end things my way.
“What does it say?” Trina asks. I pass the card over. The look on Adele’s face says she read it before she got here.
“ ‘I asked you nicely’? What does that even mean?” Trina hands the card back to me.
“She wants Mandy to break up with Carter. Obviously.”
“Isn’t January twenty-fourth—?” Trina starts to ask.
“Carter’s birthday,” I finish for her. “That’s two weeks away.”
“Wow,” Trina says. “That’s just plain cruel.”
“This bitch is out for blood.” But even as I’m saying it, I have a tiny, nagging doubt that this was Rosalie. I want to rip up the note and flush it down the toilet, but I shove it in my bag instead. This is evidence.
“That email was such bullshit,” Trina says. “She’s all apologies one second and fake blood the next?”
“Maybe she has multiple personality disorder,” Adele suggests. “Doesn’t your mom have a patient like that?”
“It’s called dissociative identity disorder now,” Trina says. “Besides, you shouldn’t casually diagnose.”
I stare at myself in the mirror again. A little bit of color is starting to come back to my cheeks, and I pinch them to speed up the process. Unless Rosalie is truly brainless, which I’m pretty sure she’s not, why would she do something that makes her look like a jealous freak in front of all of South? She’d have to know Carter would suspect her of targeting me. It wouldn’t be a smart play. I smooth down my hair and check for mascara smudges. Then, I’m ready to get out of here.
“I have to go.” I shove away from the sink and start toward the door. “Ms. Walker wants to see me.”
“Do you need me to come with you?” Trina asks.
I shake my head, no. “I’m fine. Really. I’ll handle this.”
Adele and Trina stare at me, unblinking.
“Really.” I raise my eyebrows at them. “I’m totally fine. You’re both late to homeroom.” Then I push open the door into the empty hall. Before I can get to Ms. Walker’s office, my phone beeps. One new message from Private.
Your move, Princess.
I turn off my phone, the hard kind of shutdown that makes the screen go dead, and shove it to the bottom of my bag.
• • •
Three hours later, I’m sitting in the cafeteria with Carter, Graham, and Trina. The four of us have early lunch, which is the worst because I’m never hungry and then I’m always starving by sixth. Today, I can barely even sip my ginger ale. The smell of fryer grease and dish detergent makes my stomach heave.
By now, the entire school knows about the scene at my locker. The photos were all over Snapchat and Insta by homeroom. Carter was furious when he found out; Graham says he punched the whiteboard in Mr. Baum’s class. Now his anger seems to have mellowed into a roving sort of concern. He alternates between petting my hair like I’m a puppy and shoving his hands in and out of his pockets.
“What did Ms. Walker have to say?” Graham asks through a mouthful of burger. Just watching everyone eat makes me want to puke.
“Mostly she asked a bunch of questions, like had anything unusual happened before, and did I have any idea who might have done something like this. She made me set up an appointment with the school counselor, and then she called my parents to appraise them of everything South is doing to ensure my safety. My mother was pissed, but she’s pretty wrapped up in the museum benefit. Honestly she’ll probably forget by tonight.”
“So, do you?” Graham asks. “Have any idea who did it?”
I glance at Trina, a clear signal to keep her mouth shut. After three hours of not focusing in class, I’m more sure than ever that Rosalie didn’t have anything to do with this. She doesn’t go here; she wouldn’t know my locker. And she wouldn’t make herself look that bad in front of Carter. I need more time to think.
“No idea.”
“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Trina says. “You should take the rest of the day off, go home. Everyone would understand.”
“Seriously, babe.” Carter places his hand on top of my hand on the table. “I’ll drive you. We can come back later for your car. You need to take it easy.”
“I’m really fine,” I insist. Going home is a sign of weakness. If whoever did this is here at South today, I need them to see me strong. Strong girls do not go home to cry to Mommy when someone pulls a Carrie at their locker.
For the rest of the day, everyone shows their support. Girls throw me sympathetic glances. Some supertall sophomore stops me in the hall to offer himself as my escort, which I politely decline. I smile at everyone and tell them how grateful I am to have so many friends at South and how I’m sure the school will get to the bottom of this childish prank in no time.
Inside, I’m a mess. I have to run to the bathroom between every class because my stomach is a swamp of anxiety. I’m filled with the ever-growing certainty that I’m dealing with something much bigger than Rosalie. And if it’s not her, that means someone else is out to get me. Someone who wants to come between Carter and me, rip us apart. Someone who wants to scare me—or worse.
At the end of eighth, I pull out my phone and wait for it to reboot. But when the screen lights up, there are no new messages from Private. The last text is still from this morning. Your move, Princess. Somehow the silence is worse than anything that might have been there waiting.